The Spies of Warsaw

life.

Mercier stopped at the cafe across from the railway station, had a sausage and a plate of leeks with vinegar, bought a newspaper-Tesin’s Polish daily-and returned to the hotel. Was the room as he’d left it? Yes, but for the maid, who had moved his valise in order to mop the floor. Opening the valise, he was relieved to find his few things undisturbed, though the important baggage stayed with him, in the briefcase.

It was quiet in Tesin, a warmish evening of early spring. When Mercier pulled the shade down, a streetlamp threw a shadow of tree branches on the yellowed paper. He turned on the light, a bulb dangling from the ceiling, and worked at the newspaper-what he wouldn’t give for a Paris Soir! Still, he could manage, once he got going. Henlein, the leader of the Sudetenland German minority in Czechoslovakia, had given a speech in Karlsbad, making eight demands on the government. Basically, he called for the Czechs to allow German-speaking areas to have their own foreign policy, in line with “the ideology of Germans”: a demand that surely came directly from Adolf Hitler, a demand that could never be met. The fire under the pot was being stoked, soon it would boil.

Then, on the same page, news that the Anschluss, joining Austria to Germany, had been approved in a plebiscite by Austrian voters. A triumph-nearly all the Austrians had voted, ninety-nine to one in favor. Now there was a victory that deserved the word rousing! Just below that, a correspondent reporting from the Spanish civil war; the city of Vinaroz had been taken by Franco’s forces, isolating the government-held city of Castile from Catalonia. Another victory for fascist Europe. Mercier turned the page. A grisly murder, a body found in a trunk. And the soccer team had lost again. Followed by a page of obituaries. Mercier threw the newspaper on the floor.

He lay there, smoked, stared at the ceiling. He had no desire to read, and sleep was a long way off. On the other side of the wall, a man and a woman in the adjacent room began to argue, in a language Mercier couldn’t identify. They kept it quiet, secretive, almost a whisper, but the voices were charged with anger, or desperation, and neither one would give in. When it didn’t stop, he got up, went to the window, and raised the shade. Across the square, the outdoor terrasse of the cafe was busy-a warm night, spring in the air, the usual couples with drinks, a few customers alone at tables, eating a late dinner. Then the barman walked over to a large radio set on a shelf and began fiddling with the dials. Mercier couldn’t hear anything, but most of the patrons rose from their tables and gathered in front of the radio. He rolled the shade back down, undid the straps on his briefcase, and made sure of its contents.

20 April.

Mercier strolled up Opava street at 5:10 P.M., but Halbach was nowhere to be seen. Keeping the house in sight he walked to the corner, then started back the other way. He felt much too noticeable, so turned into a cross street where he discovered a tram stop. Was this how Halbach returned from work? He waited for ten minutes, then walked back out onto Opava, and there he was, almost at the house. Mercier moved as quickly as he could and caught up to him just as he reached the door. “Herr Halbach?”

Frightened, Halbach spun around and faced him, ready to fight or run. “What is it? What do you want?”

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“Why? Is it about the bill?”

“No, sir, not that at all.”

Halbach calmed down. Mercier was clearly alone; the secret police came always in pairs, and late at night. “Then what? Who are you?”

“Is there somewhere we can speak? Privately? I have important things to tell you.”

“You’re not German.”

“No, I’m from Basel-a French Swiss.”

“Swiss?” Now he was puzzled.

“Can we go inside?”

“Yes, all right. What’s this about?”

“Inside? Please?”

Downstairs, the family was at dinner. Mercier could smell garlic. Halbach called out “Good evening,” in Polish, then climbed the stairs and opened a door just off the landing. “In here,” he said. “Just leave the door open.”

“Of course,” Mercier said.

A small room, meagerly furnished and painted a hideous green. On one wall, a clothes tree held a shirt and a pair of trousers; on the other, a narrow cot covered by a blanket, and a nightstand with four books on top. At the foot of the cot, a single rickety chair completed the furnishings. The window looked out on the plaster wall of the adjacent building, so the room lay in permanent twilight. Halbach put his briefcase down and sat on the edge of the cot, while Mercier took the chair. When he was settled, Halbach opened the drawer in the nightstand, then gave him a meaningful look, saying, “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

Mercier complied immediately, resting his hands atop the briefcase held on his knees. Was there a pistol in the drawer? Likely there was. “I understand,” he said. “I understand completely.”

For a moment, Halbach stared at him. He was, Mercier thought, perhaps the homeliest man he’d ever seen: a long narrow face, with pitted skin, and small protruding ears emphasized by a Prussian haircut-gray hair cut close on the sides and one inch high on top. His Hitler-style mustache was also gray, his neck a thin stem-circled by a collar a size too large-his restless eyes suspicious and mean. “Well?” he said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lombard. I represent a chemical company in Basel. My card.”

Mercier drew a packet of cards from his pocket and handed one of them to Halbach, who said, “Solvex- Duroche?”

“Solvents for the metals industry.”

Halbach studied the card, then put it on the nightstand. “What would you want with me?” Suspicion was slowly giving way to curiosity. “I’m a teacher.”

“But not always. Or, rather, that is your vocation. It is your political history that brings me here.”

Halbach’s hand moved toward the drawer, Mercier feared he was about to be shot. “Please, no violence,” he said softly. “I’m here to make an offer, nothing more than that, and if you’re not interested I’ll go away and that will be the end of it.”

“You said politics … meaning?”

“Your resistance to the present government in Berlin.”

“You know who I am,” Halbach said, an accusation.

“Yes, I do know that.”

“So, you’re no chemical salesman, Herr Lombard, are you.”

“Actually, I am, but that’s no part of our business today.”

“Then who sent you?”

“That I can’t tell you. Suffice to say, powerful people, but not your enemies.”

Halbach waited for more, then said, “How did you find me?”

“As I said, powerful people. Who know things. And, I feel I should point out, it wasn’t all that difficult to find you.”

“In other words, spies.”

“Yes.”

“Not the first I’ve encountered, Herr Lombard. And no doubt working for the Swiss government.”

“Oh, we never say such things out loud, Herr Halbach. And, in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

“To me it does.” He had suffered for his politics, he wasn’t about to compromise his ideals.

“Then let me say this much-a neutral government is not a disinterested government, and, as I said before, in this instance on your side.”

Now Halbach was intrigued-he’d spent enough time with Mercier to sense he needn’t be afraid of him, and felt the first flush of pride that “powerful people” were interested in him. Which, of course, they should be, despite his present misery.

Now Mercier advanced. “Tell me, Herr Halbach, this life you live now, as a fugitive, how long do you expect it to last?”