The Spies of Warsaw

to his superiors, genial to his underlings, quite a good fellow, and sure to rise, when the time was right. And when would that be, exactly? War would do it, but Hitler was such a little tease when it came to war, showing his drawers one day, then giggling and running away the next. Austria he had-the plebiscite on the Anschluss had been a stroke of genius. Czechoslovakia he would have, though that would require force of arms; the Czechs were a stubborn, stiff-necked crowd, blind to their best interests, and they rather liked having their own nation. And those arms were still in production; all across Germany, the factory lights burned until dawn. Would it be this year? Probably not, maybe the following spring. More likely 1940. And some very sage gentlemen were saying 1941.

But war was only one way, there had to be others. For instance, a triumph. Some daring operation run against the French or the English. Willi, however, did not run operations, he worked in the SD administration. Certainly important, if you knew how these things worked, though not the sort of position that produced a stunning success. Still, there had to be some way, for a smart chap like Willi to find a path to the top.

For example, a visit to the urinals in the bathroom on the third floor. Obersturmbannfuhrer Gluck, August Voss’s superior, the former Berlin lawyer, regularly answered the call of nature around eleven in the morning, so Willi had observed. And so, that morning, he too heard the call. Gluck, when Willi arrived, was just buttoning his fly. Willi said good morning and addressed the porcelain wall. Gluck washed his hands, dried them, and began to comb his hair. When Willi was done, he stood at the sink next to Gluck and said, “Fine speech, the Fuhrer gave last night.”

Gluck’s nod was brusque. He set the comb carefully on his part, then drew it across his head.

“You are Sturmbannfuhrer Voss’s superior, are you not, sir?” Willi said.

“I am. What of it?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering … if something’s gone wrong with him.”

“What would be wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Do you have a moment, sometime, when we could talk?”

“Now is a good time. Why not come along to my office?”

Gluck had a most pleasant office, quite large, with a view out over the Wilhelmstrasse, the government neighborhood of the city. Down below, Grosser Mercedes limousines with swastika flags above the headlights, generals strolling with admirals, motorcycle couriers rushing off with crucial dossiers, a military beehive. Gluck sat formally at his desk. He had, Willi could see by the photograph next to the telephone, a very attractive wife and two handsome sons, both in SS uniform. Gluck waited patiently, then said, “Something I should hear about?”

“I believe you should.” Willi was just a bit hesitant, not happy about what needed to be said. “He’s an old friend, Voss is, from the early days of the party. And, I always thought, the best sort of officer. Keen, you know. Quite the terrier.”

“And?”

“A few weeks ago he invited me and another friend to go up to Warsaw. A change of scene, see the night life, bother the girls. Just a holiday away from family life, a chance to be naughty. When you work hard, it can be just the thing.”

“I suppose it can.” Though not for someone like me.

“So there we were, having a good time. But then he drags us off to some factory district. Where we wait around, while I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. He’d been drinking, more than usual I’d say, and you couldn’t reason with him; better to just go along. Then he sees some fellow in a French uniform come out of a factory- apparently he was waiting for him, because he runs off and, and attacks him. Pulls a riding crop from under his coat and beats him on the face.”

Gluck kept his composure. Pressed his lips together and seemed thoughtful, but that was all. “He did mention something about this, I don’t recall when it was. He’d lost a suspect, which is surely regrettable, but not the end of the world. However, Voss took it badly, personally, saw it as-how to say-a vendetta.”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes, when it happened. Then, after we returned home, I wondered if he didn’t perhaps have some difficulty in his private life, something that could be resolved, informally, with your help.”

“I know of no such problem. And it wouldn’t matter if I did.”

“No, of course not. I wasn’t going to say anything but I did worry about it, and then, when I chanced to see you this morning, I thought I’d better mention it. Before anything else happens.”

“You were right to do so, Sturmbannfuhrer. Did he tell you what he had in mind, before you went to Warsaw?”

“He didn’t. We were just going to have a good time, as I said.”

“And you were how many?”

“Three.”

“You don’t name your other friend, but I guess I can understand that.”

“I will if you order me to, sir.”

“No, let it be.”

“I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news.”

“For the good of the service, you had to be. And much better that I know about it, because, if he blows up again, and it becomes known, I’m the one who will suffer.”

“Will you confront him, sir?”

“I don’t plan to, at the moment.”

“Because, if you do, I would respectfully ask you not to say how you came to learn what he did. We have friends throughout the service, and I don’t trust Voss to keep silent.”

“You needn’t worry about that, and I would ask the same of you. This is one of those incidents that is best managed quietly.”

“You can depend on me, sir, to keep it that way.”

Gluck slouched sideways in his chair, an official burdened with one more problem on a day when there would be many more. He met Willi’s eyes and said, “I appreciate what you’ve done; I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you. And, if some day you need a friend, let me know. I’m not an ungrateful man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course it is the end for your friend Voss, sad to say, at least in this organization. He will be returned to duty in the SS; trust them to find something more suited to his … his particular character.”

“I am sorry to hear that, but perhaps it’s for the best. This kind of behavior can’t be tolerated.”

“Not by me, it can’t.”

A growing silence, end of conversation. Willi stood and considered a Heil Hitler, but sensed that Gluck was one of those officers indifferent to such gestures, so squared his shoulders, came to attention, and saluted with his voice. “Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer.”

“You are dismissed, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,” Gluck said. “I will need to use the telephone.”

21 April, 10:15 A.M.

Tesin railway station. Halbach was prompt to the moment, the remnants of his fugitive life in a cheap suitcase, briefcase clamped beneath his arm. Then the two of them, the French aristocrat and the Nazi professor, boarded the 10:32 train to Prague. It would not be a long trip, just over an hour, but time Mercier meant to use, if he could find a vacant compartment. This was, with a tip to the conductor, available, and, as the train got under way, Halbach wondered aloud why they were going to Prague.

“In Prague there is a certain photographic studio, run by a discreet gentleman, who will take your passport picture. The service is expensive, but the photograph will be properly affixed to your new passport. It is a service much in demand, lately.”

“I’ve known such people,” Halbach said.

“Also in Prague, a private bank-a very private bank-called Rosenzweig, principally a Jewish bank. Does that offend you, Herr Halbach?”

“Not at all, I don’t care about the Jews. Hitler’s a fanatic on the subject, and, time was, we thought that might be the end of him, but to date he has his way with them.”

“The Rosenzweig Bank will accept your Swiss francs, no questions asked, and transmit them to a numbered