The Spies of Warsaw

And the people on these lovely old streets? The crowd at the cafe? Would they be forced to live with a lost war? He hoped not, oh how deeply he hoped not, he’d seen the defeated, the occupied, the lost-that could not come here, not to this city, not to this cafe.

Then he sped up, walking faster now. Now he wanted to be back with people who cared for him, his private nation.

Back on the rue Saint-Simon, as Mercier let himself in the door, he heard a raucous laugh from the parlor. Then Albertine’s voice. “Is that you, Jean-Francois?”

Mercier walked down the hall to the parlor.

“Welcome back, love,” Anna said. “We’ve been having the best time.” Clearly they were. On a glass-topped bar cart, a half bottle of gin stood next to a seltzer bottle, alongside a squeezed-out lemon and a sugar bowl.

“We’ve taught ourselves to make gin fizzes, right here at home,” Albertine said. Both she and Anna were flushed, the latter sitting sideways in an easy chair, her legs draped over the arm.

“The conqueror has returned,” Anna said. “Covered in laurels.”

Mercier collapsed in the corner of the sofa, took his officer’s hat by its stiff brim and sailed it across the room, where it landed on a brocaded loveseat. “They fired me,” he said. “The bastards.”

“What?” Anna said.

“We’d best make a new batch,” Albertine said, rising unsteadily and making her way to the drinks cart.

“I gave them treasure,” Mercier said. “They threw it on the dung pile.”

“Oh, those people,” Albertine said. “I’m sorry if they’ve treated you badly, but you ought not to be so shocked.”

“What happened?” Anna said, twisting around in order to sit properly.

“I found a way to acquire important information. They, the officers of the General Staff, have chosen not to believe it.”

“Half of them are in the Action Francaise,” Albertine said, naming the high-brow French fascist organization. She worked a cut lemon around a glass corer, then poured the juice into a highball glass. “They want France to be allied with Germany, the only enemy they think about is Russia.”

“Who knows what they want,” Mercier said. “They tossed me a promotion and they’re transferring me back to Paris.”

“And that’s so bad?” Albertine said.

“My highly placed ally likely went to war, but he didn’t win. Now he’s rescued me, I’m going to work for him. I guess that’s a promotion as well.”

“Nothing quite like winning and losing at once,” Albertine said, adding sugar to the glass. “You’ll feel better in a moment, dear.”

“You’re leaving Warsaw?” Anna said.

“Yes. I don’t suppose you’d care to come along, would you?”

“Am I de trop?” Albertine said.

“No, no. Stay where you are,” Mercier said. “Could you do that, Anna? Move to Paris?”

“If you want me to. I’d have to resign from the League.”

“They hire lawyers in Paris,” Albertine said. “Even woman lawyers.”

“Well, we don’t have to decide all this tonight,” Mercier said. “But I’m not going to have us living in two places.”

“Ah, good for you,” Albertine said. Then, to Anna, “He’s the best cousin, dear, is he not? And he might do for a husband.”

“Albertine,” Mercier said. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. For now, where’s my gin fizz?”

“Just ready,” Albertine said. She brought Mercier his drink and settled down at the other end of the sofa. Then she raised her glass. “Anyhow, salut, and vive la France,” she said. “It’s the good side, and I do mean the three of us, who will win in the end.”

They didn’t.

Twenty-four months later, with Guderian in command, a massive German tank attack through the Ardennes Forest breached the French defenses, and-on 22 June, 1940-France capitulated. The former Colonel Charles de Gaulle, by then promoted to general, left France and led the resistance from London. After many adventures, Colonel Mercier de Boutillon and his wife, Anna, also made their way to London, where Mercier went to work for de Gaulle, and Anna for the Sixth Bureau, the intelligence service of the Polish resistance army.

And on 25 June, 1940, Marshal Philippe Petain accepted the leadership of the Vichy government.