The Spies of Warsaw

failure to aid the Spanish Republic-continued to deteriorate. The most absurd views were held sacred, and there was too much deal-making, though all of this was seen by a tolerant world as a kind of amiable chaos-a British politician had said that a map of French political opinion would look like Einstein’s hair. But, to Mercier, it wasn’t so amusing. “You know what I think, Anton. If the worst happens, and it starts again, you must be prepared to stand alone. A map of Europe tells the story. It’s that, or alliance with Russia-which we favor but Poland will never do-or alliance with Germany, which we certainly don’t favor, and you won’t do that either.”

“I know,” Vyborg said. “We all know.” He paused, then brightened. “But, nevertheless, we’ll see you at the Renault dinner.”

“And then at the Adria.”

“You will ask my wife to dance?”

“I shall. And you, Madame Dupin.”

“Naturally,” Vyborg said. “More coffee?”

At eleven, Mercier was back at the embassy for the daily political meeting. The ambassador presided, touched on political events of the last twenty-four hours, and looked ahead to the Renault visit-special care here, don’t bother there. Then LeBeau, the charge d’affaires and first officer, reported on unrest, potential anti-Jewish demonstrations in Danzig, and a border incident in Silesia. Then the ambassador moved on to the topic of electricity consumption at the embassy. How difficult was it, really, to turn off the lights when not in use?

Mercier had a bowl of soup for lunch at a nearby restaurant; half a bowl-Polish chicken soup was rich and powerful, laden with heavy, twisted noodles-because the ponczkis had finished his appetite for the day. He did paperwork in his office until two-thirty, then returned to his apartment, changed from uniform back into civilian clothes-gray flannel trousers, dark wool jacket, subdued striped tie-and set out for his third cafe of the day. This time on Marszalkowska avenue, a lively and elegant street with trees, awnings, nightclubs, and smart shops.

At midafternoon, the Cafe Cleo was a perfect sanctuary: marble tables, black-and-white tiled floor, a bow window looking out on the avenue, where a less-favored world hurried by. The small room was almost full; the customers chattered away, read the papers, played chess, drank foamy cups of hot chocolate with whipped cream; their dogs, mostly beagles, lay attentive under the tables, waiting for cake crumbs. In a corner at the back, Hana Musser, spectacles pushed down on her pert nose, worked at a crossword puzzle, lost in concentration, tapping her teeth with a pencil.

Mercier liked Hana Musser, a half-Czech, half-German woman of uncertain age, who, two years earlier, had fled the fulminous Nazi politics of the Sudetenland and settled in Warsaw, where she worked at whatever she could but found the economic life of the city more than difficult. She had fine skin and fine features, a mass of brass- colored hair drawn back in a clip, and wore a bulky, home-knit cardigan sweater of a dreadful pea-green shade. How Colonel Bruner had discovered her-to play the part of Countess Sczelenska-Mercier did not know, but he had his suspicions. Was she a prostitute? Never a true professional, he guessed, but perhaps a woman who, from time to time, might meet a man at a cafe, with some kind of gift to follow an afternoon spent in a hotel room. And, if the man had money, the affair might continue.

As Mercier seated himself, she looked up, took her spectacles off, smiled at him, and said, “Good afternoon,” in German.

“And to you,” Mercier said. “All goes well?”

“Quite well, thank-you. And yourself?”

“Not so bad,” Mercier said. A waiter appeared, Mercier ordered coffee. “May I get you something?”

“Another chocolate, please.”

When the waiter left, Mercier said, “We’ve made our usual deposit.”

“Yes, I know, thank you, as always.”

“How do you find your friend, these days?”

“Much as usual. Herr Uhl is a very straightforward fellow. His journeys to Warsaw are the high points of his life. Otherwise, he labors away, the good family man.”

“And you, Hana?”

From Hana, a half smile and a certain sparkle in her eyes-she always flirted with him, he never minded. “The Countess Sczelenska never changes. She can be difficult, at times, but is captive to her heart’s desires.” She laughed and said, “I rather like her, actually.”

The waiter appeared with coffee and hot chocolate; someone, probably the waiter himself, had added a particularly generous gobbet of whipped cream atop the chocolate. Hana pressed her hands together and said, “Oh my!” How not to reward such a waiter? She spooned up almost all of the cream, then stirred in the rest.

“We are appreciative,” Mercier said, “of what you do for us.”

“Yes?” She liked the compliment. “I suppose there are legions of us.”

“No, countess, there’s only you.”

“Oh I bet,” she said, teasing him. “Anyhow, I think I was born to be a spy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Born? I couldn’t say. Perhaps more the times one lives in. Circumstance. There’s a French saying, ‘Ou le Dieu a vous seme, il faut savoir fleurir.‘ Let’s see, ‘Wherever God has planted you, you must know how to flower,’ ” he said in German.

“That’s good,” she said.

“I’ve never forgotten it.”

She paused, then said, “If you knew what came before, you’d see that being a countess is much of an improvement. Have you ever been hungry, Andre? Really hungry?”

“During the war, sometimes.”

“But dinner was coming, sooner or later.”

He nodded.

“So,” she said. “Anyhow, I wanted to say, if Herr Uhl should-well, if he goes away, or whatever happens to such people, perhaps I could continue. Perhaps you would want something-something different.”

“We might,” he said. “One never knows the future.”

“No,” she said. “Probably it’s better that way.”

“Speaking of the future, your next meeting with Herr Uhl will take place on the fifteenth of November. He doesn’t say anything about me, does he?”

“No, never. He comes to Warsaw on business.”

Would she tell him if he did?

“In a week or two he will telephone,” she said. “From the Breslau railway station. That much he does tell me.”

“A different kind of secret,” Mercier said.

“Yes,” she said. “The secret of a love affair.” Again the smile, and her eyes meeting his.

18 October, 4:20 P.M. On the 2:10 train from Warsaw, the first-class compartment was full, but Herr Edvard Uhl had been early and taken the seat by the window. The gray afternoon had at last produced a slow rain over the October countryside, where narrow sandy roads led away into the forest.

As the train clattered across central Poland, Uhl was not at ease. He stared at the droplets sliding across the window, or at the brown fields beyond, but his mind was too much occupied by going home, going back to Breslau, to work and family. The unease was not unlike that of a schoolboy’s Sunday night; the weekend teased you with freedom, then the looming Monday morning took it away. The woman in the seat across from him occupied herself with the consumption of an apple. She’d spread a newspaper over her lap, cut slices with a paring knife, then chewed them, slowly, deliberately, and Uhl couldn’t wait for her to be done with the thing. The man sitting next to her was German, he thought, with a long, gloomy Scandinavian face, and wore a black leather coat, much favored by the Gestapo. But that, Uhl told himself, was just nerves. The man stared out into space, in a kind of traveler’s trance, and, if he looked at Uhl, Uhl never caught him at it.

The train stopped at Lodz, then at Kalisz, where it stood a long time in the station, the locomotive’s beat steady and slow. On the platform, the stationmaster stood by the first-class carriage and smoked a cigarette until, at last, he drew a pocket watch from his vest and waited as the second hand swept around the dial. Then, as he