and fervent sexuality flourished in German cities, the Trudi Muellers of the world sniffed and pretended not to notice. As for Orlova, a life in the theatre and then in film had room for pretty much anything, as long as it was discreet, as long as, the saying went, it didn’t frighten the cat.
Meanwhile, Orlova the professional spy sensed opportunity in Trudi’s affections. She couldn’t have said precisely what that was but felt its presence — something useful, a secret to be stolen, so she kept at it, and she and Trudi were often in each other’s company. On days when the men up at the Berghof had private matters to discuss and the women didn’t appear until dinnertime, the two of them would go walking in the mountains, take tea together in the hotel parlour — crackling fire on the hearth, bear and chamois trophy heads on the walls — and now and then visit in one of their rooms if the weather was bad.
And there came an afternoon in November when the weather was very bad indeed. It didn’t start that way, was chilly and calm all morning. Freddi was in a meeting up at the Berghof. Orlova, having the sort of day when boredom becomes intolerable, knocked at the door of Trudi’s room and suggested they take one of the trails up the mountain. She was already dressed for it: a ski parka, wool trousers — plus fours, buttoned over heavy socks below the knee — and a knit stocking cap, snug on her head, that hung down to her shoulder and ended in a fluffy pompom. The red cap made her look like a child, an elfin child, and Trudi said it was adorable.
Trudi was eager to go for a walk but she had to change into outdoor clothes. Orlova made as if to leave, so Trudi could dress in private, but Trudi insisted she stay, it wouldn’t take too long. Orlova sat in a chair, Trudi took off her dress and hung it up, tossed her slip on the bed, and walked around in her underwear, gathering up a cold- weather outfit and chattering away. Something of a display, really, a show, and Orlova wondered idly if she knew what she was doing. Perhaps she did — turning to Orlova and saying, ‘You don’t mind, do you, if I go about like this?’
‘Of course not.’
‘After all, we’re both girls.’
Trudi put on a heavy sweater and slacks, then lace-up boots. All the while she talked; they had the painters in their apartment in Berlin and the inconvenience, and the smell of fresh paint, was frankly testing her patience. Should they stay at a hotel? That seemed to her extravagant, didn’t Olga think so? No? No doubt Olga was used to luxurious hotels but Trudi was so much more comfortable at home. On and on she went, talking to Orlova through the open bathroom door as she fixed her make-up. Watching her apply fresh lipstick, Orlova thought, Must look good in case we meet a bear.
At that moment, Orlova’s eye happened to fall on a briefcase, leaning on the leg of a chair set before a small desk. Freddi’s briefcase. Forgotten? Left on purpose? She wondered what might be in there, then Trudi came out of the bathroom and said, reaching for her coat, ‘Ready at last!’
Outside, the clouds above the mountain had lowered while Trudi changed her clothes, and a white mist had blanked out the summit, which meant alpine weather on the way, but they were dressed for it. They walked through the town, past the little shops and the statue of Goethe, then started up one of the trails. About twenty minutes later a few flakes of snow came drifting down — big, soft flakes that spun through the still air. Trudi wiped her face with her mitten, Orlova’s cap turned from red to white. A wind stirred, then grew stronger and sighed through the forest, while the branches of the pine trees bowed with the weight of the new snow.
The trail had a gentle slope as it climbed the face of the mountain, the streets and houses below looked remote and serene, like a village in a painting, and Trudi grew confidential. Did Olga, she wondered, ever feel lonely? In truth, Orlova said, she didn’t — she seemed always to have people around her. Trudi said that even in a crowd she sometimes felt very much alone. For a time, the grade steepened, which made conversation difficult as they worked their way upwards, but then it levelled out and Trudi said that she and Freddi had always wanted children — but did Orlova think every couple had to have them? Orlova didn’t think so; people ought to be free to do as they liked. Trudi agreed — wistfully, it seemed to Orlova. Maybe in the future they’d have them, Trudi said, lately Freddi worked so hard, cared so very much about his job, that he was always tired. Every night, he was tired. ‘He falls asleep when his head hits the pillow. It leaves me feeling, oh, “lonely” is the word, I guess.’
Just about here it occurred to Orlova that a comment about Trudi’s sleepwear might be in order, but then she was distracted by the weather. A Muscovite by birth, she knew a thing or two about snow, which had started to come down thick and fast. They really couldn’t see the town any longer and when she turned and looked back down the trail, their footprints had disappeared. In fact, the word ‘blizzard’ wouldn’t have been all that wrong.
‘Trudi, dear,’ she said. ‘I think we shouldn’t go much further.’
‘That’s what I think,’ Trudi said, apparently eager to return to the hotel, and they started back down the mountain, the going sufficiently difficult that now and then Trudi had to hold on to Orlova’s arm. They were never really in trouble, but by the time they reached the hotel they were both red in the face and breathing hard. When Orlova dropped Trudi off at her room and said she was going upstairs to change, Trudi said, ‘You will come back, won’t you? And keep me company?’
‘I’ll see you in a few minutes,’ Orlova said. ‘Why don’t you have them send up a bottle of brandy? It’ll warm us up.’
In her room, Orlova hung up her wet clothes and put on slacks and a sweater, then stood for a time before her open suitcase, contemplating a small Leica camera. It wasn’t a miniature camera, a spy’s camera — discovery of such a thing would have been a catastrophe — but, equipped with a certain lens, it worked almost as well. It had done so in the past. Take it down to Trudi’s room? Where Freddi’s briefcase rested against a chair? How? In a handbag. Would there be an opportunity to use it? Orlova thought this through, and found no suitable strategy, but then, with a nod to the gods of chance, she dropped it in her bag.
Downstairs, Trudi was wearing a quilted pink bathrobe that hung down to her ankles. The bottle of brandy and two glasses had arrived, along with a message from the hotel telephone operator: the roads down the mountain from the Berghof were impassable, Herr Mueller would not be able to return until the morning. Trudi didn’t seem all that disappointed, quite the reverse. ‘So it’s just you and me, tonight,’ she said.
They sat together and talked for a while, then Trudi said, ‘I’ve caught a chill, feel my hands.’
‘Like ice,’ Orlova said, rubbing them for a moment.
‘I think I’d better take a bath,’ Trudi said.
‘You should, it will warm you up.’
Trudi slipped off her robe and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her. When the water was turned on, Orlova calculated that the sound would cover any noise she might make and headed for the briefcase. She unsnapped the latch and spread the sides open, to be greeted by a bulky sheaf of papers. A memorandum, something about Plan ALBRECHT. Another, this one to do with secretarial holidays. A draft for a report, script written in pen, the sentences hard to read. Then, from the bathroom, ‘Olga, dear?’
‘Yes?’
‘Could you bring me my drink?’
‘Be right there.’
Orlova managed to shuffle through a few more pages, then found Trudi’s glass, poured in some more brandy, and took it into the bathroom. Through the steam, she could see Trudi’s white body in the green water. ‘Here it is.’
‘Thank you. You can sit on the edge of the tub, if you like.’
‘The steam is getting me wet, I’ll wait for you in the room.’ As she turned to go, the significance of one of the papers came to her: a list of names with numbers, reichsmarks, next to them. Which could have been anything, but now Orlova realized that she’d seen a crossed L, the L, which was pronounced W.
In Polish.
Orlova snatched the Leica from her purse, found the list, and laid it flat on the desk. She riffled through to the end, some thirty pages. She had only eighteen exposures left on the film in her camera, but she’d get what she could.
Now the splash of water in the bathroom stopped. Orlova glanced at the open door, her heart pounding, but there was only drifting steam. She returned to the document and snapped the first photograph. ‘Olga?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think Freddi is a good husband?’
Calling out, ‘Of course he is,’ Orlova used the sound of her voice to conceal a turn to the next page.
‘Oh, in a way he is, he’s…’ Click. Next page. ‘… kind and considerate.’
‘There’s much to be said for kindness.’ Click. Next page.
