The Foreign Correspondent (28 page)

5
J
UNE
,
1939
.

Carlo Weisz stared out the office window at the Parisian spring—the chestnut and lime trees in bright new leaf, the women in cotton frocks, the sky deep blue, with cloud castles towering over the city. Meanwhile, according to the melancholy papers stacked in his in box, it was also spring for the diplomats—French and British swains sang to the Soviet maiden in the enchanted forest, but she only giggled and ran away. Toward Germany.

So life went—forever, it seemed to Weisz—until the tedious drumbeat of conference and treaty was broken, suddenly, by real tragedy. Today, it was the story of the SS
St. Louis,
which had sailed from Hamburg with
936
German Jews in flight from the Reich, but could find no harbor. Barred from landing in Cuba, the refugees appealed to President Roosevelt, who first said yes, then said sorry. Political forces in America were violently set against Jewish immigration. So, the previous day, a final statement: the
St. Louis,
waiting at sea between Cuba and Florida, would not be allowed to dock. Now she would have to return to Germany.

In the Paris office, they’d elicited a French reaction, but the Quai d’Orsay, in six paragraphs, had no comment. Which left Weisz staring out the window, unwilling to work, his mind in Berlin, his heart untouched by the June day.

Two days earlier, when he’d returned from the boulevard de Strasbourg to the Reuters office, he’d immediately telephoned Salamone and told him what he’d done. “Someone in that office has connections with Croatia,” he’d said, and described the envelopes. “Which suggests that OVRA may be using
Ustasha
operatives.” They both knew what that meant: Italy and Croatia had a long, complicated, and often secret relationship, the Croatians seeking Catholic kinship in their endless conflict with the Orthodox Serbs. The
Ustasha
was a terrorist group—or nationalist, or insurgent; in the Balkans, it depended on who was speaking—sometimes used by the Italian secret services. Dedicated to an independent Croatia, the
Ustasha
had possibly been involved in the
1934
assassination of King Alexander, in Marseilles, and other terrorist actions, notably the bombing of passenger trains.

“This is not good news,” Salamone had said, his voice grim.

“No, but it is
news.
News for the
Sûreté.
And there is reason to suspect that funds may be moving through a French bank in Marseilles, a bank that also operates in Croatia. On that, they’ll bite.”

Salamone had volunteered to approach the
Sûreté,
but Weisz told him not to bother—he was already involved with them, he was the logical informant. “But,” he’d said, “we’ll keep this between the two of us.” He’d then asked Salamone if the surveillance had produced anything further. Only a sighting, Salamone said, by Sergio, of the man in the hat with the green feather. Weisz advised Salamone to call it off; they had enough. “And the next time we call a meeting,” he’d said, “it will be an editorial conference, for the next
Liberazione.
”

That was more than optimistic, he thought, staring out the window, but first he would have to telephone Pompon. He considered doing it, almost reaching for the number, then, once again, put it off. He’d do it later, now he had to work. Taking the first paper off the stack, he found a release from the Soviet embassy in Paris, regarding continuing negotiations with the British and French for alliance in case of a German attack. A long list of potential victims was named, with Poland first and foremost. A visit to the Quai d’Orsay? Maybe. He’d have to ask Delahanty.

He put the release aside. Next up, a cable from Eric Wolf that had come in an hour earlier.
Propaganda Ministry Reports Spy Network Broken in Berlin.
It was a lean story: an unspecified number of arrests, some at government ministries, of German citizens who’d passed information to foreign operatives. The names had been withheld, investigation continued.

Weisz went cold. Could he telephone? Cable? No, that might only make it worse. Could he telephone Alma Bruck? No, she might be involved. Christa had only said she was a friend. Eric Wolf, then. Maybe. He could, he felt, ask for one favor, but no more than that. Wolf already had his hands full, and he hadn’t been all that pleased to be involved with a colleague’s clandestine love affairs. And, Weisz forced himself to admit, Wolf had likely done all he could—surely he’d asked for names, but they had been “withheld.” No, he had to keep Wolf in reserve. Because, if by some miracle she survived this, if by some miracle this was a
different
spy network, he was going to get her out of Germany, and for that he would require at least one communication.

Yet he couldn’t make himself give up. As his hands pressed against the cable, flat on his desk, his mind flew from one possibility to the next, around and around, until the secretary came in with another cable.
Germany Proposes Alliance Negotiations with the USSR.

She’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.
Sick at heart, he tried to work.

By evening, it was worse. The images of Christa, in the hands of the Gestapo, would not leave him. Unable to eat, he was early for his eight o’clock work at the Tournon. But Ferrara wasn’t there, the room was locked. Weisz went back downstairs and asked the clerk if Monsieur Kolb was in his room, but was told there was no such person at the hotel. That was, Weisz thought, typical—Kolb appeared from nowhere and returned to the same place. He was likely staying at the Tournon, but evidently using a different name. Weisz went out onto the rue de Tournon, crossed the street to the Jardin du Luxembourg, sat on a bench, and smoked cigarette after cigarette, mocked by the soft spring evening and, it seemed to him, every pair of lovers in the city. At eight-twenty, he returned to the hotel, and found Ferrara waiting for him.

This town, that river, the heroic corporal who picked up a hand grenade from the bottom of a ditch and threw it back. What helped Weisz, that night, was the automatic process of the work, typing Ferrara’s words, editing as he went along. Then, a few minutes after ten, Kolb appeared. “We’ll finish early tonight,” he said. “All going well?”

“We’re getting close to the end,” Ferrara said. “There’s the time at the internment camp, then it’s finished. I’d guess you won’t want us to write about my time in Paris.”

From Kolb, a wolfish grin. “No, we’ll just leave that to the reader’s imagination.” Then, to Weisz: “You and I will be going up to the Sixteenth. There’s someone in town who wants to meet you.”

From the way Kolb said it, Weisz didn’t really have a choice.

The apartment was in Passy, the aristocratic heart of the
très snob
Sixteenth Arrondissement. Red and gold, in the best Parisian tradition, it was all heavy drapes and fabrics, paneled with
boiserie,
one wall a bookcase. A darkened room, lit only by a single Oriental lamp. The concierge had telephoned their arrival from her loge, so, when Kolb opened the elevator gate, Mr. Brown was waiting by the door. “Ah, hello, glad you could come!” A cheery call and a rather different Mr. Brown—no more the amiably rumpled gent with pipe and slipover sweater. Instead, a new suit, expensive and dark blue. As Weisz shook hands and entered the apartment, he saw why. “This is Mr. Lane,” Brown said.

A tall, spindly man unfolded himself from a low sofa, gripped Weisz’s hand, and said, “Mr. Weisz, a pleasure to meet you.” Crisp white shirt, solemn tie, perfectly tailored suit, the British upper class resplendent, with steel-colored hair and thin, professionally hesitant smile. But the eyes, deep-set, webbed with deep lines, were worried eyes, almost apprehensive, that came close to contradicting all the signals of his status. “Come sit with me,” he said to Weisz, indicating the other end of the sofa. Then: “Brown? Can you get us a scotch? As it comes?”

This turned out to mean neat, two inches of amber liquid in a crystal glass. Lane said, “We’ll see you later.” Kolb had already evaporated, now Mr. Brown went off to another room in the apartment. “So,” he said to Weisz, his voice low and mellow and pleased, “you’re our writer.”

“I am,” Weisz said.

“Damn fine work, Mr. Weisz.
Soldier for Freedom
should do rather well, we think. I’d surmise you have your heart in it.”

“That’s true,” Weisz said.

“Shame about your country. I don’t believe she’ll be happy with her new friends, but that can’t be helped, can it. Not that you haven’t tried.”

“Do you mean
Liberazione
?”

“I do. Seen the back issues, and it’s easily at the top of its class. Leaves the politics alone, thank God, and leans hard on the facts of life. And your cartoonist is a delightfully nasty man. Who is he?”

“An émigré, he works for
Le Journal.
” Weisz didn’t say a name, and Lane let it go.

“Well, we hope to see lots more of that.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. We see a bright future for
Liberazione.
” Lane’s voice caressed the word, as though it were the name of an opera.

“The way life goes at the moment, it doesn’t really exist, not anymore.”

If Lane’s face did anything well, it was
disappointment.
“No, no, don’t say such things, it must go on.” The
must
worked both ways,
simply must,
and
really must
—or else.

“We’ve been under siege,” Weisz said. “By the OVRA, we believe, and we’ve had to suspend publication.”

Lane took a sip of his scotch. “Then you’ll just have to unsuspend it, won’t you, now that Mussolini’s gone and joined the wrong side. What do you mean, under siege?”

“An assassination, attacks on the committee members—trouble at work, possibly arson, a burglary.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“Not yet. But we may try, it’s under consideration.”

From Lane, an emphatic nod:
That’s a good fellow.
“Can’t just let it die, Mr. Weisz, it’s simply too good. And, we have reason to believe, effective. People in Italy talk about it—we know that. Now, we may be able to help you out, with the police, but you ought to give it a try on your own. Experience says that’s the best way. And, fact is, your
Liberazione
ought to be bigger, and more widely read, and there we really can do something. Tell me, what are your distribution arrangements?”

Weisz paused, how to describe it. “They’ve always run themselves, since
1933
, when the editorial committee of the
Giustizia e Libertà
committee worked in Italy. It is, well, it grew by itself. First there was a single truck driver, in Genoa, then another, a friend of his, who went up to Milan. It isn’t a pyramid, with a Parisian émigré at the top, it’s just people who know one another, and who want to participate, to do something, whatever they can, to oppose the fascist regime. We’re not the Communists, we’re not in cells, with discipline. We have a printer in Genoa, he hands bundled papers off to three or four friends, and they spread it out among their friends. One takes ten, another takes twenty. And from there it goes everywhere.”

Lane was delighted, and showed it. “Blessed chaos!” he said. “Cheerful Italian anarchy. I hope you don’t mind, my saying that.”

Weisz shrugged. “I don’t mind, it’s true. In my country, we don’t like bosses, it’s the way we’re made.”

“And your print run?”

“Around two thousand.”

“The Communists run twenty thousand.”

“I didn’t know the number, I assumed it was larger. But they get themselves arrested more than we do.”

“I take your point—we can’t have too much of
that.
And readers?”

“Who knows. Sometimes one to a paper, sometimes twenty. We couldn’t begin to guess, but it is shared, and not thrown away—we ask for that, right on the masthead.”

“Could one say, twenty thousand?”

“Why not? It’s possible. The paper’s left on benches in railway waiting rooms, and on the trains. Anywhere public you can imagine.”

“And your information—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“By mail, by new émigrés, by gossip and rumor.”

“Naturally. Information has a life of its own, which is something we know very well, to our joy, and, sometimes, to our sorrow.”

From Weisz, a sympathetic nod.

“How’s your drink?”

Weisz looked down and saw he’d almost finished the scotch.

“Let me top that up for you.” Lane stood, walked over to a cabinet by the doorway, and poured them both a second drink. When he returned, he said, “I’m glad we had a chance to talk. We’ve made some plans for you, in London, but I wanted to see who we’d be working with.”

“What plans have you made, Mr. Lane.”

“Oh, as I said. Bigger, better distribution, more readers, many more. And I think we might be able to help out, now and then, with information. We’re good at that. Oh, by the way, what about paper?”

“We print at the Genoa daily newspaper, and our printer, well, it’s like everything else—he finds a way, a friend upstairs, in the office, or maybe the records aren’t kept all that well.”

Once again, Lane was delighted, and laughed. “Fascist Italy,” he said, shaking his head at the absurdity of such an idea. “How in God’s name…”

Like the rest of the world, Weisz had had his bad nights—lost love, world gone wrong, money—but this was by far the worst; slow hours, spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room. Yesterday, he would have been excited by his meeting with Mr. Lane—a change of fortune in the war he fought. Good news! An investor! Their little company approached by a big corporation. Which might turn out to be not such good news, and Weisz was aware of that. But, where were they now? It was, certainly, an event, a sudden turn of fate, and Weisz typically rose to such challenges, but now all he could think about was Christa. In Berlin. In a cell. Interrogated.

Fear and rage rose within him, first one, then the other. He hated her captors, he would pay them back. But, how to reach her, how to find out, what could he do to save her? Could she still be saved? No, it was too late. Could he go to Berlin? Could Delahanty help him? The Reuters board of directors? Desperately, he reached for power. But found only one source.
Mr. Lane.
Would Lane help him? Not as a favor. Lane was an executive, and shared with others of his breed a sublime talent for deflection—Weisz had
felt
it. His purpose, in the sea he swam in, was to acquire, to succeed. He could not be pleaded with, he could only be forced, forced to bargain, in order to get what he wanted. Would he bargain?