Alan Furst: Spies of the Balkans

“In the party?” He meant the Nazi party, and kept his voice light and neutral.

“Never.” She was offended that he could even suggest such a thing, and her voice knew how to be offended. “No, he isn’t like that. He’s a career officer; he serves on the General Staff of the Wehrmacht, a manager of logistics-trains getting where they’re needed on time, enough socks-it’s not glamorous, but it is quite important.”

“I know what it is,” Zannis said. “Is there a J stamped in your passport?” That was now a legal requirement in Germany, a J for Juden, Jew.

“Oh no, not mine; they wouldn’t dare.”

“No, likely they wouldn’t, not with you married to a man in his position, and he’s probably not Jewish-he couldn’t be, the way things are in Germany.”

“A Lutheran, from a solid old family, though nothing special. We met, we fell in love, and we married-he’s a wonderful man. We were never able to have children, but we lived a good life, then Hitler came to power. Hugo would have resigned his commission but he realized that, with a Jewish wife, it was better for us if he stayed where he was.”

Zannis nodded, acknowledging an unfortunate truth. And , he thought, logistics is the word . How to get this woman and the two children to Turkey? “Could you tell me how, once you reached Istanbul, you planned to return to Berlin?”

“I didn’t see it as a problem,” she said, hesitant, not sure what he had in mind.

“By steamship?”

“Heavens no. It’s faster to fly. From Istanbul to Bucharest, then on to Berlin. Lufthansa has routes to all the neutral countries.”

“But you didn’t fly to Istanbul. I imagine, with two children, it would have been expensive.”

“It wasn’t that, I don’t care about money. Hugo and I thought the three of us might be a little too noticeable at Tempelhof-Gestapo everywhere, at the airport-so better to go on the train. By stages, you see, first to Vienna, then Budapest, Belgrade, Sofia, and on to Istanbul. We got as far as the border control at Edirne, in Turkey.”

“But you came back to Salonika.”

“Because I knew there were Jews in Salonika-‘the Jerusalem of the Balkans,’ all that.”

“Yes, at one time a majority here, and still a large community.”

“I couldn’t think what else to do. Going back to Berlin was out of the question, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because”-she paused, then said-“that would have been, well, failure.”

“And you don’t fail.”

“How could I?” With a shift of her eyes, she referred to the children in the bedroom.

Zannis thought for a moment; then he said, “There is one thing I wondered about.”

“Anything.” She encouraged him with a smile; certainly they had become, almost, friends, she hoped.

“You said, ‘I don’t care about money,’ and I don’t mean to pry, but I suspect you weren’t talking about the pay of an army colonel.”

“You don’t mean to pry?” Arch and amused.

Zannis’s turn to smile.

“I have money of my own. I am Emilia Krebs but I used to be, I guess I still am, Emilia Adler. A name you might recognize, if you were German. Emilia Adler, of the Frankfurt Adlers, private bankers since the Middle Ages and very, very rich. There, it’s out.”

Zannis was puzzled and showed it. “Now? Under the Nazis? My impression was that they’d stolen all the Jewish money in Germany, forced the sale of Jewish businesses, prevented funds from leaving the country. Not true?”

“Not quite. Because once the Nazis got hold of the money they had to do something with it. Much of it went to Switzerland, but a substantial amount was deposited with my grandfather, at the Adler Bank in Frankfurt. That’s because he pays interest of twelve percent-which the Swiss, believe me, don’t.”

Zannis was impressed. “Twelve percent.”

“There’s no way he can invest at that level, of course, though the Nazis think he can-the cunning Jew, working in secret…. But, in fact, the money is coming from his own resources, it is a rather elegant form of bribery.”

After a moment, Zannis said, “Forever?”

“No. But for a time, maybe a year, maybe more. He knew they would come after him, in 1936, he knew, so he went after them. Gently. He is on the surface a very gentle man, though he’s not really like that.”

“Nor are you.”

“Nor am I.”

“And your father, works for the bank?”

“My father died ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“In Persia, where we held bonds for the building of water systems.”

“Of … an illness?”

“Of passion. A heart attack in a bordello. We like to believe he died happy. So there, Herr Zannis, now you have it all.”

“Almost. I’d like to know how you managed to secure exit papers for the children.”

“The lawyer did do that-at least he got something right.”

“How was it done? Do you know?”

“With a bribe, according to the lawyer. Fifty thousand reichsmark. Anyhow, that’s what I paid him, besides his fee, but all I have is his word.” She shrugged. “It might have been less.”

Zannis raised his eyebrows-a lot of money. “What, in dollars: twenty-five thousand? People could live on that for years.”

“Closer to twenty, I believe. Still, a substantial sum; this kind of transaction has become very expensive in the Reich. The Nazis are vicious and criminal but, thank God, they are also venal. The ideology, for many of them, is only skin-deep-they like power, and they love money.”

“Well, I’ll need the exit papers, for a day or two, maybe longer.”

As she went for her purse, Zannis rose to his feet and said, “Now I think I will have a coffee-may I pour one for you?”

“Please.”

“Nathanial?” Zannis said. “Paula? Would you like a pastry?”

12 October. The Club de Salonique.

It was the place in the city, so much so that even the mighty Vangelis had had a difficult time getting Zannis a membership. “Not only did I have to put my thumb in a certain place,” the old man told him, “but I had to press hard.” Nonetheless, it was crucial for Zannis to belong, because some of the most important business in Salonika was done there, in the club’s own building on the fancy end of the corniche. The atmosphere in the dark mahogany dining room, with its view over the sea and its hushed luncheon ritual-subdued conversation, just the barest music of china and silverware-was privilege transcendent.

Just the setting for Celebi, the Turkish consul. Easily a film version of the diplomat, Celebi-silver hair, serene smile, ivory cigarette holder; Roxanne had once described him as debonair . The waiter arrived, they ordered indifferently-the food was too polite to be good-and Zannis was properly grateful for Celebi’s seeing him on such short notice. Aperitifs were served, Zannis said he needed a favor, Celebi’s expression changed only slightly- oh? So it was to be a sophisticated sort of a luncheon, based on the most sophisticated sort of understanding about life and politics, though somewhat less sophisticated was the view out the window, where a merchant freighter, torpedoed that morning, burned while they dined. Mostly black smoke but, if one of your sideways glances came at just the right moment, you might catch a bright dot of fire.

“She’s a very cultivated woman,” Zannis said. “Jewish, and a person of some standing in the social world of Berlin.”

“Really?”

“So it seems.”

“She must be terribly rich, then. I’m afraid the rest of them …”

“I know.”

“She’s in difficulties?”

“In a way. She’s trying to get a friend’s children out of Berlin.”