Alan Furst: The Foreign Correspondent

A few minutes later, a second stroke of fortune: the bus turned off onto a tiny dirt road. Kolb’s heart lifted. Here’s my chance. “Follow!” he said. Klemens kept well behind the bus, a trail of dust showing its progress as it climbed up into the hills near the Oder. Then it stopped. Klemens backed up and parked the car just off the road, at a point where the people on the bus wouldn’t be able to see them.

Kolb gave the group a few minutes to get wherever they were going, then climbed out. “Open the hood,” he said. “You’ve had engine problems-this may take some time.”

Kolb walked up the road, then circled well away from the bus, into a pine woods. Nature, he thought. He didn’t like nature. In a city, he was a clever rat, at home in the maze, out here he felt naked and vulnerable, and, yes, he’d been right about his underpants. From a vantage point up the hill, he could see the Deutscher Maedchen, swarming at the edge of a small lake. Some of the girls unpacked the picnic, while others-Kolb’s eyes widened-undressed to go swimming, and not a bathing suit to be seen. They shrieked as they ran into the cold water, splashing each other, wrestling, a frolic of naked girls. All this lovely, pale, Aryan flesh, bouncing and jiggling, free and unfettered. Kolb couldn’t get enough, and, quite soon, found himself more than a little unfettered.

Von Schirren took off her shoes and stockings. Would there be more? No, her mood was beyond swimming, she paced about, staring at the ground, at the lake, at the hills, with sometimes a pallid smile when one of the Maedchen shouted at her to join them.

Kolb, moving from tree to tree for cover, worked his way down the hill. Eventually, he came to the edge of the woods, and hid behind a bush. Von Schirren wandered toward the lake, stood for a time, then moved back toward him. When she was ten feet away, Kolb looked out from behind the bush.

“Pssst.”

Von Schirren, startled, glared at him, fury in her eyes. “You vile little thing. Go away! At once. Or I’ll set the girls on you.”

By all means. “Listen to me carefully, Frau von Schirren. Your friend Weisz arranged this, and you’ll do what I say, or I’ll walk off and you’ll never see me, or him, again.”

She was, for a moment, speechless. “Carlo? Sent you here?”

“Yes. You’re leaving Germany. It starts now.”

“I must get my shoes,” she said.

“Tell your chief girl that you are unwell and you’re going to lie down in the bus.”

And then, at last, in her eyes, gratitude.

They climbed the wooded hillside, only birds broke the silence, and shafts of sunlight lit the forest floor. “Who are you?” she said.

“Your friend Weisz, in his profession, has a broad acquaintance. I happen to be one of the people he knows.”

After a time, she said, “I am followed, you know, everywhere.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them.”

“I suppose I cannot go to my house, even for a moment.”

“No. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“Then where?”

“Back to Berlin, to an attic. Hot as hell. Where we’ll change your appearance-I have purchased the most dreadful gray wig-then I will take your photograph, develop the film, and put the photo in your new passport, in your new name. After that, a change of cars, and a few hours’ drive to Luxembourg, the border crossing at Echternach. After that, it will be up to you.”

They circled the bus and descended to the road. Klemens was lying on his back beside the taxi, his hands clasped beneath his head. When he saw them, he rose, banged the hood shut, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

“Where shall I sit?” she said, approaching the car.

Kolb walked around the taxi and opened the trunk. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “I’ve done it a few times.”

She climbed in, and curled up on her side.

“Nice and snug?” Kolb said.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you,” she said.

“Very good,” Kolb said. “Ready?”

“The reason I asked, about going to my house, is that my dogs are there. They are dear to me, I wanted to say goodby.”

“We can’t go anywhere near your house, Frau von Schirren.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “I should not have asked.”

No, you shouldn’t have, I mean, really, dogs. But the look in her eyes reached him, and he said, “Perhaps you can have a friend bring them to Paris.”

“Yes, it might be possible.”

“Ready now?”

“Now I am.”

Kolb lowered the lid of the trunk, then pressed it down until it locked.

11 July.

It was after ten at night by the time Weisz climbed out of a taxi in front of the Hotel Dauphine. The night was warm, and the front door was propped open. Inside, it was quiet, Madame Rigaud sitting in a chair behind the desk, reading the newspaper. “So,” she said, taking off her spectacles, “you have returned.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“One never knows,” she said, quoting the French adage.

“Is there, perhaps, a message for me?”

“Not a one, monsieur.”

“I see. Well then, good evening, madame. I’m off to bed.”

“Mmm,” she said, putting on her spectacles and rattling the newspaper.

He was on the fourth step when she said, “Oh, Monsieur Weisz?”

“Madame?”

“There has been one inquiry. A friend of yours has come to stay with us. And she did ask, when she arrived, if you were here. I’ve given her Room Forty-seven, just down the hall from you. It looks out on the courtyard.”

After a moment, Weisz said, “That was kind of you, Madame Rigaud, it’s a pleasant room.”

“A very cultured sort of woman. German, I believe. And she is, one suspects, anxious to see you, so perhaps you should be on your way upstairs, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“In that case, I will wish you a good night.”

“For all of us, monsieur. For all of us.”