Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

'Votre passeport, s'il vows plait.' Marlene woke with a start. It was early morning. A French passport inspector was in the compartment, a German military policeman behind him. My name is Neumann, went the words in her head, Helene Neumann…

The French official leafed through Professor Raab's work of art. The military policeman read it over his shoulder. 'Where to?' he asked.

'Paris.'

'What for?'

She took the letter from the Party leadership out of her handbag. The military policeman read it. He obviously didn't understand a word. 'Thanks, all in order.' He gave her the letter back.

'Bon voyage, mademoiselle.' The passport inspector handed her papers back and turned to the next passenger.

A French steam engine had taken over from the Swiss electric locomotive and puffed away fast, staccato, until its flywheels took hold and the train slowly moved away.

The Gare de Lyon was a peaceful scene, one that a few German soldiers lounging about could not disturb. Passengers in a hurry. Porters bustling about. Brightly coloured kiosks. A man playing the accordion. A dog lifting its leg against the advertising pillar bearing the Picon ad. And hovering over everything its own particular mixture of smells, a compound of soot, cheap perfume, Gitanes and pastis. Marlene breathed it all in. No different from Lehrter station, just not the same, she thought with her best Riibenstrasse logic.

Bicycle taxis were waiting outside the station. Gasoline was in short supply. Marlene put her case in one of these vehicles. 'To the Louvre, please.' She enjoyed the swaying ride through the city, little damaged by a few weeks of war and twelve months of ceasefire. 'Attendez,' she asked the cabby when they reached her destination.

Outside the Louvre a group of German officers had gathered around a tourist guide who was explaining something in terrible German. 'Mon dieu, non, c'est intolerable. Parlez francais, s'il vows plait.' a captain told the guide in fluent French.

A major left the group and came over to Marlene. She put her case down to get her papers out of her handbag. I expect they check up on you here even if you want to go to the loo, she thought crossly.

'Vous permettez, madame?' The major was after her case, not her passport. 'Ou puis je vous la porter?'

'Up there, please.' She indicated the steps up to the entrance.

'You're German?'

'You can hear I am.'

'Visiting the Louvre?'

'You can see I am.' A German officer was the last thing she needed just now.

He was not to be shaken off so easily. 'Major Achim Wachter, if I may introduce myself. Perhaps we could see each other again?' He was about forty and had some grey in his hair. He was sizing her up.

Now he's wondering out how easy it would be to get me into bed, she thought. 'Thank you for carrying my case.' She left him standing there and turned to the museum attendant in the entrance. 'Je cherche Monsieur Aristide Brunel.'

'Vous etes la dame allemande?'

Any objection?'

'Allons.' The man went ahead of her. A small side door. A narrow passage. A spiral staircase. A long corridor. Tall double doors. An imposing desk. A white-haired man in a dark, double-breasted suit. 'La dame allemande, Monsieur le directeur.'

'Our visitor from Munich.' The white-haired man spoke German. 'From the Alte Pinakothek, am I right? The restorer? Bonjour, madame.'

'I don't have anything to do with restaurants. I'm to ask if you've been able to tell the difference between the two Canalettos yet.'

Brunel's face brightened. 'How is my friend Georg Raab?' he asked, delighted.

In a terrible way. And as long as he's in a terrible way he's all right because he's still alive. But don't ask me for how much longer.'

'Is it that bad?'

'Worse.'

'What about you, madame?'

'I managed to get away. With his help. He says you'll find a safe place for me to stay.'

Brunel made a call, speaking quietly and fast. Marlene couldn't make out a word. He hung up. You were never here, and we'll never see each other again. In the unlikely event of a chance meeting we don't know each other.'

'I understand. So now?'

'Go downstairs, and the rest will follow.' He kissed her hand. 'Bonne chance, ma chere.' He escorted her to the top of the spiral staircase.

The group of German officers had disappeared. The bicycle taxi was waiting at the foot of the broad flight of steps. Marlene stopped short. It wasn't the same cabby, but a dark man with a moustache, who silently indicated that she should get in.

Jerkily, they set off. They rode fast through the city: Marlene had no idea for how long or where to. The cyclist had to tread hard on the pedals as they went uphill. 'Montmartre,' he told her, out of breath. Next moment they were coasting downhill again towards an entrance. BERTRAND'S VELOTAXIS, she read over the gate as it clanged shut behind them. There was darkness all around.

So now what, she thought, more baffled than alarmed.

' Votre nom?' said a voice in the darkness.

'Helene Neumann.'

'Votre vrai nom.'

'Look, I don't understand. My French is strictly limited, if you know what I mean.'

'We want your real name,' the voice demanded.

'Let's have a bit of light in here first so that I can see you.'

A quiet murmuring, then a pause, and the creak of shutters. Light dazzled her, and traced the outlines of three people. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. She recognized the man with the moustache. A young woman stood beside him, wearing a brightly coloured summer dress and fashionable wedge heels. Her long black hair was caught up and turned under in a roll. She was sizing Marlene up.

'We want to know who you are, what your real name is and where you come from.' The speaker was a tall, dark man of around thirty with a craggy chin. His German was fluent. Marlene, whose own native Berlin accent was returning to her, thought she heard the trace of a dialect that she didn't recognize.

'Why do you want to know all this?'

'farce que vows etes allemande et les allemande sont nos ennemis,' said the young woman sharply.

'Very well, if you must know, my name's Marlene Neubert. I've come from Blumenau camp near Berlin. A friend of your friend Monsieur Brunel helped me get out with forged papers. The papers say my name is Helene Neumann and I'm in Paris to find a suitable building for the Nazi Women's Association. Here's my passport, and a letter from Party leadership — that's a fake too.' She handed the papers to the speaker. 'So now maybe you'd be kind enough to introduce yourselves.'

'My name is Armand, this is Yvonne, and this is Bertrand.'

'Nos noms de guerre,' the woman added.

And you'll be Madeleine from now on,' Armand told her. 'We're all on first-name terms here. What happens if the Germans check up on you?'

'Nothing at first. But if I'm identified back in Berlin I'm done for. They'll kill me or send me to Theresienstadt, which comes to the same thing. Any more questions?'

'Yes. Are you prepared to help us fight the Germans?'

'The Germans, no. The SS, the Gestapo and the Nazis, yes.'

'C'est la meme chose,' said Yvonne, her voice filled with scorn.

'You mean I'm the same as that bunch of murderers? No, mademoiselle, you'll have to put that differently.'

'Drop it, Yvonne,' Armand told her. 'Notre nouvelle alliee prend le meme risque que nous. As she can prove in her first operation,' he added thoughtfully. 'Show Madeleine her quarters.'

There was a glasshouse in the overgrown yard, used until recently as an artist's studio, its windows half-covered with linen sheets to give the occupants a little privacy. The artist had gone to Provence. His abstract works were everywhere, and there was a smell of oil paint and turpentine. An unfinished female nude stood on the easel, with breasts at odd angles and an eye instead of a navel. 'What a sight,' Marlene said.