Mila 18 - Leon Uris

Chris shrugged. “I’ve never had it better.”

“I am afraid there is one unpleasant bit of business on the agenda. So far as I am concerned a Jew can take a photograph as well as a blond Aryan and certainly report a story—but—”

“Rosenblum.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He offered to quit several days ago. He knew this would happen.”

Horst von Epp flopped his arms. “I wish I knew what to do. It appears that Berlin simply won’t let me have room to maneuver on Jewish matters.”

Chris wanted to press the point. Rosy knew it would happen. But Rosy had been wrong about the Germans closing out Swiss News. Better hold his tongue ...

“It’s not your fault,” Chris said.

“I have an idea. How about dinner tonight? My suite?”

Chris shrugged. Why not? He had nothing better to do.

“Perhaps ... a little company later on?”

Chris walked to the window. So many times he had seen Deborah standing before that same window ... had watched her from the alcove. The last time he had looked at Deborah her eyes were mad and she plunged into darkness. Sienna Street was only four blocks away. So near ... so damned near. She was there with Paul now, on Sienna Street. Another lonely night, and another, and another. Would there ever be a moment of peace for him? He didn’t want to face the darkness alone again. Nagging, longing. Lonely. He would stand at the window and look toward Sienna Street and think about her. Rosy told him he was a fool, she would never leave Paul Bronski.

Chris turned and faced the German. “Ladies? Sure, why not? That’s just fine with me.”

Chris approached the dinner engagement with Horst von Epp with suspicion. It had all come too easily. He thought he would be on a train to Switzerland by this time, booted from Poland. Instead, he and Swiss News were still alive and operating in the middle of a German occupation.

Chris suspected that Horst von Epp would be a perfect host. He was. In fact, he was more comfortable with the German than he had been with anyone for months. Horst knew all the latest stories and had vast amounts of gossip about mutual friends in the newsmen’s world. Chris’s suspicions began to fade as the evening wore on. For a while he hung on every word, looking for some telltale sign of what Von Epp really wanted from him. The German would not tip his hand. Further, Chris was constantly amazed at Von Epp’s open expressions of disdain for many Nazis.

“Well,” Von Epp said, “speaking with realism, I am committed to Hitler’s policies. If he wins, I shall be an enormous man. If he loses, I’ll become a gigolo on the Riviera. I have one terrible aversion, and that is to perform honest labor. I’ll do anything to avoid it, and frankly, I’m not suited for much.”

Chris admired his candor.

“Now!” Horst said. “I have a surprise for you. Surprises should always go with dessert.”

The German handed a Kennkarte over the table. Chris opened it. It was a document signed by Kommissar Rudolph Schreiker. Ervin Rosenblum was to be allowed to continue his position with Swiss News. He was not obliged to wear an armband with a Star of David.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Please understand that I can’t guarantee that this won’t be revoked, but ... for the time being ...”

Chris waved away the after-dinner cognac and loaded his glass with scotch. He pocketed Rosy’s Kennkarte with amused perplexion. The inevitable cigar smoke came from the direction of Von Epp.

“Herr von Epp,” Chris said, raising his glass, “I salute a perfect but confusing host. You know, I am a professional observer of the cat-and-mouse game that diplomats play. I am first rate at deciphering the meaning of double talk. Yet here I am in the middle of a squeeze play and I am completely puzzled. Pardon me for not being subtle, but what the hell are you up to? What’s your deal? What are the strings? What do you want from me?”

“Bravo, De Monti. All journalists must be suspicious by nature.”

“Are you queer? Do you have designs on me?”

Von Epp roared with laughter. “God, no—but confidentially, the city hall is loaded with them. Chris, you see these Nazi clots around here. They bow stiffly from the waist, kiss a lady’s hand like a pig, and walk in those ridiculous uniforms as though they had broomsticks up their rectums. You are my kind of man. We drink scotch and have the same tailor in London. I believe your handshake is better than a Nazi pact. I want to be friends.”

“No orders?”

Horst shrugged. “You have friends among the Jews. I would guess that everyone in Warsaw does. Just use a reasonable amount of common sense.”

“What do your files say about De Monti?” Chris asked.

“Well, now, let me see. According to your passport, you are an Italian national. Your mother is an American. We are certain your leanings are American. The gentlemen at the Italian Embassy think you are a bad Fascist. However, you’ve covered both the Ethiopian and the Spanish affairs from the Italian side of the lines. You are cautious not to editorialize but only to report news. That is commendable. What else would you like to know about yourself?”

Chris flipped his napkin on the table. “I’ll be a son of a bitch! You take the cake.”

“Do we understand each other, Chris.”

Chris smiled and held his glass up in salute. “To friendship.”

“A good toast.”

The ladies of the evening arrived.

They were, as Horst promised, two of Warsaw’s loveliest courtesans. Chris knew both of them, in bed. They were minor European film actresses and belonged to a small social clique that ran in a continual circle in Warsaw. Hildie Solna was a striking blonde. He had had an affair with her before he met Deborah. The other one ... a few one-night adventures ... her name slipped his mind—Wanda some-thing-or-other.

Horst von Epp kissed their hands in the accepted fashion. Chris was amused. Yes, he thought, Hildie would be quick to jump on the band wagon and switch masters. He wondered if Von Epp knew how shopworn Hildie was under the paint. Well, she still had enough tricks left to get her through one more war.

“Darling!” Hildie cried in delight at seeing Chris. Dear Hildie ... the body without a soul. Soft words without meaning. He looked at her. Could he lie in bed tonight with her or Wanda something-or-other and not cry out for his true love?

No ... It was better to spend the night in agony, longing for Deborah, than with one of them. He turned quickly to Von Epp and spoke in Italian. “I think I will take a rain check. Pretend that I am not your guest. I am sure you can dig up a good German officer to take my place. I shall act as though I were an intruder and beg my leave.”

“Go ahead,” Von Epp answered. “I will arrange everything.” Horst watched Chris pat Hildie’s cheeks and tell her he was sorry he could not stay, but another time ... Why would he run off, Von Epp thought? It is as I surmised—De Monti has something going for him here in Warsaw and he does not want to leave—almost certainly a Jewess. If it is so, I have found his price.

Chapter Eight

ERVIN ROSENBLUM WAS HOMELIER than usual when he opened the door to let Chris in. Aroused from a deep sleep, he yawned and stretched in a half-tied monstrous old robe and paddled to the mantel clock in a pair of worn slippers. He squinted at the clock.

“My God, past midnight! Something terrible has happened?”

Chris handed him the Kennkarte. Ervin was nearly blind without his glasses. He held it to his nose but could not read it. “Wait, I’ll get my glasses.”

He returned from the bedroom with a look of complete puzzlement.

“How in the name of God did you arrange this? I thought sure you had come to tell me good-by.”