Cleopatra�s Perfume (41 page)

Whatever, I would not judge her, though I admit I harbored no malice toward her for her actions in Cairo. At the time, I chose the verdict that she was guilty of taking Ramzi’s attention away from me, but I admit I never took into consideration the overindulgent personality of the Egyptian. Had I done so, I have no doubt I would have seen I was just as guilty in my obsession to possess a man who could not be possessed. I had sought sexual fulfillment in a frenzied, confusing, chaotic world and sought it in the arms of a man who deceived us both. Blaming her for my shortcomings wasn’t the answer. I knew that now and wanted to tell her so, but I didn’t. Instead, we talked about the air raids, compared notes—we both had the same fear about being caught out in the open—though once the sirens started, it was
verboten
to stay out in the streets.

We chatted about the recent German invasion of Yugoslavia and Greece, the fact that Horcher’s scorned the idea of asking its clientele for food coupons, and how the Nazi government had come up with its latest scheme to perpetrate the master race by inducing girls from the Hitler Youth to sleep with the elite SS officers. (At the time, her casual statement made me wonder if I was being shanghaied for such an experiment by that handsome but off-putting SS officer I met at the Hotel Adlon bar.) So here we were once again, twittering like
jeunesse dorée,
from the important to the nonsensical in a breath, for our need to rekindle old times and laugh was as important to us as our need to confide the real meaning for this meeting. The signs of our duress were there: I fidgeted with my cloth napkin, clearing my throat numerous times to discourage eavesdroppers. Maxi checked and rechecked her lipstick with the
tenacity of a schoolgirl, using a small mirror she pulled out of her trouser pocket so she could see who was coming or going behind her. I couldn’t help but notice Nazi officers disappearing into a private dining room, along with a man not in uniform that I assumed was an important businessman. (Maxi casually mentioned he was the head of a steel firm.)

I couldn’t help but stare at them, wondering what nefarious plans they were making, a look of dismay on my face and holding my fork in midair. The ugliness of their politics as well as their guttural laughter seemed so out of place in this elegant restaurant with its dark red walls, rich, deep gold drapes (fitted with blackout curtains, I noted), delicate, rustic wall covering in a floral pattern and double-layered white tablecloths. Each table displayed elegant tall-stemmed crystal glasses and fresh deep pink chrysanthemums flanking a tall red candle in a gold candlestick holder.

“Old Berlin taking its last breath,” I said to Maxi, lowering my fork. I was careful to use my right hand in the style of an American to eat my food instead of my left. I remembered the story from my training how an agent had given himself away by holding the fork in the wrong hand.

“
Everything’s
changed, Eve,” she said, putting away her mirror and taking a bite out of her veal cutlet. She chewed quickly as if the taste of the food meant nothing to her. “The Nazi government dominates every aspect of our lives, censoring the newspapers, magazines, telephones—”

“Which is why you said nothing which could be incriminating when you rang up my hotel room.”

She nodded. “Yes, though I’m positive no one knows that I have…”

I must censor this part of the story, dear reader. I cannot reveal to you what Maxi told me at this point for reasons of national security.

“…and they keep watch over the activities of what we do as well as foreigners living here.”

“Which also includes tourists, I imagine.” I squirmed, becoming more uncomfortable as the minutes passed. I mentioned how with the strict rules with exchanging money, I was running out of local currency. Fast.

Maxi laughed. “Money is no problem, Eve. We artists are paid handsomely to keep the Aryan face of the Third Reich out in front of the adoring populace.” Without hesitating, she slipped me several folded-up notes under the table, then let out her emotions in a torrent of words I never expected. “But money means nothing when you…oh, why didn’t I see it coming? Why? I should have. Maybe then I could have saved my father, gotten him out of the country before they sent him to an internment camp for political opponents of the Nazi regime. Now it’s too late. He’s dead.”

I waited for her to explain further. She didn’t. Instead, she said, “I remember years ago when Hitler first came to power and the commotion he created at the Scala Theatre not far from here, the entire street closed off to traffic, people in the audience applauding and cheering and throwing violets at his box.” She put down her fork, wiped her face, smearing her red lipstick. As if the action smeared her soul with what she perceived as the blood of lives lost. “But like so many others, Eve, I ignored it because I was allowed to continue my work. I closed my eyes and looked at the world through my photo lens until I could no longer ignore what I was seeing.” She sighed. “That’s why I’m here. I need your help.”

She looked at me fiercely, as if she didn’t want me to forget the story of how her father spent months as a political prisoner, beaten, tortured before he died of “pneumonia,” according to the official death certificate.

I listened, staring at the silver fork in my hand with the name Horcher inscribed on it, wondering if Goering himself used it, since the Luftwaffe had commandeered the restaurant to save it from closing.

I barely tasted my food, though from the menu I could see the famed restaurant still preserved the prewar tastes of the upper echelon of society with soup, fish or meat (lobster and oysters were plentiful), vegetables and a dessert, unlike the typical German fare of sauerkraut and potatoes or stew with fruit compote. Unlike the menu at the Hotel Adlon with various items crossed out, every dish was available here. I pushed my plate away. I thought of Maxi’s father and I could only imagine what the poor souls at a labor camp received for meals. Watery sour cabbage soup, at best.

Maxi said, “When I made contact with your government, Eve, and offered to pass along certain information, I had no idea they would send you. Do you know what danger you’re in?”

“Nothing will happen to me, Maxi. I’m traveling under an American passport.”

You’re perfect for the job, Lady Marlowe,
they had insisted,
considering your previous friendship with the German photographer. Two old friends catching up on old times over lunch, what could be more innocent?

“But you’re…you’re Jewish, Eve.”

“Yes,” I said in a clear voice, not denying it to Maxi or myself. “But I refuse to cower before them.”

“You don’t know what the Nazis will do if they find out you’re a
Jew. I’ve seen how they set up deliberate difficulties for anyone trying to get out of the country.”

“The American consulate will help me.” They wouldn’t, of course. I was on my own and Maxi knew it as well.

Maxi continued, “I’ve heard stories of Americans being taken to the old police prison in Alexanderplatz, fingerprinted and photographed, and held for months on suspicion of espionage.” She stopped to make certain I’d taken in what she said, then she looked into my eyes. “They’ve been known to imprison Catholic priests. If they find out you’re Jewish—”

“Why did you ask me here, Maxi? Is this a setup?” I asked her in an accusing voice. “Revenge for what happened in Cairo? I imagine your Nazi friends will show up any minute and take me away while you laugh at my stupidity for trusting you.”

“No, Eve. I invited you here because she wouldn’t dare touch us in this restaurant with so many top Nazi officials frequenting this place.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Laila.”

“Laila?”

“Yes, she contacted me a few days ago when she saw you in the lobby of the Hotel Adlon. She wanted to know
why
you were here in Berlin, traveling under an American name and passport.”

“How did she find that out?” I had been warned by my training instructor I was taking a chance on someone recognizing me in Berlin. I believed if they did, they would remember me as Eve Charles, chorus girl. This news unnerved me, set my heart racing. I never dreamed Laila was in Berlin. It was the kind of happenstance every agent fears, a moment when your cover is blown by sheer chance.

“Laila has friends in high places,
very
high places.” Maxi lowered her voice and relayed the information she had uncovered about Laila’s association with Haj Amin el-Husseini, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, the Arab leader who staged major influence over the Middle East political scene. Rumor had it, she said, he intended to align with Hitler since he believed an Axis victory was both inevitable and impending. Not to mention profitable.

He was a man who loved affluence, according to Maxi, so it was no surprise that Laila had endeared herself to him with her expertise in Middle Eastern antiquities. You can imagine my shock, dear reader, to discover that in preparation for his plan to join the Axis camp, agents of the Mufti were spread out all over Berlin. Laila was such an agent, telling Maxi with pride she was in the process of remodeling a suite for him at the Hotel Adlon with rare Egyptian and Iraqi artifacts when she saw me in the lobby.

I understood now how Laila had gained access to the Gypsy girl at Dachau with the help of her well-placed Nazi friends. No doubt she was working on another plan to steal the perfume from me when I showed up unexpectedly here in Berlin. I can imagine her disbelief at seeing me. I knew from what the Gypsy girl had told me that Laila was somewhere in Germany, but I made no mention of it to the Foreign Office. If I had, I believe they would have given the assignment to someone else.

Besides, as long as I wore Cleopatra’s perfume, I was convinced I was in no danger. But what if I were thrown into prison? It would be only a matter of time before the scent wore off and I would no longer be safe.

I leaned forward in my chair, my eyes looking everywhere, as if
I expected to spot the Muslim woman spying on me. I still wasn’t convinced Maxi knew nothing about Laila being in Berlin. Had I fallen for the cruelest trick of all? Had Maxi betrayed me?

Our eyes locked; Maxi didn’t withdraw her gaze, but put her hand over mine and squeezed it. I squeezed back. I knew then she hadn’t told Laila anything about why I was here. In that moment, every hurtful word that had taken place between us was erased. I was greatly relieved, though quite sorry it took a war for us to put aside our differences and resume our friendship. Her next words, however, took me by surprise.

“I couldn’t help but notice your perfume,” Maxi said, keeping the conversation light as a Nazi officer strolled by, glancing in my direction. I half expected him to click his heels. “It’s the same fragrance you wore in Cairo, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” I said with apprehension, attempting to keep my voice steady.

“I’m afraid we aren’t so lucky here in Berlin, though smuggled French perfume with exotic and suggestive names are available on the black market.” She blinked and looked directly at me. “Laila asked me if you still wore the perfume.”

“What did you tell her?” I asked, avoiding her gaze.

“I told her I didn’t know.”

I let go of the breath I’d been holding, making the decision not to pursue the subject with her. The less she knew about Laila’s obsession with the perfume, the safer it was for both of us.

I changed the subject, asking her why she had postponed our first meeting. She said she became frightened when she was summoned to Goebbels’s office and questioned about her association with an
American woman named Eve Charles. She called off our appointment out of fear, then she realized the information she possessed was more important than her life or mine. Yes, dear reader, she passed on that information to me during lunch, but I cannot reveal it to you. I know you understand why.

“Laila must have told the Gestapo about me,” I said, then I explained to her about the SS officer whose acquaintance I made at the hotel bar. “She sent that SS man to watch me, I’m certain of it.”

“That’s why you
must
get out of Berlin without delay.”

“No. If I do that, they’ll be suspicious and it could jeopardize the mission. I’ll play along with their game, keep them guessing. It won’t hurt for me to have a drink with the SS officer, flirt with him, let him think I’m interested in him.” To heighten his desire, I decided I would remove my brassiere and knickers and wear nothing but a nude-colored slip under my dress.

“What about your phony Swedish fiancé?” she asked. I had revealed my cover story to her when we sat down. “Won’t the SS officer question you about him?”

“I doubt it. I’m certain his male ego will be quite flattered knowing I can’t resist the charms of one of Hitler’s elite guards.”

Maxi couldn’t help but smile. “You haven’t changed a bit, Eve. It’s just like old times.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” I grinned, not realizing how wrong I was.

Berlin

April 29, 1941

Sitting at the desk in my room at the Hotel Adlon, writing my final entry in this diary, I can barely contain my excitement. Remem
bering what Maxi told me, knowing the far-reaching implications of the message I bear, I can tell you only that I possess a secret that could change the outcome of the war. I sense your frustration, I feel your anger. No doubt you’ve ripped up the diary. If not, I beg you to listen to me. I’m not attempting to cajole you with a game of charades, taking you on this journey then leaving you with no answer to the puzzle, but I have no choice.

I admit my first steps toward telling my story were selfish and erotic, filled with such satisfying memories of the three men in my life and my obsession with them, I experienced the warmth and deep comfort one has from reliving the past, but easier to achieve when we are separated from it. I assure you, dear reader, when the war is over, you will know what secret I possess.

I shall end this diary before I go downstairs to the hotel bar to meet with the SS officer, for not to do so will stoke his anger and further increase his curiosity about me. I shall miss you, dear reader, for this is the end of my story. Before I leave, I will conceal the diary in the false bottom of my steamer trunk, along with the invitation to Maxi’s photo exhibition next week. A beautiful invitation printed on parchment with exquisite engraving. A special process, I’m told.