Field Gray (15 page)

“Not too near Linz, I hope. Hitler’s from Linz.”

“Same old Bernie Gunther.”

“Not quite. You’re forgetting this pirate hat I’m wearing now.” I tapped the silver skull and crossbones on my gray officer’s cap.

“That reminds me.” Kestner glanced at his wristwatch. “We have an eleven-o’clock appointment with Colonel Knochen at the Hôtel du Louvre.”

“He’s not here at the Lutetia?”

“No. Colonel Rudolf of the Abwehr is in charge here. Knochen likes to run his own show. The SD is mostly at the Hôtel du Louvre, on the other side of the river.”

“I wonder why they put me here.”

“Possibly to piss Rudolf off,” said Kestner. “Since almost certainly he knows nothing about your mission. By the way, Bernie, what is your mission? The Prinz Albrechtstrasse has been rather secretive about what you’re doing in Paris.”

“You remember that communist who murdered the two policemen in Berlin in 1931? Erich Mielke?”

To his credit, Kestner didn’t even flinch at the mention of this name.

“Vaguely,” he said.

“Heydrich thinks he’s in a French concentration camp somewhere in the south of France. My orders are to find him, get him back to Paris, and then arrange his transport back to Berlin, where he’s to stand trial.”

“Nothing else?”

“What else could there be?”

“Only that we could have organized that on our own, without your having to come here to Paris. You don’t even speak French.”

“You forget, Paul. I’ve met Mielke. If he’s changed his name, as seems likely, I might be able to identify him.”

“Yes, of course. I remember now. We just missed him in Hamburg, didn’t we?”

“That’s right.”

“Seems like a lot of effort for just one man. Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

“What Heydrich wants, Heydrich gets.”

“Point made,” said Kestner. “Well. Shall we walk? It’s a fine day.”

“Is it safe?”

Kestner laughed. “From who? The French?” He laughed again. “Let me tell you something about the French, Bernie. They know that it’s in their interest to get on with us Fridolins. That’s what they call us. Quite a lot of them are happy we’re here. Christ, they’re even more anti-Semitic than we are.” He shook his head. “No. You’ve got nothing to worry about from the French, my friend.”

Unlike Kestner, I didn’t speak a word of French, but it was easy to find your way around Paris. There were German direction signs on every street corner. It was a pity I didn’t have a similar arrangement inside my own head; it might have made it easier to decide what to do about Kestner.

Kestner’s French was, to my Fridolin ears, perfect, which is to say he sounded like a Frenchman. His father was a chemist who, disgusted by the Dreyfus affair, had left Alsace to live in Berlin. In those days, Berlin had been a more tolerant place than France. Paul Kestner had been just five years old when he came to live in Berlin, but for the rest of his life his mother always spoke to him in French.

“That’s how I got this posting,” he said as we walked north to the Seine.

“I didn’t think it was because of your love of art.”

The Hôtel du Louvre on the rue de Rivoli was older than the Lutetia but not dissimilar, with four façades and several hundred rooms; with an international reputation for luxury, it was a natural choice for the Gestapo and the SD. Security was every bit as tight as at the Lutetia, and we were obliged to sign in at a makeshift guardroom inside the front door. An SS orderly escorted us through the lobby and up a sweeping staircase to the public rooms, where the SD had established some temporary offices. Kestner and I were ushered into a tasteful salon with a rich red carpet and a series of hand-painted murals. We sat down at a long mahogany table and waited. A few minutes passed before three SD officers entered the room—one of whom I recognized.

The last time I had seen Herbert Hagen had been in 1937 in Cairo, where he and Adolf Eichmann were attempting to make contact with Haj Amin, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. Hagen had been an SS sergeant then and a rather incompetent one. Now he was a major and aide to Colonel Helmut Knochen, who was a lugubrious officer of about thirty—about the same age as Hagen. The third officer, also a major, was older than the other two, with thick, horn-rimmed glasses and a face that was as thin and gray as the piping on his cap. His name was Karl Bömelburg. But it was Hagen who took charge of the meeting and came swiftly to the point without any reference to our former meeting. That suited me just fine.

“General Heydrich has ordered us to provide you with all available assistance in visiting the refugee camps at Le Vernet and Gurs,” he said. “And in facilitating the arrest of a wanted communist murderer. But you will appreciate that these camps are still under the control of the French police.”

“I was led to believe that they would cooperate with our extradition request,” I said.

“That’s true,” said Knochen. “Even so, under the terms of the armistice signed on June 22 those refugee camps are in the non-occupied zone. That means we have to pay lip service to the idea that in that part of France, at least, they remain in charge of their own affairs. It’s a way of avoiding hostility and resistance.”

“In other words,” said Major Bömelburg, “we get the French to do our dirty work.”

“What else are they good for?” said Hagen.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “The food at Lapérouse is quite spectacular.”

“Good point, Captain,” said Bömelburg.

“We shall have to involve the Préfecture de Police in your mission,” said Knochen. “So that the French might persuade themselves that they are preserving French institutions and the French way of life. But I tell you, gentlemen, that the loyalty of the French police is indispensable to us. Hagen? Who’s the Franzi that the
maison
has put up as liaison?” He looked my way. “The
maison
is what we call the
flics
in the rue de Lutèce. The Préfecture de Police. You should see the building, Captain Gunther. It’s as big as the Reichstag.”

“The Marquis de Brinon, sir,” said Hagen.

“Oh yes. You know, for a republic, the French are awfully impressed by aristocratic titles. They’re almost as bad as the Austrians in that respect. Hagen, see if the Marquis can suggest anyone to help the captain.”

Hagen looked awkward. “Actually, sir, we’re not entirely certain that the Marquis isn’t married to a Jew.”

Knochen frowned. “Do we have to worry about that sort of thing now? We’ve only just got here.” He shook his head. “Besides, it’s not his wife who’s the liaison officer, is it?”

Hagen shook his head.

“All in good time we shall see who is a Jew and who isn’t a Jew, but right now it seems to me the priority is the apprehension of a communist fugitive from German justice. A murderer. Isn’t that right, Captain Gunther?”

“That’s right, sir. He murdered two policemen.”

“As it happens,” said Knochen, “this department is already in the process of drawing up a list of wanted war criminals to present to the French. And in the establishment of a special joint commission—the Kuhnt Commission—to oversee these matters in the unoccupied zone. A German officer, Captain Geissler, has already gone down to Vichy to begin the work of this commission. And, in particular, to hunt for Herschel Grynszpan. You will perhaps recall that it was Grynszpan, a German-Polish Jew, who murdered Ernst vom Rath here, in Paris, in November 1938, and whose actions provoked such a strong outpouring of feeling in Germany.”

“I remember it very well, sir,” I said. “I live on Fasanenstrasse. Just off the Ku-damm. The synagogue at the end of my street was burned down during that strong outpouring of feeling you were talking about, Herr Colonel.”

“A representative of the German Foreign Ministry, Herr Dr. Grimm, is also on Grynszpan’s trail,” said Knochen. “It seems that the little Jew was here in Paris, in the Fresnes Prison, until early June, when the French decided to evacuate all of the prisoners to Orléans. From there he was sent to prison in Bourges. However, he didn’t arrive there. The convoy of buses transporting the prisoners was attacked by German aircraft, and after that the picture is rather confused.”

“As a matter of fact, sir,” said Bömelburg, “we rather think that Grynszpan might have gone to Toulouse.”

“If that’s the case, then what’s Geissler doing in Vichy?”

“Setting up this Kuhnt Commission,” said Bömelburg. “To be fair to Geissler, for a while there was also a rumor that Grynszpan was in Vichy, too. But Toulouse now looks like a better bet.”

“Bömelburg? Karl. Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Knochen. “But I seem to recall that this French concentration camp at Le Vernet—where Captain Gunther’s quarry may be imprisoned—is in the Ariège
département
, in the mid-Pyrenees. That’s near Toulouse, is it not?”

“Quite near, sir,” agreed Bömelburg. “Toulouse is in the neighboring department of Haute-Garonne and about sixty kilometers north of Le Vernet.”

“Then it strikes me,” said Knochen, “that you and Captain Gunther should both get yourselves to Toulouse as quickly as possible. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. Bömelburg? You can remain in Toulouse and look for Grynszpan while Gunther here travels further south, to Le Vernet. Have the Marquis find someone to go with Gunther and Kestner to smooth over any ruffled French feathers. Meanwhile, I shall send a telegram to Philippe le Gaga in Vichy and inform him of what is happening. I daresay that by the time you get down there we will have a clearer idea of who to arrest and who to leave where they are.”

“Any trains running down that way yet, sir?” This was Kestner.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Pity. That’s rather a long drive. About six hundred kilo meters. You know, it might be an idea to take a leaf out of the Führer’s book and fly down there from Le Bourget. In a couple of hours we could be in Biarritz, where a motorized detachment from the SS-VT or secret GFP could take us on to Le Vernet and Toulouse.”

“Agreed.” Knochen looked at Hagen. “See to it. And find out if there are there any motorized detachments of SS operating that far south.”

“Yes, sir, there are,” said Hagen. “In which case the only question that remains is whether these men should be wearing uniforms when they cross the demarcation line into the French zone.”

“An officer’s uniform might lend us more authority, sir,” argued Kestner.

“Gunther? What do you think?” asked Knochen.

“I agree with Captain Kestner. In a surrender situation, it’s as well to be reminded that the surrender began with a war. After 1918, I think the French would do well to learn a little humility. If they’d treated us better at Versailles, then we might not be here at all. So I don’t see any sense in trying to sugarcoat the pill they have to swallow. There’s no getting away from the fact that they just got their arses kicked. The sooner they recognize it, the sooner we can all go home. But I came here to arrest a man who murdered two policemen. And I don’t much care if some Franzi doesn’t care for my manners while I’m doing it. Since I put on a uniform I don’t much care for them myself. I can take the uniform off again and pretend to be something I’m not in order to get the job done, but I can’t pretend to be diplomatic and charming. I never was one for French kissing. So to hell with their feelings, I say.”

“Bravo, Captain Gunther,” said Knochen. “That was a fine speech.”

Maybe it was and maybe I even believed some of it, too. One thing I said was certainly true: The sooner I went home, the better I was going to feel about a lot of things, especially myself. Mixing with anti-Semites like Herbert Hagen reminded me just why I’d never become a Nazi. And French victory or no French victory, I wouldn’t ever be able to overcome my instinctive loathing of Adolf Hitler.

That afternoon I went to see Les Invalides. It was a very Nazi-looking monument. The front door had more gold than the Valley of the Kings, but the atmosphere was that of a public swimming bath. The mausoleum itself was a piece of mahogany-colored marble that resembled an enormous tea caddy. Hitler had visited Les Invalides just a couple of weeks before. And I can’t have been the only person who wished that it had been he and not the Emperor Napoleon who was inside the six coffins that were contained in that overblown mausoleum. After his escape from Elba, I suppose they were worried the little monster might escape from his grave, like Dracula. Maybe they’d even put a stake through his heart just to be on the safe side. Burying Hitler in pieces looked like a better bet. With the Eiffel Tower through his heart.

Like every other German in Paris that summer, I’d brought a camera with me. So I walked around and took some photographs. In the Parc du Champ de Mars, I photographed some German soldiers getting directions from a gendarme. When he saw me the gendarme saluted smartly, as if a German officer’s uniform really did command authority. But the way I saw it, the French police had an attitude problem. They didn’t seem to mind the fact that they’d been defeated. Back in Germany, I’d seen cops look less happy when they failed to get elected to the Prussian Police Officers’ Association.

I enjoyed another solitary dinner in a quiet restaurant on the rue de Varennes before returning to the Lutetia. The hotel was a mixture of Art Nouveau and Art Deco, but the swastika flag that appeared on the sinuous, broken-art pediment below the Lutetia’s name was the clearest indication of the neobrutalism that afflicted its guests, me included.

The bar was busy and surprisingly inviting. A Welte-Mignon pianola was playing a selection of maudlin German tunes. I ordered a cognac and smoked a French cigarette and avoided the eye of the reptilian lieutenant who’d been on the train from Berlin. When he looked like he was headed my way, I finished my brandy and left. I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor and walked along the curving corridor to my room. A maid came out of another room and smiled. To my surprise, she spoke good German.

“Would you like me to turn down your bed linen for the night, sir?”

“Thanks,” I said and, opening my door, complimented her German.

“I’m Swiss. I grew up speaking French and German and Italian. My father runs a hotel in Bern. I came to Paris to get some experience.”