News from Berlin полностью

“There are more than one hundred and fifty divisions ready and waiting, as I gathered from the Italian military attaché. There is talk of three and a half million, an unimaginable world force. We have seen them leaving en masse from the train stations and pouring from the west through Berlin. I have never seen so many troops as in the past few months. And they weren’t heading for England, Kelly, they were going in the opposite direction. All this has nothing to do with manoeuvres in faraway places beyond the reach of the R.A.F., as suggested by Herr Goebbels at his latest press conference. The Nazis produce a permanent flow of disinformation, they’re very good at that. When a Nazi breathes he lies. And the Russians pretend everything is fine, they just keep harping on about the strength of their pact with the German government. There have been hints about new negotiations. Nonsense. It will happen this month, you mark my words.”

Oscar listened with intent, painfully conscious of his own duplicity. He glanced around the table, saw how they were all ears for Smith. He became aware of the rumble of traffic on the Schifflaube, a comforting sound, which shifted his thoughts. Berne was the epitome of reassurance, a miracle of civilisation. On a previous occasion Smith had told him how the appalling dinginess of Berlin fell away from him the moment he set foot in Switzerland. The ordinariness of Berne was a marvel to anyone coming from Germany. The shops were well stocked, there were no queues, the cafés were full, there was dining and dancing – unthinkable just a few hundred kilometres away. A mere train journey between them and a dark, sinister, decaying city with sirens screaming at all hours.

Oscar had been living in Berne for two years, but had yet to adapt himself to that cool city. The kilometres-long arcades hosted a mercantile spirit that he did not share. At moments of disenchantment he remembered his boyhood history lessons, about the Swiss being soldiers for personal gain, best known for fighting other people’s wars. Europe’s cash register. Not a charitable thought. He knew plenty of “good” Swiss. As odd as it seemed, though, he preferred Berlin. Not the Berlin of today, the Berlin of the days when Kate and he were living there. They had left just in time, of course, the terror was escalating by the day, but to him, at that time, there had been electricity in the air, nothing was lukewarm or grey. Kate and he lived their lives in balance, without many words. Emma had left home, and Kate was working in a hospital as a theatre assistant. They would arrange to meet at the bar of the Adlon after work, or at Horcher’s or at Hotel Kessel. Places favoured by journalists, artists and diplomats.

At the behest of his embassy, Oscar had set about establishing contact with people who were against the regime. They were easily found, for their number was directly linked to the takings of the Adlon bar. It was there that he was introduced to Adriaan Wapenaar, with whom he struck up a particular friendship, and who had reminded him quite recently that, should there be any trouble, Emma was to go to him for help. Wapenaar, a flamboyant Dutchman, had an extraordinary talent for eluding censure, even from the Gestapo. Since the outbreak of war he operated under the Swedish flag. His wife was German, and he provided assistance to the Dutch in Berlin, of whom there were thousands. Although Emma was a German citizen by law, Oscar was relieved to know Wapenaar could be relied on in an emergency.

Shortly before their return to Holland, Oscar went in search of Wapenaar at the Adlon, where he more or less held court.

“How do you rate Carl Regendorf, Adriaan?”

“A hundred per cent reliable, a good German, the best of his year at the Foreign Office. Not a party member, and yet, miraculously, taken on. Why do you ask?”

“My daughter is in love with him, and he with her, and things are moving rapidly. Regendorf spends all his free time at Fasanenstrasse. Kate isn’t too sure about this. Having a German in the house these days is not exactly the most desirable of farewell gifts. I can see it all go wrong, I mean, I think Emma and he are going to get married.”

At that moment he realised that Wapenaar’s wife was German.

“O.K., Adriaan, I know what I must sound like, but your marriage predates 1933, so that doesn’t count.”

Wapenaar roared with laughter. People at nearby tables smiled: cheery Hollanders, infectious fun.

Then he became serious.

“You’re quite right, Oscar. It’s becoming insupportable here. You’re lucky, you can leave. I can’t, nor do I want to, really, because of Elka and her family. We must keep in touch, you and I. We don’t know when we might need each other. Where will your next posting be?”

“Nowhere for now. We’ll be spending a year or so in The Hague, drifting on the tides of bureaucracy.”

Wapenaar nodded. He raised his glass.