Chapter Text
Monday, 9 Sept 1940
At present, Germans enjoyed the greatest freedom in their history. Goebbels emphasized it again on the radio that evening. Freedom, he said, was not the chance to do or not do as one pleased. It was the opportunity to integrate freely and responsibly into the higher laws and moral commandments of the state.
I lay on the sagging sofa, occasionally turning over, adjusting the blanket. Goebbels' voice floated through the air. Half an hour later, my boss would take me to a dinner with the Auswärtiges Amt set. I was keenly killing time. Being killed by time. Any which way. Ten minutes later, fearing that Goebbels' voice would intrude upon my dreams, I got up and switched off the broadcast. The wind clattered along the streets; the rain never fell.
My boss sat in the front passenger seat and demonstrated a well-practised social smile. His carefully styled hair had been tousled by the wind. Still, he was pleased, his eyes fixed on the dazzling guest list, imagining how tomorrow his name and that of our publishing company would appear together in the society column once written by Bella Fromm. He almost drooled.
He spoke for an hour on the company's future plans. I nearly vomited by the time we arrived.
By the time we reached Kleinmachnow, it was seven. Night had fallen completely; the wind still gusted. Beyond the Wilhelmine brick villas, an iron-grey tide of trees swelled slowly. Inside, the lights were lavish—the privilege of the suburbs, and of the host—jewels glimmered at ladies' necks and ears. The precious wooden floors, echoing with every heel.
After greeting the host, Giorgio Ricci, my boss soon went off to converse with the senior officials of the Reichskulturkammer. There was still time before the banquet formally began. I remained in a corner, drinking Campari, half listening to the surrounding talk, making caustic judgments.
The hors d'oeuvres on the sideboard were execrable. Apparently there had once been excellent cold dishes, but olives and hams, redolent of Mediterranean sunlight, were stuck in customs. On a white bone china plate, the herring's skin glimmered metallic. An appetizer.
Guests continued to arrive. The ushers' voices became faint and indifferent. The doors stood open, admitting the wind and the rustle of leaves. "It's quite cold," I heard a woman say. She had already donned a camel hair coat. "Yes," I concurred, "colder than last year." Her lips curved elegantly, producing a husky note, almost a whisper. Guided by that carefully measured voice, I soon learned her name was Bernhard; her husband was titled. I offered cursory flattery, eyes fixed on the herring rolls. Shakespeare had it: fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings; the husband's the bigger.
As the talk flowed, Frau Bernhard's voice smoothed out. Half a glass of gin and tonic, yet her tone floated lightly, as if already tipsy. She began relating private affairs—tales of generals' wives' infidelities, ministers' hollow marriages. Possession of such knowledge granted her a discreet power. Many of the subjects were present at the banquet; she substituted letters for their names. In no time, a third of thirty letters were in use.
The men who entered carried their chests high toward the hall's centre. Under Frau Bernhard's influence, I found myself imagining which letter each might belong to, and what wavering, filth-stained desires might lurk behind the faces they wore tonight.
"H is rather interesting," she said, her expression secretive.
"Hubert?" I said, thinking of Hitler and Himmler. If Russian, the less notable Hubert would share the initial Г with Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, Göring.
Her voice dropped: "Hartmann. He is here tonight as well." She pointed him out with a furtive motion. Because of the crowd, I could not see clearly, only nodded. Hartmann is, after all, a common name, lacking distinction or colour; not surprising I remembered little. The countess continued: he is now the head of the Informationsabteilung Ref. I of the Auswärtiges Amt; formerly Third Secretary in the English Department, doing translations. Reportedly, the Führer took a liking to him over a watch at the Munich Conference.
That almost sounded romantic. I asked for details; the countess said she did not know specifics. "Why interesting?" I asked. "Guess," she said.
Based on her previous accounts of scandal, I guessed he probably had three or more affairs, or had stolen a prominent official's lover. She shook her head: "He is unmarried."
Under the regime's fervent promotion of eight-child families, it was indeed unusual. Government officials were expected to contribute more than four children to the state. The year before, Himmler had told the assembled SS that anyone unwilling to produce four children was a traitor to the nation (he seemed to have forgotten his own superior).
“How old is he?”
The countess raised three fingers. “Thirty.”
An anomaly. Perhaps impotent. Perhaps some other defect. I have always been a shallow essentialist in judging people. "Is he grotesquely ugly?"
The countess laughed, less elegantly than usual: "No, quite the opposite. He is famously handsome."
I was unsure whether this was sarcasm or truth. She quickly added: "Don't believe me? Come and see."
Colonel Kronenberg was holding forth to a small circle, his wife on his arm. He must be the 'K' who, according to the countess, had courted both a pianist and a violinist at last month's summer concert. Hartmann stood behind them, raising a glass to another man. At the instant I brushed past the colonel's wife, light caught his glass, glinting.
When he set down his glass, the countess brought me forward, exchanging brief pleasantries. Hartmann smiled: he had heard of me. Nonsense, I thought. I smiled politely, lifted my half-finished Campari, and took the opportunity to study his face. Wide-framed glasses lent a scholarly air, but his eyes betrayed sharpness. His gaze was keen, not affable, a gleam of intelligence without vulgarity. His chestnut hair swept back, features clearly defined. Hard to describe, yet undeniably handsome.
He asked about our industry's state. I delivered rehearsed lines: Germany's publishing is the finest in Europe. He smiled, stiffly; a strange sensation arose. I smiled impassively.
"Don't discuss work at a party," a blond man nudged him.
Hartmann nodded, unconcerned. Why did he not marry? I could not make sense of it. He was, first, a man; second, a man of standing. Marriage would, in all likelihood, be to his advantage. Moreover, for a Party member—especially one of rank—the failure to fulfil the prescribed duties of marriage and procreation would weigh on one's evaluation and prospects of advancement. That is why, even in the absence of love, so many in circumstances like his hurry toward the grave of marriage. Why did he not?
I recalled the countess's mysterious, slightly awkward expression.
Tuesday, 10 Sept 1940
Frau Bernhard telephoned in the morning, inviting me to her house on Friday.
On my way home, the air-raid siren sounded. It rained today. I spent three dark, damp hours in a nearby cellar.
In one corner there was what might have been a whole company of cockroaches, rustling as they crawled. Agile things, carrying a vital luster even in the gloom. By Hitler's logic—only the strong and superior races deserve to survive—then the Aryans ought all to kill themselves and leave the field to the true masters, the German cockroach.
Friday, 13 Sept 1940
After work I went home first and changed into a lavender gown I had not worn in some time. In the Bernhards' drawing room sat three other officers' wives.
"I am very glad we have been bombed," one of them said, mimicking Elizabeth's reply to the hit on Buckingham Palace. The news had drifted from London to the homes of Berlin military families by afternoon. They all laughed.
"She could hardly have said anything else," another observed. "It would have looked so poor."
Friday, 20 Sept 1940
Brigitte prepared Spanish tortilla and a soup of mussels for dinner. She had already finished before I returned and sat watching me eat with her chin propped on her hand, pleased. Midway through, she handed me a letter. Forwarded, she said, by Frau Bernhard.
I was occupied with a fork and the mussels. Lacking a free hand, I asked Brigitte to read it.
She had barely read the first line before I stopped her. A form letter of appointment. A strange business. I had not applied anywhere.
"A swindle?" Brigitte asked.
"To swindle what?" I said. "What follows?"
An offer from the Informationsabteilung. Signed: Paul von Hartmann.
A fortnight had passed since I last saw Hartmann. Lately, I have been correcting the proofs for The Tempest; I feel as though I were about to grow a beard.
The matter is absurd. I had worked chiefly on Russian books; Shakespeare and I were strangers. It goes back to March, when Goebbels read a book by Mikhail Zoshchenko and, with a flick of the hand, banned all Russian publications. I was transferred to assist with English books; they, too, face an uncertain fate.
Before Britain had declared war, Hitler had already begun, implicitly and otherwise, to say that "England is our enemy." By the turn of this year, he had sworn to "defeat England at any cost." Now, after so many air battles, Anglo-German relations have become Montague and Capulet; any exchange ends in blood. Our foreign department, like all others, has abandoned entirely the import of new English books and turned to peddling Shakespeare and Dickens. The Merchant of Venice and Oliver Twist sell well: both display the baseness of the Jews; the latter proves, with admirable efficiency, the incurable rot at the heart of the British Empire. Meanwhile, certain classicists have begun proving that Shakespeare was, in fact, of Germanic blood.
As for Hartmann, I had nearly forgotten him along with the crowd of faces from that evening. The name stopped me short; after a moment I matched it to that decent face behind the spectacles.
The appointment was issued outright, in the form of a notice. I had nothing to say. The bureaucracy of this country is truly a cabinet of curiosities for dictators.
"Well?" Brigitte said.
"I haven't decided," I said, beginning to clear the dishes. That peculiar smile of his returned to mind. My current work is fine. I fear those of moral superiority.
Saturday, 21 Sept 1940
Brigitte went in to work. Something at the newspaper again.
I was alone. I took up the letter from the mantel and read it once more.
Sunday, 22 Sept 1940
I have decided to resign.
I do not much dislike my present work. My employer is shrewd, cynical, yet he has made certain improvements. The work itself is not particularly vile—reading Shakespeare is of little use, but it does no harm.
I cannot explain the decision. I am not an idealist, yet that orthopedic, cold smile will not leave me. It may well be a misunderstanding. It may also be that my own foolish conjectures are leading me, quite innocently, into a factory of evil. I am not an idealist. I do not care to place myself in danger. And yet.
I shall finish the letter of resignation tonight and submit it tomorrow. I expect to begin the new post within the week.
Monday, 23 Sept 1940
Telephoned my mother. We spoke for a full hour.
Thursday, 26 Sept 1940
At last everything is packed. I gave small presents and letters of farewell to those colleagues I am close to.
Friday, 27 Sept 1940
First day at the Informationsabteilung. I was somewhat constrained. Before I had settled in, Hartmann appeared and assigned a number of tasks: gathering materials, arranging them, translating, copying, typing. Nothing remarkable.
The duty of Ref. I is to collect and analyse intelligence. It overlaps with the Abwehr and the SD; they have easier access to military information, and so, in a sense, our work is of less consequence. Then again, none of the departments here are of much consequence. Ribbentrop has expanded the Foreign Office with great fanfare; the new intake need not even sit examinations or undergo training. Many of the officials, already decorative, now appear wholly unnecessary. Hartmann, however, seems to have some other purpose.
Lunch with the new colleagues. They are all very agreeable, speaking with that particular Berlin gallows-humor. Ruth Weiss is diverting—pale, slight, soft-voiced, yet every remark sharp and amused.
Monday, 30 Sept 1940
Lunch with Hartmann and a friend of his. He spoke of recent news and abused a number of people.
Wednesday, 2 Oct 1940
Tea at the Solbergs'. Leopold Solberg works at the RMVP. Middle-aged; his face already creased, his mind still young. He is fond of pronouncing opinions, though he possesses few. For a quarter of an hour he repeated, in variations, the dangers of drinking water on an empty stomach, recounting how his uncle developed chronic gastritis and suffered miserably. The refreshments, however, were delicate: raspberry biscuits, and an eggnog ice cream with a pronounced custard finish.
Home early. The neighbours were gathered outside, laughing. They told me Gustav had spent several days in prison. I do not know him; only that he is a devout Catholic, somewhat odd. They repeated what he had said—God, charity, and the like. Sound enough, but his manner irritates. He likes to invoke the self-evident and to dress up platitudes as revelations. His narrowness affords Berliners a sense of intellectual superiority; and his earnestness about good and evil, to them, is merely the alarmism of a limited mind.
This time he had again gone on at length, in a tone at once plaintive and tedious, about recent acts of violence. Someone denounced him.
Thursday, 3 Oct 1940
I have more or less adapted. The work is heavy, but it moves in the direction I expected; I am inching toward the truth. The materials I received today point in a direction diametrically opposed to the reports sent last Friday.
In the evening we went to a bar. I had not seen gin with orange juice in some time. Hanna Schäfer drinks well; Kurt Hübner is drunk after a single glass.
Friday, 4 Oct 1940
Hitler met Mussolini at the Brenner Pass. Hartmann brought in a stack of files. "Divide them as you like. They are to be done by mid-month."
We sighed at once. Kurt's face lengthened absurdly; he even gave a mournful bray—eyes shut, jaw slack, nostrils flaring, breath drawn from the depths. Hartmann pretended not to hear and left quickly.
We worked until eleven. At ten Brigitte telephoned. Hartmann was speaking to someone nearby; I lowered my voice and answered in Russian, without the least sense of caution.
Note added, 14 Oct: Damn it. Hartmann knows Russian.
Friday, 11 Oct 1940
Busy. Every typewriter in the office might as well have been on fire. We compared the calluses on our fingertips. Each of us decorated.
Tuesday, 15 Oct 1940
"Chamberlain is about to die," Hartmann said at noon. No one answered. I do not know why he should care. People die every day. Tom Mix died last Monday.
There were fires all over England today. The BBC was hit. Hartmann spent at least half an hour in our office looking through photographs of the damage.
Many of the Italians have gone back to their fields, leaving the rest to carry on the attack against Greece.
Wednesday, 16 Oct 1940
A ball. The hall was excessively fine. I met a singer, Carla. She has almond eyes one does not forget, pale-bright pupils, features arranged like Hedy Lamarr's. She leaves for America next month. I asked her to write.
Thursday, 17 Oct 1940
Hartmann works as if wound by a spring, yet occasionally he drifts in to speak of trifles. We learned of his university years in England, and how he had watched the war gather over these years.
"In those days Freud was all the fashion. My friends and I read through the night," he said sometimes, with a tone almost nostalgic, as if speaking of Eden. It is as if he switches personalities; the tractor-like momentum of his German vanishes. "It's all forgotten."
Likewise, we have come to know who this "friend" is. He mentioned him before when speaking of Munich. As for Freud—he has not forgotten everything.
"Hitler is impotent," he declared today upon receiving a new notice, claiming a psychoanalytic basis. "A masochist, with an Oedipus complex."
I glanced at the office door to make sure it was locked. The notice forbade female employees in government offices to smoke, dye their hair, wear men's clothes, or use heavy cosmetics. They were to maintain at all times the traditional German virtues: healthy, simple, modest, pure.
I rolled my eyes while it is still permitted.
"Ignore it if no one is checking," Hartmann said, taking out a cigarette case. He offered me one. I declined; he took one for himself.
As he lit it, he crumpled the notice into a ball and used it as a temporary ashtray. After two draws he rested his elbow on the desk, the cigarette between his fingers.
"I've called for you because—"
Let it not be tedious. Something with meaning—or nothing at all.
"Do you remember the Englishman I mentioned?"
The glow of the cigarette shifted across his face.
I did not understand, but nodded.
Hugh Legat. His contemporary. Third Secretary at the Foreign Office—when he last spoke of him, he paused, adjusted his collar with some irritation, and said he wasn't sure if Legat's record had been updated.
Since the declaration of war, communication between the two countries has been like spirit-writing; messages in bottles would have better odds. Hartmann is different. He has access to information. Indeed, he tried.
"There is no such person in the Foreign Office," his informants told him over the past year.
"I thought he was dead," Hartmann said evenly, drawing deep. "He said he was going to become a pilot."
To have me look for the body? I imagined myself in gloves among a group of expressionless pathologists, searching through wreckage for eyes. Though eyes are not how bodies are identified. They do not always remain. I began to consider leaving the Informationsabteilung.
“Yesterday he informed me he has joined the SOE. The previous diplomatic courier at the American embassy, Charles Williams, has died; he can readily step into the post.” Hartmann went on, a triumphant smile touching his lips. "This is to remain between us."
No wonder there had been no word. The bottle had reached the shore after all. If he could see Hartmann's smile, the ghost of Charles Williams in heaven would surely curse them both.
“He arrives in Berlin next Monday. Someone will need to keep an eye on him. You need only be present, to keep him from being sent back the moment he sets foot here. Though it is unlikely. Think of it as accompanying a foreigner about. Be natural.” Hartmann looked at me. “I am going to Switzerland. Four or five days.”
A spy's errand, with a complimentary tour guide service.
"Your English is the best we have," he said, by way of explanation.
I nodded. He stood, crushed the cigarette, and dropped the ash-filled paper ball into the bin.