Authors: Howard Fast
"Nonexistent."
"I thought so. What will you have?"
"A white wine cooler?"
Lady Pleasance made a face, then went to the phone and ordered. Then she stalked around the living room, grimacing disapproval. "You know, my dear, Germans have even less taste than the British. Dutzi says you're a writer. What do you write?"
"I do a weekly piece for
Manhattan Magazine.
Gossip, people, and fashion. Books and theater. My editor wants a few pieces from Berlin. But now that I'm here, I'm up against the language. I never had that problem in Paris."
"Gossip, people, and fashion," Lady Pleasance repeated, clapping her hands with pleasure. "Forget fashion. They don't have it. But gossip—dear one, we must talk and talk and talk. You're not political, are you? I mean, you're not going to pal around with that stupid group of American and British correspondents who pin virtue all over themselves by sitting around and hating the Nazis. But of course not. They write the dullest, dreariest things imaginable, and whatever Dutzi may appear to be, he has a nose like a bloodhound. You're very lucky that he approves of you. It's an open sesame."
"To what?" Barbara wondered.
"You name it, love. You could even get to the Fiihrer himself, and he's not such a bad chap at that. No gentleman, like Dutzi and Papen and some of the others, but power is a heady drink, and one forgives. And speaking of drink, where is it?"
The drinks came then. Lady Pleasance had ordered two double whiskeys, and she drank the first one neat, as if it were water. She mixed some soda into the second, and then launched into a rambling discourse on the character ef the Fiihrer.
By now, Barbara had had her fill of Lady Pleasance, and it occurred to her that perhaps she had also had her fill of Berlin. How had she ever gotten herself mixed up with this crew, and why didn't she put a stop to it? She knew the answer. Professor Schmidt and the university had dropped to the background of her mind, and like a child offered candy, she was composing, witty, cynical pieces for
Manhattan,
close-ups of these "creatures," as she thought of them, journalistic scoops that might never have come her way under different circumstances. A door had been opened, and it needed only one angry, disapproving remark from her to close it; whereupon, she sipped her wine cooler and forced herself to make polite, leading remarks to a Lady Pleasance, who was rapidly becoming quite drunk.
"The Fiihrer will like you," Lady Pleasance confided. "I wouldn't dwell on that mongrel business. What is it, a French father? Dutzi says your French is simply divine. Goebbels is somewhat confused about the French, whether to give them Aryan status or not, but with a woman who looks like you, it's nothing to worry about, not one bit. You don't have a few drops of Jew blood anywhere? No, of course not. Now, you're just about the Fiihrer's height, love, if you don't go in for high heels. But don't be too chummy. I think Dutzi has his own plans. He had a wife once who died or something—"
"Died or something?" Barbara asked. "Or sleeping pills. Who knows? Not that I blame her. Dutzi's great fun—but to be married to him? Heaven forbid. He's jolly good for an evening or two, a trifle kinky, but darling, they all are, and it's all good fun, you know, if you don't take it too seriously, and don't look at me like that. I don't kiss and tell, but I do draw the line. I drew it with Goring. He's a disgusting fat pig, and I told him so to his face. Anyway, his
Ltiger
—good name for it, don't you think—anyway, it's so buried in fat that he can't do anything much, or so I've heard, and anyway, he's a bit of a dope fiend. Papen, now that's something else. There's a gentleman, only he's a bit stupid, and Dutzi thinks the Fiihrer will find him a bit of too much. You don't want to chum up with anyone who's on the way out. It can get quite nasty. Well, Pleasance will mother you through the sticky places. I do hope you're here for a long stay, and don't be put off by this war talk. There won't be any war. Winston, Neville, Tony—the whole lot of them are a pack of sniveling idiots, and as for your Deladier, he's the toadiest of the lot. What Adolf wants, Adolf will get, and he'll get it his way—the whole bloody continent—"
And on and on. She returned to the phone, and the waiter reappeared with two more double whiskeys. Finally, at long last, she rose unsteadily, told Barbara, "I must toddle, dear one. We'll have another darling chat very soon," and made her way to the door.
Alone, Barbara sat and shivered, and then, moving like an automaton, she went into the bathroom and began to brush her teeth. Then she paused, thinking, What on earth am I doing here, brushing my teeth? Really, Barbara, you are behaving like a child.
She returned to the sitting room, which was now quite dark in the gathering twilight. She put on the lights, called room service, and in a mixture of French and English managed to order some dinner. She took out her notebook, and then she paused. She sat for at least ten minutes, pen in hand, staring at the empty page, and then sighed and confessed to herself that she was afraid. She realized that there would be no "Letter from Berlin." She could not remain here, and she could not write from here. She would do what she had to do, and then she would leave. Suddenly, it was not just Berlin, not just Germany; in her mind, the whole of Europe was turning into a miasmal nightmare, and somewhere inside her a voice was screaming to be let out of it.
That night she lay awake for hours. "I want to go home," she told herself. "I want to go home. I'm so afraid and so lonely. I can't go through with this. I want my mother and I want my father, and I want to be able to see plain, ordinary people, who are not sick and not insane."
She turned on the light, picked up the telephone, and asked for the overseas operator. It was one o'clock in the morning, and it took an hour more to get through to Dan's office on Terminal Island.
"Daddy," she said at last, "is that you? Is that truly you?"
"Barbara? Where on earth are you? We've been trying to reach the ship."
"I didn't sail, daddy. I'm in Berlin."
"Berlin? No, you're kidding."
"It's the truth."
"God Almighty, what the devil are you doing in that filthy place? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, daddy. Just a little homesick. Don't scold me. I'm here on a story. I wrote to mother. I know I should have written to you, but I knew how troubled you'd be."
"Well, I am troubled. I can't tell you how troubled P* am. That's no place for you. All hell is going to break loose. Baby, please get out of there."
"How's Joey and May Ling?"
"Fine, fine. Joe's up at Higate. Where are you staying?"
"At a very posh hotel called the Adlon. I'm all right. And I'll be home soon, I promise you."
"It's been too long, Barbara."
"I know, daddy."
"When will you be coming back?"
"Soon, I promise. Very soon. Daddy, do me a favor."
"Anything you say."
"Call mother. Tell her I'm all right." Barbara paused. "Be kind to her, daddy. She's so unhappy."
Barbara felt better after that. A few-minutes later, she was asleep.
She slept until ten the following morning, awakened slowly, and lay for a while in the luxury of her bed, lazy, comfortable in the thought that she had finally made a decision and admitted to herself that the whole enterprise was a mistake. In her mind, she worked out the steps: return to Paris, go to her apartment, pack her things, write a letter to the Limogets, confessing her cowardice and horror and her total ineptitude as an undercover agent, call the travel agency, get a room on any ship leaving for America, train to Cherbourg, and then be out of it forever. Dreaming this way, she heard the telephone ring.
There was a flow of German, in which she recognized her name, then a few words in English.
"Yes, this is Barbara Lavette," she said.
Frank Bradley's voice: "Barbara, for God's sake, is that you? Can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you, Frank."
"Do you know, we've been calling every hotel in Berlin. I finally reached your father in Los Angeles. From here on, will you please, please let me know where you are."
"Frank, there's no need to get excited. I'm perfectly all right. Now I want to tell you what I've decided—"
"Hold on and listen to me. There's a great picture of you on page four of the New York
Times.
Tomorrow's paper. I got a proof. Headline—beauty and the beast. The point is, I want you to get to one of them—Hitler, Goring—and do an interview. I know it's not an easy assignment, but I got faith in you. And listen, just take notes. You don't have to do your piece until you get back to Paris. Then you can let go. We're b,aIlyhooing this to the sky, so, baby, do your thing."
"Frank—"
"Whatever you need—money, whatever—just let us know. And listen, there's a feller by the name of Buck Crombie at the American Embassy. An old classmate of mine. I sent him a wire, so if you require a friend in need, he's there."
"Frank, what makes you think I can get an interview with one of them?"
"I told you. Faith. And take notes. You can do three pieces for us, and believe me, the publishers are licking their chops. So carry on."
"Frank," she pleaded, "I don't know. This is a strange place. I think I shouldn't have come here at all."
"Angel, don't go soft on me. You're there. You don't have to stay forever. Just get what you need."
She put down the phone, despising her own lack of fortitude, her weakness and indecision, admitting to herself that when the lines were drawn, she came off as a person of absolutely no character. "And no resolve," she said to herself. "Anyone can change what you so euphemistically call your mind."
While she was dressing, there was a knock at the door: two dozen fresh yellow roses, to replace the ones already in the sitting room. There was a note with them: "I've been up to my ears in the tedious business of politics. Forgive me for ignoring my most charming traveling companion. Will you lunch with me? I'll be in the lobby at one. If you do not appear, I shall be devastated." It was signed, Baron Franz Von Harbin.
There was no return address or telephone number. She could refuse by not appearing. It was only half past eleven. There was still time to pack and take a taxi to the railroad station. She was under no compulsion to obey the imperious demand of Frank Bradley, nor did she need to continue her association with
Manhattan Magazine
—both of which she presented to herself as reasonable arguments and then rejected them. Her earlier mood was gone, and she told herself that she would be a fool not to take advantage of the situation she had fallen into. She also told herself that living with herself would be difficult indeed if she simply forgot about Professor Schmidt and wormed out of her commitment to the Limogets with a letter confessing ineptitude and cowardice.
She got out her notebook and proceeded to put down as much of her conversation with Lady Pleasance as she could remember, pleased that she was able to capture the Englishwoman's tone and inflection. At precisely one o'clock, she went down to the lobby, defiantly dressed in a pleated gray wool skirt, a white cotton blouse, a gray cardigan, and her
English walking shoes. If Dutzi wished to take her to lunch, he would take her as she was.
He greeted her with great formality, with only a slight, quizzical smile as a reaction to her costume. "We will eat here, yes? The food is French, but very good." In the dining room, the headwaiter almost collapsed in a fit of obsequiousness. It was a new experience for Barbara. The waiters behaved as if they belonged totally to the Baron, as if they were offering their lives and not just food. She had to restrain a desire to giggle.
She thanked him for the flowers. "But it seems wasteful," she said. "The ones already there would have been lovely for days."
"Possibly. But then I would be robbed of an opportunity to pay tribute to a beautiful American woman, no?"
"I don't think there's any need to pay tribute, as you put it. You've been more than kind to me."
"My pleasure and my indebtedness. Americans appear to harbor a—what shall I call it?—a native distaste for our system. Perhaps I can show you the more pleasant side of Berlin, of Germany. That's why I sent Lady Pleasance. I felt that a touch of your own tongue on your first day might be comforting. What did you think of her?"
"She was very informative," Barbara replied without enthusiasm.
"Yes." He smiled and shrugged. "She has been very useful to us. Her husband is a good friend. We need friends in England, just as we need friends in America. My dear, I hesitate to force myself on you, but you are alone, and the day after tomorrow there is to be a large reception—food, dancing—at Kunstler Halle. The Fiihrer will be there, arid others too. If I cannot entice you to allow me to bring you by, let us say, my own credentials, then perhaps I can lure you as a journalist. It will be an opportunity to meet some of the ogres, as you think of them."
Barbara considered it for a while. He waited, smiling. "How do you know I think of them as ogres?" she asked.
"Ah. But I am not entirely insensitive. You offer no opinions. You simply listen. Even Lady Pleasance was unable to squeeze an opinion from you."
"I didn't know she tried." Barbara smiled. "Yes, I would like to go. I am very curious to meet your leaders. Will you interpret for me?"