The spies of warsaw (24 page)

means on earth that can break the insurmountable barrier

formed on the ground by automatic arms associated with

barbed-wire entanglements.

And, same drawer, same folder, General Chauvineau himself:

By placing two million men with the proper number of

machine guns and pillboxes along the 250-mile stretch through

which the German armies must pass to enter France, we shall be

able to hold them up for three years.

Thus the answer to the question
Invasion, is it still possible?
--was
No
.

Two-ten in the morning: he turned the light out and pulled the

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covers up to his eyes. Outside, the steady wind rattled his window and

sighed at the corner of the house.

Christmas Eve. Fernand and Lisette had gone off to Grignan in the

truck to spend Christmas Day with their son and daughter-in-law and

grandchildren, so Mercier had the house to himself. Then, at seven

in the evening, his Uncle Hercule, who lived on a Mercier property

some ten miles south of his own, picked him up in the family Citroen,

shiny and new, and took him home for the Christmas celebration.

His father's only surviving brother, and easily his least favorite, Hercule was a thin, fretful man who'd become wealthy by speculating in

South American railroad stocks, turned violently political, and now

absorbed himself in writing right-wing pamphlets and letters to newspapers, often on the subject of Bolshevik designs to corrupt public

waterworks. Still, holidays were holidays, and assorted Merciers must

be gathered under one roof, attend midnight mass, then sit down

together to
reveillon,
the traditional Christmas meal of black and

white sausages and goose stuffed with chestnuts.

A long, long evening for Mercier. Fourteen people in the parlor,

various aunts, cousins, nieces, and nephews, his uncle raving about the

government, his widowed aunt, Albertine's mother, undertaking recollections of Mercier and Annemarie's years together, with mournful

looks in his direction, two nephews in a tense conversation--one

couldn't actually argue on Christmas Eve--about some silly American movie; another aunt had been to Greece and found it "filthy."

Mercier was asked about Warsaw and did the best he could, but it

was a relief when they left, in an assortment of automobiles, at elevenfifteen, headed for the church in the village of Boutillon.

At the door of the church, Mercier knelt and crossed himself,

then the family dutifully spent a few minutes in front of the Mercier

family crypt, a flat marble slab with an inscription carved in the wall

above it.

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ICI REPOSENT LES DEPOUILLES MORTELLES

De Messires:

Francois Mercier de Boutillon Decede a Montelimar Le 29 Juin 1847

Made La Chevalier Sa Femme nee de Mauronville Decede a Boutillon

le 21 Fevrier 1853

Albert Mercier de Boutillon Decede a Boutillon Le 8 Aout 1868

Seigneurs de Boutillon et Autres Places

Transferees en ce Lieu Le 15 Aout 1868

Sous les Auspices de Mr Combert Maire

et de Mr Grenier Cure de Boutillon

Au frais de General Edouard Mercier de Boutillon

Legion D'Honneur Domicilie a Boutillon

The crypt had been installed by Mercier's nineteenth-century

ancestor Edouard, who'd paid for it--duly noted in stone, along

with his decoration and the names of the mayor and the priest--

moved a few mortal remains there in 1868, and then himself died in

battle at the city of Metz, during the 1870 war with Prussia. And that

was, Mercier thought, the problem with a family crypt, his family

anyhow--the male ancestors fell in foreign fields and there, in vast

cemeteries or graves for the unknown, they remained.

For Mercier, it was the ceremony of the mass that eased his soul: the

sweetish smoke trailing from the censer, the ringing of the bell, the

Latin incantations of the priest. In Warsaw, he attended early mass, at

a small church near the apartment, once or twice a month, confessing

to his vocational sins--duplicity, for example--in the oblique forms

provided by Catholic protocol. He'd grown up an untroubled believer,

but the war had put an end to that. What God could permit such misery and slaughter? But, in time, he had found consolation in a God

beyond understanding and prayed for those he'd lost, for those he

loved, and for an end to evil in the world.

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As the service reached its conclusion, Mercier found himself suddenly aware of the congregation, the crowded rows of men and

women, their heads raised toward the priest at the altar. And then,

once again, he felt, as he had during his lunch at the Brasserie

Heininger with General de Beauvilliers, a certain dark apprehension,

a sense of vulnerability. This was midnight mass, not the manic gaiety

of a Parisian lunch, but it was the same shadow. Was it, he wondered,

brought on by the General Staff journals he'd been reading? If you

took them seriously, they doomed these people to another war. But, he

thought, he mustn't let his imagination run away with him. Conflict

between nations was eternal, inevitable, and this one, between France

and Germany, might burn itself out in the endless warfare of politics:

in the struggle between radicals and conservatives, in the brutal economics of armament, in the carnival of treaties and alliances.

Mercier looked at his watch; it was Christmas. Soon enough the

new year, 1938, and perhaps, he thought, a better year than this.

27 December. Mercier arrived early at the Montelimar railway station,

anxiously watched the windows as the carriages rolled to a halt, then

waved as Gabrielle stepped down onto the platform. How lovely she

was, not her mother's looks, more a touch of his, the determined, pale

Mercier forehead, dark hair, gray-green eyes. He was relieved to see

that she was alone, not that he didn't like his son-in-law, a correspondent for the Havas news agency in Denmark, he did--but now he

would have her all to himself.

As the truck rumbled toward Boutillon, she told him that she'd

stayed overnight at the apartment, having taken the express from

Copenhagen, through Germany, to the Gare du Nord. A trip ruined by

what she called "that hideous Nazi theatre," SS men and their dogs,

swastikas draped everywhere. "One grows weary of it," she said. "In

the newspapers, on the radio, everywhere."

"A national illness," he said. "We'll have to wait it out."

"I'm afraid of them, the way they are now."

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"You and half the world, my love."

"Perhaps we should have done something about it. Paul certainly

thinks so."

They came upon a flock of goats in the road, driven along by a

young girl with a switch. Mercier stopped the truck as the girl herded

the goats to one side. As he drove slowly past, she held the lead goat

by the scruff of the neck. "Looking backward, yes," he said, as the

truck gained speed, "but all we can do now is wait. And prepare for

war."

"And you're in charge of that," she said.

Mercier laughed. "I'm in charge of a desk."

"Still," she said, "the Germans on the train were pleasant

enough."

"No doubt. That's the worst part--they pretend not to notice. It's

all that '
Still, sprach durch die Blume.
' "

"Which means?"

" 'Hush, speak through a flower.' Don't say anything about the

government unless you praise it."

Gabrielle made a sound of disgust.

Enough of that,
Mercier thought. "Can you stay through the new

year?"

"Alas, I can't. I travel the last day of December; I'll see the new

year in at the apartment. But I don't care, Papa, I wanted to see you,

and I have vacation for the holidays."

Lisette had roasted a capon for dinner and Mercier found a Chateau

Latour in the cellar, a 1923, which turned out--one never knew--to

be perfect. They took the last of it into the parlor, where Mercier built

an oakwood fire, using grapevine prunings for kindling. The dogs sat

patiently, watching him as he worked, then lay on their sides in front

of the fireplace and went to sleep.

"I've been wondering," Gabrielle said.

"Yes?"

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"Are you seeing anyone, in Warsaw?"

"No, dear. Not really."

"You should, you know. It's not good for you to be alone."

"It's not so easy, Gabrielle, after a certain age."

"I would imagine, but still . . . you've surely met
somebody,
that

you liked."

"I have, but she's taken."

"Married?"

"No, not yet."

"Well then, perhaps you should pursue her."

"Oh, I have, in a way."

Gabrielle looked dubious. "Really? Because, you know, if you

had--well, many women would find you hard to resist."

"Mmm. I suspect you are biased, Gabrielle, love, but you're kind

to say that."

"I'm not being kind, Papa. It's true."

"So then," he said. He took a sip of wine, then rose and added a

log to the fire. "Any new paintings? At the national museum?"

Gabrielle was the curator for western Europe, outside Scandinavia.

She shook her head at the change of subject and made a
what a

difficult man
face. "Oh, all right, I'll leave you alone," she said. Then,

"As for new paintings, there's too much to buy, that's my sad news.

We're approached constantly by dealers who represent Jews. So, it's a

buyer's market. You wouldn't believe what's become available."

Gabrielle went on. A wealthy Viennese, forced to sell his kitchenware company, had managed to smuggle a wonderful Flemish master,

a de Hooch, into Copenhagen, and now . . .

Mercier was attentive--the time with his daughter was not to be

wasted--but, deep within, he was very angry.
It doesn't go away
. You

twisted and turned, spoke of this or that, but then there it was, waiting for you.

In time, they talked about Beatrice, his older daughter in Cairo.

"How she loves it!" Gabrielle said. "You'll see, I brought along some

of her letters. Her students are eager to learn, and Maurice works at

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the archaeological sites, the tombs, the buried villages. It would be

perfect, she says, but she only hopes they can stay there. Because of the

political situation, in Egypt. . . ."

Gabrielle left on the thirty-first. Mercier had to spend the New Year

celebration
chez
Uncle Hercule. Keeping to tradition, the collected

Mercier de Boutillons went out into the garden at midnight, in drizzling rain, to bang pots and pans in honor of the new year. Then, on

the third of January, he took the train back to Paris and returned to

Warsaw the following day, to find the city white and frozen.

On the fifth, his first day at the embassy, he found two cables

awaiting him. The first, from Colonel Bruner, was very terse, little

more than an acknowledgment of his report on the
Wehrmacht
tank

maneuvers at Schramberg, with faint praise to be read between the

lines. The second cable, from General de Beauvilliers, was rather more

generous, particularly on the subject of two of the bureau's agents

who had recorded radio traffic during the exercise. The general cited,

specifically, one instance--"Q-24, a ravine up ahead of you, about six

hundred feet"--where the pilot of the Fieseler Storch worked by radio

with the tanks below. The French General Staff had little interest in

this concept--air-to-ground communication--though de Beauvilliers

believed it would be crucial in future warfare. "The marshal"--he

meant Petain--"and his clique think only of naval blockade and static

defense."

Mercier was flattered to be so taken into the general's confidence,

but, as he reached the end of the cable, found that such flattery would

have its price.

Of course you will recall our interest in the
Wehrmacht

General Staff, specifically the section I.N. 6, and, should

an opportunity present itself, we expect you will take full

advantage of it, by any means necessary, in order to advance

our knowledge of their thinking.

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But, what if an opportunity did not present itself? Clearly, the general assumed he would know what to do about that.

At the intelligence meeting on the seventh, Jourdain began with his

usual summary of recent political developments. And there was, as

usual, no good news. Late in December, King Carol of Roumania had

appointed the fascist poet Octavian Goga to head the government as