Good People (44 page)

There were also new thoughts that were strange to him. For example: hadn't Georg Weller given him an opportunity at a difficult time? And how had Thomas rewarded him? With treachery. But that was perverse thinking; he reprimanded himself and excused it as part of his general weakness. After all, Thomas was the one who had written the model, and by virtue of it Weller had become the master and manager of his agency. If Weller hadn't proven to be a nitpicking amateur who jeopardised the future of the model, Thomas would never have thought of transferring it to Kresling. These answers more or less set his mind at ease, but he had to admit that of late he had repeatedly rehearsed his enemies' claims, whereas in the past he would simply have dismissed them.

At Party headquarters they received him cordially and directed him to a room where four men had already gathered: two in uniform
and two in suits. One of them, from the Foreign Office, announced that, as a representative of Martin Luther, the head of the New Germany Department, he wished to convey to Herr Heiselberg his heartfelt good wishes. ‘A new personality is necessary in the Foreign Office,' Luther had said to him in better days. Weller despised Luther and called him one of Ribbentrop's ‘weak-minded, backwards men'. Luther had even been suspected of embezzlement.

After they took pains to make him feel comfortable and to praise his achievements, it turned out they were assigning him to a task so pathetic that for a moment he thought it was a practical joke. They told him a tale about a vague plan, devoid of resources, without clear aims, just discussions with representatives of the Soviet Union about some ‘joint military parade'. They told him that it was a Communist initiative, that they had proposed holding a splendid parade, one that would improve on the small and hasty parade that was held at Brest-Litovsk in September 1939. That parade had symbolised the good spirit in which Poland had been divided between Germany and the Soviet Union, while the new parade would demonstrate the eternal, strong friendship between the two countries. For geographical convenience, the plan would be implemented in the Lublin district.

The German government had decided, for various reasons, not to refuse the offer, at least while the Communists were selling us the raw materials our industry desperately needed. In fact, the Foreign Office man added, because of the tightening British naval blockade, German industry was mainly dependent on raw materials from the East. ‘The data is hair-raising,' he said. ‘Last year the Soviets supplied us with seventy-four per cent of the phosphates we needed, more than sixty per cent of the asbestos and chromium, more than forty per cent of the imported nickel and thirty-four per cent of our oils. Gentlemen, these facts are depriving many of us of sleep: how did Germany get into a situation in which her industry is sustained by Stalin's good will?'

Thomas agreed that the figures were indeed worrisome, but he wasn't the right man for the job, since his understanding of military matters was slender.

In response they explained to him that he would be able to consult various experts from the Wehrmacht, but the Foreign Office preferred to conduct negotiations with its own people, and the word was that he had been an expert negotiator. Thomas answered that a mission of this kind demanded a combination of various branches and they answered that for the moment there was no operation, just discussions whose purpose was to put together the most embryonic, symbolic plans, which would determine the character and essential principles of the parade.

‘What principles? What essence?' Thomas was close to losing his equanimity. ‘A parade simply parades!'

The man from the Foreign Office corrected him. ‘There are aesthetic, historical, geographical and other principles. After all, you're an advertising man. Cobble some principles together, invent some essence. And, by the way, there's no rush. You have all the time in the world.'

The man from military intelligence, in a grey field uniform, added that no one expected immediate results.

The more kindly they addressed him—emphasising that the discussions had to remain on low levels, that this was an initiative the German government didn't recognise, and these were meant to be just productive exchanges of ideas between former enemies to spread some good will in the East—the deeper was his humiliation. He felt as if he was shrinking even further. At this rate soon they would be talking to an empty chair.

‘You'll be a kind of
Kapellmeister
for one man,' the intelligence officer added, and they all laughed. Thomas also stretched his mouth into a little smile.

The Foreign Office man said to him, ‘
Kapellmeister
is what they call the head of a spy ring.'

Thomas wondered whether the other men had noticed that he laughed even though he hadn't understood. Get a grip, a voice thundered in his consciousness. This isn't a game. You know these men are capable of anything.

The representative of the
Fremde Heere Ost
*
commented that the fact that Thomas wasn't familiar with the Wehrmacht was actually an advantage, because there was no danger that he might inadvertently provide information to Soviet intelligence. ‘In fact'—he smiled—‘you're the perfect candidate: you have the reputation of being able to produce a document full of brilliant phrases in any area, making everyone happy.'

‘With all due respect, I believe you're doing an injustice to the model,' Thomas protested. He pressed his trembling hands to the table. The shabbiness with which they cheapened his achievements offended him.

The Foreign Office man quickly assured him that this was just joshing among friends. ‘Our meaning, Herr Heiselberg, is that you are expert at presenting things in a persuasive manner. Of course everyone here respects your accomplishments, which is why you were chosen for this delicate mission.'

Thomas objected that the mission didn't suit his abilities. His current goal was to complete the Model of the Belorussian People.

The Foreign Office man seemed not to hear him: ‘In Berlin, too, they're enthusiastic about this initiative, because for a long time you haven't been effective enough, and in fact they were considering the possibility of discharging you, but now a golden opportunity has fallen into your lap to demonstrate your abilities which—unlike your character—even your adversaries don't doubt. And your former partner, Dr Weller, recommended you warmly.'

Thomas stared at the polished buttons on the man's jacket. He knew he should reject the miserable offer, escape from wretched Poland, get rid of the sense that his model, stripped of its style, was an octopus over Lublin, sending out tentacles to strangle the city. He saw the tentacles twisting through its lanes and streets, a monstrous imitation of his hopes and plans in those exaltant early days in Warsaw. He could resign and return to Berlin, and in a few years Lublin would be
flattened under the steamroller of memory and fade into the foggy realm of dreams. He was reaching for the venomous phrases with which he'd tell them to go to hell, but already knew that any plan to resign was no more than the fantasy of a child who makes decisions while sheltering in the confidence that somebody else will mitigate the consequences. Clarissa once wrote to him: ‘The moment you acknowledge a single limitation, admit there's even one thing you can't do, the infinite range of childhood possibilities has narrowed, and your youth is over.'

Thomas knew that if he returned to Berlin as an unemployed man who had been discharged in shame from the Foreign Office, his chances of finding a new job were slim. He would probably spend the rest of his days disguised as chocolate like his father.

From their silence he understood that they had anticipated his response. But did they merely want to humble him, or was there something else? He decided to leap into the trap in the most honourable way. He had learned one lesson from Weller:
Humana dignitas servanda est
. A person who has lost his status or rank retains his dignity when he acts as if he still possessed them, like the exiled Russian prince he pretended to be in his youth. If he wanted to survive, he had to behave like someone holding a high position, to sit in an office, to make appointments, to seek allies. From this angle—and he would do well to remember this—Martin Luther had kicked him upstairs.

He gave the men a chilly look: ‘Please convey my gratitude to Dr Weller for the trust he has shown me. One day I will return the favour of his extreme generosity. In a week I'll inform you as to where I wish to locate the offices of the Germano-Soviet parade.' It had a pleasant sound. ‘And of course I will gladly consider any ideas you may have,' he added, making an airy gesture of invitation. ‘It's interesting that you mentioned the historical context of the parade. You must know that the city of Brest-Litovsk was part of the Union of Lublin that was declared in 1569. Thus we must carefully consider which chapter in history we are interested in bringing out. As for the personal letter from the State Secretary of the Foreign Office…' He expected the
Foreign Office man to protest. ‘Don't worry,' Thomas went on amiably. ‘I'm not going to ask for a letter of appointment. I understand the need for secrecy. My modest request is for a letter from Ernst von Weizsäcker expressing appreciation for my devoted service. From the generous remarks I have heard today, I understand that the ministry, to which I am attached with all the bonds of my soul, values my loyalty.'

BREST

FEBRUARY 1941

Sasha stood in the square in front of the citadel, the heart of the fortress. The snow glowed on trees, whose branches seemed to have frozen in strange positions, it glazed the roofs of the old houses and the turrets of the walls, piled up on windowsills and thresholds. White walls seemed to tower over the space, so that the entire citadel appeared to be a deep crater of ice.

Around her was silence. There was no wind, while within her, from the moment she had woken up, a great tumult surged, harbinger of a mighty event.

He stepped towards her, with a retinue of two behind him. From a distance they looked like snowmen. As they approached she noticed that the man wasn't looking around him. No doubt this was his first visit to Brest Fortress. Nevertheless his eyes didn't wander even once towards the walls, the gates and the buildings. His two escorts sprayed snow to the side like bulls pawing the earth, but he slipped lightly over the snow, erect, trailing a thin plume of foam.

The last few days, when she secluded herself down below, on the bottom of the crater, and prepared for the first meeting of the Committee for the Germano-Soviet Military Parade, had been the best for a long time. If only she could remain here for years, to stroll every morning to the dark tunnel of the Kholmsk Gate and be swallowed beneath the canopy of fog over the Bug River, and to wander afterwards among the arches of the church of Saint Nicholas, and to watch the children of the officers of the Fourth Army race about in the citadel, sharpening sticks, gathering for secret meetings next to the Terespol Gate.

She liked to climb up the white slope at noon and lean her cheek against the icy stones of the wall, to look west at the river winding like a snake. The barrels of the cannon camouflaged in weeds and straw, and the tents, the smoke curling up from the German army camp—all disappeared behind a white curtain. Everything sank into drowsy tranquillity, and almost the only sounds were the tramping of boots in the snow, the shouts of the officers during drill exercises and dogs barking.

Now Kolya was waking for the morning line-up, they were probably getting some bread and tea. Did they pass their days in idleness? When there was snow, they didn't dig foxholes. Even though he refused to see her and didn't answer her letters either, she felt, when she was looking down from the citadel onto the plain, that nothing bad could happen to him as long as she was standing guard there. Not long ago she had made certain that a crate of vodka and bread got to his unit, along with canned fish and beans. She was careful not to tell her colleagues that Kolya was stationed so close, because it might be useful to her enemies. Every morning she was struck with anxiety that Nikita Mikhailovich would ask why she hadn't told him that her brother was stationed near the fortress, and then casually suggest, ‘Why shouldn't your Kolya be our mole in the Fourth Army? We're always looking for good informers in the ranks.'

It took her several days in the citadel to understand how constricting everyone's embrace had been—from her colleagues to her husband.
Here, among soldiers who didn't know her, no one asked for a reckoning. No one said, ‘Comrade Weissberg, when will you take off your bandage?' She wasn't expected to observe their plans, didn't feel cold at her back every time someone gave her a strange look or asked her an unexpected question.

The small group was already close. She stood up straight, and now, when she saw his face, she thought it would be hard to describe it accurately or to point to any conspicuous characteristic. His hair, greying at the temples, was combed back. Above the green eyes stretched thin eyebrows. His skin was red and taut, but at the edge of his jaw there was a weary tremor, as if the spark of his youth had been dimmed. Average height, a well-preserved body wrapped in an elegant coat with a fur collar, whose sleeves were too short, with a gold watch peeking out of one of them. His address expressed neither eagerness nor curiosity. His expression was restrained and polite, but his courtesy seemed external to the face, a shell carelessly applied to it.

When he drew closer, and their eyes met, he adopted a businesslike and dignified look. Then, as though he had read her thoughts, he gazed around at the fortress and nodded to acknowledge that the sight was making a great impression on him. Less than a minute later his demeanour took on such a natural lordliness that the German representative to the committee might have been born in the fortress, its history and intrigues flowing in his blood.

His ability to play the owner in a place that wasn't his, by virtue of his presence, amazed her. Who had the Germans sent here? He was artifice personified. Even before they had said a word to one another, she passed judgment on him: a perfect impostor. She cursed the fascists for choosing such a man for the committee. She took a deep breath. Perhaps she had judged him prematurely. At the same time, it discomfited her to know that she would have to shake his hand.