Underground (24 page)

They had walked back into the town now. It was late afternoon and the shadows covered the narrow street entirely. It was pleasant walking with Monika. Being with her was like being on a vacation from himself. They were still some distance from the DP camp gates when a young man in eyeglasses, a functionary with the exile government, rushed up to them. Monika let go of his arm, which she had been holding all this time, and stood a little apart from him.

“There is a man who needs to see you at the camp director's office.”

Lukas turned to Monika. “Thank you for coming out to look for me.”

“Do you think you could make it to Paris to speak to the refugees there?” she asked.

“Who doesn't want to see Paris? And besides, I'd do it for you.”

“How will we get in touch?”

“The meeting is very important,” the functionary said, pushing his eyeglasses up by the crossbar and peering through them like a fish through a glass bowl.

“Wait for me by the steps to the office,” Lukas said to him. “I'll meet you there.”

The functionary seemed disappointed in Lukas, but he did as he was told. Lukas turned back to Monika and took her hands in his.

“You've lifted my spirits in a way I haven't had them lifted for a long time. How much longer are you in the camp?”

“We leave by train this evening. Our papers were only for a short visit, to hear you speak. But I can write down my address if you like.”

She took a piece of paper from her handbag and wrote out the address. Lukas looked at it carefully and made sure he understood it before folding the paper and putting it in his wallet beside his passport. He had barely finished doing that when she stood up on her toes and kissed him quickly, once on each cheek, in the French manner. He did not quite know how to respond, so he squeezed her hands and turned to go to the director's office.

Zoly was waiting for him, smoking a cigarette while sitting alone at a table. He smiled warmly, set the cigarette in the ashtray and rose to shake Lukas's hand.

“Congratulations,” said Zoly. “Everyone loves what you're doing and the money to the émigré associations has been pouring in since you started these talks. And the spring seems right upon you here. Back in Stockholm, it's still the dead of winter.”

“When did you get in?”

“Just now.”

“Staying long?”

“Not really. A very short time, actually. It all depends on you. Do you feel like going for a walk?”

“I just got back from one. I've been on the road for a couple of hours.”

“It makes me a bit nervous to talk here. Maybe we could walk in the street.”

Lukas went out with him, back into the town he had just passed through. He looked around for Monika but saw no sign of her.

“So what's this all about?” he asked.

“Lozorius is going back into Lithuania and he wants to know if you'll go with him.”

“When?”

“In two weeks. You'd need to come back with me in the car right now. There's a little training you'll need first.”

“This is all so sudden.”

“Yes, it is, but you've done everything you were supposed to, haven't you? The letter to the Pope will do its work, or not, who knows, but you can't speed that sort of thing along. Actually, the Vatican is still wondering what to do about Martin Luther, so I don't think there's any chance an answer will come soon.”

“What kind of support does Lozorius have?”

“What do you mean by support? Technical support? He'll get transportation and radios and ciphers and all that sort of thing.”

“I meant long-term support. What are the British promising to give the partisans?”

“They make no promises, Lukas. They ask for the partisans to do a few things for them. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Lozorius would be in charge of the operation. He wanted me to tell you that unless you agreed to that, he would need to withdraw the offer to bring you along.”

“He can be in charge until we get into the country, but I have a certain position there. I report to my superior officer, Flint.”

“What's his real name?”

“That's an odd question, Zoly. Why would you want to know that?”

“Because Lozorius or some of the others might know him.”

“Others? What others?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“This is beginning to sound stranger and stranger. How soon would I have to go?”

“Immediately.”

“Then I think my answer will have to be no.”

They spoke briefly of other things as they walked. Lukas waited for Zoly to insist, but he did not do that. They returned to the camp so Lukas could write a letter to Flint to be taken in by Lozorius.

Zoly was pacing out in the hall, and Lukas found it hard to concentrate on the letter he was writing. There was so much to say in a very short time. Also, he needed to provide a general picture of the situation in the West without giving away any secrets. He needed to warn Flint that Lozorius was acting on his own, without the support of the émigré government and in the pocket of the British. He had to write everything in a manner that would take into account the danger of Lozorius's being killed or the letter falling into the wrong hands.

And all of this he needed to do while wondering why Zoly had framed the offer in a way that forced Lukas to turn it down.

FIFTEEN

PARIS
MAY 1948

O
UTSIDE THE WINDOW
, the plane trees along the Seine had just burst into full leaf, their green still fresh and vivid because the dust of the city had not yet descended on them. On a quiet Sunday such as this, Lukas felt as if he might be in the countryside rather than the city. Flashes of light came through the leaves, reflections from the barges that sailed silently by on the river.

Having paused in the delivery of his speech to a school auditorium full of émigrés, Lukas now looked back at the men and women before him. He had spoken in public often enough and he knew he held the audience in thrall with his stories of the resistance against murderous odds back home.

He had been a fighter transformed into an emissary, and now he had become a storyteller, a role he did not like to think about too much. He knew what he did was important, but it was so much less vital, somehow, than what he had been doing before. Yet what he did now was attractive too, holding the attention of a crowd, even though they were far more varied than the DP camp inhabitants of Germany.

There were émigrés who had come here before the war, sympathizers of the Front Populaire who had deplored the excesses of the Reds in Lithuania but could not quite bring themselves to denounce them. There were also French Foreign Legionnaires on leave from Indochina, young men who had wagered their lives for a few more years of fighting in the hope of gaining French citizenship. Many young women had joined convents in France before the war, and so there were at least thirty women in nuns' habits. The remnants of the pre-war diplomatic corps were there too, including Monika's uncle, a distinguished gentleman with close-cropped white hair and a ramrod-straight back, a man who had taken a special interest in Lukas during the reception beforehand. There were labourers from the Renault plant and students, adventurers down on their luck and former bureaucrats who now worked as doormen. They were the flotsam of the war, human wreckage cast up upon this shore, yet so much luckier than the ones they left behind. They did not get along with one another all that well in spite of their shared history, but they were kind to him and generous within their means.

After the talk was over, Lukas lunched with them at long tables in the basement of the school. He was peppered by questions all through the meal, often from halfway across the room. Once the lunch began to wind down, a few of the legionnaires took him away over the protestations of the others and marched him up the street for a few beers on the rue St-Antoine, just west of the Bastille.

On his way out with them, he looked at Monika, who had been helping to serve the meal and was now gathering up dishes. She had an apron over her Sunday blouse—there had been an early Mass before his talk—and wore a pale charcoal skirt that was very tight at the hips and went to mid-calf. He could not stop looking at her. She nodded understandingly when she saw him with the legionnaires, signalling that he should meet her back by the kitchen door in an hour.

Except that it was almost impossible to get away, as military courtesy dictated that a man should drink as long as drink was being offered. Lukas was honoured among the legionnaires for his experience in battle; they had seen a few battles of their own. They suggested he watch out for the Reds among the Paris Lithuanians, and if any of them should prove to be trouble, Lukas could expect a few legionnaires with machine pistols to help him out. All he had to do was say the word.

It was good to drink with these men, who were straightforward in the manner of the partisans back home. The soldiers discussed the virtues of their way of life in the foreign legion, an option, they suggested, for someone with his experience, someone who might be able to lead men if he polished up his French. There were careers to be made in French Indochina or Algeria if one could avoid getting killed.

Even though a full two hours had passed since they entered the café, the men were not happy at first when he wanted to leave them. They had intended to drink with him all night. But they had become French in one way: when he said a woman was waiting for him, they understood immediately and released him from any further obligation.

Lukas lurched back down the rue St-Paul but did not find Monika at the kitchen door of the school. The whole building was locked up. He walked out guiltily to the rue Sully, where he found her on a bench near the metro station. She had a book on her lap but was looking at the trees that lined the river.

“I'm sorry,” said Lukas. “It was very hard to get away.”

“That's all right. I expected as much and I was enjoying the day.” She looked at him as he flopped into place beside her. “Did the legionnaires do you in with their beers?”

“I'm a little drunk,” he admitted.

“Maybe we should go for a walk. It might clear your head.”

“Good idea. Just let me smoke a cigarette first.”

“I don't remember you smoking when I saw you in Germany.”

“No. I smoked sporadically back home. I've taken it up again here. I think it helps me to relax and reflect, and it helps to pass the time.”

“I thought you were frightfully busy.”

“I am, but it's a strange kind of busyness. Back in Lithuania, even though I handled the newspapers, I was in constant movement when the weather permitted it. Here, I'm sitting all the time. It makes me restless. Sometimes I feel as if I'm going to explode.”

“You just need exercise. Come on, let's walk. It will sober you up, too.”

Monika was slightly maternal in this way, taking care of him, and he enjoyed being in her care more than he liked to admit. It was too soon to permit himself these types of feelings.

He butted the cigarette, rose, felt a little dizzy from the beer and then steadied himself.

They crossed the street and walked along the quay of the right bank, passing the bookstalls in the dappled light. The quay was full of people doing the same as they were. It all appeared so normal, so pleasant, as if the war had never happened. None of the buildings had any bomb damage. To Lukas it seemed both wonderful and slightly unjust that one place should be so lucky. Cities as well as people had destinies, and Paris was one of the lucky ones.

“What was it like when you arrived here?” Lukas asked.

“It was all excitement and light, even though the war was still on, but I don't think about it very much anymore. When I was young I always wanted to visit Paris because my uncle was here and he seemed so sophisticated. He brought us Eiffel Tower souvenirs, and I kept one on my bookcase all through school. When I first got here I wanted to drink in every moment, but now it's fallen into the background. Sometimes life here is very hard, for all the beautiful buildings.”

“Paris was the dream of a whole different class from the one I grew up in,” said Lukas. “I came from a farm, and Kaunas was already as big a dream as I ever imagined.”

“It's important not to feel intimidated by Paris.”

“How is it possible not to be intimidated? Just look at this place.”

“Places aren't as important as the people who live in them.”

“That's right, but the two are linked. The people grow out of the place. They belong to it.”

“If that were true, no one would ever migrate. The Indians would still rule America.”

Lukas laughed. “I know I don't make much sense, but some people have a stronger affinity to the land than others.”

“Are you homesick?”

“A little, but not as much as you'd think. I feel a sense of responsibility. I'm like a soldier whose leave has ended but who can't get back to his unit.”

“But you're in Paris—you should enjoy yourself a little.”

“I think I'm doing that. What's your life like here?”

“I live with my mother and sister. I'm going to school at the Alliance Française in the evening to improve my French, and I have a new job in a pharmaceutical laboratory as a cleaner, rinsing the test tubes. I've applied to study nursing, and for that my French must be impeccable.”

“What do you like best about living here?”

“The slowness of things. Where we come from, the men drink vodka in shots, and once you sit down to eat you fall upon the food all at once. But everything in Paris is about lingering, about squeezing pleasure out of every moment. People sip their wine. The food comes in a stately procession, even if there isn't very much of it and it isn't very good. I like the way a cup of coffee can last an afternoon.”