The Spies of Warsaw by Alan Furst

Author:Alan Furst [Furst, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Suspense, Historical, Mystery, Thriller, War
ISBN: 9780297855415
Publisher: W&N
Published: 2008-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

In the early dusk of winter, Mercier climbed into an Opel with German plates. The young driver called himself Stefan and said he was from an émigré family that had settled in Besançon. “In 'thirty-three,” he added. “The minute Hitler took power, my father got the suitcases down. He was a socialist politician, and he knew what was coming. Then, after we settled in France, the people you work for showed up right away, and they've kept me busy ever since.”

They crossed into Germany easily enough, Stefan using a German passport, and drove north on the road to Tübingen that passed through Schramberg. “About an hour and half,” Stefan said. “I'll take you into the town and out on the forest road, where I'll pick you up tomorrow night, so mark the spot carefully.”

“Before the roadblock.”

“Well before. It's one-point-six miles from the Schramberg town hall.”

“And then, tomorrow night . . .”

“At nineteen-oh-five hours. Stay in the woods until then, I'll be there on the minute. Is it only a one-day maneuver?”

“Likely more, but they want me out by tomorrow night.”

“A good idea,” Stefan said. “Don't be greedy, that's what I always say. And you'll want to watch out for the foresters.”

“Don't worry, I'll keep my head down.”

“They're always in the woods, cutting, pruning.” After a moment he said, “It's a strange nation, when you think about it. Fussy. Rules for everything—the branches of each tree must only just touch the neighboring branches, and so on.”

“How do you come to know that?”

“Everybody knows that. In Germany.”

They drove on, through pretty Schwabisch villages. Every one of them had its Christbaum, a tall evergreen in the center of town, with candles lit as darkness fell, and a star on top. There were also candles in every window, and red-berried holly wreaths hung on the doors. By the side of the road, at the entry to each village, stood a sign attacking the Jews. This was, Mercier thought, a kind of competition, for none of the signs were the same. Juden dirfen nicht bleiben—“Jews must not stay here”—was followed by Wer die Juden unterstuzt fordert den Kommunissmus, “Who helps the Jews helps communism,” then the dramatic “This flat-footed stranger, with kinky hair and hooked nose, he shall not our land enjoy, he must leave, he must leave.”

“Perhaps an amateur poet, that one,” Stefan said.

“One publishes where one can,” Mercier said.

“Bastards,” Stefan said. “I grew up in the middle of it. Hard to believe, at first. Then it didn't go away, it grew.” He shifted into second gear, the Opel climbing a grade where forest closed in on the darkening road. He had been rambling along in rough-hewn émigré French, now he switched to native German and said, quietly, “Ihr sollt in der Hölle schmoren!” Burn in hell.

Twenty minutes later, they reached the town of Schramberg. A few Wehrmacht officers wandered along the winding streets, pausing to look in the shop windows, out for a pre-dinner walk to stir the appetite. In honor of the

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.