“Horst here.”
It was all he said before asking to speak to her husband.
That was how the fateful day began.
“There’s a Mr. Horst asking for you, darling. Why do you think he’s ringing so early?”
It was indeed early; the boys were not even up. They had an hour of Swedish before their normal teaching began, so they rose at the crack of dawn, before it was light.
She heard Immanuel speaking in an unusually low voice out in the hall. For a few weeks now they had had their own telephone and no longer needed to disturb the Weil family. Calls usually came in the evening, and they had therefore looked at each other in surprise when the room filled with a loud ring so penetrating it would surely wake the boys, even though the door to their room was closed. Out in the corridor Immanuel was whispering into the receiver, but she heard every word.
“Yes, Mr. Horst. Of course. That’s agreed then, seven o’clock this evening at the Strand. Thank you for the call. See you later.”
It was an important day for Immanuel, and he tried to push aside any thoughts about what this Mr. Horst from Berlin might have to propose. Today was submission day for the whole Cassirer manuscript. And today he would also be introduced to the principal owner, Tor Bonnier, who planned to publish the book in Swedish. Immanuel only had the morning in which to go through the last amendments. After lunch he and Bermann Fischer would walk over to the parent company’s offices on Sveavägen.
But before the working day could begin, the boys had to be woken, and simply sending them off in time for their Swedish lesson every morning was an effort. They didn’t exactly look forward to the teacher’s stern interrogations. Henrik in particular was so anxious about these lessons that he would often throw himself back into bed, sobbing, and for as long as possible would refuse to put on his coat on the grounds that he didn’t feel well. Once or twice Karl had had to go on his own, but Henrik could generally be persuaded in the end, often with the promise of a reward that very afternoon. This morning, the same day that the early call from Horst shattered their moment of peace before the boys had to be woken, was one of those mornings filled with darkness and sleet and fear of the Swedish teacher’s morning mood.
When the children had left, Lucia sat down opposite Immanuel at the kitchen table.
“Is he a friend of Gerhard’s? And what sort of name is Horst? That’s not a person’s surname.”
“Wolfgang. His name is Wolfgang Horst.”
Lucia sighed heavily.
Immanuel hadn’t wanted to say any more about the telephone call, but it was obvious his wife wouldn’t let the subject drop. “To be completely honest, I’m not really sure who he is. He says we met briefly a few summers ago in Kaunas and that he’s part of the set around the Berliner Zeitung press agency, so it’s quite likely that he knows my brother. I didn’t have a chance to ask, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been sent here by Gerhard. Or it might have been by Scheliha, you remember, my German friend in Warsaw.”
The truth was, he hadn’t had any contact whatsoever with his brother for several months. But his wife knew that. For a long time Gerhard had performed the role of secretary of sorts, typing up articles and helping with the accounts. He had been there every day around lunchtime in their villa in Żoliborz. They had developed an excellent way of working together, he and Lucia, who was also an excellent stenographer. For some months he even lived with them in Warsaw. But since the summer holiday in Estonia, Immanuel had had to manage without his brother’s support.
It had crossed his mind many times that the best scenario would be if Gerhard could join the family here in Stockholm. But he had heard nothing from his brother since the summer, and, all things considered, anything could have happened to him. Could one even be sure he was still a free man?
“But why are you so upset?” Immanuel asked when he saw his wife’s worried face and tear-filled eyes. “It’s not the first time in Stockholm I’ve had calls from people I’m not absolutely sure I know, or even want to know.”
This was quite true and didn’t just apply to telephone calls but also to meetings with individuals from various countries who sought him out, sometimes with a letter of recommendation from a mutual acquaintance. Like the Englishman.
It started with Biggs, the man with the limp, to whom he had been introduced at the Opera Bar and who had later met him at Rickman’s office, and continued one rainy morning with a whole delegation of them at his home on Frejgatan. The same Biggs again, now accompanied by Rickman himself and the latter’s elegant fiancée, and another gentleman whose name he had forgotten. Biggs had positioned all the copies on the kitchen table. The material was hardly sophisticated, but that wasn’t the objective. The leaflets functioned on the level of cartoons and were intended to illustrate how Hitler was being hoodwinked by the Russians. National Socialism wasn’t being called into question, but the focus was on the führer’s inability to keep his promises. The recurrent theme, the Bolsheviks taking advantage behind the backs of the unsuspecting Germans, was explained in short texts. Unfortunately these contained so many linguistic peculiarities they could under no circumstances be used in Germany. Immanuel had conveyed this with considerable directness, but Rickman had looked quizzical, on the grounds that Bermann Fischer’s wife, Tutti, had privately told him the material was excellent. Rickman had seemed less than happy when Immanuel reiterated that the leaflets in their current state were completely unusable. Apparently they were going to be printed in large numbers somewhere in Sweden and then transported to Stockholm for onward distribution in Germany.
As luck would have it, Lucia hadn’t been at home. The call from Horst was enough. He didn’t know how she would cope with the idea of him being dragged into propaganda activities. He tried to calm her down.
“Horst is in touch with Kutzner at the press agency in Berlin, and we can’t afford to lose that connection. It’s a matter of a stable income. Small but important, you know that.”
Lucia herself had typed up most of the articles that were sent to the Berliner Zeitung press agency. They involved fairly innocuous items devoid of any personal tone or political slant, news from the Baltic and Nordic states. Ever since Immanuel had been forbidden to work in the German national press, Lucia had always said there was something unsavory about this contact in Berlin to whom they sent articles with some regularity. It was she who kept track of the correspondence and the accounts, and to distinguish between the different clients, she marked the articles sent to Berlin with a B; articles for De Telegraaf were given an A for Amsterdam; texts for Basler Nachrichten, the longest and most ambitious, bore the abbreviation BA.
It was relatively easy money. Moreover, it was a near miracle that this press agency, which succeeded in placing articles in a number of German-language minority newspapers in Poland, could still operate alongside the German state-controlled press. It was obviously living on borrowed time. Immanuel had no idea what pressure Kutzner might be under, and he had no way of finding out. Was Ilse Stübe, who had been a little too Moscow-friendly for his liking, still in the office? His brother was the one who had closest contact with the agency, but where was Gerhard today? Immanuel feared the worst, and his brother kept appearing in his dreams in the most appalling scenarios.
The Berlin address had figured in his darkest dreams too. There had been talk of Ilse Stübe taking a more prominent position, but that didn’t seem to have happened. Allied to this was the fact that he had never gotten to know Kutzner, who for nearly two years had played a key role in the whole thing. He had never wanted to voice his deepest concerns, but in essence Kutzner could well have been appointed by the powers that be. The intention might have been to exploit the network for purposes other than those originally shaped by himself and his friend von Scheliha, press attaché at the German embassy in Warsaw, who was certainly no friend of his superior in Berlin. Finding ways of circumventing Nazification of the press had been their single goal. Was it possible that von Scheliha had been removed as well? And if that were the case, what was the point of the agency, and why did it still exist?
But he couldn’t deny that he welcomed the four hundred marks transferred every month into his account at the Gothenburg merchant bank. In truth the money was sorely needed. The rest of the time he tried not to let his thoughts dwell on the Berlin agency. But on this blustery autumn day the storm clouds within him gathered with renewed force, agitated and exceedingly dark. As the afternoon wore on he recalled Lucia’s anxious question.
“What sort of a name is Horst? That’s not a person’s surname.”
It was as if she sensed that the business with Horst would lead to problems. To comfort her he rang home from the office, something he would never normally do.
He tried to take her mind off it. There was plenty of good news to focus on today: the meeting with Tor Bonnier, delivery of the manuscript. It was a great pity the day would have to end with a meeting that was causing so much unease. Just as well to get it over with.
He walked briskly down Birger Jarlsgatan toward Nybroplan and followed the quayside out to Blasieholmen. When he entered the vestibule of the Strand Hotel, he was met by a clean-cut young man who clearly recognized him, for he rose immediately from a velvet couch and held out his hand. He introduced himself with a barely visible smile that expressed little warmth. He was as terse as he had been on the telephone.
“Horst.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you wait,” Immanuel said, though he wasn’t in the least late. Something about this man made him nervous. “Have you reserved a table here?”
“I have no knowledge of Stockholm’s restaurant life,” Horst said curtly. “I arrived yesterday and I’m leaving tomorrow. Wherever you suggest.”
The only place Immanuel knew was the Opera Bar. When they came out onto Arsenalsgatan, they were met by strong gusts of wind and wild swirls of leaves. It was difficult to hear one another in the gale, but Horst managed to convey that he had important matters to discuss and was grateful for the meeting. Very important matters, he stressed.
They walked through Kungsträdgården and, just as the clock struck quarter past seven, entered the foyer of the Operakällaren and climbed the short stairway to the bar. They sat down at one of the tables by the window overlooking the church. The waiter, by this stage well known to Immanuel, took their order and returned almost at once with glasses and two bottles of Ramlösa water. Horst broke the silence with civilities about how much it meant to his colleagues in Berlin that there were reliable writers outside their own country, not least in the outlying regions that had hitherto managed to stay out of the war. He drank his water, and a look of deeper gravity crossed his young face.
“Mr. Kutzner would like you to know that you can continue to count on the four hundred marks in payment every month, although the articles were withheld for a period and it has been a long time since anything could be used in the Kattowitzer Zeitung. The Lodzer Freie Presse hasn’t printed anything for many weeks either, but of course you know that.”
What was he trying to say? Despite his immaculate appearance, the man had something troubled about him. He kept looking around as if he were afraid of being seen in Immanuel’s company. Something was bothering him, and he could hardly have come to see Immanuel merely to inform him that the payments would continue to be made with unbroken regularity. He appeared to be deliberating before he spoke again.
“These are unusual times, and sometimes one has to be prepared to provide services one hasn’t previously been accustomed to. Don’t you agree? At least that’s the way it looks in the reality in which I am living. You have a family, I understand? Kutzner told me you have two children.”
They were alone in the Opera Bar, and the waiter who had been behind the bar counter had now disappeared from sight. The other guests had made their way to the dining room. It was completely quiet.
“Yes, I have two sons. They’re living here with my wife and me.”
What was Horst getting at? Was he really a person sent from the agency in Berlin? In fact, was he from the field of journalism at all? It didn’t feel like that. Instead Immanuel was reminded of one of the innumerable legation assistants he had come across in various cities over the years. In his memory they merged into one polite but evasive person, always with the same faultless High German accent. He recalled the group of subordinates around von Scheliha at the German embassy. New faces constantly, and yet always inherently the same person. In his mind’s eye he could no longer visualize these assistants to the press attaché. Young men who were at once both obliging, almost servile, and somewhat reserved. It was a type one only encountered in the labyrinthine world of diplomacy, so heavily regulated by statutes and protocols. Yes, Horst might well be an emissary from the German embassy rather than the representative of the newspaper world he claimed to be. State control of the German press had changed everything. And Horst was not the sort of person one could imagine among journalists.
Horst cleared his throat nervously, apparently intent on explaining himself. “As I said, sometimes one has to make an extra effort, especially in times of war. And in your case we’d like a little behind-the-scenes reporting. I’m sure you understand what I mean. When you mix with journalists from different parts of the world, voices from the so-called neutral press, you hear things. And when you run into people from the diplomatic world, sometimes you might gain knowledge of any clandestine activities afoot. What we mean quite simply is politically interesting information.”
Of course. He should have known. Immanuel realized that this would be a balancing act, and he had to curb the anger that was threatening to surface. The situation required the utmost discretion. He didn’t want to appear antagonistic or too dismissive. Nor did he want to inflate the whole thing into a debate about principles, even though the proposals being made by the clean-shaven young man on the other side of the table holding a glass of water in his hand basically crossed the line of acceptability. Was it even an offer, or was it a demand being placed upon him in this insidious fashion? He decided to try and wriggle out of it.
“But Mr. Horst, you must understand that I can’t get involved in this sort of thing in a country I know so little about. I’m the wrong person. You’re sure to find someone more suitable without any trouble. My knowledge of this city is for the most part rudimentary, and I know only a handful of people, all of whom are in the same precarious circumstances as my family and myself.”
Horst was silent for a moment as he poured the last drop of Ramlösa into his glass. He looked around at the extravagantly designed art nouveau setting. Curiously, they were still alone. Yet Horst continued in an even lower voice, as if he were afraid they might be caught in the act and overheard by people unseen but nevertheless somewhere in their immediate vicinity.
“As I pointed out, we haven’t placed your articles for a long time, at least not consistent with the scale agreed in the contract. Four hundred marks is a relatively good rate, especially if no work is done. We thought the lack of normal reporting could be offset by activity of a slightly different kind. As I said, a glimpse behind the scenes. I presume you’ll still need the fees in future, won’t you?”
“As I said, I’m not a suitable candidate. I don’t know enough about this country; it’s as simple as that.”
Immanuel did his best to make it look as though he took the conversation lightly. He studied the man opposite him: short hair, perfectly slicked side parting, rye-blond forelock brushing a fascinating pair of rimless spectacles held in place by an extremely thin silver frame. Horst was an absolutely impeccable young man, with a calm, cultured comportment, but nevertheless radiating a harshness that emanated from his speech. He pronounced words with an articulation that left nothing he said unclear or vague. That was also true of the next sentence, enunciated with an edge that could only be described as savage, even though Horst hadn’t raised his voice in the slightest.
“You have a wife who may wish to return to Germany at some time in the future, isn’t that right?”
Immanuel felt a chill sweep through him. “We have already discussed this, Mr. Horst. You’re repeating yourself,” he said, before realizing that wasn’t the case.
They hadn’t spoken about an eventual return to Germany. This notion was his own. Among the many thoughts that had filled his mind in the last few moments was the realization that in the likelihood that his family were to outlive him, they would need the greatest discretion imaginable. In any event, there was no longer any ambiguity about whether what Horst had to say contained an inherent threat. It also had become increasingly clear what type of services he meant and what kind of information he hoped Immanuel would transmit.
“This doesn’t concern intelligence about this country. We’re not talking about Swedish relations. What I’m trying to convey is that we have a special interest in the other warring powers with a presence in the city, and we imagine that you find out about activities with some degree of regularity and are able to follow certain trails. To be frank, this is a request that Mr. Kutzner regards as fully justified, given the financial recompense you enjoy. A remuneration, let me stress, that no one will challenge in the circumstances.”
What did Horst know about Immanuel’s acquaintance circles? It could hardly be a secret that he was on a friendly footing with the diplomats Joen Lagerberg and Sven Grafström, both of whom had been a great help during the last few months in Warsaw. Without them the move would have been quite simply impossible. And cultivating cordial ties with a small crowd at the German embassy in the Polish capital hadn’t happened behind closed doors either.
Be that as it may, the Polish connections belonged to a bygone age and were hardly of relevance to his new situation in Stockholm. No one could reasonably have known about the quite remarkable happenings of the last few weeks. A flood of half-thoughts raced through his fraught mind in less than the time it took to raise the almost empty glass to his lips for a last sip. The fact that Bermann Fischer had influential friends among British expatriates in the city and that some of those characters had appeared in Immanuel’s life was not something they could know about in Germany.
Horst continued relentlessly, oblivious to what was going on inside Immanuel’s head. “In short, you have nothing to lose by demonstrating a little cooperation. But you might have something to gain. And, as I would like to emphasize, this is not just about you. You have a wife, as you said, who looks in every way delightful, and you have two sons who might be grown men by the time the war comes to an end. They look handsome, the boys.”
Horst was quiet for a moment but had another question to ask. It sounded more like an order. “You must have had thoughts about leaving this country if it gets crowded here. That would be understandable.”
Immanuel said nothing. How could he reply? That of course they had considered the United States, had not given up hope of Great Britain? Even investigated possibilities in China and Cuba? He remained silent.
Instead Horst added, as if talking to himself, “It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that the work we’re after could be carried out somewhere else. Perhaps in London. By no means impossible that we could be of assistance.”
Was Immanuel mistaken? Had the young man been dispatched to help him? Could the threatening tone he thought he’d heard be a figment of his imagination?
A small leather briefcase suddenly appeared on the table, and from it Horst took a pile of documents, at the top of which was a portrait of Lucia. Under it he glimpsed the boys’ passport photographs, affixed to some kind of form. On another photograph, several years old, the boys were dressed smartly in new jackets. Both were holding their father’s hand. Immanuel was wearing a coat and hat. His face was hidden.
Karl. Henrik. Lucia. Immanuel stared at the photographs of his family. Horst continued to make his skillfully articulated case, returning to the phrase about the pointlessness of closing any doors. “There’s something I want to hand over to you,” he said. “But I don’t want to do it here in the restaurant.” He stood up, with a gesture toward the cloakroom.
In complete silence they walked back through the cold and rain to the foyer of the Strand Hotel. Only after they sat down at a table in a room next to the reception desk did Horst begin speaking again, having retrieved something from his coat. He opened a paper bag containing two objects, which he placed on the table.
“You must be careful with this liquid. It is highly poisonous and is only to be used when you have something to communicate that can under no circumstances become public knowledge. The pen is easy to handle, and the whole thing is fairly self-evident. You can have a closer look at home.”
Now they both stared at the small glass receptacle containing a greenish-yellow fluid and at the black fountain pen, a German Tintenkuli. Horst put the items back into the paper bag and pushed it across to the other side of the table.
“When you have something to communicate, simply write it down with this ink. Mr. Kutzner will have no problem revealing the text.”
Immanuel remained in his seat, the paper bag in front of him. A minute or two passed before he gave Horst a guarded nod in a vague parting gesture, stood up, and walked through the revolving doors. He noticed his face reflected in the glass. The bag was in the inner pocket of his coat.