Fatherland

March knew only a few words of English — but enough to grasp the sense of the message. Wearily, he descended the stairs. Potsdamer Strasse was a long street, with many bars.

“I’m looking for Fraulein Maguire,” he said to the concierge in the hall. “Any idea where I might find her?”

It was like throwing a switch: “She went out an hour ago, Sturmbannfuhrer. You’re the second man to ask. Fifteen minutes after she went out, a young chap came looking for her. Another foreigner — smartly dressed, short hair. She won’t be back until after midnight, that much I can promise you.”

March wondered how many of her other tenants the old lady had informed on to the Gestapo.

“Is there a bar she goes to regularly?”

“Heini’s, round the corner. That’s where all the damned foreigners go.”

“Your powers of observation do you credit, madam.”

By the time he left her to her knitting five minutes later, March was laden with information about “Charlie” Maguire. He knew she had dark hair, cut short; that she was small and slim; that she was wearing a raincoat of shiny blue plastic “and high heels, like a tart’; that she had lived here six months; that she stayed out all hours and often got up at noon; that she was behind with the rent; that he should see the bottles of liquor the hussy threw out… No, thank you, madam, he had no desire to inspect them, that would not be necessary, you have been most helpful…

He turned right along Bulow Strasse. Another right took him to Potsdamer Strasse. Heini’s was fifty metres up on the left. A painted sign showed a landlord with an apron and a handlebar moustache, carrying a foaming stein of beer. Beneath it, part of the red neon lettering had burnt out: Hei s.

The bar was quiet, except for one comer, where a group of six sat around a table, talking loudly in English accents. She was the only woman. She was laughing and ruffling an older man’s hair. He was laughing, too. Then he saw March and said something and the laughter stopped. They watched him as he approached. He was conscious of his uniform, of the noise of his jackboots on the polished wooden floor,

“Fraulein Maguire, my name is Xavier March of the Berlin Kriminalpolizei.” He showed her his ID. “I would like to speak with you, please.”

She had large dark eyes, glittering in the bar lights.

“Go ahead.”

“In private, please.”

“I’ve nothing more to say.” She turned to the man whose hair she had ruffled and murmured something March did not understand. They all laughed. March did not move.

Eventually, a younger man in a sports jacket and a button-down shirt stood up. He pulled a card from his breast pocket and held it out.

“Henry Nightingale. Second Secretary at the United States Embassy. I’m sorry, Herr March, but Miss Maguire has said all she has to say to your colleagues.”

March ignored the card.

The woman said: “If you’re not going to go, why don’t you join us? This is Howard Thompson of the New York Times.” The older man raised his glass. This is Bruce Fallen of United Press. Peter Kent, CBS. Arthur Haines, Reuters. Henry, you’ve met. Me, you know, apparently. We’re just having a little drink to celebrate the great news. Come on. The Americans and the SS — we’re all friends now.”

“Careful, Charlie,” said the young man from the Embassy.

“Shut up, Henry. Oh, Christ, if this man doesn’t move soon, I’ll go and talk to him out of sheer boredom. Look -” There was a crumpled sheet of paper on the table in front of her. She tossed it to March. "That’s what I got for getting mixed up in this. My visa’s withdrawn for "fraternising with a German citizen without official permission". I was supposed to leave today, but my friends here had a word with the Propaganda Ministry and got me a week’s extension. Wouldn’t have looked good, would it? Throwing me out on the day of the great news.”

March said: “It’s important.”

She stared at him, a cool look. The Embassy man put his hand on her arm. “You don’t have to go.”

That seemed to make up her mind. “Will you shut up, Henry?” She shook herself free and pulled her coat over her shoulders. “He looks respectable enough. For a Nazi. Thanks for the drink.” She downed the contents of her glass — whisky and water, by the look of it — and stood up. “Let’s go.”

The man called Thompson said something in English.

“I will, Howard. Don’t worry.”

Outside, she said: “Where are we going?”

“My car.”

“Then where?”

“Doctor Stuckart’s apartment.”

“What fun.”

She was small. Even clattering on her high heels, she was several centimetres short of March’s shoulder. He opened the door of the Volkswagen for her and, as she bent to get in, he smelled the whisky on her breath, and also cigarettes — French, not German — and perfume: something expensive, he thought.