Naturally, I was a little concerned about what might happen to me if I failed to identify de Boudel, so I wrote about that, too, mentioning my continuing concern that he might have changed more than just his name and identity if, as the Americans believed, the Russians were intent on infiltrating him back into West German society in the hope of reactivating him as their agent at some later date. I had little or no chance of success if de Boudel had undergone plastic surgery. I also mentioned what by then would have been obvious: that I was being watched closely.
When I finished writing, I went into the sitting room to speak to Vigée, who was the French officer in charge of the SDECE’s Göttingen operation.
“If you please,” I said, “I’d like to go to church.”
“You didn’t say you were religious,” he said.
“Did I need to?” I shrugged. “Look, it’s not mass, or even confession. I just want to go and sit in church for a while and pray.”
“What are you? Catholic? Protestant? What?”
“Lutheran Protestant,” I said. “Oh yes, and I’d like to buy some chewing gum. To stop me from smoking so much.”
“Here,” he said, and handed me a packet of Hollywood. “I have the same problem.”
I put one of the green chlorophyllic sticks in my mouth.
“Is there a Lutheran church near here?” he asked.
“This is Göttingen,” I said. “There are churches everywhere.”
St. Jacobi was a strange-looking church. Eccentric, even. The body of the building was ordinary enough, made of a handsome pinkish stone with darker pink perpendiculars. But the steeple, the tallest in Göttingen, was anything but ordinary. It was as if the lid of a pink toy box had burst open to permit the egress of a green object on top of a giant gray spring. As if some lazy Jack had tossed a handful of magic beans onto the floor of the church and these had grown so quickly that the stalk had forced its way through the simple church roof. As a metaphor of Nazism, it was perhaps unsurpassed in the whole of Germany.
The candy-striped interior was no less like a fairy tale. As soon as you saw the pillars you wanted to lick them, or to break off a piece of the medieval altar triptych and eat it, like sugarloaf.
I sat down in the front pew and bowed my head to the amnesiac gods of Germany and pretended to pray, because I’d prayed before and knew exactly what to expect of it.
After a while I glanced around, and observing that Vigée was occupied in the admiration of the church, I fixed the note for my CIA handlers underneath the pew with my Hollywood gum. Then I stood up and walked slowly to the door. I waited patiently for Vigée to follow, and then we went outside into the Rumpelstiltskin streets.
31
Things were quiet at the Pension Esebeck, and there was little to do except eat and read the newspapers. But Die Welt was the only paper I was keen to read. I was especially interested in the small ads at the back, and on my second morning in Göttingen I found the message for Field Gray that I had been waiting for. It was some verses from the Gospel according to Saint Luke, 1:44, 49; 2:3; 6:1; 1:40; 1:37; and 1:74.
I took the Bible from the shelf in the sitting room, and went to my own room to reconstruct the message. It read as follows:
For lo, as soon as the voice of Thy salutation sounded in my ears, the babe leaped in my womb for joy.
For He that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is His name.
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And it came to pass on the second Sabbath after the first, that he went through the cornfields; and His disciples plucked the ears of corn, rubbing them in their hands, and did eat.
And entered into the house of Zacharias, and saluted Elisabeth.
For with God nothing shall be impossible.
That He would grant unto us, that we being delivered out of the hand of our enemies might serve Him without fear.
Having burned the note I’d made of the message, I went to look for Vigée and found the Frenchman in a little walled garden overlooking the canal. As usual, he looked as if he hadn’t slept; his eyes were half closed against the smoke from his cigarette, and there was a little cup of coffee in the palm of his hand, like a coin. He regarded me with his usual indifferent expression, but, as before, when he spoke it was frequently with the added emphasis of a firm nod or a quick shake of the head.
“You made your peace with God, yes?” His German was halting but grammatical.
“I needed some time to reflect,” I said. “On something that happened in Berlin. On Sunday.”
“With Elisabeth, yes?”
“She wants to get married,” I said. “To me.”
He shrugged. “Congratulations, Sébastien.”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“She’s waited five years for me, Émile. And now that I’ve seen her again…well, she doesn’t propose to wait any longer. In short, she gave me an ultimatum. That she would forget all about me unless I married her before the weekend.”
“Impossible,” said Vigée.
“That’s what I said, Émile. However, she means it. I’m certain of it. I never knew this woman to say anything she didn’t mean.” I took one of his offered cigarettes.
“That’s hardly civilized,” he said.
“That’s women,” I said. “And it’s me, too. Up until now, everything in the world I ever wanted was never quite as good as I thought it would be. But I’ve a strong feeling that Elisabeth’s different. In fact, I know she is.”
Vigée picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and for a moment regarded it critically, as if it might have been the answer to all our problems.
“I was thinking, Émile. The POW train won’t be here until next Tuesday night. If I could spend Sunday with Elisabeth, in Berlin…Just a few hours.”
Vigée put down his coffee cup and started to shake his head.
“No, please listen,” I said. “If I could spend a few hours with her, I’m sure I could persuade her to wait. Especially if I arrived with a few presents. A ring, perhaps. Nothing expensive. Just a token of my feelings for her.”
He was still shaking his head.
“Oh, come on, Émile, you know what women are like. Look, there’s a shop full of inexpensive jewelry on the corner of Speckstrasse. If you could advance me a few marks—enough to buy a ring—then I’m sure I could persuade her to wait for me. If this wasn’t my last chance, I wouldn’t ask. We could be back here by Monday evening. A full twenty-four hours before the train is even due in Friedland.”