They are on the terrace of the Palais de Chaillot, Hans wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, the view down the Champs-de-Mars, terraces like this are good for the spirits, if it wasn’t for those dreadful buildings…
‘They’re NATO’s, defence of the free world, Hans, it’s worth it, Hans, for a spot of architectural jumble.’
Max turns, gestures to the façade of the TNP, that’s theatre for you, Sir Novelist, if you want a full house you have to have mistaken identities and suchlike, you’ve got to have good box-office, otherwise no theatre, no Lorenzaccio, the people who cheered Pétain now come and applaud this rubbish about resisters, the people who cheered de Gaulle turn out to applaud the death of the tyrant, they’re often the same people, the resisters who had ideals applaud the denunciation of the new regime, the older women turn into duchesses, the girls die deliciously, everyone believes different things at the same time, that’s the togetherness of theatre.
‘This guide knows the region like the back of his hand,’ says Lena, ‘in summer it’s a reserve, he’s a gamekeeper, he takes care of chamois and moufflon, he knows every tree, every rock for twenty kilometres round about, he started with his father when he was six, once he brought me back down through fog.’
Around noon, they reached their destination, another col. From here, they can see the wide valley of Davos, through their binoculars they can make out black dots moving down the slopes.
And then the ski descent, after a five-hour trek, heading back towards Waltenberg, long diagonal traverses, a few breath-stopping slopes, there are two schools of thought, those who favour the Telemark turn — a full bend of the leading knee, followed by a dip of the trailing knee, the front ski starts pointing inward, engage turn, then straighten up slowly bringing skis together, not too hasty, skis exactly parallel — and those, like Lena and the guide, who take risks and execute the move called the christiania or christie stem turn, or even the classic christiania, madness, you turn by kicking one ski against the other, Lilstein tried it, he fell over.
Lena didn’t laugh.
‘Michael, promise me you’ll stop fooling around and I’ll teach you how to do christianias tomorrow.’
Now and then they pass through clumps of larch, sometimes it’s level going for a kilometre or more, they push themselves along with their sticks, the silence of the forest, they come out into full sunlight, then they can ski some more, Lena teaches Lilstein the secrets of the stem turn, he is euphoric, his headache has gone, she laughs at him with unexpected sweetness, the guide restrains members of the group who feel like trying short cuts, they climb back up to a small col, no, says the guide, not the Hirschkuh, you’d need to spend the night on the mountain, Lilstein dreams of spending the night on the mountain, Misha, you will behave yourself, won’t you? they are both in the Hirschkuh refuge, flames in the hearth, they are frozen, she has taken her clothes off, she has wrapped herself in several blankets, he’s lying next to her, no, there are two beds, each of them sleeps in a separate bed, Lilstein is cold, Lena says I’m cold too, no, they’re sitting in front of the fire, she smiles, Lilstein lays his head on Lena’s lap, Lena doesn’t speak, yes she does, when the guide says ‘not the Hirschkuh’ she halts, leans on her sticks, looks at Lilstein, and in a serious voice:
‘Not a night on the mountain, no berceuse for you, you don’t ski as well as a Swiss light infantryman.’
They resume their descent, they arrive at the Waldhaus when the sky has already turned cherry red, she turns to Lilstein:
‘You don’t ski that badly, actually we could have taken the detour across the Hirschkuh.’
He throws a snowball at her, she chases him, he falls, rolls over and over, he is on his back in the snow, she looks at him, standing over him, evening gathers, there’s no one about. They are there, listening to themselves breathe. She says:
‘Let’s go in, it’s going to turn cold.’
Frédérique’s daughter points to the woman in the woolly hat in the middle of the photo:
‘What happened to Erna? My mother lost track of her.’
‘It’s a long story, isn’t that right Max?’
‘She’s director of Merken’s study centre,’ says Max, ‘in Munich, conservative philosophy, whereas at Waltenberg she was very Red Front.’
Max looks around them:
‘You know we’ve got watchers all around us, Lilstein? Hobnail boots. Are they here on your account?’
‘There’s a fair chance they won’t do anything,’ says Lilstein.
‘What sort of chance?’
‘At least one in two.’
‘If they do nab you, it will present you with quite a dilemma; either they convert you and you become a CIA agent, or else you deny everything, then they’d be forced to send you back to the socialist paradise. And once there you’d be shot, young rebel, for attending a friend’s funeral without authorisation, for being soft-hearted.’
‘Still, a one in two chance of getting away with it, Max, maybe better, they’re shooting fewer and fewer people these days.’
‘Anyway, if you are suspect in the heart department, it will be a relief for the comrades in the GDR. Thriving are they? Will you tell me what you’re up to at the moment? A little interview on the sale, or should we say exchange, of dissidents for non-redeemable credits. And how do you get on these days with the Ivans?’
‘I’m not sure I know them any better than you do, Max.’
*
‘What is interesting,’ Lilstein had told you between two ritual mouthfuls of Linzer, ‘is that everyone will be there, in Grindisheim, you’ll bump into all kinds of acquaintances, people you met in Paris, Berne, Rome, even Singapore, not all of them, but a high proportion, from the diplomatic, journalists, intellectuals, fans of Herr Kappler, other writers, people who’ve come to be in the photos or because it would look peculiar if they didn’t turn up, and all those who’re called the Europeans, a lot of people, a whole way of life, there’ll also be large numbers of policemen, information-gathering agents, counterespionage people, the crème de la crème, it should be great fun, a mixture of the unflappable and the hysterical, it’ll be like a fair or a festival, a place to do deals in, it’s risky but you’ve got to be there.’
*
The CIA had also sent a large contingent to Grindisheim, along with one of its heads, rather young for his rank, name of Walker, pleasant and mild-mannered, in a battered tweed jacket with a rather loud handkerchief, orange and black, in the breast pocket. He never needed to repeat what he had to say. He’d confined himself to a role of observer by saying that the situation should stay under control. Concerning the suspect, there was nothing definite in any file but he wasn’t in the clear either.
‘That’s no good to us,’ the West German minister had commented. In the view of other Bonn officials, no action should be taken, a small chance that he really was a spy, but a very good chance of provoking a diplomatic incident which they wouldn’t be able to contain.
As time goes on in the large house in the centre of Grindisheim the tension mounts, they talk to each other with increasing frankness: ‘You don’t give a shit about creating a scandal, you want to nail him, spy or no spy that’s frankly not your problem, you just want to stir things up, you’re not interested in détente, you’re trying to scupper the agreements favouring détente, the new policy in the East and our good relationships with our allies.’