if dark veils were wrapped around his eyes. People became shadows. Everything blurred—the colours of the dresses, the jewellery, the intricacies of the light. With tremendous effort he turned away from Fritzsche and looked around the hall. Like a drowning man, he sought something to grasp, as Erika Gelber had taught him to do at such moments: find something that has the spark of life and concentrate on it until the malaise passes. He couldn’t stand the term ‘attack’, which was how she described these events. But where would he find the spark of life in this hall? Was there anything here that his imagination couldn’t annihilate? The party was already over, wrapped up, stuffed into the past. This wasn’t a new feeling: even in his childhood his imagination had cast a pall over holidays or birthdays, coating the people around him in a sickly, dying yellow. People like him, seeing death everywhere, would never understand how others could celebrate the passage of time.
Meanwhile he heard his voice speaking to Fritzsche, praising his talent as a broadcaster, hinting at business proposals. How proud he was that his voice remained steady.
‘Let’s meet soon,’ Fritzsche proposed. ‘I’d be happy if a seniorrepresentative of Milton such as yourself honoured us with a visit to the radio station. I understand that your company and the government have been working together of late.’
Was Fritzsche referring to the secret deal? Actually, that didn’t matter now! He had had a victory—to hell with all the heretical thoughts that only weakened him. Miserable souls like Bauer wouldn’t like him, but Fritzsche wanted to be close to him. People like Fritzsche would always trust him. Fritzsche said something else, but Thomas didn’t understand. He felt his smile become tense. There he was, standing steadily, radiating charm.
He withdrew but not before he heard Fritzsche complete his conquest of the actress with a story about his beloved mother, who had passed away last year. With tentative steps, he headed for the bar. His body gradually began to obey him again.
Thomas glanced at his watch. He had arranged to meet the head of the Paris office along with Fiske and Carlson at the bar at 11.30 p.m. to drink a toast to the New Year. Thomas was sorry that Federico Tofano, who ran the Italian operation, had to stay in Rome. He would have been proud to introduce the warm and confident Federico to the American bosses. The head of the Polish branch, Mieczyslaw Buszkowsky—they called him Bizha in Berlin—had sent a message that ‘in consequence of recent events, I will find it very difficult to travel to Germany, and the continued existence of the branch is in doubt’.
Thomas, whose opinion of Bizha and his accomplishments was limited, wired him back: ‘The differences between Germany and Poland should not influence Milton, which has kept its distance from politics since its establishment.’
Bizha had not answered. Carlson was sympathetic: ‘Bizha knows—just as you do, by the way—that sometimes politics swallows up everything, including business.’
He decided that Carlson had abandoned the Polish branch as a lost cause. But Thomas—who had established the office himself, located it on the corner of Zgoda and Szpitalna in Warsaw, in a buildingthat housed big companies from all over the world, supervised the renovations, and even cut the ribbon at its opening—did not intend to give up.
A group of women sat beneath the painting of an ochre rhinoceros. A stick was glued to its lips. Thomas gaped at its red eyes. ‘An ugly rumour has reached my ears that Göring’s baby daughter isn’t his,’ he heard one say, a woman wearing a white blouse buttoned to the top and a grease-stained black tie. He remembered her name was Scholtz-Klink. She had accosted him at an earlier event to ask whether Milton could advise how their organisation, the Nazi Women’s League, could increase its influence.
Then he heard, ‘And
Meanwhile he heard his voice speaking to Fritzsche, praising his talent as a broadcaster, hinting at business proposals. How proud he was that his voice remained steady.
‘Let’s meet soon,’ Fritzsche proposed. ‘I’d be happy if a seniorrepresentative of Milton such as yourself honoured us with a visit to the radio station. I understand that your company and the government have been working together of late.’
Was Fritzsche referring to the secret deal? Actually, that didn’t matter now! He had had a victory—to hell with all the heretical thoughts that only weakened him. Miserable souls like Bauer wouldn’t like him, but Fritzsche wanted to be close to him. People like Fritzsche would always trust him. Fritzsche said something else, but Thomas didn’t understand. He felt his smile become tense. There he was, standing steadily, radiating charm.
He withdrew but not before he heard Fritzsche complete his conquest of the actress with a story about his beloved mother, who had passed away last year. With tentative steps, he headed for the bar. His body gradually began to obey him again.
Thomas glanced at his watch. He had arranged to meet the head of the Paris office along with Fiske and Carlson at the bar at 11.30 p.m. to drink a toast to the New Year. Thomas was sorry that Federico Tofano, who ran the Italian operation, had to stay in Rome. He would have been proud to introduce the warm and confident Federico to the American bosses. The head of the Polish branch, Mieczyslaw Buszkowsky—they called him Bizha in Berlin—had sent a message that ‘in consequence of recent events, I will find it very difficult to travel to Germany, and the continued existence of the branch is in doubt’.
Thomas, whose opinion of Bizha and his accomplishments was limited, wired him back: ‘The differences between Germany and Poland should not influence Milton, which has kept its distance from politics since its establishment.’
Bizha had not answered. Carlson was sympathetic: ‘Bizha knows—just as you do, by the way—that sometimes politics swallows up everything, including business.’
He decided that Carlson had abandoned the Polish branch as a lost cause. But Thomas—who had established the office himself, located it on the corner of Zgoda and Szpitalna in Warsaw, in a buildingthat housed big companies from all over the world, supervised the renovations, and even cut the ribbon at its opening—did not intend to give up.
A group of women sat beneath the painting of an ochre rhinoceros. A stick was glued to its lips. Thomas gaped at its red eyes. ‘An ugly rumour has reached my ears that Göring’s baby daughter isn’t his,’ he heard one say, a woman wearing a white blouse buttoned to the top and a grease-stained black tie. He remembered her name was Scholtz-Klink. She had accosted him at an earlier event to ask whether Milton could advise how their organisation, the Nazi Women’s League, could increase its influence.
Then he heard, ‘And
Similar Books
