Midnight in Europe by Alan Furst Page A

Herr de Lyon, are of Swiss nationality?”
    “I am, sir.”
    The officer, holding both passports, flapped them against his palm, did that a few times—which meant he was turning things over in his mind. Then he made his decision and said, “Please wait here. Do either of you have luggage in the baggage car?”
    Ferrar said they didn’t, they each carried a small valise and a briefcase. When the officer left the car, Ferrar and de Lyon exchanged a look. As for the other passengers, they had to wait. In some other place at some other time, there might have been complaints, indignation, but not here, here one stood in silence.
    Eventually the officer reappeared and, firm but polite, said, “Will you gentlemen accompany me, please? And bring your baggage.” They did as they were told. Following the officer, Ferrar was relieved that, at de Lyon’s direction, he had left the Walther in Paris. As a Spanish émigré, traveling with a Swiss, he had already provoked suspicion, and the discovery of a weapon would have made it worse. “And,” de Lyon had added, “pack your bag to be searched.”
    Ferrar and de Lyon were led through the busy waiting room—inspiring the occasional furtive glance—to an office with a sign on the door that said GEHEIME STAATSPOLIZEI , abbreviated in common usage to “Gestapo.” Inside, a bulky man in a suit was sitting behind a desk as the first suspects of the day were brought before him. His colorless hair was shorn on the sides, his thick neck bulged over his collar, he wore steel-framed eyeglasses, and had a gold swastika pin on his lapel. Both passports lay on the desk in front of him, next to a pen, a tearaway pad of official forms, and a cup of coffee. He indicated that they should seat themselves, took a handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose, then shook his head and said, “Ach, what weather.” He stared at them for a moment, and then began to work.
    Carefully, he tore a form from the pad, looked at his watch, filled in time and date, and slowly copied Ferrar’s name. Then, a new form for de Lyon. That done, he said, “Good morning, I am Major Schwalbe. So then, I will ask what business brings you to Germany? Or are you, perhaps, tourists?”
    Following the script de Lyon had laid out for this eventuality, Ferrar said, “We are magazine publishers, sir.”
    Schwalbe wrote this down on the designated line. “In Paris?”
    “Yes, sir,” de Lyon said. “But our magazines are sold all across Europe.”
    “And the name of your company?”
    “Editions Renard, sir.”
    “And what sort of magazines do you publish?”
    “Naturist magazines, sir,” de Lyon said.
    “Magazines about nature? Animals and … what to say, fish?”
    “Forgive me, perhaps I do not have the proper name in German. The word in French means nudism.”
    Schwalbe had heavy eyebrows, which flicked upward at the word. “What then will you do in Germany?”
    “We are here to take photographs for a special issue, to be called Nudism in the Reich . It is quite popular in Germany, we are told.” It was. In an effort to stimulate the national libido, and thus breed more Germans, public nudity had been officially endorsed. Hitler himself, known to be a great prude in all things, had attended a nude ballet in Munich.
    “Yes, it is.” Schwalbe knew the official line and tried to quote what he’d read somewhere but got only as far as “The human form …” before his memory failed him.
    “Herr Major?” de Lyon said. “Would you care to have a look? I’ve brought along some recent issues.”
    “Very well.”
    De Lyon unbuckled his briefcase and brought out three copies of a French magazine called Chez les Nudistes , which meant nudist colony, and was also the name of a popular nightclub up in Place Pigalle. He handed the magazines to the major, who began to study them, taking his time with each page.
    To Ferrar, the pages were upside down, but he could see well enough: grainy black and white