V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,62

with an Eastern European accent Graf couldn’t place. She proffered her face to Seidel. He kissed her twice, on either cheek, as if she were his aunt. ‘And who is this?’

‘This is my friend, the doctor.’

‘A doctor! Let me take your coat,’ she said to Graf. He unbuttoned it and handed it to her, together with his hat. Seidel gave her his cap. She hung them carefully on a rack. There were five other caps, Graf noticed – three grey Wehrmacht, two black SS – and a leather greatcoat. ‘So! Come.’

She led them through a door into a bar. Thick strata of cigarette smoke hung motionless in the reddish half-light. A gramophone was playing a sentimental song by Mimi Thoma. Four or five men sprawled in comfortable chairs, booted legs outstretched, their jackets open, smoking. A couple of girls perched on the arms of their chairs. An SS man, his chin on his chest, appeared to have passed out on the sofa with his arms around two women, one on either side of him, who were whispering behind his head. There were more women in a huddle around the bar. A waitress, naked from the waist up, carried a tray of empty glasses. Ilse showed them to a shadowy corner where a pair of armchairs faced one another, and beckoned to the waitress.

‘What will you drink?’

Seidel said, ‘Do you have cognac?’

‘Of course we have cognac.’ She sounded affronted.

‘You see,’ he said to Graf, ‘we were right to come.’

‘Cognac,’ said Ilse. The waitress moved away. ‘Have you had a chance to look yet? Do you find anyone to your liking?’

Graf glanced around. He couldn’t see the girl from the wood. Seidel said, ‘That redhead, Marta – is she still here?’

‘I’ll see if she’s free. And your friend?’ she said, turning to Graf. ‘What is the doctor looking for?’

He was straining his eyes at the bar. ‘A blonde. Young. Quite small.’

Seidel laughed. ‘You’re a deep one, Graf! Do you have a shoe size you prefer?’

The madam nodded judiciously. ‘I believe I have the perfect girl.’

She went over to the bar. Seidel took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Graf. The cognac came. Graf downed his straight and held out his glass for another. They sat back in their chairs. The lieutenant closed his eyes and conducted the music with his forefinger. He started to sing along with Mimi Thoma. Sleep, darling, sleep, and dream a fairy tale …

Ilse returned with a tall young woman with curly copper-coloured hair, who made an effort to seem pleased to see Seidel. Behind her, tiny in comparison, was a doll-like girl dressed in a sleeveless tight red satin sheath. Her scarlet lipstick and heavy mascara rendered her almost unrecognisable. The moment she saw Graf, her professional smile vanished. She stopped, and swayed back slightly on her high heels. Marta climbed into Seidel’s lap and put her arms around his neck. Ilse steered the blonde girl forward by the shoulders, like a mother presenting a child for inspection. ‘This is Femke.’ Graf stood. ‘See how polite he is, sweetheart,’ she murmured into her ear, ‘a real gentleman! Look at the way he’s staring at you – I can tell he likes you. Why don’t you take him upstairs?’

The girl hesitated. Ilse gave her a firm push. ‘Go on, darling.’

Slowly, reluctantly, looking past Graf to some point beyond his shoulder, Femke held out her hand. He took it – there was no grip in her thin cold fingers – and followed her out of the bar and into the empty hall. The moment they were out of sight of the drinkers, she snatched it away and stood with her back pressed to the wall. Quietly, in German, she said, ‘What is this? Are you Gestapo?’

‘No.’

‘You’re dressed like one.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Where’s your uniform?’

‘I don’t have a uniform. I’m an engineer.’

‘If you’re not Gestapo, what do you want?’ She sounded almost irritable, as if he were wasting her time.

‘You’re asking me that?’ He showed her the marks in the flesh at the base of his thumb. ‘What do you think I want? I want to talk to you.’

She opened her mouth to reply. A door slammed above them. They both looked up. Heavy footsteps stamped across the landing. A man began to descend. A pair of jackboots appeared, then black trousers, and finally an SS officer, buttoning his tunic across a fat belly. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and inspected himself in the mirror,