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I were you, I’d help the English, I’d do what they ask. They’re working in their own interests, don’t kid yourself about that; everything they’re doing they’re doing for their own country, not for ours. But if what’s good for them benefits us all, thank God for it. I imagine the request came to you from your friend Rosalinda?”
was in a suit of laine glacée the color of thick blood, and my hair had been recently cut to just above the shoulder. On my head was a sophisticated felt hat with feathers on it, from the studio of Madame Boissenet in Tangiers: a real pièce de résistance, which (according to her) was how the elegant women in occupied France referred to such hats. The outfit was complemented by a pair of crocodile shoes with ultra high heels, which I’d obtained from the best shoemaker on the Boulevard Pasteur. In my hands a matching handbag and a pair of calfskin gloves dyed pearl grey. Two
Icy wool
Arish Agoriuq. Strange? Not particularly. It was just my name and surname written back to front, with the h that my neighbor Félix had added in the early days of the business left just where it was.
This man had extremely thick eyebrows, and his name wasn’t Jason, but Hillgarth.
Alan Hillgarth,
Everyone in Madrid watches everyone else: everyone is
under suspicion for something and nobody trusts anybody, but
The information we want to get hold of through you will be largely on the movements of the Nazi colony living in Madrid and of a few Spaniards connected to them.
great deal of their
strategic activity is carried out more in social events than through office work, so to speak, and we’d like to get people we trust infiltrating them.
But we’re also keen to know about their movements and the
contact they have with Germany: if they travel to their country and what for; if they receive visitors, who
these visitors are, how they mean to receive them . . . In short, any sort of extra information that...
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looked at what I’d written. I smiled. Of course it looked familiar. How was I not going to recognize something I’d spent my whole life doing? “It’s like stitches,” I said quietly.
And I want you to hide it in such a way that it looks like a pattern, a sketch or something along those lines, anything you
might associate with a dressmaker without arousing any suspicion. Do you understand?”
“You said you wanted something associated with a dressmaker, didn’t you?” I said, handing it over to him. “Well, there you are: the pattern for a puff sleeve. With the message in it.”
can prepare the patterns for various parts each time I have to communicate with you. Sleeves, fronts, collars, waists, cuffs, sides, depending on how long the message needs to be. I can do as many shapes as I have messages I need to get to you.”
I’m talking about Rosa Zavala’s beauty salon, next to the Palace Hotel. It’s currently the best establishment of its kind in Madrid, or at least the one most highly thought of among foreigners and the more refined Spanish women.
You’ll always use the last one of these lockers, the one in the corner at the back of the room.
“You hand it over at the cloakroom. You ought always to leave it with some other item—an overcoat, a raincoat, some small purchase, so it isn’t too conspicuous on its own.
but first check that the envelope has been removed from inside. If it hasn’t, you’ll need to return on the Sunday and repeat the operation, though I don’t think that should be necessary:
“The first is that you stay within the bounds of the smarter parts of Madrid. Don’t make any contact with people from outside that world.” “You’re telling me not to set foot in my old neighborhood or see my old friends or acquaintances, right?”
“I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be. I’m sorry. Not her, nor anyone else who’s English, except for me and then only in absolutely unavoidable situations.
the New Spain it doesn’t look good for women to go out on their own, smoke or drink or dress showily. But remember that you’re not a Spaniard anymore, but a foreigner from a country that’s a bit exotic, newly arrived
in the capital, so you can behave accordingly. Go by the Ritz often, too, that’s another nest of Nazis. And especially to Embassy, the tearoom on the Paseo de la Castellana—do you know it?”
“If we’re unlucky enough that you end up in any serious trouble, or you think you have any information you need to get to me urgently, Embassy at one p.m. is the place you can contact me any day of the week.
you need to meet me, come in with your bag on your left arm; if you’ve just come for a drink and to be seen, carry it on your right. Remember: left, problem; right, normal.
“Look at the bunch of flowers very carefully,” he went on without acknowledging the comment. “There will be a message inside. If it’s something innocent, it’ll be in a simple handwritten card. You should always read it a number of times, try to figure out whether the apparently trivial words might have a double meaning.
“Embassy again—not the place itself, though, but the candies. If you receive a box unexpectedly, you’ll know it’s
come from us. We’ll arrange for it to leave the shop with the
message inside it, which will also be in code. Take a good look at the cardboard box...
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“Baroness de Petrino—of Romanian origins. Maiden name, Elena Borkowska. Married to Josef Hans Lazar, head of press and propaganda for the German embassy.
sybarite /ˈsibəˌrīt/ I. noun a person who is self-indulgent in their fondness for sensuous luxury. II. derivatives sybaritism /ˈsibəˌrīˌtizəm / noun – origin mid 16th cent. (originally denoting an inhabitant of Sybaris, an ancient Greek city in southern Italy, noted for luxury): via Latin from Greek Subaritēs.
“Gloria von Fürstenberg. Of Mexican origin in spite of her name. Be very careful what you say in front of her because she’ll be able to understand everything.
“Elsa Bruckmann, born the Princess of Cantacuzène. A millionaire, passionate admirer of Hitler though much older than him. They say she was the person who introduced him to Berlin’s lavish social scene.
The last of the German ladies: the Countess Mechthild Podewils, tall, beautiful, about thirty, separated, a good friend of Arnold, one of the top spies active in Madrid and high up in the SS; his surname is Wolf—she calls him Wölfchen, the diminutive, Little Wolf.
Piedad Iturbe von Scholtz, Piedita to her friends. The Marchioness of Belvís de las Navas, married to Prince Max of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, a rich Austrian landowner, a legitimate member of European
royalty, though he’s spent half his life in Spain.
“And the last of the highest-valued targets, Sonsoles de Icaza, Marchioness of Llanzol. She’s the only one we’re not interested in for her consort, who’s a soldier and aristocrat thirty years older than her. Our target here is her lover: Ramón Serrano Suñer, minister of governance and secretary-general
general of the movement. The minister of the Axis, we call him.”
“Franco’s brother-in-law?” I aske...
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Paul Winzer,
Walter Junghanns,
Johannes Franz Bernhardt,
the manufacturing of components for artillery projectiles for the war. We think Bernhardt’s in negotiations with the Spanish government to sell him mining concessions in Galicia and Extremadura in order to get hold of small sites so that he can buy directly from their owners.
Remember: wolfram. Sometimes they call it tungsten.
Gilda
“As to clients, there’s one small group you should avoid at all costs: the employees of the Nazi administration.
“As for public establishments, we advise against your presence at places like Chicote, Riscal, Casablanca, or Pasapoga. They’re
full of nouveaux riches, black marketeers, parvenus
