Stranger at the Gates Read Online Free Page A

brief period they had had their hands in the till, fingering the luxuries. Twenty years of deprivation had followed that fleeting indulgence. Defeat and humiliation, shame and fear. She hated her country’s enemies, and above all she hated the woman who had received her that morning. It had been a catharsis to go and see her, to spill out some of the venom which had corroded her spirit for so many years. Now she could hate the real woman, not the figment which was all Heinz’s unhappy confessions had created for her. Now she knew the colour of Louise de Bernard’s eyes, the shape of her face, the gestures she used. The enemy had taken on flesh. When the call came through she hurried to the outer office and dropped into the chair behind the reception desk. She gave a glare at the proprietress who seemed inclined to linger and try to listen.
    â€˜Herr Kopner? Frau Minden. Yes, yes I’ve seen her.’
    There was a pencil on the desk and a note pad. She began to draw little lines, crossing and recrossing as she talked. ‘Yes, I had a long talk. No. She refused. Well, we expected that. Of course. No, no, I didn’t say anything too obvious. Now I will make the next move. I’m sure of it. Certain. How is my husband? He mustn’t suspect anything—he wouldn’t agree—yes, yes, I’ve told you, I shall do it immediately. I gave her two days. I will telephone to you as soon as I have any news. Good. Auf Wiedersehen.’ She hung up. The proprietress came back, her expression curious. ‘You wish this call to be put on your bill, or would you like to pay for it now?’
    â€˜On the bill,’ Ilse Minden said. ‘Can you help me please—I need a directory for the Houdan region. Do you have one here?’
    â€˜The directories are under the shelf there. Can I get the name for you?’
    â€˜Thank you, no. I can look it up myself.’ She ruffled the pages, uncertain at first where to look, refusing to satisfy the old woman’s curiosity by letting her find the number. She ran one finger down the page; her nail was filed short and the cuticle was rough. She found the name and the number, and wrote it down.
    â€˜I want to make another call,’ she said. ‘Also on the bill. Do I dial direct?’
    â€˜For Houdan and that part, certainly, yes. Shall I get it for you?’
    â€˜No. Thank you.’ Ilse Minden dialled slowly, checking the figures against the number scribbled down on the pad. There was a pause.
    â€˜Hello?’ She raised her voice unnecessarily, as foreigners do when speaking on the telephone in a different language. ‘I wish to speak to the Comte de Bernard. Thank you. Yes, I’ll wait.’ She glanced at the proprietress, who looked preoccupied and went out of the hallway. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Monsieur de Bernard? You don’t know me. My name is Ilse Minden.’
    In his office on the Hofgarten Strasse in the centre of Bonn, the defence counsel, who was preparing his brief for Heinz Minden, put back the telephone and lit a cigarette. He smoked the cheapest brand; it was a curious idiosyncrasy and quite out of character; he lived extremely well and bought the best for himself. His practice was flourishing, he owned a smart house in the best residential area, out on the Bahnhof estate; ran two cars and had a well-connected second wife, who was fervently advancing his political ambition. He was a good-looking man of forty-two, just the right age to seek office. Too young for the war and yet old enough to appeal to those who had fought in it, and for whom the old wounds still smarted. His name was Siegfried Kopner. He had visited Heinz Minden the previous afternoon. He found him a pathetic specimen, and Herr Kopner did not equate pathos with pity. Minden was broken, his resignation infuriated Kopner, who had staked his reputation in public upon saving him. And more than him, much more than the liberty