Mila 18 - Leon Uris [74]
Warsaw became a focal point of world observation. World opinion had to be kept in bounds.
During the winter of 1939, France and England engaged in a make-believe war with Germany on the western front. Not a single shot was fired by either side. Trains moved along the border unmolested. Germany embarked on a massive campaign to try to talk England and France out of continuing the war, now that the “Polish issue was settled.”
It therefore became a priority issue in the Propaganda Ministry to keep adverse news from getting out of Poland, which could upset their plans. Legions of neutral journalists had descended on the General Government Area from Italy, Switzerland, Sweden, the Orient. A few Americans and South Americans got in. A slick operator like Horst von Epp was needed to “keep things quiet.”
He arrived in Warsaw and established an elaborate headquarters in the Bristol Hotel, commandeering half a floor. He stocked his personal suites with the best liquors and foods. Within two weeks he had a line on every model and actress in Warsaw who was not stricken with Polish nationalism and made the propositions very attractive to them. Twenty-five of the most ravishing specimens were set aside for the pleasure of the top foreign newsmen and diplomats. He made up a second-string team of coeds from the university, secretaries, professional women, and attractive wives seeking to augment their incomes.
After the humorless, dull, blustering Rudolph Schreiker, Von Epp was making things bearable for the foreign journalists. Everything was conducted in a rather informal atmosphere, which both eased the tension and tranquilized the extent of their probing.
Chris was just finishing dressing when the doorbell of his flat on Jerusalem Boulevard rang. He opened the door, and Horst von Epp stood before him. The man was immaculately dressed and wore a pleasant smile.
“Hello there,” he said. “I am Horst von Epp.”
“Come in.”
The German looked around. “Lovely ... lovely. Ah! That jacket you are wearing.” He looked at the label. “Feinberg of Bond Street. The finest tailor in London. I was his customer right up to the war. Of course I had to switch the labels because he’s Jewish, but most of those lunkheads can’t tell a fine piece of material when they see one. Uniforms! Uniforms! The tailors in Berlin are butchers. Do you suppose you could get me a few things through Switzerland from Feinberg?”
“You didn’t come here for that.”
“No. I had a reception for the foreign press corps yesterday. I was particularly looking for you.”
“Sorry, I was driving back from Krakow. I phoned in my regrets.”
“No matter.”
“I just finished reading your love letters,” Chris said, referring to the new set of censorship regulations and procedures for filing dispatches.
“Oh, that,” Von Epp scoffed. “Nazi bureaucracy. You see, we have to put a hundred people to work making orders and then another hundred countermanding them. Another hundred sorting paper clips. That pays off our obligations to the party faithful. We shall rule the world in triplicate. Cigarette?”
“Matter of fact, yes. I drove back from Krakow so fast I forgot to buy some.” Chris was impressed with the package of American Camels.
“I’ll send you a case, my compliments. I’ve also made arrangements for certain members of the press corps to draw food supplies, personal articles, liquor, and so forth, from the SS officers’ stores at the Citadel.”
Well, Chris thought, this is something new in Nazi public relations. He studied Von Epp. Why had he been singled out for special treatment? He had heard Von Epp was coming to Warsaw and was a regular guy. Smooth—very smooth. Yet certainly likable.
“I didn’t mean to break in on you,” Von Epp said, “but I did want to get acquainted and I have a few matters to take up with you.”
“Shoot.”
“If you want to keep your offices in the Bristol, I probably can arrange it, but frankly, the place is overrun with Nazis. Needless to say, we must put men to work tapping switchboards and phones, but you’ll probably