Showing posts with label Prague. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prague. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Queen of International Espionage


Way back when, an editor read one of my early efforts at international intrigue, and called me a young Helen MacInnes. By young, I now realize he was being kind for I resembled her only in an aspirational way. Over the years, I remained curious, but never got around to her work.


When MWA-NorCal President Susan Spann requested author profiles for the newsletter, I decided this was the perfect kick in the butt to investigate MacInnes, dubbed by the New York Times, “the queen of international espionage fiction.” Her work spanned a tumultuous chunk of the twentieth century from WW2 through the Cold War, creating suspense novels set against the major political events of her day.
A formidable woman, she was born in 1907 and as a translator, she and her Oxford professor husband, Gilbert Highet, traveled widely in Europe in the early thirties, viewing firsthand the rise of Nazism. At some point in those years he joined MI6, and served as a intelligence agent. The couple moved to New York in 1937 where he was part of a joint MI5, MI6, and SIS operation based in Rockefeller Center, to enlist America’s support in the war.
 MacInnes used her proximity to the clandestine world to create an insider’s view of how it is. A great traveler and brilliant researcher, she had a sharp eye for the telling detail. Her ability to paint a scene and use setting to convey emotion is peerless.


The playwright in North from Rome is hiding outside a Tuscan villa, preparing to rescue his lover from a conspiracy of Communist-linked smugglers. “Around him, the cicadas had become a permanent background of sound, no longer heard. The violence of brilliant light and black shadow, the contrast of scarlet flowers against blue sky, the heavy scent of sun-warmed fruit, the jagged rhythm of the yellow butterflies were no longer seen or felt. Nothing existed, nothing, except the silent house and the moving hand of his watch. Nine minutes now…”
Her characters are often ordinary people who become entangled in larger geopolitical forces. In another Cold War novel, Ride a Pale Horse, a journalist at a Prague peace conference ends up carrying top-secret documents from a potential defector to Washington. However, she soon learns there is a mole in the CIA.


Over her career, MacInnes wrote twenty-one espionage novels, of which four became movies. In one of them, Assignment in Brittany, a British man impersonates a French resistance fighter hospitalized in England in order to collect intelligence in a German-occupied Breton village. Just as the author was losing me that even the man’s mother is fooled, Madame confronts the hero in a sly twist—he is generous and brave, her son is not!


MacInnes has her flaws. Her work often feels overwritten with much annoying head-hopping, but her descriptions of the landscape are gorgeous and she uses the terrain to great effect in well-developed action scenes. Transporting a wireless transmitter,  the British hero and his young guide pass through a hidden passage in the ramparts of Mont St. Michel…“And then the narrow slab of rock moved slowly aside. The cool clean breeze from the sea ended the feeling of suffocation. In front of them was a panel of night sky, and the gentle movement of small trees swaying like black-shawled women at a funeral.” They are outside the great wall and will soon reach the north shore of the island. But the tide is rising and Nazis are everywhere.
The world is a dangerous place and Helen MacInnes takes full advantage of it.






Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Revisiting Europe By Train





We say we'll never forget, but we do. When I look back at my 2012-13 Letters from Asia www.dianarchambers.com/passages.php (written for Sisters in Crime www.sincnorcal.org), I'm grateful for the memories. So I wrote Europe By Train, a dozen posts in all, one per city.


Please hop aboard for the entire journey or join me for a leg or two. "What's your favorite place?" I'm always asked. Paris is my old love, but London and Amsterdam made me wish for two more lives. Then we reached the Eastern Europe capitals, Prague, Budapest, and Vienna, and it was magic, like slipping back through the cracks of time. Italy is timeless and yet so intimate. I was seduced.


First stop, London where Mystery Playground sent me to search out the mysterious "book benches." dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/reborn-again.html


More London: On "meeting" one of the book bench artists, Mandii Pope (with her Agatha Christie/Poirot piece). dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/lovehatelove.html


Amsterdam: On Anne Frank and Vincent Van Gogh. And bicycles. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/europe-by-train-4-amsterdam-going-our.html


Night train to Prague (via Munich): On a long night's day. dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/07/europe-by-train-5-night-train-to-munich.html

























Arrivederci, Rome!

Friday, August 1, 2014

Europe By Train #7: Budapest: Finding the Past



Merre va Margit Hid? Where is Margaret Bridge?


No offense, only affection for both: Prague is the cool, chic, with-it sister while Budapest is the wry intellectual in arty vintage clothing. 


During our six-hour train ride to Budapest, we chatted with an Aussie couple bound for a Danube cruise and two young Scots sampling the local bar culture. Travel creates sudden intimacy and then you never see them again. Yet somehow they stick with you.


Located on the Pest side of the Danube, the Keleti railway station is vast and old, witness to the sweep of history, armies of many nations, peoples on the move. 



The city wears her age with pride, her buildings gray and brown, in need of an update, but who cares? 



Across the river, Buda is even older, dominated by Castle Hill, a citadel against the 13C Mongol hordes. 


The most recent invaders were booted out twenty-five years ago and Russians come now only as tourists. "We don't like them," our Czech taxi driver had said. "They are arrogant." In Prague and Budapest, museums mark their Communist past, a source of mockery in both countries.


The Nazi regime is another story, still evoking shivers of fear and hate. We had come to Budapest to ask "Merre va Margit Bridge?" Where is Margaret Bridge? And "Merre va Deak Ferencz utca 21?"— a bridge and a street, landmarks of my family's life. My nieces’ grandmother, Annie, and younger sister, Vali, had lived with their widowed mother, Rose Gabor, at Deak Ferencz utca 21 in the center of Pest. Then in 1944, the first Jewish deportees were sent to Auschwitz—in freight trains that may have left from Keleti Station. The family was torn apart, forced to hide in three Christian homes on the Buda hillsides. On the day of their road not taken, a bitter reunion took place when they were arrested by Hungarian Arrow Cross fascists and marched toward Margit Bridge. 


Rose, seeing a work unit walking along the river, pulled her girls into that line—in the blink of an eye changing their fates, and that of my family itself. Without her quick thinking, my two wonderful nieces would have never been born.


We stood on that bridge corner imagining those horrific days, the soldiers, the fear. Unable to return to their home, Rose turned to a Christian friend, Lily, who sheltered them through the war. Despite heavy bombing, the old stone building at Deak Ferencz utca 21 endured. Here is its courtyard.


Ann's mother ran her couture business below their central Pest apartment, its front balcony now overlooking a busy pedestrian mall. 


The apartment is not far from the Parliament, with Margit Bridge in the distance.



Just south of the Parliament is the memorial to Jews shot into the Danube by fascist Arrow Cross militiamen. 


It is like a punch in the gut to see the bronzed shoes lined up along the quay. 


The cruel scene evoked in mute simplicity...the shoes old and worn, a child's beside his mother's...


Delicate button-ups and high-heels, workboots, all facing the river. The cold black water below...the silence...and then the bullets, and cries as family and friends fall into the river. Shot in the back.


This was late in the war when the railroads were busy, I was told later by a traveler on the Vienna-bound train. They were in a hurry. It was easy. Practical.


It is impossible to walk the streets of Europe without the visceral experience of history. The passage of time, regimes, lives, deaths. The statue or plaque of a famous person now unknown. 


The ordinary street corner where a mother made a quick, life-changing decision. 

Each building has a story to tell. Stories. Our Gerloczy Hotel was once a private residence. Who bathed in our blue claw foot tub? Whose photos are on the wall?






We sit in its graceful café, trying to shake off the ghosts that linger around us in this soulful city. City of souls.


The funicular up to Castle Hill gives us a long shot of history, new bridges built to replace those bombed by Hitler in the desperate last days. 


On top red and yellow cranes hover over old copper roofs and crumbling rock foundations.



Elsewhere on Buda, cranes chew up Soviet-era high rises, preparing for the new future.



Life goes on.


As our lives go on, yet we are changed by what we have seen here.


Next stop, another crossroads of the Austro-Hungarian empire: Vienna. http://dianarchambers.blogspot.com/2014/08/europe-by-train-8-vienna-moving-on.html