I love Alan Furst novels, even if to a certain degree they are all the same. What I mean by that is that Furst examines in detail a few seemingly isolated parts of the large whole–generally Europe (both West and East) up to WWII. Yet to write the preceding sentence is to ignore how well Furst does what he does.
The Spies of Warsaw is no exception. Largely from the standpoint of a still young French diplomat/military attache/spy (Mercier, from an old aristocratic family), we read how he gains various bits of information from German sources–very credible to us as we are privileged to ‘see’ what Mercier ‘sees’. However, whether for good reasons (the possibility that the Germans are feeding false information to Mercier) or bad (Mercier’s higher ups may be member of a fascist subgroup in the French military who are in fact pro-Hitler and anti-Soviet Union)–and Furst does not bring us to a conclusion on this and other points, Mercier’s superior do not draw the same conclusions from Mercier’s reports that he does (and we, being with Mercier, also believe).
All this is set in the middle of somewhat credible life stories of Mercier’s mistress, one of his spies, one of his German sources, etc. His background is legit–we lived almost three years in Warsaw and it was a pleasure to be reminded of the city’s various streets and neighborhoods–even the Hotel Europejski. He does a marvelous job setting the mood–grey skies and grey river beneath the iron bridge connecting Praga and Warsaw, for example.
Furst is able to evoke descriptions by common experiences–eg speaking about overnighting in a stone house: ‘…the stone house breathed winter into every room, and you had to sleep with your nose beneath the covers.’
On the bureaucracy in intelligence: ‘The discovery of spies was a double-edged sword–congratulations on finding out, why didn’t you find out earlier.’
The legacy of WWI (and the aroma around the Spanish Civil War) permeates the book–referring to France post WWI–‘We called it victory and marched through the streets in 1918, but victory is a curious word for what happened in France.’
Speaking of Ciesyn/Tesin: ‘Just another small town, the usual statue and fountain in the central square, but grim and poor as one left the center and travelled out towards he edge, in the direction of the coal mines.’
and wittily: ‘Out past two well-attended strips of flypaper… .’
More generally, Furst is great at evoking the insecure/uncertain world which was Europe in the late 1930s–a world used to war and without any guarantee that war would not be coming again soon–with all that entailed.
So I will keep reading Furst and enjoy his blend of history, ironic wit, and plot.
- Goodreads rating – 3.88
- REVIEW – Bert van der Vaart