Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  “That must be difficult.”

  He grimaced. “Almost impossible. But necessary.”

  “Some of the goats are very bad?”

  “Wolves in goats’ clothing, you could say.” He folded his arms, suddenly serious, his dark eyes shadowed. “When are you off?”

  “Fourth of January.”

  “I’m due out a week later. Belgium first, Keil, then Hamburg.” His face brightened. “I say, perhaps we can meet?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” Edith smiled, knowing that she really would.

  “Yoo-hoo! Edith!” Dori was waving from the other side of the room.

  “Over here!” Edith waved back. She turned to Harry. “I have to go.”

  “I meant it about meeting.” He held onto her hand to prevent her from leaving. “CCG Education Branch. Lübeck?”

  “That’s me.” He really means it! Edith thought with a catch of her breath. Not only that, but she will be in Germany. In that moment, she felt her life turning. This is really happening and it’s happening to me . . .

  “I’ll find you.”

  Edith hoped he would.

  “If I don’t see you before,” his grip on her hand tightened, “Happy New Year!”

  His mouth was warm on hers. The kiss lingered a fraction longer than it should have. The intensity surprised them both.

  “Happy New Year.” Edith didn’t quite know what else to say. “Perhaps I’ll see you in Germany?”

  “You certainly will.” He kissed her hand. “I better get back to being barman.”

  “You’re a quick worker, I must say!” Dori was at her side. She nodded toward Harry Hirsch. “What was all that about?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Edith replied. “I was a bit startled myself.”

  “I rather had my eye on him. But no need to worry. All’s fair and the night is young! Also, Leo’s here. Cab’s outside. Have a lovely evening, darling.” She dropped her voice, and her grip on Edith’s arm tightened. “Tomorrow, we need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Not here,” Dori breathed in her ear. “Not now. New guests are arriving.”

  Edith turned and nearly collided with a tall, elegant woman in a long black gown and a fur stole. She was with a curly-haired young man in evening dress.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I do apologize.”

  “That’s quite all right. No harm done.” Vera Atkins peered closer. “Miss Graham? I hardly recognized you. What a transformation. Going on somewhere else?”

  Her eyes turned to Leo as he came through the door, shaking moisture from his hat.

  “Bloody weather! Fog’s turning to horrid drizzle. Edith? Are you ready? I’ve a cab waiting.” He glanced at the woman by Edith’s side. “Vera. And Drummond. Well, well. Everyone knows everyone, hm?”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Leo. How unexpected.” Vera Atkins looked from him to Edith, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “How do you two know each other? Remind me.”

  “Sort of cousins. Ready, Edith?”

  Leo didn’t elaborate further. Neither did Edith. Childhood friends, cousins at several removes. Sometime lovers. As children, they had been co-conspirators, although Edith had learned to be a wary one. Leo ultimately owed allegiance to no one, and there was a streak of cruelty in him. He’d had a knack of drawing her into trouble. She had a feeling he was about to do so again.

  4

  Savoy Grill, London

  31st December 1945

  Menu

  Consommé

  Steak Diane

  Noisettes d’Agneau, Pommes Duchesses, Carottes Juliennes

  Glacés

  Tergoule de Normandie

  One for Louisa!

  “The steak, I think,” Leo announced. “How about you?”

  “The lamb.”

  Leo nodded, engrossed in the wine menu. “A Reisling, since you’re going to Germany. Then a Duhart-Milon Rothschild ’34.” He snapped the menu shut. “Had it the other night. Not bad.”

  The Savoy Grill was crowded. Leo acknowledged people at nearby tables. There were people here whose fame gave their faces a vague familiarity. Edith tried not to stare. Leo would introduce her as his cousin, if he introduced her at all.

  “Thin stuff,” Leo announced after two spoonfuls of consommé. “I prefer a proper soup.”

  “I was just thinking how different it was from soup.” Edith looked up. “As different as the names. Soup sounds opaque. Thick.”

  “Hmm. That’s how I like it.”

  “What’s this about, Leo?” Edith said as she finished her consommé.

  Leo put up his hand to silence her as a waiter arrived to clear the table and another approached with a trolley.

  “Ah, the Diane! Best way to eat it. You can see what the buggers are doing.”

  Leo sat back to enjoy the drama as the deft young waiter fried the steak in butter, executing the flaming with the flourish of a stage magician before transferring the dish to the plate and completing the sauce with efficiency.

  “How is it?” Edith asked, once they had been served.

  “Not too bad.” Leo chewed. “Better than the one I had at the Club last week—you could have soled shoes with that. How’s the lamb?”

  “Fine.”

  It was still pink. At home, the sight of blood brought on universal shudders.

  Leo reloaded his fork. “Mash is a bit fancy for my liking. Club does it better.”

  Edith took a forkful of the duchesse potatoes, smooth and rich under a thin golden crust. Trust Leo to prefer lumps. Enough procrastination.

  “So, are you going to tell me?”

  “Not here!” Leo looked at the nearby tables. “You never know who’s about. Let’s just enjoy this, shall we? It’s a bad business,” he added, sweeping slivers of carrot aside—he was never one for vegetables. “Not something to talk about while one’s eating. It’s all in the file back at the flat.”

  By the time they got to the flat, Leo had other things on his mind. His attentions started in the cab, and their lovemaking was quick with the ease of long familiarity. They had been lovers, off and on, since fumbling adolescence. They were comfortable with each other, and the arrangement suited both of them. Edith enjoyed her escapes to London, and Leo liked the diversion. He had his life nicely organized in compartments: Sybil in the country, the boys at boarding school, flat in Marylebone for his week in London, mistress up in Hampstead, and Edith when she was in town. Edith knew Sybil, of course. They met at family occasions, weddings, and funerals, which diverted Leo even more.

  Edith left him snoring, wrapped herself in his dressing gown, poured herself a glass of champagne, then turned on the desk light and opened the file marked “Kurt von Stavenow.”

  She held the photograph of Kurt in a cricket sweater close to her eyes so that she could study it with an intensity that had been impossible before. She’d gone to Oxford on the train to visit Leo. Kurt had been in the University Parks watching cricket. Leo took a photograph. The snapshot was in black and white, but Edith’s memory was in vivid color: blue sky, green grass, the cream of the sweater, Kurt’s hair shining a soft, deep yellow like old gold. When he turned and smiled, the world seemed to stop and start again. Edith couldn’t quite look at him; it was like staring into the sun.

  He had begun studying anthropology at Heidelberg University, he told her in his careful English, but had changed his course of study to medicine. “I want to find ways to bring the two disciplines together,” he said, interlacing his fingers. “To help people, you know? Make them better.” He’d smiled again. Perfect teeth and dimples. Edith had never thought that a man could be so beautiful. She was scarcely listening as he went on to explain that he was in Oxford to perfect his English and to study his other love, Anglo-Saxon language. He talked excitedly about Old English, Norse myths, and his new obsession: Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

  “He wants to find the Holy Grail!” Leo roared with laughter.

>   Kurt’s brows furrowed, his answering smile uncertain, as if he couldn’t see the joke.

  That was the moment Edith fell in love with him.

  “Leo has promised to show me the important places,” he said, looking down at her. The focus of his attention melted whatever was left inside her. “Perhaps if you are also interested, you might like to come along.”

  That’s how it started. During the long vacation, Kurt stayed with Leo at Gorton, Leo’s family home. Edith often stayed overnight. Their excursions demanded an early start. They visited the Rollright Stones, Wayland’s Smithy, the White Horse at Uffington, then farther afield to Stonehenge, Avebury, Templar churches in the Marches. Kurt took these expeditions very seriously, delving into his rucksack for binoculars, maps, ruler, and compass to work out alignments, notebook and camera for sketches and photographs. Leo took less of an interest, installing himself at a local pub, leaving Kurt and Edith to explore by themselves.

  They would return to Gorton for supper. The house was enchanting, Kurt announced. Ein nette kleine Haus. The remark stung with Leo. He didn’t think it at all small, although Gorton had gardens rather than grounds; it was large, but not remotely stately; looked old but was relatively new. Leo was annoyed, as if he’d been found out in some way. Kurt belonged to a fearfully aristocratic and ancient Prussian family and talked of house parties and hunting parties in great castles. Leo became increasingly huffy. Kurt wasn’t aware of it, but his remarks struck at deeper insecurities: Leo’s father was from Birmingham, a generation away from the bacon counter. Leo had begun to move in circles where such things mattered.

  “I’m letting him have the run of the place,” he’d muttered to Edith, “taking him all over the country, and the little blighter insults me! Boasting about his bloody schlosses.”

  One particular evening, things got so tense that even Kurt noticed. Later, he came to Edith’s room and sat on her bed. It was a hot night and his pajama top was open. The moon was full, cutting through gaps in the curtains, casting bars of silver over the smooth skin of his bare chest.

  “I upset Leo in some way,” he said, frowning. “This evening, he was hacked off with me. That is the right phrase?” He looked up for confirmation. Edith nodded. “I don’t know why he is angry.”

  Edith tried to explain. She didn’t think any slight had been intended, but she feared that he, Kurt, might have given the impression that Leo’s house, the way of life here didn’t quite, well, measure up.

  “Nothing could be further from my thought!” Kurt looked stricken. “It is my English. I only say these things because I’m proud to be Prussian. I would love so much for you to come and visit me there. My two best friends.” He drew closer, taking her hands in his. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I thought he was cross with me because of you.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Yes. I thought you and he were, you know, and I’d come between you.”

  “Oh, no!” Edith had to stop herself from laughing. “We were, have been, but . . .”

  She let her words peter out. It was difficult to explain. They’d been very young. It had all been Leo’s idea, and she hadn’t liked it very much. Since Leo had gone up to Oxford, he’d been less attentive, pursuing something else, Edith suspected but didn’t really care to ask.

  “But not now?”

  “Not now,” Edith confirmed. “I think he has . . .” she hesitated. “Other interests.”

  Kurt had nodded. “I understand. Many of the fellows in the college are, ah . . .”—it was his turn to pause—“of similar inclination. Is that correct?”

  “Completely.”

  “I’m glad Leo is, too.” He leaned toward her and they were kissing.

  “Let’s go out.” He took both her hands in his. “Let’s go outside.”

  They walked barefoot in the moonlight, across the silvered lawn to the lake which lay as still as mercury. “Let’s go in,” he whispered. They kept on walking, the water soft as silk on the skin. The next night they swam to the island. They made love on an old picnic blanket that Kurt had brought out earlier in the day. He was so very different from Leo . . .

  They tried to be discreet, but Leo knew right away. He didn’t seem to mind at all. He was glad to have Kurt off his hands. He’s all yours, old girl.

  Kurt came to see her in Coventry on an old motorbike that he’d found in the stables. If Gorton had seemed small, Edith’s house must have been sehr klein indeed, but Kurt seemed to enjoy his visits. He’d spend ages working on the bike with her brothers, Ron and Gordon. They were mad about engines. “I like your father and brothers,” he told her. “They are workers.” He held up his hands. “They make things.” He liked talking to them about cars and the motor industry. In a city famous for car manufacturing, the boys had followed their father into the factories. Gordon to the Standard and then to Whitley. Ron had an engineering apprenticeship with a firm in Rugby making turbines. They were proud of what they did. Eager to show Kurt. He followed with his rucksack, making notes, taking photographs, as interested in the factories as he had been in Avebury.

  Now she knew why.

  There were maps in his file. Coventry and surrounding towns, the factories marked for the Luftwaffe. Lockheed in Leamington Spa, BTH in Rugby. Her family had liked Kurt, made him welcome. He had a way about him: flirting with Louisa, complimenting her mother on her cooking. He knew how to get along with men and how to please women. They had been kind to him yet her father, her brothers could have been in those factories when the bombs rained down.

  How naive she’d been. How impossibly stupid. It was all here.

  von Stavenow, Kurt Wolfgang

  1931—Joined National Socialist German Workers’ Party

  1937—University of Heidelberg—Doctor of Medicine

  1936—Member of the Schutzstaffel (SS)

  1937—SS Ahnenerbe (and a helpful addition in pencil: pseudoscientific institute founded by Himmler to research the archaeological and cultural history of the Aryan Race)

  Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS (Ausland-SD) (another addition: Foreign Intelligence—see over)

  It had been lies from start to finish. For each action, an equal and opposite motivation: Principia Mathematica of the human heart. The shock of it jarred; old fracture lines started to crack open until she was fighting back tears.

  At the end of the summer, Kurt had had to go back to Germany, departing with unexplained suddenness and abundant promises. He would write. She would come to see him. They would walk by the Rhine and the Neckar, hike in the Odenwald. He would recite eddic poems, heroic lays, stories from the Nibelung. They would sleep in little lodges smelling of pine and resin. They would go to the Black Forest and the Harz Mountains, camp on the Brocken, climb to greet the May Day dawn.

  Before he left, they agreed she was to come out the following year. She remembered the fierce excitement she’d felt anticipating their meeting. They would be able to spend all the time they wanted together. The rest of their lives.

  It didn’t work out like that. What in life ever did?

  She blinked to clear her sight and focused on the next file, hardly noticing the peal of nearby church bells, silenced by long years of war, ringing out the old year, ringing in the new.

  She detached the photograph of Kurt as an SS officer and read through his war career.

  1939–45—Sturmbannführer Kurt Wolfgang von Stavenow

  What rank was Sturmbannführer? She had no idea.

  1939–40—Friedrich Wilhelm University, Berlin. Psychiatry/Neurology

  1939–41—SS Special Purpose Corps. Aktion T4

  1941–43—Medical Officer with Special Responsibilities

  1943–45—Assistant Director to the Medical Superintendent. Charité Hospital, Berlin.

  April 1945—Last seen Berlin, present whereabouts unknown.

  Underneath lay closely typed papers, some stamped with the Reichsadler—spread-out
eagle and swastika—the lower half of some of the pages discolored, rucked, and crisp, as though the paper had been in contact with water then dried, rendering the typing even harder to read. Supporting evidence. She read what she could, the typing blurring still further as she scanned the pages, flipping back and forth.

  She rubbed her arms at the bone-deep chill spreading through her. It either made no sense, or it made the most dreadful sense of all . . .

  She didn’t know how long Leo had been standing in the doorway watching her expression changing from puzzled to incredulous, finally settling into frozen horror.

  “Make sense now?” He poured two whiskies. “Here, drink this. You look as though you need it.”

  “You never suspected?” Her voice sounded thick, distant. “That he was a Nazi?”

  “Did you?”

  Edith shook her head slowly.

  “He played us for fools, old girl. Pulling the wool. Acting like butter wouldn’t melt. I suppose we should have known. His interest in the occult and Aleister Crowley—well known bad hat. When I look back on that summer—King Arthur, the Templars, Druids—it all fits. Remember the arguments?” Edith nodded: she and Leo insisting that it was myth and legend, Kurt replying that, on the contrary, it was history, a shared history. The history of the Aryan peoples. “He was deadly serious. We couldn’t see it at the time. Why would we? We didn’t realize the reasons for his interest. He was a member of the Thule Society. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “Exactly. He kept it secret. The Study Group for Germanic Antiquity. All those ridiculous theories.” He paused. “Remember those trips he made us go on, haring all over the country . . .”

  Edith closed her eyes. Yes, she remembered standing at the very top of Glastonbury Tor as Kurt wove a net of romance and mystery around the death of Arthur. With the sweep of his arm and the passion of his words, the world transformed. The land before them became a vast mere spreading from horizon to horizon, still as a mirror. The only sound the slow, soft, muffled plash of the oars on the dark funeral barge bearing the mortally wounded king. Two heavily veiled queens sitting at prow and stern, motionless as tableaus, while another stepped with bare white feet onto the stony shore to welcome the King to the Lake Isle of Avalon . . . They’d stood together, hands linked, as the sun fell toward the west. Shafts of light shone through the lens of the clouds, and she’d experienced a moment of transcending wonder, caught in the pure magic of the place, the time, and him.