Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  “When did this happen?” Edith asked the policeman.

  “This evening. She was on a motorcycle. Icy road. No helmet, of course. It’s, well, it’s not pretty—”

  “I see,” Edith interrupted. “Thank you, Sergeant.” As much as she disliked the school girl hysteria, these girls were only young, and they’d had a shock. “I’ll do it. I’ll identify her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Lorna volunteered from the window. “I’ll get my coat.”

  Jack drove them, following the Jeep. They didn’t have far to go. The girl had been taken to the Red Cross Hospital: a modernish redbrick building on Marlistrasse, by the banks of the Wakenitz.

  They followed the two military policemen down into the basement. A strong smell permeated the long cream-painted corridor, disinfectant and formaldehyde with a sweetish undertone, as though morgues could never quite rid themselves of the smell of decay. Lorna put her handkerchief to her mouth. One of the policemen opened rubber-flanged double doors. He flicked switches on the wall. Pairs of low-hanging lamps cast interlocking cones of white light; their wide metal shades creating shadows on the ceiling and in the corners of the room. Tiles covered every surface; any natural light came from two small windows set high on the far wall. It was like being in a white-tiled cave.

  The lights illuminated ceramic dissecting tables on thick pedestals. Three of them occupied, one vacant. The tables were curved at the head end, straight across the bottom, with a thick lip around the edge. The empty table showed a grooved and channelled surface sloping toward a center line. Metal piping provided drainage into the floor. Lorna gulped as if she might be sick, turning her head away quickly, as if the reality of what went on here was too much to absorb.

  Edith put her hand on the girl’s sleeve. “You don’t have to do this, Lorna. If you feel unwell, you can leave.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’ll be OK.” She gave a wan smile. “Let’s get it over with, eh?”

  “Very well.” Edith looked to the sergeant.

  “One on the right, ma’am. With the sheet folded down.”

  Edith stepped forward. She took Lorna’s hand, squeezing tightly. The girl was as white as the tiles on the wall.

  Molly Slater lay with only her head showing, her slender form covered with a coarse, worn sheet. The right-hand side of her face was perfect. Even her makeup was intact. Sooty lashes, thickened with mascara, brushed the bluish skin of her cheek. The platinum hair was set in rippling waves, hardly a strand out of place. The other side of her head was a mess. The silvery hair clotted and bloody, the skull beneath it misshapen, that side of her face abraded. Edith forced herself to look back at the good side, the Molly side. She might not have liked her very much, but she really was little more than a child. The closed eye showed a sweep of blue liner, irregularly applied, as though she’d been interrupted, or her hand slipped, or something. Edith felt the hot-pepper sting of tears behind the eyes.

  “Is it her?” the sergeant asked. “Miss Margaret Slater?”

  “Yes.” Edith nodded, throat tight.

  “Miss?” He turned to Lorna.

  “Yes, it is her. It’s Molly. They called her Molly, not Margaret,” she added as if that was something important for him to know.

  Edith nodded toward the body on the slab next to Molly.

  “And that is?”

  “Miss Slater’s companion. The boyfriend.” He looked at his notes. “One Valdema-rs Jansons, or so his papers say.”

  There was another body on the far side of Molly, completely covered, except for a hand flopped down from under the coarse, grayish sheet. A small hand with bitten nails and missing the upper joints of the little finger. The skin broken, yellowish, like the cracked surface of a bisque doll.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Who knows?” The sergeant shrugged. “What the Yanks call a Jane Doe. No identification. DP most probably. Fished out of the Trave when they were breaking ice.”

  Edith resisted his efforts to shepherd her toward the wide doors.

  “Wait,” she said. “I think I might know her. May I see?”

  “Are you sure? Ain’t a pretty sight, ma’am. Looks to have been there some time.”

  “I’m sure.” Edith couldn’t bear to think of her lying there, unnamed, unclaimed.

  He pulled the covering cloth from her ruined face. “Could be worse. Water’s near freezing. But it’s the fish, see? Eels especially.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Edith swallowed hard. “I think her name is Agnese. She worked in our billet. A Latvian, I believe.” She turned to Lorna. “She’s not been there for . . . how long?” Lorna shrugged and shook her head. “I’d say a few weeks now.”

  He took out a notebook. “Any other name?”

  “I don’t know, I’m afraid, but she claimed to be cousin to the young man you have over there.”

  “I see.” He wrote something and snapped the notebook shut. “Thank you, Miss Graham. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “So you knew t’other wench?” Jack asked as they walked back to the car, the younger Military Policeman going ahead with Lorna, his head bent toward her, solicitous.

  “She worked at the billet,” Edith replied. “She was missing the top joints on her little finger. That’s how I recognized her. She is, was, Jansons’ cousin.”

  “He’s a right mess,” Jack said quietly.

  “Jansons?”

  “Yes. Head nearly ripped clean off. I took a gander while you were occupied with the girl. That’s no accident. Partisan trick. Seen it plenty of times in Italy. Wire across the road.” He made a guttural noise and passed a finger across his throat. “Done for.”

  She was bone tired. The house was quiet. The girls packed off to bed with mugs of sweet cocoa. Für den schock, Frau Schmidt said and offered to make some for Edith, but that was about the last thing she wanted. She poured herself a stiff whisky and went up to her room. She had postcards, menus, recipes to write and code, but she couldn’t think about writing. What she’d just seen eclipsed everything.

  She stared down at the blank paper, thinking back. Agnese had disappeared very soon after their conversation in the kitchen. And Harry Hirsch: the Friday night she’d told him about the attack on her. He hadn’t been there next morning. Making a phone call, he said. Tilhas Tizig Gesheften. Up-your-arse business. She should stop this spying. She wasn’t cut out for it. Escape from its spreading, tenebrous shadow. Meddle no more. She covered her face with her hands, tears leaking through her fingers for two young women stretched out in the morgue who might well be there because of her.

  27

  Officers’ Club, Hamburg

  6th March 1946

  Lunch Menu

  Barnsley Chop--two 10oz chops cut across the loin, served with Cumberland sauce*

  Jam Roly Poly pudding--the schoolboy’s favorite

  *Cumberland sauce (See: Sauces for reference)

  Preparation time: 8–12 minutes

  Cooking time: 10–15 minutes (simmer 3–4 minutes to thicken)

  Serves 1–4

  “These chops are awfully good. Best I’ve had since I’ve been here.” Bill Adams tore at the meat with his sharp little teeth, getting at the pinkish flesh near the bone. He got more catlike every time she saw him. “Why do they call them Barnsley Chops, d’you think? I’m sure you’ll know. With your interest in food . . .”

  “Named after a hostelry in Barnsley,” Edith answered equably, although the reference to food put her on alert. “The King’s Head, as I recall, although others will claim it.”

  “Well, they’re damned good.”

  Edith had been summoned to lunch at the Officers’ Club in Hamburg under the guise of an Education and Training Briefing. When she had tried to make excuses, Adams’ jovial tone had turned to silky threat.

  “Germans don’t seem to go in much for lamb, do they? Mostly pork, veal, that kind of thing. It’s always schnitzels, I find. All right in their place but can get a bit much, all th
ose breadcrumbs, and I like a bit of lamb. New chap’s English. Probably explains it. Now, where was I?” He replaced the well-gnawed bones on the plate. “I know. The boyfriend. Jansons?” He wiped the greasiness from his hands and pushed his plate away. “The thing is, it wasn’t an accident. Head nearly severed.”

  “Oh?” Edith tried to sound surprised. “The policeman said it was icy. He skidded. Lost control.”

  “That’s what they’ve been told to say, that’s what we’re putting out, that’s what her parents have been told, but”—he shrugged—“not true.”

  “What happened, then?”

  “Wire across the road. Caught him like so.” He put the blade of his hand under his chin to demonstrate, tilting his head sharply back. “Bike goes all over the place. She’s on the back. Thrown off. No helmet.” He put out his hands, palms up in a gesture of hopeless inevitability. “We don’t want that getting out, of course. It’s an accident and always will be. She could have made a brighter choice of boyfriend, but there we are. I say—you’ve hardly touched yours. May I?”

  His fork was hovering like a paw over Edith’s chop.

  “Go ahead. I’m not awfully hungry.”

  “Shame to see it go to waste, what with, you know . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, too occupied with demolishing her chop. “Fancy any pudding?” He looked at the menu card. “They do a good jam roly poly.”

  “Just coffee.”

  “You were here in Hamburg over the weekend, so I hear,” he said as his pudding arrived. “Before this sad occurrence with the unfortunate Miss Slater. “He paused, spoon poised. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with your Jewish friend, Harry Hirsch, and his pals, by any chance?”

  “How would I know?”

  “How would he know, more to the point, I would have thought. There has to be a proper order to things.” He gestured with his spoon. “We can’t have people taking the law into their own hands. There was a certain amount of it after the war, perfectly understandable, turned a bit of a blind eye, but it can’t continue. Perhaps you could pass on the message? His brother’s in Haganah, so I understand.”

  “Haganah?”

  “Quasi-military organization, out in Palestine. Want to establish a Jewish State. Aren’t too fussy how they go about it. Becoming rather a thorn in our side.”

  “Do you blame them?”

  “Not for me to judge. But Palestine is under our rule at the moment, holding the line between them and the Arabs could be a thankless task. Things are definitely changing, old loyalties, old allegiances dying, new ones forming.” He dug his spoon into the suet. He looked up from his pudding. “While we’re on the subject, this interest in food. Let’s talk about that, shall we? Collect recipes do you? Menus, that kind of thing. Little snippets, like Mock Turtle, Barnsley Chop?”

  “Yes, I do.” Edith looked back, keeping her gaze steady under his sudden, sharp, interrogative stare. She had to keep her nerve. He was like a sinister Bertie Wooster: his pleasant, easygoing manner always cloaking a certain level of threat. “I’ve been doing it for a long time.” She smiled, spreading her hands in innocence. “It’s an interest of mine.”

  “Share this interest with pals at home?” His long, slim fingers reasserted their grip on his spoon. “Those of a like mind?”

  “Yes. I send recipes, menus, anything I come across of interest. To my sister, Louisa, other friends.” Edith shrugged. “It’s what women do.” She held her hands loosely folded on the table. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but it wouldn’t do to show any agitation. When interrogated, keep as close to the truth as possible. That was Dori’s advice. Keep up injured innocence as long as you can, then go on the offensive. “Why do you want to know about that?”

  “Just keeping tabs.” He dug back into his pudding, jam oozing. “Wouldn’t want anything sub rosa getting out.”

  “In a recipe for Mock Turtle Soup?” Edith laughed to underline how ludicrous such a thing would be.

  “Well, stranger things have happened.” Adams waved his hand quickly in front of his mouth. “I’ll leave that for a moment.” He put down his spoon. “Jam’s too hot.”

  “Probably a good idea. Jam retains heat,” Edith observed. “You don’t want to burn your mouth. An interest in food has its advantages. How do you know I send recipes to people, anyway? Is my mail being read?”

  “Speaking of messages, had one from old Leo yesterday. Reason for this meeting, as a matter of fact.” He picked up his spoon. “He’s worried you might be getting a little, ah, out of your depth. In future, if you do discover anything, it comes to me and me only. Careless talk costs lives, remember?” He emphasized each word with a jab. “Literally so in this case.”

  With that, he made a fresh assault on his pudding. She was glad for his shift in attention. She used the time to smooth her expression, keep her growing agitation off her face. Did his sinister hinting mean that he knew something, or was he just fishing? What if they had decoded the recipes? Edith went cold even thinking about it. They were definitely suspicious. Time to shift the conversation. She was tired of being treated like this, anyway. Time to go on the attack.

  “I am quite aware of that, Captain Adams. I’m glad you called this meeting. I wanted to tell you in person. I no longer feel comfortable taking part in all this. I want to stop. You can pass that on to Leo. Save me the trouble.”

  She had his attention now. The spoon stopped midway to his mouth.

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I don’t want my mail read, and I don’t want to be spied on. Someone has gone through my room at the billet more than once—”

  “Nothing to do with us.”

  Edith held up her hand. “I haven’t finished. I resent being the object of suspicion. I’ve given you valuable information at some risk, I might add, and what do I get in return? All this. There has to be an element of trust, Captain Adams.” She set her voice at most haughty. “It works both ways.”

  “No need to get aerated, Miss Graham. Point taken. Do you have anything to report? Anything at all?”

  Edith sensed the tables turning. Was that a hint of desperation about the eyes, the kink of his brows?

  “I might. But I’m not sure I want to continue with this. Did you not hear what I said?”

  “Loud and clear. Let’s not fall out over a spot of overzealousness. I’ll pass your feelings on to Leo. I’m sure the last thing he wants is for you to stop your excellent work. Now, might I call pax, Miss Graham? We’re on the same side, aren’t we? So what do you have?”

  But they weren’t on the same side, though, were they? Not really. She felt no loyalty to him. Or Leo, for that matter. Leo was using her, had used her before and would again, if he got the chance. Right from the start, he hadn’t been straight with her. He had asked her to help find Kurt, but he had neglected to tell her the real reason why he was wanted.

  “Any news on von Stavenow, for example? Mmm, jam roly poly is one of my favorites.” Adams returned his spoon to the dish. “Is that in your culinary repertoire at all?”

  Edith ignored the question. “I might have a lead on Elisabeth,” she said.

  Chuck him a bloody big bone, Dori would have said. She didn’t want him circling back to the recipes. Throw him off the scent.

  “Might you? You need to follow that up, Edith. Von Stavenow is definitely Of Interest.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “The things they did won’t be repeated.” He lit his pipe, sucking in the flame, making sure it was fully alight. “Can’t be, not in any civilized society.” He blew out a puff of smoke. “That research, that knowledge could be useful, though. In the cause of medicine, humanity, and so on. Pity for it to go to waste after all that sacrifice and suffering. As we understand it, von Stavenow was involved in some very special work, and it’s important that we get to him before anyone else does. We wouldn’t want the Russians getting their hands on him. Or the Americans.” He sucked a fresh flame into hi
s pipe and blew out a cloud of blue, sweetish-smelling smoke. “To tell the truth, we’ve been a bit slow off the mark. The Americans have been beating us to the punch repeatedly, what with von Braun and all those rocket chaps, stolen from right under our noses. No. We need a feather in our cap, and this one is ours.”

  Edith closed her eyes. The pipe smoke was making her feel nauseated. No matter how she tried to play their game, it still shocked her that there was no mention of any possibility that von Stavenow might be punished for the crimes he’d committed, the suffering he’d inflicted, for killing his own son. She thought of Elisabeth and the unimaginable agony that underlay her dark, unrelenting description of that terrible place where her child had been sent. And they wanted a man like that? There was more morality among rats.

  “I say, are you all right? You’ve gone a bit pale. Have a brandy. That’ll bring the color back.” He clicked his fingers to attract the waiter.

  “If you do find von Stavenow,” Edith asked, her eyes on the swirl of her brandy, “what will you do with him?”

  Now, perhaps, she’d find out exactly what was intended.

  “There’s a research facility in the south of England. Seat being kept warm. A couple of his colleagues there already. I don’t know what goes on there, exactly, it’s very hush-hush, but I do know it’s bloody important. Could be vital if the Ivans decide to play dirty. Nerve gas, bacteria, all kinds of nasty business. And that could happen, Edith, mark my words. Anyway, upshot is, they want the good doctor there, not skulking about here, hiding in Stephan’s shed, or somewhere similar. Or in Maryland for that matter, so any news, be sure to let me know.”

  Edith thought of the vile things that Elisabeth had told her, how the brains of children were collected, harvested was the word she’d used, how they were preserved in formaldehyde, sent to Heidelberg in special containers, to Kurt’s old professor, or to his colleague in Berlin.