Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  “Nice lot, eh?”

  “Who are they?”

  “Guards. A few commandants. Mostly small-fry. These are the ones we’ve bagged. They deny everything, of course, don’t know, didn’t know, just following orders. We’re working away at them, discovering more day by day. That’s why we have to keep on. In my book, doctors like von Stavenow are the worst of the lot.” Dori collected the photographs and put them back in their files. “Don’t get me wrong, I hope they all swing, but what they did . . . what the survivors have told us. What was done to them, supposedly in the name of science—” She stopped. “Terrible injuries. Really terrible. You should see them, Edith, the survivors. Young girls, pretty girls.” She shook her head. “They’ll never be the same again. But so brave. Determined to bear witness. Determined to see justice done. As am I.”

  She looked away, eyes distant, dark with a pain that wasn’t hers. Edith reached across the table.

  “Harry has told me some of what they did.”

  “He’s been interviewing survivors too, he should know.” Dori sniffed and blinked quickly. “Goodness, how silly. Something in my eye. Playing havoc with my mascara. Have you a hanky by any chance?” Dori dabbed beneath her eyes, repairing the damage with the help of her compact. She reapplied her lipstick, working her lips together. “We have to find von Stavenow before Adams does if he’s not to end up in some cozy lab in Blighty.” She examined herself briefly, critically, then snapped the compact shut. “How was Adeline? I’m surprised at her, dogsbodying for McHale. I know she’s ambitious, but there are limits. What did they want, anyway?”

  “Same as Adams.”

  “The sturmbannführer is in demand. Any idea why?”

  “Area of his research. Harry thinks nerve gas. Adeline said she was doing some research on her own account that might be useful to us.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Dori waved away more coffee. “I must be off. We’re leaving early tomorrow for Karlsruhe. We’ve had new information and Vera wants to revisit the prison. Some of our girls were held there before being sent to a camp called Natzweiler-Struthof, a Nacht und Nebel place in the Vosges mountains.”

  “Nacht und Nebel?” Edith frowned. “Night and Fog?”

  “One of the pleasanter Nazi decrees. Suspected Resistance fighters, agents and others, vanished without a trace. Hence night and fog. Natzweiler is one of the places where they were disappeared.” She bit her lip to stop it from trembling. “We know that four of our girls ended up there. Now, it’s a matter of positive identification and finding out exactly what happened.”

  “Dori.” Edith felt her own eyes filling as she took Dori’s hand again. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” Dori gently pulled her hand away. “You’ll make a woman of me, and this is a man’s world, as you’re finding out. We work in spite of the Adamses and McHales—” She stopped. The complex emotions playing over her face cleared and she smiled, the tears still sparkling in her eyes. “You are a wonder, Edith. A natural at this. I knew you would be! Find out more about the Schwestern. Get Elisabeth in with them. You’ve given me the tiniest inkling of an idea. Meanwhile, I have my trusty cookbook with me, and I so love to share recipes.”

  29

  Billet, Lübeck

  17th–18th March 1946

  Kaffee und Kuchen

  Gugelhopf Frau Schmidt

  We have nothing quite like it in Britain. The nearest would be a rich tea bread (Gugelhopf is made with yeast), like Bara Brith but with more eggs and butter, generously dotted with preserved cherries (as here), or other fruit and almonds. It is most common in Southern Germany, where every family has its own recipe (something else it has in common with Bara Brith). It is baked in a Bundt tin, traditionally copper, deep and fluted with a central funnel. When turned out and dusted with icing sugar, it is so beautiful it seems a shame to cut into it. Definitely a cake to impress!

  Dori was right. Elisabeth was key to the whole thing. Edith put her mind to how it might work.

  Over the weekend, Roz had been viewing an apartment, for them both.

  “It’s perfect!” she said, her pale face flushed with excitement. “Two floors, not far from the center.”

  She already had the keys. She took Edith to see it on their way home from work. Polished wooden floors and light oak paneling. The apartment was furnished. The people who had lived here had left with what they could carry, but the rooms still breathed their presence. Both women found themselves walking softly, as if they were interlopers.

  “At least we won’t have to bring anything,” Roz said to break the spell.

  “We’ll need a housekeeper,” Edith said.

  “Right you are.” Roz frowned. “I’ll get on it.”

  “No need.” Edith smiled. “I’ve got just the person in mind.”

  The next morning, she directed Jack to the house where Elisabeth was living on Humboldtstrasse.

  “I hope you’ll take up the offer.” Edith unpacked coffee, cigarettes, various cans of this and that. She was sure Elisabeth would jump at the chance, but she had to give her the choice. “It makes so much sense. You need work, there’s only two of us to look after, and it’ll be so much better than here.”

  There was no arguing with that. Since Edith’s first visit, a makeshift curtain had appeared, dividing Elisabeth’s room in two.

  “What about the child?”

  “You can bring her with you, of course.” Edith paused. “I want to go about this in a particular way. I want you to come to me via Frau Schmidt.”

  Elisabeth folded her arms and frowned. “How do I do that?”

  “Knock on the door. Ask about a friend, a relative, someone you’re looking for, from home, from the east.” Such inquiries were all too common. “Get chatting. Does Frau Schmidt know of any work? Frau Schmidt will be impressed by your refinement, your title. She’ll do her best. I’ll do the rest.”

  “When?”

  “No time like the present. The Frau’s expecting a coke delivery, so she’ll be in all day. While you’re there, drop a few hints about Kurt—that you’re looking for him, that kind of thing. Make sure she knows his rank and that he was SS. That’ll impress her even more.”

  Elisabeth’s frown deepened. “Why?”

  “Because she’s our best hope of finding him. She has connections to organizations, Nazi orgnizations, who are in touch with fugitives, helping them escape from Germany. If she puts the word out that his wife is trying to find him we might pick up a lead.”

  Elisabeth would be thick with the Frau in no time. She would put feelers out that would offer a chance to discover more about Nazi organizations like Die Spinne, and that would keep Adams happy. With any luck, the old bird’s native cunning would work against her. That was the theory, although there could be no certainty. Nothing was certain here.

  “Frau Schmidt, might I have a word?” Edith asked the next morning.

  “Is it about the eggs? We cannot always get fresh.” She shrugged her fat shoulders.

  “No, it’s not about the eggs.”

  “Is it about Fraulein Slater?” Frau Schmidt dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief that displayed someone else’s initials. “So sad. She was like a daughter. The poor thing! Her poor family.”

  “Yes, it’s very sad.” Edith patted the Frau’s plump hand. She remembered that there was just a father. Her mother had been killed in an air raid, Molly had told her in an uncharacteristic, gin-fueled moment of intimacy. “Now there’s just Dad,” she’d confided. “And Mrs. Powell. She’s the help. His mistress, really. They think I don’t know. I think they’d marry if it wasn’t for me.” Now, they probably would, and no one would miss poor Molly or care one bit that she was gone. That made it worse somehow. “Very sad indeed.”

  “Is it about car slipping?” A tiny note of apprehension. “I told you about the rain.”

  “Not that either. I’m thinking about moving in with a colleague.” Edith waved away the halfhearted protests. Frau Schmi
dt would be glad to see the back of her. “I know, I know, I will miss you all too, but I need more space and a little less turmoil.” Edith paused and smiled in a way that she hoped was convincing. “We will be needing a housekeeper. I would value your help in finding someone suitable.”

  “Alas!” Frau Schmidt’s first thoughts were another household, more rations to siphon. “I cannot come, Frau Graham. With Stephan helping cousins in the country, I have too much to do here . . .”

  Stephan seemed to have skipped town. He’d made himself scarce after the “car slipping” incident.

  “You will miss his . . . help,” Edith said diplomatically. “I wasn’t thinking of you. You have too much to do here—especially with Stephan gone—and I could never take you away from these girls. So far from home and so young, you are like a mother to them. They need you.” Edith put on a suitably sorrowful expression. “Especially now.”

  “There is always Nina.” Frau Schmidt brightened. With her niece in place, she still might profit from this turn of events. “She’s very capable.”

  Edith nodded, as if considering.

  “Nina’s a lovely girl,” she said, “but I was thinking of someone older, a mature lady, perhaps. Respectable, naturally, with some refinement. Someone who can cook, of course, but I need more than that. Someone with good English.” That would eliminate Nina. “To answer the telephone, for example. Many of my colleagues don’t speak German. And help with paperwork. There is so much now. I was hoping that the right person might act as an unofficial secretary. I’m away frequently. I need someone who is able to act independently, who can manage the household in my absence.” She paused for a second or two, to allow her requirements to sink in. “Do you know anyone like that?”

  Respectable, mature, refined, educated, English speaking. Edith was doing everything but name Elisabeth.

  “I might.” Frau Schmidt pretended to think.

  “I’ll leave it with you, then.” Edith looked at her watch. “Goodness, is that the time? Jack’ll be here at any minute.” As if on cue, a horn sounded from outside. “That’s him now. I must be off.”

  Edith congratulated herself as she got into the car. The mention of “paperwork” had been inspired. Edith knew how Frau Schmidt’s mind worked. Elisabeth might make a useful spy. If she recommended Elisabeth, it would mean she suspected nothing. The bait would have been taken.

  That evening, Frau Schmidt was there to greet her.

  “I think I’ve found someone,” she said; her glossy curls quivered with suppressed excitement.

  “Oh, really?” Edith asked as she removed her hat and gloves.

  “Yes, yes! A very respectable lady, from the east. A refugee but of very good family. She is just what you ask. Speaks English. Very refined. The only thing is—” Frau Schmidt hesitated “—there’s a child. You didn’t say about a child.”

  “No, I hadn’t thought of that.” Edith pretended to consider. “How old is this child?”

  “Not very old,” Frau Schmidt looked vague.

  “I see.” Edith pretended to consider some more. “Perhaps I should meet this person. Can you arrange an interview?”

  “She’s here!” Frau Schmidt opened the door to the living room with the flourish of a magician performing a particularly clever trick.

  “Frau Graham? I’d like you to meet Gräfin von Stavenow.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you,” Elisabeth said in English. “And it is just plain Frau von Stavenow. I don’t use my title.”

  “I’ll leave you, then.” Frau Schmidt beamed, proud of her protégé. “I’ll bring coffee and cakes.”

  “Do sit down, Frau von Stavenow,” Edith said as Frau Schmidt left the room. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course, Miss Graham,” Elisabeth replied. “Ask away.”

  Edith glanced toward the door. Elisabeth cupped her ear. Edith nodded. They conducted the sham interview until the heavy footfall receded.

  “Looks like she’s fallen for it.” Elisabeth lit a cigarette. “Very impressed by Kurt.” She breathed through the smoke. “Can’t do enough to help me, there.”

  There was a knock at the door, Nina came in with a tray: a chased silver pot with matching milk jug and sugar bowl; fine blue-patterned china plates, cups, and saucers. Edith hadn’t seen any of it before. At the center of the table, a large plate covered in a white doily held slices of Apfelkuchen and Gugelhopf.

  “I haven’t seen cake like this for years,” Elisabeth said, taking a piece of apple cake. “Where on earth does she get the ingredients?”

  “Most of them courtesy of the CCG. The rations are very generous, as you’ll see.”

  Frau Schmidt herself came to collect the tray.

  “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Edith put on her best smile. “You’ve excelled yourself, Frau Schmidt. We’ve polished off most of it, as you can see.”

  The plates were practically empty, although much of the cake was wrapped in a napkin in Elisabeth’s handbag.

  “I must say, Frau Schmidt,” Elisabeth said, brushing at crumbs. “Your Blitzkuchen Mit Apfeln was divine and the Gugelhopf. Quite the best I’ve ever eaten. I don’t know how you manage to produce such delicious cakes, given the scarcities.”

  Frau Schmidt blushed and rubbed her hands on her apron.

  “I can give you recipes, if you’d like.”

  “Would you?” Elisabeth smiled. “That would be wonderful! Then I can cook delicious cakes for Frau Graham.”

  Frau Schmidt took her notebook from her apron pocket and extracted a thick stub of a pencil.

  “It won’t take a minute.” She sat down at the table and began to write, forming the letters laboriously in a neat, looping cursive script.

  “Here you are!” She tore out the page and offered it to Elisabeth.

  “Why thank you, Frau Schmidt.” Elisabeth accepted the sheet graciously. “That’s most kind. I will treasure it.”

  Frau Schmidt smiled like a child being given a good grade. Elisabeth’s finely judged combination of hauteur and flattery was working wonders. She had the redoubtable Frau in the palm of her hand.

  Frau Schmidt might claim it, but the recipe was Hilde’s and the girl had probably made it. Edith made a mental note to compliment her.

  On the day Edith was leaving, Hilde gave her a jar of cherries, handing them over with shy pride and a hint of defiance. Edith was touched by the girl’s generosity and smiled at the minor act of rebellion. Perhaps there was hope after all.

  30

  Apartment 2a Schillerstrasse, Lübeck

  6th–21st April 1946

  Kirschenmichel

  Crumble half a loaf or so of stale white bread into a bowl, pour over a generous 1/2 pt of milk, and let stand until all liquid is absorbed. Grease a baking dish and sprinkle with breadcrumbs. Separate two eggs. Whisk the whites until stiff. Cream 2oz butter, the same of sugar with the egg yolks and vanilla, fold in the egg whites, soaked bread, and cherries. Bake in the center of a moderate oven for 45 mins to an hour. Dust with powdered sugar and serve warm with custard.

  Rather like Apple Charlotte--perfect for a Whole Meal Menu as an Alternative or Extra Dish as can be cooked low in the oven. With 6 runners, I’d recommend finishing at high position for 10 minutes and then lower for 12 or so. Cream the 2oz butter for 1-2 minutes. Increase amount of bread from 4 to 7 or even 10oz. (Omit 4oz butter from Apple Charlotte recipe.)

  How little she owned here, Edith thought as she walked into the new apartment. It all fit into a trunk and a suitcase. Roz had even less.

  Roz hung up her coat on a hatstand spiked with umbrellas and walking sticks: wanderstab plastered with little shields, stocknägel, nailed to the cane and chestnut shafts.

  “Funny, isn’t it? All this being someone else’s.” She took out a hiking staff and read the names of places they’d never heard of: Elferhütte, Bielefelder, visited by people they would never know. “They’re just
waiting, the Germans, don’t you feel it? Biding their time, until we pack up and leave. Then everything can get back to normal, they can go hiking again, collecting these little badges, and it will be just as if we were never here at all.” She put the stick back carefully. “We’re like privileged refugees.”

  Elisabeth was waiting for them: beds made, stoves lit, water hot. She made Kirschenmichel with Hilde’s parting gift to Edith. She wouldn’t allow any help with the cooking and clearing. Edith was glad to have gotten Elisabeth out of the overcrowded warren where she’d been living, but it was odd to see her in this role. She would always be more chatelaine than servant.

  Elisabeth’s introduction into Roz and Edith’s new ménage would not go without comment. Their move wasn’t the issue, nor was their choice of housekeeper, it was the fact that they would share the apartment with her. That was contrary to regulations and could prove a snag. Elisabeth’s daughter was staying with Lise, her wet nurse, for the time being, so that was one less complication, but Edith judged that it was time to tell Bill Adams. As an Intelligence Officer, he could make problems like that go away. She put in a call. He wanted to see her anyway. Could they meet for a drink in the mess?

  “What’s this I hear about brake pipes being cut?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Little bird. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t seem any point. It was probably Stephan, and he’s disappeared.”

  “Even so . . .” His frown deepened. “It’s not on. Getting above themselves. I’ve a good mind to roll the whole lot up.”

  “I don’t want you to do that, not yet anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “At least we know who they are and where they are. Die Spinne. Tear a web in one place, it grows in another.”

  “I see your point.”

  “I’ve got a plan.” She told him about Elisabeth.