Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  In the distance, a horse-drawn cart heaped with sacks was clopping along a muddy track. There were no barriers on the little unadopted roads that connected villages and farms across the newly constructed border. The Soviets didn’t have the manpower for that. Edith was reminded of the Frau’s weekend trips to the country. She sat up.

  “That’s how they did it,” she said.

  Jack glanced up into the mirror. “Did what?”

  “Move people, messages, anything, across the country along with sacks of food. There’s no barriers on the minor roads.”

  “Do you mind if I drop you off first, ma’am?” Jack asked as they neared home. “It’s just if I take Dori to Hamburg, I can go and see Kay. Two birds with one stone, like.”

  Dori smiled. “What a way you have with words, Jack.”

  “I didn’t mean—” The back of his neck reddened.

  “That will be perfectly all right, Jack,” Edith replied. “Good idea.” She turned to Dori. “When will I see you?”

  “Can’t say, but soon.” Dori stared out of the window.

  They had hardly spoken. Not in front of the servants. Operational rules apply. Edith’s eyes met Jack’s in the mirror. He gave her a mock salute. Could she have been wrong about him? Had she made too many assumptions based on his accent, his manner, his uniform, his rank? Her judgment of him began to slide. What did she really know? Never said what he did before. What he was going to do after. Never said much about himself at all. She’d been wrong about Elisabeth, maybe she was wrong about him, too.

  She had never treated him like a chauffeur, as some of her CCG colleagues did with their drivers. There was no barrier between them, no sliding glass. She’d long since stopped thinking of him as her driver. He was a friend, a constant presence. If she’d wondered why he was always available, she’d put it down to one of his many wangles. She’d trusted him. Perhaps too much.

  36

  Apartment 2a Schillerstrasse, Lübeck

  April–May 1946

  Rote Grütze

  A summer pudding made with purely red fruits: red currants, strawberries, raspberries. I prefer just red currants if enough are available. Roughly pureed fruit, heated with sugar (the pudding should retain some tartness), the mixture then thickened with corn flour. Traditionally, the thickening agent would have been groats, and in some places semolina or sago are used. The whole is brought to the boil slowly, stirring constantly until clear and thick, then simmered for three to five minutes. White wine, lemon juice, and vanilla can be added at this point, but why mask the taste of the fruit?

  Edith was back earlier than expected. Voices coming from the kitchen. Frau Schmidt’s hectic laugh. Edith removed her shoes and walked on cat feet, trying not to make floorboards creak. Outside the door, she heard a few unflattering remarks about herself and more besides. Elisabeth wasn’t holding back. Two loyal Nazi wives together. Part of her cover, Edith might have thought, but the benefit of that doubt had been removed. It didn’t matter now. The debris of shattered illusions had all been swept away.

  A scrape of a chair leg on the floor heralded the Frau’s imminent departure. Edith felt a new strength as she stole silently to her room. Everything looked the same, but it wasn’t. Part of her still wished she’d gone with Harry, but she’d have to leave those dreams at the door for now. There was other business here, and it would take all her reserves to deal with Elisabeth.

  Voices in the hall. She waited for the outer door to close and went to find her in the kitchen.

  “Edith! Goodness!” Elisabeth turned from the sink. “Where did you spring from? You gave me quite a fright.” She dried her hands on her apron. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Her slight frown said what had she heard? “Would you like coffee. Cake?”

  “I’ve been home a while. I didn’t want to disturb you. Was that Frau Schmidt?”

  Elisabeth’s ivory skin colored slightly. Let her worry.

  “She wanted to see how we are settling in.”

  “Nice of her. What did she really want?”

  “She is untrusting.” Under stress, Elisabeth’s English slipped. “Of you. Us. My intentions.” She bit her lip. “Did you find Kurt?”

  “Yes. I met with him.”

  “You did?” Elisabeth colored further. “And how was he?”

  The merest flicker of a look crossed her face before she busied herself with the coffeepot. Just enough to confirm that Elisabeth knew very well where he was and how he was. Carts patiently clopping across the country, messages passed from hand to hand, pocket to wallet. Planning, plotting. They’d been in cahoots ever since the organization found him in Berlin. They must have thought her a real mug.

  “He wants to see you,” Edith said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could manage. Elisabeth’s hand stilled. “I told him you want a divorce, but even so. He’s in the Russian Zone now, so we need to get him out and heading south.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Convince the Frau of your good intentions.”

  Elisabeth reported that arrests had been made. A side effect of sending the Frau’s notebook to Adams. He was very pleased with himself. He called Edith to tell her how well he had done. He’d left Frau Schmidt and the Schwestern alone for now, small fry beneath his interest, but it had left them nervous. Elisabeth would have to smooth feathers, wait for normal service to resume. No sign of Edith’s transfer. She found distraction in her work, but the waiting was getting to her.

  “Productive time in Berlin, I see.” Brigadier Thompson interrupted her thoughts.

  “What? Yes. Very.”

  “Excellent.” He brandished her report. “I’ve made a few emendations.”

  He dropped the paper back on her desk and left for the day. Edith didn’t mind staying late. She found it hard to be in Elisabeth’s company.

  Youth Becoming Delinquent. One of the Brigadier’s pet projects. Teenagers hanging around stations and similar places, pilfering, pickpocketing, black-market dealing and “Getting Up To No Good” by which he really meant prostitution. Going into the shadows of the ruins to service the servicemen for a packet of cigarettes, a bar of chocolate, a tin of corned beef. It had to be “Stamped Out.” There was a great deal of debate around this subject, much anguish and wringing of hands, but it always centered on the delinquent youth. No one ever questioned why men thought it was perfectly acceptable to buy sexual favors from children for food.

  The Americans had the right approach. The teenagers, boys and girls, needed somewhere to go where they could be together with coffee, Coca-Cola, even. Why not? A club. A Youth Club. With Ping-Pong, that kind of thing. There could be a library, maybe, with books and comics and newspapers, a radio, a record player for dancing. The Yanks were as keen as mustard to get started but it would cost money and she couldn’t see Thompson waxing ecstatic.

  Much to her surprise, he was all for it. She set about finding volunteers among the younger teachers, discussing ways to get the teenagers involved and retaining them, looking into twinning with youth groups in Britain. This work was important, her time here suddenly finite, which reminded her that she needed to do something about Luka. Unlike the rest of it, that was easily solved. There was a child refugee plan being set up. She’d put in a call in the morning and get him on his way to Britain. She’d have to find him first, though. She hadn’t seen him for a while.

  A week went by. The Schwestern remained quiet and no sign of the transfer and Adams was beginning to pester her, eager for more. You did well there, Edith. Leo very pleased. Anything new from the delectable Gräfin? He mustn’t know anything about what they were planning, but how much longer would she be able to hold him off?

  Then, there it was, in the morning post with the routine memos and directives: “Miss E. A. M. Graham. Transfer with Immediate Effect.” She was careful not to show any emotion as she dropped the letter onto the others to be signed by the Brigadier.

  “Shall I take them in to his nibs?” Roz asked as she collected the pi
le from Edith’s desk.

  Edith glanced up at the clock. Nearly lunchtime. His mind would be on lunch at the club.

  “Why don’t you? Tell him they need signing immediately. Wait ’til he’s done it.”

  “OK.” Roz took the papers from her.

  “Then let’s go down to the Trave, have our lunch there. It’s a lovely day.”

  “I have some news . . .” Edith started, she’d been dreading telling Roz that she was leaving, but now was the time.

  “I do too!” Roz linked arms. “Jeff and I are getting married, next leave or even sooner. I’ve been putting off telling you because it’ll mean breaking up the billet, and I’ve so much liked living there with you—and Elisabeth, of course.”

  “Oh, Roz.” Edith squeezed her arm. “That’s splendid! I’m so happy for you!”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. The thing is, you see, I’m going too. I’ve got a transfer to Bad Oeynhausen.”

  “Gosh!” Roz’s eyes widened. “You kept that under your hat.” Then her face clouded. “You keep the whole show going. The Brig will put the kibosh on it, I bet.”

  Edith laughed. “He’s probably signed the order already. I put it in with the bumf you just took in to him.”

  “Oh, very good!” Roz grinned. “Jolly clever. You’re a cool one, I must say. I’d have been skipping round the office. I’ll file it before he realizes what’s happened.”

  “Too late if he does.” Edith looked over at the salthouses, their distinctive crowfoot outlines mirrored in the still water. “I’m only going back to collect my things, then I’m off.”

  “That soon?” Roz clutched her arm. “Never mind, it’s a good opportunity. Headquarters means promotion.” She turned to Edith. “I say, let’s celebrate. Toast both our futures.”

  They sat at one of the little tables that had been set out down by the river now that summer seemed finally on its way and toasted each other with steins of beer. Edith promised to be back for the wedding and certainly for the christening. She smiled. Apparently double congratulations were in order. No wonder Miss Esterhazy was in a hurry to become Mrs. Jeffrey Grant.

  Edith collected her things and called her driver.

  “Where to, ma’am?”

  The man opening the door for her was a stranger.

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “On leave.”

  “Oh.” Edith felt deflated, some of her ebullience leaching from her. She’d wanted to say goodbye to him. “Just take me home. No, wait.” She looked across the road. “On second thought, I’ll walk.”

  Luka. She’d been searching for him all week and suddenly, there he was, leaning against the wall opposite.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” she said.

  “I thought you maybe angry with me.”

  “Why would I be?”

  He didn’t answer that. He took her bag. “This is heavy.”

  “Yes, I’m leaving.”

  He looked stricken. “Where are you going?”

  “I have a transfer to a place called Bad Oeynhausen.”

  “It is far, this place?”

  “Yes, quite far.”

  “They can do that. Make you go?”

  “Yes. I have to go where I’m posted.”

  “I won’t see you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  He looked up at her. She was astounded to see tears filling his eyes. Suddenly, she was reminded that he was just a little boy.

  “No, Luka. It will be all right.” She dropped down on one knee to face him. “Here.” She reached in her handbag for an envelope; she’d been carrying it with her for just this moment. “Go to see this man, in this place. Tell him I sent you. Give him this letter. He will arrange a new life for you in England. Would you like that?”

  He sniffed and looked around. “It will be better than here?”

  “Oh, yes. Much better. You will have a family. New clothes to wear. New things—”

  “Not clothes of dead boy?”

  “No! Your own clothes. Your own things. Toys,” Edith said, although she’d never imagined him playing with toys, or playing at all.

  They walked on in silence as Luka thought over this unexpected proposition, weighing whether to accept it.

  “Can I have dog?”

  They were nearly at the apartment now. He put the bag down.

  “I’m sure you can. You will be able to have anything you like.”

  He stood for a moment weighing up her proposal. “Will there be race with three legs?”

  “I’m sure there will.”

  “Then I take it,” he said with finality. “I go. You come see me?”

  “Of course I will!”

  Edith reached down, crying and laughing as she hugged him to her.

  Elisabeth opened the door.

  “I’ve had word,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Frau Schmidt and Frau Kauffman. They brought papers. A new identity. A list of people and places for me.” Elisabeth’s eyes slid sideways. Something or someone was making her nervous. “Your friend is here.”

  “Guten Abend.” Dori’s voice came from the kitchen. She was at the stove, stirring a mixture as red as her nails, her other hand holding a cigarette.

  “Rote Grütze. I remember you like it, Edith.” Elisabeth took over the stirring. “The first summer fruits from the garden. Always a special time. Hilde brought a körbchen from her aunt, and my friends in the Schrebergärten had fruit to trade.”

  “My transfer came through this morning.”

  “Ah.” Dori already knew. “Guess what I’ve got?” She waved a hand toward the kitchen table. “Vermouth and real olives. I might not be any good at cooking, but I can mix a proper martini. All we need is gin. I’m sure you have that.”

  Elisabeth set the pudding to cool in the larder, and Dori mixed a jug of martinis.

  “Cheers.” Dori raised her glass. “Chin, chin. Here’s to it. Getting on like a house on fire, aren’t we, darling?” she said, as she clinked glasses with Elisabeth. “All sorts of people and places in common from before the recent conflict, isn’t that right?”

  She was at her most dazzling, her most charming, and most disarming.

  There was wine with dinner, a Riesling that Dori had also brought with her, then the famous pudding. Tart, not too much sugar. Bright red. Like arterial blood.

  After dinner, the table was cleared. Dori laid out a map of Germany, Austria, and Northern Italy.

  “Right. Down to business. This is the plan. We’ll be traveling together by train. Me under my own name, Dorothy Stansfield, Elisabeth as my translator. I’ve got papers for her. That will get us through the American Zone and into Austria without any problems. You, Edith, travel as yourself, going on holiday.” She tracked the route, using a teaspoon as a pointer. “Once we reach Innsbruck, we split up.”

  “Why do we have to separate?” Edith asked.

  “Because my need for a German translator becomes redundant when we reach Italy, and I can’t get a German citizen through the official border. Elisabeth and I will be taking the scenic route over the high passes. It’s the only way. That’s what these papers are for. We will be assuming different identities, using false papers. The Schwestern came up trumps for Elisabeth. Just the ticket, I must say. Good, but not too good. That is what the people who are to get us over the border and down into Italy will expect. I’ve got a similar type of thing. War Crimes knocked it together for me. I’m Frau Brunner, looking for my Nazi husband. There are a couple of Brunners on the run, so it’s good cover. Elisabeth is Frau Kushner, which is the name von Stavenow is using now. Elisabeth and I will wait in this place,” Dori pointed to the map, “Stienach am Brenner. The smugglers take people over in groups.”

  “Where am I going?” Edith asked.

  “You go on by rail, leaving the train at a little town in the Tyrol called Vipiteno Sterzing. There’s a guest house on the main square—Hotel Aquila Nera–Schwarzer Adler. Take a
room there. We will be staying at Pensione Sterzberg. The proprietors are Nazi sympathizers. That’s where von Stavenow, now known as Herr Kushner, will show up.”

  “When are we going?” Edith looked up from the map.

  “Tomorrow. Sleeper from Hamburg to Munich.”

  “In that case, there will be much to do.” Elisabeth stood up. “Goodnight.”

  The next morning, Dori was already on her first coffee and cigarette.

  “Just had a lovely chat with Rozália. You didn’t tell me she was Hungarian. Oodles in common. I definitely knew one of her aunts and might have had affairs with an uncle or two.”

  “Where’s Elisabeth?”

  “Gone to say farewell to the infant and to make arrangements for her care.” Dori’s eyebrow lifted. “Want coffee? There’s some in the pot.”

  Edith poured herself a cup and came back to the table.

  “Elisabeth is definitely our girl,” Dori said after a while. “Your Miss Esterhazy agrees.”

  “You interrogated Roz? Really, Dori—”

  “Just confirming! A little gentle questioning. Très discret. Elisabeth likes nice things. Jewelery. Clothes. Who’d want to be buried in deepest Prussia when you are young, rich, good-looking, your husband’s a Nazi officer, and there’s fun to be had elsewhere, at least while you’re winning, and who’d go back to Prussia with the Russians on their way?”

  “She was in Berlin for part of the time, at least.”

  “You aren’t still defending her, surely? She was in Berlin all of the time,” Dori said emphatically. “And the child and this Kaspar. Has anyone seen him?”

  “Kaspar? No.”

  “He doesn’t exist. Even if he does, he’s strictly there to look after her precious horses. He’s never going to get into the Gräfin’s silk knickers. She’s a Prussian aristocrat to her fingernails. I know them. She’d rather be torn apart by her own stallions.”

  “The baby’s real enough.”

  “Not hers, I’ll bet. You can buy anything in Germany for a handful of cash, even a baby. She’s good. I’ll give her that. It is a bloody convincing story. Crafted to get your sympathy. We’ll just have to make sure ours is as good as hers. It’s got to last as far as Vipiteno. Being up in the mountains with a bunch of Nazis and those who aid them could leave me more than a little exposed.” Dori lit another cigarette. “She’s important. The Schwestern appeared just after I arrived. One of them, a large body, much given to nodding and smiling or, in Elisabeth’s case, bowing and scraping.”