by C. J. Carey
‘Really?’ No electricity meant no wireless or gramophone. Nothing for entertainment.
‘What do you do in the evenings?’
‘We meet and we talk.’
‘About work?’
‘Books, mostly. Novels. Just in groups of three, of course,’ added Kate, with deadpan emphasis. ‘According to the rules.’
Puzzled, Rose surveyed the scant furnishings around her.
‘I don’t see any novels. Where do you keep them?’
Kate laughed, flashing teeth as mottled as ancient piano keys, and pointed a finger at her temple.
‘Up here, most of them.’
Looking down at her notes, Rose searched for something to say. So far nothing subversive had emerged from any of the women’s observations about their lives. They had recounted, dutifully, their childhoods, marriages and the events that led up to their widowhood. Vanessa’s relationship with a minister of the church might be considered suspect, as might Kate’s former employment as a journalist, or Sylvia’s work for an organization called Marie Stopes that promoted birth control for the purpose of limiting families. Kate’s husband had died of a botched operation, Vanessa’s husband had been consumptive and Sarah’s husband had died during the formation of the Alliance, timing which marked him as a resistor, but that was hardly unusual.
She turned to Sylvia.
‘How did your husband die?’
Sylvia was around sixty, with the keen eyes of a punctilious civil servant. On the surface she appeared calm and self-contained, yet now her anger flared like a struck match.
‘He killed himself. I don’t think it was to escape me, but you never know.’
Discomfited, Rose closed her notebook. Nothing in these women’s present life, or their childhood memories, could possibly be considered offensive to the regime. How was she supposed to discover what the police and the Gestapo combined had failed to find? If any of these Friedas was involved in seditious behaviour, they would hardly volunteer it.
Yet once again she pictured the sweaty scowl of the Commissioner, and his threat sounded in her mind.
If you don’t want to end up in a camp, it’s in your interests to make this work.
She tried another tack.
‘The Protector loves books, as you know. He’s a great friend of literature. He sees literature as the cornerstone of Alliance society.’
‘Is that so?’ said Sylvia. It was hard to tell from her tone if this was a genuine enquiry, or if she was being ironic. Rose recalled what Martin had once said. Irony is a weapon for you English. To say one thing and mean another. Your Jane Austen knew that all too well.
‘Yes. He’s especially interested in reading material for schools. He’s always taken a special interest. In Berlin he established an Office for the Control of Literature.’
‘Why would the Party need to control literature, Fräulein Ransom?’
Rose tried to remember what Martin had explained, but the words seemed to crumble as she grasped them.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? The Alliance is not against creativity, but it needs to be kept within certain boundaries.’
‘You believe that, do you?’
‘You can’t allow artists free reign. No society on earth has ever done that.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ allowed Sylvia. ‘Think of the Pope. The Catholic Church created a list of heretical texts in the sixteenth century. Any book which ran counter to the Church’s teaching was forbidden. Galileo was banned. And Martin Luther and Immanuel Kant. In fact . . .’ – she made a little frown – ‘I seem to remember that when the Protector’s own book was first published it was placed on the Vatican’s Index of Prohibited Books. I think I’m right about that.’
Clearly, Sylvia knew all too well. Sarah cut in, as if wary of where the conversation was leading. The cadaverous cat Rose had glimpsed earlier had settled beside her and she was stroking it absently, its tortoiseshell fur sticking up in clumps.
‘I’m lucky. I work as a cleaner in the Bodleian Library which means I get to spend all my time with books. Personally, I’m glad the Protector values reading. Reading preserves empathy and without that, we’re not connected anymore. We lose that feeling of stepping into other lives.’
Rose was used to this argument. It was a problem that cropped up endlessly in the classic texts. Their authors seemed obsessed with the value of reading because it enabled people to experience the lives of others. She had mentioned it to Martin once and he was scornful. Why would anyone want to experience the lives of others? Aren’t our own lives interesting enough?
‘I agree,’ said Vanessa, who had caught the tail end of the conversation as she returned with the teapot which she had replenished with freshly cut mint leaves and hot water. ‘Judicious books enlarge the mind and improve the heart – isn’t that what Mary Wollstonecraft said?’
A shiver travelled between the other three women, so transient it was almost undetectable, before Sylvia seized the teapot and busied herself with passing it around.
‘Mary Wollstonecraft?’ asked Rose.
Woll Stone Craft. The woman whose sentiments had provoked Commissioner Eckberg to such violent rage. With a lurch of anticipation, Rose proffered her cup.
‘I’m not sure I’ve heard that name. Could you tell me about her?’
For a beat nobody spoke. Then Kate shrugged, and pushed her broken glasses up on the bridge of her nose.
‘She was a writer. She wrote a book in 1792 called A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. It advocated that women were the natural and intellectual equals of men, and they should have equal treatment and opportunities.’
‘All women?’
‘Precisely.’
Rose sipped her tea, her heart thudding. That this Frieda had expressed openly heretical views, or had at least repeated them in front of others, was a felony in itself. But the fact that they had mentioned Mary Wollstonecraft was infinitely more significant. The very same woman whose seditious words had been inscribed across the facade of the British Museum only last week. Merely to repeat them was probably enough to land you in a camp. Rose was duty-bound to report it. At the very least she should take notes.
Even so, Mary Wollstonecraft’s heretical words hung in the air.
Women are the natural and intellectual equals of men, and they should have equal treatment and opportunities.
As she wondered how to proceed, a violent banging sounded on the door and the women looked around as one.
Before any of them could answer it, the door was thrust open, the rusty hinges of its upper half yielding easily from the rotten timber so that it lurched drunkenly into the small front room, causing a jam jar stuffed with bluebells to crash to the ground. Darkened silhouettes loomed against the light.
Three men in heavy leather jackets were standing at the threshold.
‘Move!’
With no more than a single command, the policemen stepped over the splintered wood and, wielding short knives, began systematically tearing the house apart. The William Morris chair was sliced along its back, unleashing a spray of horsehair, and the dresser was tipped forward, sending its contents spiralling onto the ground. One of the men tramped up the rickety staircase and his heavy boots could be heard crunching methodically through the narrow rooms, along with the heave of mattresses being levered off the beds and the clatter of cupboard doors opening.
The four Friedas had sprung up instantly and pressed themselves against the wall. Kate was ramrod straight, beads of sweat on her brow. Sylvia retained an expression of sardonic calm, although her fists were tightly clenched, and Sarah put a protective arm around Vanessa, who looked petrified. All the women seemed rigid with shock, if not surprise.
Only Rose challenged the intruders.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Stand against the wall.’
‘Why?’
The policeman dismembering the armchair paused. He had a face made for a pub fight: a shiny bowling bal
l with a squashed nose and jutting brow. He was the kind of man, Rose recognized, for whom cringing deference to superiors was balanced by ugly brutality to underlings. She noted the glint of calculation in his eye as he registered that Rose was a Geli, yet also that she would prove no impediment. Without comment, he seized her by the upper arm and shoved her violently against the wall, banging her head painfully in the process and bringing a reproduction of Venice by Canaletto crashing to the floor.
‘You can stand there or you can stand in a cell. Your choice.’
From the kitchen came the smash of china, where the second man was removing cups hanging by their handles above the stove and running a rough hand along the shelves. The ugly policeman aimed a kick at the cat, which vanished in a streak of tortoiseshell fur, and proceeded to empty two vases of flowers onto the floor.
It seemed at once impersonal, and deliberate, this evisceration of the house, as though it was designed to create as much disorder and damage as possible. None of the men asked what a Geli was doing in this run-down habitation, and although Rose was itching to intervene, the policeman’s threat was enough to prevent her.
What would the Commissioner say if she managed to get herself arrested on the first day of a highly confidential mission?
It took no more than a few minutes for every inch of the tiny house to be rendered even more broken than before. Then, without comment or explanation, the three men left as swiftly as they had arrived.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Cherwell café was a shabby place to the south of the city, overlooking a mediaeval stone bridge that crossed the River Thames. Frilly nylon curtains sagged across the middle of the windows, as though they knew that nobody actually wanted to look in and had given up halfway. The name of the café was inscribed in peeling script on the glass and a couple of flies had expired on the sash. Old gas brackets were still fixed to the walls, but instead of gas lights, someone had inserted candles that painted the wall with a halo of soot. Smeared bottles of brown sauce and ketchup stood on each table and a card on the bar said, Sugar available on request.
Only one customer was there when Rose arrived. He was sitting at a corner table, chin cupped in one hand, tracing his finger along the maze of cracks in the table’s linoleum as though they spelled out some fiendish puzzle if he could only discern it.
As the bell clanged he sprang up and offered his hand.
‘Fräulein Ransom! How nice to meet you.’
Bruno Schumacher was unlike any other German she had seen. He appeared, in fact, more like an Englishman. He had none of the Germans’ height or self-assurance. His complexion was as pitted as orange peel and he had a five o’clock shadow that looked like it had no regard for punctuality. His suit was a forensic inspector’s dream, with specks of breakfast clinging to his tie and Rorschach ink spots on the upper pocket where his pen had leaked. He was, Rose assumed, the same age as Martin, and thus in his early fifties, but cigarettes and alcohol had gifted him another decade. His face was mournful and his frown lines deep, yet his eyes, true to his name, were as brown as a bear’s and arrowed at the edges by laughter.
He gestured at the pint of beer that was already half drunk.
‘When you asked to see me, and said you knew Martin, I thought this might be a more pleasant place to meet. And somewhat less overlooked. I hope this isn’t inappropriate.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘The police station is a perfect environment for conversations, if you like the kind of conversations that require you to repeat each question several times until you get the right answer.’
Rose edged onto the stained velour bench opposite him.
‘I’m sorry to hear that my men might have been more forceful than necessary.’
She looked at him cautiously. Men, especially policemen, outranked all women in the Alliance, but she was a Geli, and an authoritative tone was probably the best approach. Flirting would have been Helena’s way, but the scene Rose had just witnessed, watching impotently as the police combed the Friedas’ cottage, overturning furniture, knocking out the backs of cupboards, ripping the undersides of cushions and sending feathers flying, had sobered her.
‘I asked to see you because I was shocked by what I’ve just witnessed. I was on direct business of the Protector.’
‘Apologies again. Our men are on edge. It’s a difficult time, as I’m sure you appreciate, with the Leader’s visit in ten days. In fact, I’ve never known anything like it. The city’s on lockdown. The administration has drafted in three hundred troops as back-up, and all leave for my men has been cancelled. So when we get certain low-level . . . annoyances . . . a sense of frustration runs through the ranks. My men become overzealous. I suspect that having a German as their senior officer makes them especially eager to impress. Can I offer you something more than an apology? What will you drink?’
After the day she had had, the prospect of a drink was almost irresistible, but Rose needed her wits about her.
‘Coffee, if they have it.’
‘Ah! I like a woman who appreciates coffee. Most English girls confine themselves to tea and, I confess, I’ve never seen the point of warm water flavoured with dust. Though if you don’t mind, I ordered myself something stronger on the grounds that it’s almost six o’clock. Cocktail hour. That’s one English tradition I do applaud.’
Schumacher called over to the Gretl to order the coffee and then tipped back in his chair, as if the day itself had physically pummelled him into submission. He smiled.
‘So, you’re a friend of Martin’s.’
He was speaking English, but the word friend carried the ambiguity of the German – Freundin – where it might suggest a romantic relationship.
The underlying implication made her reply more sharply than she’d intended.
‘We’re colleagues at the Ministry. He gave me your name in case of trouble but I never imagined I would need to use it.’ Then, more softly, and because she was burning with curiosity about this childhood friend of Martin’s, she said, ‘He told me you’d been in Berlin together.’
‘Berlin. A place where beer still tastes like beer. And a cigarette lasts long enough for you to smoke it.’
Schumacher pulled a National cigarette from his pack in demonstration. As he held it up it sagged, then came to pieces in his hand.
‘I’ve been here for twelve years now and I still miss everything about home. I miss the food, the entertainment, the weather, even the wit. Berlin wit is as dry as a widow’s . . . Sorry. I mean, it’s the kind of humour you don’t encounter much around here. Martin’s one of the few people I can still joke with. How is he?’
‘Well. Very busy, of course.’
‘I haven’t seen him in years. Is he still the handsome devil I met on the first day at school? I remember him coming into class that day, planting himself down next to me and declaring that we would be best friends, just like that. And so we were.’
That was easy to believe. Martin, blessed with a blithe personality and sunny good looks, had an absolute confidence that whatever he wanted came to pass. If he declared someone would be his best friend, there was every chance they would be.
‘He was always bright – he shone in anything he turned his hand to. Absolutely the teacher’s pet. I wasn’t bad either, but I was lazy. The cleverest thing I did was not getting caught. When we left school, Martin was on the fast track to law school. Anyone who’s anyone in the Party has a law degree whereas I joined the Kriminalpolizei. We did our SS initiation ceremonies together. We were best men at each other’s weddings, only he and Helga are still married . . .’
Rose winced inwardly. Though part of her was ravenous for information about Martin’s wife, the other part recoiled at the thought. Almost always now, when she and Martin were in bed, Helga’s face came to her, transmuting Rose’s guilt into a kind of sisterly solidarity. It was almost as though Helga was in bed with them. When Rose kissed Martin, she imagined Helga kissing him too. When she ran her fingers
along his chest, she wondered if Helga did the same. The fact was, Rose thought more about Helga than Martin himself.
‘What’s she like?’
‘Helga? Sporty. Came top in her year in the Bund Deutscher Mädel athletics and went on to run for Germany in the ’36 Olympic Games. Retired after marriage, of course. Four children, holder of the Bronze Mother’s Medal. Enjoys skiing. Would infinitely prefer that her husband worked for the Strength Through Joy Leisure division.’
He said all this quickly, yet still Rose got the impression that gymnastics and skiing were not the activities that Schumacher himself prized. Sensitively, he hastened on.
‘Whereas my wife left me for a Luftwaffe pilot with a better uniform than me and clear blue sky where his brain should be.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It meant that when this job came up, I had nothing to keep me. It was this or a posting as Kripo chief in Wuppertal, so it wasn’t much of a choice.’
‘Do you enjoy England?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ He grinned. ‘But it has its advantages. If, for example, like me, you need to lose a little weight, this is an excellent country to live in.’
He gestured at the table before him, where the curled remnants of a cheese sandwich sweated on a plate.
Rose couldn’t help smiling. In a burst of intimacy, she confided, ‘I visited Berlin last year to help Martin with a speech. The food was incredible. I’ve never tasted anything like it.’
‘Don’t get me started. The only useful thing my ex-wife learned at Bride School was her cooking skills. I will say that about her. I miss Ursula’s schnitzel much more than I miss Ursula.’
‘Is it a problem for you being divorced? Professionally, I mean? I assume you have no children?’
With a morose shrug he rolled another cigarette between his fingers.
‘It’s true. As you know, all Kriminalpolizei have the rank of SS-Sturmbannführer and Himmler insists that his Schutzstaffel have four offspring. If they don’t, they are required to adopt. So far, the gorgons from the Family Promotion department have left me alone, but it can’t last. Perhaps they think I’m just not cut out for marriage. Ursula certainly did.’