She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but we did not. I did worry that you would be waiting for us.’ She looked down at her hands, they were small, still childlike, with bitten nails. I touched her arm.
‘It’s all right, Kitty. I couldn’t shake off my companion so, although I did go to the park, it was later and I thought you must have got tired of waiting.’
‘Mamma said she would come to meet you for me, because I wanted to so much, but that morning two men came to the house and said that we mustn’t go. I knew one of them, Erik, he had been a student at the university until they wouldn’t take Jews any more. He is the brother of one of Mamma’s pupils and is working with his father now, as a butcher. But the other man, we did not know.’
I frowned. How did anyone know that the meeting had been set up? I didn’t tell anyone . . . except Charlie, but that was when we were on the train home. It must have been Kitty, or her mother, who’d confided in someone. ‘Why did they say that you shouldn’t meet me?’
‘The man said it would be dangerous for us and for you.’
‘Me?’
She nodded. ‘He said you were being followed and that you would be arrested if the government thought you were doing something illegal. Mamma agreed with them. It was too dangerous for us all, she said. So, we stayed at home.’
It was a confusing story. I had read a piece only the other day about Jewish children being sent out of Germany by their worried parents. It wasn’t organised, but some Jewish activists were encouraging people to leave and offering help and money. Perhaps the two men were those same activists and that’s how Kitty came to England. I asked her about it.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t that. We had the money from Uncle Jacob and somewhere to go. If we’d tried earlier we could have left, got the correct travel papers, I mean, but Mamma kept saying that it would be all right.’
She stared at the ducks who were squabbling over a piece of bread that an old lady had given them, then spoke again. ‘Mamma was wrong, Seffy, I knew that and I think, later, that she did, but she wouldn’t say. And when the man came back again last month and said that we must urgently leave, she agreed quickly. He had made all the arrangements. But then, Mamma said it was just me who was going. She had to stay to look after some of the girls who were living with us. I wanted to stay too, then, but she made me go.’ Kitty’s voice broke with a little sob and I put my arm around her shoulders.
‘She’ll come soon, Kitty. I’m sure.’ I wasn’t sure, not at all. But my words seemed to comfort her and she carried on with her story.
‘I was taken in a car, at first, away from the city, on to country roads. I slept for a long time and when I woke up, we were in Holland. Then the man gave me a ticket to go on a train to Amsterdam and an address to go to. They were nice people at the house, very kind, and they had a daughter who was almost the same age as me. She took me into the city to show me around. I would have loved the trip, if I had not been so worried about Mamma. A week later they took me to the ferry port and arranged for someone to meet me in England off the boat. Then Uncle Jacob came.’
‘It has been quite an adventure.’ I smiled. ‘Something you’ll never forget.’
‘No,’ Kitty said bleakly. ‘I will never forget it.’
Marisol started to cry and we got up and wheeled her back home. On the way we bumped into Jane Porter, one of Monica Cathcart’s acolytes. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Blake,’ she simpered. ‘A lovely day for a walk.’
‘Yes,’ I said, my heart sinking, wondering how long it would take for Monica to hear. Jane looked into the pram.
‘What a pretty baby,’ she smiled. ‘A little girl, is it?’
I nodded and Kitty said, ‘Her name is Marisol.’ I think she would have said more, but I smiled our goodbyes and we walked on. Damn! Damn, I thought. When we got close to home, I asked Kitty again about her escape from Berlin. ‘And you never found out who this man was, who drove you to Holland?’ I asked.
Kitty shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Erik called him Dov. And another time he called him der Dichter. I don’t know that word in English.’ She frowned ‘It means one who writes, but not books, or for a paper, like you, Seffy.’ Then she smiled. ‘He was very handsome and he said he liked Mamma’s paintings, specially the one by Charlotte Salomon. You liked that one too, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I don’t think he was German, either,’ Kitty added. ‘Although he spoke German perfectly. Maybe he was from Palestine. The Rabbi told Mamma that some of the Zionists were helping to get people to safety.’
‘Well,’ I said, as I lifted Marisol from the pram in the caretaker’s room and walked with Kitty to the lift. ‘Whoever he is, you should be grateful.’
‘I am,’ she answered wistfully. ‘But I hope he goes back for Mamma.’
PART TWO
July 1939–July 1947
Chapter Nineteen
London, July 1939
I’D HAD A year as number two on the foreign desk and had loved every moment of it, including trips to the States and to Italy. I was learning my trade; a proper old-fashioned apprentice, as Charlie had said, and in this time of heightened tension all over Europe, I was learning it fast. Charlie had gone back to work, looking and acting his old self, flirting with the girls in the photo labs and making the new junior, who worked with Monica, blush, when he admired her hairstyle. He was constantly away, chasing up stories and coming back to the newsroom with doom-laden reports of preparations for war. All over Europe people were in a constant state of expectation. We all knew war was coming, but we didn’t know when.
My life revolved around the newspaper and Marisol. She was growing into a beautiful child with huge brown eyes and softly curling dark hair.
‘She’s got a mind of her own, this one,’ Alice would say, her tone more admiring than admonishing, and I would laugh. I loved my cheeky little daughter, enjoying her spirit and eager to show her off to all who stopped to exclaim over her when we walked in the park. Mother and Daddy are missing a treat, I thought, but I made no effort to contact them. I was finished with them.
I hadn’t even told Xanthe about her when I saw her briefly for a drink at the Dorchester just before Christmas. She was on a flying visit to see our parents before returning to Berlin.
‘Are you still with von Klausen?’ I’d asked.
‘Of course.’ She sounded surprised that I would even question it. ‘He’s utterly spiffing.’ She looked around the room, ‘Oh look, there’s Bella Duncan at the bar. And Gray Forbes. I’ve just got to have a word with them.’ And she got up and left me to sit alone while she joined a group of her old friends. Eventually I went home, touching her arm and saying goodbye as I left.
‘Bye, Seffy. Have a nice Christmas.’ And that was it. I didn’t see her again for months.
One morning in July, Geoff, our editor, called me into his office. Wondering if he hadn’t been satisfied with my last article I sat, rather nervously, in front of him. He didn’t speak for a moment but lit his pipe and puffed great clouds of smoke around his wood-panelled office while I waited. I knew that he had something to say to me, because he was tapping his finger on a newspaper cutting and kept glancing at me. Finally he put the pipe down on the huge glass ashtray on his desk and held up the paper. ‘This is a piece from one of our rivals. It reports that some English women are enjoying themselves in Germany. Friends of the Nazi party, I believe. Some of them even titled.’
He shook his head in disgust.
My heart sank. I knew what was coming next.
‘One of them pictured here is called Xanthe Blake.’ He gave me a hard look. ‘She’s your sister, am I right?’ He put the cutting on the desk in front of me and I leant forward to look at it. There was my sister sitting on a wicker chair surrounded by a group of Nazi officers. It was a sunny day wherever that snap had been taken and the wind had blown her hair out of its usual sculptured shape and she was wearing white-framed sunglasses. And stan
ding immediately behind her, with a hand on her shoulder, was Wolf von Klausen.
Geoff cleared his throat. ‘This girl is your sister, isn’t she?’
I nodded miserably, convinced that all the nice things he’d said about me previously were about to be forgotten and I was heading for the sack. A foreign correspondent with a notorious sister was the last thing this rather stuffy paper wanted. ‘Yes,’ I said desperately, ‘but you must know I don’t hold her views. She’s got in with a terrible set of British Fascists. She’s always been a bit silly.’ I stood up, my heart beating fast. ‘Please, don’t sack me because of her.’
‘Sack you?’ Geoff laughed. ‘Who said anything about sacking you? By Christ, Charlie Bradford would have my guts for garters if I got rid of you. No, lassie, I want you to go and see her in Berlin. Get as much information from her as possible. I believe she’s very close to some high-ups in the Nazi party. Maybe she knows, or has heard, something about what their next move will be.’
I sat down again, appalled at the prospect of having to meet up with Xanthe. I didn’t even know exactly where she was. The only person who would know was my mother, and she was definitely someone I didn’t want ever to see again. But this was an assignment and there was no way that I was going to refuse. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’
‘All right. Can you go within the week?’
I nodded.
‘Good. We’ll organise a room at the Adlon. You’ve stayed there before, yes? After that, you’re pretty much on your own. Be careful. There’s a heady atmosphere in Berlin, I’m told. Everybody is over-excited and has their finger on the trigger . . . so to speak. But I’m relying on you to find out what you can. Remember, it’s not only this newspaper that is interested.’
It was only when I was back at my desk that I thought of that last remark, who else could be interested? Well, obviously, it was the government and I needed to discuss it with Charlie, but I’d have to call him because he’d just returned from Poland and was spending some time in Dorset with Diana. To my relief, it was he who answered my call.
‘I’m going away next week,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said. He sounded distracted. ‘I thought you might be. Germany?’
‘Yes, Berlin again,’ I answered. ‘To try and find Xanthe.’
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I can’t talk now, but I’ll be in London tonight. We’ll talk then.’
Stupidly I felt rebuffed and frowned at the receiver. Then I pulled myself together. I had to try and find out where Xanthe was. I presumed from Geoff’s newspaper report that she was still in Berlin, although those pictures could have been taken months ago. Geoff seemed certain she was there, but I needed confirmation, so I took a deep breath and dialled my parents’ home.
It took a long time for the phone to be picked up and I was just about to put down the receiver when my father answered.
‘Er . . . Hello. Farnworth Blake speaking.’ He sounded anxious, unused to answering the telephone and almost scared about who would be on the other end.
‘Daddy. It’s me, Seffy.’
There was silence and then, ‘Seffy? Is it really you, my dear? Oh.’
‘Yes.’ I frowned and gazed at the receiver before putting it back to my ear and asking, ‘Are you all right? You sound a bit funny.’
‘Yes, yes’ – now he was speaking eagerly – ‘I’m all right. But you? I read about you all the time in the newspaper. You’ve made me a very proud man.’
Isn’t it strange; that last remark from my usually distant father brought me close to tears. I could have put my head down on the desk and wept, but here, in this busy newspaper office, I couldn’t, so I said, ‘Are you on your own? Where’s Mother?’
Another silence, then, ‘She’s gone. Left me, I think. Gone with some fellow to America. Says she’s not coming back.’
This was astonishing news and I needed to hear it at first hand. ‘Don’t go out,’ I said. ‘I’m coming straight round.’
She had gone, about a month ago, with a man she met through Xanthe. My father seemed bewildered by it, but not particularly sad, just unsure what he should do next. The Eaton Square house was perfectly clean and tidy, the housekeeper and the maids had seen to that, and he was getting his meals as usual, but he was left without direction.
‘You’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘You can spend more time on your research. But you do need to get out a bit. Go to the British Library and to your club. And what about going to the cricket? You used to love going to Lord’s.’
My father smiled and rubbed a hand through his thatch of salt and pepper hair. ‘I did, didn’t I? I’d forgotten about that. You must come with me, Seffy. I’m still a member, you know.’
‘I will, but not yet. Look, Daddy, there are things I have to tell you. First, I’ve adopted a baby, so I suppose you’re a grandfather.’
The bewildered look came back and I knew I must tread carefully. Slowly, and leaving chunks out, I explained the circumstances in which Marisol’s birth had come about and my adoption of her, and how I had engaged a nanny to look after her while I was working.
He sat back in his leather chair and listened and I wondered how much of what I was saying had sunk in. His face was lined and tired and he looked older than his years. I glanced above him to the portrait of my grandfather, the cotton king, and saw the likeness, although my father lacked the energy and drive that my grandfather had possessed. He was a shadow of that man and so quiet that I thought I would have to explain again. I took a breath and began to speak but he put up a hand and stopped me
‘I’ve got it. Now, what shall we do? Let’s see. I’ll set up a trust fund for her.’ He smiled at me and I saw a flash of the happy father he’d once been. ‘Can’t let the poor little girl be in want, and you need your money. What’s her name again?’
I hugged him, the first time I’d done that for years, and there were tears in our eyes.
So it was settled and when I took her to see him the next day, his hankie came out again along with fifty pounds to buy her a teddy bear. ‘Get her a good one; from Hamleys.’
When I asked about Xanthe, he didn’t know anything. She hadn’t come home, and as far as he knew, she was still in Germany.
‘I’m going to Berlin at the weekend,’ I said. ‘I have an assignment and I thought I’d look her up.’
‘Be careful, dear child, there’s going to be a war.’
‘I know, Daddy. It’s the only thing people can talk about.’
‘Do try and persuade that silly girl to come home.’
‘I will.’
As I left, he said, ‘By the way. I’m going to transfer ownership of the Cornish house to you. I won’t be going down there again and Xanthe has never liked it. So it’s yours.’
My house, I thought, as I wheeled Marisol in her pram through the busy London streets. The house by the sea, where I gave my heart away. What would Amyas think of that?
Charlie took me out to dinner the following evening to a Swiss restaurant, where we ate veal in a delicious sauce, followed by a chocolate fondue in which we dipped strawberries. It was gloriously decadent.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Xanthe. ‘You’ve no idea where she is?’
I shook my head. ‘My father doesn’t know and I’ve only got that newspaper report which could be months old.’
‘What about your mother? She’s close to Xanthe.’
‘She was,’ I said quietly. ‘But she’s gone to America. Left my father for another man.’ Just saying it shocked me again. My oh, so correct mother, who lived her entire life full of concern about what ‘people might think’. The mother who thought I was a trollop for falling in love with someone not in our class, but who forgave Xanthe all her adventures with married men. ‘Xanthe mixes with people out of the top drawer,’ she’d said, to dismiss my complaint of unfairness. ‘Why can’t you?’
‘Wow!’ Charlie gave a whistle. ‘I gather that is somewhat out of character?’
I sighed. ‘Completely. But it
leaves me with no address for my sister and that’s the whole point of this trip.’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gazed out of the window. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, ‘I’ll get on to some of my contacts at the Foreign Office. They’ll know. I bet they keep tabs on all the British nationals in Germany at the moment.’
The next day he stopped by my desk and dropped a piece of paper on to my typewriter. ‘She’s here,’ he said. ‘It’s a house in one of the smarter suburbs of Berlin, my contact tells me. She’s been there for a few months. He thinks she’s a kept woman.’
‘Hardly kept.’ I shrugged. ‘She’s got plenty of money. We’re both beneficiaries of my grandfather. Neither of us are ever in need.’
‘That’s what makes you so interesting.’ Charlie grinned. ‘You work because you want to, not because you need to.’
‘Oh, I do need to.’ I was serious. ‘I have to prove that I’m a person, with a brain and ambition.’
‘A direct throwback to the cotton king, then.’ Charlie laughed. ‘Don’t frown, Blake. I’ve looked him up. I’m an investigative journalist, for God’s sake.’
That was the thing about Charlie. We were on the same wavelength and being with him was easy and fun. I didn’t have to cope with overwhelming passion or the searing pain of absence and in his company I could be myself and love, yes, love being with him.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I saw Paul Durban in Poland. He’s very well and got me a line on Polish preparations for a German attack. Would you believe they still want to field cavalry. In this day and age?’
‘How on earth did you find that out?’
He tapped his nose. ‘Contacts, Blake. Something that all good journalists gather.’ He scribbled something on my jotter pad. ‘Here are some names and addresses in Berlin. They might be useful. But get to know people, they’ll help you gather information.’
He turned to go then and I stood up and followed him out of the office. In the lift, I gave him a hug. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’
‘Make sure you keep in touch,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘Every day, remember. I’ll be looking out for you to file your copy.’
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