I nodded and smiled. ‘Bye, Charlie.’
‘Bye, dearest Blake.’
Berlin, July 1939
I took an Imperial Airways flight to Cologne at the weekend and from there a train to Berlin. It was quicker than getting the ferry from Hull to the Hook of Holland and, as Charlie had said, I had to get used to flying all over the world. For people like us it was the way to go now and I was excited at the prospect of my journalistic assignment. The only problem was that I was already missing my daughter. I had no concerns for her welfare, I knew that Alice would care for her quite lovingly and that Jacob and Kitty would be popping in from time to time. I even thought that Charlie might make a visit. ‘While you’re away,’ Charlie had said when he phoned me the night before I left, ‘remember what I told you before. Put Marisol out of your mind. If you want to carry on with your job, and I know that you do, then take my advice. You’ve ensured that she’s well looked after and that’s all that should concern you. Be professional.’
I was determined to be that, at all costs, and when I was stopped at Frankfurt airport by a customs official and asked about the purpose of my visit, I was able to say ‘journalistic assignment’ with some pride. I watched as he took a note of my name and then, on my way out of the small airport, glanced over my shoulder to see him looking at me while speaking into the telephone.
It was early in the evening when I booked into the Adlon. In the taxi from the railway station I looked out on the familiar streets of the city centre, where people strolled along, giving no indication of the possibility of war. There was a rosy glow in the warm air as the sun went down, and stepping into the brightly lit and wonderfully polished interior of the hotel I looked about me with pleasure.
‘Fräulein Blake,’ said the receptionist with a smile. ‘You have returned. We have put you in the same room.’ Was it deliberate? A room that could be easily watched? I laughed at myself for being so paranoid and cheerfully unpacked my few belongings and brushed my hair before going down to the bar.
The Adlon was favoured by journalists of every nation and they all seemed to be drinking in it that evening. I recognised a few of them, some who had been introduced to me by Charlie on our earlier visit and others whom I vaguely recognised. One of them grabbed my arm. ‘It’s Persephone Blake, isn’t it?’ he shouted. ‘Charlie Bradford’s assistant?’
‘Yes,’ I smiled. Then I apologised, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. Charlie introduced me to so many of his friends.’
‘Wilf Cutler,’ he roared, thrusting out his hand to crush mine in an energetic grip. He was a large mustachioed man, with bear-like arms and huge shoulders which strained the seams of his tweed jacket. ‘How’s old Charlie doing?’ he asked.
‘He’s still the same, chasing stories.’
‘I remember his piece from Spain.’ He gave a loud guffaw. ‘Just the sort of crazy thing Charlie would do. He’s a real corker. One would never guess that behind those schoolmasterly specs the spirit of adventure lurks.’ He guffawed again and corralled some of the other journalists to come and meet me. I found that I was quite famous amongst them and, with a drink in my hand, was ushered to a table, where I sat with four or five others discussing the present circumstances in Berlin.
‘I hate this bloody place,’ said one of them. ‘Nothing is what it seems and nobody wants to talk.’
‘Why would they want to talk to you, you miserable bugger?’ another teased. ‘They talk to me because I’m handsome and dashing and ask where the best bars are. I don’t ask about the price of potatoes.’
In the laughter that followed, I recognised the camaraderie of the profession I’d joined. They played hard, but only after they’d worked hard.
An older man leant forward. He was balding and had thick tortoiseshell glasses. I hadn’t spoken to him yet, but I knew who he was from his name when Wilf introduced him. He was the man who’d written the article about Xanthe and the other English women. ‘Are you related to Xanthe Blake?’ he asked, and the rest stopped joshing with each other and listened.
‘She’s my sister,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping to take her home. To get her out of here before it’s too late.’
He gave a short, rather unpleasant laugh. ‘You’ll be lucky,’ he grunted. ‘From what I saw, she’s here for the duration. Completely taken in by Herr Hitler, thinks he’s nothing short of a god. And of course, she’s totally under the spell of that bastard von Klausen.’
‘Von Klausen, the acolyte of Heydrich?’ asked Wilf Cutler. The older man nodded and the discussion turned to Heydrich. I listened with a sinking heart. I’d already suspected that getting Xanthe to come home with me was going to be difficult, and it seemed that my suspicions were correct.
‘Heydrich is buying up real estate, so I’m told,’ said Wilf. ‘Nice places where members of the SS can stay with their families. Some of them in the holiday spots on the Baltic coast, but also here in the wealthy suburbs.’ He shook his large head. ‘The present occupants are given little choice, I believe.’
‘That’s not all he’s doing,’ the older man growled, and I was leaning forward to listen when a hand touched me on the shoulder. I turned in my seat.
‘Hello, Seffy.’
It was Paul Durban.
I jumped out of my chair and gave him a hug. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘I am working. Like you are.’
‘But I thought you were in Poland,’ I protested.
‘Keeping an eye on me?’ He laughed.
I excused myself from my colleagues and followed Paul to another table, where we sat together, nursing vodkas. ‘How are you?’ I asked. He looked older. His fresh, boyish face had gone, replaced by a more serious one with tiny lines between the eyebrows and sharper cheekbones.
‘All right.’ He smiled. ‘Happy to be out of Spain, although this place is worse, I think. But there is no fighting . . . yet.’
‘There will be, although not a civil war,’ I sighed. ‘They all seem to be happy with the government. Most people feel no fear.’
‘Most, but not all. The Jews and the mentally ill have suffered and will suffer so much more. And then there are the homosexuals. Nobody talks about their persecution.’
This last was heartfelt and I nodded, understanding him. ‘Will you write about it?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. France is a Catholic country. The subject of Jews and queers is of little interest,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s go and get some supper and you can tell me what happened to you after Ribera. Charlie Bradford’s piece was translated for one of our newspapers and I read it. I’ve seen him recently, but I want to hear from you.’
We walked out of the hotel and found a restaurant with outside tables. It was a warm evening, with a bright penny moon shining out of a clear, lavender sky. ‘Remember that restaurant in Cerbère?’ I said. ‘With the fantastic food?’
‘Indeed,’ he said and handed me the menu. ‘This will not be as good, except for the company.’
It took a long time to tell him about getting out of Spain. I found myself talking about Elena and her death and how I had taken Marisol.
‘You have the baby, still?’ he asked, looking amazed.
I nodded. ‘She is mine, now.’
‘But her father. He was there, you say. He had helped Charlie get out of the field hospital?’
‘Yes. We knew him before. I knew him very well.’
Paul wagged his head from side to side, in a very Gallic fashion. ‘He is your lover, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I laughed, glad to be able to say it out loud. ‘He was . . . is and always will be my lover.’
‘So, he is with you in England now?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘I have no idea where he is. He leads a mysterious life.’
‘Ah. The cat that walks in the night, eh?’
The cat that walks in the night. I repeated those words as I lay in bed in my room at the Adlon later. The last night I’d been here, I’d lain in Amyas’s
arms in this very bed and had been transported into the enchanted land where Amyas reigned supreme. What wouldn’t I have given for him to be here now . . . I closed my eyes, remembering every touch of his hands and every place where his lips had been. I grasped at the relived pleasure and when I finally drifted off to sleep, it was with a new measure of contentment.
Some time in the night I woke up. A memory of something that had been deep in my brain had come back to me. There had been another person who knew about my proposed meeting in Monbijoupark – why hadn’t I remembered it before? I had told Amyas. Could it be that he’d . . . But then the sensible part of my head took over and I smiled quietly. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with Kitty and her mother. That was altogether too fanciful.
The next day, after breakfast, I went for a walk along Unter den Linden to look at the shops and people and to get the feel of a city possibly preparing for war. My favourite coffee shop was bustlingly full and I had to wait to be served. The waiters seemed to recognise me but . . . was I imagining it, or was there a look of caution on their faces? The chocolate was just as good though, and when I’d finished it I walked back towards the hotel, past the bright shops, and planned to buy something pretty for Marisol before I went home. I stopped at the dress shop where I’d bought the lovely ball gown and looked in the window. I could see the shop assistant who’d been so helpful and I waved. She recognised me, as the waiters had and, like them, she was cautious and turned away. Things had changed. Now I was an unwelcome alien in this city and I wondered what Xanthe’s response would be when I turned up at her door.
I’d debated with myself about ringing her first, before going, but then I decided against it. She might fob me off with some excuse, so I got a taxi and gave the driver Xanthe’s address, which was in a suburb called Zehlendorf, not too far from the city centre. It was a pretty place, with large, freshly painted houses and well-tended gardens. Some of the streets were cobbled and the whole area had a sort of village atmosphere. I liked it, but, I grinned to myself, I bet Xanthe doesn’t. She liked the hard pavements and bright lights of the city.
The taxi drew up at the address and I paid and got out. Xanthe’s house resembled an Alpine chalet, with a steeply pitched roof and a wooden veranda around the first floor. It looked incongruous in this sunny village setting, but it was rather pretty all the same.
I rang the doorbell and within seconds it was answered.
‘Ja?’ It was a girl in maid’s uniform.
‘Fräulein Blake,’ I said. And then in English, ‘I’m her sister.’
‘Seffy!’ Xanthe careered down the narrow hallway, knocked the little maid to one side and flung herself into my arms.
Chapter Twenty
‘OH, SEFF, SEFF. I’m so glad to see you.’
We hugged each other, while I recovered from this unusually effusive greeting. All our lives we’d been rather at arm’s length. We were so very different and as we’d grown up, we had grown even further apart.
But now, Xanthe seemed delighted to see me. ‘Come in, do,’ she cried and led me through the hallway into a drawing room that overlooked a flower-filled back garden. The French windows were open and I could see a little fountain, its water sparkling as it bounced into a basin held up by stone cherubs. Inside, though, the room was dreary. Dark oil paintings depicting fat maidens being rescued by Teutonic knights hung on the walls, and beneath them heavily carved wooden sideboards and bookcases, devoid of books, took up too much space. Two large sofas covered in green fabric sat opposite each other in front of the fireplace, a striped green and black rug covering the floor between them. The only brightness came from busily painted majolica lamps which stood on the carved wooden mantelpiece, and all about the room cactus plants lurked, dustily, in more majolica pots. It was a ghastly room and so unlike somewhere that Xanthe would normally enjoy staying.
‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed. The word sprang out of my mouth before I could stop myself. ‘This is different.’
‘Isn’t it absolutely adorable?’ Xanthe squealed. ‘Wolf had it furnished down to the very last ashtray. He says it’s exactly how our Führer has decorated his country home.’
‘Our Führer?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Oh, yes,’ she smiled. ‘Herr Hitler. Isn’t he an absolute darling? I shook hands with him once, oh, it was so thrilling. He’s . . .’ She put a finger to her lower lip, thinking and then beamed as she remembered. ‘Magnetic, yes, that’s what Wolfie says.’
I took a proper look at her. She was the same as ever, perhaps a little plumper, but she still had her angelic blonde looks. Oddly, she now wore her hair parted in the middle and fastened into little knots over her ears, as though she was some sort of country girl, and her white smocked blouse and blue patterned dirndl skirt added to the effect. These were not her usual couture clothes.
‘Why are you wearing that outfit?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to a fancy dress party?’
She scowled. ‘It’s not fancy dress, Seffy, don’t be silly.’ Then her face brightened. ‘But we are going to a party this afternoon. A picnic. Wolf says quite a few of the party members will be there. There’ll be singing and dancing and we must go.’ She paused as a little cloud drifted across her face, then she continued, ‘He says it’ll be fun and I will enjoy it. He should be home soon.’ She looked at the clock on the wall and my eyes followed hers. It was a wooden clock, with dangling pendulums and carved trees and acorns around a little hut above them. As we looked, it struck the hour and a cuckoo flew out of the hut to announce the time.
I burst out laughing. ‘My God, Xanthe. What the hell is that?’
She frowned and then as I continued to laugh her lips curved into a smile and she laughed too. ‘It’s gruesome, isn’t it,’ she gasped in a whisper, ‘but Wolf likes it.’
‘What does Wolf like?’ He was standing behind us, having come in through the garden, and was just as I remembered him: tall and icy blond in his wonderfully smart black uniform with its death’s head insignia.
‘The clock, Wolfie,’ Xanthe said, all traces of laughter gone. ‘You like the clock.’
He nodded and looked at me. ‘This is a surprise, Fräulein Seffy. Xanthe didn’t tell me you were coming to visit.’ He stepped forward and raised my hand to his lips. I suppressed the shudder that his presence always gave me.
‘She didn’t know. I wanted to surprise her.’
‘And you knew where she lived? Perhaps she sent you a letter?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Xanthe quickly. ‘You know that I never write letters.’ I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye and noticed that she was biting her lip.
‘I’m a journalist. It’s my job to find things out. I was coming to Berlin anyway, so I thought I’d look up my sister. And I have.’
He smiled, parting his thin lips over perfect teeth. ‘Well, what a treat for her.’ He went over to Xanthe and put an arm around her waist. ‘Isn’t it, Liebchen?’
She looked up at his face with glistening eyes. ‘Yes, Wolfie.’
‘Good.’ He turned back to me. ‘Your sister and I are attending a picnic this afternoon, perhaps you would care to join us?’
I was already going to say yes. An afternoon with members of the Nazi party would make wonderful copy, but before I could nod my head and thank von Klausen for the invitation, Xanthe grabbed hold of my arm and said, ‘Oh, please, Seffy, say yes. Come with us, do. I should love that.’
‘I will. Thank you, Major von Klausen. I’ve always enjoyed a picnic.’
‘And it will give you lots to write about, no doubt. Something about the happy times we have in Germany.’ He gave his chilling smile again and then said to Xanthe, ‘Take your sister upstairs so she can freshen up. You could, perhaps, find her some suitable outfit.’
‘I’m fine as I am,’ I said firmly. I was wearing a white silk shirt and a calf-length beige gaberdine skirt. ‘If I look out of place, you can put it down to my unexpected visit.’
He didn’t answer, but his eye
s narrowed, before he gave his polite half-bow. ‘Fifteen minutes, Xanthe. I’ll expect you not to be late.’
Xanthe pulled on my arm. ‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘I can find you a hat, if you’d like.’
Her bedroom wasn’t as dull as the living room, but it was furnished in old-fashioned tapestry-style fabrics that I thought she’d hate and when she opened her wardrobe to find me a hat, I saw that quite a few dirndl skirts were hanging next to her usual couture collection.
‘What on earth has happened to you?’ I asked, sitting on the bed. ‘This isn’t how you usually dress . . . or behave, for that matter.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she pouted. ‘I like this style. It shows that I’m a true Aryan, Wolf says. Besides, this is how my new friends will dress for the picnic. We have given up the decadent style of England and America.’
This last was said parrot fashion, as though she was repeating something that had been drummed into her.
‘Father wants you to come home,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ve come to fetch you.’
‘Home?’ She was sitting at a rickety little dressing table and looked at me in the mirror. ‘What does Mummy say?’
She didn’t know. I swallowed and wondered how she was going to take the news. ‘Mother has left. Gone to America with some man. I don’t know who. She’s not coming back.’ If I thought she’d be upset, I was wrong.
‘It’ll be Binkie Durham’s uncle,’ Xanthe said with a careless shrug. ‘She’s known him for years, off and on, and was awfully keen on him. Father is very dull, that’s what she always said. He’s made her life an absolute misery.’
‘Well, he’s the miserable one now. Quite bewildered, I’d say. But he still wants you to come home. Besides which, there’s going to be a war and you can’t stay here.’
‘Why ever not?’ She stood up and took some white high-heeled sandals out of the wardrobe. ‘The Germans will be in London before Christmas. That’s what I heard Wolf say. I’ll go back then. With the winners.’
What Tomorrow Brings Page 25