I raised my camera to my eye, ready to take a photo. It would make a good shot, as a contrast to the war preparations, but the policeman put his hand in front of the lens. ‘Verboten,’ he growled, and scared that he might confiscate my camera, I said ‘sorry’ and put it away in my bag. But it was too good to miss, so moving round through the small crowd until I was out of the policeman’s sightline I took a few shots of the bride and groom. We were kept waiting for a few more minutes until the guest of honour arrived and as he stepped out of his car an excited ripple of chatter came from the crowd. He was a plump air force officer, in a light blue uniform, and someone I recognised from the last time I was in Berlin. Amyas had been talking to him as he left the dining room that last morning.
‘Hermann Göring,’ someone behind me breathed, and suddenly there was a round of spontaneous applause. The Reich Minister turned to the crowd with a beaming smile and gave a wave, before disappearing into the hotel. I caught that wave on my camera and the reaction of the crowd.
Thrilled with the photographs, I walked back towards the Adlon and the Brandenburg Gate. I passed the street I’d taken to cross the river to where Sarah and Kitty lived, but I could see soldiers guarding the bridge and I walked on. On the plane I’d half considered trying to get into the Jewish sector to try and find Sarah, but this morning, at breakfast, there was much talk about one of our colleagues who had gone into the Mitte district and been arrested.
‘It’s not worth the candle,’ bellowed Wilf. ‘They’re too scared to talk to you even if you can get in and then you’re in danger from the SS. I mean, we’ve all got minders, haven’t you noticed?’
I knew I had. When I’d gone up to my room last night, the man who was hovering in the corridor watched me all the way to my door and I remembered that on our last visit to Berlin I’d been followed. What if, when I went down for breakfast, somebody searched my room? I thought of von Klausen offering to get my photos developed; he wanted to know what shots I’d taken and I was sure he would destroy them if he could. With him in mind I’d used up all the film in my camera before getting into bed. Putting the exposed reels in an envelope, I slept with them under my pillow. At breakfast I’d given the reels to Wilf. ‘You’re going home today, aren’t you?’ I asked. ‘Can you take this film with you and drop it in at my office? I know we’re rivals but I’ve got shots of von Klausen and my sister and I have a feeling that he won’t want me to take them out of Germany.’ I didn’t feel a bit guilty about not telling him that the film also contained pictures of one of our politicians as well as Göring and the Nazi bride and groom; we were friends, yes, but worked for different papers.
‘No problem, dear thing. I’ll get it out for you.’
There’d been no sign of Paul at breakfast and he hadn’t been in the bar last night. I wondered if he’d already left, but when I came back to the hotel, at about three o’clock, he was there, standing by the elephant fountain in the lobby. He looked furtive and was obviously waiting for someone. I glanced over to the reception desk where a man loitered, reading a newspaper. I didn’t recognise him as the man who had been on my corridor, so he was probably watching Paul. Suddenly Paul looked up. He’d spotted a man coming into the hotel through the main entrance. This had to be his contact. It took me no time to walk over to the reception desk and ask for my key and, retrieving it, I turned and deliberately barged into the watcher.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, bending to pick up his glasses, which had fallen off his nose, and in straightening up I managed to knock into him again. He stumbled and in that moment I sneaked a look at Paul and saw him take a scrap of paper from a man who walked past him and didn’t stop.
‘Are you all right, Fräulein?’ The receptionist hurried around the desk. She made no enquiry of the secret policeman who was now looking furiously around the lobby for Paul. I had a feeling that despite the general acceptance of the way the Nazi government operated, there were some in this hotel who despised the fact that their guests were being watched.
‘I’m fine,’ I smiled. ‘Just clumsy.’
I went to my room, wondering what Paul had been up to, and smiled. Nothing legal, probably. I shook my head and settled down to type up my impressions of the city and to polish the earlier article I’d started to write about the picnic. When I came down later, I found Paul waiting for me in the bar. We took our drinks to a table on the other side of the room, away from the main crush of journalists. ‘Thank you,’ he said when we were sitting down. ‘I saw what you did. I was getting information from a contact and it would have gone badly for him if he had been seen.’
That set me thinking. Charlie had given me a couple of names and the address and the phone number of Dieter and Rachel, with whom we’d had dinner on my last visit to Berlin. I’ll call them later, I promised myself. ‘So,’ I turned my mind back to Paul. ‘You got some useful stuff?’
‘Possibly,’ he said carefully. ‘There is an internment camp near Oranienburg, which is about twenty miles north of here. It is for political prisoners, since three years, but now the SS is stepping it up to take in more people.’ His expression changed. ‘People for whom it is a crime simply to exist.’
I nodded, understanding.
‘The camp is called Sachsenhausen,’ Paul continued, ‘and I think I might go to that area and have a look.’
‘You’re mad,’ I said. ‘You won’t get anywhere near it, and if you do, you’ll be arrested.’
Paul laughed, brushing his dark hair away from his face in a boyish gesture. ‘It is a risk, I suppose, but these days just living is a risk and I am careful. But to be a foreign correspondent and get good information you must be prepared for an escapade. Did not your time in Spain teach you that? I know you found excitement in the mountains. Even that night in the cave was an adventure, yes?’ His grin widened. ‘Do not worry for me, big sister Seffy. Have another drink and relax.’ He got up and, taking our glasses, wandered towards the bar.
I looked around to see who else was in the lounge. I recognised many of my colleagues who were drifting in after a day of chasing up stories. I waved to the reporter who’d pronounced that he knew where all the best bars were and was surprised to see that the balding man, who’d written about my sister, was busy chatting to a young woman. I wondered if she was another, like Xanthe, who was dazzled by the Nazi regime. Paul’s watcher was sitting at another table, barely disguising who he was and what he was doing. It was the boldness and utter disregard of liberty that I found shocking about this country. While I was waiting for Paul I took out my notebook and wrote down a few key points for the article I intended to write on the subject.
‘Fräulein Seffy.’ I looked up, startled, to see von Klausen standing above me. I hadn’t heard him approach and I could see that he was reading my notes over my shoulder. Standing up, I snapped my notebook shut and said, ‘Wolf. What a surprise.’ I looked beyond him into the room, expecting to see Xanthe, but she wasn’t there.
‘Is Xanthe with you?’ I asked.
‘Unfortunately, no.’ Von Klausen gave one of his icy smiles. ‘She has gone with friends on a short holiday to Bavaria. The city heat doesn’t suit her, so I thought a little mountain air would be good for her. But she sent her best wishes to you and I am here to deliver them.’
‘She seemed all right yesterday,’ I said, frowning. ‘Quite well, actually and she always enjoys hot weather. I was hoping to see her again.’
‘Yes, I know you were, but perhaps she didn’t want to see you.’
‘What?’
This time the smile was not in evidence when von Klausen, his voice glacially cold, said, ‘I think, Fräulein, that you have an upsetting effect on your sister. You give her ideas. Wrong ideas, which we must endeavour to reform.’
I began to feel afraid for Xanthe. What had he done to her and where was she? I swallowed, and clutched my notebook close to my body so that he wouldn’t see the slight tremor in my hands. ‘Major von Klausen,’ I said, putting on my most imperiou
s tone and looking down my nose at him. ‘I don’t know what you can possibly mean and I insist that you give me her address. Our family in London are concerned about her, and so am I.’
‘Your mother in America? Is she concerned? One would think not.’ His cold blue eyes drilled into mine and it took all of my control not to give him a slap. This monster had hit Xanthe who, despite my differences with her, was still my little sister and I yearned to hit him back. And now, added to his obvious brutality, he’d spirited her away.
‘Her address, Major. I want it.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that.’ He smiled only with his lips. ‘The friends she is with haven’t communicated yet.’
‘What friends? Who are her friends?’
‘They are my friends.’ The finality with which he said it convinced me that I wasn’t going to get any more out of him. Frustrated, I picked up my bag and turned, planning to walk away and join Paul at the bar, but Paul, drinks in hand, was approaching.
‘Seffy,’ he said. He must have noticed my white face, for he added, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Shall we take our drinks and join the others?’ The others, I noticed, had turned to look at me, seeing that there was a confrontation going on and, being journalists, eager to find out more. Paul was soon followed by one or two of the others, who had spoken to von Klausen the evening before and were anxious to continue asking questions. But I wasn’t keen to make this into a general interview and took Paul’s arm. ‘Come on,’ I urged. ‘The atmosphere here is becoming toxic.’ I shot von Klausen a glance as I spoke the last word.
The major interrupted with a little cough. ‘Don’t go before you’ve introduced me to your friend, Fräulein Seffy. Mein Gott, but you do collect young men.’
I would have hit him then, but Paul interposed his body between us. He put the drinks on the table and held out his hand. ‘Paul Durban,’ he said.
‘Ah, another foreign correspondent. A citizen of France and,’ von Klausen looked at him with a calculating gleam in his eye, ‘also one, I believe, who had adventures in Spain.’
‘Yes, over a year ago.’
I was nervous for Paul, wondering how much von Klausen knew about our escape from Spain. But, it turned out, it wasn’t much.
‘So, perhaps you were the mysterious “another” who assisted Charles Bradford and Fräulein Seffy in their escape?’
‘No.’ Paul shook his head. ‘I was in hospital, as, no doubt, your contacts will confirm. They will also tell you that, like so much of Spain, Sort was overflowing with reporters – it could have been any one of them. Or anyone else, civilian or military.’ He grinned. ‘You know, Major, we were all very anxious to report on what happened to the enemies of Franco’s Fascist regime. It wasn’t very pleasant. And we know that it is happening here as well, is it not, even before a war is declared.’
There was an intake of breath from the listening reporters. Paul Durban was being utterly reckless, far more so than any of the rest of us would have been.
This last remark seemed to get through, because von Klausen straightened up, adjusted his collar and said, in a voice dripping with poison, ‘Perhaps, for you Herr Durban and you too, Fräulein Seffy, it’s time you left Germany, unless, of course, you’d like to witness personally what happens to the enemies of our regime.’ There was a fanatical gleam in his eye when he added, ‘Our glorious Third Reich.’ With that he turned smartly and left.
‘Merde!’ said Paul, collapsing into his chair and picking up his drink. ‘That is a very frightening man.’
‘Yes, he is,’ I answered, scared for my stupid sister. ‘Paul, you must be careful. You’ve made an enemy of von Klausen. He won’t rest until he gets you. You should leave Berlin.’
‘Should I? Should I take the easy road? Not care that men, men like me, are sent to camps, humiliated and killed?’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot do that, Seffy. I will bring it to the daylight. I will make an exposé.’
I was angry with him. ‘Don’t you care that you might get killed?’
‘No,’ he said simply, and drank his vermouth.
Later, I refused Paul’s invitation to dinner. ‘I have something I must do.’
‘D’you want me to come with you?’
I shook my head, smiling. ‘No, can’t let you scoop me. I’ll be fine.’ I was planning to go and see Dieter and Rachel and I went to my room and studied my map of Berlin. It seemed that the address Charlie had given me wasn’t far away, on a small street off Unter der Linden. I picked up the phone thinking I would call them first and then another thought struck me and I put it down, quickly. Maybe my calls were being listened to, I thought; it wouldn’t really be surprising, so I put on my coat and went downstairs and through the lobby. My watcher followed me into a café where I bought and paid for coffee and a pastry. After a few minutes I got up and went to the toilet, leaving my half-eaten pastry on my plate, hoping he’d think I was coming back. It seemed that he did, for when I skipped out of the back door, which was beside the toilet, he wasn’t following me.
I found the flat quite easily. It was on the second floor of a block and when I rang the doorbell, I felt pleased with myself. I was following up on a contact.
My ring took a long time to be answered, but eventually the door half opened and Dieter’s face looked out. He stared at me as though I was a ghost.
‘Persephone Blake,’ I smiled. ‘I’m a friend of Charlie Bradford. He told me to look you up.’
He said nothing but continued to stare at me. ‘I met you and your wife last time I was in Berlin,’ I said, now getting nervous under his unflinching gaze. ‘Surely you remember.’
Finally he spoke. ‘You were followed?’ He pushed past me and looked into the corridor. There was no one.
‘No. I shook him off.’ I hoped that it was true, but I said it with certainty. He held the door wider and jerked his head into the hallway of his flat.
‘Come in.’
The sight which greeted me was appalling. The room was a mess. Cupboards were hanging open and papers were spread all over the floor. The cushions of the sofa had been upended, a lamp turned over, and from the living room I could see through to the kitchen, which was in a similar state.
‘My God!’ I whispered. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Can you not guess?’ he said. ‘They have been here. The security police.’ He picked up a handful of papers and stood with them in his hand, looking at the destruction. ‘I came home and it was like this.’
‘But why?’ I asked, looking around the room, at the slanted pictures and the mirror which had been roughly pulled off the wall and was lying smashed in the fireplace. ‘Why would they do this?’
He muttered something in German and then banged his fist against the wall.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Because they can, because they do what they want to.’ His voice was rising, getting hysterical, and I put a hand on his arm. He shook it off and looked hard into my face. ‘This country is governed by evil men.’
‘Where’s Rachel? Where is your wife?’ I asked, looking round.
‘Rachel? My Rachel?’ Dieter stared at me, with glittering eyes which seemed to burn in his white, distraught face. ‘Do you ask me where my Rachel is? I tell you. She has gone. Taken, two weeks ago. And I cannot discover where they are keeping her.’ Then, to my dismay, tears began to roll down his cheeks and he started to sob like a child while I stood, awkwardly, watching him. I didn’t know what to do.
‘Sit,’ I said after a few moments. Putting the sofa back together, I pushed him down on to it. In the kitchen I found a bottle of aquavit. Pouring a large slug, I took it back to the living room and put it into his trembling hand.
‘Excuse me,’ he said eventually, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. ‘I have felt fear for many days. Going to the police station, every day, to ask about my wife and having to listen to those pigs laugh and say they are sorry for me that I have a Jew wife. “How can you bea
r it,” they say, “how can you sleep in the same bed as a Jew?”’ A sigh shuddered through him and he took a deep draught. ‘Until now I keep my strength, because I need it to find her, but this . . .’ He spread his hands towards the littered floor. ‘Now I am broken.’
I went back into the kitchen and found another glass and, bringing the bottle with me, sat beside him. ‘Tell me about Rachel.’ I wondered if I was treading on dangerous territory but he seemed glad to talk about her.
‘She went,’ he gulped, ‘to see her mother. In the Jewish sector. She has gone every week and thought that the guards would know her. I think they did, but two weeks ago she did not come home. I went to try and find her, but they would not let me through. I showed my press card, I said who I was.’ He shook his head. ‘It made no difference.’
‘Well, where has she gone?’ I asked, baffled. ‘Can they take people who’ve done nothing wrong?’
Even as I said it I knew I was being ridiculous. Hadn’t Kitty said that some of her friends’ parents had been taken. What wrong had they done? ‘My friend says there’s a camp at Sachsenhausen. Maybe she’s there. It’s about twenty miles north of Berlin.’
‘They have many camps!’ Dieter shouted, looking at me as though I was an idiot. ‘They have arrested so many people. People who have done nothing. Don’t you understand? Rachel is a Jew. Do you know the hell we live in?’
If I hadn’t before, I certainly did now and I was ashamed of myself for even asking the question. I knew what was going on in Germany. God knows I’d had enough examples. Charlie had told me a year ago about the arrests and my assignment in Spain had opened my eyes to the inhumanities that people can inflict on each other. There was Paul, talking about concentration camps, and Kitty and Sarah, and even Jacob. And then, on the other side, there were von Klausen and Heydrich, who were more terrifying than anyone I’d ever met. But despite all of it, I’d held myself aloof. Thinking, barely on a conscious level, that my class and money would insulate me from all of it. I was ashamed.
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