There Is No Going Home

by Madalyn Morgan

  Shortly afterwards, the landlord arrived with a mug of coffee and a plate of ham and pickle sandwiches. ‘A drop of Teacher’s,’ he said. Winking at Ena he put a tumbler with a good three measures of whisky in it on the table. ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he said, and leaving the remainder of a quarter bottle of scotch, he left.

  Ena took off her coat and dropped it on the bed next to her scarf and gloves. She went over to the small table, to the mug of coffee and took a sip. It was hot and strong. She was hungry and took a bite of a sandwich.

  With the second sandwich in her hand, she kicked off her shoes, and picked up the briefcase. Eyeing it with suspicion, Ena put down the sandwich, and took the key from her pocket. Holding her breath she inserted the key into the brass keyhole. She turned it, pressed, and the finger-lock sprang open. Lifting the leather flap, her stomach churned in anticipation of what she might find.

  From the first compartment in the briefcase she pulled out a large brown envelope with 1936 written across the front. Extracting a number of 8 by 10inch type written pages from the envelope, a hand-written note fell to the floor. She picked it up.

  Dear Ena, I hope one day you will be able to forgive me. Perhaps when you read the contents of this envelope it will go some way to helping you understand why I did what I did.

  Ena didn’t finish her sandwich. Instead she picked up the glass of Scotch, sat back and began to read.

  I wasn’t always a grey man; someone who went home every night to a pipe and slippers; a bachelor who lived at home with his elderly widowed mother. I was once a good-looking chap with an eye for the girls - and the girls liked me too. I had a sharp wit and an inquisitive mind. I wanted to know everything and experience everything. That need in me contributed to my downfall. I understand moderation now. My God Ena, I am now the most moderate man I know. But in those days, university at the age of seventeen - a year younger than my peers - I had it all, or thought I did. I had a rotten childhood. Not that I’m apportioning any part of the mess I find myself in directly to my parents. Some chaps had a far worse time of it than me and got on with it. No, my parents did their poor best. Perhaps I should explain…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  My father was in the Diplomatic Corps stationed in Berlin and, not that you would know it now, my mother lectured in Politics and Humanities at the University of Berlin. Mother hated Berlin with a passion. She disliked most things. She didn’t appear to like my father much, or me for that matter. When I was twelve and my sister eight, my mother walked out on my father. I didn’t mind her leaving him. They hadn’t spoken for months, unless it was to argue. What I did mind was, she returned to England, took my sister with her, and left me in Berlin with Father. My father was wrapped up in his work and Mother didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. I suspect she only took my sister to England with her because of how it would look if she hadn’t. I didn’t know that at the time. I thought she had taken my sister because she was a good child and left me behind because I was bad.

  My parents were ambitious and enormously competitive. It’s no wonder their union was an unhappy one. But I digress. My father was too busy to look after me, so I was packed off to boarding school outside Berlin on the River Spree.

  While I was there I met Walter Voight. It was spring half-term and my father was going to be away on business. Walter said I could spend the half-term with him and his family and I jumped at the chance. That was the first time I met Frieda and it was love at first sight, for me at least. I was thirteen, a teenager, and thought I was a man. In Frieda’s company I felt like a man.

  Walter and Frieda were an odd brother and sister. She was very possessive of him. Of me too. It was as if we were both her friends. For the most part the three of us had fun together. It was around that time that Walter introduced me to Hitler Youth. We now know how insane those chaps were, but when I was a kid at school, it all seemed a bit of a hoot. I didn’t understand what the youth movement stood for. I was just happy that at last I had friends; I belonged.

  As I said, Walter introduced me to his chums and they became my chums. They told me Adolf Hitler was going to get Germany out of the financial trouble it was in. They said he was going to make the Fatherland great again, that the Jews where crippling the country, and they were going to be sent to live and work elsewhere. Elsewhere? I was naïve, or stupid - or both. Either way, I didn’t understand the implications of any of it, then.

  In 1930 my father became ill with a nervous disorder. He told me it was because he had been over-working. I didn’t realise how serious it was until he resigned from his job. That year we returned to England. Father and Mother lived in the same house, our original family home, but kept to their own quarters as Father called them. Again I felt like the odd one out, the one in the middle who was always in the way.

  My parents lived together for appearance’s sake. My sister didn’t understand, or if she did she didn’t care because both my parents lavished attention on her. I, on the other hand, was lonely. I had experienced friendships and love and was utterly miserable. I couldn’t wait to get to university and live in rooms.

  I was President of the Students’ Union in my final year at Cambridge and a regular contributor to the Varsity newspaper. Because I had a knack of writing witty narrative and of spicing things up by exaggerating slightly, the readership grew. When I finished at Cambridge, in the summer of thirty-five, I got a job with The Times. My mother was amazed and for the first time in her life she bragged about me to her friends. I think she was actually proud of me. I didn’t tell her that I was only a court reporter and the job was as boring as hell, because I was enjoying being the favoured child for a while. Again, I digress.

  I can’t remember how it came about, but after I’d been working at the paper for about six months I told my section editor that I hoped one day to be a foreign affairs correspondent. He laughed and said I would have to wait ten years. However, it wasn’t long afterwards that I was writing up a story about a shop lifter, or some other petty criminal, when the editor-in-chief called me into his office.

  He was reading a file. I could see my name on it. He put down the first page and I saw my mother and father’s names on the second. His eyebrows rose. That Father had been in the Diplomatic Corps and Mother had lectured at the University of Berlin had obviously impressed him.

  I told him I was educated in Berlin - at a boarding school - and that I spoke fluent German.

  He had my curriculum vitae in front of him, so he already knew I had been a reporter and editor of the Varsity newspaper at Cambridge.

  When he said my section editor had told him I wanted to be a foreign correspondent, I could only nod. The nerves in my stomach were as tight as violin strings. He said he liked a man with ambition. I tried to smile at the compliment, but the muscles in my face had turned to stone. Then he said my wish may be granted sooner than I thought because the eleventh Olympic Games were being held in Berlin next year.

  The editor-in-chief sat back in his plush leather chair and stared at me. I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt like a desert and my breathing came in short excited gasps. My mouth was open, so I closed it. I tried not to show too much enthusiasm, but I could hardly believe what I was hearing. He slapped his hand on the file and said he would get his secretary to sort out the practicalities. He said with forty-nine countries competing she would need to find me a hotel pretty soon, or there would be no room at the inn. He laughed at his own joke. He said I would not be residing in a five-star hotel off Alexandrerplatz, but I’d be down-town with the other newspaper men.

  He asked me if I had any plans for Next August. I said I hadn’t but if I had I would un-plan them. He put up his hand, shook his head slowly, and said I mustn’t do that because that kind of thing would get me noticed. It was then that I tuned in more seriously. He said it was vital that I treated the Olympics like any other sports tournament. He told me to read every sports report I could find, especially the reports coveri
ng the last two Olympic Games, because when I got to Berlin I had to be a hard-nosed sports hack - a fanatic.

  I needed to be there in advance of the opening ceremony, to get acclimatised the chief said. He also said he was waiting for information on the political situation with Herr Hitler before he agreed for me or anyone from The Times to go. He warned me that Hitler was stirring up trouble and asked me how I felt about going into a situation that could be dangerous. He said as a newspaper reporter the danger will be less, but said I needed to be fully aware of the potential danger.

  The chief stood up and looked me in the eyes. My cue to leave, I thought, and held his gaze. I got to my feet. I wanted this job. I wanted it badly and I told him so. I reiterated that I was fluent in German and told him that because my hair was fair and my eyes blue, I was often taken for German when I was at boarding school. I could see by the frown on his face that I hadn’t impressed him by telling him what I now realise he already knew. I put out my hand to let him know I was leaving. He shook it and told me we’d speak again nearer the time, and said the conversation we’d just had was strictly between the two of us.

  Three months later, the longest three months of my life, I was called into the editor-in-chief’s office again. He said, as for The Times foreign correspondent reporting on the eleventh Olympic Games, the job was mine and the flight to Berlin had been arranged. His secretary had organised my press pass and ticket, which I would be given in due course. He also told me I would be briefed by someone from military intelligence before I left.

  REPORT WHAT’S HAPPENING IN THE GAMES - AND WHAT IS BEING SAID IN THE BARS AND RESTAURANTS ABOUT THE NAZI PARTY - TO RUPERT HIGHSMITH. IF YOU HEAR ANYING AT ALL ABOUT CHANCELLOR HITLER GET IT TO HIM IMMEDIATELY. (A DROP WILL BE ARRANGED BEFORE YOU LEAVE.) KEEP YOUR EYES AND EARS OPEN. FREQUENT THE PLACES STUDENTS, MILITANTS, EXTREMISTS AND RADICALS DO. USE BITTE AND DANKE - AND THE GREETINGS TOURISTS USE - BUT DO LET ANYONE KNOW YOU SPEAK THE LANGUAGE. THEN YOU WILL HAVE THE ADVANTAGE. YOU WILL KNOW WHAT THEY ARE SAYING, BUT THEY WON’T KNOW IT, SO THEY’LL SPEAK FREELY IN FRONT OF YOU.

  DESTROY THIS NOTE. ENJOY THE GAMES.

  BERLIN 1936

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  (Sidney Parfitt’s Journal 1936)

  DAY ONE. ARRIVE IN BERLIN

  Waiting to leave the plane I had a feeling of foreboding. It was like going back to my childhood. I was overwhelmed by sadness and loneliness, which was what I had felt for most of my young life. I was excited too. For the next few weeks I would be working alongside journalists from all over the world. A year ago at Cambridge I played at journalism, scraping together enough news to fill the Varsity newspaper. Now, I am a foreign correspondent; a sports reporter in Berlin about to cover the eleventh Olympiad. A wave of trepidation surged through me. I loosened my tie and the collar of my shirt.

  Wide eyed and with all memories of my childhood consigned to the back of my mind, I gazed in awe at the modern steel structure: the hangar arch of the new Tempelhof Airport, the biggest building I had ever seen. I wondered if I was in the right country, let alone city, but then this was the dream child of Chancellor Hitler and his Nazi party. The aeroplane hangar that had purported to be an airport when I left Berlin as a teenage boy had been replaced by a magnificent building shaped like a giant eagle made of natural stone cladding, steel and glass.

  ‘Papers?’ an airport official, the height and size of a heavyweight boxer, bellowed.

  I was miles away, lost in the splendour set before me. Fishing in the inside pocket of my overcoat I provided the official with passport, travel permit, job permit and ID from The Times that said Sports Journalist to cover the 1936 Olympic Games. He waved me on. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

  A low truck with an equally low but long trailer carrying cases sped past. I felt a riptide of air whoosh past me and I darted out of its way. A sign saying luggage collection had an arrow pointing to the left and I followed it with the rest of the aeroplane’s twenty passengers.

  I found my cases quickly and set off to passport control. A burly man with staring eyes, his face devoid of any emotion scrutinised my documents and asked me half a dozen times why I was in Berlin. Pretending not to speak the language other than schoolboy German, I kept pointing to the pass that said Olympic Games - Journalist. Unimpressed, the oaf patted me down, stuck his plate of a hand between my legs, and then rummaged through both of my suitcases. Finally he gave me a sharp nod. So much for paying my sister a small fortune to iron my shirts, I thought, as I stuffed them back into my cases.

  I nodded back at him and hauled the bulging cases to the new arrivals hall where a sign said Wilkommen zu Berlin.

  ‘Sidney?’ I jumped. I could have sworn I heard someone call my name. I looked around but saw no one I recognised. It couldn’t have been me they were calling, no one knew I was in Berlin except the paper’s editor-in-chief and my section editor. It had taken an age to get a visa. Confirmation of my secondment to Berlin had been a last-minute thing. I only knew myself a few days before I left.

  ‘Sidney?’ Someone called again. ‘Hier drüben. Over here,’ they shouted, as I headed towards the taxi rank.

  I turned again, this time irritated because I was eager to get to my hotel. Then I saw him. I had to look twice. To my astonishment, standing and waving at the front of the crowd of people waiting at the arrivals barrier, was Walter Voight, my old school chum, with a beautiful woman on his arm.

  ‘Good Lord!’ I said, heading over to him, ‘it’s Walter, isn’t it, Walter Voight?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ducking under the barrier and flinging his arms around me. When he had finished hugging me, he took a step back and looked me up and down. ‘You look well, my friend. You look very well.’

  ‘I am… Thank you,’ I said, as the gorgeous creature that had been standing with Walter arrived at his side.

  ‘You remember Frieda, my sister?’

  ‘Frieda?’ Frieda smiled at me and put out her hand. When I took hold if it, I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. It was love at first sight all over again. I managed to say hello and I shook her hand for rather longer than was necessary or decent. One look at Frieda Voight and I was back to being an adolescent school boy. I cleared my throat.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Sidney Parfitt,’ she said huskily.

  I stood in the middle of Arrivals with my mouth open. ‘I think I am in shock,’ I said, when I eventually found my voice. I muttered something indistinguishable which ended with, ‘to see you too.’

  Frieda laughed. ‘Come, Sidney, let us go to your hotel. We will first drop off your cases, and then we will go out and have fun.’

  ‘My car is parked twenty metres away,’ Walter informed me, as we left the airport, ‘I shall fetch it and you will wait here with Frieda,’ he said, taking my cases out of my hands as if he was lifting two feathers. Leaving me blushing and tongue-tied with Frieda, he strode off to get his car.

  Walter returned in a sporty looking red and black Horch cabriolet. My suitcases were on the front passenger seat, so Frieda and I scrambled into the back. The car was even smaller on the inside than it looked from the outside. Frieda sat sideways on to me, her skirt rucked up above her knees. She looked at me shyly.

  I felt positively prepubescent. I could feel wave after wave of embarrassing flushes creeping up my neck. Walter swung the car round a corner and Frieda fell against me. Her scent, strong and cloying, went to my head.

  ‘To a bar or to your hotel?’ Walter shouted above the roar of the car’s engine as he accelerated.

  ‘I had better sign into the hotel first and take my cases to my room,’ I shouted back at him. I needed to change too. I had been in the clothes I was wearing since early morning.’

  ‘The hotel it is then!’

  ‘This looks like a bit of a dive, as you say in England,’ Frieda said, as her brother brought the Horch to a halt outside the Olympisches Gästehaus off Potsdamer Platz.

  ‘My paper booked it,’ I s
aid, ‘I might find somewhere else later, but it will do for now.’

  Frieda was right. From the outside the hotel, or rather guest house, did look a bit of a dive. Part of its facade was stucco and part was brick. It had obviously been damaged in the war and repaired, or rebuilt, on the cheap - a total contrast to what I had seen of Berlin so far. The windows were tall and narrow. They looked as though they hadn’t been cleaned for a decade. They probably hadn’t.

  Walter and Frieda followed me into the hotel’s foyer. The inside was no better than the outside. Wall hangings covered what I expect were cracks, the grey tiled floor needed a good scrub and the receptionist looked a hundred years old. I signed the register and was given a key. The woman clicked her fingers and a scruffy looking bellboy appeared.

  The boy carried my suitcases up narrow stairs with a threadbare carpet to the first floor - there was no lift. After unlocking the door and placing my cases inside the room, he touched his hat. I had no small change and gave him a mark. He made no attempt to leave, but stood and stared at the coin in his hand.

  ‘Oh, Sidney,’ Walter teased, putting his arm round the bellboy’s shoulders, ‘You have given the young man far too much money. He will now never let you out of his sight.’ The lad smiled, said Danke, and bowed.

  Aware that I shouldn’t appear too fluent in front of the boy, I mumbled a half-hearted Bitte, without an East German accent.

  Frieda, first to enter the room, looked down her nose. ‘This room is not good,’ she said. ‘You must come and stay with Walter and me. He must, mustn’t he, Walter?’

  ‘Of course. We have a spare room that you would be welcome to use.’