by Caro Fraser
‘I can cover political developments in Europe generally, send regular pieces on German economic and military policy, and of course there would be human interest pieces, too.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Hitchcock capped his pen and sat back. ‘A European correspondent, in effect? I suppose the Reuters’ reports we get lack a personal touch. Your despatches from Spain were first-class. And certainly there’s enough going on to warrant having someone there to report first-hand.’ He glanced sharply at Dan. ‘I take it your languages are up to scratch?’
‘I studied German and French at university.’
Mr Hitchcock pondered for a moment. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll let you know in a few days.’ Dan rose and was about to leave the room when Mr Hitchcock added, ‘If I do say yes – and that’s not a given, mind – you won’t be rushing off straight away. We have too many staff on holiday in the next few weeks. I probably couldn’t let you go until mid-September.’
‘Of course.’
Dan left the office feeling hopeful. If Hitchcock recommended something, the paper’s proprietor generally went along with it.
By the end of the week, Mr Hitchcock had given his official blessing to the project. Now that there was no danger of getting involved too deeply with Eve again, since he had a ready-made exit, he telephoned her and arranged to see her. Over dinner he told her about his move.
She smiled wanly. ‘It will be good for your career. I envy you. A big adventure. Do you know anyone in Berlin?’
‘I have a friend, Rudi Lange. I met him in Germany during my Cambridge years. He’s a reporter with the Berliner Morgenpost. But that’s about it.’
‘I can put you in touch with an old schoolfriend of mine, Alice Kingsley – well, she’s Alice Bauer now, married to a diplomat. She works for the German Broadcasting Corporation. She could be useful.’
‘Thank you. I need all the contacts I can get.’
Throughout the rest of the meal Dan could sense that the news that he would be leaving London soon had prompted some kind of withdrawal in Eve. When they left the restaurant, he suggested going back to his rooms for a drink.
‘I have some new gramophone records. And of course,’ he added, leaning in and kissing her ear, ‘there are other things we can do to amuse ourselves.’
She stopped on the pavement and turned to him. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’
‘Really? That’s not what you said last time we were together.’ He put his arms around her. ‘I thought we’d renegotiated terms.’
Her dark eyes were sad. ‘They always have to be your terms, Dan. That’s the problem. I suppose I hoped things might turn out differently this time. If you weren’t going away, if we had more time… well, maybe they would. But you just want someone to keep your bed warm until you leave. After me it’ll be some hübsches Mädchen in Berlin.’ She shrugged. ‘Admit it.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘You want too much from me. I can’t offer anything more.’
‘Because you’re still in love with her? Even though she’s rejected you?’
‘It’s not a matter of choice. That’s the nature of being in love with someone. It doesn’t let go just because you want it to.’
‘That’s so true.’ After a pause she added, ‘I’ll write to Alice, and send you her details. I’m sure she’ll be happy for you to get in touch with her.’ She kissed him lightly. ‘Good luck, Dan. And be careful. Germany’s not a kind place these days. You’ll stay in touch, won’t you?’
‘I will. So long.’
She smiled. ‘So long.’ A cab was cruising the street with its yellow light on, and she hailed it and jumped in.
Dan watched the cab until it was out of sight, then turned and walked back to Bloomsbury.
*
As the date of his departure drew near, Dan realised he would have to negotiate with his landlady the possibility of having a friend take over his rooms while he was away.
When asked, Mrs Woodbead raised a doubtful eyebrow. ‘I don’t know, Mr Ranscombe – it’s not something I normally allow, not in a regular way.’
‘I promise to provide an impeccable substitute. I’d hate to have to give notice and find new digs when I come back. I doubt if I’d find such a wonderful landlady anywhere else in London.’
Dan’s flattery and winning smile had the desired effect. She folded her hands beneath her bosom, gratified. ‘Well, it’s nice to be appreciated, Mr R. There’s not many as does. I always try to do my best by my tenants, and you’ve been a good one, by and large. Better than some I’ve had.’ She affected to consider. ‘I suppose this once I could make an exception. Whoever it is would have to be respectable and quiet, and prompt with the rent, mind.’
‘You needn’t worry on that score. You’re a treasure, Mrs Woodbead. Thank you.’
But when he asked around his immediate circle of friends, no one was in need of digs. So he bought Harry a pint at the Wheatsheaf and asked him if he knew of anyone.
‘Bound to be someone,’ said Harry, taking a sip of his beer. ‘How much rent do you pay?’
‘Four pounds a month.’
Harry stuck out his lower lip. ‘That’s a fair bit.’
‘They’re decent rooms, as you know.’
‘I’ll ask around.’
‘No riff-raff, mind. Someone my landlady can stomach, and who’s good for the rent.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘And if you can find someone who wants to buy an MG Midget, that would help.’
‘All right, all right. At this rate I should be charging you commission.’
‘You still owe me five guineas for that article on Giraud.’
‘If I find you a tenant by the end of the week, are we square?’
‘I suppose so.’
Harry fished for his cigarettes. ‘So,’ he proffered the pack to Dan, ‘our man in Berlin, eh?’
‘I can’t wait. I’m itching to get where the story is. Europe’s a veritable powder-keg, if you’ll pardon the hackneyed expression. The governments of just about every nation are all kowtowing to Hitler, mainly because they don’t really understand what he’s up to.’
‘And you do?’ Harry lit their cigarettes.
‘It’s all there in Mein Kampf.’
Harry shrugged. ‘Never read it.’
‘Of course you haven’t. You’re not likely to, if you don’t know any German. There’s no decent English translation. Some Irish fellow was working on one, but the Nazi Ministry of Propaganda wouldn’t let it go ahead. They probably decided it would hinder their cause rather than help it. Anyhow, it’s quite an eye-opener. Hitler comes right out and announces that the Nazi goal is domination. The Master Race wielding a mighty sword to bring the lost regions back into the Reich, that kind of stuff. The aim is to annihilate France and then start the great drive eastwards. No one here seems to realise how serious he is.’
Harry looked thoughtful. ‘You could do a piece on that for Ire. You know, in the form of a book review.’
‘Mein Kampf was published over a decade ago, Harry.’
‘I only meant as a sort of framework. Actually, if you can find time to do the odd article for the mag while you’re over there, that would be much appreciated. Art, music. There must be a nice little cultural underground movement in Berlin right now.’
‘I don’t especially want to attract adverse attention from the authorities by writing about anti-German art and music, old man. When the Nazis don’t like a book they burn it, and you know what Heine said about that – a society that burns books will one day burn people.’
Harry gave a snort. ‘I doubt if even the Nazis would go that far.’ He got to his feet and picked up Dan’s empty glass. ‘Same again?’
*
Harry was as good as his word. Before the week was out, he informed Dan that he’d found the perfect person to take over his rooms.
‘Matter of fact, it’s someone you know. Arthur Bettany. I met him at Kleinfeld’s last Monday, and he t
old me he was being hoofed out of his digs soon. He seemed the ideal candidate, so I mentioned your place.’
Dan was mildly taken aback, but he couldn’t really find a reason to object to Bettany. In many ways, he was ideal, since Dan knew him and could vouch for him to Mrs Woodbead.
‘I suppose he’ll do. Thanks.’
‘Think nothing of it. He said he’d call you at your office to fix it all up. Now listen, don’t bugger off to Berlin without telling me. We need to arrange a farewell drink.’
*
Arthur Bettany telephoned Dan two days later, and arranged to see the rooms. He arrived a little after seven, dressed in a long gabardine mac and a trilby, and carrying a small, battered leather attaché case. He inspected the rooms, which consisted of a small bedroom-cum-study, a large, well-furnished sitting room overlooking the street, and a small back kitchen.
‘I share a bathroom with another chap on the landing, a rep for some cosmetics firm, and he’s away a lot of the time,’ Dan told him. ‘The landlady is better than most. I’ll introduce you to her later. As long as she gets the rent on time, she’ll leave you pretty well alone. She’ll give you an evening meal for sixpence extra, as long as you let her know in the morning. She always makes sure there’s a fire laid in the evening if the weather’s chilly, and she’s not stingy about coal. All in all, it’s not a bad billet. Here, have a seat.’
Arthur sat down in a red plush armchair by the window and surveyed the room. Dan studied his face. The fresh, boyish handsomeness of his school years had changed into something leaner and more angular, but with his dark, curling hair and large, intelligent eyes, he was still undoubtedly attractive. Dan couldn’t help noticing how lustrous and long his eyelashes were, almost like a girl’s.
‘How is she about visitors?’ asked Arthur. ‘You know, at night.’
‘She’s fine about that, as long as you don’t make a row. Just keep it discreet.’
Arthur nodded. ‘I think the place will do very well. When do you leave for Europe?’
‘In a fortnight. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone,’ said Dan. ‘Six months at the very least, I should think. I’ll give you plenty of notice when I’ll need the rooms back.’ Dan glanced into the street. ‘It’s a pretty handy area. I can walk to most places – work, Soho, that kind of thing.’
Arthur smiled. ‘Yes, you’re something of a Soho habitué these days.’
‘Most journalists seem to be.’ Dan paused. ‘What’s your line of work?’
‘Civil service.’
‘Funny, at school I always had you down to become a boffin, or an academic. You know, Cambridge don, that kind of thing. You were always so damned clever, picking up the mathematics prize year after year.’
Arthur smiled again, dropping his eyes to the attaché case on his lap, but made no reply.
A silence fell. Dan was very conscious that Arthur was keeping his distance. There was none of the familiarity and friendliness he might have expected from an old schoolfellow. Perhaps it was just as well. He had no real wish to know him better now.
‘Come on,’ said Dan. ‘I’ll take you to see Mrs Woodbead.’
They went downstairs to the ground floor of the house, which Mrs Woodbead occupied. Dan introduced Arthur, and as though at the flick of a switch Arthur’s reticence disappeared, and he became bright and charming. Mrs Woodbead was very taken, and the matter was settled. Arthur would move in the day after Dan left.
*
A couple of weeks later Dan ran into Guy at Bellamy’s.
They chatted for a while over drinks, exchanging news about Guy’s racing venture and Dan’s forthcoming departure for Germany.
‘By the way,’ remarked Guy, ‘I heard yesterday that Meg Latimer has had her baby. A boy. To be called Maximilian, apparently.’
‘Really? I must send my congratulations.’ Dan drained his whisky. ‘Another drink?’
So, there it was, thought Dan as he signalled to the steward. The final door had closed. Being a mother would now be the most important thing in her life. He and Meg might as well never have been. She and Paul and Maximilian – what a name; he only hoped they would have the sense to refer to him as Max – were a family now, and Meg would do her utmost to make it all work, and to keep her son safe and secure. Good luck to the little blighter. If it weren’t for the baby, he reflected, he and Meg would probably be together now, instead of at an unbridgeable distance.
*
Three weeks later Dan arrived in Berlin. He had arranged to meet his old friend Rudi Lange in the bar of the Adlon Hotel. Rudi was a stocky, cheerful, sandy-haired twenty-six-year-old, wearing a Bavarian-cut sports coat and a squat hat worn at a jaunty angle. The two hadn’t met for five years and had a lot to catch up on.
After a couple of drinks, Rudi announced he was hungry. ‘The dining room here is too expensive. I know a little place not far away. Come on.’
Rudi took Dan to Café Protze, a shabby little restaurant in the shadow of the S-Bahn railway viaduct, and ordered beers and plates of pig’s knuckle with sauerkraut.
‘Not bad grub, eh?’ said Rudi, wolfing his food down.
Dan had to agree that the fatty hock in its thin gravy tasted better than it looked. He glanced around as he ate. On one wall of the café hung a large picture of the Führer, and on another a printed notice with the admonition, Always give the Hitler Salute!
Rudi caught his eye and winked. ‘There’s a police station just round the corner. The Kripo come in here a lot.’ He nodded in the direction of the fat, balding proprietor cleaning glasses behind the counter. ‘Old Protze has to play up his commitment to National Socialism. He used to be a Kozi in the old days – you know, a bit of a red. He doesn’t want anyone to remember.’ Rudi wiped his plate with a piece of bread. ‘Everyone in Germany was someone different before March nineteen thirty-three.’
When their plates had been cleared away they ordered coffee and sat talking over the times, old and new.
‘Berlin seems to have changed a lot since I was here as a student,’ observed Dan. ‘All that Nazi regalia, loudspeakers on lamp-posts. And everyone looks so poor.’
‘It’s a dump, if you ask me,’ said Rudi. ‘There’s no good food in the shops, everyone is fed up queuing for everything. You can’t even get a decent suit – all the cloth is made out of wood pulp. They make petrol out of coal, rubber out of coal and lime.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s the price you pay for trying to become a self-sufficient nation.’
‘So why do people go along with it all? Can’t they see that Hitler and Göring and the rest of them are just thugs?’
Rudi glanced at nearby tables. ‘Nicht so laut. That’s the first lesson you need to learn, my old friend – always speak well of der Führer. You don’t want the Gestapo opening a file on you.’ He signalled for the bill. ‘Come on, let’s taste a bit of nightlife.’
They walked the damp streets in search of a taxi.
‘I used to go to the cinema in the evenings,’ remarked Rudi, ‘but not so much now. I can’t stand those endless newsreels of the rallies. It’s bad enough having to salute when the fucking Reichswehr march past. You know we have radio wardens who go round checking people are listening every time there’s a party broadcast? It’s our civic duty to listen.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Dan.
‘The X Bar. It’s an illegal jazz club that I know.’
‘Illegal how?’
‘The Nazis don’t allow what they called negro jazz. But there are still bands who play it. That is, they sandwich American hits in between the opening and closing chords of acceptable Aryan numbers. You just have to know the right places. I’m a big jazz fan.’
Dan refrained from telling Rudi that he wasn’t.
Rounding a corner they passed a glass magazine display, and Dan glanced at its contents and stopped dead in his tracks. There on the cover of a newspaper was a crude drawing depicting a white-coated doctor with a swarthy, hook-nosed face, gloating over the fainting form of
a naked blonde girl. In his hand was a gigantic syringe, and above in bold script were the words GERMAN WOMEN – THE JEWS ARE YOUR DESTRUCTION!
‘Der Stürmer,’ said Rudi. ‘Pretty sick propaganda, eh? I’ve seen worse covers than that. What’s funny is the SA took all these display cases down in the summer of the Olympics, so as not to shock the sensibilities of foreigners. Yet it’s the kind of thing my Jewish friends have to see day in, day out.’ Rudi caught sight of a taxi and whistled it down. ‘Here we go! Jump in. Let’s go and have some fun.’
After the jazz club Dan invited Rudi back to the Adlon for a nightcap. At eleven, the bar was still busy. Rudi spotted someone he knew, and disappeared for a moment, returning with a bespectacled, balding man with a moustache and a round, serious face.
‘Dan, I want you to meet a very illustrious man – Bill Shirer, of CBS News. Bill, this is my friend, Dan Ranscombe of the London Graphic.’ The two men shook hands, and Rudi signalled to the bartender for three beers.
‘Are you planning to cover Hitler’s meeting with Chamberlain at Godesberg?’ Dan asked Shirer.
‘Of course.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘I think the British and the French will sell the Czechs down the river, ask them to surrender unconditionally to Hitler and turn the Sudetens over to Germany.’
‘The Czechs won’t accept it. They’ll fight alone,’ said Rudi.
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Shirer. ‘I’m pretty disgusted with the whole mess. Watching the mighty British Empire going begging to Hitler is not an edifying sight.’ He caught Dan’s expression. ‘Not my words. It’s what the papers are saying.’ He raised his glass. ‘Anyway, here’s to the Czechs, good luck to them. But they should prepare for a sell-out.’
They talked on, discussing the events in Prague, trading views on whether war was imminent or not, all agreeing it was inevitable. Dan warmed to Shirer. He was shrewd and knowledgeable, and clearly a journalist of great integrity.
‘How long have you been in Germany?’ Dan asked him.
‘Four years,’ replied Shirer.