by Caro Fraser
‘There’s no one Bill doesn’t know,’ said Rudi proudly. ‘And that includes Hitler’s top brass. He even goes drinking with them.’
‘Really?’ Dan was surprised. ‘Hardly the most salubrious company.’
Shirer gave him a sharp look. ‘Without knowing those men, you can’t begin to understand what’s happening here.’
‘Of course, as a reporter one naturally has to be close to the heart of things. But – socialising?’
‘If you want to be an effective correspondent, you can’t be choosy. For instance, when I found out that Rosenberg, the head of Nazi Foreign Affairs, was holding regular beer evenings, I made a point of going along. Rosenberg himself is a crack-brained, doughy-faced dolt, but thanks to his Bierabende I’ve got to know Göring, Hess, Ribbentrop, Himmler, the whole clambake. They’re a repulsive bunch of misfits, but they’re the men closest to Hitler. They execute the Führer’s every command, and those commands determine every facet of life in the Third Reich.’
Shirer’s hard-boiled approach was chastening. ‘So, what are they like?’ asked Dan, genuinely curious.
‘Göring’s a fat swashbuckler who likes dressing up and throwing big parties. But he’s powerful – probably the most powerful man around Hitler. He’s a crude kind of a guy, but the people love his sense of humour. It makes them think he’s genuine and down-to-earth.’ Shirer pulled a pipe from his pocket, along with a tobacco pouch, and began to fill it. ‘And he’s well connected, knows all the right people, which is something Hitler needs.’ He tamped down the tobacco with his thumb. ‘He’s also a morphine addict.’ He wagged the stem of his pipe at Dan. ‘You don’t get to find out these things without a little fraternisation, no matter how distasteful you might think it.’
‘No, I see,’ murmured Dan. ‘And von Ribbentrop?’
Shirer laughed. ‘Let’s just call him Ribbentrop. The “von” is a fraud. He persuaded some aunt whose husband was knighted by the Kaiser to adopt him, just so he could stick “von” on the front of his name. That tells you a lot.’ He flicked open his lighter. ‘In fact, everything about him is phoney. The way he talks, the way he acts – behind all that, the man’s a nincompoop, a simpleton. Granted, his English and French are pretty good, but he has not’ – Shirer clicked several times at his lighter to get a flame – ‘he has not the slightest understanding of France and the French, or of Britain and America. In fact, I can’t think of a worse man to be Hitler’s foreign minister.’ He pocketed his lighter and puffed reflectively for a few seconds, then added, ‘Göring loves attention, he likes talking to the press. But I never get much out of Hess.’
‘What about Himmler?’ asked Rudi. ‘What’s he like?’
‘The chicken farmer? Pretty unimpressive. Looks more like a middle-ranking Beamter than a chief of the secret police. Basically the man’s just a characterless thug – but he’s important and he’s powerful. He gets things done.’
Rudi signalled to a passing waiter. ‘Noch drei Bier, bitte.’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Shirer. ‘I need an early night.’ When the waiter had disappeared, he went on, ‘The one person you never see at the beer evenings is Goebbels. He hates Rosenberg. But I’ve managed to get to know him pretty well through press conferences and parties. He’s an educated man, but you’d never guess it to listen to him. Every word he utters is banal. For my money, he’s simply a neurotic, club-footed dwarf. I can’t stand the guy.’
Though fascinated, Dan couldn’t help feeling a tinge of scepticism. ‘These men are Hitler’s closest advisers. They run Germany. Surely they can’t be so…’ Dan struggled for a word, ‘so mediocre?’
Shirer shrugged, inspected his pipe, which seemed to have gone out, and sighed. ‘They’re just gangsters. And gangsters don’t need to be intellectually gifted, or scintillating orators. Or even great thinkers. All they need to be is in control. On which note’ – Shirer drained his beer glass and pocketed his pipe – ‘I shall bid you folks goodnight.’ He rose and shook hands with them both, and smiled at Dan. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Ranscombe. Good luck in Berlin. I hope we meet again.’
‘I’ll be listening to your broadcasts,’ said Dan. He watched Shirer go. ‘Quite a fellow,’ he said to Rudi.
‘Isn’t he? I’m glad you two hit it off. Some people think he’s a touch arrogant, a bit of a know-all, but that’s because he does know all. And everyone.’
Dan was about to say something, but stopped in astonishment. Crossing the bar in their direction was Paul Latimer. In the split second that their eyes met, Paul’s expression seemed to Dan momentarily appalled, but the next moment he was smiling and shaking Dan’s hand.
‘Dan, what a surprise! Though I suppose I should have known I might bump into you. I heard on the grapevine that you were working out here. Is this your regular hangout?’
‘I’ve only just arrived. But it seems to be a regular watering-hole for journalists. Let me introduce my friend, Rudi Lange – Rudi, Paul Latimer.’
Rudi shook Paul’s hand. ‘A journalist also?’
‘No, no – racing car enthusiast. I’m here visiting my friend, Richard Seaman.’
‘Mein Gott!’ exclaimed Rudi. ‘Seaman is a big hero here! Winning the Grand Prix last year, that was truly something. And he’s your friend?’
‘Yes.’
Rudi smiled, narrowing his eyes at Paul and taking a swift drag of his cigarette. ‘You a Nazi, too?’ There was a frozen pause, and then Rudi broke into laughter, slapping Paul on the shoulder. ‘Hey, just a joke! Your friend gave the Nazi salute on the podium, you know – not just once, but twice. Think how that must have delighted our Führer!’
‘Rudi has a very German sense of humour,’ murmured Dan. ‘Will you join us for a drink?’
‘I won’t thanks,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve had rather a tiring trip, and I need to be up early.’
‘Staying long?’
‘Just a couple of days. Anyway, I must push along. See you back in Blighty.’ He nodded to Rudi. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Ebenfalls,’ murmured Rudi. Then he added, after Paul had departed, ‘He didn’t like my joke, did he?’
‘Nobody likes being called a Nazi, Rudi. Except the Nazis.’
But Rudi wasn’t listening. He had spotted some more friends on the other side of the room and invited them over to the table. The conversation expanded and continued, more drinks were bought, and it was after one o’clock by the time Dan made his way to bed, wishing he could stick to his resolution not to drink so much.
*
A few days later a letter came from Sonia. Dan read it over breakfast. His godmother had an enjoyably eccentric style, with much underlining, and the world of home which she conveyed seemed, against the backdrop of all that Dan was witnessing in Berlin, impossibly serene.
I trust the goings-on between Czechoslovakia and Germany are giving you plenty of copy. I do try hard to pay attention and follow it all in The Times, but – and I know you’ll forgive your ridiculously frivolous godmother for saying this – it seems so very complicated and dull! I am hosting a dinner in a fortnight’s time – quite a large one, I may say – and have invited several of Henry’s old friends. They are all such frightfully clever people – the Brenans and the Raviliouses especially – and if I can’t say anything particularly intelligent about what is happening in Germany, it would be wonderful to be able to come up with some first-hand gossip!
Dan could just imagine the satisfaction it would give Sonia to be able to regale her guests with details not generally available to the newspaper-reading public. He would have to see what he could do. He folded up the letter and put it in his pocket, and went off to catch the train to Godesberg.
Part 4
1939–41
1
IT WAS A Monday morning in late June, and Meg had come to London to spend a few days with her mother while Paul was abroad.
Helen sat at the breakfast table with Max in her lap, feeding him mashed banana. She ran a tentative finger along the line of
her grandson’s gum. ‘I think he’s got a top tooth coming, Meg.’
Meg put down her teacup and leaned over. ‘Where? Let me see.’
Ten-month-old Max began to crow and babble and shake his head from side to side. ‘It’s not exactly easy to show you,’ laughed Helen.
‘He’s always in a good mood at breakfast.’ Meg smiled fondly at her son, picking up one fat little hand and kissing it. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own with him?’
‘Dora will be on hand if the need arises,’ said Helen briskly. ‘She adores babies. I do think it’s high time you found yourself a nanny, though. When your aunt Sonia and I were girls your grandmother employed a nursery maid as well as a nanny. And here you are, trying to cope on your own.’
‘It so happens I’ve found one. She starts a week today. I’ve interviewed her and taken up her references. She seems perfect.’
‘Well, that’s good news. Where did you find her?’
‘A friend of Anna Kentleigh’s works for the Jewish Refugee Committee. She gave me the names of girls from Germany looking for domestic work. That’s how I found Lotte.’
‘Oh, my dear – a Jewish refugee. Is that wise? What does Paul think?’
‘He wasn’t at all keen. I can’t think why. She’s gentle and sweet, and her English is really quite good. She’s from a professional family in Vienna. Anyway, I put my foot down – not a thing I often do. Now’ – Meg got to her feet – ‘I should make a move.’
‘Where are you having your outfit for Diana’s wedding made?’
‘I’m trying a new dressmaker over in Kensington that Anna recommended. Paul says he doesn’t understand why I can’t wear the same outfit to Diana’s wedding that I wore to Muriel Leatham’s. Men really have no idea.’ Meg glanced out of the window. ‘Drat, it’s starting to rain.’
‘It won’t last long. It’s been showery all week. A pity, after we had such a glorious start to June. You can always take a taxi.’
‘No, I’ll catch the bus. I much prefer it. Gives me time to think and I don’t have to talk to the cab driver.’
‘I don’t blame you. All cabbies seem to want to talk about these days is whether there’s going to be a war.’
‘The Express says there shan’t be, and that’s good enough for me,’ said Meg.
‘I wish I could share your optimism,’ replied Helen. ‘But all those posters about how to recognise a mustard gas attack, and the sandbags at the Ritz – someone is taking it seriously. Rachel Whigham has been complaining that so many young men are joining up that there aren’t enough to go round at debutante parties.’
‘Mother, I refuse to think about it,’ said Meg. She put on her hat, found her bag and an umbrella, kissed her mother and set off for town.
The shower was already passing, and the summer day was breaking serene and fresh, but above the greenery of Hyde Park the lolling, silver bulk of the barrage balloons struck a threatening note. The incongruity of the scene seemed to reflect Meg’s own state of mind. All was ostensibly content in her life, but it held unsettling facets – facets which she did her best to ignore. She lived her life from day to day, hoping that companionability, and the fact of Max, would sustain her marriage. She reassured herself that lots of people’s marriages were probably the same.
Meg had, without realising it, become adept at self-deception. She measured the bearability of her life in increments of fulfilment; Max was the greatest of these, then the running of her home, then, strangely, the diligent work she performed to sustain her marriage, which involved manufacturing affection, friendliness, and an enthusiastic show of interest in Paul’s affairs. The sense of keeping something alive had its own rewards. She never allowed herself to think of Dan.
The dressmaker’s took the better part of an hour, after which Meg went to Bond Street in search of a hat. As she emerged from a milliner’s she heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Eve Meyerson waving from the other side of the street. Meg felt a sense of misgiving as she watched her cross the road through the traffic.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ said Eve with a smile. ‘How nice to bump into you like this.’ She pointed to Meg’s hatbox. ‘I see you’ve been shopping.’
‘It’s a hat for Diana’s wedding.’
‘Of course – it’s only a few weeks away, isn’t it? Lovely to have a wedding to look forward to, with everything as grim as it is. Is Paul in London with you?’
‘No, he’s gone to Belgium for the Grand Prix.’
There was a pause, and then Eve asked, ‘Are you going anywhere special? Because I was just thinking of having some lunch. Would you like to join me?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Come on. There’s a little place in South Molton Street that I know.’
They settled themselves at a table in the corner of the restaurant, and the waiter brought menus. They ordered, and then Eve said, ‘Diana tells me you have a little boy now. Tell me all about him.’
Over lunch Meg talked about Max, and life at Hazelhurst House, but eventually, feeling that all this must be too domesticated for Eve’s taste, she said, ‘Of course, country life is somewhat sheltered. I mean, Paul gets The Times every day, and one reads all the frightening things about how war is inevitable. But somehow, on drowsy summer days in Berkshire, none of it seems quite real. Even here in London all the sandbags and barrage balloons seem like… oh, I don’t know, props for a film.’
‘It’s all too real, I’m afraid. And while I hope it won’t happen, I do think we shall have a war. It’s not so much what the British papers say as the German ones. They had a field day over the Japanese blockade of the British and French concessions in Tientsin recently.’
The waiter took their plates away, and Eve offered Meg a cigarette.
Meg shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’ She hadn’t the vaguest notion what Tientsin signified, and couldn’t decide whether conversation with Eve made her feel more intelligent, or more stupid. ‘How do you come to read German newspapers?’
‘Dan sends them to me.’
‘Oh, yes. He’s working there as a correspondent, isn’t he?’ Asking after him could not be avoided. ‘How is he?’
‘He seems to be wonderfully well, from his letters. Don’t you ever hear from him?’ asked Eve. ‘I thought you were friends.’
‘No.’ Meg’s voice faltered, and she added, ‘He’s really more Paul’s friend than mine. There’s really no reason why he should be in touch with me.’ She looked away, feeling herself blushing fiercely, a girlish affliction she could do nothing to prevent.
Eve was puzzled by her sudden embarrassment. Then, from nowhere, an astonishing notion came to her. Could it really be possible that Meg was the married woman Dan was in love with? She did quick calculations. The timing certainly fitted. Dan had been convinced she was going to leave her husband to be with him. Then it turned out she was having a child, and the affair had broken down. She felt certain she had hit upon the truth. There was only one way to find out.
‘Don’t look so coy.’ Eve gave Meg a cool smile. ‘I know you and he had an affair.’
This was so unexpected that Meg was unable to disguise her shock, and Eve knew instantly she had hit the nail on the head. It had been Meg all along – not some cold-hearted femme fatale, as she had imagined. Jealousy seared her. How could he possibly be in love with someone so tediously insipid, so utterly conventional?
‘Dan told me all about it,’ Eve continued smoothly. ‘I’m used to his minor infidelities. Perhaps I have too forgiving a nature – but we all have our weaknesses. Dan’s weakness is that he can’t resist a challenge. He always had quite a thing for you – remember the house party in Surrey? And when Dan sets his sights on someone, he doesn’t like to fail. Even a little thing like a marriage won’t get in his way. You were quite a conquest.’
Meg was stupefied. Had it really meant so little to him? It didn’t seem possible that he would betray her in such a way.
‘He told you tha
t?’
Eve shrugged. ‘He got what he wanted. It’s all in the past, and I forgave him.’
The suggestion was that she had been merely an interlude in his relationship with Eve. Meg could hardly believe it. If that was all she had meant to him, why had he come to Hazelhurst that day, thinking he was the father of her child, begging her to leave Paul?
She struggled for words. She didn’t want to discuss with Eve any part of her relationship with Dan, but she had to say something. ‘It’s true there was something between us, but I don’t believe I meant so little to him as you say,’ she said in a low voice. ‘He asked me to end my marriage so that we could be together.’
‘Just as well you didn’t. It’s all part of the game with Dan. I think he rather liked the idea of putting one over on Paul. You’re well out of it.’ Eve blew out some smoke, watching Meg’s face. ‘It wouldn’t have lasted, you know.’
Meg sat in silence, recalling how Dan had tried to persuade her that Paul was deceiving her with some male lover, that her marriage was a sham. How absurd that had turned out to be. Perhaps it was evidence of the lengths he would go to.
‘You don’t know Dan very well, do you?’ Eve went on, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Anyway, we’ve probably dwelt on this long enough. You should count yourself lucky. You had the pleasure of a little fling – he’s rather wonderful in bed, isn’t he? – and you kept your marriage intact.’ She smiled at Meg in an entirely friendly fashion. ‘Shall we get the bill?’
Meg fumbled in her handbag. She took a couple of pound notes from her purse and dropped them on the table. ‘I’m sure that will more than cover my share.’ And with that she rose and left the restaurant as quickly as she could. Eve watched her go. It had been a petty piece of vengeance, but she had thoroughly enjoyed it.
*
When Meg returned to Cheyne Walk, her mother handed her a telegram. ‘This came while you were out.’
Meg opened it and read its contents.
‘Oh.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Paul’s friend Dick Seaman has been killed. His car caught fire in the Grand Prix.’