THE BERLIN GIRL
Mandy Robotham
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Mandy Robotham 2020
Cover design by Stephen Mulcahey © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Cover photographs © CollaborationJS/Trevillion Images (couple), Shutterstock.com (all other images)
Mandy Robotham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008364519
Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008364502
Version: 2020-09-09
Dedication
To Hayley – a good friend.
Thanks for many words spilled over coffee.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s note
Prologue: Plans
Chapter 1: Heat and Dust
Chapter 2: Paranoia
Chapter 3: The Penny Drops
Chapter 4: A Simmering City
Chapter 5: Hiding
Chapter 6: Welcome to the Ministry
Chapter 7: Into the Fold
Chapter 8: Old Face, New Friend
Chapter 9: Hope and Fear
Chapter 10: A Good-Natured Scrap
Chapter 11: A Grey Butterfly
Chapter 12: Girl in the Dust
Chapter 13: The Welfare Come Calling
Chapter 14: The Eyes Have It
Chapter 15: The Pantomime
Chapter 16: Life and Oppression
Chapter 17: An End to the War
Chapter 18: Reprieve
Chapter 19: Father, Dear Father
Chapter 20: The Leaden Cloud
Chapter 21: Asking for a Friend
Chapter 22: An Actress Calls
Chapter 23: Bright Lights
Chapter 24: The Red Stain
Chapter 25: A Flame Under the Pot
Chapter 26: The Pot Simmers
Chapter 27: Boiling Point
Chapter 28: Sweeping Up
Chapter 29: The World Wakes Up?
Chapter 30: The Crystal Ball
Chapter 31: The Good Doctor Graf
Chapter 32: A Slim Hope
Chapter 33: A Snowy Respite
Chapter 34: Another Sacrifice
Chapter 35: New Year, New Loss
Chapter 36: Home from Home
Chapter 37: True Colours
Chapter 38: Empty Nest
Chapter 39: The Temple
Chapter 40: A Fond Farewell
Chapter 41: Making Plans
Chapter 42: The Birthday Boy
Chapter 43: The Right Thing
Chapter 44: A Welcome Breath
Chapter 45: The Temple Revisited
Chapter 46: A Doctor’s Appointment
Chapter 47: Weaving the Truth
Chapter 48: A Hot Date
Chapter 49: An Unwelcome Discovery
Chapter 50: Departure
Chapter 51: Blind Panic
Chapter 52: A Hard Parting
Chapter 53: A Visitor
Chapter 54: Plucked
Chapter 55: Discovery and Dread
Chapter 56: Farewells
Chapter 57: The Inevitable
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Author’s note
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, so the saying goes. Never more so than with World War Two, when no prophet could have foretold the atrocities that were witnessed and subsequently woven into the tainted fabric of history.
It was that time before that I wanted to capture in The Berlin Girl – a time when humanity had plumbed certain depths throughout the centuries, but never to quite the same degree as with the Holocaust. So that time has become divided into before and after Auschwitz and Dachau – and Sachsenhausen; before and after we knew what Man’s potential could sink to.
The degree of inhumanity might not have been predicted, but there were those who both saw and warned of Hitler’s hunger for domination, those who were there in the eye of the early storm; in my research, from diaries and biographies, it was the journalists centred around Berlin who warned repeatedly of the conflict to come – among them, the highly respected William L. Shirer from CBS, in his Berlin Diary. Sadly, it was a world not prepared to listen closely enough – politicians especially.
Among the press pack in the 1930s – and throughout the war – were a good many women, beautifully depicted in Nancy Caldwell Sorel’s Women Who Wrote the War: Sigrid Schultz, a shrewd Jewish reporter for a US newspaper, who managed to be both friend and foe to the Nazi elite, and Clare Hollingworth, who scooped everyone with her exposé on the Nazis’ final move into Poland. Martha Gellhorn – the reluctant ‘Mrs Hemingway’ – was not in Berlin circles, but remains a hero of mine, and her excellent biography by Caroline Moorehead was both an avenue into the mind of a correspondent, and yet almost a fairy tale of adventure too. Having been a journalist in my days before midwifery and writing (though a very unexciting local hack), I can only imagine the courage of such women in times when they were constrained by their sex, and often by ridiculous etiquette. They broke through many barriers for women as a whole, not least in print.
In a time before social media, readers hung onto those opinions from newsprint and radio – it was their window to the world before the luxuries of mainstream television, Twitter and Facebook.
Like the fictional Georgie, I also wanted to explore the personal side of impending war – what it meant for families like the Amsels to live life on a knife edge, for months and years, never knowing if your world would be tipped upside down in a split second, by a slighted neighbour, or a careless word to the Gestapo – feelings recalled by Irene Matthews’s memoir, Out of Nazi Germany and Trying to Find My Way. As I edited this book in unprecedented times of the UK Coronavirus lockdown, loss took on a new meaning; it was weeks and months for us, separated temporarily for the most part, but for a lifetime? Forever? Not based on a quirk of science or nature, but on the whim of just one man. It still beggars belief for me.
I can’t pretend that including the Amsels wasn’t something of a personal journey too – my family history is fairly disjointed, but I did discover late in life that my paternal grandfather was Jewish; likely in North London before the war. My own father knew very little of him and was not raised as a practising Jew, but I can’t help wondering what circumstances brought my grandfather to England – whether he and his family were pushed from a European homeland in the brutal sweep of fascism.
The r
esearch journey was, again, a fascinating one; not only the recollections of apt and quick minds in the foreign press, but trawling through the hundreds of pages of old newspapers. The News Chronicle was upbeat and a darned good read – fierce and brave in the articles it produced – and the adverts for ‘Bile Beans’ were in there too, I promise.
And of course, any reader that’s familiar with my work knows that I am hopelessly enticed by any hint of a newsroom; the feverish rush on press day, furious tap-tapping, even in post-typewriter times. I remember so fondly the camaraderie of local newspaper offices as we pushed towards a deadline, and the vast, open space buzz of the Evening Standard offices, where I worked for a short time. It’s tomorrow’s chip paper, as they say, but something we still can’t seem to do without – thankfully. Long live print journalism.
Prologue
Plans
Berlin, 23rd July 1938
Leaving the clang of cell doors behind him and the ebbing sounds of agony within, Major Hugo Schenk holstered his pistol and climbed the stairs from the gloom of the basement with renewed energy.
As the light of the upper floors lifted his mood further, he spied the tiny crimson droplet out of the corner of his eye, unable to ignore it soiling the cuff of his otherwise spotless and pressed uniform. Despite its minuscule size, it moved like a virtual beacon in his line of vision. He scratched at it, irritation rising when it remained embedded in the fine, grey weave. These days, he rarely got his hands dirty, but today’s quarry for vital information had proved intensely frustrating – the target foolishly stubborn – and he’d acted in haste. Hence the spatter. He was relieved, though, to have left the majority of the red slick several floors down, a congealing pool across the filthy tiles of the cells. Doubtless, it was being mopped as he attended to his business above ground, its donor limp within the bowels of the building, unburdened of bodily fluid and what information he and his colleagues had managed to extract before his patience ran out. Even so, the tiny fleck sprayed upon him during the event was unfortunate, particularly as he had an appointment with Himmler later in the afternoon. Despite the day’s intense heat, the Gestapo chief would expect him in full uniform, collar and shirt tightly fastened.
Back at his desk, he looked with satisfaction at the neat stack of files to his side, meticulously categorised and all ready for Himmler’s approval. They were in size order; the fat folder labelled ‘Jew’ on the bottom, topped with ‘Romani’, ‘Sinti’ and ‘Jehovah’s Witness’. Uppermost sat a slimmer folder marked ‘Undesirables’. With a self-satisfied nod, he scanned the full-scale plans for expansion spread across his desk – yes, much more capacity. More creativity. They were on target. Himmler would be pleased.
He scratched again at the blood spot as the phone trilled beside him.
‘Yes?’
‘Major Schenk, sorry to disturb you. But we’ve just had word on your attaché. I’m afraid to report he was killed this morning in a motoring accident. Both he and the woman in the car.’
The first emotion to rise was annoyance, sparked initially by that blood spot, but also by the inconvenience. Dammit, it was unfortunate to lose a good attaché, someone proficient at smoothing his sometimes rough edges, a worthy diplomat. He’d been efficient and obedient. A good Nazi. Schenk was aware, though, of the need to conjure up some semblance of sympathy. It wouldn’t do to appear callous.
‘Ah, that’s unfortunate. He had children, I believe. Do we know if they will be cared for by others in the family?’
The voice on the other end coughed with embarrassment. ‘Erm, the woman in the car wasn’t his wife, sir.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, send his wife condolences and flowers. And make sure we pay for the funeral.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have we got a replacement lined up?’
‘Yes, Major, I have someone in mind. Young, but very keen. I’ll sort the necessary paperwork; make sure you are able to meet him for approval.’
‘Good work. Heil Hitler.’
He replaced the receiver, and the red speck flashed across his vision, a spark to his temper within. Fucking Jews. Why did they have to bleed so copiously?
1
Heat and Dust
London, 23rd July 1938
Georgie sat with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracking the light glinting off the chandelier and noting several cobwebs that hadn’t been dismissed by the cleaning staff prior to this evening’s ball. The glory of the London Ritz held fast in its reputation, but in its pockets and corners the renowned hotel might have been fading just a little – clearly dirt and dust soiled even the rich. And yet the thought made Georgie feel oddly comforted; if this glamorous venue – a place she could have only dreamt about in her childhood – was hiding behind a façade, then there must be others who sported such a veneer. Maybe even a good portion of this well-populated ballroom. It made her feel less of a fraud.
She shifted on her bar stool in an effort to bat away the waves of unending heat. The barman caught her eye and she smiled meekly, trying not to give the impression of being either stood up or lonely, when she was neither. Still, he looked back with sympathy. Others in the room might not have noticed Georgie’s awkwardness, the way the strap of her dress cut into her shoulder, lent to her by a cousin who was clearly half a size smaller. Or the shoes pinching at each little toe, biting into her flesh as she was forced to endure a dance with the office lothario and his two left feet.
She’d managed to excuse herself after one long and painful tune, retreating to the bar, where she now sat, nursing a Martini. The dance floor was full again, as correspondents mingled with reporters and photographers, watching editors and their wives twirling amid the heady table chatter of wordsmiths putting the world to rights. The summer media ball was where hardened London hacks let their hair down for just one night and forgot about the simmering rivalry of Fleet Street – who was first to the story, who bagged an exclusive, and who splashed the biggest headline. For Georgie it was intoxicating, though not nearly as effective as the very strong cocktail mixed by the barman who, in his pity, had added a second shot of vodka. The music and the heat were making her head swim, but she was enjoying the spectacle too much to leave.
‘Sitting this one out?’
Georgie swivelled her head in the direction of the voice, her short, blonde curls swaying with the sharp movement. For a brief second she wondered if it was the lothario come to hound her for a second dance, but the tone was unfamiliar. When her eyes fell on its owner, she noted there was barely a smile to accompany it.
She nodded at her feet perched on the bar stool. ‘I might be willing but my shoes are working against me.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and leaned his elbow on the bar, one flick of his finger signalling to the barman. Either her reply had come across as tart or he was simply making small talk, and Georgie returned to her people-watching.
Still, something about him forced a sideways glance; he was tall, lean and appeared surprisingly cool in his full evening suit. Noting her glimpse, he grasped at his own cocktail and turned to face her.
‘Are you here as a guest of someone?’ He clearly didn’t absorb the sharpness of his own tone. Any other woman might have supposed it rude, but it merely bounced off Georgie’s well-constructed shell. Does he think I’m an imposter, some kind of gate-crasher? she thought. Her irritation rose, and then fell as her sense of humour bubbled upwards. There was always fun to be had with such men.
‘No, I’m here with my boss,’ she replied. ‘I work at the Chronicle.’
‘Oh.’ More of an enquiring air this time. ‘Whose secretary are you?’
Georgie dragged a smile out of her deep and varied supply bag, the type of expression that hid her contempt well. ‘I work with Henry Peters.’
Whoever this young man was, he couldn’t fail to recognise the name of one of Fleet Street’s most revered men on the Chronicle’s foreign desk.
‘Oh,’ the man said again.
Is this his entire v
ocabulary? Georgie mused. He can’t possibly be a journalist, with such a poor grasp on language. ‘And you?’ she asked, eyeing her Martini as if it held more interest. She wasn’t in a mood to feed his ego, but the alcohol was making her playful.
‘I’m with the Telegraph,’ he shot back, turning and puffing out his chest. ‘Foreign desk.’ His voice was pure public school, his stature and dress reflecting the same.
‘Oh,’ Georgie responded. Two can play at that game.
They both looked out onto the dance floor again, the silence between them hovering like a thick winter fog.
‘Strange to see so many newspapermen with their wives,’ Georgie said at last, when the fog began to feel cloying. ‘I’ve never seen this many on their best behaviour. Or smiling.’ And she peered at him, assessing if he’d caught her humour. His gruff cough signalled not. Still, he didn’t seem inclined to walk away either.
‘Not tempted to tie the knot yourself?’ she pressed, noting the absence of a wedding ring. It was like prodding at a roasting spit of pork, and Georgie felt slightly guilty at how much she delighted in it.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘Me? Oh no,’ he said decisively. ‘I don’t know how any serious reporter could contemplate it. Not the way the world is right now. A foreign posting is no place for a wife. Or any woman, in fact.’ His hard, blue eyes relayed complete conviction in his statement.
‘Really?’ Now Georgie wanted to prod some more. With force. And a sharp object. ‘Are you not a fan of Martha Gellhorn then?’ she added.
‘You mean the future Mrs Hemingway?’ he shot back. His assumptive pairing would have been a red rag to the celebrated correspondent herself. Likewise to Georgie.
‘I feel sure Miss Gellhorn would take you to task for assuming she is writing in Ernest’s shadow,’ she fizzed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m inclined to think her dispatches from the Spanish frontline are just as good, if not better, than those of her lover.’
Now he looked at her again, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What on earth would a mere secretary know about that? they seemed to be saying.
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