‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion,’ he said at last. ‘It’s dangerous out there. You need your wits about you. And besides, marriage isn’t for me.’
‘Oh,’ Georgie said again. And she withdrew the toasting fork. He’s not worth the wit, she thought and turned her eyes to the dance floor again, transformed to a kaleidoscope of activity and colour, music flooding the entire room, the chandelier teardrops swaying from thermals of cigarette smoke and human heat.
He swigged suddenly at his cocktail, perhaps gaining courage from the action and the alcohol combined.
‘Care to dance?’ he said, and held out his hand for her acceptance.
Georgie gestured towards her feet and scrunched up her nose. ‘Thank you, but my feet are telling me it’s way too dangerous out there.’
Those very blue eyes bored into hers for a second. Realising he’d been snubbed, the man turned tail without a word, striding up to the first lone woman teetering on the edge of the floor and almost yanking her into the dancing fray.
Georgie drained her own glass and signalled for one more. Despite her sore toes and her undersized dress, it really had been a very entertaining evening.
2
Paranoia
Berlin, 28th July 1938
His pace quickened as he hastened down the busy street, breath squeezing at his ribs. Sweat ran in rivulets between his shoulder blades, causing his shirt to stick to his skin as he darted forward under the late, low sun nudging at the Berlin skyline. His brain seesawed while his legs scissored in a motion of their own making – paranoia and fear were an effective fuel. Should he look backwards to check if he had a tail? Could he shake them off if he did? Only one purpose dominated his mind and body: he had to get home.
At the last corner before his own street, he stopped at one of the rounded pillars pasted with political posters, pretending to read but inching his way around so that he looked back along the street from where he’d come. In his heart, he knew this sudden, consuming fear was irrational, but he couldn’t shake it off until he reached home. Thankfully, no one appeared to be loitering in the steady stream of human traffic going to and fro, least of all Gestapo. But then, what did the Gestapo look like? No tell-tale leather coats for months now in this lengthy, hot summer, and they didn’t tend to favour formal announcements. Turning towards his own street, he launched once again in the direction of his own front door.
‘Rubin! What are you doing home so early?’ Sara swung out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a cloth. ‘Has your work been cancelled?’ His wife looked suddenly alarmed at the prospect of vital funds no longer dropping into her purse. Any job the Amsels secured these days was crucial to their survival.
‘No, no, it’s fine, Sara,’ he lied. ‘I was just nearby. How’s Elias?’
‘He’s all right,’ she replied. ‘More settled today, dozing right now.’
‘Good,’ Rubin breathed with relief. ‘No callers? No one asking after him?’
‘No … why? What’s all this about?’ she quizzed with rising unease. ‘Have you come home simply to ask after my brother’s health?’ Rubin was almost always out from early until late, touting for business – driving, interpreting, moving groceries – any job he could find.
‘No,’ he admitted, his face pinched with worry. ‘But I do need to talk to you about him. Come into the kitchen.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Sara said, clutching a cup of the hot coffee she’d brewed them both. ‘You mean they would take him away, just because he can’t work? Put him in a prison for that? He’s sick, Rubin, not a criminal.’
Her husband poured out more of the weak, tan-coloured liquid. Sara was not naive to the lengths the Reich would go to, not in the Berlin of the day, but she was a naturally forgiving soul. ‘They don’t call it a prison,’ he explained. ‘It’s a camp, they say, for “protective custody”.’
‘Protection from what?’ Sara said, her already furrowed face creased deeper with misunderstanding. ‘We’ve looked after Elias since his accident. He’s a burden to no one, least of all this wretched government.’
‘I know, my darling, but that’s not what the Nazi Party think. And he is a Jew. Two marks against his name.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said, horrified. ‘This isn’t simply a rumour?’
‘No, I’m not entirely sure, but I don’t think we can take the risk, do you? We have to protect Elias, as much as we can.’
‘So what do we do?’ She was genuinely empty of ideas. ‘There’s no one who can look after him, not like us. Where would he go?’
Rubin cast his eyes towards the ceiling, to the attic above their third-floor apartment, the space beyond the wooden hatch currently daubed in cobwebs, the roof slats allowing slivers of daylight and a stiff breeze to come through in winter.
‘Rubin – no!’ Sara said, incredulous again. ‘This is my brother – we can’t shut him in the attic. Not in this heat. Not ever. His life is bad enough as it is.’
Rubin didn’t dare voice his thoughts in that moment: it might be no life at all if what he had heard was right.
Sitting in a bar only days previously, he’d overhead two men talking of their neighbour’s son, a teenage lad who’d always been considered a ‘bit slow’, one man said. The boy had been plucked suddenly from his house by soldiers from the Wehrmacht with no explanation, his parents left distraught and with little idea where or why he’d been taken. At the time, Rubin thought little of the conversation beyond a general sadness that accompanied life in Nazi-led Germany for anyone of Jewish blood.
But this morning, he’d eavesdropped on a different kind of conversation, one that had caused bile to rise rapidly in this throat; two SS officers outside the Hotel Kaiserhof, a favourite haunt of Hitler and his inner circle. They were smoking nonchalantly, clearly unaware of Rubin’s presence. One mentioned a ‘sweeping up’ operation, part of a much larger ‘clean-up’. At first, it had been hard to work out who or what he meant, but Rubin ran with a chill as it became apparent: ‘They’ll start with the retarded,’ the officer said, ‘then the sick – the incurables – and those who can’t work will be swept up finally. Who knows, they might just use a large enough broom for all Jews, eh?’ The two sniggered and blew smoke into the air while Rubin hardly dared release his own breath. Tossing aside their cigarettes, they moved inside, leaving Rubin to sprint from the shadows and head swiftly towards home and his wife.
In his own kitchen, Sara looked at him with disbelief and dread. ‘Is there no other way?’ she said.
‘I’ll get up in the attic as soon as I can,’ Rubin said in reply. ‘Make it the best I can without drawing too much attention.’
3
The Penny Drops
Croydon Aerodrome, 2nd August 1938
She was bent over pulling at a wrinkle in her stockings when they came into her vision – tan brogues that were well worn and polished, but expensive enough not to show their wear and tear. This particular pair she didn’t so much as recognise, but it wasn’t hard to marry them with the voice directed at the back of her head: ‘Hello, fancy seeing you here.’
Georgie pulled herself to standing and adopted the same expression she’d engineered at their meeting at the Ritz, a forced but well-versed half-smile. His was warmer, though also contrived, his eyes roaming into the distance of the airport lounge.
‘Your feet are not still playing up, are they?’ he said indifferently.
‘Just my stockings misbehaving this time,’ she replied, prickling with irritation that etiquette demand she wear them on such a hot day.
‘Are you off on your holidays?’ he went on.
‘No, no,’ she stammered. ‘A business trip.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his attention on small clumps of travellers milling around the gate.
For Georgie, it was too much of a coincidence; the penny had begun to drop, with the force of an anvil plunging into a deep, dark ocean. The man in front of her, however, had not put two and two together. His face was alig
ht with blissful ignorance as he continued to skim the airport lounge. She prayed her thinking was wildly off track, or else this was a cruel irony that life – and her editor – was playing on her.
‘I’m off on business too,’ he said. ‘Supposed to be meeting someone here, only I don’t know what he looks like. He’s one of your lot, from the Chronicle, I mean. You probably know him, don’t you? George Young?’
It’s now or never, she thought. Better put him out of his misery or we’ll be here until our flight’s called. She extended a hand, in a ‘pleased to meet you’ gesture. ‘Georgina Young – most people call me Georgie …’
His eyes were at least on her, but he seemed to have been struck dumb by her introduction. Pupils wide and disbelieving, jaw sinking towards the floor, his hand falling away from hers in surprise.
‘Or George,’ she went on, to fill the yawning chasm of embarrassment between them.
‘Oh,’ he managed.
Is this really all he can say? Will he always be so inarticulate?
Finally, his fish-pout of a mouth closed and he was able to form some other words. ‘I … I just imagined …’
‘Yes, so do most people,’ Georgie said quickly. ‘You’re not the first, and I suppose you won’t be the last. I am quite used to it.’
He looked at her face-on. There was no apology, though no detectable malice either. More like a deep-seated disappointment that she recognised all too well. She suspected from their last meeting that his thinking aligned with the majority of male Fleet Street journalists, harbouring a long-held belief that women were incapable of being serious reporters, bar the tittle-tattle of the fashion or society pages. She might have quoted a long line of celebrated women who were both icons and heroines, but doing so was increasingly tiresome.
She squared her shoulders and stood tall – Georgie Young had served her apprenticeship and earned her place on this posting. She just had to prove it. Starting now, it seemed.
In time, he swallowed down his shock and pulled himself up, as a gentleman would. Manners overcame prejudice, and he held out his hand, searching for hers to shake.
‘Max Spender,’ he said, and she noted his cool, lean fingers, mindful hers were clammy with anticipation as the time of their flight approached. He hesitated, mid-shake. She watched a shadow move across his face, perhaps prodding at a dusty corner of his memory.
‘Wasn’t it you who secured the exclusive with Diana Mosley?’ His features clouded, with suspicion rather than admiration.
‘Yes.’ At the time, Georgie had been thrilled at being the first to probe the aristocratic wife of Britain’s foremost fascist, though she also knew it caused consternation among the other papers who missed out – rumours circulated of her using underhand means to gain access. ‘I had good contacts,’ she qualified, which was entirely true.
Max Spender’s expression said otherwise. Disbelief and accusation lodged firmly on his brow, and it took all her resolve to match his firm stare. Who would crack first?
‘So we’re to buddy up together, I hear,’ he said at last, in a tone that said he was trying hard to make the best of a bad job. He wasn’t forgiving, just brushing it aside – for now. ‘You’ve been to Berlin before, my boss says, on assignment? And you speak German?’
‘Yes,’ Georgie replied. ‘I was there in ’36, for the Olympics. Of course I wasn’t based directly in the city centre, but I saw a little of it, plus I’ve got a map. I daresay we’ll find our way around.’
‘I’m sure we’ll each be casting out on our own in no time at all,’ he came back quickly, not bothering to even manufacture a smile. She took it as a heavy hint – he really was planning to have as little to do with her as possible, she being tainted and untrustworthy. Well done, Georgie, off to a great start.
‘How’s your German?’ she pitched with genuine curiosity. His features stiffened then – this time, he could not feign any semblance of control.
‘Passable,’ he countered.
‘Fairly non-existent then?’ Georgie followed up with her own false grin, tinged with a smugness she couldn’t resist. If it was bordering on cruel, it was only payback for his own reactions. And for all those jibes she and every other female correspondent had been forced to endure with their lipstick smiles.
This time Max bared his straight, white teeth and a sigh fought its way through. ‘I’ve spent the last week holed up with a German dictionary but I’m not much beyond saying hello and asking for a beer.’
‘Well, that might get you further than you think,’ she said. ‘Never mind, mine’s a little rusty too. But I think I can at least order us dinner, so stick with me and at least we won’t starve.’
For a second, Georgie imagined he might have softened a little – spotted the hint of a slight, appreciative nod in Max Spender.
‘Perhaps we should get a drink before take-off?’ he suggested.
‘Yes, definitely,’ she said, grasping the opportunity. She wasn’t much of a drinker, never had any real need of it, but the thought of her first ever flight in a heavy metal tube that lifted several thousand feet off the ground was more intimidating than their final destination. A drink might just settle the herd of elephants in her stomach.
Georgie downed her whisky in three gulps, the ice chill causing her to gasp and swallow hard.
‘Steady!’ said Max. ‘Are you nervous by any chance?’
There was no denying her anxiety – it was his turn to enjoy the upper hand when she admitted to being a virgin flyer against his veteran status. Still, he didn’t dwell on it, and this time he was magnanimous in his advice.
‘Just keep yourself distracted during take-off and landing,’ he said. ‘Have you got a book?’
She nodded.
‘Good. And if you have a wobbly moment, just remember the pilots. They’re not nervous, and they have to fly the bloody thing! That’s what my mother always told me.’ He smiled only briefly, eyes cutting away and staring into his glass wistfully.
‘Thanks. I’ll remember that,’ Georgie said.
But as they walked out onto the tarmac, her anxiety reared again. The aircraft was little more than a corrugated metal crate; beads of perspiration collected at the nape of her neck. She looked suspiciously at the three extremely small propellers charged with hoisting such a great mass into the sky, a weight that would soon include her. The other passengers boarding appeared relaxed enough, and she had to remind herself of Max’s advice, that thousands of people flew every day – and survived. As the engine sputtered into life and growled towards take-off, she opened her book and steadied her breathing, hoping she reflected a picture of calm. Inside was another matter.
Once in the air, the whisky nicely stroking at her angst, Georgie pushed her nose further into the pages. Her choice of The Trouble I’ve Seen by her hero Martha Gellhorn was not a deliberate irritant to Max Spender, but nicely fortuitous. She held it high in front of her face, partly as a distraction, but mostly as a way of nailing her colours firmly to the female mast.
Max, by contrast, was reading the morning’s Daily Express – she noted his eyebrows twitching at reports from the new Austria, still in its infancy, the Nazis having simply trooped into their neighbouring country in March and declared it to be henceforth part of Germany. Buoyed by this, native Germans living in the Czech Sudetenland were agitating for their own alliance with the Fatherland and looked to be gaining strength. Few in the world, it seemed, had issued much of a protest, least of all Britain’s politicians, with the British and American government officially refusing to accept any more Jewish refugees.
And so, even without the summer swelter, Berlin promised to be a cauldron. Yet, to the population in England, Chancellor Hitler was merely a strange little man with a moustache who liked to stalk around in shorts and bark into a microphone at huge gatherings of idol worshippers. It was the correspondents – writers and analysts tracking Hitler’s meteoric rise and his harsh, legal restraints directed at Jews especially – who recognised the r
eal threat. To Georgie, Herr Hitler was both strange and dangerous, and somehow, she needed to get that across in her writing. Objectively and professionally.
Already, she felt that familiar mix of trepidation and excitement at being the one to report on Germany’s political tableaux. It wasn’t simply seeing her name next to the print – though that still gave her a lift – more that her words might actually inform someone’s thinking. To have that responsibility for representing the truth gave her a buzz like no other – that she was shaping the tiniest part of history. And no, she wasn’t naive to that old argument about journalistic bias, but she still believed passionately in a free press. It was why she had become a reporter, after all. And if there was ever a need for a free press, it was in a country under the dictatorship of a small man with big ideas.
Throughout the three-hour flight, broken only with a jerky descent and a brief refuelling in Paris, they continued to defy the laws of gravity in their glorified crate, bumping through the cloud film as Georgie peered at the carpet of sea and land barely visible beneath them.
Coming in to land, her nerves and excitement reared again in equal measure. The patchwork green of rural fields gave way to granite lines of runways as they circled above their final destination, the window beside her stippled with cloud dust. She pushed her nose against the pane, eager to pick out more, and it was then that – through the white mist – it came into view: a beacon of red pulsing through the opaque sky, a vast line that seemed to sway in a rhythm. As they taxied and puttered to a halt, everything drew into focus behind the warp of noonday heat – the line was moving, huge flags of crimson fluttering above the airport terminal, each with their own, iconic black and white centre. The sight was stark and impressive – no doubt designed for its impact, and perhaps as a welcome to newcomers, although that remained debatable, given what she already knew. The sun’s glare formed a dazzling backdrop, and yet – in Georgie’s own mind – the dominant red swathe against the building’s sandy façade created a brooding, leaden cloud: a tempest of swastikas. And she was just about to enter into the eye of that storm. By choice.
The Berlin Girl Page 2