‘Danke, Herr Lehmann,’ he said, ‘and the same for my friend.’ That was the choice tonight, it seemed – beer or beer. Georgie made a note to check her alcohol consumption and take it slowly.
While the Adlon was a regular haunt of the foreign press, this was clearly their daily respite – a real home from home. The owner kept back the same large table every night, certain of one or two desiring a bolthole, sometimes a whole posse of reporters late into the night – depending on their press deadlines back home – chewing over the day’s news or frustrations about Bruno Bauer and his PR fortress.
The florid red hair and sizeable moustache of Bill Porter were instantly familiar, alongside a few whose names were not yet fully registered in her memory.
‘The booze here is fine,’ Bill said in a low voice as Georgie edged into a seat beside him, ‘but the pasta is even better. I recommend it.’ As if on cue, a painfully thin woman placed a steaming bowl of spaghetti in front of him and smiled at Bill.
‘Danke.’ His bright green eyes signalled a total love of her cooking. ‘If she wasn’t already married to the owner, she’d be my dream woman,’ he whispered with pure mischief.
‘Then I promise I won’t tell your wife.’ Georgie felt relaxed, among friends and, perhaps for the first time since arriving in Berlin, truly at home.
The conversation was animated, with a great deal of caustic humour about the Nazi high command, and not merely centred on Adolf Hitler. The crowd’s descriptions of Heinrich Himmler – the bespectacled Gestapo chief – and larger-than-life Hermann Göring were puppet caricatures painted with their wit.
‘Last night I was sitting behind old Hermann at a concert and I heard one old dear say he possessed the “hind end of an elephant”,’ said the Daily Herald reporter, to peals of laughter. ‘She practically shouted it. I desperately wanted to use it in my copy – then I thought about the Gestapo knocking on my door and marching me off to the bowels of their HQ.’
‘Perhaps it’s best to keep that observation under wraps,’ Bill said, between mouthfuls of pasta. ‘We like having you around for now.’
A woman’s voice travelled across the table: ‘Just watch your back, and your own bottom, if you get anywhere within pinching distance of fat Hermann. He may be a portly old so-and-so, but he’s got very quick hands.’
It was one of the two women Georgie had noted at the far end of the table on arriving, the same two on that first day at the Adlon in their very private huddle. Now, they were part of the relaxed crowd, laughing and smoking.
‘Frida Borken,’ she said in a light German accent, extending a long, thin hand. ‘Freelance. And this is Simone Doucette – French free press.’
Georgie muttered something out of politeness but could really only gawp in wonder. They were stunning, each in their own way, the epitome of everything she had admired in her journey to being a female correspondent, oozing confidence and certainty.
Frida’s face was that of a pixie, her enormous doll-like eyes emphasised with ebony kohl and mascara, tiny bow lips stark red with lipstick. She wore a tweed, tailored jacket, a cream shirt and a bright red tie, as if she were just off to a shooting party. Topping it all off was a shocking and sharp blonde bob, cut bluntly to her jawline; a darling who’d just leapt off the fashion pages.
Simone, by comparison, presented as a pre-Raphaelite painting; long, wavy reddish hair pulled into a loose tie, pinned in some way to the top of her head and cascading like a waterfall, strands falling either side of her pale oval face, her grey irises outlined with a thick, black rim. It gave her a ghostly, ethereal quality. The spectre in her was intensified by a cloud of grey cigarette smoke and a shimmering scarf swirling around her neck.
When they both smiled broadly, however, the complete awe that Georgie felt melted a little.
‘Welcome to our little group,’ Frida said, shuffling in and causing the fluid table dynamic to shift again. Georgie moulded as part of their little cluster, more so when the two discovered she’d been part of the fashion press, pumping her for the latest gossip from Paris and London, though she had little of recent value to tell.
‘So, where are you staying?’ Frida said, picking at Bill’s leftover pasta. With her near-skeletal wrists, Georgie wondered if scraps were the only eating she ever ate.
‘The Hotel Bristol for now, though I only have two days left. I’m looking for a flat-share.’
The two women stopped and looked at each other; something passed silently between them and Frida’s eyes grew even wider. Her red bow lips spread.
‘Well, it just so happens we have a spare room in our flat,’ she said. ‘Clare Howard moved off to report from the Spanish Front yesterday. It’s fated, surely?’
The rent, fortunately, was within Georgie’s budget and she didn’t doubt it to be stylish, with Frida and Simone’s influence. And it was only a short tram ride from the centre of Berlin and the Chronicle office.
‘Then it’s a yes!’ Georgie said. ‘When can I move in?’
The glow surrounding Georgie was partly down to the beer, but also the company and her day’s exploits – she had bagged herself a contact and a flat in the space of a week. Yes, by a combination of coincidence and assistance, but it was done. Now, all she needed was a driver, and a clutch of stories to make her name. She was allowing herself a virtual hug of congratulation when the door opened and Max Spender walked in with a youngish man, the dour Manchester Guardian reporter.
There was a slight thud to her heart, perhaps nudging at her very round bubble of happiness, and she struggled to understand why. She neither understood nor matched Max’s dislike of her, but his presence then was a smudge on her otherwise perfect evening. One saving grace: the bird-like woman was absent. The two men were absorbed onto the table with Herr Lehmann bringing more chairs and beer, and Max eased swiftly into being ‘one of the boys’. She wondered how he gained such skills so quickly, and although she hated herself for it, there was a stab of envy directed at him. Why did it take her time to trust and join in the general bonhomie of the newspaper world, when everyone else managed it so effortlessly?
In surveying this new realm, Georgie caught Max looking intently in her direction, though only because his gaze was set firmly at the body next to hers, unable to hide his overt admiration. Simone Doucette, in turn, had those grey, ghostly eyes returning his look of fascination.
8
Old Face, New Friend
7th August 1938
Frida’s place wasn’t a flat by London standards, those poky dwellings teetering on top of one another, with balsa wood walls masquerading as bricks and mortar. The apartment – owned by her grandmother – was on the leafy Herderstrasse, west of the Tiergarten, and a palace by comparison: a vast, modern edifice cut by clean lines into apartments with high ceilings and tall, sleek windows stretching almost floor to ceiling. The white walls inside were enhanced by an eccentric array of furniture and ephemera, quirks and curiosities provided by Frida, with flowing ostrich feathers draped over lamps, presumably Simone’s contribution to the décor.
Georgie’s attempts to play it cool worked for a time, keeping her mouth from falling open in wonder, but only until she reached her new bedroom and shut the door, jumping on the bed and trying to suppress a fit of giggles at her own good fortune.
The rest of the day was spent unpacking and appreciating the space and the roll-top bath, her first full day off since arrival.
Despite Paul Adamson’s continued absence, she felt more at ease setting off for work the next morning. The office was cool and in shadow, but empty, and she made a mental note to at least buy a pot plant, something to talk to in her bureau chief’s absences. Relief, too, at seeing the window opposite devoid of faces. There was an envelope in the pile of post – the first addressed to her personally – and she was pleased to find it was a reply from Herr Amsel, the driver whom she met in 1936. Yes, he would come to the office at two p.m., and would be delighted to discuss her needs and terms.
&nbs
p; Since the diary stipulated nothing of importance, the meeting with Herr Amsel became her most pressing engagement. In the meantime, she needed to generate something aside from press conference reports, eager to prove herself. Already, she had several ideas for news features to tempt the desk in London, starting with a focus on the young women behind the BDM – the female German Youth League – since she had little hope of being allowed access to the male equivalent, the Jungvolk and Hitler Youth, now a compulsory activity for all German boys aged ten and above.
The second was to highlight preparations for the Nuremberg rally in early September, the Nazi Party’s annual showcase for its might and the adoration of its leader. Georgie, by contrast, would not be showing the Führer in a glowing light, or giving credence to his politics, highlighting instead the pomp and expense for what it was – a grotesque extravagance for a nation that was still struggling to pull itself out of a deep economic depression. That was her thinking, anyway.
The planning of both demanded a lone trip to the Propaganda Ministry – without Rod Faber to act as guardian this time – and a direct request to Bruno Bauer. No time like the present, Georgie.
Approaching the building’s entrance, she mentally checked her supply bag of sweet smiles for each checkpoint; it turned her stomach to employ it, but feminine charm would be necessary in this case, and it certainly helped. She was surprised to be granted an immediate audience with Herr Bauer, quickly composing herself as she was led into his office, easily twice the size of that of the Chronicle’s Editor-in-Chief back home.
‘Fraulein Young, how nice to see you,’ he began in English, and when Georgie replied in German, he allowed a portion of his crooked teeth to show a near pleasure. ‘What can I do for you?’ He sat back behind his vast desk, the marbled eagle icon at its helm almost obscuring his tiny head.
When she explained her idea for an article – though perhaps a little short on detail – Herr Bauer became animated, reaching for his telephone immediately and ordering the stables – where the mounted divisions were busy polishing every equine decoration before the move to Nuremberg – to be on full alert for a visit that same afternoon. A second call was to the uniforms and insignia section, with similar requests.
‘You understand I can’t permit a …’ the word ‘woman’ was clearly on the tip of his tongue ‘… reporter to access the armaments section, but I think we can give you a good representation of how the Reich rightly celebrates the belief in our future.’
‘Please, Herr Bauer, don’t arrange anything special on my account – I want to see each place at its most natural, a behind-the-scenes account if you like.’ She used up another supply smile.
He stopped short and looked perplexed, as if the cogs of his brain had ground down a gear in processing this latest request. In turn, it dawned on Georgie that the Nazi regime did not understand the concept of ‘natural’ or at ease. The starch in his brilliant white collar was proof enough. Every newsreel of the Führer ‘at home’ or mingling with children to show his softer side was clearly scripted and orchestrated, frame by frame.
Herr Bauer snapped out of his thought process. ‘As you wish, Fraulein Young,’ he said and stood to show their meeting was at an end. ‘I look forward to seeing your article.’ He let loose with his teeth again, just the top set this time, and held out his hand. It was warm – too warm – and Georgie squirmed inside. She skipped down the steps of the ministry, partly from relief, and bought a sandwich on her way back to the office. From an empty diary, she now had a tight deadline imposed upon herself. But it’s what she thrived on, and it began a slow drip of adrenalin she so badly needed.
Herr Amsel rapped on the glass window of the office door at precisely two o’clock. His otherwise drawn face spread into a smile when he clearly recognised Georgie from their previous work together. He had been a solid man, but his big frame was a good deal leaner than she remembered, his greying hair thinned to sparse strands – except for his same affable manner, she might not have known him.
‘Fraulein Young! I didn’t recognise the name, but I remember your face very well,’ he said, pumping her hand in greeting. ‘How are you? And what are doing back in Berlin?’
When she explained her request for a retained driver, with a regular monthly fee, Herr Amsel’s face lit up. ‘Of course, of course,’ he went on. ‘I would be delighted. Much like during the Olympics, I have use of a car whenever I need.’
‘You no longer have your own?’
Very few Jews now owned a vehicle, he explained plainly and without bitterness, though Georgie burned with her own naivety. ‘But I have a very good arrangement with a garage owner, and I won’t let you down,’ he went on quickly. ‘In fact, I have the car with me now, if you’d like a tour of the city.’
It was exactly what she’d hoped for – but there was to be no tour, since she was due at the military stables, and then on to the uniforms section. A quick call to the Chicago Tribune office had secured the use of a freelance photographer, and she hoped not to have blown the entire office budget in her first week. Since Paul Adamson wasn’t there to tell her otherwise, she’d simply employed her own initiative.
They set off almost immediately so as to take a long route around several of the suburbs, with the aim of introducing Georgie to the different neighbourhoods; Herr Amsel pointed out each government building, the prominent streets, cafés populated by ordinary Germans, film starlets or SS personnel. And Jews. In other words, where it was appropriate to be seen and where to avoid. How to stay safe. Both his words and his tone spoke volumes: the Berlin of 1938 was a world away from the open city of 1936 and the Nazi-contrived zeitgeist of moderation and tolerance.
Both sessions at the stables and the uniforms were, as expected, played out like a Reich PR exercise, with the best horses and the most decorated soldiers laid out for Georgie to inspect, almost as the Führer would in less than a month’s time. With 100,000 loyal subjects marching and 350,000 spectators expected to fill the field-cum-stadium – Herr Bauer had reeled off the figures with pride – preparations began early. Fortunately, the photographer seemed to gauge Georgie’s desire to dig a little deeper, instinctively snapping close-ups of the skin-and-bone stable boy and his visible rack of ribs as he worked to beautify the cossetted, well-fed animals.
Whenever she could escape the minder following her every move, Georgie snuck into corners and talked with anyone she could find, engaging the woman whose brow was wet with sweat as she pressed each uniform, thanking the Führer for the chance to participate in his glory, on top of her full-time job as a cleaner. Georgie felt there would be little need to inject even a mild irony into her written piece – it was all there for any intelligent reader to see.
Herr Amsel drove her back to the office and she worked late in typing up her piece, the images still fresh in her mind. There was a post train leaving from the central Zoo station the next afternoon, and the photographer promised to meet her on the platform with his prints, all to arrive in London in the next few days, leaving no possibility for the editorial team to make excuses over lack of page space in the time she had allowed. As the light began to fade within the office, though, she pulled down the blinds that had become her shield, turning on the lamps. If not safe from prying eyes, it made her feel cocooned at least.
The piece flowed easily for Georgie – her style was naturally more suited to the lengthier news features than to hard fact stories. Inevitably, editors would be more brutal with their red cutting pen over the coming months, so this was her chance to really play with words.
As if by some spooky coincidence, the phone trilled loudly as she pulled the last sheet from the roller, the sudden intrusion causing it almost to rip. Her eyes shot to the cracks between the blinds. Who knew she was here?
‘Hello,’ she said, guarded.
‘Georgie! I was hoping to catch you,’ said the crackled but familiar voice of the Chronicle’s foreign editor, Henry Peters.
‘Why are you working so late?’
‘Because Berlin never sleeps, didn’t you know, Henry?’
He laughed and coughed cigarette smoke down the phone. ‘How is everything? Is Adamson there? Helping you to settle in?’
‘Hmm … Paul’s in Munich. He has been for … a while.’
‘Munich? What the hell’s he doing there? I didn’t send him.’ Henry sounded slightly irritated. ‘Are you all right, though, finding your way about?’
‘I’m fine, Henry – the press pack here are very helpful.’
‘Good, good,’ he mumbled. ‘Press men anywhere are usually a nice bunch. And how’s that Telegraph man we sent you with – are you sorting each other out?’
‘Yes, we’re muddling through,’ Georgie lied. Henry – a true mother hen despite his reputation – might have been on the phone to the Telegraph offices if he’d known the truth about Max’s chilliness. And gaining a reputation as a whining female was the last thing she needed.
‘The diary’s pretty run of the mill at the moment, Henry,’ she told him. ‘But I’ve secured a contact and I’m just about to dispatch a words and pictures piece, a preview to Nuremberg. The word this year is that Hitler will use it to assert his strength.’
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Can’t promise anything, but I’ll give it a look. Stay in touch, Georgie. Keep safe.’
He rang off, and Georgie sighed at the finished piece in her hand. Was it all worth it? Along with every other journalist under Henry’s wing, she was now vying for column inches on the page, and with the rise of fascism across Europe nudging for space – Franco’s war in Spain hotting up and demanding attention – she had to come up with fresh angles to bid for the reader’s interest.
‘Come on, George,’ she breathed to herself. ‘Just get on with it.’
9
Hope and Fear
8th August 1938
‘Sara, Sara!’ Rubin came barrelling through the door of their apartment in haste, only to be met with his wife’s ghostly pallor.
The Berlin Girl Page 6