The Berlin Girl

by Mandy Robotham

  ‘Georgie,’ she said, holding out a hand to shake.

  ‘Kasper,’ he returned. ‘Kasper Vortsch.’

  He signalled for a waiter to bring more drinks, Georgie opting for a soda and a clear head.

  ‘Is this your first time here?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it show? Was I really gawping so much?’ She felt sure her accent would instantly expose her as an alien to Berlin, if not the whole of Germany.

  ‘No, you look only slightly bemused perhaps.’

  ‘I am here with a friend,’ she added, anxious not to appear either desperate or a huntress.

  ‘I did see her briefly,’ he said. ‘But if I’m honest I was glad when she left for a minute. It gave me an excuse to call.’

  ‘And if I’m honest I do find this all quite strange,’ Georgie said. ‘Beautiful and crazy, but very odd.’

  ‘This is Berlin.’ He laughed. ‘This is what normal looks like.’

  Falling in with the flirtatious nature of the Resi ambience, Georgie made him guess where she was from, pleased when it took him three attempts to place her accent as British. Instead of dimming at the prospect – a near enemy – those eyes became brighter. But the next inevitable query threatened to end their conversation stone dead.

  ‘So, why are you in Berlin?’ he asked. ‘A holiday?’

  ‘I’m a writer,’ she said in a split second. She didn’t know why, other than – in that precise moment – she didn’t want him to slink away in fear of the foreign press. Nor did she wish to be caught as an outright liar. He would find out eventually, she thought, and then he would be on his guard. For now, it was just a conversation in a nightclub. ‘I’m just doing some research right now, getting the lay of the land,’ she added.

  ‘So really, you are hard at work this evening?’

  ‘Absolutely! As you can see, it’s a real toil.’

  None of it was a lie. It just wasn’t the full truth either. And Kasper Vortsch seemed intrigued. For once, she was enticing to a man she had never met before, and Georgina Young was charmed by the very idea.

  ‘Do you like our city?’ he said, a clear hint of pride in his voice. In her time so far, Georgie had already noted that Berliners were split in their love of their homeland, simply by allegiance; those not in favour of Hitler’s politics saw the city and country in deep decline, yet pro-Nazis – the military especially – viewed the new Fatherland as a potential Utopia, blind to what the world outside saw.

  ‘From what I’ve seen, yes, it’s exciting,’ Georgie said diplomatically, ‘although I’ve barely been outside the city centre.’

  ‘Well, I encourage you to see much more,’ he urged. ‘The forest land and lakes are beautiful, and only just a stone’s throw from the Berlin itself. I think it might rival what I’ve heard of the British countryside.’

  ‘I plan to,’ she assured him. ‘For now, I think I can safely say that here is more vibrant than dreary old London.’

  It opened up a conversation that neatly skirted politics and placed them on a small patch of common ground: a comparison of clubs in both cities, good and bad coffee in either, where she learnt her German, and a lengthy explanation from Georgie as to what constituted ‘fish’n’chips’.

  ‘But why is it wrapped in newspaper?’ he said, clearly perplexed.

  ‘Do you know, I’m not really sure,’ Georgie had to admit. ‘The years of depression, I can only guess. Us Brits are a thrifty lot.’

  The appraisal of her own country caused him to laugh and lean in over the table, shoulders close in collusion. ‘Well, let me tell you a secret then – we Germans are not half as organised as we make out.’ His lips were broad and spread with flirtatious enjoyment, and his eyes – alight with mischief – remained hypnotic.

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone,’ Georgie whispered back.

  ‘Good, then you are an honorary Berliner already,’ he said, sitting back and sipping his beer.

  If she concentrated solely on the space above his collar, Kasper was easily a man whom Georgie might have been attracted to back home – young, open and handsome, easy with his conversation. She was relatively inexperienced when it came to love, with only a few short-lived relationships to date, but – and it was a big ‘but’ – if she ignored his attire, she liked what she saw. She wouldn’t be the first to think it – Nazi officers had a reputation for their charming manners, whatever was buried underneath. Frida’s numerous acquaintances were proof of it, and she seemed to get along well enough with them, despite her firm anti-Nazi leanings.

  As if conjured by Georgie’s thoughts, Frida reappeared, apologising for abandoning her flatmate but acknowledging wildly with her eyes that she had not been missed. She ordered another bottle, and this time Georgie accepted a glass, feeling it necessary to get through the rest of the evening. Frida’s generally flighty manner made their three-way discourse even easier, the champagne oiling it nicely, so that when they reached the bottom of the bottle Kasper was laughing heartily at one of Frida’s pert observations, even though it dared to gently mock the Führer. Another conquest for Frida, Georgie thought. His attention would inevitably slide towards her, with her quirky and enticing looks. And yet, Georgie didn’t really mind, her brain mildly pickled and beginning to think about the attraction of her own bed and blissful sleep.

  Kasper suddenly looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, ladies – it’s midnight and I have to be up early to serve the Reich.’ He smirked a little at his own, self-important joke. ‘But it has been a pleasure.’

  Georgie pulled her head up to say goodbye casually, expecting his ongoing attentions to be on Frida. Instead, he caught and captured her gaze, not letting it go, his face unusually serious. ‘May I see you again, Fraulein Young? Perhaps to show you some of Germany’s real beauty.’

  ‘Er, well … I …’ There was a swift kick to her ankle under the table, and a sideways glance from Frida. She didn’t dare look at her directly or she might have laughed out loud. And Kasper Vortsch did not deserve their petty giggles – he’d been perfectly courteous.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she found herself saying, before scribbling her new address on a card helpfully provided by the Resi.

  ‘Until then,’ he said, dipping his head and turning smartly. Georgie tracked his form towards the entrance, noting a second set of eyes on Kasper, swinging back to her as the SS man melted into the crowd. Max Spender’s flinty glare was easily decipherable, decidedly unimpressed with her choice of companion.

  What does he care? Georgie thought. Or do I, for his opinion?

  Towards Frida, though, she was vocal as the band struck up again: ‘What on earth have I done?’

  ‘You’ve got yourself a date with an officer – a junior officer, but a very handsome one,’ Frida said.

  ‘And what happens when he finds out that I’m foreign press? He’ll have read Goebbels’s instructions not to fraternise with us – we’re vermin in his eyes.’

  ‘And in my experience, if he likes you it won’t make a blind bit of difference what ole Joey says,’ Frida said, tipping back the dregs of champagne. ‘Why do you think I’ve got so many grey butterflies flapping around my skirt hems? And the SS are terrible gossips, the lot of them. Like old women, really. Our Kasper could well have a good story under that cap of his.’

  Still, a grey mist of unease was already hovering around Georgie’s ankles, threatening to rise. However innocent, a date with a Nazi rankled. But if Frida was right, Kasper might well be a means to an end. Nothing more than a good contact. After all, weren’t they – the Reich, the ministry, Hitler – almost certainly watching her? Now, she could observe too. Tit-for-tat.

  Georgie sunk into bed fuddled by alcohol, but also by a nagging self-doubt – uncertainties that had plagued most of her life. And then irritated that it kept her from sleep. She thought of Frida’s confidence, Simone too. And Max. They seemed naturally blessed with it. Oh, just do it, Georgie. Take a bloody chance.

  12

/>   Girl in the Dust

  Berlin and Sudetenland, 24th August 1938

  There was little chance to think much of Kasper in the next week as those storm clouds of conflict began to brew anew. Unrest in the Sudetenland, a loose area of north, south and western Czechoslovakia, had been rumbling since the spring and was gaining pace. Sliced away from Austria–Hungary after the Great War in 1918, Sudeten Germans found themselves living in the newly formed Czech nation, divorced from their homeland. Twenty years on, they were agitating to be reabsorbed into Germany, and that meant reclaiming the land.

  Hitler must have been rubbing his hands together at the thought of loyal Germans steering the fight, after his unopposed march into the Rhineland bordering France and Belgium, and the significant gain of Austria. Once again, the Führer could claim to be the eternal peacemaker, merely responding to his ‘people’s needs’, all the while having an excuse to position troops dangerously close to the Czech borders. Warmongering at its most subtle. Rumours abounded that Western leaders from Britain and France were considering meeting the Führer to broker peace: only the press pack feared it would result in total capitulation to the German leader.

  The Chronicle had requested a reporter to head into the area ‘to gauge the mood’. On a brief appearance in the Taubenstrasse office, Paul Adamson begged a reprieve on the grounds that his wife was due to give birth in England any day. Cynically, Georgie might have supposed it gave him limited time to dwell in the actress’s bed, though he did appear genuinely grateful when she volunteered for the trip. He looked grey and tired, and she couldn’t help feeling slightly sorry for him in the moment, however complicated his private life was. Since his return from Munich, they had worked together, side by side, in the office on just a few occasions – he, too, pulled down the window blinds as they typed – and he’d been generous then in his advice; ways of courting the London desk to place stories, sidestepping those turgid Reich PR events that would end up on the waste ‘spike’ and never on the page. His wit was dry and caustic, but it was a wit nonetheless. And he was – without the distractions – a very good newsman.

  Georgie had objected less to the planned trip as Rod Faber and Bill Porter were heading out too, in a hired car, giving them carte blanche to tour the various towns and villages and talk to Sudeten Germans. She was doubly pleased to be included, though her heart sank when she learned Max had grabbed the last space in the car. At least there would be Rod and Bill for humour and support. After several failed attempts to secure a driver, she approached Rubin Amsel and, judging by his positive reaction, the combined fee for several days’ work was very acceptable.

  They left early on the 25th, with a true spirit of adventure, a boot full of luggage and several bottles of good whisky; three passengers piled into the back, and they each took it in turns to ride up front with Rubin. Georgie opted for the first shift beside the driver. Once out of the city confines, the rolling countryside took shape and she realised Kasper Vortsch had not been false or boastful on that night at the Resi. Germany was beautiful; the feathered greenery of the forest, roads skirting around lake after lake, and the dotted black and white gabled homes making a Grimm’s fairy tale come to life.

  She stared endlessly out of the window, glimpsing people walking, working and tending their land. It had a twofold effect: she began to understand the will of the German people in protecting their own homes and a traditional way of life, and yet her heart sank too with the knowledge that Hitler was in danger of dismantling the very things ordinary Germans held sacred; marching towards war was a sure way of annihilating their entire way of life.

  ‘Are you well, Fraulein Young?’ Rubin Amsel ventured, an hour or so into the drive. ‘You’re very quiet, if I may say.’

  ‘Oh, just admiring,’ she replied wistfully. ‘And wondering. What do you think about it, Herr Amsel? This piece of land we’re heading to – some say it’s rightfully part of Germany, and yet it lies 400 kilometres from Berlin. Does it really matter to Germans like you and your family? Is it your homeland?’

  He was silent for almost a minute, and Georgie worried she’d been somehow disrespectful, pried too deeply. What he said next, his voice calm and measured, sent tremors through her.

  ‘I’m a Jew, Fraulein Young. It no longer matters what I think. According to the Reich, my family and I are stateless. We have no home.’ And yet his voice was not consumed with bitterness or hatred. ‘Germans may hope for peace. I can only hope for survival.’

  She turned her head and looked at his profile, eyes focused on the road: an unassuming, kindly man who could have easily been an uncle of hers, a man she felt her father would have gotten along well with, shared a day’s fishing together, or chatted over a pint of beer. How and why had Rubin’s family been so forcibly disengaged from a country they had been born into, and loved – perhaps until now – as much as any other Germans? It was undeniably insane to any right-minded person.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ Herr Amsel replied, with a brief glance at her. ‘I have my family, two wonderful children, and we have faith. Perhaps more in human nature than might be wise, but we do. I’m a lucky man, Fraulein Young.’

  ‘It’s Georgie,’ she replied, eager more than ever for him to feel an equal in their company. ‘If you think it proper, that is.’

  ‘Proper if we are friends,’ he said. ‘Georgie. So, please, call me Rubin.’

  The German Sudetens were not hard to track down, and with Rubin’s help at spotting the most likely watering holes, the small group arrived in the western areas late in the afternoon and worked their way through several bars, scribbling down local opinion, which sometimes switched rapidly into rants against the British and French allies for imposing the ‘unreasonable’ boundaries upon Germany twenty years previously. They split into two – Max coupling with Rod and his excellent German, Bill and Georgie buddying up – offering plenty of ale to keep the Sudetens sweet and talking; Bill’s florid colouring and easy manner meant they fell into his confidence quickly, eager to offer their views. She was relieved, at least, in avoiding close proximity to Max and his potential disdain for her way of working.

  Feeling sodden at one point with too much beer and sunshine, Georgie wandered into the local shop and engaged several women about life at home, hopes for their children and day-to-day life. She felt the words under her pen beginning to form themselves into a feature piece, pondering at the same time on what Max was making of the trip, and if his nose for hard news was twitching for something more grounded in fact. He’d been nothing short of civil to her on the trip so far, meaning Rod and Bill might never have guessed at his behaviour towards her since their arrival in Germany.

  ‘I’ve got plenty for today,’ Rod said as they regrouped in the car. ‘Apparently, there’s a hotel in the next village. I say we head there, get a decent meal and turn in for an early start towards the north. It’s bound to be a long day. And hot.’

  They arrived late evening at an old-style gabled hostelry, requesting three rooms – Bill and Rod to share one, Max and Rubin to bed down in another, with Georgie on her own.

  ‘Evening,’ Rod said, his big form striding up to the reception desk, ravenous for a good dinner. Rubin and Max were following up with the bags. The hotel owner perused the group, tiny pupils veiled by enormous eyebrows.

  ‘Fine for three rooms,’ he said good-naturedly, ‘but we don’t take Jews.’ Georgie was shocked at how matter-of-fact he was, his words spoken so shamelessly as he turned to pick out the keys.

  ‘Okay, guys, all on to the next hotel,’ Rod announced, pivoting and making to usher the entire group back to the car. Given how much he had been belly-aching about his own aching, empty belly on the journey over, it was a split second, though entirely natural, reaction from Rod, driven by a deeply held belief. Despite her own hunger and fatigue, Georgie loved him all the more.

  ‘Herr Faber,’ Rubin began to protest. ‘It’s fine, really. I wil
l go …’

  ‘It’s not fine, Herr Amsel, and it never will be,’ Rod interrupted firmly, his eyes signalling to all there would be no compromise. ‘We either all stay here together, or we’ll bunk in a barn like the family of the good book. But bags I get the manger.’

  The hotel owner flushed red under his copious hair and cast around at his almost empty restaurant. Presumably, there were plenty of available rooms upstairs. ‘Well, I’m sure we can accommodate … just this once. For one night.’

  ‘Perfect, one night it is,’ Rod said. ‘Now, what’s on the menu?’

  There were barely any guests to object to Rubin being part of their table, and he seemed to relax over dinner.

  ‘So, Rubin, what did you do before all of this?’ asked Rod, chewing happily on his pork knuckle. No one present needed an interpreter for ‘all this’: before the turmoil and madness. Before the Nazis. Before Hitler.

  ‘I was a journalist,’ Rubin said shyly.

  ‘I knew it!’ Rod exclaimed. ‘I knew it. Didn’t I say, Bill? Didn’t I say that guy’s got a nose for finding the right people?’

  ‘You did indeed,’ said Bill, fighting a piece of gristle. The two were like a well-tuned double act.

  Rubin looked pleased to have been recognised as such. ‘I worked on the Berliner Tageblatt for years before the editorial ban on Jews,’ he said. ‘It was a good paper, one of the best, had a very liberal stance. But now …’

  Everyone nodded, aware that any newspaper that survived in Germany, in Berlin especially, did so at the behest and control of Joseph Goebbels, with all content heavily censored. It was either compliance or be shut down. There was no real news anymore, only what the Nazis fashioned. Hence the need for a foreign press, and the hundreds of underground pamphlets and newspapers pushing their heads up like daisies through the manure bed of propaganda.