23
Bright Lights
2nd November 1938
Georgie considered asking Max to her evening rendezvous with Karl, but thought better of it – one man and a woman were able to melt more easily into a crowd. The waiter appeared trustworthy, and it was he who’d suggested contact in a public place. She’d never been to Schiller’s but it was on a side street just off the bright and busy clubland of Kurfürstendamm – the centre of Berlin’s twenty-four-hour reputation. Electricity fuelling the hundreds of bright, neon lights overhead ran through Georgie as she stepped towards the bar. It was cold enough to see steam from her breath, hands in gloves and pockets, but the sight of couples striding arm in arm warmed her, their laughter tempering her anguish. Rod trusts this man – Karl – and so should I. Still, each and every smiling face who passed by could – might – be Gestapo. Be as well to remember it, girl.
Schiller’s was gloomy and distinctly downmarket, holding an advantage in being badly lit, and she’d deliberately dressed in a sober fashion, in a grey winter suit – nothing to turn heads – and flat shoes. Subconsciously, she realised being able to run for her life was lodged at the back of her mind.
Georgie’s eyes skittered over the tables and the rough clientele as she entered. Some glanced her way and turned back instantly; one or two pairs of eyes lingered too long for her liking. The room felt suddenly hot. Karl was already seated at the back of the bar, in a rough wooden booth. He leaned in to kiss her as she sat, but it was more of a play at a date. He sparked up a conversation based on her day, all smiles and enquiry, like a regular couple. When the drinks arrived and it was obvious the men sitting at the long bar were paying them no attention, Karl turned to face her.
His voice was upbeat, but low. ‘And so, your cream, Fraulein?’
‘The Haas Institute, over at Königstrasse, Wannsee. Do you know anything about it?’
His eyes narrowed, as if searching a dark corner of his memory. ‘It doesn’t come to mind,’ he said. Like a good contact, he knew better than to ask why. ‘Do you want me to make enquiries? Discreet, of course.’
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Owners especially, and its purpose.’
‘Very well. It may take a good few days.’
Georgie suppressed her disappointment. Finding Paul seemed urgent, but Rod had persuaded her that reliable information took time; too fast and it was likely to be either thin on detail or heavily embellished.
‘Come to the Kranzler in five days. I’ll let you know if I have anything then,’ Karl said, draining his beer.
‘One more thing,’ Georgie ventured. Even then, she wasn’t sure of entrusting Karl with a name, but it seemed they had nothing to lose, especially if Paul really was in danger. ‘One of our correspondents is missing, since yesterday.’
Karl’s face dropped in what appeared to be genuine surprise.
‘Paul Adamson,’ she went on. ‘Have you heard anything? Did he ever come to you, or your friends?’
But Karl’s face was blank. ‘There are lots like me, Fraulein, simply trying to do their bit, and make a little extra for survival, in case we … well, you know. His name isn’t familiar, but he may have had other contacts. I’ll ask around.’
He nodded that their business was concluded, and they made a play of saying a friendly goodbye and promising to meet again soon.
Outside, on the brightly lit main street with its ever busy footfall, couples spilled from a cabaret or a show, perhaps choosing to ignore the grubby underbelly of Berlin just yards away. George looked on, slight envious of their normality. She would have liked to linger, innocently people-watching under the bright café awnings. But nothing in that moment about Berlin seemed innocuous, and she was suddenly exhausted – by this latest encounter, the day’s revelations and events. And by what the next few days might hold.
Sinking into a bubble bath back at Frida’s flat, she felt variously thankful for and guilty about such indulgence, especially in ignoring the phone when it rang several times. Doubtless, Margot Moller was not experiencing such luxury. The actress was wise to Berlin, and if she was within Joey Goebbels’s beloved clique of starlets, she would know what the highest echelons of Nazi society were capable of. The gloss of the parties, the sheen of etiquette. And the ruthless reality underneath.
No, she would be feeling distinctly uneasy, alone and waiting for Paul.
24
The Red Stain
3rd November 1938
The next morning, Georgie was keen to report everything to Max as the pack convened for another press conference at the Reich Chancellery. He narrowed his eyes as she slipped into the seat beside him, and yet again she was at a loss as to how to read his mood.
‘I wondered why you weren’t at La Taverne,’ he whispered irritably. ‘I rang the flat several times, almost sent out a search party. Don’t do that, Georgie.’
She was taken aback, mainly by his reaction. Yet behind his blunt words, she detected true concern. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was tired and just needed to sink into a hot bath.’
‘That’s all very well, but in the circumstances, you might have been anywhere. You could have at least let me know.’ The thin line of his mouth relayed annoyance.
In hindsight, she might have felt the same, and she apologised again, with feeling.
‘So, did anyone at La Taverne have any information – about Paul?’
‘No one’s seen him since before he left for England,’ Max said. ‘He didn’t socialise that much either, it seems. But everyone is asking around.’ He didn’t look especially hopeful.
Georgie dipped her head as the press official stood behind his lectern and coughed loudly.
‘Do you think he could have come to real harm?’ she whispered. Max could be gruff and sometimes distant, but he wasn’t prone to exaggeration. His silence then spoke volumes.
They met with Margot after the conference, having agreed not to trust the telephone lines. She had no further news and looked even thinner, as though she hadn’t slept or eaten since their last meeting.
‘What about going to that clinic?’ she pitched. ‘I could go, pretend to be a client, or a relative.’ Her face had the eagerness – and desperation – of a child.
‘I’ve no doubt you could pull it off,’ Max told her, ‘but I think we need to wait for information first. Even if the Haas Institute has anything to do with Paul’s disappearance, I’d be very surprised if he was actually being held there. It would be very foolish of them.’ He rubbed at his chin, deep in thought. ‘Perhaps now you should report him missing. It’ll be low on the police’s priority to begin a search, but if the Chronicle reports it, and the British Embassy puts in its two penn’orth, they’ll be forced to do something.’
Margot nodded with a wan expression. Georgie pictured her then, sitting in the police station, some tired officer from the Kripo detective branch scribbling down her statement, and thinking what a foolish young woman she’d been to get herself involved with an unreliable British newspaperman.
Christ, Paul, where the hell are you, and what are you mixed up in?
There was no news over the next days; Margot either turned up at Georgie’s office or sent word that Paul hadn’t reappeared. As each day went by, Georgie became less and less surprised that he hadn’t, and she began to fear the worst, more certain than ever that it wasn’t simply a case of his philandering finally giving rise to guilt and sending him into hiding. Henry reported Paul’s disappearance officially, and the British Embassy responded, putting out their tendrils of enquiry to the police, with some insistence.
Sam Blundon returned Georgie’s call around midday and – with Paul’s absence taking precedence in recent days – she had to pull herself back to the Amsels’ plight. Rubin had been driving her around the city each day but he’d not pressed the issue. ‘Can you spare some time tomorrow?’ she said to Sam, then sheepishly: ‘I’ve got a favour to ask – perhaps we could meet at Café Bristol – the pastries are on me.’
Georgie felt reassured that she would be able to promote Rubin’s case when she met with Sam the next day. Before that, it was time also to check in with Karl over the Haas Institute – life was running at a rapid pace and it seemed Georgie was juggling more than several balls in the air at once. Her work was coming a poor second, so much so that Henry forwarded a short, slightly curt, telegram, asking her if Berlin had gone to sleep. In response, she fired off a ‘postcard’ piece, which flowed with alarming ease, on the jittery undercurrent seeping into Berliner’s conversations. It was based on snippets she’d overheard – tension versus the vibrant buzz of its cafés and nightclubs; the sinister dark against Berlin’s frivolous light. The nightclub content Georgie gained mostly from Frida’s regular storytelling over breakfast, but the time spent in cafés was all her own.
By five o’clock she was catching the last of the teatime custom in Kranzler’s. Karl ghosted towards her table with his phantom-like ability and she ordered her customary coffee.
‘Have you any cream today?’ she said, struggling to maintain control of her eyebrows; this surreptitious demeanour was definitely not her forte.
‘Plenty today, Madam,’ he said in a flat tone, and left the bill. She flipped it over while stirring her coffee. Tiergarten, top entrance – one hour.
She left with plenty of time to spare, to amble from Kranzler’s, up past the Adlon and under the arches of the stately Brandenburg Gate. Emerging onto the park side and towards the entrance of Berlin’s ‘garden of the beasts’, Georgie swivelled and looked back down the entire length of the Unter den Linden. She squinted into the distance, something she hadn’t done for some weeks, and realised then she’d become like many a Berliner – acclimatised. It had seeped slowly but surely into her consciousness. With her eyes narrowed, Berlin as a whole meshed to a red hue, as if the streets were awash with blood, slinking up the walls of its imposing buildings.
The mere sight created a deep knot in her chest. Paul. Rubin. His kind, welcoming family. That poor unfortunate in the street on her first days in the city. The sheared and degraded red-haired girl in the town square, persecuted only for loving another. All contributed to the Nazis’ red stain. How many more to come?
Hopping from foot to foot against the cold, Georgie tried her best not to look furtive, and it was only a minute or so before Karl scooped at her elbow, his waiter’s uniform covered by a long, dark overcoat.
‘Let’s walk in the park,’ he said. Georgie hesitated – she still didn’t know Karl that well, and it was dark on the paths where the gas lanterns didn’t cast their light. Plenty of corners in which to fall foul. Undoubtedly, he sensed the tension in her arm. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t be long.’
Thankfully, there were still couples along the walkways, and Karl was content to stick to the wider paths. He waited until the walkers passed before he spoke.
‘The Haas Institute,’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘I’d steer clear,’ he said firmly.
‘Why?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ he hissed this time. ‘It’s not good to go poking about there.’
‘Is that a warning?’ For a moment, she wondered if Karl was showing his true colours as a defender of the Reich, though her pure instinct said not.
His grip tightened on her arm – not sinister, more that his sentiment was honest. Please believe me, he was saying. ‘It is a warning. But as a friend. To you and Herr Faber.’
Georgie paused, considering. ‘Tell me anyway,’ she said. ‘Please. I’ll be careful.’
He hesitated, perhaps feeling that his role was strictly information, not to consider the consequences. ‘The front is a care home, elderly and the handicapped – an expensive one,’ he said. ‘But it’s rumoured there’s plenty going on backstage in the laboratories.’
‘Why would a care home need a laboratory?’
‘Exactly,’ Karl said, and nodded ‘good evening’ at another couple walking by. ‘You should also know that it’s owned by a subsidiary company – among its directors is a cousin of Himmler’s.’
Alarm rippled through Georgie’s body, this time with more force. While she found Joseph Goebbels repellent at their press conferences, the sight of Himmler on the plinth at Nuremberg had seemed distinctly more sinister. Joey openly grinned his triumph, but Himmler remained in the background, quietly viewing, silently absorbing the swell of anti-Semitism. Feeding off it.
‘Yes – Himmler,’ Karl said, reading her unease. ‘That’s why you need to be careful.’
‘We will, I promise.’
‘I need to get back,’ Karl said as they reached a side entrance to the park, emerging on the brightly lit Bellevuestrasse. Georgie unlooped her arm from his, slipping a wad of Reichsmarks into his hand as she did so.
Karl smiled weakly. ‘Keep safe,’ he said, turned and walked smartly away. The fact that he said it caused fresh agitation. They had information, but what would they do with it? What had Paul uncovered, and what had it led him to?
She shared her liaison with Max at La Taverne, heads together at one end of the press table. He seemed only moderately surprised, readily able to believe the clinic was a caring front for unscrupulous activities.
‘What do you think we should do?’ she pitched. Georgie was no investigative reporter and knew her limitations. Right then, she felt totally out of her depth.
Max blew out his cheeks. ‘I think if we really want to gauge what they’re about, we need to get in there, at least check it out.’
‘Margot?’
He shook his head. ‘She’s an actress, yes, but too emotional over this, and that makes her unreliable.’ He left just enough pause for Georgie’s mind to calculate, raised his eyebrows only slightly.
‘Me? You want me to go in?’
‘If you’re willing. But only as a prospective client,’ he said. ‘Your German is good. Perhaps you could be a visiting relative from overseas, needing to arrange care before you return home.’
Georgie was initially horrified, though her alarm swiftly dissolved. If they were only making enquiries and she wasn’t about to ferret in corners or filing cabinets, she’d be simply getting a feel for it.
‘All right, I’ll do it. I’ll ring for an appointment tomorrow.’ She only hoped her reporter’s nose was up to the job.
‘We’ll be careful,’ Max assured her. He didn’t elaborate on what they might do if the Haas Institute smacked of any illicit activity. One step at a time.
25
A Flame Under the Pot
7th November 1938
Georgie rang the Haas Institute from a call box the next morning and spoke to a crisp-sounding receptionist, who duly made an appointment, for three days’ time.
She met Sam Blundon mid-morning at the bustling Café Bristol, another favourite of Berlin’s coffee and cake culture. Sam seemed refreshed from a long weekend away at a small spa town not far from the city and happy to see Georgie, though his bright eyes darkened when he heard of the Amsel family and their plight. There was concern, but no surprise.
‘I’m afraid, Georgie, that they’re not alone. We’ve got hundreds turning up at the embassy every day, claiming distant family in England – some very tenuous links – anything to get out of Berlin. And it doesn’t help that Jewish passports have been suspended.’
‘Rubin says he does have an uncle in the north, maybe as far as Scotland,’ Georgie urged. ‘He feels they would take the children, and Elias.’
Sam sighed. Heavily. He didn’t look hopeful.
‘I’ll take their names, certainly, make some enquiries,’ he said, ‘but I honestly can’t promise anything. A handful of benevolent charities are making moves to help children out, but the places are very limited.’
‘Trying is more than enough,’ Georgie said. ‘The Amsels seem very afraid that Elias’s infirmity makes him a specific target. Have you got wind of anything like that? Where he or others might be taken
?’
Sam shook his head, dipped those long lashes towards his slab of cake. In this instance, Georgie sensed he was being unusually tight-lipped, his diplomatic training uppermost, and it didn’t seem fair on him to push it. They parted with plans to link up on a trip to the cinema in two days – an English film, albeit with subtitles. More than ever, they needed the respite and a reminder of home.
She headed back to the office and put in a call to the local police – there was no news on Paul or where he’d gone. He was undoubtedly low on their list of priorities, despite the embassy’s influence. She spent the afternoon drafting a third request to the Reich office for access to the Hitler Youth ‘Jungvolk’ for a feature – the Chronicle had been pleased with her piece on the female BDM and wanted more. Herr Bauer had ignored her first two requests, but Georgie was determined; even more than the blatant grandiosity of Nuremberg and its slavish women, it was the sight of young, innocent-looking boys – those who might be in the front line of war – chanting their willingness to die for their Führer that both disgusted and intrigued her. It was all she could do to repel the constant flow of propaganda.
As she went to close up the office, the phone rang.
‘Hey, stranger, I hoped to catch you.’ Rod’s voice was upbeat. ‘How about a drink at the Adlon at six? On me.’
‘Perfect. Is it a special occasion, or have you had a pay rise?’
‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, ‘and I’m feeling quite happy to have survived another year in Berlin.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll definitely be there!’
Georgie had just enough time to run several blocks away, to a local patisserie, and buy a box of the best strudel in Berlin. She heard the birthday crowd from the lobby of the Adlon, their laughter easily drowning out the gentle trickle of water fountains.
‘Hello, you, what’ll you have?’ Rod was already well on the way to being squiffy, an open bottle of champagne on the bar. It was ages since she felt like having or even being bubbly; Georgie loved her job, loved Berlin, but her portion of it in the past few days wasn’t joyous or light. She needed sparkle.
The Berlin Girl Page 15