Over a doubly strong coffee, Georgie disclosed the essence of Doctor Graf and his work.
‘Did you see any obvious signs of Reich involvement?’ Max asked.
‘There’s the obligatory picture of Adolf in the reception, but nothing else. It did occur to me that most hotels and businesses display a good deal more.’
‘I wonder if they are taking pains to distance themselves,’ Max replied. ‘Maybe for a good reason?’
‘So, where do we go from here?’ Georgie asked. Alongside the press corps, she was relatively recent to political reporting, let alone the investigative type. The enjoyment of playing the actress had been fleeting, but it was not her best skill. She turned to Max for answers. He was staring into his cup for inspiration. His eyes snapped up suddenly.
‘Your Nazi suitor might know something – are you still seeing him?’
‘Not if I can help it, at least not after Kristallnacht,’ she said firmly. There was only so much to her acting talent, and even if she did chance upon Kasper, he surely wouldn’t be fooled into revealing Reich secrets, however ditsy and charming she might pretend to be. ‘No, I think we’ll have to find some other way. I just don’t know what.’
32
A Slim Hope
23rd November 1938
Georgie’s life seemed to be a round of meetings all of a sudden, with work squeezed into the gaps. The first was with Margot, who greeted the news of Paul’s death like the wife she was never destined to be. She was genuinely distraught, although Georgie felt, in her heart, she must have suspected foul play.
‘What will you do now, Margot?’ Her family were back in Munich, and she appeared to have few friends. Acting and Paul had been her world, and with not even a funeral to attend …
‘I’ve been cast in a film that’s due to starting shooting in Frankfurt,’ Margot sniffed. ‘I was considering turning it down, but there doesn’t seem much point saying no now.’ It was at least an excuse to quit Berlin as Paul had initially warned her to, though Margot knew she wouldn’t easily escape the Reich’s reach – the film was likely to be one of Goebbels’s favoured propaganda epics. If so, poor Margot would come within his orbit, and the rumours about the Minister for Propaganda and his predatory hunger for actresses were rife.
‘I’ll let you know if we find anything out,’ Georgie said as they parted. ‘About Paul’s investigation.’
Margot looked faintly appalled at the suggestion. ‘He’s dead, Georgie – nothing can bring him back. I wouldn’t want you to end up in that canal yourself. Please, forget the whole thing.’
It was surely her grief talking and, ordinarily, Georgie might have been thankful for such a reprieve. Only it wasn’t just Paul’s story now; if he was right, there were much wider implications. Besides, she and Max were reporters – they had the bit between their teeth.
The next day, she met with Sam Blundon for the first time since Kristallnacht, squeezed into a spare hour at lunchtime in Café Bauer, another of Berlin’s grand old ladies on the opposite corner to Kranzler’s. Sam rushed in, apologising for his lateness. He looked tired and beleaguered; even his youthful face appeared to have aged in the previous two weeks.
‘I don’t need to ask if you’re busy?’ Georgie said.
‘It’s been crazy,’ Sam said, gulping at his tea. ‘A constant demand for visas, statements from the diplomats, not to mention you press lot constantly requesting comment.’ But his eyes were dancing as he said it.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to be less demanding.’
She waited for him to bite into his sandwich – it was Sam who’d suggested the meeting, and she hoped he would have some information on Elias.
‘I don’t have anything on your missing Amsel man, I’m afraid,’ he said directly, and Georgie’s eyes dimmed. ‘But there is something else. Since that night, there are more charitable groups in England who are working on a system to move Jewish children out of Germany to safety. If your family are willing, I would at least be able to put their name forward. It is only for the children, though – there’s no capacity for parents.’
George knew it would break Rubin and Sara’s hearts to part with the children, but they were also selfless as parents. ‘I’m certain they’ll consider it, she said. ‘Thanks, Sam, you’re a star.’
As much as she wanted to pick his brains about the coming and goings at the embassy, he steered the conversation away from work and politics – clearly wanting to talk of anything but.
‘So, are you going home for Christmas?’ Sam said. ‘I can’t wait to get back to my mother’s roast beef and Yorkshires.’
In all honesty, Georgie hadn’t thought about it, given the whirlwind of Berlin in recent weeks – Christmas seemed an untimely distraction. She was due some leave and her parents were desperate to see her safe again – their letters said as much. But she was equally loath to miss anything. She’d gotten used to living life on shifting sands, couldn’t quite imagine the slow pace of life in the Cotswolds anymore.
‘Maybe,’ she said.
Sam eyed her from below his lashes, wiser than his looks. ‘You know, even dedicated reporters take a holiday sometimes.’
It seemed he was right. At La Taverne, plans were afoot for a mass exodus for the Christmas break – Rod and Bill back across the Atlantic with most of the US and Canadian contingent, the London Times man to England, and others scattered across Europe. Frida was bound somewhere exotic, and yet no one seemed to question where her funds came from.
Disappointingly, and despite the graphic images from Kristallnacht, the world’s wrath had not descended upon Germany and its leader; the US had made it clear – to Rod and Bill’s disgust – that they would not being taking extra numbers of German-Jewish refugees, and the horrors of that night seemed diluted across the globe. There was no word on Elias, despite efforts from Rubin’s underground channels, and she and Max were stumped on Paul’s story. Everything had come to a standstill. And as Bill said, holding his glass aloft: ‘Even the Nazis have Christmas.’
‘So, will you be heading home?’ Max asked across the press table.
‘I would be,’ Georgie sighed, ‘but my parents are having to visit a sick relative at short notice and there’s no room for me. What about you?’
‘Not sure where home is anymore,’ Max said matter-of-factly. ‘My father is delayed in New York’ – he flashed a look of relief – ‘but he’d already booked a ski chalet near Geneva, and says I can use it. I certainly need a break from Berlin. I don’t suppose you ski?’
She didn’t, of course. What would a girl from the Stroud valleys be doing on a pair of skis?
‘I could teach you,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fun. The place is always well stocked with food and drink, and it’s not too much of a journey on the train.’
Georgie looked sceptical, though she was sorely tempted.
‘There’s plenty of bedrooms if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Max added quickly. ‘You won’t have to listen to me talking in my sleep. Promise.’
She looked across the table – at Simone, deep in conversation with Frida. ‘Won’t Simone mind?’
Max shrugged. ‘She’s not like that. Besides, she’s going back to Paris.’
For Georgie, there was no reason not to accept – a virtually free holiday to somewhere she could never normally afford. ‘One condition, though,’ she said. ‘You will have to explain it to my editor if I break my leg.’
‘Deal.’ Max sat back with a satisfied expression. ‘Though I’ll wager you’ll be skiing like a champion by the time we come back.’
There was one other visit to make before the Christmas break. Sara welcomed Georgie into the Amsel apartment with as much warmth as she could muster, but the worry over Elias had taken its toll on her previously open face. Wisps of thin grey hair framed her drab complexion and her smile was carefully arranged as she made every effort for the occasion.
Alone in the kitchen, Georgie told Rubin about the possibility of safe pas
sage for the children, watched the light in his face rise, flicker and then die; the dark realisation of losing his children too, possibly forever.
‘Yes, of course, I will discuss it with Sara. And please give our thanks to your friend at the embassy.’ He clasped firmly at Georgie’s hand, as if it were the best ever gift. Georgie narrowly stemmed her sadness by giving out Christmas presents for the children, chosen carefully to combine luxury with practicality, pressing an envelope of Reichsmarks into Rubin’s hand as she left.
‘Georgie, no,’ he protested, though she knew it was his pride talking.
‘It’s your retainer, Rubin – I don’t want anyone else nabbing your services while I’m away. You’re far too valuable.’ It was a half-truth, but a necessary one; there was talk of Jews losing their right to drive, and she could only guess at Rubin’s already fragile finances.
She’d told the Amsels of her plans to leave Berlin for Christmas, and when they assumed it would be home to England, she didn’t correct them. It was partly her own shame in contemplating a frivolous holiday away from the struggles they faced daily, when they had no hope of escaping without a passport to their names. She would simply have to reconcile her guilt privately.
33
A Snowy Respite
Geneva, Switzerland, Christmas 1938
‘Come on then, just push yourself off,’ Max shouted from below. ‘You’ll be fine.’ He beckoned with his hand as if it was the easiest thing in the world, like stepping onto a dance floor.
Georgie stood on what felt like the top of a mountain, actually little more than a hill for ski veterans. To her, though, looking at a panorama entirely of white, people like pinpricks below, she might have been descending Everest. It was another Georgie moment. Inside her head, she chanted. Come on, girl, just do it. You won’t die. Just do it.
She looked at Max waiting, expectant, and dug into the crisp blanket with her ski poles, pushing herself off and diving into the frozen abyss, the cold air stinging her face, mouth tightly shut, fear and adrenalin mixing like a heady cocktail. Someone screamed like a child on a rollercoaster – was that her? – turning quickly into a squeal of delight.
The exhilaration was intoxicating, though short-lived, as she tried to swerve when approaching Max and collapsed in a heap of white spray. Yet she was laughing as Max hauled her up and helped dust her down.
‘Bit of work to do on the landing,’ he said drily. ‘But ten out of ten for courage. You flew down there!’
Under the chill of her cheeks, Georgie glowed with achievement. It had felt like an entirely new freedom.
Back in the cosy warmth of their chalet, she groaned as her body felt the effects of three days as a virgin skier.
‘I ache in muscles I didn’t even know I had,’ she moaned, rubbing at her thighs.
Max laughed with good humour. In fact, he’d been nothing but good-humoured since they arrived. Gone was the dour, cynical man she met at Croydon airfield, the arrogant young buck from the London Ritz, and the inconstant moodiness of their early months in Berlin. He had been charming company the minute they stepped off the train in Geneva, his face alight and smiling, and then a patient tutor with her first, wobbling attempts at standing on skis.
The chalet was large and sumptuous, entirely in line with his father’s high standards – Georgie had taken a few days to justify the luxury, given what they had left behind, but both Henry and her parents reassured her beforehand that she deserved the break – she worked hard and rarely treated herself. In this case, it felt easier to believe them.
Aside from the wonderful food and the cocktails that Max was a dab hand in mixing, the best element for Georgie was in their evenings together. After a warm bath, a good meal prepared by the chalet maid, and with a drink in hand, she and Max had time to listen to the radio, reflect and talk.
‘Do you think the war will come soon?’ she said lazily, legs stretching over the couch, Max sprawled on the sofa opposite. After the apathy from abroad after Kristallnacht, the talk at La Taverne had swayed towards not ‘if’ but ‘what’ would prompt a full-on conflict.
Max sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, if Hitler carries on the same way. He’ll just get increasingly brave – or arrogant – and the world won’t be able to ignore it. Well, let’s hope it won’t.’
‘I’m not sure whether we should welcome it,’ she replied sharply from the sofa.
‘I don’t welcome war, Georgie,’ he shot back. ‘But we – everyone – has to make a stand against a despot. He’s a bully, and he can’t go unchallenged forever.’ The ripple in his brow couldn’t hide shadows of his own life then.
She considered his reply. ‘I know we can’t – shouldn’t – tolerate what they’re doing,’ she ventured, eventually, ‘but I do wonder what war really feels like, the consequences of it day-to-day. Whether you learn to live with the fear. We’ll be the lucky ones, able to be pulled out, but what about everyone else – those left behind? People like the Amsels?’
Max sat up, swung his legs to the floor. ‘You always think about the individual, don’t you? Why is that?’ Unlike their previous disputes, his voice was more enquiry than challenge.
She pushed the cool glass into her chin. ‘Don’t you?’
He stared into the dancing flames of the fire. ‘No, I don’t think so. I imagine there will be casualties, but they will be for the greater good – that it will be bloody but Hitler will be defeated.’ He paused, sighed. ‘God, I sound like some sort of grand army general. Or maybe even my father – you stand a loss in order to make a bigger profit in the long term.’
Now Georgie pulled herself up, drew his gaze to hers across the space. ‘No, that’s not true, Max. We may have different ways of reporting, and that’s not a bad thing. But you did not take the easy path in life – you are here because you’re a hard-working reporter and not a society darling. And you are nothing like your father.’
His face lit up with pleasure. ‘And you, George Young, are well beyond frills and spills and lace,’ he teased, getting up to mix another drink.
‘Bloody cheek, Maximus Titus Aurelius!’ She aimed a cushion at him and fell back laughing. With abandon. And strangely, without too much guilt.
34
Another Sacrifice
Berlin, Christmas 1938
Had she seen what Rubin and Sara were shielding over that Christmas of 1938, Georgie would have shouldered her guilt with more difficulty. Though not a Jewish celebration, Rubin and Sara had always tried to define it for the children; their normally meagre dinner was only made richer because of Sara’s cooking skills and the small treats squirrelled away in her larder for special occasions.
Berlin was quiet, affording an opportunity to spend time as a family, leaving the chair previously occupied by Elias to appear especially empty. They lit a candle for him, and toasted his life – not knowing if it was ongoing or had come to an abrupt or brutal end.
Touchingly, Leon set out the chess set for his father, and encouraged him to play the first game since Elias was taken. While Rubin played, he glimpsed a fleeting glow in Sara – rare nowadays – in being among her children, taking solace from their laughter. Inside, he simmered with his own secret: the knowledge that soon his wife might be robbed of her only existing pleasure.
On New Year’s Eve, the children in bed, he and Sara mused on the year past – and nervously on the year ahead, though the word ‘war’ wasn’t uttered. Finally, he could contain it no longer.
‘We’ve got a decision to make, my love. A crucial one.’
Sara’s eyes were swimming before he finished telling her. ‘Send them to England? But we might never see them again,’ she keened. ‘My babies.’
‘At the same time, it is our best chance of seeing them again – safe.’ Rubin wished sometimes he could allow his heart, and not his head, do the talking. But not now. ‘And they are two more mouths to feed.’
‘They are not mouths, Rubin! They are our children,’ Sara said defiantly.
&
nbsp; ‘I know, I know, my love. But you see how hard it’s become – and it will only get tighter. Surely, we owe it to Ester and Leon? A better life?’
She knew he spoke sense, but sense didn’t stop the vessels in her heart from choking with fresh grief. First Elias, and now the children. When would this hellish reality end?
35
New Year, New Loss
Berlin and London, January 1939
It was over too soon, and although Georgie would never admit it to her parents, it was among the best Christmases she’d had. Returning to Berlin, Geneva felt like a heavenly memory that no one – not even Herr Hitler – could ever seek to steal away.
Then, the hammer blow to quash her new-found spirit. She’d lost Rubin – as a reliable driver at least. Following Kristallnacht and the accusation against all Jews, the Reich imposed not only an outrageous one-billion-marks bill for damages, but followed up on their pledge – all Jews banned from driving cars or motorcycles. In one fell swoop, a good half of the Amsels’ income was wiped out. In addition, Jews were banned from key central areas of the city: concert halls, museums and public baths. Rubin said nothing, but she saw it in his face, echoed his thoughts: how many life layers were to be pared away, until there was nothing left of their liberty?
Georgie reassured him that with some careful juggling of the office expenses she could manage the retainer, find him some other employment and apply for an exemption permit allowing him to travel in and out of the city centre as a vital messenger for the bureau. ‘Foreign companies are still allowed more concessions than German businesses,’ she told him. Still, she watched with a heavy heart from the office window, seeing him push off on his bicycle, his shoulders rounded and carrying a dense personal load.
In brief conversations over work, Max and Georgie had agreed to prod at their contacts in trying to breathe any kind of life into Paul’s suspicions. But there was work too – agency reporters had been holding the fort over the holidays and Georgie needed to tempt Henry with more stories in fighting for her own space on the foreign pages. Her first conversation with him, however, put paid to that.
The Berlin Girl Page 19