It hit her squarely then: what she was to him, why she was there, in a roomful of SS officers, in the middle of God knows what and God knows where. He’s presenting me, she realised.
I’m his trophy.
Hitler had his own clutch of female devotees – she recalled the staring, hypnotised features of women at Nuremberg in their slavish worship of the Führer. And only recently the Daily Mirror had run a full-page article on the inexplicable devotion of British debutante Unity Mitford towards Hitler – she the sister of Diana Mosley and the daughter of an English lord, no less. Behind his charm and his smile, Kasper was ambitious. Georgie could see it clearly then. Hitler had his aristocratic disciple, and now Kasper had his own German-loving Brit to parade before his peers. What a coup for the up-and-coming attaché.
She felt sickened. And stupid – beguiled by a bogus charm. Though she’d never been entirely convinced of her attraction, Georgie had felt Kasper at least enjoyed her company. Possibly he had, but tonight her status as an English woman wooed by the Reich’s charm was the prize he wanted to display.
And now, Georgie girl, you have to play it to perfection.
The conversation as they sat down to dinner – six couples in total – was light at first, on the clubs in Berlin and films, some of the women grilling Georgie about English fashions, and she thanked her early training in making her cover more convincing. The dinner was heavy German fare of sumptuous meats and richly flavoured vegetables, which the men tore into and the women picked at like birds. The waiters who served them in succession were all painfully thin under their white jackets, cheeks sallow, eyes flat behind fixed expressions. They worked silently, never speaking as they served.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed one of them practically salivating as he dished out potatoes, pressing his lips as if he was trying to prevent his tongue going rogue and licking his own flesh. He caught her looking and sliced his eyes away instantly, bracing himself for her reprimand. She was in character – all she could do was look away. Georgie knew that plenty of families, Jews especially, were scratching for money to buy food but this seemed extreme. They looked malnourished. Where were they from? Next to several of the officers, whose uniforms strained under the pressure of their bulk, they were mere shadows. The food became instantly bitter on her tongue.
‘That’s enough! Get out!’ One of the officers sparked fury as a wine glass toppled in front of him. He raised his arm in anger, causing another waiter to flinch and cower, his expression now flooded with fear.
They all crept out silently, the officer muttering after them. ‘If they can’t do a simple job, what’s the point in having servants?’ He stuffed more pork knuckle into his mouth. ‘Fucking idiot Jews, the lot of them.’
The insult was disgusting, though mild compared to the abuse she’d heard at Nuremberg and the grotesque language of Der Stürmer. What shocked Georgie was how the table laughed openly and heartily – Kasper included. Fuelled by the wine he was sinking in gulps, his voice grew louder and more boorish by the mouthful.
The waiters were ordered back in, but only to replenish the endless flow of alcohol, and Georgie had to put a hand over her glass more than once, and slip in water when she could. The women, too, went from tipsy to slurring their words, the general conversation morphing from light to grey and then decidedly dark.
‘Do you know, we’ve driven a good portion out of Berlin already, slinking back to their holes in the ground,’ the fattest officer boasted. ‘I’ll be a happy man when not one single filthy Jew is left in this city. The Führer will see us right.’
‘Except who will shine our shoes and shovel our shit?’ another one pitched in, to more peals of laughter from the table.
‘Good point – we’ll keep a few just for that,’ Kasper joined in.
‘Well, you’ll soon need one just for your shoes where you’re going, eh Vortsch?’ the fat one replied with a wink. ‘An up-and-coming attaché to Schenk– in Himmler’s eyeline too. You’ll need to be well turned out for the inner circle.’ Kasper feigned embarrassment and blushes, but Georgie saw that he was secretly delighted, while the rest snickered their amusement between forkfuls of meat.
She breathed deeply to keep down the food hovering in her gullet and excused herself to go to the bathroom. Inside the cubicle, she pushed back her head, hoping gravity would discourage the tears eager to spill from her lids. She was out of her depth, surrounded by the filth of these people, one of whom she had badly misjudged from the outset. It had backfired, and now she was stuck.
When would this hideous evening end? And how?
Taking a deep breath, Georgie pinched at her cheeks and practised a full smile in the mirror. It fell instantly as she emerged and almost collided with one of the waiters passing. He stopped and gave way immediately, muttering ‘sorry’, his face stricken and body bent double in submission.
‘No, really, it’s fine,’ she stammered. I’m not one of them, she wanted to scream at him. But he’d scampered away in a flash, and Georgie was left feeling grubby, tarred with the same ignorant, dirty brush as those around the table.
‘All right, my English rose?’ Kasper slurred at her as she joined the group, now in the semi-circle of chairs. He pulled lightly at her fingers, although he didn’t – thankfully – tug hard or try to direct her onto his lap, and she slipped into a chair next to him. He was decidedly drunk, those eyes swimming with inebriation, clearly content that he had already shown off his prize and impressed.
‘To the Führer!’ one shouted, raising his glass and they all followed suit, brandy slopping on the floor. One of the waiters was on his knees in a flash, mopping near to Georgie’s feet, the wet rag nudging at her shoes; instinct made her start to pull away with deep discomfort at this man’s servility. Part of her wanted to get down on the floor with him and help. Out of one corner, though, she saw Kasper’s look through his fog of alcohol – an expectant glint in his eye. Georgie made a swift shooing motion, as if mildly irritated at the intrusion on her space. Was it enough to play the game?
Thankfully, Kasper’s scrutiny was neatly distracted by a junior officer who appeared and opened a curtain against the wall, revealing a projector. He pulled down a screen over the fireplace and Georgie’s heart sank at the prospect. A cheer went up among the group as the lights were dimmed and the grainy images started up. At first, Georgie imagined it might be a film featuring one of the women, one having proudly boasted she was ‘in films’. The alternative, however, was worse; scene upon scene of various celebrations featuring the Reich’s principal star, barking his venom into the microphone, interspersed with snapshots of the Führer ‘at play’, surrounded by women thrusting their children to be touched as if he were a new messiah.
Unable to stomach the sight, Georgie scanned the room as the black and white images flickered across the attendant faces – they had gone from rowdy to entranced, utterly spellbound.
Still, she couldn’t fathom Hitler’s apparent magnetism. Could it be because she wasn’t German, and hadn’t lived through the humiliation of the post-war world, their country forcibly reshaped after 1918 by the Treaty of Versailles? Most Germans voiced that they’d felt scolded like naughty children; Hitler had since reinstated their pride. Even so, what he preached was – to Georgie – pure evil. To anyone, German or not. It was merely one man’s hatred against another. And so why was this room, and entire stadiums of people, so taken in?
As if he were reading her mind, Kasper turned his head slowly and leered at her. ‘See, I bet the English wish they had someone like our great leader, instead of Chamberlain, a silly little man with an umbrella? What do you say?’
What could she do but say nothing and smile meekly? Inside, the heavy food churned and Georgie wished for nothing more than the clock hands to spin at a faster pace.
The film seemed endless, but it did at least have a soporific effect on the group; the fat one was soon asleep as Adolf’s appeal gave way to the alcohol. Once the film ended, Kasper
moved lazily to his feet and barked an order for the car. Some of the officers managed to stand and bid them goodbye, but the fat one was slumped in the chair, tongue lolling, and his escort lay across his ample chest, both snoring. Kasper appeared not to notice.
Outside, Georgie looked back at the building where she’d spent an intolerable evening; its appearance took on new meaning then – the shape not of a chalet but a small temple, not unlike something out of Ancient Rome. A symbol of power. It struck her that the dissolute behaviour inside had mimicked rich Romans with slaves at their beck and call, eating to excess and lolling about, togas replaced with SS uniforms. To Georgie, everything about it was depraved and corrupt.
In the car, Kasper struggled to keep awake. ‘I trust you had a nice evening?’ he slurred.
There was no point in speaking the truth – it would never change them as people and Kasper was too drunk to appreciate sarcasm.
‘Enlightening,’ Georgie managed, but he was dozing off even as she said it. She looked at him slumped against the leather seat, hair dishevelled, and the collar of his uniform loosened and askew; no longer the charming young officer she had met at the Resi, the one she imagined might be different. Was she such a bad judge of character? Either his Resi persona had been a convincing front or Kasper had changed with his speedy ascent; comments at the dinner made Georgie think it was the latter. Still, she was clear on not wanting anything more to do with it – or him. This was her last date with Officer Vortsch. She would have to get the information she needed some other way.
The driver drew up outside Frida’s flat and Kasper stirred enough to say goodbye, pull up her hand and kiss it lightly. The stench of alcohol oozed from his breath and every pore.
‘Until next time,’ he said, with that mismatched leer of the very drunk, his eyes unable to focus. He pawed at her, made to grab her hand but she was too quick and he sluggish with inebriation. She was up and out of her seat, mumbled a goodbye and almost ran up the steps of Frida’s flat. She wanted a bath, to strip off her clothes and scrub at the filth sticking to her skin, to stop the Nazi infection seeping in.
‘Thank God you’re back!’ Max met her in the hallway as she closed the door, his face a mixture of relief and alarm. Georgie glanced at her watch – it was gone midnight. He came towards her and for a minute she thought he might want to hug her. Did she stiffen? She didn’t mean to, and he put a hand on her arm instead. ‘We’ve been really worried.’
Simone was in the living room, and poured Georgie the brandy she so badly needed then.
‘Sorry, George,’ Max said with true apology. ‘I’m not used to driving in Berlin and we lost you on the outskirts as you drove north. Where on earth did you end up?’
Miserably, Georgie recounted her disastrous date. Even Simone, with her cool manner, looked perturbed. ‘Sounds terrible,’ she said.
‘That is me and Nazi officers well and truly finished,’ Georgie said, throwing her head back on the cushions. ‘I didn’t find out anything useful, except how deluded some people can be. And I think I knew that already.’
Simone floated off to bed in her spectral manner, and Max made to leave. She caught him staring at her, an odd look on his face. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Nothing. I’m just glad you’re safe.’ He touched her shoulder as he walked towards the door, but seemed to consider what he said next. ‘For what it’s worth, you look very nice in that dress.’
‘Well, I also feel very grubby,’ she said, heaving herself off the sofa. ‘I need a good soak and to fall into my bed.’
40
A Fond Farewell
29th March 1939
It was either coincidence or good timing, but Rubin was already in the office as Georgie arrived the next morning. He stood sharply as she walked in and seemed almost to dance on the spot.
‘Rubin, is anything wrong?’
‘We’ve heard from him, Georgie – we’ve had word from Elias.’ Mercifully, his eyes were bright and his expression upbeat.
Rubin pushed a sheaf of crumpled papers in front of her, though she struggled at first to make out any sense from the scrawl and the jumble of tiny illustrations dotted around the page.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t quite …’ she said.
Rubin took the pages back. ‘Elias’s writing was always bad at the best of times, and now it’s worse.’ But his voice smacked of happy nostalgia. ‘This came through a contact of mine, mixed with other letters smuggled out. They’re in Sachsenhausen. In one of the camps.’
Georgie read the relief on Rubin’s face that his brother-in-law was alive at least, but the word ‘camp’ caught on his tongue.
‘Elias describes it like a prison,’ Rubin went on. ‘It’s very overcrowded and there’s pitiful food – he talks of being hungry all the time. And there are punishment blocks.’ He took a breath. ‘He’s among a lot of Jews, Romanies and Sinti too. But he seems to have found a job in the infirmary, fetching and carrying – a sympathetic doctor maybe. That will thankfully keep him from failing at the really physical work.’
‘If it’s a prison, have they been charged with anything?’ Instantly, Georgie knew the question to be naive. Rubin gave a sideways look: Being Jewish, that’s the crime.
‘Who did these drawings?’ she asked, after a brief silence.
‘These? Oh, that’s Elias – he was always doodling at work.’
There were faces in amongst the scrawl: tiny caricatures and scratched line drawings of men at work, one portrait directly face on. A chill sliced through Georgie’s being. She recognised it – not the identity, but that sallow look, scrawny, wanton and fearful. From only the previous evening. The waiter’s hollowed eyes looked back at her through Elias’s pen.
‘Where is Sachsenhausen? Is it near to Berlin?’ The rippling inside her was gathering force.
‘Yes, it’s just north of Berlin, near Oranienburg. Thirty or so kilometres away.’ The fact there was prison wall between Rubin and his family didn’t seem to faze him – Elias at least felt within arm’s reach.
Georgie flooded hot and then cold. She’d been there, in darkness, somewhere near the camp at least. Clearly, the ‘temple’ was an officer’s rest area – for the camp. And she had felt the presence of people nearby, imagining that they were German citizens, happily tucked into their homes – not inmates. The food had stuck in her throat at the time, and now – despite ample time for digestion – it felt ready to purge fully.
What could she do? And what should she tell Rubin about her close encounter? Nothing yet, she decided, not before talking it over with Max.
‘What can we do, Rubin? Who should we go to about Elias?’ she said instead, though it seemed futile – if the Reich wanted to imprison people for being Jewish, that’s what they did. The lines of men being led away after Kristallnacht proved that. How could they campaign for Elias’s release, one amongst thousands?
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know that we can, Georgie. I’m loath to apply for a visitor’s pass, if there is such a thing, since we’re not supposed to know where he is. He says that they have an occasional passage for letters like this to get out. I suppose we just have to wait – and hope.’
Georgie’s heart bled for him then. Rubin spent his life hoping – for his children’s safety and happiness in England, that his wife’s spiralling sadness would get no worse, for her brother to stay alive. Always, he dredged optimism from somewhere. In turn, Georgie hoped the world would not let him down.
‘Just let me know if there’s anything we can do,’ she said. It was a meek comment, but needed saying. Independently, she knew what she might have to do, and the dread washed over her. The previous evening, she had vowed to leave the rising, wretched world of Kasper Vortsch behind for good. Only now, maybe that wasn’t possible?
Georgie longed to tell Max, but he was away on a ‘tour’ of Germany, gauging grassroots opinion of the latest developments – that both Britain and France had pledged to defend Poland if that’s where Hitler set hi
s next sights. Increasingly, it looked a possibility. But for Georgie, the days were to drag until Max’s return.
‘You were there, actually in Sachsenhausen? Are you sure?’ Max struggled to keep his shock under wraps as they walked towards the Adlon, a weak sun pushing beyond the light cloud. Berlin had climbed out of its post-winter slump and was now firmly into its spring step, the sound of birdsong increasing as they came close to the Tiergarten, sometimes even screening out the tinny lamppost speakers bleating their ceaseless propaganda.
‘I wasn’t in the camp itself – and no, I’m not entirely sure, but it all seems to add up,’ she said. ‘The distance we drove and the sign I saw.’
‘God, how do you feel about that?’ Max said.
‘Soiled. But you know, if Elias is there, and I’m in Kasper’s favour …’
Max stopped abruptly, swivelled on his feet and looked at her with something approaching horror. ‘Georgie, don’t even think about it.’
‘But, Max, I was so close. I have to try. For Rubin, and Sara.’
He carried on walking, annoyance in his long strides, and she had to half run to keep up.
‘What are you so irritated about? This is not some story, Max – I’m not going to scoop you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
He came to a standstill again, fury on his features that she had never seen before. ‘What do you think I am, George? I’m not worried about a story. I’m worried about you. It’s dangerous. He is dangerous. It’s not a game.’ He marched off again towards the Adlon and Georgie felt her naivety as a sudden, cold shame. Max was right. Kasper’s innocence was long gone and he was inching his way into Heinrich Himmler’s inner circle, the man generally considered to be the quiet one among the Führer’s cronies. His malevolence, however, was not to be underestimated. Even Rod reserved a special distaste for Himmler: ‘A healthy fear’, he called it.
They walked on in silence, Georgie learning over the months to let Max simmer rather than keep jabbing at the argument. He would come round. He had to. It was impossible to stand by and do nothing.
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