The Berlin Girl

by Mandy Robotham

  The Adlon bar was crowded but not buzzing. There was a sombre air, and for a minute, Georgie thought war had broken out, or that someone close to the circle had died. Max’s bureau boss, Cliff, perhaps?

  Rod immediately drew her into the crowd, hugged longer and squeezed harder than he normally did. ‘They finally got me, kiddo,’ he said, holding up a piece of paper. She saw the eagle icon of the Reich first, but the words swam before her eyes.

  Rod Faber … guilty of transgressions against the Third Reich … work permit revoked … to leave by …

  ‘No! Rod, surely not?’

  ‘Afraid so – my time as a debauched Berliner is at an end.’ He was smiling but everyone present could see it was to cover up the real emotions couched under his greying beard.

  ‘But how … how can they accuse you?’ Georgie was all disbelief. This was a nightmare: Rod – her rock, her strudel mate. She couldn’t imagine life without him.

  ‘Bauer got his way. They finally caught me on the envelope plant.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s an old Gestapo trick, but tried and tested,’ Bill explained. ‘Someone drops off an unmarked envelope at your apartment, packed with incriminating evidence that ‘proves’ you are working with enemies of the Reich, and the Gestapo pitches up a little while later to do a thorough search. Bingo! You’re caught red-handed.’

  ‘They tried it several times, only I got wise quite quickly,’ added Rod. ‘I had my housekeeper sneak out the back and bring any suspicious packages to the office, where I burnt them tout suite. Those lovely guys in leather coats couldn’t figure out why they kept missing their own evidence. I must admit it was quite satisfying watching them sweat as they searched in vain.’

  ‘So what happened this time?’ Georgie said.

  ‘My housekeeper was sick and sent another woman in her place. Just my luck it was the day Mr Nazi mailman came to call.’

  ‘Can’t you fight it?’ Max ventured. The veins in his neck were standing to attention. He was less emotionally attached to Rod, but had an unswerving loyalty to the press pack. Any attack on journalists spiked his anger, and he’d already railed at the Nazi curbing of US radio broadcasts in recent days.

  ‘My paper’s already tried that,’ Rod said. ‘But the exit order is signed by our Joey. Herr Goebbels, it seems, has had enough of my wit.’

  ‘Oh, Rod.’ Try as she might, Georgie couldn’t help the tears spilling onto her cheeks.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ he said, pulling her in for another hug. ‘Don’t be sad. I will demand regular strudel updates and I’m only going as far as Paris for the time being. It seems the French don’t mind having me. Come see me there and we’ll check out the patisseries. And the bars.’

  She pulled away, wiping away the tears and her embarrassment. Along with Max, she was the newest recruit to the pack, and yet she and Rod had hit it off immediately, thanks to his almost pastoral care; she clearly reminded him of his daughter in the way he looked out for her.

  She managed a smile. ‘Be careful what you promise, Rod Faber. I will be coming to Paris, so don’t eat all the pastries before I get there.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  The Reich were impatient for Rod’s departure and his leaving ‘celebration’ – as he insisted on calling it – was a riotous night at La Taverne the next evening. The proprietor, Herr Lehmann, donated two insanely large bottles of champagne and schnapps, and no one left with a clear head. Rod held court at the table, telling tales that were often so bizarre they might have been tall, except Bill was on hand to confirm their content as the honest truth.

  ‘You’re only leaving so you can miss our dear Führer’s fiftieth birthday party,’ one radioman shouted from the across the table.

  ‘Too true,’ Rod admitted, ‘though I daresay what I might write about that would get me kicked out of Germany anyway!’

  Rod held his glass high and made his farewell speech, voice wobbling with emotion more than the spirits inside him. ‘I challenge all you glorious hacks with a task,’ he concluded. ‘And that is to make the lives of our dear Nazi friends as difficult as possible in their pursuit of propaganda. Long live the press hounds!’ Georgie joined in the resounding cheer as she glimpsed Bill’s features grow dark, the sadness at losing his best friend outweighing her own.

  With thick heads and heavy hearts, a small group spent Rod’s next, remaining day in various cafés, downing coffee and strudel and looking at their watches, hoping the hands would turn slowly until his evening train. The appointed time arrived all too soon, and Georgie was in two minds about saying goodbye at the station, certain she would never manage to keep her emotions in check.

  ‘Come on,’ Max chivvied. ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t go. And Rod needs the help – he’s got that much strudel stashed in his suitcase.’

  The Reich had dictated his leaving should be swift and quiet, alongside Herr Bauer’s whispered warnings against a ‘spectacle’. Thankfully, it fell on deaf ears. The platform at Zoo station was packed with forty or so noisy journalists, one of whom had set up his portable radio broadcast equipment in direct protest at the recent curb; he was giving a running commentary while Rod basked in the demonstration of dissent. Gestapo men were unashamedly taking photographs of anyone in the group, and in a cheeky retort, some of the journalists formed a line and posed for them. Rod stood beaming his approval.

  ‘Please don’t hug me too much,’ Georgie begged, as the train let off steam and prepared to leave. ‘You might just squeeze all the tears out of me.’

  ‘Understood, kiddo.’ He gripped her hand tightly instead. ‘It’s not goodbye, nor auf wiedersehen, merely à bientôt. I’ll see you in Paris.’ He winked and climbed into the carriage.

  She wasn’t alone in the tears; Bill’s moustache was distinctly wet, along with Frida’s cheeks and – unusually – Simone too. ‘End of an era,’ Bill muttered. ‘I shall miss the old bastard.’

  41

  Making Plans

  7th April 1939

  Georgie felt the void left by Rod acutely over the next week or so; the very knowledge that he’d been nearby, or propping up the Adlon bar, always made the world seem at less of a spin. His absence cast a gloomy shadow, and although his replacement was a competent reporter who slotted in well, it wasn’t her beloved Rod.

  The foreign news focus had switched briefly to Italy, where Mussolini – in an effort to play alongside the big boys and show his fascist might – had invaded Albania with little resistance. There seemed to be a dictator’s pattern forming. Hitler, for his part – and with no hint of irony – accused Britain of trying to encircle Germany with anti-Nazi feeling: the oppressor claiming to be the victim to his own people, the warmonger painted as peacemaker. Very clever propaganda, thought Georgie, darkly. Well done, Joey.

  One bright spot was the reaction to Rod’s station farewell; Herr Bauer’s glare at the weekly briefing was enough to know they had touched a nerve and there were nudges all round as they sat like reprimanded children in front of his lectern. Unusually for the Nazi Party, who were never shy about voicing their animosity, Bauer’s actual comments were disguised. ‘The party hopes press reactions will remain unbiased’ was one comment, to derisory sniggers from the reporters. When had the Nazis ever been impartial about anything?

  The questions from the floor – delivered with a deliberate, innocent air – prodded at the regime’s hypocrisy, until Bauer’s blustering became so obvious that he barked, ‘No more questions’ and flounced off. One up to Rod Faber and the pack.

  Georgie arrived home from the briefing to a letter, addressed with familiar script; had it not been for the Amsels’ plight, she would have gladly tossed it in the bin without opening it. Frida was lying on the sofa with a book as Georgie slumped on the chair opposite, releasing a heavy sigh.

  ‘More from your SS boy?’ Frida said. She would have noted the Reich icon pulsing like a beacon on the post pile.

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘Not
the charmer you thought he was?’ Frida lay her book down and sat up, puppy eyes wide with interest.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Because,’ Frida said, with too much sagacity for her age, ‘they all lose the initial appeal over time. Did he get hellishly drunk on the third date?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know that?’ Georgie hadn’t spoken to Frida in detail since before she had left that night, though Simone might well have told her.

  ‘Bitter experience. The Nazis are a shrewd bunch for sure, but they haven’t yet figured out that making alcohol freely available to their officers always backfires in the end.’ She grinned with her copious, red lips. ‘On the other hand, it’s a bonus for those of us who want to wheedle out a few choice snippets. It tends to loosen their tongues. And makes them slow when you have to dodge their roaming hands.’

  Frida had either been a fly on the wall in Kasper’s car, or she was describing a typical scenario – no doubt her source of many hot tips from inside the Reich. More and more, it became apparent that Kasper was no different to the swathe of arrogant young bucks in the grey and black uniform; enticed by power, kudos and everything that went with it – wine, women and song. It was undeniably time she used him properly too. Fair’s fair: if she was his trophy, Kasper could be her unwitting mole.

  His short note was full of apology, not about his chosen venue or the behaviour of the company, but ‘indulging too much to pay you due attention’. Would she allow him to make it up to her?

  ‘He’s apologising for getting drunk,’ Georgie said to Frida, who had gone back to her book.

  ‘They always do,’ she muttered from behind the page. ‘Don’t expect any different the next time. If you’re going to repeat the occasion, make sure it’s for a very good reason.’

  Georgie thought of Rubin’s face on reading Elias’s letter. The hope etched in his aged features that his brother-in-law would survive. It was reason enough. Wasn’t it?

  The next afternoon, Max put his chin into both hands, elbows on the table at Café Bauer. ‘So, you think you might be able to get him to talk? Ply him with drink and say, “Hey, Kasper, what about doing me a favour and letting one of those chaps go?”’

  Georgie creased her brow. ‘You don’t have to be so sarcastic,’ she snapped. ‘I am just trying to help.’

  Max’s face softened, and his hand reached out for hers as she stared out beyond the window; in the breeze, the flags had become a river of red.

  ‘I know you are, but we have to be realistic, and make sure you’re safe.’

  ‘We?’ She pulled back her hand. ‘I thought you didn’t want anything to do with this.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic.’ He almost laughed. ‘Of course I’m going to be with you, and a better tail this time. But it has to be worthwhile, doesn’t it? We – you – need to have a plan, or a script, to turn the conversation around to Sachsenhausen and the inmates. And you might have to turn on the charm quite a bit.’

  Georgie felt sick at the very prospect. Having initially thought Kasper attractive, she now realised his beauty was truly skin deep. And very close to the surface. Even his eyes had taken on a devilish air in her mind. Only her deep fondness for the Amsels and concern for their future mitigated the idea of him physically fawning over her.

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to put on my best act, won’t I?’

  Max looked at her, lips flattened in that ‘okay-if-you-say-so’ way. Ironically, and with the world around them increasingly precarious, Georgie felt he had become more relaxed and open in recent weeks. He was no longer the angry and angst-filled Max of old, and it was a welcome transformation. He was proving a true and valued friend.

  42

  The Birthday Boy

  15th April 1939

  Despite her keenness for it to be over and done with, Kasper was put on hold for several weeks as there was plenty to keep everyone occupied. Georgie had penned a reply, hoping he wouldn’t detect a reluctance in her tone, and said she would be ‘delighted’ for him to make amends. A day later, his reply arrived – he was tied up with preparations for the Führer’s birthday celebrations and couldn’t meet until the first week of May. Although it felt like fending off the inevitable, the reprieve brought a sense of relief.

  The preparations for a grown man’s birthday were exhaustive; a city already adorned with emblems and banners became entirely shrouded in black, white and crimson, and soon every lamppost, statue and government building projected the great leader’s image as he reached his half century.

  ‘I remember my fiftieth,’ the Times’ chief correspondent bemoaned at La Taverne one evening. ‘We went down the pub and had a good drink, and my wife made me a birthday cake. I was quite content with that. Isn’t this all a bit like a children’s party – my balloons are bigger than yours type of thing?’

  ‘But you’re not the leader of what might become the free world, if he has his way,’ the Daily Express man piped up. ‘I’m not sure a pint and a slice will suffice.’

  ‘Did someone say “free world”?’ a voice butted in, and the table threw up a burst of laughter in derision. Humour, even when couched in the dark truth, had become their currency, their way to soldier on.

  The birthday of 20th April was predictable and pompous – a seemingly ceaseless, four-hour parade aimed at showing the world what military strength Germany had amassed, perpetual cheering and estimates of a million Germans gathered to see their Führer soaking up the adulation. Georgie looked on as Hitler stood, half-smiling (though it was difficult to assess under that moustache), and found herself missing most of his speech; there was something about his guttural ranting that made her brain immediately switch off. She borrowed notes off a fellow reporter and then realised she could have easily written her piece without them, given it was the self-same invective as his previous speeches, steeped in vitriol.

  ‘You’d think he might lighten up a bit on his birthday,’ Max had whispered in her ear.

  ‘No such luck.’ Georgie couldn’t help wondering what Rod would have thought of it, and his subsequent, acidic report in the New York Times. Typing up her observations meant curbing her own opinions, or risk being on the same exit train out of Berlin. There was no need, however, for such restraint in a postcard, and she felt every need to write it, whether Henry saw fit to print it or not.

  Postcard from Berlin

  Dear Englanders

  Speeches are a particular speciality of Herr Hitler; give Germany’s leader a pulpit, a lectern or even a soapbox and he will avail you of all he thinks, in glorious detail. We in Berlin are treated frequently to the Nazi view on the Jewish population, Germany’s rights to all manner of lands, and the evils of its neigbouring nations. The Führer is free with his speech. Sadly, others do not have that luxury – only whispered in cafés and bars, and curtailed in the street.

  And now in the press, it seems: a pillar of our correspondents’ circle only recently ousted from the city he loves. His crime? Simply telling the truth, German warts and all, with his own honest pen. Should we stand by and watch Hitler use more than words in pursuit of his vision? See him progress to using the cosh perhaps, or the military hardware he loves to boast of? Or worse? Very soon, Europe will have to decide.

  Farewell from the ‘free’ world of Berlin

  Georgie pulled the sheet from her typewriter, narrowed her eyes at her own audacity and laughed to herself. It was the most political she’d ever dared to be; even if it never saw the light of day, it made her feel better. ‘What the hell,’ she said to the empty air of the office. ‘Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Herr Bauer.’

  Days later, Hitler was on the podium again, this time on his home territory of the Reichstag parliament, where he all but tore up the Anglo-German Naval agreement of old, and the German–Polish Non-Aggression Pact. Sitting in the press box, which was surrounded by fat-necked politicians, Georgie had a sudden image of each treaty or pledge as bottles lined up on a wall, the Nazis picking them off one by one
, using their best sniper. The atmosphere on each occasion was dark and tenuous, as if the world might spill over into conflict any minute, the consequences chewed over at the Adlon and La Taverne.

  In the light of day, however, the tension always seemed to dissipate. The military was increasingly present on Berlin’s streets, in shops, bars and cafés, Gestapo potentially in every crevice. Paul was dead, Rod expelled and Elias imprisoned. And yet life went on, with many of the reporters taking short sabbaticals to recharge their batteries, either in the Alps, or the safety of Geneva and Paris.

  It was like watching a storm brewing from across the deep Gloucestershire valleys back home – willing it to divert, and yet knowing that those black clouds had to dispense their load somewhere. Who, in the end, would get well and truly soaked by this caustic storm?

  She said as much over coffee to Sam, who had rapidly become a barometer and her sounding board of reason in their regular café rendezvous. He saw it from the British perspective, forced by his role to protect borders from an influx of refugees, yet not blind to the lines of desperate families queuing to escape Germany’s oppression.

  ‘I’ve said it before, Georgie – you just can’t help everyone,’ he urged. ‘If one or two get out alive and free, then their families carry on and thrive. You have to be content with that.’

  ‘But why can’t the outside world see what’s coming?’ she lamented. ‘It’s so obvious.’

  ‘They do,’ Sam replied, with his look of knowing – and access to embassy communications.

  ‘Then why don’t they do something?’ She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. ‘Stop him?’

  ‘Probably because – like the rest of us – they are terrified of what lighting the touch paper will do.’

  43

  The Right Thing

  25th April 1939

  Sara sank her head into her hands, solace in the dark of her own skin; space to absorb this latest bombshell.