They were on table number four and heading towards another when Georgie spotted him, emerging from the gents and pulling at the cuffs of his shirt. By now, she had his face marked in her memory – his clipped beard and owlish glasses: Doctor Graf. She watched his face lift up and look towards Kasper, dawning with recognition and a smile, his body starting towards them. In a flash, Georgie turned her own face away, wriggled herself free from Kasper’s hold and leaned into his ear, her face sideways. ‘Do you mind if I visit the ladies?’
‘By all means,’ he said, and the hand fell away.
The short walk seemed endless, heart pounding in her throat, and she almost stumbled over someone’s handbag, reddened at attracting undue attention to herself. Did he see my face? He might not even remember her as Hanna Seidel, but Georgie reasoned Doctor Graf was not a medical man without possession of a good memory. She couldn’t take that chance.
On her way back, she hovered in the foyer facing the bar, face peeking over her compact mirror. Then, a stroke of luck as she watched Doctor Graf say his warm goodbyes to Kasper and walk towards the exit. A sigh, and a flush of blissful relief.
Kasper was sitting at their table as she arrived back, eyes on the menu. With such an atmosphere, it wasn’t hard to persuade him into an aperitif, and then wine with their dinner. Georgie checked her own consumption and, when he went to the bathroom (taking the wallet with him), she poured her wine into his glass, replacing her own with water.
Much like their first meeting at the Resi, the tableaux around them eased the conversation – they locked heads good-naturedly over German versus English sport, and Kasper delighted in letting slip what he knew about the clientele and their indiscretions, indicating with his eyes at those considered friends of Germany, and those who might not be for much longer. Georgie giggled in the right places, never quite offering an opinion, maintaining the illusion of agreement. Kasper was a mine of information, but didn’t once reveal his sources; it wasn’t a leap to imagine he had friends in the Gestapo, some of whom might be tapping their feet to the band at that moment.
Kasper leaned in conspiratorially, his spirited breath warm on her cheek, and Georgie’s heart froze; surely, he would ask for it now? Her allegiance, which side she was on, what she thought of the Führer. Did she adore the great man, like the honourable Miss Mitford? And how on earth would she sidestep that?
And yet, he didn’t. He only asked about her family, and she spent a good ten minutes scratching in her memory for what she’d already told him in the Grunewald on their first outing, an entire age away. She embellished her carefully spun tale of minor aristocracy, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and the Scottish countryside, where in reality she’d only spent family holidays in a tiny cottage, describing the urge of simply ‘having’ to break away to become her own person and write. And for the first time, he asked some detail about her writing; on the spot, she weaved a romance steeped in history, where the man gets his girl and the girl is only too delighted.
Whether it was the second bottle of wine, or just that she was very convincing, Kasper seemed enthralled – to the point where Georgie had to invent a second arm of the family, an eccentric aunt in Paris, and a second twist to her fantastical novel.
‘Shall we dance?’ she ventured, having run out of her own yarn.
It was essentially a test – to see what he did with the leather folio and how unsteady he might be on his feet. The wallet stayed visible on the table, but only after Kasper called over a waiter and instructed him to guard it at all times. His feet were wandering, but so was his eye – back to the table each time they twirled and turned. Drunk or not, Kasper Vortsch was intent on that wallet. And he was not nearly drunk enough yet, Georgie decided. She needed to up her game; Mata Hari it might have to be.
With one more cocktail downed – hers only sipped at – it was Georgie’s cue to lean in, close enough to smell his cologne. ‘What say we drive back to my place. Have a nightcap?’ Her tone signalled everything he desired, even though it sickened her inside, while she thought of Margot Moller and the sacrifices she’d had to make in her life.
‘Better make it coffee for me,’ he said. ‘Remember, I have that early meeting.’
Her heart plummeted, but she forced a winning smile. ‘Coffee it is. Let’s go.’
Outside the Eden, they waited a few minutes for the car to be brought to the front, Kasper holding her arm and leaning in, as much for his own benefit as hers. Those once enticing eyes were drifting lazily, up and down her dress and into the curves of her chest. Georgie squinted nervously into the gloom, to where Rubin was parked. She raised her hand in a prearranged gesture, looping a lock of hair over her ear – their signal that she and Kasper would be headed directly back to Frida’s. She watched as Rubin’s headlights lit up and the car moved off.
Kasper was subdued on the journey back, stifling a yawn and then apologising by planting his hand on her thigh again. He was beginning to slow his words, had clearly drunk a good amount over the entire evening, but they made it back to Frida’s with little more than small talk. His hand stayed fixed on her flesh, head beginning to droop on Georgie’s shoulder, but with the wallet on the seat beside him, safe under his thigh.
She spied Rubin’s parked car as they arrived at Frida’s flat; the sudden halt of their own engine brought Kasper to attention, and for a minute Georgie thought he might shy away from joining her inside – it would mean the evening was a disaster, nothing more to show than her deeply scarred nerves and some Nazi tittle-tattle. She had to get him up into the flat, leaving her no choice but to step up the allure.
‘Come on, I’m not nearly tired enough to go to sleep,’ she teased, fingering his collar and brushing his jawline. ‘I’d like one more dance, just the two of us. Please, Kasper. How about it?’ She forced a wanton, child-like plea, close into his face.
It worked. Despite his fatigue, Kasper’s manners responded, and he diligently collected his folder and raised himself from the seat, dismissing the driver.
Georgie sensed Max’s hidden presence the minute she walked through the door, and noisily piloted Kasper into the living room, where he flopped onto the sofa, tucking the wallet under his thigh again. Frida’s door was shut, and as she passed by Georgie called backwards down the hallway: ‘I’ll just get this coffee on. Don’t you fall asleep on me now!’ Please fall asleep on me. A deep, deep slumber. Please.
Kasper returned a light groan. There was a coffee pot ready to go on the stove, a bottle of brandy on the kitchen table, with a small envelope next to it. Inside were two white tablets and a note in Max’s hand: for emergencies – sleeping tablets.
Christ! Was he suggesting she drug Kasper? A Nazi officer on the rise, one who had Himmler’s ear and very possibly Hitler’s too? Maybe Max had pre-empted a scenario where Kasper stepped over the mark and Georgie needed a swift antidote to his desires.
‘Make mine good and strong,’ Kasper’s voice came down the hallway. His body was already stirring from the alcohol and the prospect of any flirtatious loose talk rapidly receding. Georgie’s mind raced, thinking of every avenue aside from those tablets sitting in full view. There was nothing – he would taste brandy in his coffee for sure. It had to be the tablets. She poured the thick, strong coffee, making sure her own cup was distinct, and stirred both tablets into Kasper’s. Guilt swilled in motion with the spoon. Georgie, what are you doing?
Kasper was only too eager to drink down the coffee in needing to reverse his fatigue, while Georgie masked her fresh anxiety fizzing inside.
‘What about that dance?’ His mouth was a hungry leer, his face sporting renewed hope. And why wouldn’t he? He had wined and dined her throughout the evening. Georgie had invited – insisted – he come in for a drink and … as an officer of the Reich it was the return he would expect.
‘Of course.’ She put on a record as he rose from the sofa with only a slight falter. Lord, how long would this take? She’d never taken a sleeping tablet herself, didn’t know
their strength or whether the effect would be instant. She was exhausted with the effort of keeping herself in character – and still the wallet lay there. She had no idea if it contained anything relevant but there was no doubt of its importance, to Kasper at least.
They danced close – too close for her comfort – and Kasper’s hands wandered slowly across her back and downwards. Her skin crawled with unease, and she felt sure he would feel her heart crashing against her chest wall. Inside her head, she was screaming. Nothing about this scenario felt good.
After a few minutes, his feet slowed to barely a shuffle and his body leaned heavily against hers.
‘Kasper?’ she tested quietly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeess …’ It was a definite slur, and his head lolled against her cheek, seconds before his legs fell away and she had to shoulder his entire weight, while manoeuvring his limp body backwards onto the sofa. His eyelids were at half mast, those unsettling eyes still on her, but she saw no other signs of consciousness.
‘Kasper, Kasper …’ She tapped at his cheek to be sure, lifting a hand, which flopped heavily onto his lap. He was out cold. But for how long?
Georgie picked up the leather wallet and half-ran towards Frida’s room, startling Max as she careered through the door. ‘What’s happening? Something wrong?’
‘He’s asleep – unconscious – but I don’t know for how long. Do you?’
‘No, I got the tablets from a friend, no details.’ She glared at his lack of knowledge – Max was usually a stringent fact checker. But there was no time to lay blame now.
Georgie was breathless with panic, even though she could hear Kasper’s snores from the living room. ‘He’s had this file practically glued to his side all evening – we need to check it, and quickly. You go through it, and I’ll keep watch.’
Inside, Max found twenty or so sheets, some typed on Reich notepaper, others handwritten with numbers and letters beside them.
‘That’s Kasper’s writing,’ Georgie confirmed, her head switching back and forth down the hallway. At first glance, all appeared to be lists of some sort, or notes ready to be grouped.
‘There’s just too many for me to read and make notes,’ Max said. ‘And my memory isn’t that good.’
‘So, what do we do?’ Chancing on Kasper’s file had been pure luck – even so, Georgie couldn’t contemplate replacing the sheets without proper scrutiny, not after everything they’d risked.
Max was silent, thoughts churning. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. ‘Simone has a small camera, in her room. She put film in it a few days ago – I saw her do it. It’s in her bedside drawer. Can you get it?’
Georgie hopped into the corridor and a second’s glance told her Kasper was still sleeping like the proverbial baby. She scrabbled in the bedside drawer and was back a minute later.
Max positioned a lamp on the floor and laid each sheet next to it. ‘I’m no photographer, so let’s just hope this comes out,’ he muttered as the shutter clicked over each page.
It took less than ten minutes but felt like several years off Georgie’s life; her mouth was dry, head spinning with alcohol and adrenalin. She just wanted to be somewhere else – in La Taverne with the crowd, or better still, propping up the Adlon bar with Rod and Bill, Max teasing from nearby with a glass of beer in his hand. Instead, he was next to her, on his knees, committing Lord knows what kind of subterfuge, espionage, or theft. Probably all three. With her, simply a girl from the Cotswolds.
‘That’s done,’ he said at last, sliding the sheets back in. Georgie tiptoed out from the room, and gently placed the file back alongside Kasper, whose head was on his chest, eyes mercifully closed, in a deep sleep.
She padded on her stockinged feet back to Frida’s room. ‘What do I do now?’ she whispered urgently. ‘I don’t want him on the sofa all night.’
‘Can’t we just let him sleep it off?’
‘No! Frida will be back eventually – if anyone can, she’ll smell a rat. Besides, we’re not supposed to know he’s had a sleeping draught. Anybody who collapsed so suddenly might well be ill – it will look more convincing if we call for some help.’
Max nodded. ‘All right, search his pockets, see if there’s a number for his barracks, or his driver.’
Kasper twitched slightly and groaned as Georgie picked through his pockets gently. A tiny notebook in his breast pocket had a list of names and numbers – Georgie recognised one as Hans, the evening’s driver. She was half-tempted to hand the notebook to Max for more copying, but Kasper began muttering in his sleep and it would be pushing their already extended luck.
The voice on the end of the line was stark and military, but at the right location. ‘We’ll send a car directly,’ he said, as if her request was customary. The young driver was entirely unfazed on arrival, giving Georgie a look that said drunken retrievals were commonplace, if not with Kasper exclusively, then among other SS officers. ‘He might be ill,’ she said dutifully. ‘He simply collapsed. Maybe he needs a doctor?’
The driver looked doubtful, gently manoeuvred Kasper – wincing at the alcoholic vapour on his breath – and shouldered his weight. ‘Thank you, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘I’ll see he gets help.’
After watching them disappear down the steps, Georgie closed the door, pressing her back into its cool wood and sinking to the floor. The lengthy breath escaping her lips left her body entirely depleted. She felt grimy with dried sweat and the film of an unseen moral filth. She craved a bath, and yet had nothing left – not even the energy to crawl into the living room. She heard Frida’s door handle turn slowly, and the void fill with Max’s form. She felt him test the air.
‘It’s okay, they’ve gone,’ she croaked.
He walked quickly towards her, face awash with concern. ‘Georgie? What’s wrong?’
She willed her mouth to produce a weak smile. ‘Nothing that a bloody large slice of strudel won’t fix.’
It was midnight and Georgie was drained but wired from the coffee, Max hopping with his own stock of adrenalin. They had no strudel, but he produced plates of bacon and eggs – it brought on a pang of nostalgia for them both, of home and late-night university life, the British cure for all ills in the form of fried food.
Frida arrived and sloped straight off to bed, giving them both a strange sideways look but clearly too drunk and exhausted to question. Georgie would have to fend off her particular method of interrogation later. It left her and Max to chew over the evening.
‘What on earth did we just do?’ she said, trying to believe her own version of events.
‘We won’t know until we get those pictures developed.’
‘No, I mean, what did we do to get them? I’m pretty sure none of that was in our journalism training. At least not mine.’
It cultivated a laugh, at least. ‘It might not be strictly legal either.’
‘Oh Lord, what if Henry ever finds out about this?’
‘He’ll either sack you or put you up for an award,’ Max said. ‘I’m sure we’re not the first journalists to step over a line.’
‘But it’s my first line,’ she moaned.
‘Then congratulations,’ he said. ‘And very probably the first of many. Besides, George, these are bad people, and this is war.’
‘Not yet it isn’t.’
He gave her a knowing frown. ‘Elias is at war; Rubin, Sara and everyone in their neighbourhood too. Every day. That’s why we did it. You know that, Georgie.’
She nodded wearily. ‘Then let’s hope we’ve got some ammunition out if it. For everyone’s sakes.’
49
An Unwelcome Discovery
9th August 1939
Unlike the evening itself, Georgie was not on tenterhooks for any serious repercussions over her Kasper date, especially when his note arrived the very next day, with a second bouquet. She tried to ignore the fact that white lilies were often sent at funerals.
Dear Georgie,
My sincere apologies for my ungentlemanly beh
aviour a second time. I think maybe I ate or drank something to upset me. But there are no excuses, and my thanks to you for summoning help. I am well now, thanks to your diligence.
Your willingness permitting, I would like to dance with you again. Unfortunately, I will be away on Reich business for several weeks, but I will contact you on my return in the hope of seeing you again.
Yours ever, Kasper (upholder of the Reich, if not his own manners!)
Georgie threw the note away, determined that somehow she would wheedle her way out of another date. Minutes later, she plucked it out of the bin and burned it in the ashtray, feeling that shadow of paranoia hovering.
She and Max had to wait for news of what treasure they’d captured on film. It was too risky to entrust the developing to any photographic shop, and Max’s German friend – an amateur photographer and a known anti-Nazi – said he would need a couple of days. It would have been an agonising wait, except for the three-way game of tennis between Germany, France and Britain gaining momentum, meaning they were both criss-crossing Berlin with real work.
Rubin wasn’t aware of the precise activities with Kasper in the flat, and so far they’d played it down; Georgie was guilty at their deceit, justifying it to herself that it still might not bear any fruit for Elias anyway. Even so, Rubin was quiet and preoccupied, much like any German watching his city and country slipping towards war.
She and Max met in a small café-bar in Charlottenburg, one that had the good fortune of being unpopular with Nazis. They kept up the pretence of a loved-up couple exchanging sweet nothings and – amid the surrounding chatter – the mixed clientele would never have guessed at their true conversation.
The Berlin Girl Page 27