‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t engage you for another date,’ he said instead, approaching the door. ‘It’s simply not appropriate.’
‘I understand entirely,’ she said. Relief was inching within sight at his departure. Only then did she really see how much Kasper had gleaned from his superiors in recent months, the skill in timing the glancing but fatal blow.
‘I’m interested to see what your friend Max Spender has to say about the Amsels,’ he said pointedly, as he reached the door. ‘I think I’ll ask him.’
Breath stopped in her, choking back pointless words of protest. But Kasper wasn’t finished.
‘Oh, and one more thing,’ he oozed. ‘What I said about Germans not being so organised …’
She cocked her head at the memory, their innocent banter all those months ago at the Resi.
‘I lied, Fraulein Young. We in the Nazi Party are extremely organised. Which makes us not only determined but very efficient when we want something done.’
One parting glint to those eyes and he was gone, with the swagger of a gothic vampire character in a bad film, only the swish of his cape absent.
Georgie was on the phone as she heard Kasper descend the stairs. ‘Pick up, Max, pick up. Please. Please.’ He had to be there, had been only half an hour before, the office woman too. Please, Max.
But there was only the ringing tone, endless and echoey, into her ear.
‘Bill, Bill?’ Georgie banged on the door of the Chicago Tribune office, tucked on the ground floor of the Adlon. The bar was absent of any press in the late afternoon, and she’d already hurried to Kranzler’s, eyes surfing over the crowd. Nothing but the ever-confident tones of SS and Wehrmacht officers. La Taverne wasn’t a realistic option at that time of day, but she’d rung all the same – the Lehmanns hadn’t seen Max. It was the same at Frida’s flat – no answer, and as much as she didn’t relish the image, she couldn’t see Max and Simone taking to her bed with so much happening out there in the wider world.
‘What’s up?’ Bill Porter emerged, blinking, from the gloom of his office. He hadn’t seen Max since a morning press briefing. ‘He’s probably following up on a story,’ he added, though concern dawned when Georgie relayed her encounter with Kasper. ‘Oh shit. That’s not so good.’
It was what she feared, but not what she wanted to hear. Anxiety multiplied.
‘You go to his flat, check if he’s been there, and I’ll head to his office,’ Bill said. ‘If he’s not back, I’ll put in a call to London and find out what time he last filed any copy. Meet here in an hour, okay?’
Anguish was an efficient fuel as Georgie took a taxi to Max’s building. The street was quiet, no search parties this time, only a curious cat winding around her legs, though it disappeared smartly as Frau Sommer’s own feline stamped its territory with a loud meow. This time, the curtains definitely twitched. Maybe she wasn’t the innocuous neighbour Max had supposed.
The thread in the doorjamb was absent, and Georgie prayed it was Max’s own doing. She rapped on the door, pushed her ear to the wood. Nothing. Was he asleep? Unlikely, even with the frantic pace of work in past days. Another knock, then she fumbled in her bag for the key.
‘Max? Max, are you here? It’s George.’ Her voice echoed in the empty flat. But someone had been there. It was moderately untidy, a few clothes lain across the bed and the sofa, a single sheet of paper poking from a drawer. Having witnessed Max’s pristine way of living, it was clear the flat had been searched. A scuffle? That was harder to tell. A small ruck in the mat in front of the hearth was possibly innocent. But maybe not.
Panic began to swell in her chest, and Georgie worked to cap it off before it could overwhelm her. It would not help find Max. Instead, she forced herself to circle slowly in the living room, eyes crawling over every small thing she’d noted, on that first visit and the length of the Amsels’ stay. But there was nothing too out of the ordinary, nothing to say he was in direct danger. Yet …
Max, where the hell are you?
Georgie ran from the address, hailed another taxi and headed back to the Adlon. In days of old, she would have called on Rubin and Rod for help. And Max himself, of course. Now, it was Bill – cynical but reliable Bill – that she went to.
He was in the bar, shaking his head as she approached. ‘Not been at his office since the afternoon. Apparently, he left soon after you did.’
‘Anyone come to see him after me?’
‘Not according to the fierce Fraulein at the Telegraph offices. She’s a bundle of laughs by the way.’
Georgie twisted her fingers with worry. Kasper’s face loomed again, the smirk of satisfaction at making her squirm, payback for her deceit. Using Max as bait. Bill didn’t know the whole story and she felt too sick to relay it now.
‘Too early for a drink?’ he said. They had nowhere else to look, aside from the whole of Berlin. They could only wait, for Max, or some signal from the Gestapo.
‘No,’ Georgie said resolutely. ‘Definitely not.’
It was six o’clock when he waltzed in casually, as they were bent over the bar, Georgie’s imagination still running riot.
‘Hello there, didn’t expect to see you two here this early,’ Max said, dropping his bag and hopping onto a stool. Georgie didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scold him for causing such heartache, choosing merely to frown at him.
‘What? What have I done?’ he cried in all innocence.
‘You didn’t get a visit from the SS?’ Georgie quizzed. ‘From Kasper?’
‘Not unless he’s hiding around the corner, or under the chair here.’ He made a play at searching, then realised it was a bad move when Georgie’s scowl became thunderous.
‘Don’t joke, Max. It’s serious. Your flat has been searched. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘And there’s me thinking you don’t care.’ But this further attempt at humour wasn’t working.
Bill got off his stool, wincing at the storm about to break. ‘I’m off, leave you two to sort this one out.’ He slunk back to his office.
‘So, what do we do now?’ Georgie pitched, her tempest abating after relaying the details of Kasper’s visit. ‘He still may come for you. You should have seen his face. Underneath that smug exterior, he was livid. Furious at how I’d deceived him.’
‘As press we are protected – not fully but to a certain extent,’ Max argued. ‘It sounds to me like he’s enjoying the threat. Bluffing with menaces. But I will be careful.’
‘Just please don’t go anywhere alone. Make sure you’re in crowds, around people.’
‘Yes, squadron leader.’ He made a mock British salute. ‘But, you know, I am a big boy now.’
‘You are bloody infuriating, I do know that.’ The thunder had moved on, clouds breaking to reveal blue sky. Calmer.
‘So I’ve been told.’
With Georgie’s certainty that his flat had been searched, Max agreed not to return home that night. An early press conference had been called at the Reich Chancellery, and with a large, late gathering at La Taverne, he and Georgie headed back with Frida to her flat. Simone sent word she was ‘on a story’, and Georgie felt relieved to avoid the embarrassment of the sleeping arrangements.
They ambled slowly back towards Frida’s, enjoying the late, light evening, despite the rumble of the city in the distance.
‘You needn’t have worried, you know,’ Max said suddenly, breaking their own, contented silence.
‘About Kasper? But he’s dang—’
‘No,’ he cut in. ‘I didn’t mean that. About Simone, it being awkward at the flat.’
How on earth did he know what I was thinking?
‘We’re not an item anymore,’ he added. ‘And it’s fine. Really.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Georgie said. Though deep down she found she wasn’t.
‘Why sorry?’ he shot back.
‘Well, because she seemed to like you, and you appeared to like her. A lot.’
‘Maybe,’ Max sai
d. ‘A bit of fascination on both sides, I think. But there is actually someone else …’
Her head turned, needing to gauge his look, to read his features – stopped short by a throaty roar overhead, which forced both heads to snap up and watch as a fat queen bee of a troop carrier droned low across the Berlin sky. The thunderous noise – the sound of war – prompted Max to grab her hand, squeezing it tight. She flicked again to face him. What was that look? Dammit, why couldn’t she read him?
‘Hey, you two! Hurry up – I’ve got a new cocktail just mixed.’ It was Frida hanging out of her window onto the street and waving, Max’s hand instantly relaxing and breaking the hold.
‘Great timing,’ he said jauntily, though Georgie couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or disappointment in his voice.
54
Plucked
24th August 1939
The pack was out in force the next morning, amid rumours that Britain was about to make a strong pledge of support to Poland in the event of a German attack. Words were firm on both sides, though no one dared to make the first move. If it happened, the only result would be all-out war. The biggest story, but the outcome they all dreaded.
Max had slept on the sofa, leaving Frida’s early to check in at his office and arrive at the briefing on time. Exhausted, Georgie slept through her alarm and was shaken awake by Frida, the two of them scrabbling to make it in time. Imminent conflict or not, Herr Bauer still reserved fierce disapproval for latecomers, his expression as if he’d sucked on the very lemons that were no longer available in the shops.
Things were different again on the streets; in recent weeks aircraft had flown over Berlin at odd times of the day, moving between airfields. Now, as both women ran towards the chancellery, there was a permanent buzzing above their heads, swarms in formation hovering high in the sky. Some Berliners gazed upwards, but most looked resigned to what was simply the newest backdrop to their lives.
Press numbers were swollen and the room packed, Georgie sliding into a seat at the back. She could see Max up front, next to the Times correspondent and a group of radio hacks from the BBC and NBC. The rest were French, Italian and Eastern European reporters, some Scandinavian. With so much political bartering in recent days, everyone wanted the story, and with the windows fully open, the hum of air traffic pushed its way through. Herr Bauer stood like a schoolmaster at the front, fiddling with papers and fingering his minuscule moustache.
‘He must be having kittens at this attendance,’ Georgie whispered to Frida, and they both giggled at his officious façade.
The levity was short-lived, not only with the start of the briefing, but also by a frantic signalling from Bill, who was peering through a crack in the door. He beckoned Georgie towards him with an expression of near desperation.
‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.
‘It’s a set-up,’ he said hoarsely, eyes wide with alarm.
‘What do you mean?’ His tone was giving her goose bumps.
‘They have a warrant – for Max’s arrest. I just heard via a source. That’s why I’m late. It’s signed by Himmler and Goebbels.’
When, what, where and how? – the four key questions a reporter asks of any story. Now they flooded Georgie’s mind, in a pressing need. The when and where elements were crucial – they had to warn Max immediately.
Georgie edged back into the room, shuffling past a quizzical Frida. Bill had begun inching quietly around the opposite side of the crowd unnoticed, easier said than done as his presence caused several reporters to look up and nod in recognition. The man speaking at the lectern was a junior press officer, giving out minor details in a dull monotone before Goebbels took to his stage. Max remained four rows beyond Georgie, his head bobbing as he scribbled down words. She was tantalisingly close and had to stop herself catching his attention with an urgent whisper. She looked up at where Bill stood, saw his head snap to something behind. Why wasn’t he focused on Max?
Half a second later the noise registered; a loud scuffling of bodies near the door, barging past a clutch of standing reporters. Four heavily built men, all in suits despite the rising heat of the room. They marched up to where Max was sitting, and Georgie could see from the cock of his head that he was more confused than alarmed.
‘Max Spender?’ one said, though it was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes?’ Still only curious.
‘I have a warrant for your arrest. Please come with us.’
The room gasped, stood and burst into a cacophony of noise and opposition. ‘No, no! You can’t do that! He’s press!’ But they – presumably Gestapo – were deaf to the pleas and bent to take physical possession of Max.
His voice was lost, head disappearing from Georgie’s view as she fought desperately to reach him. Then, the swathe of bodies shuffled towards the door and she was caught in the tide, fighting to weave her way through to him. She skirted the edge, close to the wall and made some ground; Max’s height meant finally she could follow his head nearing the door. Georgie spied a gap, ducked under several bodies and pushed herself out into the hallway, like breaking the surf of a drowning wave. She scooped in the air and space, scanning quickly. Being nearer to the door, Bill had already made it to Max and they were exchanging words as the prisoner was hustled away. She ran forward, lunged and was held back firmly by one of the Gestapo men. Max turned and caught sight of her.
‘Georgie, it’ll be fine,’ he assured her, though his eyes said not. ‘Call my paper, and the embassy. I’ll see you soon.’ And being Max, he tried to smile.
Then he was gone. The hallway was empty, the press room in disarray and Herr Bauer called an easy halt to the proceedings, with no hint of disappointing Joey Goebbels waiting in the wings, because the Minister for Propaganda had never been there at all. As planned. Meticulously. The briefing was a bluff; a carefully scripted scene, ready for Max to exit stage left, serving as a warning to all around him. Georgie cast around the empty hallway – Kasper was nowhere to be seen, but his fingerprints lay all over this page.
Bill approached and did his best to mimic Rod’s reassuring embrace. Georgie wanted it to last forever, lost in the human touch amid this nightmare, but they needed to act.
‘I’ll call his London editor,’ Bill said. ‘You go to the embassy – easier for you to do that as you’re a Brit. Meet back at my office in an hour?’
She could barely nod. The shock had taken hold. The consequences of her initial flirtation, her vanity at being flattered by Kasper’s charms, her dangerous manipulation of him. What if something happened to Max as a result?
‘Georgie? Georgie, come on. No time for thinking too much,’ Bill urged. Both hands were on her shoulders, just short of shaking. ‘We need to just do it. Let’s go.’
‘All right, one hour.’
Frida ran up behind Georgie then, pulled on her shoulder. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ she promised, ‘pull in a few favours.’ Undoubtedly, she meant amongst her Nazi acquaintances, but Georgie didn’t care so long as it helped Max.
The grandiose buildings were a blur on the short walk to the British Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse; a combination of her press card, the tears beginning to prick at her eyeballs and a wobbling voice got her into Sam Blundon’s office immediately. Being a good friend, he made her sit, supplied tea and brandy. She’d seen arrests before, God knows she knew of the lengths Nazis stooped to when it came to Jews, had even identified Paul’s bloated, murdered body. But this was Max. Her Max. The uncontrollable shake in her hand made her realise what a friend he’d become; they’d worked, laughed, shared bad reporter jokes, beers and pastries. She realised then how much of an ally he was, a voice of reason, a comfort that this world they’d entered together would not spin out of control, and them with it. She had felt in her gut that they needed to tell the story to the world, but Max’s steadfast agreement in that pursuit gave her more courage, sealed up the holes where her confidence was lacking. She’d even forgiven him for his behaviour at the Ritz
.
This was Sam’s world now and he stepped up. ‘Since Max is a British citizen, I can ask officially as to the purpose of his arrest. I’ll request to see him, but if the charges are related to espionage in any way – and you know they can make it so – then it’s not likely they’ll let me.’
Georgie looked dejected. Guilt was seeping through the pores of her skin, and she came clean about Kasper – her courting of him, and the reasons, Max’s involvement, the Amsels’ stay at his apartment.
‘Ah, that makes it more difficult because it’s become personal for this Vortsch character,’ Sam said. ‘I think the most we can hope for is that they deport Max. And quickly.’
Georgie’s soul plummeted to depths she’d never imagined. She felt so helpless, with Max undoubtedly at Gestapo HQ; the same emotions Rubin and Sara had felt on Elias’s arrest, and every day since. And it was horrifying. Max was no more special than any person whose rights had been stomped over by the Nazis in their polished jackboots and gilded conceit. And yet, to her he was. Deep inside, her heart ached. It was painful. Physically. She felt blindsided – by the situation and this alien feeling.
Christ, Georgie! No wallowing allowed. Just get on with it.
Back at the Adlon, Bill had spoken to the Telegraph’s London office; Max wasn’t the first reporter on their books to be arrested, though the first on the brink of a war. The editor pledged to tug on every string they had in the British Government, old boy circles and the lords if necessary. Max’s father would use his influence too. But it might take time.
‘How much time?’ Georgie cried. She felt control was fast deserting her.
‘A few days maybe,’ Bill said.
‘And in the meantime, in there? Bill, you and I both know what happens at Gestapo HQ.’
‘We can’t think about it,’ he urged. Commanded almost. ‘It’s likely they will make him sit and stew, use him only as an example – for the press to behave.’
The Berlin Girl Page 30