Georgie nodded. She had to believe him. She had no choice. And she had to make herself not think about Paul and his desolate, violent end, lying on that cold slab.
If the days after the Amsels’ escape had been agonising, this wait was torturous. The core of Georgie’s thinking was with Max, but her job still demanded focus and the world on their doorstep twisted every hour. The news they’d all been waiting for came through the next day – a female journalist new to Berlin had dug out her scoop, a sure sighting of German tank divisions on the Polish border, ready to move. It was the confirmation everyone needed that the snake was ready to strike. Not even the Germans tried to pretend they were on military exercise. War could be only days away, and while high-ranking British and French diplomats hoped for an eleventh-hour reprieve, no one truly believed it would happen. The world would be forced to wake up – and quickly.
In response, the British Embassy issued a recommendation for all correspondents to leave immediately, which sailed over Georgie’s head. Not without Max. Others stood firm, the Americans included, and they convened earlier than usual at La Taverne – there was no point in writing anything, as communications in and out of Berlin had been suspended all day, both telephone and telegraph. The US radio reporters, who usually broadcast late, sat twitching with stories tumbling around their heads. Georgie could only shake her head at the queries over Max.
‘All they’ll say is the charges relate to spying,’ she relayed to the table.
‘Bastards,’ someone piped up. ‘It’s a fit-up. They wouldn’t know a free press if it smacked them in the gills.’
Bill wasn’t tipsy, as he sometimes could be at this hour, merely belligerent. ‘Well, let’s show these bastards we won’t be beaten,’ he rallied. ‘Let’s report our little asses off.’ To which there was an almighty cheer and the mood lifted for a few seconds. Then all eyes fell on Frida as she came through the door.
She walked over and pushed her mouth into Georgie’s ear. ‘Let’s go to the ladies.’
Checking each stall was empty, Frida lit a cigarette and took a long drag, stunningly beautiful with her defiant look.
‘My source tells me Max will be deported, thanks to some pressure from your English side, but probably not for a few days.’
Georgie sagged with a mixture of relief and sadness. ‘And is he all right? Do you have any details on that?’
‘Not much, it’s only what my source has heard. Knowing the Gestapo, he might have a few bumps and bruises – just for show,’ she said. ‘They can’t let their reputation falter.’
‘One more thing,’ Frida added, raising her sculpted eyebrows. ‘Simone has gone.’
‘Where? What does that mean?’ Georgie pressed. Frida was enigmatic at the best of times, but did she think Simone might have been involved? The same Simone who visibly draped herself over Max, and genuinely seemed to like him.
‘I don’t know.’ Frida took another drag on her cigarette. ‘She disappears on stories all time, and I don’t usually worry, but this feels different. She’s been acting oddly recently, and something tells me she’s gone for good.’ She tossed the cigarette into the toilet. ‘Just goes to show you can’t trust anyone, doesn’t it?’
55
Discovery and Dread
29th August 1939
Sleep over the next four nights was fleeting and fitful for Georgie, awash with dreams of screeching car tyres and rerunning the escape from Sachsenhausen, this time with Kasper barring their way, self-satisfied and with that malevolent grin that only dreams can bring.
She hauled herself to the office each day, reporting on the introduction of formal German rationing; no oranges, but also limited food in general, and on soap, shoes and coal too. And if nothing else had so far signalled war, the Nazis had called off the annual Nuremberg rally, planned for early September. They would be otherwise occupied, they were telling the world.
Sam phoned as she was contemplating a timely postcard. ‘I’ve seen him,’ he said.
Georgie’s breath stalled. ‘And?’
‘He’s fine,’ Sam sighed. ‘Relatively fine for Gestapo HQ – a few bruises, but I’ve seen worse.’
‘And how is he in himself? Holding up?’ She could barely force herself to ask.
This time, Sam’s voice relaxed. ‘He is well, Georgie. He asked me to say hello, let you know he’s being a big boy, whatever that means.’
Breath reinstated. Heart reduced to merely a clatter.
‘They’re talking about Thursday for release – and immediate deportation,’ Sam added.
‘That’s two days! We could be at war tomorrow.’ It felt that close. ‘What will happen then? If we’re at war, the embassy won’t have any leverage. They could just leave him in there.’ The heart hammering became fast and noisy again.
Sam’s sigh was heavy in the receiver. ‘As is too often the case these days, we just have to hope.’
Postcard from Berlin
Dear News Chronicle Readers,
It’s a lottery as to what will reach you first – this missive or the news that Europe is at war. I suspect it may be the latter, given Germany’s current preparations. With food and goods rationing, Berliners have become foragers in their own city, whilst grocery trucks criss-cross the city, packed with their new cargo of troops. The hot, summer air is sticky with speculation, the footfall of ordinary people deadened by a resignation that this is life, for the foreseeable future at least.
Farewell from a country still at peace, but for how long we wonder?
Your correspondent in Berlin
Georgie headed home through the warm, sultry evening, choosing to walk through the Tiergarten and admire its beauty – in the back of her mind, she thought it might be her last opportunity, so unsure was the world underfoot. But away from the park’s greenery, military exhaust fumes had made the Berlin she’d come to love feel suddenly fuggy and dirty. Previously loyal citizens looked dejected, as if rationing was the blow that finally robbed wind from their sails. Certainly, the flags were flat, with not a breath of air causing the crimson to fly. She’d already passed by the chancellery and noted only a small crowd outside – tiny by Nazi standards – who could barely raise a combined voice under the dull whine of aircraft. Even the strudel at Kranzler’s, so far unaffected by rationing, couldn’t lift her spirits, and she left to share a rare pot of tea with Bill at the Adlon, glad when he didn’t attempt to say ‘chin up’.
The day before Max’s deportation, Georgie’s mind churned endlessly, split between the continued shunting of tension on the war front and this personal dilemma. Her focus should have been entirely on work, with so much at stake, but she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering. Nothing in Berlin was right any longer, but there was some element – she couldn’t pinpoint exactly – which felt very wrong.
Frida had gleaned one final nugget of information from inside No. 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse – that Max would be moved at eleven a.m. the next day, from the front entrance. Once again, it was a Nazi sideshow, insisting to the world’s press that they would tolerate neither impudence nor humanity from the reporters present at their invitation. Hitler’s perfect control mechanism – fear and threat.
‘To the airport, or the station?’ Georgie quizzed.
‘That I don’t know,’ Frida said. ‘If it is by train, they’ll surely escort him to the border and makes sure he stays on.’
Georgie filed her copy for the day and headed to Max’s apartment. One thought had sprung to mind in the early hours of sleep evasion: she could at least try to pass him some clothes on the steps. There was a good chance his editor would divert him only as far as Paris, and he would need some clothes other than those he stood up in.
Both Frau Sommer and her cat had the good grace not to appear at the window, and Georgie let herself into the flat, seemingly untouched since her last visit. She found a bag and looked through drawers for essentials and personal trinkets. It felt intrusive, but she reasoned that if there was a precious photogr
aph left behind, of his mother especially, Max would want it. She found one tucked under his passport, lingering for a moment over the informal, tender picture of a mother and her fresh-faced son, smiling together, her arm affectionately around him, chin resting on the top of his hair.
At the same time, a thought cranked into motion. Why was the passport there? Max would need it to travel on. The Nazis were all too aware, would have seized it in their search, surely?
The realisation came slowly, landing finally like a boxer’s killer punch. And that feeling was beyond painful – a burning, searing brand of dread at his true destination: Max wouldn’t need a passport where he was going.
Oh, Kasper, what a clever little Nazi you’ve been.
56
Farewells
31st August 1939
Diplomatic notes had been passed back and forward for days across the channel, with British Ambassador Nevile Henderson acting as the all-important messenger in the tit-for-tat politics. Only this was no longer a playground spat between silly boys, the reported content of each message – no side seemingly prepared to give any ground – serving to whip up the tension. It felt to the world as if every avenue had been exhausted, and Hitler was standing firm, so too Chamberlain at last. The broil of a storm above Berlin couldn’t feel any more tense; the air smacked of certain conflict. In Georgie’s dry mouth, there was little spit to remove a metallic taste of terror mixed with determination.
She sat in front of Gestapo HQ with a bag of Max’s belongings, a small holdall of her own on the car seat beside her, fear neatly tucked inside her stomach. Her resolve she wore freely like a scarf blowing in a good breeze. They would not do this. To him or her. Not without a fight.
Georgie’s scheme was based on opportunity and not much else. And she’d told nobody, to avoid their guilt by implication. She’d hired a car early that morning, locked up the office and set off. The wait was, as usual, agonising. At one point, her heart jolted when she imagined seeing Kasper walk up the steps but shrank again when it proved to be another young officer with the same SS swagger.
True to the source, at eleven o’clock a group appeared on the steps. There was no attempt to hide the prisoner, and Georgie was relieved to see Max free of handcuffs. He didn’t appear to be limping or struggling to walk either, talking to the men around him with no sign of rancour. But then he would, if he imagined heading towards a train or a plane to safety. Their treachery caused Georgie’s anger to swell.
The car moved off, Max in the back with a Gestapo man, another in the front alongside the driver. She followed behind. Now, she had to wait and pray for the right opportunity, whenever and wherever it fell.
They drove south-west out of the city, and Max must have assumed – in his blissful ignorance – they were headed for Zoo station and the train to Paris. Georgie willed herself to stay calm behind the wheel, keeping as much of a distance as she dared without losing sight. Soon, they had passed the road towards the station and were veering north instead – perhaps rounding the city towards Sachsenhausen? The Gestapo car slowed at a newly created checkpoint and Georgie’s head throbbed in time with the engine. Was this it? Her only chance? Once they were clear of the city, there might be no other. She grabbed the two holdalls and pulled what courage she had from somewhere inside. Almost on autopilot, she stepped from her car, turning off the engine. Walking towards the Gestapo car, Georgie quickened her stride, willing it to fuel her resolve like some kind of dynamo, injecting her with enough nerve for the plan only just formulating in her head.
Come on, time to give Margot the actress a run for her money.
‘It’s you!’ she screamed, pointing at the Gestapo man, who’d left the car and was talking to the checkpoint guard. He wheeled round at the sudden volume, hand immediately going to his waistband inside his jacket, then dropped it when he realised the noise was coming from a woman.
‘What do you mean it’s me?’ he came back angrily. He was tall and broad, muscles evident under his shirt, and Georgie had to rely on sheer fury to keep her legs moving forward.
She pointed accusingly again. ‘You, you bastard!’
She turned towards others in the car, the guards and two cars in the line behind them – anyone within earshot. ‘He assaulted me. He got me drunk and took advantage. What would the Führer say of that – defiling a woman? A wife, and a mother?’ Georgie took another leap: ‘What would your wife say about that, eh?
She’d hit a nerve. The man winced visibly and Georgie leapt on it. ‘I bet she’d like to hear all about it, wouldn’t she? I know where you live, I could go and pay her a visit. Would you like that?’ She grinned like a woman possessed, the face of someone crazy enough to do just that.
She was making it up as she went along, but the man shrank as if facing a tornado, up against the verbal power of this harridan, lips curled in rage, finger jabbing like a bayonet. The driver and the other Gestapo man got out of the car to try and calm Georgie, but she twisted away from their grip, forging forward. She glimpsed Max’s face pressed up against the car window, knew he’d seen her and trusted he understood.
Georgie couldn’t stop, didn’t dare wind down yet. ‘Yes, you, Hans, I’m talking to you,’ she poked, nearer to him.
He shrank again. ‘But my name isn’t Hans,’ he said weakly. ‘You’re mistaken. It’s not me.’ He looked embarrassed and fearful at the scene she was causing.
‘Well, Hans, or whatever your name is, I am going straight to the Kripo. I will find your superior, and I will make sure everyone knows what a disgusting bastard you are.’ Her voice was already hoarse and she struggled to keep up the volume.
They would have laughed it off in any other situation – the idea of such accusations sticking to any man, but in the moment they just wanted to shut her up. Passers-by were starting to slow and look, cars backing up in the line.
‘Hey, we can talk about this, just come in here,’ ‘Hans’ said, gesturing towards the small wooden guard hut. The others had congregated by it, one sparking up a cigarette.
Now or never, Georgie. You might die, but just do it.
She dropped her shoulders, made as if to consider the offer of negotiation, backing several steps nearer to the Gestapo car. The group of men shrank back in response, hackles down, scene over, silly woman placated. Then Georgie spun on one foot, leapt towards the door and dropped herself into the driver’s seat like a stone, pitching the bags beside her. The men froze with disbelief as she crunched the idling car into gear, reversing wildly and whipped the steering wheel around, clipping the barrier as she swerved off in the direction of what looked like a road. Any road.
Engine roaring, she seemed to have the element of surprise; the men would be scrambling to find another car to give chase in, the guard’s military truck or the one she had abandoned, but she calculated having at least a minute head start.
Max was silent, perhaps with shock. Breathless, his voice finally came from the back. ‘I can’t see them, not yet.’ Her foot was to the floor, the engine straining loudly, gravel spitting under the tyres, knuckles white again on the steering wheel.
She daren’t look in the mirror, relying on Max. ‘They’re behind, I can just see them,’ he said.
‘I can’t go any faster,’ she cried.
After an age: ‘Hang on! They’re slowing, I think they’ve stopped.’ His voice rose in celebration of Lady Luck. ‘I think they’ve got a bloody flat tyre!’
She didn’t chance it – drove out as far and as fast as she could for another twenty minutes, into open countryside, until the petrol gauge winked that the tank was nearing empty.
‘Bloody hell, Georgie, what have you done?’ Max said as she dared to slow. His tone suggested she’d been extreme, in perhaps only delaying his deportation.
‘You weren’t going to the station or the airport,’ she stated plainly, eyes fixed on the road. ‘They don’t have your passport. Never intended to get it.’
‘Christ. Really? They were bloody convinc
ing.’
‘That’s their job, Max. They’re very good at it, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
They parked up at the entrance to a dilapidated farm, found a map in the glove compartment and were trying to work out where they were and what to do, when an old man, likely a farmer, walked towards them.
‘We’re just lost, all right?’ Georgie whispered as the man came near. She switched on a smile.
‘Can I help?’ he said. His accent wasn’t German; if Georgie wasn’t mistaken, it was Polish. And possibly Jewish.
They made a play of being lost, but as the farmer scanned the car out of the corner of his eye and the unusual registration plates, his face hinted suspicion.
They’d had opportunity, now they needed more luck. In abundance.
‘We’re not Gestapo,’ Georgie announced suddenly, pulling out her press card, to Max’s wild stare of disbelief. It was their only hope, in explaining away the Gestapo vehicle.
Luck was on their side still. The farmer was a Jew, married to a German. And a firm anti-Nazi. They pushed the car into his barn and covered it with tarpaulin. He called over two muscular young men working nearby. ‘They’ll have that stripped down to spare parts within the hour,’ he said with a satisfied smile.
The farmer and his wife offered a bed for the night, but they declined – again, all too aware of the danger of guilt by association. At the table, Max wolfed down what was offered, Georgie searching his face for signs of the Gestapo’s work. There were several bruises on both cheeks – she pictured the delivery of that hand swipe that acts as an aperitif to more violence – and one purple swelling where the flesh of his neck met his collarbone. Her heart pinched, though Max only radiated delight at tasting good food and freedom. Perhaps his school upbringing had made him tougher than she gave him credit for?
They both spent time with a bowl of hot water, washing off the morning’s grime, and Georgie got busy with her compact on Max’s face.
The Berlin Girl Page 31