The Berlin Girl

by Mandy Robotham

  ‘Ever considered a new career as a make-up artist?’ he quipped.

  ‘I might have to,’ she shot back. ‘Question is, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m quite good at making cocktails. Any future in that, do you think?’

  By three p.m., they were in the back of the farmer’s covered truck, rattling over the bumpy roads, lying on a bed of potatoes and turnips. The last flight out of Tempelhof to Europe was at five p.m. And they had to be on it, Max calculating that trains were more risky – they could be stopped and searched at a whole number of points. They hoped the Gestapo would rely on them making for a border by car, the airport being far too dicey to contemplate. And, in truth, it was. But once they were up in the air and out of the German airspace, they would be out of Gestapo clutches.

  Only the airport to get through.

  They lay in silence for a while, listening to the farmer’s tuneful whistle as he bumped along. Although neither relished it, there was enough produce in the back for a decent turnip burial in the event of a search.

  ‘I think you’d look good with a turnip for a hat,’ Max said at last.

  ‘And potatoes for earrings?’ She giggled. A dose of relief, exhaustion and adrenalin had injected a real absurdity.

  ‘You would be the queen of the fashion pages for sure.’

  ‘Don’t you mean the fashion scribe?’ she teased.

  ‘No, definitely not that. You are George Young, hard-nosed news reporter. And my saviour.’

  She shrugged. ‘All in a day’s work, Max Spender, investigator extraordinaire.’

  ‘Shame we’ll probably be unemployed. I think I’ve burnt my final boat with the Telegraph.’

  ‘Henry won’t be too pleased either. Perhaps we can simply sail away somewhere exotic and avoid the war,’ she said, weaving dreams in her head. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Yes. Gladly.’ Now there was no humour in his voice. Only solemnity.

  She squinted in the gloom. Trying to read his features and his mood, for the hundredth time since that first meeting at the Ritz. Failing again.

  ‘Max?’

  His hand crawled spider-like, little finger locking into hers. She didn’t flinch or pull away. His flesh was hot, along with the day. But it was something more. An energy.

  ‘Marry me,’ he murmured.

  Her laughter was lost as they hit a pothole and the truck bounced dramatically. ‘What?’

  ‘Marry me. Please, Georgie Young. Bloody amazing, brave, talented woman. Marry me, and we’ll blaze a trail across the world as the best journo team it’s ever seen.’

  She was silenced by his look of utter … she still couldn’t tell what. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I love you.’

  ‘But … what … since when?’ The woman of words suddenly had little of sense inside her.

  ‘Oh aeons,’ he said with fervour.

  ‘Please don’t tell me it was love at first sight, Max Spender, because that will not wash.’

  He laughed then. ‘No, definitely not at the Ritz. Sarcastic, belligerent, too clever by half – that’s what I thought then.’ She went to speak but he cut in: ‘And yes, I was arrogant and prejudiced and way too full of myself.’

  ‘And now?’ she quizzed. This declaration of love was a novelty to her, and she craved more.

  ‘I’m full of you, or I want to be. I think you’re amazing, Georgie. There is no one else I’d rather be rescued by.’

  Silence, more bumping, turnips tumbling. What else could make this day the oddest one possible?

  He looked concerned by her silence. ‘George? Could you even consider it?’

  Could she? Had that tight pinch of her heart at the thought in him in Gestapo clutches been something more than concern for a friend? Her drive that very day to risk everything – her future, liberty and the job she loved? Possibly, her life. The sharp nip on seeing him with Simone time and again? That squeeze of his hand the night before he was arrested?

  ‘I thought you said there was someone else,’ she murmured, still unable to fully believe this wild confession.

  ‘It’s you, Georgie,’ he sighed. ‘It has been for ages.’

  He paused, brow wrinkled. ‘When I was in that cell, you were the only person I thought of consistently, the only one I couldn’t bear to think of not seeing again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ He cast around the inner gloom of the truck, wriggled a metal wire from the side of a box, and bent it into a shape. ‘Georgina Young – you are the only woman I can imagine being beside me as we travel the globe. I think, and I hope, you feel the same. So will you bloody well marry me?’

  She filled her lungs with a breath. On the run in the middle of Germany, amid the earthy smell of vegetables filling her nostrils and hurtling towards Lord knows what fate, there was only one answer. ‘Yes, Maximus Titus Aurelius Spender. I bloody well will.’

  He pushed the rough metal ring on her finger and leaned over to kiss her – his lips were soft, as she’d imagined, not dry or dusty. Had she ever conceived this moment? Yes, obviously she had, in some shady corner of her heart. Eyes closed, they moulded, each pushed further into supple flesh by riding the bumps like a wave. The pleasure was clipped short with a sharp jostle of the truck, but long enough to make her entire being shiver. For once, not with anxiety or fear, but bliss. Pure bliss.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, his smile wide and white under the tarpaulin. ‘No escaping me now.’

  ‘We just have to slip out from under the Nazis’ noses and not get caught or killed.’

  ‘All in a day’s work for the best duo in Berlin.’

  The farmer left them on a small back lane, half a mile from the airport, with a wave of good luck. Georgie dusted herself down and tried to look as if she was a legitimate traveller, pushing her hair under the brim of a hat and applying more make-up than she normally wore, while Max pulled a clean shirt from the bag Georgie had packed, hiding his purple bruise under the collar. They were undoubtedly persona non grata in Germany – but they didn’t have to look like desperate escapees.

  They talked tactics on the short walk to the airport; both favoured a brazen approach through the main entrance, rather than skulking around the perimeter where guards were sure to be plentiful. They’d stopped at a phone booth on the way, and Georgie called in one last favour, which might prove helpful, if it worked.

  Tempelhof was changed since their arrival just over a year before. Military outnumbered civilian staff, po-faced and armed at each entrance, while the noise overhead, a constant buzz of planes in and out, signalled the increase in air traffic. Max grabbed Georgie’s hand as they approached the main terminal doors, squeezing it tight. ‘Time to show me some more of those excellent acting skills,’ he said, beaming like a new groom.

  Georgie recalled the women at the Ciro bar, threw back her head and made a faux laugh in character. ‘Watch and learn, Spender. Watch and learn.’

  There was a short queue to gain entrance, the guards checking papers meticulously. Assuming the SS had circulated an all ports warning for them both, they still hoped Tempelhof was lower down the list. They hung back a little, waiting for the right moment. An older woman up ahead proved a convenient stooge, rifling in an enormous carpet bag for her passport, the young guard close to rolling his eyes. ‘I have it in here somewhere,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sure I packed it.’

  ‘Now!’ Max murmured under his breath, yanking Georgie’s hand towards the front of the queue and breaking into a run.

  ‘We’re going to miss it, darling, if we don’t hurry!’ Georgie projected in her best upmarket German accent. ‘Our honeymoon is ruined!’ Her face contorted into a dramatic twist of distress as they came upon the guard directly. He looked terrified at the thought of it spilling into tears, presenting him with two tricky situations.

  ‘Can we … can we? Thank you …’ Max bustled past the old woman, rattling on, his own glance at the guard appealing to an unspoken masculine need: �
�Please help me not to disappoint my new wife.’

  With continued grumbles from the old woman, the guard paused for a second, then waved them on hurriedly. They slipped inside the door, striding towards the ticket desk.

  ‘One down,’ Max mumbled through his teeth.

  ‘Several more to go,’ Georgie said.

  The ticket desk mercifully had no queue, attended by a young and attractive woman; Max’s turn to switch on his charm as Georgie hung back. ‘I wonder if you might be my angel of mercy today,’ he began, and her expression instantly softened. He gestured towards Georgie, looking mournful to his rear. ‘My fiancée and I have been to visit her parents in Berlin, but now my own mother is very ill in London, and we need to get back as soon as possible.’ The muscles in his face rippled. ‘She might not have much time left. I wonder if you can help? I mean, if you’re at all able. I’d be so grateful.’

  The woman’s heavily made-up face twisted with empathy at Max’s plight. ‘I’m sure we can, sir. The five p.m. flight via Paris has one seat available …’ She looked past his shoulder to Georgie. ‘Perhaps your fiancée can take a later flight?’

  Georgie’s face fell again with false misery, though her pulse rising towards the lofty ceiling was genuine enough. ‘Oh, Maxy,’ she whimpered pathetically. ‘You won’t go without me, will you? You can’t leave me – I couldn’t bear it.’

  Max had already pulled out a wad of Reichsmarks with the flourish of the truly wealthy, the notes he and Georgie had pooled, and the woman’s face spread with alarm.

  ‘Let me see …’ she blustered, scanning her seating plan. ‘I’m sure we can work something out. Make an exception for your mother.’

  ‘Could you?’ Max’s smile oozed gratitude. ‘It would mean the world to us – and to her.’

  ‘No luggage?’ she questioned.

  ‘Just our hand luggage.’ Max thought on his feet. ‘The rest will follow on. No time to pack properly.’

  Handing over their passports prompted fresh beads of sweat to prickle across Georgie’s body. They both combed the woman’s features for signs of suspicion, if her eyes strayed to a list of ‘wanted’ or undesirables. Georgie could hardly believe it when she simply passed over two tickets and wished them a good flight. ‘You just have time for a quick drink in the bar before departure,’ she said cheerily, and Max clasped her manicured hand in appreciation.

  ‘You are definitely my angel,’ he said.

  They turned tail with relief. ‘Well, that was award-winning, Mr Olivier,’ Georgie said as they walked resolutely away. ‘Remind me never to believe a word you say in an argument.’

  ‘Touché, Fraulein Young,’ he came back, squeezing her fingers again. ‘And we’re not there yet. We’re still on the charm offensive.’

  As much as they both desired – needed – a drink, each hovered in the men’s and women’s bathrooms, counting down the long minutes until they could reunite and board. Every passing second on Georgie’s watch felt increasingly sluggish, her energy at the pretence waning, buoyed only by nature’s concoction of innate drive and sheer terror. If they were caught, there was no explaining it away, not even as bone fide press. It would be their war and possibly life over in a flash.

  She looked at her hastily primped face in the bathroom mirror and almost didn’t recognise the Georgie looking back. Entering Germany, she had been a fresh-faced and eager guest, albeit naive. Now she was experienced and weary, possibly cynical – and a fugitive. How did that happen?

  They emerged at boarding time, linked hands and walked with bogus confidence towards the gate.

  ‘We wish you a pleasant flight,’ the steward said on checking the tickets. Pushing out onto the concrete beside the runway felt like escape from a hot and humid prison; even the warm wind of aircraft engines was a blessed respite as the late, low sun beat down. Still, each step towards the waiting plane was a milestone, not least because Max’s clammy hand pulsed into hers with his pace. One step closer, one more. There was an urgent, rhythmic throb in her ears, her heart beating time, and Georgie desperately worked to screen it out. She wanted to hear everything, be on full alert. She needed to know if the Gestapo were a hot breath on their collars, to be ready. Though no shouts of ‘Halt! Halt!’ behind them. Not yet.

  They reached the aircraft steps and Max virtually hauled her up each one and inside, his head dipping to watch through the windows as they found their seats at the back of the plane. Strapped in, they willed the doors to be secured and the engines to choke and rumble in readiness. Max broke his gaze away for a second and gave Georgie a weak smile. Nearly there.

  Dare she think it? Risk a smile in return?

  Then a dip in the roar of the metal around them, a head-to-head conversation up ahead between the stewards, furtive glances towards the back of the plane. Towards them. On them. Bodies moving in their direction with no portal or hope of escape. Out of the window, a car swerved into view and drew up on the runway, SS bodies streaming out, striding confidently towards the plane.

  So nearly there.

  Georgie braced herself for the doors opening, SS ravens coming to pluck at their prey, the indignity of being hauled back from near freedom. But nothing. More mutterings up ahead and she strained to see out of the window; the familiar form of red hair and a slight frame by the steps, talking, negotiating, his body language near to arguing, certainly insisting. Sam Blundon. A friend responding to her call, and now a saviour. Her own angel of mercy.

  It seemed like an age – again. Rivers of perspiration flowed between her and Max, trading looks of hope and defeat. But something Sam said or produced appeared to have an effect. With what seemed like a fit of temper, the SS man threw up his arms and returned to his car, slamming the door shut. Sam squinted into the windows, scanning for their faces, and Georgie waved furiously. Did he see her? Was that him waving back?

  But they were already beginning to taxi away. Air dared to move again within, Max equally unbelieving as his eyes mirrored hers: more good fortune smiling down.

  She shifted in her seat and something inside her jacket crinkled; an envelope hastily lifted from the post pile as she left Frida’s that morning. It was the distraction she needed to inch away the next minutes – and the familiar script made her heart flip.

  Dear Georgie,

  I hope this finds you as well as we are – Sara and I, and the children. Yes! The dream I didn’t dare think of has happened, reunited in London, and now in your beautiful hometown. My only regret is that you weren’t there to witness it – the sight of Sara’s heart instantly mended, sinews sewn with threads of love (you can see how my news language has deserted me!).

  For this old man it was … how to describe the feeling of their healthy, innocent limbs in mine, drawing in the smell of their hair? It was as if each child’s birth occurred all over again. To you and Max, and all who aided, thank you, thank you, thank you. I am sitting next to your father as I write, sipping at a warm pint of English beer – there is one waiting at the bar for you. Hurry home if you can, my lovely, brave Georgie.

  Regards always, Rubin Amsel

  A hot ball of emotion rose in her throat as the plane finally lifted from the ground, and Georgie thought she might start to cry. The letter was the best news. But was she also sad? Yes and no. Regret for those lost or left behind with slim chance of escape – Margot, Karl and Elias, of course, unable to save him from a tenuous future in Sachsenhausen. And so many other Jews in Berlin and beyond. Paul’s killer – she was certain he’d been a victim of the Reich – left unpunished, with Doctor Graf allowed to work his deathly skills. Kasper too. They’d failed in exposing Paul’s story and Hitler’s murderous intent.

  Perhaps Sam was right – you had to be satisfied with small triumphs, those like the Amsels. She mourned the loss of the press pack too; Berlin had been her baptism of fire, a chance to prove herself. But it would undoubtedly become a battleground of wills, correspondents already stifled, and it could only get worse with Britain and German
y at loggerheads. There were other places to report on war, always assuming she and Max still had jobs. Not forgetting Georgie Young had also gained a life partner, contemplating a future with the man still gripping her hand, the man she surely loved, but had not dared admit a growing attraction to, even to herself.

  She turned to his weary face, his eyes closed with exhaustion, and thought how far they’d both come since that hot and heady night at the Ritz. Grown up. Big girls and boys now. Men and women of the press.

  Below, the airstrip reflected a different Germany, a country already at war; lines of military craft sitting like black moths ready to swarm, the crimson flags – swollen since her arrival – flapping a red-rag call to arms. As they climbed higher, propelled forward, the landscape altered, and German airspace was left behind – perhaps forever, Georgie pondered. A crackle came over the tannoy: ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, we hope you enjoyed your stay in our beautiful city of Berlin.’

  There was a reception committee of one waiting at Paris airport, thanks to the wonderful Sam getting a crucial call out. But his stature, the length of those big arms and his huge smile equalled any crowd.

  ‘Welcome back to Paris, kiddo,’ Rod said, pulling both into his orbit. ‘You made it out then?’

  ‘No choice but to leave,’ Georgie said. ‘They threatened to run out of strudel.’

  ‘Damn travesty,’ Rod cried. ‘But let me tell you, I have discovered the best patisserie, and they make the most gorgeous little cream clouds of ecstasy …’

  57

  The Inevitable

  Paris, 3rd September 1939

  Three days later, the expected arrived, though where Georgie and Max heard the news was anything but predictable – in the balm of a breeze and with a border between them and Berlin.

  Rod’s expression was intent, his beard resting on his knuckle, as the café owner tuned in to the BBC World Service, and the customers fell into a hush.

  Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s voice seemed weak, and – to Georgie – already tinged with defeat. ‘I have to tell you now—’ a sudden gust caused the leaves to tremble and flutter, muffling his words ‘—and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’