‘You’ll put things in hand immediately, though? This afternoon?’
Her frantic concern on behalf of the daughter she had never met was so unexpected that he said with a surge of affection for her, ‘Of course I will. I’m leaving for Whitehall straight away. Will you write to Judith, or shall I?’
‘I will.’ There was no hesitation in her voice. ‘I will, because I want to.’
With Gilbert pausing only long enough to pick up a homburg and a pair of pigskin gloves, they walked together out of the house. On the pavement he flagged down a taxi and, before he stepped into it and she walked the short distance out of Mount Street and down Park Lane to the Dorchester, Zephiniah said emotionally, ‘Thank you, Gilbert. I knew, despite the hurt I’ve caused you, that you would help her.’
Before he could respond the taxi door had slammed behind him and she was walking away, a handkerchief to her nose – or was it to her eyes? He couldn’t tell, but as he asked the cabbie to take him to the Home Office, he was filled with the extraordinary realization that, out of the fiasco of their marriage, affection and friendship had finally been born.
Once at the Home Office, his own ministerial position ensured that he waited barely ten minutes before being shown into the office of Sir Samuel Hoare, the Home Secretary.
‘Fenton, my dear chap!’ Samuel Hoare rose, tall and thin from behind a massive Biedermeier desk, to greet him. ‘I hope you’re not here with news from the House that’s going to keep me awake all night?’
‘I’m not here on official business at all – so I hope you are going to forgive me. I’m here to request a favour.’
They shook hands. Gilbert had known Samuel Hoare for nearly twenty years. Like himself, he was a man who had held more than one Cabinet post and they had always enjoyed a cordial relationship.
He sat down, saying, ‘My estranged wife’s daughter, Judith Zimmermann, is a doctor in Vienna. She’s Jewish. I have all her details with me. Date of birth – she was born in Vienna – address, et cetera. Needless to say, she needs to emigrate from Austria as soon as possible. I, of course, will vouch for the fact that Miss Zimmermann will not be a financial liability to this country, once she arrives in it. I realize her application will have to go through the normal channels, but would appreciate any tips on how this can best be done in the shortest possible time.’
Samuel Hoare looked startled. Gilbert didn’t blame him for being so. It wasn’t every day that a peer and a fellow Cabinet minister announced he was – at least until his divorce became final – the stepfather of a Jewish girl seeking to flee the terror of Hitler’s Reich.
Keeping his curiosity concerning the circumstances of Judith Zimmermann’s birth to himself only with the greatest difficulty, he said, ‘The sponsorship aspect will be plain sailing. Visas are a little trickier.’
‘Why? She’s a doctor.’
‘And therein lies the problem.’
It was Gilbert’s turn to look startled.
Samuel Hoare took off rimless spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. ‘The number of immigration applications from German and Austrian Jews is astronomical. It’s impossible to accept every application, and there is a weeding-out process. Different categories of applicants are granted different visas – and many more visas are granted to certain categories than they are to other categories.’
‘But Judith is a professional person.’
‘And professional bodies in Britain – doctors, architects, lawyers, et cetera – have no desire to see a huge tide of people, those as qualified as themselves, coming into this country, flooding their own professions and damaging work opportunities. To avoid this, the number of visas being issued to professional Jews – unless they are particularly distinguished – is lower than the number of visas being issued to, for instance, agricultural workers or domestic servants.’
‘Then let her be issued with a domestic-service visa. Anything to get her out of Austria and into Britain before she finds herself in a concentration camp!’
Samuel Hoare flinched, unused to being brought face-to-face with the painful realities he usually only dealt with on paper.
‘As I assume you will want to keep this letter, I’ll have my secretary transcribe a copy of it. I’m sure everything will work out for the best, Fenton.’
Gilbert said his goodbyes, hoping fervently that in this case everything would, indeed, work out for the best. Things certainly weren’t doing so where Thea, Olivia and Violet were concerned.
In the short taxi ride back to Mount Street he gave free rein to his deep anxieties about each one of his daughters. He’d heard nothing from Thea for more than three months, at which point she had still been in Madrid, driving an ambulance. It had been even longer since some kind of contact had been maintained by being able to read Hal’s despatches in the Evening News. All Thea’s last letter had said was that Hal no longer had any means of filing news reports and that he had headed back north, towards Barcelona, as a fighting member in a unit of the nth International Brigade.
Olivia’s position in Berlin was almost as much of a nightmare for him. Thanks to Roz, he knew now of Olivia and Dieter’s change of heart where Hitler’s Third Reich was concerned – and for that he was profoundly grateful. The knowledge that Roz had brought him of Dieter’s involvement with those seeking to rid Germany of Hitler had, however, filled him with fear for his safety, and for Olivia’s.
As for Violet . . . Words failed him when he thought of Violet having become an intimate of men like Joseph Goebbels and Hermann Göring. Never had he believed he would have become grateful that Blanche was no longer alive, but when he thought of how devastated she would have been by Violet’s lifestyle, he found himself thanking God she was no longer beside him to witness it.
It was evening by the time he walked, heavy-hearted, up the shallow steps of his Mount Street home and let himself in. The first thing he became aware of was that his butler hadn’t hurried into the hall to greet him and relieve him of his hat and gloves.
The second thing he became aware of was that there was a huddled figure on the bottom tread of the central staircase, where no huddled figure should have been.
He stepped forward and, as he did so, Thea lifted her head. She was agonizingly thin and looked tired unto death. ‘Papa?’ she said, as if she couldn’t believe he was real.
Gilbert, who was having just as much difficulty in believing he was awake and not dreaming, closed the distance between them in swift strides. ‘Thea, my darling girl!’ He dropped to his knees beside her. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were on your way back to England? Are you ill, Thea? Are you hurt?’
She shook her head and, as he put his arms around her, holding her close, thanking God for her safe return, she said in a cracked, broken voice, ‘Hal’s dead, Papa. He’s dead, and I was with him and I couldn’t save him.’ And then she started sobbing; sobbing as if she was never, ever going to stop.
Chapter Thirty-Five
DECEMBER 1938
It was the first week of December and Gilbert was walking down Pall Mall in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He’d just come from a meeting with the prime minister, a meeting that had filled him with nothing but despair. Neville Chamberlain was a man who yearned for peace in Europe and was prepared to go to any lengths – as long as they were not confrontational – to achieve it.
In September, with Hitler shouting that the Sudetenland was the last territorial demand he would make, Chamberlain had flown to Munich. He had come back carrying an agreement signed by himself, Hitler, Mussolini and the French prime minister Monsieur Daladier, that in exchange for the largely German-speaking Sudeten region of Czechoslovakia being incorporated into the Third Reich, there would be no aggression by Germany where the rest of Czechoslovakia was concerned. On his arrival back in Britain, Chamberlain had waved the agreement victoriously, declaring that he had secured ‘Peace in our time’.
Gilbert, and the political friends who thought li
ke him – Winston Churchill, Duff Cooper, Anthony Eden – were certain he had done no such thing. Chamberlain, though, as had been clear from the meeting Gilbert that was just coming from, was still naively convinced that Hitler’s word could be trusted.
Gilbert was just approaching the Renaissance palace facade of the Travellers Club when he saw Max Bradley walking towards it from the other direction. They came to an awkward halt in front of each other at the foot of the club’s steps.
Gilbert had neither seen nor spoken to Max since the time Max and Rozalind had split up, shortly before Max announced he was to be a contender in the 1936 presidential election.
It was Max who breached the awkwardness first. ‘It’s good to see you, Gilbert. You’re looking well.’
It was a lie. Gilbert’s handsome, strong-boned face looked positively haggard. Considering the perilous state of relations between Britain and Germany, Max wasn’t surprised. Then he thought of Violet in Berlin, and of his responsibility for her being there. He thought of Gilbert believing her to be a Nazi-lover, in every sense of the word, and experienced such a burning attack of conscience that he knew he was going to have to put Gilbert in the picture.
‘I’m staying here,’ he said, indicating the club with a nod of his head. ‘How about we have a drink?’
‘That’s fine by me.’ Gilbert, curious as to what it was that had brought Max to London, walked with him into the familiar opulence of the club’s entrance hall.
Instead of going into the bar, Max led the way into the Outer Morning Room, a large drawing room where a certain amount of privacy could usually be guaranteed. They sat in leather button-back chairs close to a window looking out over the street.
‘It’s been a while, Max,’ Gilbert said after Max had asked an attentive member of staff for two Glenfiddich single malts. ‘A little over five years, I think.’
‘And a lot has happened since then,’ Max responded, adding drily, ‘For one thing, I’m not President of the United States.’
‘Indeed, no.’ Gilbert chuckled and the little ice left to be broken did so. ‘And I am not prime minister.’
Max, wanting to bring up the subject of Violet and not sure of the best way of going about it, said, with one leg crossed over the other, ‘So give me an update on Fenton family matters, Gilbert.’
For a long moment Gilbert didn’t respond. His family matters were so dire there hadn’t been one male friend he’d felt able to unburden himself to. Max, however, was different, for Max knew all the family – including Carrie – and that put him in a position no one else was in.
He said at last, ‘The good news – the only good news – is that Thea is home. She went with Hal to Spain in the summer of ’36. For well over a year he sent despatches on the war back to his paper, the Evening News. Then the despatches stopped and by the early months of this year he was south of Barcelona, fighting with a unit of the nth International Brigade. Thea was in intermittent contact with him, driving ambulances for the Red Cross.’
He paused as the waiter served them their drinks.
‘And Hal?’ Max prompted, fearing the worst. ‘Is he back in London, too?’
‘No,’ Gilbert said bleakly. ‘He’s dead. He and Thea were together at the time. They ran into a street fracas and he was shot in front of her.’
Max’s jaw tightened. ‘Where is Thea now? London or Gorton?’
‘Gorton – she wanted to be near Carrie.’ Gilbert took a swallow of his single malt and then said, ‘But it’s Violet who is of most concern to me, Max. You’ll know from the gossip columns that she left Hollywood for the Babelsberg studios in Berlin four years ago. And you no doubt also know the kind of company she is keeping there. There’s been enough “Government minister’s daughter continues to date both Goebbels and Göring” headlines in the British press. How I’ve kept my position within the Cabinet is nothing short of a miracle.’
He put his drink down and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees, his grief over Violet so deep it was almost beyond bearing.
‘She was such an adorable child, Max. So affectionate, so full of fun. Always reckless, and heedless of any consequences her actions might bring, of course. But I could never have envisaged . . . never ever imagined that she would form friendships with men such as these.’
Max uncrossed his legs, drained his glass, took a deep breath and said, ‘She hasn’t, Gilbert. Or at least, not in the way you think.’
‘But of course she has! I don’t know what has been in the American press, but surely you’re up to date with what has been in the British press?’
Max cast a quick look around the drawing room. The couple of men who had been seated in it when they had arrived had left. Apart from themselves, the room was empty. Seeing no way of leading gently up to what he was about to say, Max plunged straight in.
‘Four years ago, Gilbert, I had a meeting with Violet at the Beverly Hills Hotel in Hollywood. It wasn’t a chance meeting. A man called Kirby, in the European intelligence and research section, had asked me to make contact with her.’
Gilbert froze.
Max, realizing that Gilbert had instantly made the connection between the US intelligence services and Violet being about to leave for Berlin, said succinctly, ‘It was thought her position at Babelsberg – newly under the control of Joseph Goebbels – would put her in an ideal position to pick up gossip that could be useful to America and Britain.’
Gilbert felt as if his heart had stopped beating. ‘The United States recruited my daughter as a spy!’ He rose to his feet, trembling and white with rage. ‘And you, Max? You facilitated it?’
Max thought Gilbert was about to punch him.
‘The original belief was that she’d be in Berlin only for a short period of time – long enough to make whatever film it was she had gone there to make – and the arrangement was that she’d meet up socially and regularly with a contact in the US Embassy and pass on whatever gossip could prove useful. No one anticipated her turning into a fully fledged spy, or that four years down the line she would still be there.’
‘But good God, Max! If the Gestapo get even a whiff of a suspicion as to what she’s up to – and considering who she’s spending her time with, they must have her within their sights all the time – she’ll lose her life!’
Unsteadily he turned on his heel, heading to one of the many windows looking down into Pall Mall. He leaned his arm against it, his head against his arm, shuddering with the raging emotions he was trying to contain. If even a tad of suspicion fell on Violet she would be questioned by the Gestapo. Her relationships within the Nazi hierarchy might protect her a little, but nothing would be any protection if the truth as to why she had cultivated those relationships came to light. She would be tortured until she revealed what information she had passed on to the Americans. And when she had given that information, she would be executed.
He lifted his head from his arm, his forehead sheened with perspiration. It was Göring who, shortly after Violet had gone to Babelsberg, had revived beheading as a preferred method of execution.
For a moment Gilbert thought he was going to vomit.
Behind him Max, now also on his feet, said, ‘Every piece of information Violet has passed on to us has been passed on to British Intelligence. In the beginning what she gave us was useful, but not earth-shattering’
‘And now?’ Still ashen, Gilbert turned away from the window.
‘And now it’s become of vital importance.’
‘Does MI6 know Violet is the source of the information being passed on?’
Max shook his head. ‘No. Only three people know she is the source. Me. Tom Kirby And her US Embassy contact in Berlin.’
Gilbert experienced a stab of relief. The thought of his own government having such knowledge about Violet – and keeping it secret from him – would have been something he would have found impossible to handle.
Turning back to what really mattered, he said, ‘No matter how important the infor
mation Violet is passing on, she can’t be allowed to continue doing so. Though listening to Chamberlain you wouldn’t think it, Britain and Germany will be at war within months, perhaps even less. Violet has to leave Germany. She has to leave now, before she’s trapped there.’
The door opened and Clement Attlee, leader of the Labour Party, entered. Sensing the tension in the room he paused, looked towards the two of them and then, aware that a very private and heated discussion was under way, exited, closing the door behind him.
Max said tersely, ‘I agree with you that she has to leave. Only she won’t.’
‘What the devil do you mean?’ Even as he spoke, Gilbert’s mind was racing. If he left immediately he could be in Berlin by early morning. Violet could be in London by late tomorrow night, and the entire nightmare scenario would be over.
‘She’s been ordered to leave and she hasn’t.’
Max kept to himself that the order had been his, and his alone: that Washington was too desperate for the information it was receiving from Violet to want it to come to an end.
Now that he had grappled with the initial shock, Gilbert was clear-headed and decisive. ‘I’m going down to the front desk to book a seat on the late-night ferry to Ostend. I’ll be in Berlin by morning. We’ll finish talking when I’ve made the arrangement.’
Max nodded, and as Gilbert strode from the room he thought of the other person he wanted to talk to Gilbert about. He thought about Roz. He was still thinking about her twenty minutes later when Gilbert returned.
‘Sorted?’ he asked him.
‘Yes. This isn’t the Travellers Club for nothing. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea and coffee to be sent in. Tea for me, coffee for you.’
Max would secretly have far preferred another tumbler of Glenfiddich, but didn’t say so. Instead he said, ‘What is the latest news re Roz? We are no longer in contact, as you no doubt know.’
A Season of Secrets Page 42