The Berlin Affair

by David Boyle

  “I’m not sure I believe that one,” she laughed.

  “In that case, I won’t believe yours… Anyway, I gather that all the RAF aircrew get given a twenty-pfennig note, just in case, and he used his to go to the cinema, like we just did.”

  “Do you think he saw the same film? It might have encouraged him to escape!”

  They both laughed. The mood had lifted.

  “Listen, Xanthe. Why are you really here?”

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether she might just come clean and relax in his company, as she now longed to do – to sort of sink with relief into his arms. The temptation seemed overwhelming, but she reminded herself that it was not really her secret to divulge.

  “I told you. I wanted to be a reporter and I happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

  There was an agonising silence for a moment.

  “Mmm. I suppose the one thing to be said for war is that it throws up opportunities like this all over the place. The man who has to take over a platoon or who always wanted to fly – or the girl who dreams of being a foreign correspondent.”

  She relaxed again and we walked on in silence.

  “The thing is that I love my country,” said Ralph suddenly. “You know that, don’t you?” She nodded supportively. “It is just that I saw an opportunity to help it and I have been completely open with everyone about what I am intending to do. The beauty of it is that both sides want me to do it – they just see the advantages to them differently. I just can’t tell you now. You will have to trust me.”

  She had thought it best to stay silent and let his plans develop, but it would need a nudge and that meant taking a risk.

  “I know what you’re planning because you told me in London. You’re going to do a Zimmerman.”

  A cloud went across his face.

  “I’ve never said that to you. How did you know that term?”

  “You’re just forgetting, and you forget that I’m not the young know-nothing you knew back then – I hear things and I understand more than you think. I’m not an idiot, Ralph!”

  He stared at her, unblinking. Her heart began to race. Had she made a mistake?

  “I know that. I know that. I’d just forgotten using the term, that’s all. But tell me what else you’ve heard, why don’t you?”

  Careful now, Xanthe told herself.

  “Well, I don’t know – but you told me it had something to do with codes. I imagine that you’re going to broadcast using more than one kind of code – that’s what a Zimmerman means, doesn’t it?”

  Ralph began to relax. “It’s true that I’ve never made a secret of what I was planning, nor made a secret that I want peace. That isn’t such a sin, is it? All I’m going to do is try to make common cause with the peace movement back home.”

  “So, let’s see if I’ve got this right,” said Xanthe, feeling more confident with every moment. “You’re going to help the Germans to broadcast simultaneously on all their networks about how to make common cause with the peace people in England?”

  “That’s right, up to a point. I just want the diplomatic service, army units, Luftwaffe squadrons and the navy – I want them to know that British forces are likely to lay down their arms in support of Hitler’s peace offer. It’s an open secret that he’s going to make one in the next week or so. I have the draft already, telling them to expect demoralised ships and units to approach them, and explaining what they must do.”

  Now it was Xanthe’s turn to go quiet. Was the man insane?

  “Are you actually listening, Xanthe?”

  “Absolutely. Every word. I’m just trying to understand what you’re saying. Because, really, there is no peace movement in England. At least, it’s ever so quiet if there is.”

  “Let’s talk about that in a moment, shall we? Whether there is or not, I will be providing the British eavesdroppers with exactly what they want to carry on the war – the same message in three or four different versions of the same coding system at the same time. If they carry on fighting, then England will have the means to crack the Enigma code.”

  “So why don’t the Nazis realise what you’re doing?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Because they really believe in the British peace movement. They think our forces are demoralised and, above all, they think that no power on earth – no matter how many versions get sent out – will ever crack Enigma.” For a moment, he looked a little pleased with himself, almost smug. “So it works for both sides. Both sides know what I’m intending to do and both sides are happy for me to do so. What I have to do is to draft the scripts – and of course draft the signal telling the various forces what to expect and when. All we need to know – if you’re working for British intelligence which seems possible but very unlikely – is the date, which will be four days exactly after the Fuhrer’s peace offer.”

  She chose to ignore the probing assumption. She carried on walking next to him, astonished at his arrogance – or was it insanity – that allowed him to believe he could move freely between warring regimes, like the member of the aristocracy that he took himself to be.

  “I have to say, Ralph: it sounds a bit mad. It does, doesn’t it…”

  He laughed again and she found herself smiling. She had a suspicion that he was one of those bizarre, fatal kinds of Englishmen who think that war is an almighty jape. But she thought no less of him for it. Then to Xanthe’s surprise, he gave her a big hug.

  She was delighted for a moment, as he brushed her hair out of her eyes, but then just a little disappointed. It felt a bit too brotherly to be really exciting.

  “Look we’re nearly at my hotel. Would you like me to get you a car – or would you come up for a nightcap?”

  “Not tonight,” she said. “Perhaps another time.” This was a little too bold, she thought, given what she wanted by now, but she felt she could not go on with the evening. She had too much to take in.

  “You know...” He stared into the middle distance as if dreamily choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think the British would have carried on fighting even as long as they have without the encouragement of your countrymen – I mean Roosevelt, of course. Perhaps because he’s Jewish.”

  “He isn’t Jewish. I don’t think he is.”

  “Of course he is; basically just look at the name. Anyhow, I will see you shortly, I hope. Maybe after I rescue you from Stumpf?”

  His fingers lingered in hers as they said goodnight.

  *

  When it came to be time for her to meet Uncle Sam again, by the antelopes this time, she prepared carefully. She brought a copy of the Berliner Tageblatt. She put inside it the page of the newspaper on which Carl had doodled his Enigma code example, and a full note about her conversation with Ralph, couched as if she was discussing the Dow Jones Index. “Market is fluctuating but rising,” she wrote. “Expecting major statement within weeks, and results exactly four days following. Market still spread and will coincide with share offer.”

  Would that make the case? She felt disloyal passing on what he had said to her in confidence, but confident also that she would be helping to clear his name back home in the long run.

  She was doing Ralph a favour. She believed it. She had to, because she liked him – more than liked him, she realised. In a world of angry men, he was an idealist. He might be quite mad, but perversely he made her feel safe. He was also by far the best-informed, most fascinating person who had ever taken an interest in her. Of course she was doing him a favour.

  8

  Berlin, July 1940

  The summer was becoming idyllic. Xanthe was enjoying her job and also rather enjoying the male attention, aware that it might not be exactly for herself alone or just – as Yeats put it – for her yellow hair, which seemed to her to have become a particular focus for attention in this city, at least at this time. She was beginning to settle into a rhythm and could not see how events were coming to a head for her.

  In particular, she had
become fascinated by the way the Nazis regarded women, and realised that this could make an article or two for the women’s pages back home. She had not grasped before that journalism could cover just about anything. Then, looking at one of those Nazi propaganda posters of a blonde-haired woman with big childbearing hips, sowing grain, she suddenly realised how to go about having ideas in her adopted role.

  She had been worrying about her own inexperience covering issues around Europe and foreign affairs and what Molotov had or hadn’t said, or what would happen to Pétain and Laval in France – but her colleagues in the American press corps knew what they were doing and had been following those issues for years. They could do battle with the censors in the way that she did not yet have the authority to do. But, as Sigrid had suggested at the beginning, she could do human interest stories about Germany at war. The piece she wrote about rationing had gone down well and the editors had asked for more, and seeing the poster gave her an idea.

  She asked Mathilde about the clothes women wore in Berlin. She had heard her American colleagues talking in disparaging terms about German women – Bill Shirer said they were ugly – and it was true that they did not seem to take care of their appearance in the way that they would have done back home in Ohio.

  “Well, it is so,” said Mathilde. “I know my friends would like to use make up as we used to do, but…”

  “But what? Is it forbidden?”

  “No, no,” Mathilde was very keen to make sure Xanthe didn’t think it was anything of the kind. “But it is, how shall I say, a little discouraged. Not that I have any complaints. No complaints at all,” she said loudly, in case anyone was listening. “But you know – they want us to be producing children all the time. They want us to be pregnant. And – well, I have no man – I’m not married. And I don’t see why I shouldn’t wear trousers, if I want to.”

  The last sentence was spoken in such a confidential whisper that Xanthe realised she should press for more information. But Mathilde obviously felt she had said too much. She resolved to pursue the trousers story when she had the chance, and began asking anyone she met about trousers – in cabs or on street corners if she could summon up the right words, certainly in shops and in the Hotel Adlon.

  So much of the foreign correspondent’s life seemed to take place in and around the Adlon, just across Pariserplatz and the palatial splendour of the American embassy, and within sight of Hitler’s Chancellery. The RAF so far had left them alone, and confined themselves to dropping their leaflets. Xanthe wondered whether they ever saw the letters USA on the roof of her embassy at all.

  She asked Mathilde again in the morning about wearing trousers and Mathilde sniggered meaningfully. “They don’t want us wearing men’s clothes. Anything that gets in the way of childbearing or something.”

  “Do trousers get in the way of childbearing? I suppose they do if you’re actually giving birth.” They both laughed.

  “No, but have you read the papers? There was something in yesterday’s.” She dug in her bag. “Here we are – letters page… ‘Trouser-wenches with Indian war paint’ – I ask you! And that’s just about women doing air-raid duty,” said Mathilde with a meaningful look.

  “Listen, would you bring in a couple of friends who might chat about it? I could get them tea at the Adlon Hotel?”

  *

  In the event, Mathilde’s friends came in on the day Xanthe was supposed to go and dine with Stumpf, which made her nervous. They drank fake coffee, made from acorns and chicory roots – Xanthe was fascinated that they called it muckefuck – and they sat together in the corner and laughed about what they felt about trousers. She gathered that Goebbels himself had intervened in the trouser controversy on the other side – “It is a sad state of affairs that actresses, dancers and singers have to be exempted from the Reich Labour Service by a special decree,” he had written.

  “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?” said Mathilde. Her friends guffawed. Goebbels’ reputation with women had passed Xanthe by until that moment. No wonder he wanted them to be allowed to dress more enticingly.

  Xanthe was feeling pleased with herself for suggesting this as an idea for a story. She began to write the intro in her head – “There is another war going on behind the scenes in German life and it doesn’t involve bombs or bullets: it’s about pants and whether women should wear them…” Yes, that sounded right.

  But when she said goodbye to the three friends, the one called Valerie hung back nervously.

  “Fraulein Xanthe, is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  Xanthe was flummoxed. She had nowhere and the tea room and bar at the Adlon were pretty public. She assumed this kind of request happened to journalists all the time. Then she saw Bill by the bar, having just returned from his trip covering the French armistice, and to see his family in Geneva. She sidled up to him. “Bill, can I borrow your room for a few minutes? Someone says they want to talk privately.”

  “Ok, Xanthe. Here, Bob, can you hold this for me without drinking it? I’ll be back in a jiffy. Come on then, I’ll bring the key.”

  She beckoned over to the woman, who was looking uncomfortable by the door. They slipped up to the third floor. Bill opened the door.

  “Valerie, this is William Shirer, a friend of mine, from the American CBS wireless network. You can trust him completely.”

  She shook hands shyly. “Thank you. Could you stay? I have something to tell you both.”

  Bill disconnected the telephone and checked behind the curtains and up and down the corridor, made sure there was nobody listening through the crack under the bathroom door, and switched on the wireless.

  Valerie promptly burst into tears.

  “I have been working with Pastor Bodelschwingh at the big hospital not far from here,” she said. “Where we look after children, who – I don’t know how to say it – cannot learn. I happen to know he was refusing to hand over some of the children to the secret police. It is said that the police are putting them to death because they say they are a ‘drain on our resources’ – can you believe it? Now I’m afraid because the Pastor has been arrested and the hospital has been bombed. I am very scared, but I want people to know.”

  Bill and Xanthe exchanged glances. “I thought there had been no bombing,” she said.

  Valerie just looked at Xanthe pathetically.

  “You will know what to do about this. I do not. Just make sure that you never mention my name.”

  “Thank you, Valerie. I’ll take you down the back stairs.”

  *

  Xanthe only had an hour to get back to her lodgings in Charlottenburg and to change before meeting Stumpf at the theatre. The traffic swirled around her and the summer sang in the air with the smell of exhaust. She felt proud of herself, excited to be alive, but apprehensive. She told herself she would write about German wartime theatre and that this was her excuse – at least to herself – for her continued association with Stumpf.

  The incident with Valerie, far from making Xanthe nervous, had emboldened her – she was feeling elated. She checked herself constantly and reminded herself to be careful.

  In the event, Stumpf was charming. “I fear our German theatre is not quite as uproarious as your American musicals, but I fancy there is some interest still, is there not?”

  “Definitely. I’m very grateful to you, Gustav.”

  In the event, the play had even fewer laughs, if that was possible, than her previous night at the theatre. Christa, I Await You was an unhappy mélange of blood, soil and womenfolk who would not have been seen dead in a pair of trousers.

  “You know what your name means, Xanthe?” Stumpf asked as they ate through a meal of potatoes and vegetables – the meat was now impossible to come by, and even now they had to hand over a small part of their ration cards for butter, apparently, because the potatoes were cooked in grease. Stumpf had an unnerving habit of running his fingers through her hair, though they were sitting opposite each other.

  “S
omething about blonde hair? People usually know what their own name means.”

  The implied criticism slipped out and she bit it back. This wasn’t a moment for cheek, but Stumpf took it well.

  “It does indeed. Yellow-haired. And you are right – forgive my assumptions. I forget sometimes, because you are so beautiful, that I am in the presence of an intelligent woman.”

  “Thank you, Gustav, I think… It’s a bit of a backhanded compliment, but I accept it.”

  “You know we venerate blonde hair, especially in the Reich. We see it as a sign of good breeding, passion and—”

  “And fertility? I’m writing an article about whether women should wear trousers.”

  Stumpf was delighted. “Ah, now you have the most important issue before us. You will be glad to hear that I am very liberal on the subject… Now, perhaps I can persuade you to a little coffee or nightcap around the corner?”

  She had assumed they would go to the Hotel Adlon, where she would be relatively safe and among friends. Instead, the taxi stopped outside the front door of the Kaiserhof and she was increasingly nervous. Not only had Ralph agreed to run into her that evening to head off the inevitable pass that Stumpf was clearly steeling himself to make, and would not know where they were, but this was also the hotel much frequented by senior Nazis. She would feel extremely alone. She began reminding herself that, although she was American, she was a British spy – not just technically either – and was liable to the death penalty if she was too bored or perhaps forgot herself for a second. She was playing a dangerous game, and she reminded herself that the consequences of being caught were terrifying – death and probably torture, both elements that nobody had really emphasised in London.

  “Gustav, do you mind? I have an important story to write up tomorrow and was hoping for a relatively early night.”

  “I promise you shall have that. Just one drink, then away…”

  They turned off the Wilhelmplatz and under the canopy of the Kaiserhof, just as a Transylvanian folk band in traditional costume was filing past them in a subdued mood. They were shown to a corner of the bar, on the kind of carpet pattern most likely to induce a migraine, and a waiter glided over. She peered nervously around. There was an unnecessary supply of gold braid on display on strange, almost outlandish uniforms with the regular blacks and reds of the Nazi style. Nobody seemed to be looking their way. Stumpf tipped the waiter with a fifty-pfennig note.