Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  “Cleverly done, Edith.” He was nearly rubbing his hands with glee. “Cleverly done! Frau Schmidt trusts her?”

  “Fallen for her hook, line, and sinker. Elisabeth’s very charming and aristocratic. Frau Schmidt likes that.”

  “Charming and aristocratic, is she? I’d like to meet her.”

  That wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t want to put Elisabeth in a difficult position. Most of the men were Lotharios, and not just the single ones. Even the Brigadier was having an affair with a woman who worked in Catering, according to Roz. With wives at home and unattached women freely available, the temptations were just too great.

  “Attractive, is she?”

  “Very.”

  “In that case, I’d definitely like to meet her.” Bill Adams smiled and smoothed his pale mustache.

  “Good idea. Perhaps I’ll bring her here for dinner.”

  Bill laughed a little uneasily. They both knew that Germans were verboten, unless employed in the mess as servants.

  “I was joking.”

  “So was I.”

  “All right, Edith.” Bill put his hands up. “You win. Frau von Stavenow is safe from me. Put it down to misplaced gallantry. What about the husband?”

  “Frau Schmidt is very impressed by Kurt, his rank in the SS, and so on. She promised Elisabeth she’d help find him. She’s in touch with some people . . .”

  “That’s good. Names?”

  “I can give you the local women, but they’re small fry.”

  Adams nodded his agreement. “We want the wider network.”

  “Frau Schmidt calls them the Organization. She’s very cagey about it, Elisabeth says.”

  Adams frowned. “We need to know how big it is, who’s involved, how widespread, and if they’re in touch with other groups.”

  “I’ll see what Elisabeth can find out.”

  “You do that, but be careful. These are unpleasant types, very unpleasant, and we don’t want any more . . . accidents. Good work, Edith. Another?” He snapped his fingers and the waiter came running. “Whisky. No ice.”

  Elisabeth was accepted as one of the Schwestern, more and more trusted. A good Nazi Frau looking for her husband. The local group were connected to other networks, who were connected to other networks. Frau Schmidt had sent out a request for information on the whereabouts of Sturmbannführer Kurt von Stavenow. Word was passing along the mycelium of Nazi organizations that were branching and spreading well out of sight of the British.

  It all seemed to be working out very well—maybe too well.

  “How was your weekend?” Roz started as they were walking home from work. Edith had been out all day. It was the first time they’d had to catch up with each other.

  “Good, thank you. It was cold, but . . .”

  Roz laughed. “Don’t suppose that mattered.”

  “No, not a lot.” She smiled back.

  She’d managed to wangle a precious weekend away with Harry. It was the first time she’d seen him since Hamburg, and she’d had time to reflect. Although she could never condone what he’d done—the taking of an innocent life could never be justified—she did understand how his history informed his fractured morality. It was not up to her to forgive, such grace was beyond her power to bestow, but he had kept his part of the bargain. Seraphina and Anna were on their way. She knew better than to ask the details. No question asked, as Jack would say . . .

  “How was your weekend?” she asked.

  “Bliss!” Roz linked arms with Edith. “Wonderful to spend all night together in a proper bed. When are you seeing Harry again?”

  “Berlin. Next weekend. If I can wangle it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can arrange some meetings.” Roz smiled.

  Edith was sure she would. Another chance to play house with Jeff. On the weekends, Roz had the house to herself, Elisabeth going to the country, to a farm at Badendorf west of Lübeck, where her horses were kept, looked after by her Master of Horse, Kaspar, the father of her child.

  “You know Elisabeth?” Roz began. The name sparked between them.

  “Yes, I know Elisabeth,” Edith said evenly. “Has Jeff discovered some deep, dark secret?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Roz said, to Edith’s relief. Interest from Jeff and Public Safety could really throw a spanner into her carefully calibrated works. “It’s just, well,” Roz went on, something obviously troubling her. “Do you ever think about the child?”

  “Elfriede? Why?”

  “Well.” Roz had a tendency to say “well” when broaching awkward subjects. “Why doesn’t she want the baby with her? I think that’s a bit strange.”

  “The baby is still being nursed, and Powers That Be might take an even dimmer view,” Edith said lightly.

  “I suppose so,” Roz conceded, “but she hardly ever mentions her. She seems to care more about her horses. And that Kaspar chap . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “No, he lives out in the country. You know that.” Edith tried to control her irritation. “I thought you liked Elisabeth.”

  “Oh, I do!” Roz said, keen to make amends. “She looks after us very well.” She patted her midriff and laughed. “Perhaps a bit too well. We don’t go to the mess very much, do we? It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?” Edith asked carefully, not wanting to show her growing annoyance.

  “I know she’s your friend, and all that, but sometimes . . .” Roz paused. “She makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “She’s awfully nice and everything, but it’s like the others. I’m surprised you’ve not noticed.”

  “The others? You mean Germans?”

  “Yes. They remind me of waiters in posh restaurants or grand hotels. They know they have to serve you and they’re perfectly nice about it on the surface, but underneath they don’t like it. They think they’re superior.”

  “Well, she was a Gräfin. It must be hard for a countess to take on what is essentially a servant’s role.”

  “I suppose so,” Roz conceded. “I say.” She squeezed Edith’s arm. “You’re not offended, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Edith fought down a desire to shake off Roz’s linking arm. They walked along in silence until Roz peeled off to meet Jeff. It was their night for the pictures. Edith hardly noticed her cheery, “Goodbye, see you later.” She tried to dismiss what Roz had said as Control Commission prejudice, although Roz was not really like that, and it chimed with something Luka had let slip the other day as he was walking her back to the apartment. Something about Elfriede not being Elisabeth’s child. When Edith asked him to explain, he just shrugged and said: Ich weiß nicht—I don’t know—and gave a tight little smile, as if he’d said too much or not enough.

  She’d dismissed it at the time as Luka getting things mixed up, as he frequently did, but . . . She walked on, hands deep in her pockets, her steps automatic, furious with both of them.

  31

  Apartment 2a Schillerstrasse, Lübeck

  22nd–25th April 1946

  Frau Schmidt’s Apfelkuchen

  125g butter or margarine

  175g sugar

  3 eggs

  Spices

  A tenth of a liter of milk

  Half a packet of baking powder

  250g flour

  Zest of a quarter of a lemon

  1kg of soft apples

  60g sugar

  Beat butter to a cream with sugar and eggs. Whereupon you mix into it the spices, the milk, the flour (mixed with the baking powder), and fill the prepared cake tin. Now you add the apples, which have been prepared a few hours earlier, cut into slices, with sugar scattered and spice. Bake at a medium heat (170C) for three quarters of an hour. The cake can also have almond nibs and sultanas or raisins scattered over it before it is baked.

  (As in Kirschenmichel, could use Apple Charlotte recipe for reference.)
>
  Elisabeth had made Apfelkuchen. She served it in the sitting room with coffee. The cake was warm from the oven, crusted with sugar, moist with apple and the raisins scattered through it. Edith tasted nutmeg and cinnamon, reminders of Irenka’s kitchen.

  “Where did you get the raisins and spices?” Edith asked. She didn’t mention the cook. Elisabeth didn’t like talking about Schloss Steinhof: What is there to say? It doesn’t exist anymore.

  “Traded for them, like everything else. It’s good? You want more?”

  Edith shook her head and drank her coffee. “Keep some for Roz. She can take a slice for Jeff.”

  The cake was delicious, but the dense texture was threatening to stick in her throat. The slice she’d already eaten lay heavy in her stomach. She had enjoyed the quiet evenings alone with Elisabeth, but Roz and Luka’s doubts were ringing in her head like tinnitus.

  “The child, Elfriede.” Edith poured herself more coffee. “Don’t you miss her? Neither of us would have minded you bringing her with you.”

  “It could cause trouble.” Elisabeth picked up her sewing. “For me. For you. It is better the baby stays with Lise. Frau Schmidt deals in gems and jewelry, did you know?” Edith noted the quick change of subject. “Gets them for next to nothing. ‘You can’t eat diamonds’ is what she says. People will trade anything for food. She wants me to go into her business. She says I have a good eye.”

  “Are you considering it?”

  “I need money for the horses.” Elizabeth threaded her needle. “I’m running out of my own jewels.” Elisabeth paid for the upkeep of her horses in diamonds and pearls. “Kaspar is trying to locate what is left of the herd. We want to establish the stud again.”

  “Has Kaspar ever seen Elfriede?” Edith asked.

  “No.” Elisabeth looked up sharply. “Of course not. He’s not here, is he? And it is hard for him to travel. His papers were lost.”

  “He’s not that far away . . .”

  Elisabeth concentrated on rethreading her needle.

  “You must look forward to the day when you will all be together,” Edith probed further.

  “Of course,” Elisabeth said vaguely as she shook out the blouse she’d been working on. “I’ve turned the collar, shortened the sleeves. I’m going to replace the buttons, brighten it up a bit. Frau Schmidt gave me these.” She took a folded paper from her workbox, a page from the Frau’s notebook, identified by the thin red edging. She opened it carefully. “What do you think?”

  Edith inspected the thin discs, noting again that quick change of subject, trying to assess whether it was significant. She took one of the buttons, noting the soft, nacreous gleam as she turned it to the light.

  “This is old. Real mother-of-pearl. I wonder what garment it might have been snipped from? I wonder who fastened it?”

  Elisabeth shrugged, as though it would never occur to her to even speculate. She simply didn’t care who had owned them, even if she had a pretty good idea.

  “Traded for sewing-machine needles,” she said. “That was a stroke of genius, Edith, I must say.”

  Edith had sent home for more sewing materials. Most German women had machines, or access to one, but needles, Sylko and bobbins were practically unobtainable and thus fetched high prices on the black market. Dori’s useful wampum.

  Elisabeth began to sew on the buttons, fiddly work, requiring concentration. Edith found her place in her book and began to read. She’d had such little time since she’d got here. It took her a while to pick up the story . . .

  Suddenly, she looked up. Elisabeth had ceased to sew and was watching her.

  “What is it?”

  “The Organization has been in touch with word of Kurt.”

  The words came out in a rush as though she had been holding them back.

  “What?” Edith stared in shocked surprise. “Do they know where he is?”

  “In Berlin.” Elisabeth retrieved the fold of red-edged paper from her workbox again. “This is his address.”

  Edith reached to take it, her heart beating harder. This was it. This was what they’d been waiting for, and she’d be in Berlin this weekend. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “I didn’t want to,” Elisabeth said as she snipped off a thread. “You were asking questions. I feared you might be suspicious, also. Roz, I think, doesn’t trust me.” There was agitation in the way her accent slipped: “v” for “w,” “sings” for things.” “And . . .” She bit her lip, suddenly worried, wary, her voice muffled as she hunched over her sewing. “I don’t want them finding out I told . . .”

  For a moment, she seemed as scared as the German girls in the billet.

  “One of us?”

  Elisabeth nodded. “They hate you. These people will stop at nothing. It’s not just people they’re smuggling. They deal in gems, bullion, currency, tobacco, whatever has value. Proceeds are used to finance future operations, here and abroad.”

  “What kind of future operations? Do they discuss those?”

  Elisabeth nodded again. “They believe Hitler is alive. Living in South America. Taken there by submarine. Bormann, too, and every other senior Nazi who isn’t dead or on trial.” Elisabeth positioned another button. “They will form a Fourth Reich. It’s only a matter of time. The stories about what happened to the Jews in Belsen and Auschwitz and those other places are just that. Stories. Lies and propaganda. Pictures and newsreels fabricated by the Allies to make Germans look bad. To justify what they have done to the Fatherland, the bombing and destruction. To defend what they are doing now, deliberately starving the people while systematically robbing the nation, stripping it of everything of value. Things were far better under Hitler, that’s what they say. Many agree.”

  “Who?” Edith frowned. “How many?”

  “My friends from the Schrebergärten.” Elisabeth had befriended the men and women who worked the local vegetable plots, the prospect of fresh vegetables in mind. “Lots of people. They are waiting for Hitler to come back and save them. People like Frau Schmidt and her friends are preparing the way.”

  “But that’s preposterous.” Edith shook her head. “Stuff and nonsense.”

  “That is what they believe,” Elisabeth said emphatically. “If they found out you knew, my life would be forfeit. Yours too. They’ve already tried . . .”

  “It was them, then? The car?”

  Elisabeth nodded quickly. Her stabbing needle missed its mark. She made no sound, but her finger beaded blood.

  “All the more reason to stop them.” Edith fought down her own sudden surge of apprehension and took Elisabeth’s hand, wrapping it gently in her handkerchief. “This can’t go on, everyone still living in terror of them. We need names, contacts. If we had that, Adams could have them all arrested. They might not like us very much, but we’re here to bring some sort of order. Nip this kind of thing in the bud.”

  Elisabeth swiped the tears off her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to be so fearless.”

  “Fear is insidious, and you’ve lived with it for a long time.” Edith could feel her suspicions melting into sympathy. “It’s bound to tell eventually. It’s like dry rot of the soul.”

  Elisabeth sniffed and smiled, suddenly more hopeful. “Frau Schmidt has lists. In her notebook. Names and numbers.”

  “Good. Do you think you can get a look?”

  “I will try Thursday. Frau Schmidt’s Montag Kaffee Klatsch.”

  Kirschenmichel and Apfelkuchen. Edith sent the message in the Apple Charlotte recipe to Dori in Bad Oeynhausen.

  Thursday evening, Elisabeth was waiting in the hall. She must have heard the key in the door.

  “Edith, may I speak with you?” She turned to Jack, who had accompanied Edith to the door hoping for a brew and a slice of cake. “There’s tea in the kitchen, and I’ve just taken a batch of bethmännchen out of the oven.” She smiled. “Don’t eat all of them!”

  With Jack out of the way, Elisabeth produced a small, well-thum
bed notebook, the pages edged with red.

  “Goodness! How did you get it?”

  “It fell from her overall pocket. I merely picked it up.”

  Names, addresses, numbers. Not just in and around Lübeck and Hamburg, but Schwerin and Rostock, and they were in the Russian Zone. Adams would love this.

  “Didn’t she miss it?”

  “Oh, yes. She went crazy, searching the house. But she isn’t going to suspect me, is she? One of the girls got the blame.”

  “Oh.” Edith looked up sharply. “Which one?”

  “Hilde is her name?”

  Edith felt suddenly cold, any feeling of triumph evaporating as quickly as it had formed. Frau Schmidt would surely get rid of her, and for Hilde that would be a disaster.

  Roz’s key in the lock.

  “Can you go to my old billet?” Edith asked as she came through the door. “There’s a girl there. Hilde. Bring her here.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. Jack will drive you. Jack!”

  “OK.” Roz rebuttoned her coat. “If you say so. Oh.” She turned from the door. “A phone call for you, just after you left. Someone called Dori? Said she’ll be in Berlin over the weekend. I’ve fixed those meetings,” she added with a wink.

  Edith was relieved when Hilde arrived. She couldn’t have another girl on her conscience. Why did the innocent always seem to suffer? She went to her room to pack and parceled the notebook for Adams. She’d send it in the morning. There was plenty here to keep him busy. This would put her in the black and keep him off her back. Elisabeth had done well to get this. There was really no proof that she was anything other than what she’d said, and so far she’d done everything asked of her. Edith had to guard against the chronic suspicion that ran like a seam through the Control Commission. The war had done terrible things to the German people, blurred the lines, made them behave in ways that were difficult to interpret.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.” Edith looked up from her seat on the bed. “Oh, Elisabeth. Everything all right? I hope you don’t mind Hilde coming here. I thought she might be a help to you. Another pair of hands.”

  “I’m sure she will. It’s not that. She brought a message from Frau Schmidt.”