by Jane Thynne
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s not that. It’s just…you’re a better artist than I’ll ever be.”
He put the sketchbook down. “You’re an artist? But why didn’t you say?”
“I trained at the Slade in London. I expected such a lot—I thought I would graduate at the top of my year, but the testers thought differently.”
“None of that matters to an artist, though, does it? All that matters is that we know our calling.”
Our calling. The pronoun gratified her absurdly. If she had ever thought of having a calling, which she hadn’t, she would have said it was marriage. The expected rules of her life had been laid down before she was even born. A union with someone respectable and of sufficient means, children, entertaining, supporting, polite conversation. Marriage was the pinnacle of a woman’s achievement, wasn’t it? Yet Oskar Blum was addressing her as a fellow artist. The idea that she might be something other than a wife, daughter, sister, or mother struck her with a sudden, violent excitement.
The image in front of her swam back into focus. Oskar had noticed the line between her brows, the melancholy behind her eyes.
“You’ve captured me.”
“I hope so. You have a—self-possession—that some might find hard to penetrate.”
“But you’ve done it. You’ve got beyond the surface.”
“That’s the point of Art, isn’t it? To see the true nature of things. The Nazis hate our work because they only want themselves projected. They want all artists—painters and actors and writers—to reflect their own visions. They want to control the way the world looks. See that banner out there?”
She followed his gaze to where the standard swastika banner, arterial red, was hung deliberately over a Jewish shoe emporium some way along the street.
“The company that so generously brightens up our world is called Geitel and Co. Official flag supplier to the Reich. They’ve done well in the past few years, but they’re really rubbing their hands now. There’s a plan to make Jews wear a yellow star on their clothing, sewn on next to the heart, and Geitel will get the contract to produce them.”
“That sounds preposterous.”
“There’s no one more preposterous than the Führer.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“I talk to people. Talking is one thing we Jews are still permitted to do. They say he’s preparing for war.”
“No, Hitler wants peace.”
Oskar smiled and raised his eyebrows, as though she had uttered an opinion too ludicrous to consider. “Says who?”
“My husband’s friends. Senior men in the Party. They say Hitler needs another two years to build up armament production.”
“Maybe. Whatever happens, he’s already declared war on us. Do you have any idea, Frau Doktor, what it is like for us Jews?”
Did she? The truth was, despite the talk of Ernst and his friends, she knew no Jews socially. She had seen the newsreels, of course, in which they were bent figures with long noses and rust-colored beards. Ernst tended to refer to Jews as wealthy and corrupt, paunchy, cigar-toting financiers hoarding millions that naturally belonged to the Reich. Yet Lili and Oskar looked nothing like that. Nor did the patients at the Jewish hospital or the people outside Hackescher Markt.
“Jewish cars need special license plates, so police can stop them and accuse the drivers of violating traffic regulations. We are not allowed to ride streetcars unless we live more than four miles from our place of work. We can’t enter public buildings, or theaters or cinemas, or buy food from shops except at the end of the afternoon, when there’s nothing left. And it’s a crime for a Jew to buy a cake. Landlords don’t want to rent to Jews because we are not secure tenants. We’re never safe. Not for a second. There are always people ready to denounce you. You never know if it’s your best friend or your relation who’s going to betray you.”
“So why do you stay?” Even though they were alone, she lowered her voice.
He returned her gaze levelly, judgmentally, insolently almost. “Why do you?”
Irene guessed it was not only Germany he was asking about. Was it possible that he knew, somehow, about the state of her marriage, or had he divined that too, as he studied her face to draw it? He didn’t press her for an answer, only spread his hands and shrugged, but a shadow had crept into his eyes.
“Lili’s here. I could never leave without her. Besides, how could we afford to go? If we can’t even pay a fine, how would I ever find the means to emigrate? We couldn’t get visas for another country, we’d never get the financial guarantees. No, if it comes to it, I’ll go underground. Become a U-boat.”
U-boat. Submarine. The word they used for disappearing.
“How would you cope?”
“I’d manage. With the right documents. My friend is compiling an Arbeitsbuch for people in hiding. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t, but I can guess.”
There were documents for everything in Germany. Everyone had the Kennkarte—the basic identity document—but there were always travel passes and permits of all kinds. Thousands of special-interest organizations, all with their own official papers and passbooks. Gretl, her sister-in-law, even belonged to something called the Reich Institute for Puppenspiel. An official organization dedicated to the business of playing with dolls. With its own document. In a moment of confidence Gretl had shown it to Irene, perhaps hoping for some sisterly companionship.
“The Arbeitsbuch looks like this.”
From his pocket, Oskar withdrew a gray card, with sepia ink and an eagle on the front, clutching a swastika. Inside was his own photograph and a series of columns listing employment details, each one dated and stamped. He put it in her hand.
“Every job has to be stamped by the employer. If you’re stopped you’ll need to produce this card, and if you have no work, or no employment history, then…” He slashed a finger across his throat. “This is where your husband comes in.”
Irene recoiled and thrust the card back at him. “My husband? What’s Ernst got to do with it?”
“Your husband’s factory issues work permits. Hundreds of them.”
“And you think he should employ Jews in the factory?”
“I’m not talking about people, Frau Doktor. I’m talking about the stationery. The passes, the official letterheads. Notepaper. The stamp. Especially the stamp. The Gummistempel. The one marked with the Weissmuller name. You go in your husband’s study, don’t you? You must have seen him stamping permits?”
On Sunday mornings, after breakfast, Ernst would retire to his mahogany desk with its green-shaded lamp and sit over his special-issue typewriter, with a key that featured the twin lightning strokes of the SS. In the side drawers rested reams of buff files full of flimsy paper, letters, company minutes, and communiqués from the Ministry concerning production quotas. He would riffle through his papers, alternately typing and stamping. She could hear the rhythmic thud of the rubber stamp, first onto the ink pad, then onto the docket.
“Your husband’s stamp is an official one. It’s hard to forge. Stamps, headed paper, passbooks, all these things are useful to us.”
“Us?”
“People who help others survive. That’s all we’re asking. One little stamp.”
A tide of nausea overcame Irene. She moved to the window, lit a cigarette, and stared restlessly out at the street below.
“That’s not what I came here for. I came to help you pay your fine. Not for anything like this. I’m sorry, Herr Blum. I absolutely couldn’t get Ernst in trouble.”
“Of course not. But thinking about it, would they suspect him? Such a good friend of the Party?”
She recalled the glint of the golden badge, pinned onto Ernst’s lapel.
“The stamp would identify his company. It would implicate him. Us.”
> “No one’s going to question the motives of Ernst Weissmuller. A personal friend of the Reich Labor Minister. Or his wife.”
“If they found it he could be arrested. At the very least it would cause problems.”
“Only if they asked questions. And why would they do that? Your husband has hundreds of employees. What’s one or two more?”
She turned. “Just one or two?”
“We would be glad of anything. Headed notepaper, official Weissmuller stationery. Anything with the Weissmuller name. Waldo—that’s my friend—keeps his equipment on a rowing boat in the Havel and conducts all the business on open water, but…”
Seeing her expression, he drew back. “Just the stamp would be enough.”
There was a painful pause. From outside came the bang of a door and the cries of children kicking a ball in the Hinterhof.
“If I agreed…and I’m not saying I would…when would I bring it?”
“If you agreed, you would take it to Waldo.”
“Why not here?”
He smiled again. That same irrepressible smile.
“You saw our visitor outside. It won’t be long before he chooses to knock on the door, or perhaps to seek entry with a little less courtesy. And with respect, my dear Frau Doktor, I can’t afford to be found with illegal stamps in my possession.”
The breath caught in her throat. After a moment she said, “Where would I meet this man? Waldo?”
“At a station café. That’s the only kind of café we visit these days. There are foreigners at the stations, and the Nazis don’t like them to see their signs against the Jews. Not the right image. Secure the stamp inside a copy of Moderne Welt. You know that magazine?”
She nodded. “This would be just once?”
“If that’s what you want. Waldo will be in the Konditorei am Bahnhof at Friedrichstrasse at midday tomorrow.”
“Is Waldo his real name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“He will be reading the Völkischer Beobachter.”
The most strident of Nazi newspapers. The perfect disguise.
“He will sit at a table with one seat free. You will say to him, ‘Have you ever tried the tomato soup?’ Precisely those words. No others.”
“Have you ever tried the tomato soup. Why soup?”
He flashed a grin. “It’s true, they do magnificent soup there. Waldo will tell you it is the best in Berlin.”
“And then…?”
“Then, you look at your watch. You didn’t realize the time. The train you are meeting is about to arrive. You have no time for soup. You get up in a hurry. You completely forget your magazine.”
Chapter Twenty
Three days later a package arrived at the newspaper office. It contained a mint green crêpe dress with a waist that cinched into an hourglass, and a square yoked neckline. The label said MOLYNEUX.
Puzzled, Cordelia looked up at Torin, her pulse quickening.
“Is this from you?”
He nodded.
“It’s Molyneux. I love it! How did you know?”
“I met a chap who worked for them and he gave me some advice. I thought we might go dancing tonight.”
She ran to the bathroom at the end of the corridor and changed. The dress fit her like a glove. Back in the office she twirled coquettishly.
“What do you think?”
Torin was pensive a second, almost as if she had asked another question entirely, then he replied, “Lovely.”
“I’ll wear it tonight.”
* * *
—
SHE WORE IT WITH ankle-strap sandals, a thin gold necklace, and a dab of Je Reviens behind each of her ears. They went to the Quintette, a swing jazz hot spot, to hear the African American singer Bricktop, so called because of her flaming orange hair. The band squashed onto a minuscule stage backed by dusty curtains, the light glowing on their dark, sweaty faces, and, at their center, her ample frame perched on a stool, sat Bricktop, her crooning, fierce, seductive tones sending a pleasurable shiver through the crowd.
Cordelia and Torin settled at a table in the glow of a pink lamp, peering at their flamboyant hostess through a pall of cigarette smoke, so close that they could smell her whiskey-soaked sweat. Besotted fans called out the singer’s name as her sensuous voice swelled and filled the bar.
“Bricktop taught the Duke of Windsor to dance the black bottom,” murmured Torin. “From there it was a short step to Wallis Simpson. Perhaps we have Bricktop to blame for setting him on the road to ruin.”
In December the previous year, the king had abdicated, saying he could not remain on the throne without the support of the American divorcée he loved.
Torin turned and laced an arm around her shoulders. “She’s certainly having an effect on me.”
“I don’t see why it should be a woman’s fault if a man falls in love,” Cordelia retorted. “And I don’t see why it should ruin him either.”
“Good point. Let’s dance and see what happens.”
They danced, stopping only for a meal of cheese, succulent ham, and olives. Asparagus, shiny with butter; warm, doughy bread; and amber tumblers of Calvados, whose fumes made her eyes water.
It was after midnight when they finally emerged into the crooked lanes of Montmartre. At that hour the streets were nearly empty; only a few people passed, office cleaners, shift workers, and waiters returning from restaurants ready to collapse into bed for a few hours’ rest. The air was warm and velvety, and gouts of steam rose from the basement cellars. The washed cobbles steamed gently in the lamplight as they walked, clasped in lockstep, dodging the gutters.
At the Hotel Britannia, Cordelia jumped into bed and watched covertly as Torin washed at the cracked basin, splashing the water with a flannel around his neck. But after he had finished, instead of getting into bed with her, he sat on a chair. For the first time she noticed the air of gloom and the tense hunch of his spine. His lips were tight, and silence concreted the space between them.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, frightened.
He didn’t answer. His glance slid away.
She slipped off the bed and knelt anxiously, taking his face in her hands. “Tell me.”
“I wanted us to have a good night. I wanted us to have a night to remember. Because I have something to say to you.”
“Is it serious?”
“I should never have got involved. It’s not fair on you.”
Panic rose in her throat. “Why? Are you married? Engaged?”
“No.”
“You think it’s professionally inappropriate?”
“Nothing like that.”
“What then?”
“It’s Arthur Koestler. You remember him? The Hungarian. Our correspondent?”
The swarthy man with angry eyes who ate his apple aggressively, as though dismembering it, before tossing the core on the ground.
“Yes.”
“Koestler’s been taken prisoner in Spain.”
She felt a rush of relief. So it was only that. She almost laughed.
“He spent four days in a filthy Málaga jail. But now he’s been transferred to the prison at Seville. He’s been classed incommunicado and dangerous, which means no contact with other prisoners, no exercise, nothing to read.”
She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You can get him out. We’ll make representations on his behalf—”
“He’s been condemned to death by a military court. And the newspaper sent him. We asked him to go.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with us. You and me.”
“I’m going, Cordelia. I have to.”
“Going?” She was bewildered. “Where?”
“To Spain.”
&
nbsp; “To rescue Koestler?”
“If I can. If not, then I’m going to enlist.”
“What…fight?”
“Yes. Take up arms. I’ll fight against Franco.”
“Fight?” she repeated dumbly. “Why not report? You’re the one who says journalism is the answer.”
“The Fascists detest our paper because we’ve supported the Republicans, so there’s no way I could get accreditation as a journalist. Besides, I’m not sure I want to sit by and write about things. I need to take action. If I don’t do something I’ll go mad.”
“But it’s a civil war! It’s not our affair.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Cordelia! It’s everyone’s affair. You saw Guernica. That’s happening right now and we’re not lifting a finger. The International Brigades are fighting for all of us. They’re our thin line between barbarism and decency.”
He massaged the space between his brows. “It’s not just Spain. I did an interview this morning with Eric Phipps, the new British ambassador to France.”
“I know you did. I arranged it for you, remember?”
“Phipps’s last posting was Berlin. The things he told me! They’re parading Polish Jews through the streets in handcuffs, deporting them back to their own ‘country,’ which has already said it won’t take them. I can’t stand by while Fascism swallows up Europe. While Hitler starves his people to make guns.”
“They’re not starving. Janet Flanner went there. She said everything’s plentiful.”
“Janet Flanner was an affluent American on an all-expenses-paid trip. Of course she found things fine. Goods were sent in from all over Germany during the Olympics to give the impression of plenty. I’d prefer to take the word of Edgar Mowrer. He was in Berlin for ten years for the Chicago Daily News, and he’s appalled at the failure of the world to see what’s happening. When he wrote about the extent of repression, he was followed and then kicked out.”
