Flight From Berlin: A Novel

by David John

  ‘Mind if I ask what made you change your mind?’

  ‘Let’s just say I got my rose-tinted glasses knocked off . . . of all places in a rose garden . . .’ Her expression darkened, and she fell silent for a minute while he ate, before saying, ‘Hey, what’re you doing today?’

  Denham took the Olympic programme from his jacket and showed her.

  ‘There’s a story I’m after about a German fencer. She’s competing in the opening heats at the House of German Sport at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Mind if I join you? As a fellow reporter I mean, not as a date or anything. I’m sorry, I don’t even know if you’re married. Not that that’s relevant. Hey, why don’t I shut up?’

  Denham laughed into his napkin. ‘As a fellow reporter I’d be delighted. And I promise you my former wife couldn’t care less what I do.’

  In the Cupola Hall of the House of German Sport every bench was packed. Smatterings of applause punctuated the female fencing elimination heats. Denham and his new associate sat at the end of a row, next to a rowdy party of Hungarian girls. A high amphitheatre surrounded a stage, behind which great frosted-glass windows admitted a soft light, almost silhouetting the contestants. The place smelled of fresh paint and floor polish.

  ‘Who are we here to see?’ said Eleanor once they were seated.

  ‘Hannah Liebermann.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘No, why?’ Denham found the American habit of asking exclamatory questions tiresome.

  ‘She and I have been in the same magazines plenty of times, but we’ve never met.’

  They searched the faces of the competitors seated around the raised piste in the centre of the hall, but the famous Liebermann wasn’t among them. Then the loudspeakers announced, ‘Krisztina Nagy, Ungarn; Hannah Liebermann, Deutschland.’ The Hungarian girls screamed their applause, and the Germans in the hall turned their heads towards a slim woman of average height standing on the stairs to the side of the hall, away from the other competitors.

  ‘That’s her,’ said Eleanor.

  She had dark, plaited hair worn with a white band around her head. A small, straight nose gave her profile a certain nobility, Denham thought, something statuesque. She wore a tight-fitting white jerkin with an eagle and swastika emblazoned on her chest. Unlike the other contestants, who sat about with tense faces, awaiting their bouts like sprung traps, Liebermann was calm, and Denham imagined he saw melancholy in her—in the measured way she pulled on her gloves and slowly picked up her foil. Her coach was a short, full-bellied man with a small moustache and a few strands of hair ribbed gamely across the top of his pate. He was fussing about her, giving her some last-minute instruction involving a stabbing arm and finger action, to which she was paying not the slightest attention.

  ‘I suppose your story has nothing to do with Liebermann having the type of beauty that launched a thousand ships?’ Eleanor said.

  He shook his head and kept his eyes on the fencer. ‘I’ll tell you what the story’s about when you tell me what happened last night to make you think your dad was right about these Games.’

  As Liebermann walked towards the piste in the centre of the hall her eyes seemed to be searching the crowd. Suddenly she found someone with whom she exchanged a charged look, a look that struck Denham as one of fierce love. He turned in the direction of her gaze and straightaway saw the dark young man in a brown gabardine coat. Although seated several rows back he was impossible to miss. His left eye was purple, puffed up, and surrounded with stitches, and his nose had been broken. Bandages covered one hand. The sight sent a cold shiver over Denham’s back; it was as though the young man had crawled from a tunnel that led straight back to the trenches, twenty years ago.

  ‘You’re pale,’ Eleanor said, when he turned back.

  ‘Just a hangover.’

  Liebermann stepped up to the piste, shook hands with her Hungarian opponent, and pulled on her mask. Both raised their foils to their faces in the swashbuckler salute, then poised with tips held at forty-five degrees. The umpire shouted, ‘On guard!’ and the bout began.

  The two women inched towards each other like ghost crabs on a strand. Liebermann probed her opponent’s defences with small strikes, testing her tactics. The Hungarian’s reflexes were sharp, and she had a long reach; she parried the strikes with confidence and Liebermann lost the round, to a disappointed bray from the crowd. The second bout began in a similar style with the Hungarian seeming to grow in confidence as she pursued her strategy with wider, more dramatic strikes. Denham wondered if Liebermann’s misfortunes had knocked the fight out of her.

  ‘Hannah,’ Eleanor shouted, ‘sock it to her.’

  ‘This is not a heavyweight prizefight.’

  It wasn’t until the third minute of the second round that Liebermann suddenly changed tack, as though she’d just cracked her opponent’s code, and lunged with surprising aggression. The crowd sat up; the Hungarian lost her balance, and Liebermann pressed home the attack with brilliant, precise movements. She won the bout.

  The crowd shouted encouragement. If they knew Liebermann was Jewish, they didn’t seem to care.

  In the final bout she smacked the Hungarian’s foil aside and lunged again and again with a shocking ferocity. Cowed, her opponent crumbled under the onslaught and stumbled back over the warning line. Liebermann was through to the finals, and the hall gave its noisy assent.

  ‘Holy crap,’ said Eleanor, clapping. ‘Did you see that?’

  They watched her shake her opponent’s hand and take off her mask and the band around her head, letting her dark plaits fall to her shoulders. With only the briefest nod to the crowd she stood down from the piste and left the hall through an exit in the base of the amphitheatre.

  ‘I’m going to speak to her,’ said Denham.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘You stay exactly where you are.’

  He ran down the wooden steps and out through the exit Liebermann had taken. This led into a semicircular lobby, at the end of which he saw her climbing a staircase and disappearing through a door at the top. He dashed after her, taking the steps two at a time, and entered a wooden corridor. At the far end, Liebermann stood talking to the coach. She was holding open a door, as though she was about to disappear into a changing room.

  ‘Fräulein Liebermann!’ he called.

  They turned to look at him.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Denham said in German.

  She inclined her head without smiling, and he sensed that her trust wouldn’t be easy to win. She really was quite beautiful.

  The coach looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘My name’s Denham. I’m an English news reporter and feature writer. Would you do me the honour of a brief interview?’

  Her brown eyes seemed to widen at the mention of ‘English.’ She was about to speak when her coach cut in.

  ‘Fräulein Liebermann is tired after her match. And any foreign press wanting an interview must apply for permission through the official channels.’

  ‘Now is as good a time as any, Rudi,’ she said. ‘Which newspaper do you represent Herr . . . Denham?’

  ‘I’m published in the London Times, the Daily Express, but mainly in weekend newspapers and magazines in the United States. Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked, ignoring the coach.

  ‘I said you need permission,’ the coach persisted.

  Liebermann opened the door of the room she’d been about to enter.

  ‘We can talk in here. As you can see, I’ve been given a changing room all to myself. I’m either privileged or insulted. I really can’t decide.’

  ‘Not without permission.’

  Denham put his foot in the door.

  Liebermann said softly, ‘I’m sure permission can be obtained straightaway from the Ministry official in the hall, Rudi. Why not go and ask him?’ Her voice was cultured with a faint haughtiness.

  From the hall the applause echoed like the roar of a phantom
army.

  The coach hesitated, then glowered at Denham. Turning to Hannah he said, ‘I will return directly. You will answer no questions until I’m present.’

  He waddled off down the corridor, his rubber soles squeaking on the wooden floor. A stroke of luck, Denham thought. The man is an idiot.

  The changing room smelled of sweat and sports unguents. Somewhere behind a tiled wall a shower dripped.

  ‘We don’t have long,’ she said, sitting down and placing her foil into a long black case. ‘And we can speak in English if you prefer.’

  He’d thought hard about how he’d tackle the interview if he ever got it, but now he was lost for words. Whatever he’d intended to ask, he found himself saying in English, ‘Who was that young man you greeted in the audience?’

  She looked up, suspicious and fearful.

  ‘I saw you make eye contact with him.’

  There was a long pause before she said, ‘My brother.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘It’s a family matter,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Look, don’t you want to ask me if I’m pleased to be back in Germany, or whatever you reporters normally ask?’

  ‘I think I know how you feel about being back in Germany. I saw your brother’s face, too.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re after, Mr Denham—’

  ‘Was he roughed up by the Gestapo to make sure you do what they want? To make sure you compete?’

  ‘For God’s sake . . .’ For an instant her face was livid with terror.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Denham said quietly. He knew he was going too far too quickly, but that coach would be back at any moment. ‘Hannah—if I may—if there’s something you want the world outside Germany to know, I can help you get it out there . . . the publicity may work to your advantage. It may stop them—’

  ‘Stop them doing what?’ Her voice was a baleful cry in the tiled room. ‘Destroying my life and my family’s? Do you know about that? Is that why you’re here? Yes, it might,’ she said with great bitterness, her voice trembling under the weight of tears, ‘or they may decide to make us disappear altogether. After the Games.’

  Sunlight from a narrow window near the ceiling dappled on the white-tiled floor and across her head, which bobbed as she cried, and he saw that her hair was not black, as he’d thought, but a dark chestnut, with strands of copper and gold.

  After a few moments she composed herself, wiped her eyes, and looked up at him with a hint of the steel he’d seen earlier.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want to tell your story,’ he said. ‘The whole story.’

  She looked into her lap, and her knee began to shake up and down.

  Denham glanced towards the door. A sound of rubber soles came squeaking from the far end of the corridor outside.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she said, her face contorted with strain. ‘It might only make things worse . . .’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare harm your family if the spotlight of the world’s press is on you.’

  She rose and began pacing along the wooden bench, nervous, pulling at her fingers.

  The footsteps were yards away.

  Denham said quickly, ‘The new laws have taken away any future for the Jews. You must know that. The pressure we bring could help get your family out . . .’

  The door handle turned.

  ‘How do I contact you?’ she whispered.

  The coach stepped in, gave them each a fishy look, and held the door open for another visitor, whose footsteps approached. Two seconds later Willi Greiser entered, accompanied by an SS man in black uniform.

  The press chief’s eyebrows shot up when he saw Denham but soon recovered an expression of urbane cynicism.

  ‘Denham, I might have guessed it was you.’

  ‘Hello, Greiser.’

  The two men held each other’s stare. A slice of dark blond hair had come unstuck and hung down over Greiser’s left eye. He wore a pale linen suit and a tie patterned with the Olympic rings.

  Greiser said, ‘Fräulein Liebermann is here as a special guest of Germany’s . . .’

  ‘That’s an odd thing to say about a German.’

  ‘ . . . under a unique arrangement that precludes her from giving any interviews to the press. Permission is refused.’ He turned to Hannah and the coach. ‘Would you excuse us while I have a word in private with Herr Denham?’

  The SS man escorted them out to the squelch of the coach’s rubber soles.

  The door closed, and Greiser dropped any pretence of conviviality.

  ‘If it weren’t for the Olympic fortnight, Denham, I’d kick you out of Germany today.’ He came closer, and Denham felt the warmth of his breath. ‘Last week you were in Friedrichshafen snooping around the Hindenburg—I should have you charged with espionage—and today I find you attempting to speak to Hannah Liebermann. I warned you—’

  ‘You warned me not to write any more damaging pieces, Greiser,’ Denham said calmly, ‘and I’ve taken your advice to heart. It’s not in my interests to be expelled.’

  Greiser paused. The duelling scar on his right cheek was flushed a pale purple. ‘How much do you know about Liebermann?’

  ‘I know she’s the greatest woman fencer Germany’s ever produced, and she’s home after a long absence. That’s a story in itself. It’s the most natural thing in the world to want to interview her—’

  Greiser exploded.

  ‘Listen to me, you piece of shit.’ He grabbed Denham’s lapels and rammed him against the changing room wall, his head narrowly missing a hook. ‘D’you think you can talk your way out of anything?’ he roared. ‘Stick your nose into this and you’ll be too risky for us to expel! We’ll make you vanish into night and fog. No one will ever hear of you again.’ His nose was almost touching Denham, into whose eyes he peppered flecks of spittle. ‘You—stay—away—from—Liebermann!’

  Denham shoved him back, but Greiser made a grab for his neck. Denham tried to swing him into the wall, but Greiser’s grip was strong. They lost their balance and together crashed onto the bench, then to the floor, both now with their hands around each other’s throats.

  ‘Hey, what the hell’s going on in here?’

  Eleanor was standing in the door. ‘Richard?’

  The two men released each other, and Greiser looked away.

  ‘Who is this?’ he said, getting to his feet. His head was all gold, puce, and pink.

  Denham sat up onto the bench. ‘Greiser, may I introduce Eleanor Emerson, a reporter with the Hearst Press; Eleanor, Willi Greiser is an old friend of mine. He’s the press chief. We were just catching up.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ she said.

  Greiser straightened his tie and his sleeves, replaced the errant strands of hair, and walked out of the room without another word.

  ‘What happened? Why was that jerk mad at you?’

  ‘I think he was scared,’ said Denham.

  ‘Of what?’

  Denham rubbed his throat, grimacing. It was the only explanation for that extraordinary outburst. He’d never seen the man lose his temper before. Greiser was always the suave operator. His masters must be acutely sensitive about Liebermann, and Greiser was under pressure. Plus he’d patently screwed up—by leaving her in the custody of that idiot coach. Not surprising that he panicked, perhaps.

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘A few words.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She wants to talk.’

  He leaned over and picked up a small black leather ID pass of some sort from the floor under the bench. Two silver runes flashed in the light. Inside were Greiser’s mug shot and birth details, stamped with an eagle. It was a Sippenbuch, a racial record carried by all members of the SS. Greiser, it seemed, was an honorary SS-Standartenführer, the equivalent of a colonel.

  ‘It must have come out of his side pocket,’ Denham said.

  He looked up and smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you turned up, cavalry. T
hink I may have got my marching orders if you hadn’t.’

  ‘No problem. I was just worried when I saw her leave and there was no sign of you.’

  ‘Hm. Well, anyway, thank you. I shouldn’t have told him your name, though . . . I really shouldn’t have done that.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Denham bought lunch from a stall and they joined the groups of fencing fans on the lawn outside the House of German Sport, picnicking next to a flowerbed droning with bees.

  ‘Your frankfurter looks nicer than my hamburger,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘I think I’ll skip lunch.’

  ‘All right,’ Denham said. ‘Have mine. I’ll have your hamburger.’

  The Reich Sports Field filled the horizon. Between rows of poplars, the new hockey and football fields were lurid with new grass. A quarter of a mile away the vast Olympic plaza led up to the stadium, which glared white in the sun. Every few minutes the breeze carried the roar of the crowd and the tinny strains of national anthems.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what happened in there?’ said Eleanor.

  ‘It’s tricky,’ he said, picking at some sauerkraut with a wooden fork.

  He watched her slip out of her shoes, hitch her skirt unself-consciously, and sun her long legs on the grass.

  ‘No rush,’ she said, closing her eyes and facing the sun. ‘You can tell me later . . .’

  The plodding chords of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ reached them from the stadium. She nodded her head towards the sound. ‘Mind if we go take a look?’

  They walked across the playing fields towards the stadium. In the centre of the Olympic plaza were parked, bumper to bumper, a row of ten open-topped Mercedes-Benz touring cars, gleaming and ticking in the sun like a demonic coal train. Each was guarded by SS men in white gloves who stood about being photographed by tourists and answering questions from Jungvolk boys.

  ‘Adolf’s security,’ Denham said.

  They showed their press cards at the gates and passed into the stadium’s forecourt. With the flags of the competing nations flapping from its rim, it resembled some vast vessel in sail.

  The stadium was full and murmuring. The long jump finals were in progress as he and Eleanor squeezed along a row near the eastern gate. On the far side he spotted the gold flash of the pennant that flew when Hitler was in attendance, but the man himself, surrounded by his entourage, was a brown dot in the distance.