Flight From Berlin: A Novel

by David John

  ‘Utter hogwash . . . ,’ the ambassador mumbled as their names were called.

  Tall windows along the left-hand wall looked down into the Chancellery gardens, which were lit for the occasion with Chinese lanterns. Eleanor recognised some of the guests from the Goebbels party on the Pfaueninsel, but this seemed an even more select and powerful gathering. Martha pointed out Göring holding court like a Nazi Bacchus, his bulk festooned with medals that wobbled as he flirted and joked. The choir finished to polite applause, and a string orchestra took its place.

  ‘Just look at the dimensions of this room,’ Martha gushed. ‘You know it was designed by Hitler himself?’

  Eleanor looked around. Rows of red marble pillars lined each side, drawing the eye up to a coffered ceiling, where eagles and swastikas were set into mosaics of pale blue and gold. ‘I guess some bachelors have a flair for interior design,’ she said.

  It struck her that the people who looked out of place in this illustrious company were the Nazis. She began scanning the crowd for the dapper figure of Sir Eric, and listening for mentions of the now highly charged name Liebermann.

  Within minutes of Hannah’s broadcast the wires from the stadium press box to the capitals of Europe had been jammed. And at the packed-out upstairs bar in the Adlon later that afternoon, Eleanor heard talk of nothing else. Word spread that Willi Greiser would give a statement at a press conference; then it turned out he was unavailable for comment.

  Eleanor accepted an orange juice from a passing tray and handed a glass of champagne to Martha. ‘Can you see Sir Eric anywhere?’ she said.

  Martha gave a wistful sigh, and again Eleanor sensed the reserves of jealousy just below the surface, like groundwater.

  ‘I have to get Richard released, Martha.’

  ‘All these available men here this fortnight,’ she said, ‘and you fall for the only one who’s in serious trouble.’

  The string orchestra was playing something upbeat and jaunty, and some couples were dancing. Eleanor threaded her way among the chattering groups and twice heard Liebermann’s name spoken. She passed the broad back of Ambassador Dodd, who was stooping to hear the elderly German official who’d given the long-winded address at the opening ceremony. The old man seemed to be pleading with Dodd, who looked decidedly unimpressed.

  Eleanor smiled to herself. The Liebermann Effect was spreading like a benign virus, giving these bastards a debilitating attack of shame.

  At last she saw Sir Eric with a small group in the far corner of the hall, his monocle glancing from one speaker to the other. With his sash and glittering crosses he resembled some Ruritanian admiral. The pencil moustache twitched, but the poker face gave nothing away.

  She was making her way towards him when a rough hand gripped her elbow.

  ‘I don’t think I properly made your acquaintance . . . ,’ said a man’s voice.

  The hand spun her round, and she was faced with Willi Greiser.

  ‘ . . . Mrs Emerson. I do hope the sight of me this time doesn’t send you into screaming hysterics.’

  ‘Oh.’ Eleanor gave a tight little laugh to hide her alarm. ‘I am sorry about that. The culprit must have been someone else. It was really hard to tell in that crowd.’

  His duelling scar flushed purple, she noticed.

  ‘Would you permit me this dance?’

  ‘Some other time—’

  ‘Indulge me,’ he said, clutching her wrist tightly and propelling her towards the orchestra, his other hand forming a fist in the small of her back. ‘It’s the least you could do.’

  ‘Stop it. You’re hurting me.’

  Immediately he pulled her close and left her no choice but to join him in foxtrotting to the music, caged by his embrace.

  ‘So, our friend Denham’s checked into the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse Hotel,’ he said, smiling with genuine pleasure. ‘I do hope they’re giving him the full hospitality.’

  ‘I expect you put them onto him.’

  Greiser laughed. ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he said. ‘It’s true. I didn’t.’

  ‘We were eager for your press conference at the Adlon earlier,’ she said with acid innocence. ‘What made you cancel it?’

  ‘You didn’t hear?’ He swung her around to the music, screwing her hand hard into his grasp. ‘I had to attend to an athlete who suffered a mental seizure during a radio interview. I fear she may spend years recovering in a secure institution.’

  She tried to release herself from his arms, but he yanked her back, slipping his hand lower. ‘What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll touch you somewhere you don’t want to be touched . . . ? You’d be wise to treat me a little more sweetly.’

  ‘Or what?’ she almost shouted. ‘You’re gonna put me in an asylum, too?’

  She pulled away her hand. Again he tried to hold her tight around her waist but hadn’t reckoned on her swimmer’s strength. She slung off his arms and shoved him backwards, sending him bumping into a dancing couple. Her face was flushed and hot as she strode from the floor.

  Outside the light was dimming, and stewards entered carrying tall candelabras, placing them around the hall so that the flames were reflected in the red marble. To Eleanor’s eyes they created a hellish glow.

  Finally, she reached the British ambassador.

  ‘Sir Eric, may I have a word?’ she said, stepping into the man’s circle. He was listening to a tall patrician gentleman adorned with medals and ribbons, and a younger, elegant lady with waved hair. The tall man spoke in that potato-laden Brit voice she’d heard only in movies.

  Sir Eric bowed to kiss Eleanor’s hand. ‘She walks in beauty like the night . . . ,’ he said. The trace of a smile played beneath his moustache as the taller gentleman was thrown off his stride by her appearance. Sir Eric introduced the couple as Sir Robert Vansittart, permanent undersecretary at the British Foreign Office, and Sir Robert’s wife, Sarita, who turned to her politely.

  For five agonising minutes they solicited Eleanor’s opinion on the low cloud that had dogged the Games so far, and enquired after the comfort of her crossing, until finally their attention was drawn away, and she spoke quickly into the ambassador’s ear.

  ‘Sir Eric, it’s about Richard Denham, the English reporter you spoke to at that Goh-balls party earlier this week . . .’

  ‘Of course. I know Denham.’

  She told him of the warning not to go near Liebermann, their defiance of Greiser’s injunction, and of Richard’s arrest by the Gestapo.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Sir Eric said, his face as unfathomable as the Sphinx.

  ‘You’ve got to help me get him released, sir. His son has gone missing in London. He has to get home. And now that Liebermann herself has told the world what happened to her, why would they need to keep him? The facts are public knowledge.’

  Sir Eric looked at her carefully. The difficulty of gauging him wasn’t helped by his monocle, which caught the light and appeared as a blank disc on his face.

  ‘How did you become an interested party?’ he asked, picking his words.

  ‘We’ve grown . . . close,’ she said.

  The ambassador paused, as if choosing what to impart. ‘The Gestapo don’t have him,’ he said. ‘He’s in the hands of the SD, the intelligence service.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He gave a discreet cough. ‘The worrying question—to which my sources found no answer—is what they want with him.’

  ‘Isn’t it about Liebermann?’

  Sir Eric shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No. It must be something bigger than that . . .’

  ‘Meine Damen und Herren . . .’

  A voice booming from the far end of the hall was making an announcement, which it repeated in French and then in English. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Your Excellencies, honourable guests, please now extinguish your cigars and cigarettes. There is no smoking in the presence of the Führer.’

  An excited murmur swelled around the hall.

  ‘My word. We’re honoured,�
�� said Sir Eric. ‘He’s not normally much of a partygoer.’

  Two gigantic bronze doors swung open and some twenty helmeted SS in white parade gloves entered the hall. Spreading out, they positioned themselves along the walls and among the crowd. Eleanor noticed with some unease that one had stationed himself only a few feet behind her.

  The guests waited, facing the doors. The orchestra fell silent. Ambassador Dodd came over to stand with Eleanor and Sir Eric, as far away from the doors as possible, and he and the Englishman exchanged a look of bemused tedium. She considered slipping away to powder her nose, but there was no chance now.

  At last he entered, accompanied by an interpreter and two Olympic officials wearing chains of office. He looked awkward and ill at ease, Eleanor thought, in his white tie and tails, which didn’t fit him well: the coat was slipping off his shoulders.

  ‘He looks like a flea circus master,’ she whispered to Dodd.

  The face was pale, with bags under the eyes. The moustache wasn’t as ludicrous as it seemed in caricature. Yet there was something outlandish about him, something about his gaze, which was expressive, hypnotic even.

  Slowly he moved through the crowd, being introduced to various diplomats and ambassadors for sport. He nodded and listened, making it hard for her to connect him with the raving demagogue she’d seen on the newsreels. She wondered whether the Liebermann incident had sparked one of his famous tantrums earlier. It seemed impossible to imagine he’d taken the news calmly.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll come over here, do you?’ she asked Sir Eric. She felt the palms of her hands begin to sweat.

  ‘I fear he will, if he knows I’m here. The Germans are proffering their fishy hand in friendship at the moment.’

  Eleanor shifted on her heels. She had a strong sense of something malefic at work in the room. Irrational, yes, but she noticed how most of the guests stood in silence, in thrall to some mystical will emanating from this man. She could see it in their eyes, including Martha’s: a type of rapture.

  They waited, watching him come nearer. He gave a short bow when presented to a woman, kissing her hand; with the men he said hardly a word but looked into their faces with a pale blue beam. Every few seconds his hand would smooth the curious lock across his forehead, as if by nervous compulsion.

  And then he was in front of them.

  He recognised Sir Eric, took the ambassador’s hand in both of his, and fixed him with an intense stare. The translator at his elbow leaned in to hear.

  ‘Sir Eric Phipps,’ he said. ‘The Anglo-Saxons are much in my thoughts.’

  ‘And you in ours, Your Excellency.’

  Hitler nodded slowly. ‘Do you know that today, for the second time, I watched the film Lives of a Bengal Lancer? My bid to discover how England gained her empire.’

  ‘How extraordinarily interesting.’

  Still he held Sir Eric’s hand. ‘India, a nation of half a billion people, ruled by only four hundred English public servants? Erstaunlich.’ Astonishing.

  It occurred to Eleanor how wrong-footed most people would have been by such remarks, but Sir Eric was an old hand.

  ‘Lives of a Bengal Lancer . . . My wife’s seen that only once, I think,’ he said. ‘She’s a Gary Cooper fan, too.’

  The gaze swept across Sir Eric’s poker face, but nothing could be read.

  Dodd was next, and made a remark about the American team being mightily impressed with the Olympic village. At that, a bothersome memory seemed to pop into the dictator’s head.

  ‘Yes-sy Oh-vens,’ he said, looking straight through Dodd.

  It was at that moment that Eleanor understood with a shock that she was about to be introduced. She had not expected this at all and suddenly felt a powerful aversion to the thought of those lips kissing her hand. There was no backing out, but was there a moment to be seized? Surreptitiously she prised open her handbag.

  No one realised what she was doing until the very last moment, when the guard standing behind her darted forwards.

  But it was too late.

  There was an audible gasp from the people around her.

  She had lit a cigarette in the Führer’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Denham was woken from a dreamless state by the voice of a man sitting at the end of his cot. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep under the harsh electric light.

  ‘They’ve patched you up, I see.’

  He opened one swollen eye and saw the sheen of a jackboot. Fear surged through him, and he shrank against the wall with a moan.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rausch said, reaching over and putting a hand on his arm. There was a stink of wine on his breath. His hair was dishevelled and his uniform was undone at the collar. ‘I’ve come to say a friendly hello, that’s all. Just a friendly hello.’ The man’s nails were bitten to the quick, Denham saw, and stained yellow from those noxious Murads.

  Rausch leaned back, his head hitting the wall with a soft thud. ‘Do you know what trouble this is bringing me, Denham?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Have you any idea what could happen to me? I’ll be thrown down here with you, that’s what. The Obergruppenführer is most displeased. Wants to have a go at you himself. Wants to twist it out of you. You wouldn’t want that, believe me, Denham. You wouldn’t want that.’ The blue eyes dilated, struggling to focus.

  ‘This started so well. Outstanding intelligence work. That’s what he said. Should have got me decorated . . .’ Rausch folded his arms and started shaking gently, so that whether he was crying or laughing Denham couldn’t tell. Spittle foamed at the sides of his mouth, and when he spoke again his voice was ill-controlled. ‘I was this close . . .’ He held his thumb and forefinger with a tiny space between them. ‘And then you entered the picture.’

  Denham thought of protesting the truth once more, but getting the words out would have cost him too great an effort. And what was the point?

  ‘You’re one of those types, aren’t you, whom beatings only make silent. Isn’t that so? I’ve seen it before.’ He sighed. ‘You and I both, Denham. We’ll hang for this . . .’ His face reddened but he suppressed the rising sob.

  A strange silence opened between them for a while.

  ‘This dossier . . .’ Denham whispered. ‘Why?’

  Rausch slumped forwards and cupped his forehead in his hands so that Denham thought he was about to vomit, but then he said in a distant voice, ‘Wish I knew.’

  He sat up, remembering something, fumbled in his tunic and pulled out a cigarette packet. ‘HBs,’ he said, opening it and offering one. ‘Your brand, I believe.’

  ‘Water,’ Denham croaked.

  Rausch struggled to his feet and opened the cell door, swaying. ‘Water in here.’ Seconds later he was handed a jug. Denham sat up despite the hot knives stabbing at his ribs, and reached for it. It sloshed over the rim and onto Rausch’s hands, dripping to the floor. Cool, clear water.

  But Rausch didn’t give it to him.

  ‘Tell me now, friend,’ he said, standing in the middle of the cell, his feet set wide apart to steady himself, ‘and spare us both. Once and for all. Where is it? Please . . . tell me where.’

  Denham shook his head sadly without taking his eyes off the jug.

  The interrogator staggered backwards, his eyes closed, as if seeing his own doom. His nostrils flared, and a drunken roar came from his chest. With a wide arm he bowled the jug, smashing it against the wall behind Denham’s head, covering him in water and pieces of earthenware. The next moment Rausch was on top of him, punching and screaming.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The morning after the Chancellery reception Eleanor and Gallico found standing room only at the back of the tearoom in the old Hotel Kaiserhof on the Wilhelmplatz. The place was full of foreign correspondents and newswire photographers. It was a humid day, and the room already smelled of sweat, cigarette smoke, and whisky hangovers.

  Willi Greiser entered to a barrage of shouted questions.

 
; ‘Sir, was Liebermann forced to compete?’

  ‘Can you confirm that her brother was shot while resisting arrest?’

  ‘Is she in custody? Sir?’

  Eleanor noticed that he did not flinch but brazened the onslaught with an urbane smile, dismissing the matter of the Liebermann broadcast with a wave of his hand. Let’s not waste anyone’s time over such a thing. This guy’s good, she thought. Speaking smoothly in English with his German-American accent, he said, to popping flashbulbs, ‘After the great strain that training for these Games has taken on her mentally and physically, Fräulein Hannah Liebermann is now convalescing at a private sanatorium. She sincerely regrets any misleading impressions she may have given in her pressured state of mind, and has personally asked me to express her deep gratitude to the German Olympic Committee for once again allowing her the honour of defending her title for Germany.’

  ‘Boys, don’t fall for it . . .’ Eleanor mumbled.

  Greiser then took questions only from the German reporters in the room, who, right on cue, got his propaganda machine rolling with something more palatable. The Völkischer Beobachter was eager to know whether Ilse Dörffeldt had recovered from her disappointment in dropping the baton in the women’s relay.

  ‘She was upset,’ said Greiser, ‘but the Führer himself sent a car full of flowers to console her.’

  He answered two more servile questions from the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung and the Berliner Tageblatt while his eyes scanned the room, noticing that the foreign press corps had ceased their shorthand and become restless, whereupon he suddenly thanked everyone and turned his back on the instant uproar of unanswered questions about Liebermann. As he was striding towards the exit, a female voice carried high over those of the males.

  ‘Has the Gestapo tortured English reporter Richard Denham for speaking to Liebermann?’

  Greiser was halfway through the double doors, but Eleanor saw his back tense and his neck stiffen. He’d heard the question.