Berlin: A Novel

by Pierre Frei

  They had been together for nearly a year and saw each other almost daily, either at his place in Tiergartenstrasse or Detta's small apartment on Steubenplatz, where she had moved in January. She had recovered from her obsession with Tom Glaser, and had no regrets. She loved David, his dry English manner, his occasional 'embarrassment' and the lanky, youthful appearance that belied his twenty-nine years.

  They explored Berlin together. They drank lager at the Plumpe, as the people of Berlin called the Fountain of Health; they visited Museum Island; they watched the annual firework show 'Treptow in Flames'; and they drank sticky lemon liqueur at 'Goldelse's'. The proprietress as a blonde child had modelled for Zille, the illustrator and photographer. Detta hadn't been able to entice David up the Radio Tower, known affectionately to Berliners as their longer Lulatsch, the term for a tall beanpole of a man. 'I get vertigo if I so much as climb on a kitchen stool,' he confessed.

  'He is the heir of the eighth Earl of Bexford, which makes him Viscount Floyd-Orr,' the Baroness wrote to her daughter. She had looked the family up in Debrett's Peerage.

  'David hasn't said anything to me about that,' Detta replied. 'He wants me to accept him as he is.'

  'Invite him to Aichborn,' her mother wrote. 'If he can stand the shock of meeting the family he'll probably be up to dealing with you too.'

  In the summer of '38 Detta was a guest at Bexford Hall, and won the hearts of David's parents and the rest of his family. A Prussian wife with an impeccable background,' said the delighted Lord Rexford. 'You couldn't have done better for yourself, my boy.'

  At the house party held in Detta's honour, the earl expressed his admiration for her countrymen. 'Fine people, these Germans. Particularly their Reich Chancellor. Amazing, the way the man is creating order out of chaos.' The other guests, all members of the establishment, seemed equally impressed by Herr Hitler. Only the Duchess of Newcastle had reservations. 'The man isn't married, and apparently he speaks terrible German. So Queen Mary says, anyway. She heard him on the radio.'

  There had been changes in Berlin. Arvid von Troll introduced Detta to the new Foreign Minister. Joachim von Ribbentrop had previously been ambassador to London. 'Minor gentry from the Rhineland,' remarked her secretary disparagingly. Detta laughed. 'Frau Wilhelmi, you're a snob.'

  'He's good-looking and polite,' Detta told David over supper. 'We talked about horses a little. He used to be a hussar officer.' They were eating potato salad and meatballs, which she bought ready made from the butcher and put in the pan: she was no great cook. David had fetched a siphon of light Botzow beer from the bar on the corner.

  'My boss Sir Nevile Henderson calls him a social climber,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'Could I have some more potato salad, please?' He liked the hearty Berlin fare.

  Detta put some on his plate. 'Herr von Troll thinks its time we fixed a date for the wedding.' She waited to hear his reaction.

  'Why?' he asked, teasing her a little. 'Is Herr von Troll hoping for an invitation?'

  'He told me that as a Foreign Ministry staff member I have to apply for permission to marry a foreigner, and it could take a little time.'

  David nodded. 'My people see it the same way. I'm a diplomat in the service of his Britannic Majesty and I want to marry a German girl.'

  'Your king is as German as I am. I'm sure he'll have no objection.'

  But Detta had to wait. The Foreign Office wants to be clear about Great Britain's future relations with the German Reich before it will agree to our marriage,' David patiently explained. The usually down-to-earth Detta was too much in love to wonder what their wedding had to do with international politics, of which she only very occasionally took any notice - although she began to take notice in March 1939.

  'Goodness, can we actually do that?' she cried in surprise when German troops marched into Prague.

  'We have written a protest note to the government of the German Reich asking the same question,' David told her.

  And?'

  Your ambassador, like his colleague in Paris. simply refused to accept the note.'

  A week later, when the German Wehrmacht occupied the Memelland, the Western powers expressed no more protests. The shocked Lithuanian government gave up the territory without opposition, and it was incorporated into the province of East Prussia.

  'The Memel was always German and still is,' was the reaction of Lieutenant Hans-Georg von Aichborn to the well-executed manoeuvre in which his own regiment had taken part. Now we'll get West Prussia back from the Poles, and Alsace from France,' he added briskly. And then we can finally consider the shameful Treaty of Versailles null and void.'

  'I only hope it can be done without bloodshed.' said Detta anxiously.

  'They won't dare attack us.' There was a combative look in her brother's eyes, but he was probably right. The Western powers had long ago lost their bite, and in whose interest, for heaven's sake, could it be to fire the first shot?

  David was not so sure. 'I'm afraid we're drifting towards war,' he said, when London and Paris declared guarantees of support for Poland.

  'Then we shall be on different sides,' said Detta, sounding concerned.

  'Only until your side surrender,' replied David. And then you can marry the victor.'

  'Don't be so arrogant,' she snapped at him, and he left the apartment in a huff.

  Next morning he sent flowers and tried several times to get in touch with her. But the pride of the Aichborns held out. She refused to speak to him for a week and then, when she called his apartment on Wednesday to make her peace with him, there was no reply. 'Mr Floyd-On has been temporarily recalled to London,' they told her on Thursday morning at the British Embassy. There was an atmosphere of imminent departure about the place.

  On Friday 1 September, German troops marched into Poland. Two days later, Great Britain and France declared war on the German Reich. The Foreign Ministry was very busy that Sunday. Rumours were flying rife.

  'The Fiihrer has offered to reinstate the Duke of Windsor on the British throne. As Edward Vlll, he'll make peace with us at once and see that we get our colonies back,' Frau Wilhelmi the secretary had heard.

  'Oh yes? And Frau Goring will take tea with Queen Wallis.' Arvid von Troll finished the absurd story. But not even that could cheer Detta. Pale and withdrawn, she got through her work and thought of David. Would she ever see him again?

  The four-engined Focke-Wolf quietly pursued its course at a height of six thousand metres. Detta looked out of the window at the snow-covered peaks of the Pyrenees. They had taken off from Berlin-Tempelhof a few hours earlier, and would reach Barcelona at eight in the evening. The war was a year old. France had been defeated, fighting was in progress on all fronts, and special bulletins preceded by fanfares flooded in. First Lieutenant HansGeorg von Aichborn was in Saumur with his regiment, performing dressage exercises on the black horses of the French cavalry school. 'I'd rather be at the Front somewhere, there's no firing here except by a few French partisans when they're not drinking pastis,' he wrote, much to Detta's relief. 'We'll be home by Christmas,' he optimistically concluded.

  Her boss at the Foreign Ministry did not share that opinion. 'We should expect a long confrontation, and we mustn't neglect our neutral friends,' Arvid von Troll told her. 'Who knows when we'll need them, and what for? You speak excellent Spanish, you have family in Spain on your mother's side, and we want you to go to our diplomatic mission in Barcelona as viceconsul. Consul-General Dr Kessler is already expecting you.'

  Away from Berlin and her memories of those wonderful times with David. Another country, another language, new friends - perhaps that would help her to come to terms with the past. Detta agreed to go.

  They were shaken by turbulence above the mountains, and dropped height suddenly a couple of times. A few faces turned green. Detta didn't notice. She was imagining herself lying in David's arms. A pleasant feeling overcame her, driving away the reality of this senseless war which had torn them apart, heaven knew for how long, and
which meant that David was now her 'enemy'. What an absurd idea.

  A hand was laid on her shoulder. She jumped. 'Welcome aboard.' It was Thomas Glaser.

  'Tom, how reassuring to find you flying us.'

  'My first officer is at the controls just now. How are you, Detta?'

  'Fine. I'm really looking forward to taking up my new appointment in Barcelona. Your uniform suits you, Flight Captain. What's Ulli doing these days?'

  'She's busy with the twins and our house in Mahlow.'

  And meanwhile you're flying all over the place?'

  'Not all over the place, I'm afraid, in view of the international situation. Many destinations are barred to us. The Americans, for instance, won't let Lufthansa land anywhere, on the flimsiest of grounds.'

  'You mean you wanted to fly to America?' asked Detta, incredulous.

  'We did fly there, without landing, just to show the Yankees,' he said proudly. 'Non-stop Berlin - New York - Berlin. Thirteen thousand kilometres in forty-four hours, thirty-one minutes. That certainly surprised them. Their Pan-American Airline can only make it as far as the Azores, with a tail wind at that. Will you excuse me, please? I have to go back to the cockpit. Shall we eat together sometime soon? I'm in Barcelona twice a week.'

  'I'd like that, Tom. Call me at the consulate.'

  After landing, he waved to her from the pilot's cockpit, as if to confirm the arrangement. She waved back, glad to think that she would have a friend in this foreign country.

  Consul-General Dr Heinrich Kessler was a cultivated man in his sixties who had been consular representative of the German Reich in the time of the last king of Spain. Alfonso XIII was a real gentlemen, well educated, and with a sharp wit when he didn't like something,' he said approvingly.

  'Uncle Rex,' said Detta, apparently inconsequentially.

  Her new boss was baffled. 'What do you mean?'

  'We called him Uncle Rex, because no one was supposed to know who he was when he came to Aichborn with Uncle Juan for the shooting,' Detta explained. 'He was a very bad loser when we played ludo. My brother HansGeorg and I sometimes cheated just to get him into a rage. He would swear in Spanish like a vaquero then. It was very funny to hear him.'

  'Well, Arvid von Troll didn't exaggerate when he described you. You could always be relied on for a surprise, he wrote. As for your quarters - your predecessor Jagold has had his call-up papers sent express, so he'll be off to join the colours next week. You could take over his apartment.'

  'That would certainly make life simpler. When do I start work, Dr Kessler?'

  'In a day or so will do. There's nothing urgent going on in the passport department, for which you'll be responsible as vice-consul. Who's applying for a visa to visit Germany these days? Ah, there you are, Jagold.'

  A youngish man had come in. He had dark-blond hair that curled at his temples and the nape of his neck. Detta thought him rather dandified with his brown and white shoes, cream linen suit, and dark-blue shirt, which he wore with a lemon-yellow cravat that matched the carnation in his buttonhole.

  Axel Jagold - Henriette von Aichborn,' the consul-general introduced them.

  'My charming colleague and successor!' The vice-consul kissed her hand. 'If our boss doesn't object I'll show you my apartment. and then we can have lunch together. After that I'll take you to the hotel for your siesta, and in the afternoon you'll meet the rest of the team here.'

  'Do that, Jagold,' Kessler agreed. He turned to Detta. 'My wife and I would be glad if you'd come to supper with us. I'll send Pedro with the car for you at eight.'

  'That's very kind of your wife and you. Thank you so much, Dr Kessler.' She followed Jagold out. Blazing heat hit them in the street, and even the breeze through the open taxi window didn't provide relief.

  Jagold's apartment on the Ronda Sant Antoni was a pleasant temperature. 'The architects of Barcelona gave their Art Noveau buildings remarkably thick walls,' her host explained. 'May I offer you an iced tea?' He took a glass pitcher out of the refrigerator and filled two tall glasses, garnishing them with sprigs of fresh mint.

  Detta looked around. The living room was in the Moorish style. There was a photo propped on the sideboard, showing a bare-chested, athletic young man. She could see half packed suitcases through the open bedroom door.

  Jagold noticed her glance. 'I've booked a passage to Spanish Morocco. My friend has gone ahead.' He pointed to the photograph. 'Gunnar is Swedish. We plan to go on to Angola and open a restaurant in Sao Paolo de Loanda. The Portuguese don't particularly mind where you come from or who you are, just so long as you bribe the right people.'

  'Dr Kessler said you'd received your call-up papers and had to fly home.'

  'To go to war? I'm not crazy. Well, imagine, suppose the enemy were to shoot at me!' He laughed a little too shrilly for her liking.

  She understood, and everything in her Prussian soul rebelled. 'My father's too old for armed service, and it grieves him,' she said icily. 'My brother is in France with his regiment. Two of my uncles and three of my cousins reported for duty on the first day. One of them fell in Poland. We don't shirk our duty in my family, and nor, which is lucky for you, Herr Jagold, do we denounce anyone.'

  'Do you like the apartment? I can let you have the furnishings very cheap.' he said, trying to change the subject. 'The rent isn't very high, and the owner of the building is a friendly soul. I'm sure you'll feel comfortable here, my dear Henriette.'

  'Baroness von Aichborn to you.' she told him sharply, and left. Outside she took a deep breath, and in spite of the heat marched off, full of energy.

  Military men were in the majority on the streets and squares. There were police officers everywhere. The Civil War had been over for a year now, and General Franco was holding on to what he had won with a grip of iron. The people of Barcelona ignored him. The dictator was Spanish, while they were proud Catalans.

  She had calmed down by the time she reached the Placa de Catalunya. A taxi took her to her hotel near the cathedral, and she showered and changed. Then she chose a table for lunch in a small niche behind some potted palms, where she wouldn't be disturbed. She studied the menu over a glass of chilled rose.

  'The grilled gambas with fresh figs are said to be particularly good today.' David Floyd-Orr stood before her, smiling. She was about to leap up and embrace him. 'No, don't,' he said quietly.

  'David. . .'She couldn't say any more.

  He sat down. 'We're just good friends. Public displays of emotion would only attract attention. The entire foreign colony comes to this hotel. The Front runs right through the restaurant: Axis powers on the left, representatives of the entente on the right. The neutrals go now to the left, now to the right, as the mood takes them. You see everything and everyone here. Don't forget, we're on different sides.'

  'Not us, darling, our countries.' She could have shouted out loud for joy, but she pulled herself together, saying casually, 'Grilled prawns with fresh figs sound good, and they'll be a first for me. We don't have those at home even in peacetime. David, what are you doing here?'

  'I'll tell you later.'

  In his suite, they fell on each other like two people dying of thirst. Later, lying side by side as the shutters kept out the blazing afternoon sun, blissfully exhausted, they talked.

  'I was sent here at my own request. The alternative was Rio, but naturally I wanted to be near you. I'm vice-consul here, just like you, running the press department.'

  She ought to have asked him how he knew that she was the German viceconsul in Barcelona, but the aftermath of their stormy love-making was like a state of pleasant intoxication, clouding her ability to think clearly. She looked at her watch. 'Oh heavens, I should have been back at the consulate ages ago.'

  'You're not the only one. Shall we see each other this evening?'

  'I don't know, David. You said yourself that we have to be careful.'

  'We'll find a solution, far away from this bloody war,' he promised.

  The solution was offer
ed by a romantic painter's studio that they found on one of their walks down by the old fishing harbour. Its tenant, a fiery young artist, had gone to banned Republican meetings and amused himself by caricaturing the new Fascist masters. He escaped the garrotte because his sister was mistress of the military commandant of Barcelona. But she couldn't get him spared the stone quarry, so the studio was to rent. A notice on the door of the building had drawn the lovers' attention to it.

  Detta was enchanted by the view of the picturesque harbour, and immediately went down to buy fish - fresh giltheads - from a cutter that had just come in. Cool red Rioja from the harbour bar completed their simple meal. For dessert they made love again. They hadn't seen each other for a whole year.

  'How are your parents?' he asked as she decked the studio with flowers.

  'Thanks for asking. Mother's packing parcels of smoked sausage and cigarettes for all our friends and relations in uniform.'

  And the lieutenant-general?'

  Yet again, Detta should have been on the alert. David knew her father as a country gentleman: how had he learned that Papa had been recalled to service and promoted? The Baron had ended the Great War as a colonel commanding his regiment. But she was too deeply in love to pick up such nuances.

  'Father is putting in petition after petition to High Command to be transferred to the troops, but he's getting nowhere,' she informed him, and went on rearranging the furniture. The young artist's narrow couch had been replaced by a large double bed. 'Our first apartment of our own,' she said happily.

  'Your apartment, darling. No one must know about me,' David warned her. 'Don't forget we're at war.'

  'We'll leave the war outside,' said Detta firmly. She took mischievous pleasure in inventing a Spanish lover called Carlos, who soon became a familiar name in the consulate, thanks to the talkative driver, Pedro. When Pedro came to her apartment to fetch urgent files, she would call into the next room, 'Carlos, darling, put the wine to chill!' A few telephone conversations with Carlos, which she interrupted when someone looked into her office, completed the little deception. Soon the whole consulate knew about 'Don Carlos' and her love nest down by the harbour.