‘So, would you like to look around and find some dinner, after we’ve had a rest?’ Georgie asked her reluctant companion as they checked in. Presumably, it was why they’d been booked into the same hotel by rival papers, as a way of orientating themselves, together. Truthfully, she preferred to explore alone but in the interests of diplomacy – and her command of the language – she felt obliged to offer.
‘Hmm, think I’ll grab something at the bar or in my room,’ Max replied. ‘I’m not very hungry, and I’m quite tired.’ He turned away and headed towards the stairs without another word. Suit yourself, Georgie thought. One part of her registered relief, the other felt slighted for offering an olive branch and being so quickly rebuffed. What was his issue? Still, if this is how it’s meant to be, she thought, I’d better get used to being on my own, hadn’t I?
Inside the hotel room that was at least twice the size of her poky bedsit in North London, she unpacked quickly and pinned her hair up and off her neck, changed her shoes to flat, walking brogues and stepped down into the lobby, which was slightly less grand than the Adlon but still of the luxurious ‘pinch me’ variety. Like every life challenge that she could remember in her twenty-six years, she took a deep breath and uttered under her breath: Come on, George, you can do this. Then she walked through the doors and entered an early evening Berlin that was exciting and infamously debauched, cosmopolitan and yet ultimately German – and now a city cloaked with the cloth and under the pressing heel of Adolf Hitler.
Map in hand, Georgie strode east, away from the Adlon, over the two channels of the River Spree and the ‘island’ housing some of Berlin’s grandest museums, her eyes scanning left and right, absorbing every detail. She reached the huge, rectangular Alexanderplatz and stood marvelling at the tram interchange, criss-crossing its centre like a turntable on a toy train set, Berlin’s huge six-wheeled buses trundling the outskirts, their prominent metal snouts pushing out a heavy engine throb. It was a metropolis like London, and yet the drapery of the flags seemed in some way to muffle the raw city sounds.
Hungry for more – and also craving something to eat – Georgie walked on, veering north, peering into shop windows, delighted when she could make out the German signs and odd snatches of conversations. She forged on, so enchanted she almost didn’t realise the landscape changing with each step; block by block the buildings became less ornate, ordinary and then distinctly shabbier. The people, too, slowed their step and had begun to stare, their eyes gaping as she walked past. She noted they looked different from those on the Unter den Linden – darker features, less Germanic – and she found herself tucking her own blonde hair further under her cap. Each lengthy gaze seemed to track her, though whether they were clouded by fear or suspicion it was hard to tell. Perhaps both.
Flattening herself against a wall, she consulted her map. How far had she come, and where was she? Dusk was fast approaching, the atmosphere murkier, and she was beginning to regret her enthusiastic wanderlust.
‘Fraulein?’ Georgie’s head snapped up at a gruff interruption. Two Stormtroopers looked down on her – in more ways than one, expressions as muddy as the brown of their shirts. ‘Are you lost? You shouldn’t be in this part of the city.’ It was irritation and not concern. ‘This is where … where Jews live. Do you live here?’
‘N-no,’ she stammered, tongue twisting around the language. ‘I’ve just arrived … from England.’ She smiled widely, in the hope of some return.
‘Papers?’ They were not in the mood for diplomacy, twin sets of beady eyes boring into her.
‘I … I haven’t got my press papers yet … only this.’ She scrabbled in her bag for her passport.
‘English press?’ one sneered. ‘You definitely shouldn’t be here.’
Did he mean Berlin as a whole, or this particular street? And why – was it a crime or simply an affront to them? ‘I suppose, I’ve wandered too far,’ she offered. ‘Can you point me in the right direction, the Hotel Bristol?’
The other grunted to signal his distaste – she as a British alien, sullied in the same way they viewed Jews as dirty. And rich enough to lodge at the Bristol. Short of physically turning and pushing her down the street, they pointed her firmly in the other direction. ‘Down there, keep going. And we would advise you not to come here again.’ It wasn’t an order, but neither was it an option.
Georgie’s steps were fast and furious, breath rising as she saw the lights and safety of Alexanderplatz again, then she puffed out her cheeks in relief on reaching the Bristol and its comforting lobby. There was her taste of the new Germany. Bittersweet at best.
‘Welcome to Berlin, Georgie Young,’ she sighed to herself. ‘Round one to the Reich.’
5
Hiding
Berlin, 2nd August 1938
Rubin Amsel emerged from the attic with tell-tale cobwebs in his hair, skin smudged with the dirt of neglect.
‘Well?’ Sara was standing at the bottom of the makeshift steps Rubin had fashioned with the help of his twelve-year-old son, Leon, nailing together the struts as quietly as any hammer would allow. No one – not even their trusted neighbours – should know what they were planning; better to be naive for their own sakes.
‘I’ve closed over the roof holes as best I can,’ he said, ‘and I’ve made a little area for a bed and a pee-pot. It’s cleaner at least. He’ll have to have an oil lamp for light.’ Still, he puffed out his cheeks in defeat. ‘But you’re right, Sara, he can’t live up there – it’s like a hothouse now, and he’ll freeze in winter. You wouldn’t keep a dog like that.’
‘So what do we do?’ she said in earnest. ‘You know Elias can’t move quickly these days, even if he has to. It would take at least two of us to help him up, and you’re so often out.’
Rubin pictured Sara’s once-vibrant, fit younger brother, now slumped in their tiny living room, his mind still active but his body broken by a heavy fall the year previously. His badly fractured hip and leg had been pieced together at the time by an elderly, out-of-practice doctor and it was a poor job, the nerve damage beyond repair. Elias would still be able to work, in an office perhaps, were it not for the Nazi decree banning him and all other Jews from work in public offices. The fit, healthy ones scrabbled for any job they could find, but Elias rarely left the apartment. In this tragic journey, he had lost the spark that made him such a lively spirit, and which Rubin suspected had lost him his health in the first place – he’d never admitted why he was on a high wall very near to the Berlin home of Heinrich Himmler, the unimposing but much feared overseer of Hitler’s secret police. The Amsels rarely spoke of the night when Elias was brought limp and bleeding to their home, his skin bearing the scrape of a bullet so close to his scalp. They both sensed that attending the state hospital would arouse a dangerous suspicion, yet never dared to question him about the cause. It was often safer not to know.
Rubin thought hard. ‘I suppose we just have to be extra vigilant,’ he told Sara. ‘Any knock at the door, we have to delay and get him up to the attic temporarily, with the children’s help if we have to.’
‘And will you tell him why we’re doing it?’ Sara said. ‘The consequences if we don’t?’
‘I don’t think we’ll have to,’ Rubin answered. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Elias’s imagination when it comes to Nazi capabilities.’
6
Welcome to the Ministry
5th August 1938
The following days lived up to expectations for the newest additions to the press pack: long and hard, with a steep learning curve. Georgie finally met her bureau chief after several attempts at pinning him down at their office. According to the Adlon crowd that she met with several times in those first few days, Paul Adamson was a competent journalist who’d become hopelessly distracted. He was certainly no film star himself, resembling more of an insurance broker, and so Georgie had to wonder at his charms to attract a German starlet.
‘I think perhaps the temptation is his British passport,’ so
meone at the Adlon had muttered, and Georgie felt sorry for both the actress and his heavily pregnant wife back home. Each was being strung along in blissful hope of a promised future.
Paul wasn’t offhand, only preoccupied. He didn’t so much show her the ropes as point Georgie towards buying a better map, and making a solitary phone call to request her press accreditation card – vital if she were to access any of the numerous news conferences hosted by the Nazi publicity machine.
‘So, if you can cover what’s in the diary,’ Paul said, pointing to a lengthy list of invitations, ‘that will free me up to do the rest.’
‘And what’s that?’ Georgie couldn’t help asking pointedly. It was abundantly clear he’d every intention of leaving her to do the donkey work.
‘Oh, just a story I’ve been working on a while. Can’t say too much right now,’ he replied, at which point the office phone rang and his voice softened in an instant, clearly placating the actress, whose flouncy tone Georgie could hear at the end of the line. An engaging story indeed, she thought.
Max appeared on the third day at breakfast, edging towards her table in the Bristol’s dining room, though only when it was clear he’d been spotted and couldn’t easily escape. She saw him pocket a small German dictionary as he sat.
‘How are you? Managing all right?’ Georgie said, gesturing towards the book slipped into his jacket.
‘Oh, that. Yes, fine,’ he said with obvious bravado. ‘Coming along nicely.’ His sheepish smile said otherwise.
‘Have you hooked up with your bureau man yet?’
This time, Max couldn’t attempt a convincing cover-up, puffing out his cheeks in despair. ‘I’m afraid they weren’t wrong at the Adlon – Cliff’s a nice chap, and a bit of a hero of mine as a writer, but he’s seen too much German beer. No wonder there weren’t many takers for this posting. Quite stupidly, it never occurred to me to wonder why. I thought I’d struck lucky.’
He smiled meekly into his teacup, and Georgie felt a pang of sorrow for his situation, despite his general offhandedness. His appearance was tall and commanding, but suddenly he seemed a little boy lost, and she wondered what portion of his outer confidence amounted to bravado.
‘Same here,’ Georgie attempted to reassure him. ‘Several in my office back home did ask why I’d volunteered for the “snake pit”, and I thought they were either jealous or joking.’
‘I suppose only time will tell,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of it. Along with seeking out that award-winning story, sure to make our names as crack correspondents. Let’s not forget that.’ This time he did smile at his own sarcasm, following it up with a deep sigh as he bit into a slice of heavy German bread.
‘Have you got your press card yet?’ Georgie asked.
‘Off to get it this morning.’
‘Me too – shall we go together?’ she shot back, then hoped it didn’t sound too eager or needy. While she was anxious to understand the Nazi machine, the Ministry of Propaganda, and the control it exerted over journalists, was something to be wary of.
‘Um … I have to pick something up on the way, so I’ll be a while,’ Max stammered, putting down his napkin. It was an obvious excuse, and Georgie sat for a moment as his frame disappeared from the breakfast room. It could be that I’m a woman, she said to herself, or that he doesn’t like me, or trust me. Perhaps all three. Whatever the reason, she was on her own again.
As it happened, she wasn’t alone for long. Georgie ascended the steps to the ministry building and the bear-like form of Rod Faber – he of the welcoming arms and New York Times – was on his way out. He greeted her like an old friend, and hearing it was her first trip inside, and not surprised to learn Paul Adamson hadn’t come to guide her, he took up the mantle. At first, Georgie resisted – she didn’t want any kind of special treatment as a woman, and wasn’t afraid to say so, in the politest way she could manage.
‘Hell no, it’s not because you’re a woman!’ Rod said in his distinctive American twang. ‘It’s because you have to know who to talk to, who to bribe and who to suck up to. I would have been eaten alive if I hadn’t had my own guide way back when.’
Rod’s wisdom was proven almost on stepping through the grand entrance, SS guards on each side of twin granite statues – all four stony-faced. They climbed the sweeping stairway and were faced by a large, dark and intimidating doorway, the first in a succession of hoops Georgie was required to leap through.
‘Papers,’ the military man inside barked, looking hard at her photograph, passport and letter from the Chronicle asserting her role, and then at her face, his steely eyes crawling over her loose hair and stopping short of her shoulders. The assessment was meticulous.
‘What on earth was he looking for?’ she whispered to Rod as they moved down the corridor and towards the next hoop. ‘I felt as if he was trying to stare into my soul.’
‘Checking to see if you have any Jewish features,’ Rod replied. ‘And I think your blonde hair did you a great favour there.’
She was genuinely shocked. Georgie knew of the Nazi decree since 1934 banning German Jews from working in newspapers and publishing, amongst a whole host of other professions, including practising as doctors, lawyers and teachers. ‘Surely, that hasn’t extended to the foreign press?’
‘Not officially,’ Rod said, ‘but since when have the Nazis worried about officialdom when it suits them? If he didn’t like the look of you, he could simply refuse your press pass. He doesn’t need a valid reason. He has the Reich on his side.’
Georgie looked aghast, though Rod only nudged playfully at her shoulder. ‘Welcome to Hitler’s paradise.’
The wait between successive doors seemed an age, though ample time for her guide to provide a running commentary of each department and its occupants.
‘Watch out, the mini-Führer approaches,’ Rod whispered, standing as a man in a dark double-breasted suit approached, not quite clicking his heels to signal his arrival, but almost. He was wider and smaller, but his attempts to mimic his obvious hero in Adolf Hitler made him look faintly comical, like some sort of tragic lookalike in a sideshow act. His brush of a moustache stood almost to attention as he tried – and failed – to smile with conviction.
‘Herr Faber,’ he said briskly to Rod. ‘How nice to see you here.’ His expression, however, told another story.
‘You too, Herr Bauer.’ Also a falsehood. ‘May I introduce a new addition to the press corps, Miss Georgie Young? She’s part of the London News Chronicle staff.’
‘Ah,’ said Herr Bauer, ‘welcome to Berlin, Fraulein Young. I expect you are finding the city engaging?’
‘Very much so,’ Georgie said. ‘It’s very … pristine. And enticing.’
He took it as a compliment, no doubt to the wonders of Nazism, briefly flashing his tiny, crooked teeth before quickly regaining a serious composure, as if his humour – all humour – was necessarily on ration. ‘Not too enticing, I hope,’ he went on. ‘Not so it will keep you from us. I trust we’ll see more of you at our press calls than your colleague, Herr Adamson. He’s been rather absent of late.’ His eyes were the black, shiny beads of a crow.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep her on the straight and narrow,’ Rod cut in to soften the discourse. ‘Make sure she’s in all the right places.’
Herr Bauer smiled once more, his teeth on ration this time, nodded curtly, turned and marched away.
Rod sighed. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was Bruno Bauer. A toady little man but he does manage the foreign press corps, which means he has a certain power over us. It’s as well to keep on his right side, or you’ll find yourself frozen out. Don’t worry, though, I think he liked you.’
‘And are they all like that …’ It wasn’t often that Georgie was lost for words, particularly of the descriptive type. ‘I mean, creepy?’ By ‘they’ she wasn’t alluding to Germans or even German men, but devoted, dyed-in-the-wool Nazis.
Rod laughed under his breath. ‘Oh, he’s not the worst b
y far,’ he said. ‘Though he is an obsequious chump. And yes, they are a fairly horrible bunch. But it is good fun trying to get one over on them from time to time.’
Three hours, several offices and one grilling later, they emerged onto the ministry steps. Georgie was emotionally battered, though relieved: she clutched the all-important press card, signed and stamped with the eagle icon. It was a strange feeling to be accredited by the Third Reich, and yet she was now part of the pack. Officially.
‘Time for lunch?’ Rod pitched. Georgie’s stomach reminded her it was midday, but she hesitated, aware of the Chronicle’s diary entry for one p.m. in the Tiergarten – some middling Nazi official reviewing troops of the League of German Girls showing off their gymnastic skills. Paul had marked it clearly for her attendance.
‘That?’ Rod scoffed. ‘I can tell you now your paper won’t touch a few girls leapfrogging as a news item – too trivial. Much better I show you the best café sights of Berlin, places where you might pick up some real contacts.’
The gripe of hunger and the promise of coffee, plus Rod’s easy company, persuaded her. She was unlikely to see Paul to have to make any excuses.
They walked up the Wilhelmstrasse and back onto Unter den Linden, where the crimson banners were in full flight. Rod piloted her to Café Kranzler, a grand corner restaurant with small, potted trees marking the sitting area outside, its lantern lights on stalks and neatly aligned with the Reich columns stretching into the distance. They sat at one of the street-side tables, Georgie instantly seduced by the vibrant café culture. Berliners, she thought, knew how to socialise both day and night. The chink of teacups and hum of easy conversation between well-dressed women might lead anyone to believe that everything in the city – in the world, in fact – was fine. Unoppressed. Free.
The Berlin Girl Page 4
