In Britain, the stand-off provoked some concern at last, with gas masks being issued in some areas, while the British fleet was briefly mobilised ‘as a precaution’, though it was short-lived. By the end of the month, Chamberlain had returned from Munich displaying a piece of paper in his hand, flashbulbs popping on the steps of the aircraft. There would be ‘peace for our time’, he pledged in the glare, claiming it as a triumph, though few at La Taverne believed it.
‘Just gives Adolf more time to amass his troops,’ Bill observed gloomily. ‘It’s a nice bit of breathing space for him, considering where to set his sights on next.’ Often, Bill was like a prophet in these projections; he was a stooge most of the time to Rod’s outward humour, but his reading of any situation tended to be spot-on. Everyone nodded into their own glasses.
Precarious or not, it made for exciting times in Georgie’s orbit, learning each and every day – albeit in a world that seemed naive to the fact that it was sitting on a knife-edge. A razor sharp one.
The next few weeks signalled grassroots change in Germany – and much closer to home than the vast political stage around them. One morning in early October, Georgie opened the office door to Rubin and immediately sensed his low mood; for a man who could muster a smile to almost anything, he looked dejected.
‘Rubin?’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
Slowly, and almost as if it were lead, he pulled out a small and slim cardboard wallet from his pocket. ‘The family, we got these today,’ he murmured.
When he opened it, Georgie had to consciously ground herself, though her gasp escaped too quickly for her to stop it. There, stamped – emblazoned – alongside Rubin’s photograph, was a large, red ‘J’. ‘J’ for ‘Juden’. But also for undesirable. Unwanted. Second-class. It served to obliterate any notable element of the holder. Jew, it shouted. JEW. And nothing else.
‘They took our passports,’ he said, and Georgie had to look away to save him the embarrassment of his emotion. ‘And with it our last remaining hope that we might get away, or at least the children.’
He wasn’t looking for sympathy, never had, but Georgie could see Rubin’s broad chest had been hit square on. His rights as a German citizen had long gone, but this … this theft had robbed him of any status, reduced his identity to a scrappy piece of card. A smudge on his proud character.
The Amsels weren’t alone, all Jews being subjected to a blanket order across Germany. Strangely, there was no fanfare press conference on the subject from Herr Bauer this time, and this steady trickle of persecution throughout the Reich offices went unopposed, except in the foreign press. Only the underground pamphlets that Georgie sometimes picked up on her way across the city spoke of any resistance, but it was subtle and designed to work around the system instead of against it. There simply weren’t the numbers or the support from abroad to muster any real fight.
Rubin and his family were now, officially, aliens in their own country, and Georgie’s opinion of Herr Hitler was rapidly turning from deep dislike to a burning hatred. Was it possible to remain objective in such an insidious climate?
Her answer was to reignite her ‘Postcards from Berlin’ series, where she could express her true feelings but use her persona to distance herself. And hope that Herr Bauer didn’t see it too often.
Postcard from Berlin
Dear Readers,
While we are congratulating Mr Chamberlain and his fellow politicians on their peace pledge, we might spare a thought for those who cannot now move between nations, as Herr Hitler is so apt to do, or Mr Chamberlain hopping to and fro on his aircraft. Germany’s Jews have been robbed of their passports and issued with identity cards, emblazoned not with a stamp of freedom, but a large, red ‘J’ – a warning rather than a celebration, a curtailment to liberty and movement.
And so while Britons are only constrained by the seas around us, the Reich’s Jewish residents are constricted by borders and prejudice .1 .1. and simply being born. I wonder, how might this constitute the peace for our time that Mr Chamberlain so avidly champions?
Your correspondent in Berlin
Life, as they say, went on through the rest of October. Berlin was still fun, if you had a little money in your pocket, and you weren’t a Jew, a Romani or a Jehovah’s Witness. And so long as you mouthed your support of the Nazis dutifully. Georgie noticed Rubin was becoming increasingly reserved, the worry lines over his brows more permanent, and she thought of the ID card as an insult in his pocket – hidden but never forgotten.
Yet outward persecution was also becoming more brazen every day; a prominent ‘J’ scrawled in chalk on the pavements outside Jewish shops as a warning. Sometimes it was ‘Juden’ daubed in fiery red paint, the proprietors unsure whether to attempt removal under cover of darkness and risk the Stormtroopers’ backlash. Mostly, the branding remained, cracking and fading a little when it rained, though everyone saw it as a stain, instead of the proud declaration it might have once been.
Georgie accepted an invitation from the Amsels for tea at their home that Wednesday and spent the whole of Tuesday afternoon shopping for a gift to take. She worried that foodstuffs might seem like an insult to a proud man like Rubin. Flowers for his wife, on the other hand, were too frivolous. She settled on food items that passed as treats: a box of sumptuous chocolate biscuits from Wertheim’s department store – which she hoped the children especially would enjoy – and a good bottle of brandy for the adults.
Early on Wednesday afternoon, she left the office and walked north on the wide avenue of the Friedrichstrasse daubed in flags, across the river Spree, and then turned right into what had become the Jewish ‘ghetto’: Jews in the west of the city were increasingly ‘encouraged’ to swap apartments with Aryan families in the east, in the Nazis’ flagrant attempt at herding. It had only been a month or two, but she felt a world away from that ill-fated exploration on her first day in Berlin, when the ghetto had appeared dark and intimidating. Her hair was no less blonde, but her confident step had changed dramatically. Yes, the streets and the houses were a little shabbier, gardens not pristine, but the atmosphere was palpably lighter on this side of the city. People returned her wide smile, sounds of children playing wafted from balconies and shopkeepers said ‘good day’ as they tended their displays. Georgie noted she had not looked over her shoulder since leaving the Friedrichstrasse. Nowhere in Berlin felt entirely safe, but here seemed comfortable. Among friends.
The Amsels’ home was in a nondescript block with a typical Berlin courtyard at its centre, paint peeling on the stairwell, but scrupulously clean and swept. Sara greeted her with warmth and decorum, and she’d clearly scraped every ounce of flour and butter from her larder in baking a cake. The afternoon was a joy; the children, Leon and Ester, were talkative and curious about life in Britain, practising their impressive English. Although she and Sara came from different worlds – a wife and mother versus a single, carefree woman – Georgie found they had plenty to talk about. Only the presence of Elias, quiet and watchful in the corner armchair, darkened the atmosphere a little.
‘An accident,’ Sara explained as they both cleared the plates in the kitchen. ‘It took out most of his left side. His brain is still razor sharp, but his speech is a little slurred and he’s lost his old spark.’ She sighed with genuine sadness. ‘He used to be such a rascal, a typical younger brother. Now, he can’t work at anything physical, at least that would pay money, and he’s become very withdrawn.’ She looked back through the doorway, at Rubin coaxing out some words from her brother, a smile even. There was such regret in her weary eyes.
‘What did he do before the accident?’ Georgie asked.
‘Oh, he worked on the newspaper with Rubin,’ she said. ‘That’s how we met. He was the youngest in the office.’ Here her eyes lightened with the memory. ‘They used to call him the “newshound”.’ Then a dimming of her pupils. ‘We think that’s how it happened – some mad chase for a story, but he won’t say for sure. I think he’s ashamed at what it�
�s led to, feels himself a burden.’
Georgie looked at the sad shell of a young man. He was only a little older than Max, a whole life ahead of him and hundreds of stories that would have been channelled through his fingers. Perhaps in any other nation he would still able to work in some capacity. But in the Berlin of 1938 he was what the Nazis might term a ‘weight’ upon the nation.
She left with promises for them all to meet again, a walk in the Tiergarten with the children perhaps, and Georgie felt grateful to have found a place of comfort and relaxation amid a family. The irony was not lost on her – feeling at her most safe alongside a persecuted family whose future was in every way tenuous.
17
An End to the War
22nd October 1938
True to Berlin’s black and white reputation, Georgie was pulling out her best dress within a week or two, in readiness for a press reception at the British Embassy, part of the endless social round intent on maintaining the fiction that diplomats and their countries were not seething enemies. Whilst she dreaded the occasions, they could often be entertaining; if she managed to escape to the sidelines, it was a worthwhile exercise in reading body language and proved very amusing.
The Adlon and La Taverne crowds were out in force, Rod in his tuxedo straining across his waist – ‘bought this pre-strudel, I’m afraid,’ he laughed, scooping up another glass of champagne. Frida was in Paris, and there was no sign of Max – or Simone, for that matter. Georgie mingled for a while, said her polite hellos to the British and American ambassadors, and then took her glass to a corner, hoping to be absorbed by the beautiful, high-ceilinged room and all its Weimar opulence.
It lasted all of thirty seconds. ‘Evening, I’ve been tasked with not allowing anyone to sit in sadness alone and you’re my first target. Sorry … candidate.’ The accent was quintessentially British. And diplomatic.
‘But I’m not sad, or lonely,’ Georgie said quickly. She looked up at a young and willowy red-haired man, whose eyes were striking – a dazzling emerald green, underneath lengthy lashes any woman would have paid good money for. He held out a slim hand.
‘Sam Blundon,’ he said. ‘Assistant to the Assistant Ambassador.’
‘That’s a lot of assistance.’
‘Well, it means dogsbody really, but they couldn’t very well put that in the job description.’
‘Assistant is definitely better then.’
Squeezing on the couch beside her, Sam declared himself a veteran of Berlin by a year, still finding his feet, he said, but enjoying the political cat and mouse – or at least bearing witness to it. His sweet nature was evident straightaway, and Georgie considered how he had wound up in such a profession. He appeared such a gentle soul. And being a nosy reporter, she asked the question directly.
‘Public school,’ he said matter-of-factly, with an automatic smile at a woman passing by. ‘It’s like a passport to the diplomatic service – whether you like it or not. I happen to like it. Mostly.’
He was good fun and a willing partner in George’s gentle mockery of the room – much like at the Resi, she gazed at couples turning on the floor to a string quartet, mentally pinching herself at being present in such company.
Sam was distracted by the subtlest of nods. ‘Sorry, duty calls,’ he said, standing up. ‘Perhaps we can go out for a drink sometime, talk about home, or even see a film?’ His smile was so eager and engaging. ‘I would love to escape the embassy circle for an evening.’
‘Then, let’s do it,’ she said. ‘Give me a call at the office or leave a note at the Adlon.’
‘I will. Be sure of it.’
A certain peace – that little hole of solitude even when surrounded by a hundred or so people – descended again. Until a second voice pulled her from her daydream.
‘If I were to ask you for a dance, would you refuse me again?’
It was Max, dapper once again in his evening suit and a wry look on his face, somewhere between humourous and challenging. He’d left his arrogance at home this time.
‘I might, might not,’ she teased. ‘You could try me.’
‘Hmm, sounds dicey, but here goes. Miss Georgina Young’ – a heavy emphasis on her full first name – ‘will you do me the honour of a dance?’
‘I will, since I’m actually wearing shoes that fit.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’
He was a good dancer, though perhaps it was no surprise; Georgie imagined he was no stranger to a ball or two, given the circles he clearly moved in back home. ‘Smooth dancing, Mr Spender. Who taught you?’
He pouted playfully at her gentle sarcasm. ‘My mother,’ he said. A wistful edge to his voice.
‘What does she do?’
‘Did. She’s dead. But she did … well, she did dancing, and a lot of shopping,’ he said, as if faint echoes were washing over him. ‘I suppose you could say she was a socialite.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry she was a socialite or that she’s dead?’ But his grin was a get-out clause for her sympathy.
‘Sorry if you miss her a lot. It sounds like you do.’
‘Yes. But it’s all right. I have plenty of good memories.’
They turned again in silence, almost colliding with Rod, who appeared to have the dancing prowess of an octopus.
‘So, no Simone tonight?’ she pitched. ‘I thought she would have been invited.’
He pulled back slightly, looked at her quizzically.
‘We’re not joined at the hip, you know.’ His tone was more surprise than irritation. ‘She is her own woman.’
‘I know, but she likes you – that much is obvious.’ And you like her. Don’t deny it.
‘Never had you down as the jealous type,’ he said. ‘Especially with all your suitors …’
‘All my suitors! Where did you get that idea?’ Georgie almost ground to a halt mid-spin.
Max propelled her on, relishing the tease. ‘Well, there’s our man Nazi and his expensive sports car, and your young follower this evening …’
‘Sam? I don’t think so.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because I’m not his type.’
‘How do you know?’ he pushed.
‘Because I’m a woman, Max.’
‘Not all the female race are blessed with God-given intuition, you know …’
‘No, Max. I suspect it’s because I’m a woman.’ She stared hard into his eyes, pulling up her eyebrows.
‘Oh. Oh,’ he said, the penny dropping like a feather.
She filled the short silence. ‘Anyway, you can talk – there’s Simone, and what about that slip of a woman just after we arrived? You didn’t waste your time.’
His brow wrinkled with confusion. ‘You don’t mean Frau Keller?’ He let out a laugh loud enough to rival Rod. ‘Ha! Did you imagine she was a love interest?’ Now his amusement had an irritating edge.
‘Well, what else would she be trailing you around for?’ Georgie pressed. ‘She certainly appeared joined to your hip.’
‘I’m flattered you think I’m capable of winning over women so readily …’
‘Don’t be.’
‘… but she was my translator. I needed her.’
‘Your translator!’ Georgie didn’t know whether to laugh or step on his toe with the sharpest point of her heel. ‘And what about me? Am I covered in hairy warts or something? I offered to help you in those first few weeks – that’s exactly why we were sent out together.’
He didn’t flash an answer, only absorbed her wounded sentiment, appeared to be plucking at his next words carefully.
‘I’m sorry, George,’ he said, with what seemed like genuine remorse. ‘I suppose I didn’t want to be a burden, slowing you down. You seemed so … well, so on top of it all.’
Inside, she started. Really, is that how he saw me?
‘Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded,’ she said quietly. ‘And for the record, I wasn’t on top of it all, if you’d bothered
to look carefully. I would have welcomed the company, doing it together.’
She pulled her head back and stared at him. There’s more, her pointed look said. She was prodding at the roasting spit again. Out with it.
‘All right, I was embarrassed too.’ He drew in a breath at the admission. ‘I come from a world where the boundaries between men and women are, let’s say, less fluid.’
‘And what world would that be?’ Except Georgie knew all too well – the life she’d seen already: university, the city, London, newspaper offices. She just wanted him to say it.
He blew out a breath, as if the admission itself was an effort. ‘You don’t want to know about my world. But the point is that here, I feel free of it. Despite Herr Hitler.’
He smiled. Broadly. Georgie thought he really should do it more often. Angst was definitely less attractive. The music stopped and they moved to sit on chairs at the edge of the floor, the conversation halted with the music.
‘Nun, wie kommt deine Sprache voran?’ she said suddenly.
He laughed. ‘Yes, my German is coming along nicely, thank you very much, Fraulein Young. I can even ask for a decent coffee, as well as a beer.’
‘Well, I’m so glad your survival is now assured.’ And then they were both laughing – at the same joke, in unison. It had only taken two months to achieve.
‘So, truce?’ he said.
‘I wasn’t aware we were at war.’
‘Hmm, maybe a little. Let’s call it a skirmish.’
‘All right, a skirmish,’ she agreed.
The Berlin Girl Page 11
