The Berlin Girl

by Mandy Robotham

  ‘You’re being recalled to London,’ he said, his voice full of apology.

  ‘What do you mean recalled? For how long?’ Her voice was already cracking. ‘Why?’ Had she not done a good job? Henry always seemed pleased with her dispatches.

  ‘They’ve had several people leave on the home desk and they need you to fill in. I’m not sure how long.’

  ‘But what about here? It’s a crucial time, Henry. It could all blow up at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I’m an editor, Georgie, not a manager. I don’t make the decisions. They are looking for a permanent replacement for Paul, and in the meantime we’ll use agency material.’

  Her disappointment transmitted clearly over the phone lines. Berlin was like walking on eggshells at times, and she had enjoyed the relaxation of time away, but to lose it entirely …

  ‘I’m sorry, Georgie, but the decision’s made. We’ll get you back there as soon as possible. As a pledge, we’ll pay your Berlin rent while you’re back in England.’

  She couldn’t refuse. While her confidence had grown, she wasn’t at the level of selling her wares as a freelancer, and at least the Chronicle was showing commitment to her return. The thought of seeing her parents was inviting, catching up with friends and watching films not subtitled or badly dubbed, though it was a small payback for her deflation.

  She didn’t hold back the tears at Zoo station, impossible with half the press corps gathered to wave her off, plus Sam. ‘Bring us back some of that heavy stuff you have over there,’ Bill said, prodding her to smile. ‘What is it? Fudge? I’d like some Cornish fudge.’

  The fact that Cornwall and London were hundreds of miles apart didn’t figure to Bill, coming from the vast US Midwest, but she loved that he thought of it.

  ‘Hey, kiddo.’ Rod pulled her in for his best bear embrace. ‘I’m on a strudel strike until you return, so if you have any sympathy for a poor American and his stomach, you’ll come back soon.’

  ‘Promise,’ she said, wiping at her wet cheeks. It was like leaving family, and even Frida and Simone looked saddened in the background. Max stood alongside them, forcing a smile onto his stony face. As the train drew out of the station, he mimed a scribble on his hand. I’ll write, he mouthed, and then the cluster of people receded into the distance.

  Berlin, part one at least, was over.

  London seemed drab by comparison, and Georgie felt frustrated by its relative inertia. No one seemed to be talking seriously of the imminent threat in Europe and what might, very swiftly, interfere dramatically with the price of milk or the train delays. War, that’s what. Full-on, Europe-wide annihilation. How could they be so blind to the Nazis’ badly couched cruelty?

  Work was a saving grace in keeping her busy. Georgie was seconded to the Chronicle’s crime desk, which was pacey yet still routine by comparison. There were no personalities like Herr Bauer to laugh at, and although the other reporters were a good bunch, she longed for the close camaraderie of the Berlin pack. She missed Rod and his hugs, Bill and his wry observations, Frida and her alternative take on life. She missed Max and his friendship. She scoured the Telegraph foreign pages, reading between his lines of what was really happening. She held her breath to read what seemed to be routine politics in the foreign pages, unable to bear the thought of missing out on something ground-breaking.

  The Chronicle ran a piece on the Reich’s five-year plan to enlarge their fleet of ships, easily taking it to beyond the size of the British navy by 1944 – another pledge from the Versailles Treaty the Nazis had simply discarded. Equally, they published frivolous reports on Hitler’s purchase of a priceless painting, and the bizarre call from the editor of Der Stürmer to ban any loyal German from singing ‘The Lambeth Walk’.

  On the home front, there were plans for evacuation and pictures of Londoners building garden air raid shelters, yet it still seemed so half-hearted, as if the world remained convinced it would simply go away when all wished hard enough.

  The weeks seeped into months – Henry had warned her it wouldn’t be a short sabbatical – but London was a place to recharge. She hated the winter fogs and how they made her cough, but there was a less watchful atmosphere than in Berlin, and Georgie noted her shoulders relax as she walked the streets without an ear cocked for footsteps, not tempted to glance behind her. She managed several snatched weekends with her parents, whose anxiety was calmed by her looking so well. ‘I imagined you might be grey, with all that pickled cabbage and meat.’

  ‘Mother! It’s not some out-of-the-way foreign clime, you know. There are fresh vegetables.’ She didn’t dare admit how much strudel was wrapped around the apples she and Rod consumed.

  Max kept his promise and wrote, not quite once a week, but enough to let her know things were merely ticking over. The press crowd were all using Rubin for a variety of jobs, keeping his wages constant. Then: ‘We went skating in one of the frozen-over lakes in the park, and had a lovely time – Frida is a dab hand on the ice. I missed laughing at your attempts (given what you were like on skis!). I noticed, though, that there were plenty of signs: No Jews allowed. How can one race feel that another isn’t allowed to have fun?’

  Despite her own outrage and what it meant for people like Rubin, Georgie warmed at the human element pushing through Max’s pen, despite his best endeavours. Politically, he wrote that the Reich office was quiet, almost worryingly so.

  ‘The only news is that they shut down Berliner Tageblatt, which Rubin was especially sad about, but some of the reporters have got work as agency contributors on the quiet,’ he wrote. He said Frida had been a little cagey and absent, but he offered no news of Simone. ‘Rod has lost several inches off his waistline but is miserable, so come back soon. Please. Love and strudel, Max.’

  Life appeared to be ticking over in Berlin, spring doing its utmost to break though in London, and yet each day seemed grey to Georgie; she hovered over the wire machine on the foreign desk, eager to know if Hitler had made a sudden move, her not in the thick of it. The thought of missing something vital created a new kind of daily anxiety. So she was concerned one lunchtime to see Henry’s form amble over to her desk, his face flat, giving nothing away. Was that a hint of regret that she detected in his features? Perhaps the news she dreaded – that she wouldn’t be going back; they’d found someone to replace her.

  ‘Good news,’ he said at last, holding out an envelope. ‘Ticket to Berlin, in four days. Train only I’m afraid.’

  Georgie’s hand was out in a flash, awash with relief.

  ‘And we’ve decided on a replacement for Paul. How about it – George Young, Senior Bureau Correspondent?’

  Henry wasn’t the hugging type, so she had to be content with a warm handshake and a thousand thanks. ‘You’ve earned it,’ he said. ‘Being plunged in at the deep end. Welcome back to the foreign desk fold. I look forward to lots of good copy.’

  36

  Home from Home

  Berlin, 6th March 1939

  The welcoming committee was depleted on arrival in Berlin, but Georgie was thrilled to see Max as the train drew into the station. In all honesty, she was quite content on seeing him alone, wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a good cup of strong tea, courtesy of her mother’s well-wrapped ‘survival package’.

  ‘We’ve got strict instructions to make a stop before the apartment,’ Max said, refusing to reveal any more. They taxied to Café Kranzler and a cheer went up as she walked through the door – at least eight around the table, a huge platter of strudel in the middle.

  ‘At last, I’m saved from a famine of the finest pastry!’ Rod boomed and stood to cloak Georgie with his being. He looked a little trimmer but had clearly found a sweet substitute while she’d been away. And it was almost as if she’d never been away – the banter and the warmth immediate and homely, mitigated only by recent news that two British journalists had been arrested for daring to watch the expulsion of Jews, spending five long hours in the Gestapo HQ before th
eir release.

  ‘So, it’s watch your backs, guys,’ Rod said. ‘Let’s stick together and look out for each other. I need you lot for the sake of my sanity!’

  Beyond the café windows, a sudden diatribe barked from a nearby speaker and pushed its way through the glass, a distinct, guttural German declaring the brilliance of a new Nazi enterprise. And yet it felt somehow familiar – perhaps not comforting, but strangely normal. It was good to be back.

  Georgie wandered into the office afterwards to find Rubin, blinds fully down while he converted press releases into readable copy, as part of his new, diverse role, detailed as ‘helper’. The lines on his face spread with acute relief at seeing her.

  ‘How’s Sara?’ she asked. She had thought of writing directly to Rubin from England but stopped herself, not wanting to risk any surveillance on the family.

  ‘She’s … well, she’s all right,’ he managed, with a small shake of his head. ‘There’s no news on Elias. But we have managed to secure the children on the transport – they leave in five days. For England.’

  ‘Five days!’

  ‘Yes, it’s been quick. But it’s good. For them. Sara is … well, you can imagine. But she knows it’s the right thing. We both do.’ His tone was laboured and unconvincing to both of them.

  She swivelled towards him, put a hand on his arm and squeezed. ‘I’m so sorry, Rubin,’ Georgie said at last. ‘No family should have to go through what you are. I know I promised to find Elias and …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, clutching at her hand. ‘You were willing at least. From what we hear, he might be in some sort of camp. There are rumours of large numbers being held.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘No, they’re scattered across Germany. He could be anywhere. But it means if the Nazis are keeping large groups, Elias could still be alive.’ He didn’t allude to the conditions or if he might be suffering. ‘We have to hold on to that thought, Georgie. For us, and for the children.’

  Back home, Georgie opened her pile of post once in the bath, her teacup teetering on the side. Most were from family and friends, amazed at her ‘glamorous’ life in cosmopolitan Berlin. One, though, was in a more familiar hand, the black eagle icon of the Reich as its postmark. Kasper.

  The letter was dated almost a month previously and the script was charming, as always. Could they perhaps go out again? he asked. He was back in Berlin permanently and it would be nice to ‘catch up’. Georgie was perplexed. It had been months since their last contact, so why now? Her suspicions were raised, now, by any man in a Nazi uniform.

  She was tempted simply to toss the note away, but Max’s suggestion nagged at her – that perhaps Kasper might be gently prodded for any information, on Paul or the fate of Jewish prisoners. He could still be that vital contact, especially as they had no other leads. She’d pledged in her own mind never to see another Reich officer again, but this would be for Elias, and Rubin. Could she afford to pass up the opportunity?

  Leaping on her own spontaneity, Georgie wrote a hasty reply, explaining she’d been ‘back home’ for a while, but yes, it would be lovely to meet. She walked to the post box and, with only a second’s hesitation, pushed it in. Oh Lord, Georgie – off we go again.

  Georgie managed to think little of it over the next week – she moved around the city independently, while Rubin spent as much time as he could with Leon and Ester before their departure to England. Travelling on the tram was like reacquainting herself with an old friend, tuning into conversations between Berliners – whispered talk on politics and the ‘Jewish problem’ – and what occupied their minds.

  On the day of departure, she was touched to be invited to the station. Rubin, characteristically, was putting on a brave face for Sara, but Georgie could see his emotions were wound tight. It was lucky that Leon and Ester were among a crowd of children on the platform, brown paper labels tied onto their clothes, one suitcase apiece bashing at their reedy ankles. Excited chatter from some of the young ones helped to mask the parents’ pent-up distress. Sara looked as if she was already dry of tears, her red-rimmed eyes a sign that she’d been crying most of the night. Somehow, she hauled a smile from the depths of her sorrow.

  ‘Now, make sure you are polite, say please and thank you, and remember what English manners Georgie has taught you.’ She busied herself tidying their hair and buttoning coats. Anything but thinking about that last touch and the enormous void their going would create.

  ‘We’ll write – all the time,’ she went on. ‘Mama and Papa will join you in England as soon as we can.’

  The children stared, murmured, ‘Yes, Mama’ – Georgie couldn’t imagine the swirl of confusion their young minds were facing. She had to turn away as the train shunted out of the station, hands waving furiously from open windows, tears rolling onto the platform, until the last puff of steam was out of sight.

  ‘It is better this way, isn’t it?’ Sara sobbed into her husband’s coat. ‘We’ve done the right thing, haven’t we?’

  Rubin’s pained expression met with Georgie’s over Sara’s hair. Grave. Bereft. He nodded. ‘Yes, we have, my love. We have.’

  37

  True Colours

  14th March 1939

  Since the dawning of the new year, rumours had been circulating among the press that Hitler was planning something big – they just didn’t know what. Perhaps blindsided by the huge investment into the German navy, everyone was surprised when the attack came on land. Each had written of Hitler dipping his toe into Czechoslovakian lands to the north-west, the Führer claiming once again that his troops were merely ‘protecting’ Poles in the area and reclaiming the land for Poland, like the venerable neighbour he was.

  And then the blow. Czechoslovakia was severed in one fell swoop, sliced in two as a pro-German Slovak Republic emerged overnight. Hitler had his troops poised to march into the remaining half the very next day, with little opposition from the winded Czechs; the Reich’s ‘Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia’ was instantly created. So much for Chamberlain’s ‘peace for our time’, Georgie thought disdainfully.

  It was a busy few days workwise, as the shock news dominated the front pages of British newspapers, with in-depth analysis on the inside pages; Georgie’s head was spinning with politics and quotes, liaising with the Czech bureau as Hitler’s staccato victory speech rang out from Prague’s ancient castle.

  Days later, the Führer returned to Berlin and Joey G pulled out all the stops for his ‘triumphant’ homecoming parade. Arriving back into the office, having endured the sickening spectacle, Georgie found herself virtually dry of inspiration. How much more of an example did the world need before this man and his dangerous ego were properly challenged?

  In frustration, she rolled a single sheet into her typewriter and willed her words to spill.

  Postcard from Berlin,

  18th March 1939

  Dear British public,

  Spring marches in Germany’s capital with yet another parade, an endless line of inch-perfect foot stomping and unified raising of palms to welcome the Führer back from his pillage. If he weren’t so decidedly German, we foreigners might easily mistake him for a Viking raider returned with his spoils. The pomp and bluster of such occasions are all too familiar, but now – with a successful stranglehold over the former Czechoslovakia – Berlin smoulders: flaming bowls of oil line the Führer’s procession, casting an eerie glow while searchlights play into the sky.

  But this is no longer a carnival. We might be reminded of Adolf Hitler’s public pledge on seizing the Sudetenland last year, that it represented ‘the last territorial demand I have to make in Europe’.

  After tonight, I feel sure the world has not seen the spectacle of the Führer’s finale yet.

  Auf Wiedersehen, your correspondent in Berlin

  Georgie sat back and blew out a sigh, looked out into the lights of Berlin. She’d forgotten to draw the blinds and the unease of being watched lingered, but she couldn’t mo
tivate herself to act. She needed sleep but wanted company more and, as if someone had been watching or even reading her thoughts, the phone rang.

  ‘Chronicle office,’ she said wearily. It was often Henry at this time.

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell whether you need alcohol or coffee,’ said the voice at the other end. Not Henry but Max.

  ‘Either,’ she said. ‘You offering?’

  ‘I’ll stand you both at La Taverne. See you in twenty minutes?’

  ‘You’re on.’ The promise of good company who might share her flattened mood was motivation enough.

  It was already eleven and the restaurant was almost empty, so too the press table, and the place had a dejected air. But Georgie rallied on seeing Max come through the door, alone. She loved the others, but the prospect of a combined moan – one to one – was exactly what she needed then.

  ‘So, how’s living on a knife-edge been for you today?’ Max put down two large brandies with coffee alongside.

  Georgie blew out her cheeks. ‘I thought I might scream having to watch that blasted parade,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘The arrogance of the high command sickens me. They look more and more like playground bullies with their smug smiles.’

  ‘A very apt description,’ Max said. ‘You should consider a career as a writer.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ She frowned. ‘Seriously, though, where is it going to end, Max? How much more proof does everyone need?’

  ‘I hear you, but it seems others don’t. All we can do is continue to bleed our souls onto the keyboard and hope it works.’

  They sat nursing their brandy for a minute.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ Georgie said. ‘Kasper got in touch.’

  Max cocked his head quizzically.