The Berlin Girl

by Mandy Robotham

  ‘My Nazi man, as you like to call him. He’s proposed another date.’

  ‘And?’ Max had one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I said yes. If he still thinks I’m some sort of rich-girl socialite, I might glean something from him. About Paul or Elias. I think it’s worth a try.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Max’s expression was a world away from a few months previously. Worry lines ran through his brow.

  ‘Well, you’ve changed your tune,’ she grumbled. ‘It was you who suggested it last time.’

  ‘Things have changed, Georgie.’

  ‘Yes, they have,’ she snapped, suddenly irked. ‘It’s become far more important to find out what happened to them both.’ Why was he so changeable, just when she thought they’d come to a perfect point in their friendship?

  ‘Well, it’s up to you. Just make sure you let me know when and where,’ he said, downing the last of his brandy. Georgie bit her tongue, tempted to deliver a glib reply about not needing a bodyguard and yes, it was her decision. But she was simply too tired to fall out with Max, who might – after all – only be watching out for her. As friends often did.

  The foreign press coverage after the Czech invasion put a new strain on relations with the Propaganda Ministry; Herr Bauer had a face like thunder whenever he came across Rod in particular, whose reporting was so cleverly worded as to make it seem unbiased and yet condemned the regime entirely. Either by association, or because her postcards had begun to be more frequent, Georgie also received a slice of his cold civility.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your colleague, Herr Adamson,’ Bauer managed. Of course, he wasn’t. And it was entirely possible he knew how Paul had come to meet his death. ‘Is your publication planning to replace him?’ A minuscule portion of his teeth came into view.

  ‘Thankfully, they have.’ Georgie smiled, feeling very smug inside. ‘It’s me, Herr Bauer. I’m the new bureau chief.’ Currently the head of only one, but the mini-Hitler didn’t need to know that yet.

  The teeth disappeared, his lips set together. ‘Congratulations, Fraulein. I’m glad to say we already see more of you than your former bureau chief.’ But, of course, he wasn’t, not after the last Postcard and the missives of support in the Chronicle’s letters page.

  He nodded and clipped away.

  ‘I swear he’s adopted Hitler’s awkward shuffle,’ Rod whispered. ‘It’s uncanny. I bet you he’s touting for the job of the Führer’s double – would gladly stand in the way of a bullet for his leader, deluded asshole that he is.’

  ‘Careful, Rod, you really are going to get into trouble one of these days.’ Georgie scanned the walls for where the nearest listening device might be.

  ‘Oh yes, but won’t it be worth it?’ He smiled, linking arms.

  ‘Not if the SS get hold of you it won’t. You might wish you’d succumbed to strudel poisoning then.’

  ‘An equally lovely way to go. Come on, Kranzler’s is waiting.’

  They sat at their usual table, and Georgie noted Rod eyeing the room.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I just haven’t seen Karl around here for some time. Have you?’

  ‘Actually, no. Not since before I left for London.’

  Rod looked unusually worried. He leaned in to stir his coffee, inviting Georgie to join in a cosy tête-à-tête. ‘I asked him to make a few enquiries about a story I was working on,’ he murmured. ‘He did, but that was three weeks ago. I hope he hasn’t fallen foul.’

  These days, it was entirely possible – more uniforms on the streets, more SS in sight. And who knows how many more Gestapo lurking in the shadows.

  38

  Empty Nest

  20th March 1939

  He heard Sara’s key turn in the lock only seconds before she called out: ‘It’s me, anyone home?’ Rubin noted she still did it each day, as if by some miracle another voice would call out that they were present – one of the children, or even Elias. Habit surely, or perhaps simply his wife trying to maintain her sanity.

  ‘I’m home,’ he sang out, ‘in the parlour. Come and see what I’ve got for you.’

  Her face was quizzical as she came in, perhaps a little brighter in past days, now they’d had a letter from each of the children. It had been only a short note, but enough to know they were safe in London, waiting for a more permanent home, and together as they hoped. The tears that day, at least, had been of relief.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found fruit? Or real coffee?’ Her face was expectant, fell a little when Rubin admitted that no, he hadn’t, and handed her a small, soft package instead.

  ‘Oh, Rubin, it’s beautiful,’ she cooed over the delicate silk scarf, patterned with fish in fashionable blues and greens, wrapping its softness around the scant flesh of her neck and palming the fibres against her cheek. ‘But where did you get it? How can we afford this?’

  He smiled, tapped the side of his nose playfully. ‘Oh, I do know a few people.’

  Rubin did know a good many tradesmen, but none who bartered in this level of finery. He’d already wrestled with himself on coming clean, but decided Sara need not know that he’d simply found it on the pavement near to the Chronicle office. He’d scanned the pavement for any shoppers who might have dropped the finely wrapped parcel from Wertheim’s, but no one it seemed had lost a package. If Sara knew the truth, she might be offended, mortified at wearing something picked off the street. And yet she deserved it – she’d had no new clothes for years now. If Rubin could have bought it for her, to raise a smile, he would have. And she needed a distraction – not to think about the huge, echoey void in their tiny apartment, not to have to look at the children’s empty beds and finger the toys they’d left behind, the family photograph she touched each and every time she passed. If, for just a minute she could feel like any other woman, spoiled on occasion, he would swallow the guilt of deception.

  ‘Oh, one more piece of news,’ Rubin called as Sara went to put on the coffee pot.

  ‘Yes? Any word?’ She was quick to hope again.

  He moved into the kitchen, lowered his voice. ‘No word, but a meeting’s been called – seems that the Gestapo has ears, but so has the resistance. We might know something soon.’

  Sara’s smile was short-lived. ‘Rubin, promise me you’ll be careful – where you go, who you meet.’

  ‘I will, Sara, but I’m certain that unless we take some chances, we’ll never know anything. About Elias, or any of them.’

  ‘I understand, but I couldn’t bear it if …’ and Rubin moved to her, knowing the delicate silk could never stem her tide of sorrow.

  39

  The Temple

  23rd March 1939

  The political lull in the first months of 1939 gave way to furious activity, as Hitler set his sights on further acquisitions. He marched brazenly into the Lithuanian territory of Memel, claiming it was Germany’s by rights, and then – as if collecting properties on a Monopoly board – turned his attention to Danzig, a tiny free city state in the most northern part of the Polish ‘corridor’ sandwiched between Germany and East Prussia. No one doubted the Führer’s greedy eye was focused on its thriving port and coastline into the Baltic rather than the freedom of German Danzigers.

  Two days later, it became plain that the ongoing tussle over Danzig was also a distraction; Germany and the USSR signed a pact, agreeing on how they would split the big prize: Poland.

  Finally, the world’s politicians stirred, and by the end of March, Britain and France had made a verbal stand at least, reassuring Poland they would support its right to defend independence, though they stopped short of any details. The foreign press was incensed, and yet the sheer adrenalin drove them on, running from Reich briefings to embassy statements, pushing heads together at the Adlon and then winding down at La Taverne over pasta and beer, Rod holding court and trying, at the same time, to keep tabs on his increasing frustration with the Reich, the world and humanity.

  ‘I
s he all right?’ Georgie whispered to Bill one evening. ‘He seems so wound up.’

  Bill sighed, nodded. ‘I’ve known Rod a long time, but he’s never been like this. I’ll have another word, get him to calm down. Even this place has ears.’

  Georgie looked around the otherwise relaxed restaurant, with not a uniform in sight. But yes, Bill was right. Nowhere in Berlin was beyond the long arm of the Gestapo.

  In the midst, Kasper had replied in his typically ornate but unrushed fashion. He suggested an evening date, and although Georgie’s gut twisted a little at the intimacy, it did mean a public place. He proposed meeting at the fashionable Ciro bar, moving on to a reception. Her mouth went dry at the prospect of a Nazi social gathering, brimming with pro-Führer personnel. But her ears would be on full alert, and if she proved convincing, Kasper’s trust was further gained. It’s work, Georgie. It’s essential.

  On the appointed evening, she was not surprised to see Max and Simone already ensconced at the Ciro at a corner table looking towards the bar, the French woman casually consenting to be part of their plan. Max looked the part – dapper in his evening suit with a cocktail to hand, and Georgie had a fleeting reminder of that night at the Ritz, his arrogant approach and her flighty rebuff. Strange how she was intensely relieved to see him now, even with Simone at his side. Georgie had never quite warmed to Simone in the same way as she had to Frida; Simone’s cool exterior sometimes seemed chilly. Frida was intensely intelligent and ambitious, but she was also fun, flighty and easy company. Simone was her opposite – aloof and, at the Ciro, also irritatingly beautiful.

  The bar was busy, both the people and the chic surroundings oozing luxury; it attracted a moneyed, multilingual crowd eager to hear jazz tunes amid the Arabesque décor, with a chattery blend of German, French, English and American accents. Georgie was disappointed not to find Kasper at the bar already; she’d never felt comfortable striding into a London pub on her own, despite the numerous press gatherings over a pint.

  She took in a breath, pushed back her shoulders and flashed a brief glance at Max, who caught her eye without a flicker, though she might have seen the briefest of nods.

  Come on, George, play the game.

  She was at least appropriately attired; back at the flat, she’d raided Frida’s wardrobe and gained all-round approval. The emerald cocktail dress fitted like a glove, everyone said, the silk hugging Georgie’s small waist and draping over her wider hips as if it was made for her. Frida – the hardy journalist who could drink a man under the table and still beat him to a story – had teased at Georgie’s blonde hair, pinning and curling as she imparted tips on how to flatter a Reich officer without fawning. Still, she didn’t question why Georgie had chosen to make such an effort for what was increasingly becoming the enemy. Nor did she ever expect to be quizzed herself.

  Cloaked in a new confidence, Georgie walked to the bar with every ounce of poise she could muster and perched on one of the stools. The barman was there in a flash.

  ‘Vodka Martini please.’ The first sip was a honey tonic on her tongue, and she surveyed the Ciro scene; the beautifully dressed women with their aura of true assurance, throwing back their heads with laughter and casually blowing smoke into the air. Their enchanted male companions had either been born into money or eased into its comfort very quickly. Looking about, Georgie knew her limited acting ability needed to reflect this; previous dates with Kasper had seemed like fun. Now, there was much more at stake.

  ‘Georgie, you look lovely.’ Kasper was upon her in a flash, picked up her hand and kissed it as he bored into her with those magnetic eyes. This was new, and it rankled; she’d heard from one of the other reporters this was often how Hitler himself greeted women, using his eyes to draw people in. The Führer’s were apparently button-black up close, where Kasper’s were eternally alluring. She smiled with appreciation at Officer Vortsch, because that was her job now.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She didn’t afford him the same compliment – he was in uniform, though pressed and crisp. And perhaps adorned with one or two more silver insignia, though she couldn’t be sure. He ordered a cocktail, and they sat gossiping about the crowd, Kasper pointing out several of the women as film stars attached to one of the city’s picture studios.

  ‘So, you’ve been away, back to England?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my mother wasn’t well, and it was a chance to catch up with some friends.’ She’d progressed to an outright fabrication of facts. What else could she do?

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother. But you came back – that must mean you prefer it to London?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, relieved to speak a sliver of truth. ‘London is so drab compared to Berlin. And, of course, I need to be here for my work.’

  She studied his face, for his features to shift – to suspicion, or disbelief. But it reflected little more than a feigned uninterest.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Is your writing going well?’

  ‘Yes and no. It’s a love story and I’m struggling with the main characters right now.’

  ‘Well, I hope that tonight Berlin can afford you some inspiration.’

  It was a stock, throwaway comment, since he wasn’t really listening – those disarming eyes were on her, but his ears tuned in elsewhere, and Georgie felt confident her false life was holding fast; to Kasper she remained a daddy’s girl straight out of finishing school, biding her time until she landed herself a husband.

  He encouraged her to drink up. ‘I have a car waiting,’ he said. She turned and made a lengthy play of putting on her jacket, catching half a glance from Max as he and Simone hastily finished their drinks. Their loose strategy meant Max shadowing her as far and as close as possible. Beyond that, she and her acting skills were flying solo.

  Kasper had obviously gone up in the world – or the hierarchy. A large Mercedes stood idling outside the Ciro, with a uniformed driver, but it was Kasper who opened the door for Georgie. Inside, a mingled smell of expensive leather, cologne and whisky.

  ‘So, where are we going?’ Georgie asked in her most upbeat voice. With or without Max as a tail, it would help her nerves to know their destination.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ Kasper said, with his former boyishness. ‘I promise good food, though, and lively company. I hope you’ve not eaten.’

  She hadn’t – her nerves had seen to that – but if there was more alcohol to consume in the spirit of the evening, she would definitely need something in her stomach.

  They headed north. Georgie could tell that much but the streetlights whizzed by in a flash, petering out as they seemed to be leaving the city confines behind. She wanted desperately to swivel her head round and check if there were headlights following, though it would be impossible to know if it was Max and Simone tailing. Once on the road out of the city, there were no landmarks for Georgie to navigate by and she gave up. Her stomach pinched with a strange mix of mild nausea and preordained fate, though she was surprised that it was not panic. What will be will be. At least Max would know at whose hand she had perished. He would find out. Being Max, he wouldn’t let it lie, she could be certain. Her parents would have answers.

  ‘We’ve been driving for a long while – I hope this food is well worth it,’ she said in a flighty voice.

  ‘Oh yes, it will be.’ Kasper smiled, though not with any hint of malevolence. For now, he wore that eager-to-please expression she’d seen before.

  It changed, rapidly, as the car came to a sudden halt. Georgie had noticed houses becoming more frequent, as if they were driving up to or through a small village – a sign flashed by: Orenia … Orana …? But she couldn’t make it out fully. The door was opened by the driver and Kasper stepped out, his demeanour switching over a split second. Gone was the excited boy of their balloon adventure or the expectant face from minutes before. Even from the back, she saw his body stiffen and his right hand launch into the night air – he had become Officer Vortsch. He was immediately saluted by a waiting off
icer returning the ‘Heil Hitler’ with enthusiasm.

  There was neither sight nor sound of any other cars following, and Georgie hoped Max wasn’t fool enough to follow this closely. Equally, she wished he was somewhere nearby, close enough that he could scoop her up if she wanted – needed – to make a break on foot.

  They’d pulled up in front of a low building in a grandiose chalet style, with steps leading up to an imposing front door, Kasper putting out his hand to lead Georgie upwards. Her roaming eyes saw the building was freestanding with little else around, making the high wall opposite seem strangely out of place. Yet she had a sensation, even in the darkness, that they weren’t entirely adrift, a distinct feeling of people and buildings nearby. At least the hope of it. It was eerily quiet, but with an underlying hum of a presence and a sour odour, nothing to assault anyone’s nostrils but enough to make hers twitch.

  Kasper’s face was back to gleeful anticipation. ‘Please, come on in,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet everyone.’

  There was small vestibule where a tall, thin man in a white waiter’s uniform took her coat, and Kasper led her formally into a spacious room with a large dining table down one side, several easy chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle on the opposite side around a fireplace. It was more comfortable and sumptuous than any officer’s mess Georgie had seen – the furnishings chintzy and expensive, artwork on the walls, like a living room of the wealthy middle classes.

  Most of the easy chairs were occupied by uniformed officers – all SS – drinking and smoking, with several women in evening dress perched on the arm of the chair and, in one case, sat on the lap of an officer, his hand straying noticeably upwards on her thigh. Georgie smiled, though her facial muscles already ached with the effort.

  ‘Hallo, alle zusammen!’ Kasper announced loudly to the room. ‘I’d like you to meet Fraulein Georgie Young. She’s a writer, from England.’ Kasper’s hand was in the small of Georgie’s back and he piloted her firmly towards the group, his face flushed with pride.