“All the girls here are the same, are they?” asked Macrae.
“Yes,” said Shirer. “It’s the oldest story in the world, isn’t it? Love for sale. Now, are you listening?”
Macrae nodded and bent his head while the correspondent launched into a long explanation of how the army dealt with the former corporal who had become its commander-in-chief.
The Führer would issue an order, usually of an urgent and highly impractical nature, Shirer said. The generals would pass the order on to the planning staff and they would in turn send it to technical teams. Within days, a complex document would be laid before Hitler, who would characteristically launch into a tirade about the incompetence of the military. Then he would issue a revised directive, and so the process went on until the army got a plan that was feasible and very roughly to their liking.
Macrae was listening while keeping an eye on the bar. The man had left her and she was looking over the room. She was looking straight at him. She frowned, then smiled and slid off the stool. Macrae faced Shirer.
“Are you telling me that the generals are going to turn Hitler down?”
“They don’t want a wider invasion, that’s for sure.”
“Doesn’t answer the question.”
“Put it this way. There’s going to be a big kick-back in the army if the Führer decides to smash Czechoslovakia and take the whole kit and caboodle.” Shirer raised his hand, signalling for the bill. “Let’s just keep in touch. If you hear anything from the London end I would be grateful, strictly between us, of course.”
A waitress brought the bill It wasn’t Ruth, and Macrae couldn’t see her anywhere. Shirer glanced at the bill, laid a large number of reichsmarks on the platter and struggled into his coat. He reached for the bill, leaving the money on the table.
“You coming?” he said.
“I think I’ll stay for a nightcap,” said Macrae.
“Really?” said Shirer, surprised and smiling. “Well, well, well. And I thought butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Take care.” And he was gone.
Macrae sat down and picked up the menu.
“Coffee?” she said, standing there, having materialised, so it seemed to Macrae, out of thin air.
“Thanks – and maybe a brandy.”
“And may I join you?”
“Are you allowed to?”
“That’s the whole point of this place,” she said, and sat down. She looked over at the bar, nodding twice, and, by a process that Macrae could not understand, a tray with coffee and two glasses of brandy was swiftly delivered to the table.
“What a surprise,” he said, raising the glass, “to find that nice young woman I met at the Adlon, the woman called Ruth who said she was a restaurant manager, the woman who suddenly appeared by my side in the park, to find out she works here in …”
“Did you find out about Joseph?”
“Why would I bother? Everything you told me was a lie.”
“I told you I worked here. I told you my brother was in a camp. Those aren’t lies. And my name here is Sara, by the way.”
“Ruth yesterday, Sara today – what will it be tomorrow?”
“Who are you to talk? You lied to me, didn’t you? You think this is what I want to do? I do it because I am safe here. They can’t touch me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m a Jewish whore in a Nazi bordello.”
She sighed and lit another cigarette. Macrae wanted another drink. He also wanted a cigarette. He had tried to give up two years earlier but occasionally yielded to temptation.
“I thought you might come in one day,” she said. “Most of the attachés do.”
“And they sleep with the girls, do they?”
She shrugged. “Not necessarily. But a lot of them do. This is where power comes to play. There’s danger in the air here. Men like that; they like the taste of adrenalin, don’t they?”
“I think I’d better leave,” he said, pushing back his chair.
“Please don’t go.”
Once outside, he leant back against the wall of the club, breathing in cool night air. He badly needed that cigarette. She was beautiful, she was in trouble and she was Jewish. Everything about her told him she was telling the truth. And her brother Joseph Sternschein was in a camp – was that true too? It would not be easy to find out.
The Gestapo kept meticulous records of certain categories of those who fell into their clutches: communists, saboteurs, sexual deviants and political opponents were all documented by name and address and usually with a headshot photograph, but the sheer number of Jews being arrested at any one time and sent to camps meant that names were often superseded as a means of identification by a file number and the date and place of arrest.
He walked quickly away from the Salon, turned off the well-lit main avenue and took a footpath into the darkness of the Tiergarten. It was nearing midnight, but he did not feel tired. The brandy had invigorated him, although he knew there would be a price to pay in the morning. If Primrose was home she would be asleep. He needed a walk to clear his head and think. The headlights of cars driving around the Siegessäule roundabout threw a Catherine wheel of lights into the woods. He could just see the path and walked slowly.
Above the faint hum of traffic he heard the sound of hurrying footsteps. He stopped and listened. The clip-clop of steps was coming down the path he had just walked. He reached for the door key in his pocket, a heavy old-fashioned object whose jagged teeth would make a useful weapon.
The footsteps were getting closer and louder, light, fast-moving steps that spoke of urgency, or perhaps hostility. He leant back against the trunk of a tree and peered down the path. A figure took shape in the darkness wearing a flowing cape with the hood pulled over the head. He took the key from his pocket. The Nazis had a tight grip on almost every aspect of life in Berlin but they had not eliminated street crime, especially in the darkness of the Tiergarten at night.
The figure stopped in front him, breathing heavily. Macrae raised the key to show the stranger he had a means of defence.
The figure pushed back the hood, showing a tumble of dark hair. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she said.
He put the key back in his pocket.
“What are you doing here? Why are you following me?”
She fished a cigarette from her bag and offered one to him. He took it gratefully. She snapped open a lighter and in the light of the flame her face seemed different. The young actress in the Salon was now a woman who looked tired, anxious and older than her years.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You don’t trust me? You’re right. These days no one trusts anyone. Especially in there.” She nodded in the direction of the Salon.
He drew on the cigarette, wondering how he had ever even thought of giving up. She stepped off the path and joined him under the tree.
“I’ve told you: I can help you,” she said.
“I doubt it,” he said, wondering why he didn’t just say goodnight and walk away.
“I have information.”
“What sort of information?”
“You would be amazed what goes on in those rooms. They film and tape everything.”
“What’s the point?”
“Blomberg and Fritsch, remember? That’s the point.”
He inhaled deeply, almost his first cigarette in two years. He knew it would not be his last. Blomberg had fallen from grace through a stupid marriage. General Fritsch was different. He was a tough career officer, known to have stood up to Hitler, especially at one long meeting in the Reich Chancellery back in November 1937 when the Führer had revealed plans to take the Reich to war. Fritsch had argued back very convincingly and Hitler had grudgingly retreated.
But from then on Fritsch was a marked man. Now he was gone, supposedly through some sexual scandal arranged by Heydrich. Maybe Fritsch had been compromised in the Salon. Maybe
Sara had been the bait. Maybe everything she had told him had been a lie.
“Why was your brother arrested?” he asked.
“Silly stuff, just leaflets.”
“For the Communist Party?”
“No, just leaflets denouncing the Nazis, calling for justice for those detained, asking Western powers to intervene.”
“How did they catch him?”
“Usual thing. An informer, someone he trusted. They tortured her, of course.”
“‘Her’?”
“It was his girlfriend.”
“Oh,” he said.
She had moved closer. The glowing ends of their cigarettes made twin tracks of light in the darkness. He could smell her perfume, a scent of citrus, something he had not noticed in the club.
“Do you think you can do it?” she said.
“Find out about your brother?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a diplomat. It would be beyond my duties and in breach of protocol – interference in the internal affairs of a sovereign state.”
She suddenly laughed. “You think I’m wearing a microphone, don’t you? You think this is a trap.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Let me show you.”
He watched bemused as she let her cape fall to the ground. She unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, the action taking no more than a moment. She was wearing a black brassiere and panties.
“Get dressed,” he said. “This is not necessary.”
“It is necessary,” she hissed. “Because this is exactly what they would do. I have told you – they film and tape everything in that club. Why wouldn’t they send me here to do the same to you? They don’t like you, did you know that? They have you on a file.”
Macrae stiffened. She was probably right.
“How do you know that?” he said.
“I’ve told you, I hear a lot in that place. You need proof that I’m not working for them tonight?”
She unhooked her brassiere and let it drop to her feet. The occasional flash of headlights in the darkness revealed her breasts, full and pale like misty moons in the darkness. She was wearing only a suspender belt and black stockings.
“That’s enough,” he said. “Get dressed.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, and slipped out of her panties.
“This is where we hide the mikes – here,” she placed her hand on a triangular tangle of thick pubic hair. “They have not invented one yet that works inside – sorry, am I shocking you?”
She stood there in the darkness, naked but for her stockings, and pirouetted slowly, hands raised above her head. All the time distant headlights sliced through the darkness, throwing spears of light onto the contours of pale skin and strands of dark hair.
“You see. I’m clean,” she said.
“Put your clothes back on,” he said again.
“First tell me you believe me.”
“I don’t believe you’ve been sent here to trap me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She got dressed much more slowly than she had undressed. He felt his heart beating faster. His mouth was dry. He needed another drink. She pulled her dress over a full-figured body that had been naked before him only a minute ago, turning her back in false modesty.
This had been planned; it was deliberate; he was being set up. He looked into the shadowy outline of the surrounding trees, half expecting a lurking figure to explode from the darkness with a camera and flashbulb.
Once dressed, she turned, smoothed her dress and ran fingers through her hair.
“It’s not much to ask, is it? Will you try?”
He sighed. He was tired, he was drunk and he would try to make sense of this midnight melodrama later, much later.
“All right,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, and stepped forward to kiss him. He turned his head, feeling the feathery brush of her lips on his cheek. He turned his head towards her. Suddenly their lips met lightly, a soft touch in the darkness. She stepped back, fished in her bag, taking out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled deeply. Then she put it between his lips, a gesture so unexpected that he opened his mouth and drew on the cigarette without thinking. She lit her own and rested against the tree beside him. He felt her hand take his and squeeze it.
They stayed there for a moment, a minute, an hour, he couldn’t tell; then he saw her cigarette end flying into the night.
“I must go,” she said, and turned and walked away into the darkness without another word.
He watched the cloaked figure vanish into the night. He looked at his watch. It was midnight. He levered himself away from the tree unsteadily and walked back to the house.
Primrose was asleep when he got back, curled up on her side of the bed, one hand still holding an open book. He took it from her and glanced at the title. Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood. He laid it on the bedside table, went to the bathroom and washed his face. In the kitchen he filled a tumbler of water from the tap and drank thirstily. The kitchen was spotless and exactly as the maid had left it that morning. There were no dishes drying in the rack by the sink. No one had cooked in there that night. Primrose had been out to dinner again.
The next morning, the ambassador’s meeting was an ill-tempered affair. For the first time that anyone present could recall, an open discussion on policy verged on disagreement about the stated aims of the government in London. Sir Nevile had begun with a poorly judged metaphor about the weather. It was only May, he said, but outside summer had arrived and the temperature was rising to an unbearable degree.
His staff looked at him blankly. The weather outside was normal. It was a warm day in late spring. The ambassador tried to explain. “I am talking about the political temperature,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” said Buckland, scarcely trying to conceal his sarcasm. “Well, you are quite right, Ambassador. Have you heard the announcement from Prague this morning?”
“No,” said the ambassador, wondering why no one had warned him of what was clearly going to be more bad news.
“It’s a news agency flash, just come in,” said Buckland, waving a copy of a cable. “Prague claims that five German divisions are on the move close to the border and an invasion is imminent.”
“Macrae?” said the ambassador.
“German spring manoeuvres always take place at this time of year. The Czechs are understandably very jumpy right now. I will check further.”
“I thought your job was to warn us of these things in advance.” Sir Nevile was determined not to let this meeting slide away from him like the last.
“My job is to keep you as informed as possible, consistent with the willingness of my informant to take risks to provide the information.”
“Exactly who is this informant?” said the ambassador, knowing immediately that the stupidity of the question would be obvious to everyone. “I mean, not his name, obviously, but an idea of rank and status would be helpful,” he added.
“Not to him I fear, Ambassador. I have given my word that his identity will never be revealed, even to that extent.”
“Very well. You had better go to the border region and report back.”
“I’ve already made the arrangements. I’m leaving after conference with a driver.”
And you have not asked my permission, thought the ambassador. The man was intolerable. He had received no answer to his request for Macrae to be transferred. He would send another cable to the Foreign Office. In the meantime, the man was better off out of the office swanning around the Czech border. It was obvious that Hitler was only rattling his weaponry to get his way, as usual. The issue of the three million or so ethnic Germans in the Sudetenland region was simple. They should be incorporated into Germany under the terms of the Versailles treaty, which allowed for self-determination of such ethnic groups. That would satisfy Hitler. Si vis pacem, para bellum, as the old saying went. Macrae wouldn’t understand that. If you want peace, prepare for war. He wo
uldn’t understand that either.
Macrae slipped a note to Halliday as the ambassador turned to the subject of an international hunting expedition organised by Göring for sportsmen around the world.
The note said, Joseph Sternschein interned camp called Buchenwald. Can confirm status – alive or dead?
Halliday raised an eyebrow. Macrae put a finger to his lips and rose to leave the room.
For the next week, Macrae travelled through what the international press called Sudetenland but what was in fact an area made up of the old territories of Bohemia, Moravia and Silesia. These had once been principalities within the Holy Roman Empire, which Macrae, along with every schoolboy of his generation, had been taught was not Holy nor Roman nor an empire. These were Hitler’s “lost lands”, which abutted the mountainous region along the central border between Germany and Czechoslovakia.
Where the mountains folded into valleys, the soil was rich and farming prosperous. The abundance of fast-flowing water powered hydroelectric plants, which turned the wheels of important industry in the area, especially chemical plants, fertiliser factories and glass and china works.
No foreign visitor to the Reich Chancellery in Berlin escaped without a lengthy harangue about the crime that had placed the area in the hands of the Czechs. These brainstorms, as they were described by many shaken ambassadors, did not concern the riches of the Sudetenland, although the Germany military had long cast covetous eyes on the chemical plants. What drove the chancellor to such rages was that the vast majority of the inhabitants were German-speaking and could trace family roots back to medieval times. And they were now living under the control of Slavonic peoples of the east, a race Hitler viewed with almost as much disgust as the Jews.
For the first three days, Macrae toured the German side of the border and found no evidence of troop movements or any military build-up. He was driven by a locally employed driver who had been on the embassy staff for over twenty years and was judged to be both discreet and loyal.
They stayed in small inns, where Macrae ate dinner alone, reading a detective novel and drinking the occasional glass of wine, which always seemed to amount to a full bottle by the end of the meal. He found reading difficult. His mind kept wandering from the page back to Berlin. He had said a brief goodbye to Primrose and received a peck on the cheek and a “Good luck, darling.” He could not say she was pleased to see him go, but then she didn’t evince any enthusiasm for his presence when he was there.
Midnight in Berlin Page 14
