by Peter Rimmer
“Not if this bloody lot get their way. And you,” he said pointing at Bruno, “keep your trap shut. It’s words what makes trouble. Just you see when Sir Oswald opens his big mouth.”
The senior policeman glared at the other man, staring him into silence. Bruno wished he had bought a packet of cigarettes despite giving up smoking, the morning coughs too much for his chest. Taking the policeman’s flick of the head as a warning he moved off into the crowd.
By the time Oswald Mosley’s oratory had gone on for ten minutes, the crowd was beginning to punch each other and the horsemen moved in to stop a riot; the groups of Jews were standing toe to toe with the Brownshirts. For moments, Bruno found himself agreeing with the man ranting from the soap box, demanding the people protect their England against the conspiracy of the Jews to take over the world; the rich Jews who controlled the banks and most of England’s wealth, stolen from Englishmen by cunning and deceit. Then Mosley was ranting against communism, the crowd swelling with indignation, Bruno having no idea what the Jews now had to do with communism.
“Give us the power to protect you,” the man from the box shouted, punching his words, pulling Bruno’s brain back to sanity.
The indignant noise from the crowd rose, from what Bruno now saw as a rabble, drowning out the speaker. Bruno found a gap in the crowd and pushed his way out, sweating despite the cold, his notebook and pen clutched in his right hand. Looking back, he saw the crowd was fighting, the policemen on the horses struggling to gain control. There was no sign of the senior policeman as Bruno looked around.
Standing with his back to the safety of a tree, Bruno watched as the police brought the melee under control, bullhorns telling them to go home, Mosley no longer on his soap box. Then it was over, litter all over Speakers’ Corner, the ugliness evaporating as fast as it had come, ordinary people going home. One of the Brownshirts was stuffing his brown shirt into his trouser pocket, showing his layers of white vests, the man going off to mingle with the melting crowd like the rest of them. Then it was all over.
When Bruno reached his home in Holland Park, having written his piece on Mosley, he waved at Mrs Portman who was watching him from her vantage point at the basement window. Then he let himself into the house with his key and walked up to the top of the stairs to his room.
In the next room, Theodore Wells was playing his gramophone. There were other voices in the room. Female voices.
“Ah, there you are, Bruno. What took you so long?” Theo had put his head round the door of Bruno’s room.
“A riot. There’s a man called Mosley after power. Can that man raise a crowd? Had me going for a moment. Mostly hate talk appealing to our rotten instincts. They say Hitler’s ten times better at raising a rabble but what I saw just now gave me enough of the shivers.”
“We’ve got some wine. Two of the girls from the show. Pippa wants to meet you, though don’t inflate your ego. Pippa wants to meet as many men in her life as possible. We have a record HMV made of the show. In one bit you can even hear me sing. Are you all right, Bruno?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That bad?”
“Bloody frightening. The world’s going to the dogs.”
“It always is. Come and have some wine.”
“It really is, Theo.”
“It always is, Bruno. The best thing is to enjoy life while you can. Pippa is blonde and you like blondes. All you have to do is give her a rave review when she’s a star. That’s better. Now you are smiling.”
How the world could be so different, so normal, was beyond Bruno’s comprehension. Inside Theo’s room with the record playing and a glass of wine in his hand, a chorus girl with legs so long they went all the way up to heaven giving him the eye, he was unable to imagine the earlier riot not so far up the Bayswater Road, the piece he had written for the Daily Mirror hot on the press.
“Why didn’t you take a camera, Kannberg?” his editor had said.
“I don’t have one.”
“Get one. The paper will pay. This piece is good. What I wanted was a picture of the riot for the front page. Don’t you think calling Mosley ‘Britain’s Hitler’ a bit much? The man’s a hereditary knight of the realm.”
“Churchill is right. England needs to re-arm, and quickly. Unless Mosley takes over the government. Like Hitler, he wants to get rid of the Jews. Then his brand of nationalism, the same brand as Hitler’s, can fight communism.”
“I don’t understand you, Kannberg. Wasn’t your father a White Russian fighting communism?”
“They both want uncontrolled power. Both as bad as each other. In those regimes there is no loyal opposition. One party. One power. Their power, with everyone else doing what they are told. We take our parliamentary system far too much for granted.”
“All right. Write about it. Briefly in a few words, we’re a tabloid. Maybe you’re right… You didn’t find out the name of the policeman?”
“Not yet. If I’m going to go on covering Mosley, we’ll meet again.”
“Enjoy what’s left of your Sunday.”
The editor had a frown on his face when Bruno had left the offices of the Daily Mirror.
“You’re miles away,” said Pippa.
“Not that far. Just up the road.”
“Theo says you sometimes do reviews of the shows.”
Bruno smiled at her. There was always a trade in life. It seemed they both had what the other wanted. The room was warm and comfortable, the wine having reached his brain making everything much better. Then they were dancing together without a care in the world.
3
Horatio and William set sail across the English Channel on the Wednesday. Both had witnessed the riot in Hyde Park. Both had vowed to do something about it. The American passport in the name of Brad Sikorski had been forged by an expert. The forger specialised in passports for rich Jews fleeing Europe for America. Part of the consortium smuggled Jews out of Germany into England to send them on to America as legitimate citizens with a set of forged papers, English or American.
Will suspected the Americans knew what was going on and turned a blind eye. Even if the governments of Europe refused to face the reality in Germany, the Jews knew what was happening; in their history they had been through pogroms for centuries. The only right action was to get out of the way with their families before it was too late.
The forger, when Will found him, was a Jew from the East End of London whose family had lived peacefully in England for five hundred years, never forsaking their religion.
“I don’t understand. You want to go back to Germany after the Nazis threw you out? My, my, that is not so good. They find my passport a forgery they kill you, Mr Smythe. Those are not good people.”
“If the press stays silent, the Nazis will conquer Europe with the help of the fascists in Spain and Italy.”
“But not England. They will not cross the Channel. America will not let them. There are many powerful Jews in America, I am told.”
“There are Americans who also hate Jews. I’m a reporter. It’s my job and I don’t like my face kicked in by a jackboot.”
“You are foolishly brave. Remember the words of old Isaac. The passport will cost you nothing, Mr Smythe. May God go with you. May God bring you home safely. I read your pieces, like all other Jews in England. Is your ancestral name Smythe or Cohen?”
“Smythe as far as I know. Thank you for your help. How soon, Isaac?”
“Tomorrow. Friends of ours send authentic blank passports from America. Thank you for the photographs.”
“There’s a boat from Dover on Wednesday.”
“No problem.”
Janet Bray’s tantrum had gone from pleading to hysteria in ten minutes in front of both of them.
“What about me, Horatio?”
“What about all of us, Janet? If what happened yesterday in Hyde Park can happen in England, the world we like to think of as free will be destroyed, probably for centuries. This has nothing to do with money anymore. If the newspap
ers don’t do something to warn the public, the politicians will appease Hitler, hoping he will leave them alone. William says Hitler rouses rabbles in the tens of thousands, sending them rampaging through the streets. Mosley is only a minor irritant to democracy in comparison. No, I’m going with Will on Wednesday, and don’t worry, I have a British passport.”
“But you’ll be with Will as Brad Sikorski and what happened to his protection as a British citizen? They won’t care about your passport. And Will, don’t you want to be with Genevieve now you are her agent?” By that stage, the tone of Janet’s voice was wheedling.
“Genevieve is not interested in me. However much I would like her to be. She’s got much bigger plans in her life and none of them include William Smythe. Anyway, she likes men her own age. Didn’t you see the way she looked at that schoolboy nephew of Harry Brigandshaw? She even mentioned he’s coming back to England to go up to Oxford.”
The storm had come up soon after they left the shelter of Dover harbour en route for Calais. The wind was strong, pitching and rolling the cross-Channel steamer at the same time. The American, Brad Sikorski, previously of the Denver Telegraph, now on the great tour of Europe, and the English freelance journalist Horatio Wakefield, had headed for the bar to drink beer, which the barman found amusing.
Will had checked the other drinkers looking for Germans, his Midwestern accent hopefully good enough. They were good sailors, planting their feet firmly on the deck as the old vessel heaved, their pints of beer riding the roll in their hands. Will liked speaking in an American accent, as it was so easy to imitate with enough variations from coast to coast to fool any Englishman, or German, who might be listening.
Will was brimming with confidence, in contrast to Horatio who was frightened at what could happen if something went wrong.
“Don’t you Americans drink rye whisky?” asked the barman.
“Call me Brad. I was over during the war and liked your beer.”
“You don’t look old enough to have been in the war.”
“Well, thanks buddy. Fact is, I lied about my age. My family came across the pond from Poland. Cavalry family, Sikorski, Brad Sikorski. My, but this tub of yours is rolling around.”
“Going to be a long crossing.”
“Give us another beer.”
Horatio, listening to all the bonhomie, thought William had overshot the mark but they were still safe on an English boat. As the storm rose, the other drinkers in the bar left. A young girl was sick down the plate glass window of the door before she could open it and make the side of the rail. The door was heavy to open, the wind pummelling it closed. She began to cry before the vomit came up from her stomach a second time.
“You’ll feel better now,” said Horatio, ten feet away from the girl.
“I’m dying,” she said.
“Of course you are not.”
Horatio helped the girl lie down on a leather couch beneath the window that ran the length of the long bar at one end. He had never seen a face go so green before.
“She’ll be all right,” said the barman.
“How long can this go on?”
“Once we were at sea for five hours trying to get into Calais.”
“The poor girl. Give us another beer, me and my American friend.”
“Are you sure? Getting drunk in a storm can make the seasickness worse.”
“My first name is Horatio. One of my ancestors sailed with Nelson at Trafalgar. We’ve been at sea for as long as England has had a navy.”
“How come the Polish American isn’t sick?”
“Genetics, buddy. Just put up the beers.”
When they landed in France four hours after leaving the White Cliffs of Dover behind, both of them were drunk, as well as the barman. Will had lost his American accent. No one seemed to care.
The girl had recovered and was sitting at one of the tables drinking tea. She smiled at Horatio as he left the bar to go on shore.
When they reached the German border the next day, the grip of fear was back in Horatio’s stomach. Will was full of bravado.
“This is it, Will,” whispered Horatio. “No draft beer and no losing your accent. How do I stop my hands shaking?”
In Berlin, Fritz Wendel was waiting for them at the railway station with enough material to fill a small book. They all spoke briefly and parted.
When William had picked up his passport, Isaac had given him a draft for ten thousand American dollars on a Berlin bank.
“American dollars. American passport. More authentic, Mr Smythe.”
“Why?”
“You are helping us. We Jews need all the help we can get. Behave like a rich American tourist. The bank account you will open with this draft, Mr Smythe, will have the same amount deposited in it every month. Money transferred from America. Even in Nazi Germany people are impressed with money. Rub shoulders with the rich and you will find out more.”
“The reports will be under the Horatio Wakefield byline.”
“Good. Take separate apartments. See each other sparingly once you reach Berlin. As an American, Germans will speak to you freely, knowing how much America dislikes the British Empire. The Americans only came into the last war at the end. The Germans don’t forget. There are nearly as many Americans with German ancestors as there are English in America. Among themselves, the Germans think they nearly won the war. That with America on their side and Russia neutral they will win the next one and have their revenge on the French and the British. If you play your American part well they will make your friend the scapegoat for giving them bad press and never imagine the information came from you.”
“I will put Horatio in danger!”
“Everyone who is against Hitler in Germany is at risk. Don’t let them find out who you are or likely they’ll kill you, Mr Smythe. Your friend they will put on a train. Go to the opera. Go to the concerts. Mingle with the rich and make friends. Have a good time, Mr Smythe. Look as if you are enjoying yourself.”
William and Horatio parted company at the station after the brief meeting with Fritz Wendel and Horatio’s introduction.
“Now you have a good visit, Chuck,” William shouted at his back for everyone to hear. “Meet again on a train one day. You go enjoy yourself.”
Then Horatio was swallowed up in the crowd. On his own. Lonelier than he had ever been in his life. The loud imitation American voice of his friend only for the benefit of unseen ears; ships passing in the night for anyone following Fritz Wendel, the package slipped into Horatio’s coat pocket that he pulled close outside in the street, the afternoon sun having no effect on the cold air.
Horatio climbed into the back of the first taxi and told the driver “Cheap hotel,” picked out from the phrasebook he had found in the Portobello Road with Janet. The driver smiled and dropped him off with his suitcase in a side alley not far from the station.
William had given him German money he had collected from his bank in London the day they left on the train down to Dover. Fritz Wendel was following the taxi in another cab as they had arranged at the station; William knew where to contact Fritz Wendel to keep them all in touch.
Horatio explained to the woman who owned the hotel he was English, which had no effect. They smiled at each other then she took him on a short tour, his suitcase left in front of the reception desk. Apparently no one stole suitcases in Germany.
There was a room off the entrance hall with a coal fire that looked like the lounge to Horatio. Another was the dining room. The woman found who she was looking for, an old man sitting next to the fire with a rug over his knees. The man was older than any man Horatio had met before. He spoke English with an Oxford accent after the woman spoke to him in German.
“Three meals are included, young man. Welcome to Germany. Even in front of the fire, it is cold in winter. Come and talk to me when Mrs Schneider has shown you your room. I like a little company every now and again.”
“Your English is very good.”
“In
the old days educated German people spoke French and English. Do you speak French, Mr…?”
“Wakefield. Horatio Wakefield. Thank you, sir, for the information in English.”
“It’s indeed my pleasure. Hillier. My name is Hillier. Not to be confused with Hitler. At the Battle of Waterloo, you British and us Prussians were on the same side defeating Napoleon. We are cousins. Now off with you and Mrs Schneider. I have a mind for a short sleep in front of the fire.”
As Horatio followed Mrs Schneider up the narrow stairs to be shown his room, he told himself the gods were on his side. He could hear the old man whose name was Hillier snoring. Horatio had picked up his suitcase. He didn’t think there was anyone else staying in the small hotel. The landing was dark, his room small when the woman pushed open the door. A fire with kindling wood was laid in the grate with coal in the scuttle next to the hearth. They smiled at each other after Mrs Schneider put a match to the paper under the kindling. Then the door was closed behind the woman.
Horatio was alone in Berlin, everything looking quite normal. His watch said it was three o’clock in the afternoon. Outside the small window it was getting dark. The fire was burning well. Janet was right: he would have done a lot better staying in England with the Daily Mail. If he had stayed at home and not gone to Hyde Park to listen to Mosley speak he would still be in his flat in London. He had paid three months’ rent in advance after Janet put her foot down. The thought of the flat and Janet waiting for him was comforting.
When Horatio went downstairs at four o’clock to look for a cup of tea or whatever they drank at teatime in Germany, the old man was still asleep by the side of the fire. The rug had fallen from his knees onto the old threadbare carpet. He was no longer snoring. There was no sign of Mrs Schneider.
Through the lounge window, it was now dark outside. No one had drawn the curtains. Before sitting down in front of the fire, Horatio went across and drew the curtains against the outside. He felt safer. Then he sat down in the other armchair and warmed his hands at the fire where the coals were burning a deep red. Little blue flames were dancing on top of the burning coals.
