That summer in berlin, p.17
That Summer in Berlin, page 17
Trude had been introduced—assigned—to him when he returned to Berlin after Geoffrey’s wedding. She was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful, a Valkyrie in the latest Paris fashions. She liked champagne and schnapps served together, one chilled, the other slightly warm. She was gay and bright, and she told him she was an actress at Joseph Goebbels’s UFA studios. She’d fallen hard for Tom at very first sight—or pretended to—despite no encouragement from him. She wasn’t his type. Her handlers would have known that if they’d bothered to look into it. He liked serious women, more intellectual and less showy. A redhead, perhaps, one who preferred to be behind the camera instead of in front of it.
He and Trude had become friends of a sort. She had simply arrived this morning, early, clad in an elegant pale-yellow suit and a saucy little hat, and walked into his hotel room. A swastika brooch formed of gold and garnets glittered in the silken folds of her artfully tied scarf. That was new. He wondered if she’d gotten a promotion since he’d last seen her—or a generous lover. She probably wasn’t a true Nazi. She wasn’t rabid enough for that. She simply acted the part to survive and thrive. She probably kept a photograph of Adolf Hitler inside the lid of her compact for show, in case anyone checked.
There was no point in objecting to her visit now, since she obviously wasn’t going to go away. She’d be by his side for the day, watching over him.
“Orange juice or grapefruit?” she called from the main room where breakfast was being set out.
“Just coffee,” he said, pressing the blade of his razor against his throat and drawing it through the thick soap. She murmured something to the waiter, and he heard the door open then close as the man left. He heard the splash of coffee as she poured a cup.
A moment later the cup rattled on the saucer. “Pah! This isn’t coffee. Come, I know a charming little café on the Unter den Linden. Let’s go there.”
“Can’t,” he said, wiping the last remnants of soap from his face.
She appeared in the doorway, a frown marring her perfect face. “What? Why?”
“Press briefing. They’re to tell us what there is to see during the Olympics. I understand Mr. Goebbels will be there, and Richard Strauss, the composer.”
“But I arranged a visit to see a children’s choir rehearsing for the opening ceremonies,” she said.
He sent her a level look, one that spoke volumes. She gave in and rolled her eyes.
“All right. I shall come with you to the press briefing instead,” she said. She crossed and swiped a bit of missed shaving soap off his neck with her fingertip, lingering just a second too long. He stepped away from the intimate gesture and rubbed at the spot with the towel. She stood between him and the door, her lips pursed in invitation, unable to resist one more attempt to break through his armor. Unlike ordinary German women, she wore lipstick, a blood-and-roses shade of swastika red. She was waiting for him to kiss her, to lead her into the bedroom. How many women had he known who were exactly like Trude? At home, he was a novelty for upper-class English ladies and honorable misses, an intriguing man of a lesser class with acceptable looks and suitable manners, someone to practice their wiles and their powers of seduction on, a man who didn’t matter. They looked at him and wondered if they could breach the walls he put up around himself. They gave up easily enough—none had ever wanted to work that hard. Trude was more determined, of course, but she had more to lose if she failed and everything to gain if he gave in.
He stepped around her and went into the bedroom to dress. He might have closed the door, but he suspected she’d only open it again, so he didn’t bother. He shrugged out of his robe and chose a clean shirt from the wardrobe and one of the two suits he owned. He left that door open, too, expecting she’d want to know what was in his closet.
She ran her manicured fingertips over the keys of his typewriter and glanced into the open armoire before she reclined on the bed, watching him. “Oh, not that tie! Have you nothing better than that? I shall have to take you shopping.”
He knotted the tie anyway, ignoring her offer, and shrugged into his coat. He tucked his notebook into the inner pocket and left her in the bedroom. Breakfast had been laid out in the small sitting room, and he noted his reflection in the domed metal covers that kept the food warm. He grabbed a cup of coffee and downed it in one gulp, then glanced at his watch.
She looked less certain as she picked up her purse and followed him to the door.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked as they got into the lift.
“Of course,” he said. “How have you been? Any new movies?”
Those red lips pursed, and her lashes swept down to cover her eyes. “I am waiting for the results of a few auditions,” she said. “Everything is shut down for the Olympics, except Leni Riefenstahl’s production, and that will feature athletes, not actresses. It will be quite an extravagant thing, filming the games. The budget is huge.”
He regarded her with interest but didn’t bother to reply. She straightened her hat as they stepped out of the hotel into the sunlight, making herself camera ready.
It was the day before the official opening ceremonies of the 1936 Olympic Games, and Berlin was crowded with international tourists. The city had been reimagined, a movie set designed to delight the masses—clean, green, flower and flag bedecked. The German people were perfect caricatures of joy and discipline. They were, after all, as Nazi propaganda described, the true descendants of the ancient Greek Olympians—bold, intellectual, and physically perfect. They’d scientifically researched it, proven it. At center stage, the imposing sports stadium stood tall, looking as if it had been created by a race of giants—or supermen. The German people played jolly and gracious hosts. On every corner, a stalwart yet cherubic Hitler Youth stood ready to help visitors across the busy thoroughfares. The confused or lost were pointed in the right direction by kindly policemen with broad smiles. But there were flaws in the image, too, visible to anyone who cared enough to look for them.
There were no newspapers to be had, at least not the notorious anti-Semitic ones that had been so prevalent only a month or two earlier. The newspaper boxes now held flowers or tourist pamphlets. The hateful signs painted on the windows of Jewish businesses had been scrubbed clean—everything had been scrubbed clean. The city was immaculate. Crisp Nazi pennants and banners hung from every lamppost and window, the red background sparkling like blood in the summer sunlight and the jagged black swastika crisp and cruel and spiderlike. The flags reminded visitors that all this magnificence and celebration had been brought to you by the mastermind Adolf Hitler. And with the Depression raging everywhere else in the world, the visitors were only too delighted to accept everything at face value, happy to be somewhere prosperous and pleasant. If there was something sinister behind the scenes, they didn’t want to know about it. They were on holiday.
He liked Kurfürstendamm because it still felt somewhat honest. It wasn’t quite as stuffy as the Unter den Linden or as tony as Friedrichstrasse. It had good cafés, simple restaurants, and shops and bars for ordinary folk. Still, he could not get past the idea that he was on a movie set, everything carefully staged to offer the director’s view of perfection, complete with a glamorous starlet on his arm. He could smell the cloying sweetness of Trude’s perfume. It didn’t suit her. It was the scent an ingenue might wear, an innocent lass of tender years who loved flowers and hadn’t been long out of the schoolroom. Trude was a woman of experience and subterfuge. He let her cling to his arm, fully aware that her Baltic-blue eyes made note of every person he spoke to, from his brief nod toward the doorman at his hotel to the man who bumped into Tom on the crowded street, murmured his pardon, scooped his fallen hat up off the pavement, and hurried on.
“He spoke to you in English!” Trude said, swiveling on her high heels to assess the man as he went on his way. It had been two words, just “My apologies.” Tom’s stomach clenched. It had been a mistake. If the poor chap was investigated, and the accidental encounter analyzed for anything suspicious, they’d find out that Tom knew him after all, that his name was Charlie Ellis, that he was Canadian and a journalist. The Nazis didn’t like Charlie’s aggressive anti-Nazi reports. They’d taken him to the border and kicked him over the line more than once. He’d simply come back.
“Do you know him?” Trude asked.
Tom shook his head. “No. I suppose I must look like a tourist,” he said lightly.
“But I don’t!” she replied.
He laughed. There were times when his little Nazi minder could be rather delightful in her vanity. It was the only truly honest thing about her.
He paused to look in the window of a bookstore, both to peruse the books on display and to check the reflection in the glass to see who was behind him. Charlie was standing across the street, smoking a cigarette now and watching him, his usually open expression pensive. Tom swallowed. One of them was in trouble.
The North American journalists, men like Charlie Ellis, were among the most determined to show the world the truth at any price, bugger the risks. Charlie Ellis was brutally honest in his reports. He showed the ugliness, the violence, and the plight of those who didn’t agree with Germany’s new order in brilliant language, and the papers that picked up his stories loved him and didn’t question where he got his facts. But the Nazis did. Tom let his gaze slide over Ellis’s reflection, their eyes meeting in the glass before Charlie looked away.
“Mein Kampf,” Trude murmured, her eyes flicking over multiple copies of the only book displayed in the window. “It’s as if there are no other books in all the world.”
“At least in all of Germany,” Tom said. “Have you read it?”
Her eyes glazed over as she lied, an unfortunate thing for an actress. “Of course, cover to cover, twice.”
They walked past a cinema that was showing a film with Hans Albers, Germany’s most popular leading man. He felt Trude’s hand tighten on his arm. “What I wouldn’t do to work with Hans,” she said. “He’s filming a new picture with Lotte Lang now. How fortunate for her, but it’s Lída Baarová who gets all the best parts. It’s who you know as much as how talented you are. Lída’s lucky—she lives right next door to Herr Goebbels on lake Wannsee.” And if rumors were true, the Czech actress was the propaganda minister’s mistress. The Nazis saw beauty and either took it for themselves and distorted it to fit their own ideals, or they destroyed it if they could not.
* * *
—
An hour later, he stood with other handpicked journalists, taking notes, while Joseph Goebbels spoke, his smile sly, the SS guards by his side stalwart and watchful.
And faithful Trude stood by his side, smiling for the cameras, the little swastika brooch on her breast glinting in the explosion of flashbulbs. And all the while, she kept one hand on Tom’s sleeve and one eye on every scribbled word he wrote.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Julia was almost beside herself with delight at the sights of Berlin. Viviane joined her in staring out the windows of the car as they drove through the city and Felix and Otto pointed out the marvels of Berlin’s busy streets, the Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse and noisy, hectic Kurfürstendamm, lined with shops and cafés, clubs and bars. The count and countess were in the second car and had gone directly to the Hotel Adlon to ensure their reservations were in order and their rooms were ready.
“Kurfürstendamm is my favorite street in all Berlin,” Felix said. “No matter what time of day or night it is, there’s excitement here and so much to see and do. Look, there’s the Quartier Latin, which is one of the best clubs in Berlin. I saw the actress Pola Negri there once.”
“You did?” Julia said, her eyes widening. “I saw her film Mazurka in London last autumn. It was wonderful. She is so glamorous, so talented.”
“I understand that Mazurka is one of the führer’s favorite films,” Otto said, approving Julia’s enthusiasm with a fond smile, and she blushed with pleasure.
“Is there any chance we might see her in person while we’re here?” Julia asked him. “At that club Felix mentioned, perhaps? Maybe she’ll bring Charlie Chaplin. I’ve read that they’re very good friends.”
Otto’s brow furrowed, and Felix laughed. “Oh, you won’t see the Little Tramp in Berlin. His latest film, Modern Times, has been banned by Herr Goebbels.”
“Why?” Julia asked.
“It wrongly promotes Communism,” Otto said sharply, his mouth a flat line of disapproval now. “We shall see other films if you like, suitable ones.”
Julia batted her lashes at him. “I have so much to learn about music and movies. I am glad I have you to teach me,” she simpered, and it was Viviane’s turn to frown. Felix nudged Viviane’s arm and rolled his eyes.
“May we go to the Quartier Latin?” Julia persisted.
Otto offered a thin smile. “Perhaps. But only if my mother approves.”
“Oh, but with you by my side, then surely—” Julia’s pretty plea was interrupted as the car came to a halt, surrounded by a jam of other vehicles and pedestrians.
“What’s happening?” Julia asked, looking out the window.
“Go and find out,” Otto ordered the driver in a far sterner tone than the one he used to coo at Julia.
They watched as the driver approached the policeman, who pointed to a knot of people at the side of the road. The policeman tried to dismiss him, but the driver said something that made the officer’s jaw drop. He turned to look at the Schroeders’ Daimler. He hurried over at once, and Otto rolled down the window.
“What is the reason for this delay?” Otto said coldly.
The policeman removed his cap. “Good afternoon, Obersturmführer von Schroeder. A man was knocked down in an accident, a foreign journalist. We are awaiting the ambulance.”
Viviane’s stomach knotted, and Julia gasped. “A foreign journalist? Vee, isn’t that friend of Geoffrey’s here in Berlin?”
Both Otto and Felix turned to look at her.
“You have a friend who is a journalist?” Felix asked.
Viviane didn’t reply, busy looking out the window, trying to see past the crowd. Was that blood on the pavement? Her stomach turned.
“He’s not a friend, precisely,” Julia replied. “Just an acquaintance, someone my brother-in-law knows.”
Viviane glanced at her, saw the faint concern on Julia’s pretty face. No, he wasn’t a friend exactly. He was more than that, or less. She realized how little she knew about him. Who could she send word to if the victim was indeed Tom Graham? Who would mourn him? She felt desperation rise like a bubble in her throat, and she reached for the door handle.
Otto’s hand clasped her wrist. His fingers were cold and dry despite the heat of the day, and she glanced at him. “I must insist you stay in the car. Crowds can be . . . unpredictable,” he said. There was curiosity in his eyes as he scanned her face, and Felix was looking at her with the same expression.
I know him, she wanted to say, considering pushing Otto’s hand away to get out anyway, but his grip tightened subtly, as if he’d guessed her intention. Berlin is dangerous. Tom had warned her. She’d thought he meant for her. She pulled her hand back, clasped it with the other one in her lap.
“We don’t even know if it is Geoff’s friend,” Julia said. “Is he Scottish, with dark hair?” she asked the policeman, who still hovered by the open window, apparently waiting for any further instructions Otto might have. He looked confused and slid his gaze toward Otto.
“Is he English?” Otto rephrased in German, as if there was no difference, but the policeman shrugged. “I don’t know, Obersturmführer. All we know is that he is not German, and he has a press pass in his pocket. It is quite damaged and impossible to read.”
Damaged. What if Tom was lying in the street? What if that was indeed his blood that bystanders were carefully avoiding stepping in as they ringed the victim, stared down at him with vague curiosity? The expressions were strangely guarded, dispassionate, as if scenes like this one were commonplace. Viviane’s stomach churned. How could that be, that one could look at the scene of a tragic accident and show no pity?
Julia put a hand to her cheek. “What if we have to write to Margaret with the news that Mr. Graham is dead? It would quite ruin our holiday.”
“Is he dead?” Otto asked the policeman, his lips tight, his tone cool as if it made no difference at all beyond the inconvenience of the delay.
“No, not dead, though his legs are badly broken,” the policeman said quickly.
“Did the driver not see him?” Felix asked.
The policeman’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps not. According to witnesses, the car was going very fast when it hit him.” He looked at Otto again. “It appeared to be a government vehicle, black, with official—”
Otto silenced him with a gesture of his hand. “Wait here,” he said to the rest of them as he got out. He shut the door and stepped away, looming over the policeman, speaking quietly. He followed him through the crowd, which automatically parted. Viviane held her breath, waiting for the shock of recognition. If it was Tom, if it was, what could she do? But they were too far away, and she couldn’t see the victim. Otto was issuing orders, and others were jumping to obey. He returned to the car and got in.
“I have ensured that an ambulance is coming, and that he will be taken care of,” he said to Viviane.
“His name?” Julia asked, and Otto glanced at her, irritated for a moment, as if he resented the impertinence of her question. He simply shook his head.
