Welcome to Berlin indeed.
7
Into the Fold
6th August 1938
There was no sign of Max at breakfast, and Georgie wondered if he had checked out of the Bristol and moved elsewhere. Fairly soon, she would have to do the same, and it was part of her day’s work to go searching for a bedsit. First, though, another trip to the Ministry of Propaganda, this time as an accredited reporter.
The Ministry of Enlightenment and Propaganda, to give its full and official title, was a sharp, square building just off the Wilhelmplatz, a short walk from Hitler’s seat of power, the Reich Chancellery. This time, Georgie passed with ease through the checkpoints and guards with rigid features, joining the thirty or so journalists who were seated in rows in a large room, in front of a slightly raised flooring and a lectern.
‘Morning,’ Rod mouthed, and motioned her to a seat next to him. Georgie found herself sandwiched between her new American friend and another familiar face from the Adlon, all red hair and spectacular moustache, who introduced himself with a brisk handshake as ‘Bill Porter, Chicago Herald Tribune, for my sins.’ In the opposite corner, Max was deep in conversation with a woman sitting alongside him.
‘Looks like we’re to be treated to the man himself today,’ Rod whispered over the expectant hum. Georgie’s pencil twitched with apprehension.
‘Oh, here we go, Joey boy’s approaching,’ hissed Bill Porter. ‘Ears on standby, everyone, for “limping Larry” himself.’ All eyes swivelled to the open door – the man who stepped through triggered an automatic hush.
It may not have been the Führer himself, but arguably the next in line when it came to wielding power within the Reich; Joseph Goebbels was no military man, had no army under his command, but the skill with which he twisted words and information – fed to the German people and seemingly ingested by the bucket-load – made him equally dangerous, and cemented his place among Hitler’s closest allies. His fashionable wife, Magda, was a darling of the society pages and regularly graced Die Dame magazine with her perfect crown of blonde hair and her tips on being the perfect mother to seven Aryan children. ‘Joey’ – as the press scathingly called him – possessed nothing like her charm or her looks. His loathing of the foreign press was also well documented.
He limped onto the plinth, wiry in his brown, fitted suit, with deeply sunken cheeks and ebony slicked-back hair, a creature halfway between a weasel and a shrew. His eyes were as black as his hair, darting around the room and settling momentarily on one body, before sliding to another. Despite his lack of allure, he held sway and power in his small frame, and Georgie hoped she wouldn’t fall under his gaze just yet. Perhaps ever.
Finally, Herr Goebbels coughed and drew himself up to full height, launching into his speech with few niceties – how the Nazi Government had reduced unemployment during its four years in office, helping good German families to flourish; a nation fervently committed to peace in Europe, proven by their signing of various non-aggression agreements with neighbouring states. The reporters scribbled furiously, though even as a newcomer Georgie doubted any one person present believed the truth of what this man spouted in his terse delivery. After all, wasn’t it the Ministry of Propaganda? And hadn’t Goebbels famously broadcast that good propaganda need not lie – it was only necessary to present the right idea in the appropriate way? So blatant and yet effective: coat the stark truth in a convincing way and the nation swallows it whole.
‘He doesn’t mention how they’ve massaged the unemployment figures by creating spurious labour programmes, or the families that are left out in the cold if they don’t join the party,’ Rod whispered.
‘Something of a magician with the truth then?’ Georgie murmured in response.
‘Catching on fast, kiddo.’
After a good twenty minutes of rapid-fire lecturing, and with no questions permitted, Doctor Goebbels – as he insisted on being addressed – picked up his notes and limped away. At his leaving, a hum of conversation sprung up.
‘Well, what are you going to make of that in print?’ Bill pitched to Rod. ‘I think my paper will have a good laugh if I file that verbatim.’
‘A little analysis and a good pinch of salt will be my approach,’ Rod said. He patted his stomach. ‘But first, some lunch.’
Georgie joined a portion of the press pack in a nearby café, where they chewed over the details and unpicked the truth behind the good Doctor Goebbels and his rhetoric. Why, when it seemed so transparent to everyone in the room, did the German people believe it?
‘Fear,’ said the Daily Express correspondent swiftly. ‘Maybe your average German doesn’t believe it, but they wouldn’t dare express it. Not even to their neighbours. It masquerades nicely as belief when you’ve got no one telling you you’re wrong.’
Still deep in thought, Georgie unlocked the door to the Chronicle office and noticed immediately the air seemed different, disturbed. Had someone been in, checking up on her? Paul was still away … Her heart jumped. Could it be that woman opposite? The ashtray was cleared of the burnt paper from the day before. The bin was also emptied, and the small toilet cabinet in the corner smelled fresher. Of course! The cleaner had been in – Georgie breathed hard at her own stupidity, imagining her nerves might give out long before the lead in her pencil. With the blinds drawn low, she crafted her report of the press conference several times, each version toning down a cynicism that crept towards sarcasm. It wouldn’t do for her first dispatch to be inflammatory, and she settled on a tone alluding to uncertainty instead.
It was only four p.m., and there were still two tasks to tackle before she rejoined the Adlon crowd, who had promised to introduce her to a new venue later that evening. She needed somewhere to live after her week’s grace at the Hotel Bristol was up, and a means of transport – the press gang suggested a driver was essential if she were to reach some of the events in the Berlin suburbs, especially if things were to flare up suddenly; likely an unofficial show of strength from the Reich’s Stormtroopers, usually with Jews or other ‘undesirables’ in their sights.
Rod had offered to pass on some names, but Georgie determined not to rely wholly on his generosity. She rifled through her dog-eared notebook, recalling the driver her paper had used during the Olympics. He’d been reliable and a mine of local information; it was a long shot, but he might still be in Berlin and available. The telephone number filed was out of order, so she wrote out a short note and ran to catch the last post. One job half done.
On the way back to the hotel, she bought a copy of the daily Berliner Tageblatt, and crawled over its pages in the lobby of the Bristol, her heart sinking as even the rent on small apartments seemed too expensive for her wage. She was resigned to settling on a room in a flat, though Georgie didn’t relish it. Would any German be willing to share with her? In their shoes, and with relations between Germany and the rest of Europe in sensitive limbo, a British newspaperwoman was far from an ideal tenant.
Deflated, she stood up and sighed. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Max walking through the lobby, sure their eyes met for a split second – either they didn’t, or he pretended not to notice. Possibly because he was accompanied by the same dark-haired woman almost glued to him at the press conference. Was she a reporter? She didn’t look like one – too timid. And she seemed to be following in his wake, rather than alongside. Had he found himself a woman already? If their meeting at the Ritz was any indication, it wouldn’t be a surprise.