In surveying this new realm, Georgie caught Max looking intently in her direction, though only because his gaze was set firmly at the body next to hers, unable to hide his overt admiration. Simone Doucette, in turn, had those grey, ghostly eyes returning his look of fascination.
8
Old Face, New Friend
7th August 1938
Frida’s place wasn’t a flat by London standards, those poky dwellings teetering on top of one another, with balsa wood walls masquerading as bricks and mortar. The apartment – owned by her grandmother – was on the leafy Herderstrasse, west of the Tiergarten, and a palace by comparison: a vast, modern edifice cut by clean lines into apartments with high ceilings and tall, sleek windows stretching almost floor to ceiling. The white walls inside were enhanced by an eccentric array of furniture and ephemera, quirks and curiosities provided by Frida, with flowing ostrich feathers draped over lamps, presumably Simone’s contribution to the décor.
Georgie’s attempts to play it cool worked for a time, keeping her mouth from falling open in wonder, but only until she reached her new bedroom and shut the door, jumping on the bed and trying to suppress a fit of giggles at her own good fortune.
The rest of the day was spent unpacking and appreciating the space and the roll-top bath, her first full day off since arrival.
Despite Paul Adamson’s continued absence, she felt more at ease setting off for work the next morning. The office was cool and in shadow, but empty, and she made a mental note to at least buy a pot plant, something to talk to in her bureau chief’s absences. Relief, too, at seeing the window opposite devoid of faces. There was an envelope in the pile of post – the first addressed to her personally – and she was pleased to find it was a reply from Herr Amsel, the driver whom she met in 1936. Yes, he would come to the office at two p.m., and would be delighted to discuss her needs and terms.
Since the diary stipulated nothing of importance, the meeting with Herr Amsel became her most pressing engagement. In the meantime, she needed to generate something aside from press conference reports, eager to prove herself. Already, she had several ideas for news features to tempt the desk in London, starting with a focus on the young women behind the BDM – the female German Youth League – since she had little hope of being allowed access to the male equivalent, the Jungvolk and Hitler Youth, now a compulsory activity for all German boys aged ten and above.
The second was to highlight preparations for the Nuremberg rally in early September, the Nazi Party’s annual showcase for its might and the adoration of its leader. Georgie, by contrast, would not be showing the Führer in a glowing light, or giving credence to his politics, highlighting instead the pomp and expense for what it was – a grotesque extravagance for a nation that was still struggling to pull itself out of a deep economic depression. That was her thinking, anyway.
The planning of both demanded a lone trip to the Propaganda Ministry – without Rod Faber to act as guardian this time – and a direct request to Bruno Bauer. No time like the present, Georgie.
Approaching the building’s entrance, she mentally checked her supply bag of sweet smiles for each checkpoint; it turned her stomach to employ it, but feminine charm would be necessary in this case, and it certainly helped. She was surprised to be granted an immediate audience with Herr Bauer, quickly composing herself as she was led into his office, easily twice the size of that of the Chronicle’s Editor-in-Chief back home.
‘Fraulein Young, how nice to see you,’ he began in English, and when Georgie replied in German, he allowed a portion of his crooked teeth to show a near pleasure. ‘What can I do for you?’ He sat back behind his vast desk, the marbled eagle icon at its helm almost obscuring his tiny head.
When she explained her idea for an article – though perhaps a little short on detail – Herr Bauer became animated, reaching for his telephone immediately and ordering the stables – where the mounted divisions were busy polishing every equine decoration before the move to Nuremberg – to be on full alert for a visit that same afternoon. A second call was to the uniforms and insignia section, with similar requests.
‘You understand I can’t permit a …’ the word ‘woman’ was clearly on the tip of his tongue ‘… reporter to access the armaments section, but I think we can give you a good representation of how the Reich rightly celebrates the belief in our future.’
‘Please, Herr Bauer, don’t arrange anything special on my account – I want to see each place at its most natural, a behind-the-scenes account if you like.’ She used up another supply smile.
He stopped short and looked perplexed, as if the cogs of his brain had ground down a gear in processing this latest request. In turn, it dawned on Georgie that the Nazi regime did not understand the concept of ‘natural’ or at ease. The starch in his brilliant white collar was proof enough. Every newsreel of the Führer ‘at home’ or mingling with children to show his softer side was clearly scripted and orchestrated, frame by frame.
Herr Bauer snapped out of his thought process. ‘As you wish, Fraulein Young,’ he said and stood to show their meeting was at an end. ‘I look forward to seeing your article.’ He let loose with his teeth again, just the top set this time, and held out his hand. It was warm – too warm – and Georgie squirmed inside. She skipped down the steps of the ministry, partly from relief, and bought a sandwich on her way back to the office. From an empty diary, she now had a tight deadline imposed upon herself. But it’s what she thrived on, and it began a slow drip of adrenalin she so badly needed.
Herr Amsel rapped on the glass window of the office door at precisely two o’clock. His otherwise drawn face spread into a smile when he clearly recognised Georgie from their previous work together. He had been a solid man, but his big frame was a good deal leaner than she remembered, his greying hair thinned to sparse strands – except for his same affable manner, she might not have known him.
‘Fraulein Young! I didn’t recognise the name, but I remember your face very well,’ he said, pumping her hand in greeting. ‘How are you? And what are doing back in Berlin?’
When she explained her request for a retained driver, with a regular monthly fee, Herr Amsel’s face lit up. ‘Of course, of course,’ he went on. ‘I would be delighted. Much like during the Olympics, I have use of a car whenever I need.’
‘You no longer have your own?’
Very few Jews now owned a vehicle, he explained plainly and without bitterness, though Georgie burned with her own naivety. ‘But I have a very good arrangement with a garage owner, and I won’t let you down,’ he went on quickly. ‘In fact, I have the car with me now, if you’d like a tour of the city.’
It was exactly what she’d hoped for – but there was to be no tour, since she was due at the military stables, and then on to the uniforms section. A quick call to the Chicago Tribune office had secured the use of a freelance photographer, and she hoped not to have blown the entire office budget in her first week. Since Paul Adamson wasn’t there to tell her otherwise, she’d simply employed her own initiative.
They set off almost immediately so as to take a long route around several of the suburbs, with the aim of introducing Georgie to the different neighbourhoods; Herr Amsel pointed out each government building, the prominent streets, cafés populated by ordinary Germans, film starlets or SS personnel. And Jews. In other words, where it was appropriate to be seen and where to avoid. How to stay safe. Both his words and his tone spoke volumes: the Berlin of 1938 was a world away from the open city of 1936 and the Nazi-contrived zeitgeist of moderation and tolerance.