Is this his entire vocabulary? Georgie mused. He can’t possibly be a journalist, with such a poor grasp on language. ‘And you?’ she asked, eyeing her Martini as if it held more interest. She wasn’t in a mood to feed his ego, but the alcohol was making her playful.
‘I’m with the Telegraph,’ he shot back, turning and puffing out his chest. ‘Foreign desk.’ His voice was pure public school, his stature and dress reflecting the same.
‘Oh,’ Georgie responded. Two can play at that game.
They both looked out onto the dance floor again, the silence between them hovering like a thick winter fog.
‘Strange to see so many newspapermen with their wives,’ Georgie said at last, when the fog began to feel cloying. ‘I’ve never seen this many on their best behaviour. Or smiling.’ And she peered at him, assessing if he’d caught her humour. His gruff cough signalled not. Still, he didn’t seem inclined to walk away either.
‘Not tempted to tie the knot yourself?’ she pressed, noting the absence of a wedding ring. It was like prodding at a roasting spit of pork, and Georgie felt slightly guilty at how much she delighted in it.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘Me? Oh no,’ he said decisively. ‘I don’t know how any serious reporter could contemplate it. Not the way the world is right now. A foreign posting is no place for a wife. Or any woman, in fact.’ His hard, blue eyes relayed complete conviction in his statement.
‘Really?’ Now Georgie wanted to prod some more. With force. And a sharp object. ‘Are you not a fan of Martha Gellhorn then?’ she added.
‘You mean the future Mrs Hemingway?’ he shot back. His assumptive pairing would have been a red rag to the celebrated correspondent herself. Likewise to Georgie.
‘I feel sure Miss Gellhorn would take you to task for assuming she is writing in Ernest’s shadow,’ she fizzed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m inclined to think her dispatches from the Spanish frontline are just as good, if not better, than those of her lover.’
Now he looked at her again, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What on earth would a mere secretary know about that? they seemed to be saying.
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion,’ he said at last. ‘It’s dangerous out there. You need your wits about you. And besides, marriage isn’t for me.’
‘Oh,’ Georgie said again. And she withdrew the toasting fork. He’s not worth the wit, she thought and turned her eyes to the dance floor again, transformed to a kaleidoscope of activity and colour, music flooding the entire room, the chandelier teardrops swaying from thermals of cigarette smoke and human heat.
He swigged suddenly at his cocktail, perhaps gaining courage from the action and the alcohol combined.
‘Care to dance?’ he said, and held out his hand for her acceptance.
Georgie gestured towards her feet and scrunched up her nose. ‘Thank you, but my feet are telling me it’s way too dangerous out there.’
Those very blue eyes bored into hers for a second. Realising he’d been snubbed, the man turned tail without a word, striding up to the first lone woman teetering on the edge of the floor and almost yanking her into the dancing fray.
Georgie drained her own glass and signalled for one more. Despite her sore toes and her undersized dress, it really had been a very entertaining evening.
2
Paranoia
Berlin, 28th July 1938
His pace quickened as he hastened down the busy street, breath squeezing at his ribs. Sweat ran in rivulets between his shoulder blades, causing his shirt to stick to his skin as he darted forward under the late, low sun nudging at the Berlin skyline. His brain seesawed while his legs scissored in a motion of their own making – paranoia and fear were an effective fuel. Should he look backwards to check if he had a tail? Could he shake them off if he did? Only one purpose dominated his mind and body: he had to get home.
At the last corner before his own street, he stopped at one of the rounded pillars pasted with political posters, pretending to read but inching his way around so that he looked back along the street from where he’d come. In his heart, he knew this sudden, consuming fear was irrational, but he couldn’t shake it off until he reached home. Thankfully, no one appeared to be loitering in the steady stream of human traffic going to and fro, least of all Gestapo. But then, what did the Gestapo look like? No tell-tale leather coats for months now in this lengthy, hot summer, and they didn’t tend to favour formal announcements. Turning towards his own street, he launched once again in the direction of his own front door.
‘Rubin! What are you doing home so early?’ Sara swung out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a cloth. ‘Has your work been cancelled?’ His wife looked suddenly alarmed at the prospect of vital funds no longer dropping into her purse. Any job the Amsels secured these days was crucial to their survival.
‘No, no, it’s fine, Sara,’ he lied. ‘I was just nearby. How’s Elias?’
‘He’s all right,’ she replied. ‘More settled today, dozing right now.’
‘Good,’ Rubin breathed with relief. ‘No callers? No one asking after him?’
‘No … why? What’s all this about?’ she quizzed with rising unease. ‘Have you come home simply to ask after my brother’s health?’ Rubin was almost always out from early until late, touting for business – driving, interpreting, moving groceries – any job he could find.
‘No,’ he admitted, his face pinched with worry. ‘But I do need to talk to you about him. Come into the kitchen.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Sara said, clutching a cup of the hot coffee she’d brewed them both. ‘You mean they would take him away, just because he can’t work? Put him in a prison for that? He’s sick, Rubin, not a criminal.’
Her husband poured out more of the weak, tan-coloured liquid. Sara was not naive to the lengths the Reich would go to, not in the Berlin of the day, but she was a naturally forgiving soul. ‘They don’t call it a prison,’ he explained. ‘It’s a camp, they say, for “protective custody”.’
‘Protection from what?’ Sara said, her already furrowed face creased deeper with misunderstanding. ‘We’ve looked after Elias since his accident. He’s a burden to no one, least of all this wretched government.’
‘I know, my darling, but that’s not what the Nazi Party think. And he is a Jew. Two marks against his name.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said, horrified. ‘This isn’t simply a rumour?’
‘No, I’m not entirely sure, but I don’t think we can take the risk, do you? We have to protect Elias, as much as we can.’
‘So what do we do?’ She was genuinely empty of ideas. ‘There’s no one who can look after him, not like us. Where would he go?’
Rubin cast his eyes towards the ceiling, to the attic above their third-floor apartment, the space beyond the wooden hatch currently daubed in cobwebs, the roof slats allowing slivers of daylight and a stiff breeze to come through in winter.
‘Rubin – no!’ Sara said, incredulous again. ‘This is my brother – we can’t shut him in the attic. Not in this heat. Not ever. His life is bad enough as it is.’