Rubin didn’t dare voice his thoughts in that moment: it might be no life at all if what he had heard was right.
Sitting in a bar only days previously, he’d overhead two men talking of their neighbour’s son, a teenage lad who’d always been considered a ‘bit slow’, one man said. The boy had been plucked suddenly from his house by soldiers from the Wehrmacht with no explanation, his parents left distraught and with little idea where or why he’d been taken. At the time, Rubin thought little of the conversation beyond a general sadness that accompanied life in Nazi-led Germany for anyone of Jewish blood.
But this morning, he’d eavesdropped on a different kind of conversation, one that had caused bile to rise rapidly in this throat; two SS officers outside the Hotel Kaiserhof, a favourite haunt of Hitler and his inner circle. They were smoking nonchalantly, clearly unaware of Rubin’s presence. One mentioned a ‘sweeping up’ operation, part of a much larger ‘clean-up’. At first, it had been hard to work out who or what he meant, but Rubin ran with a chill as it became apparent: ‘They’ll start with the retarded,’ the officer said, ‘then the sick – the incurables – and those who can’t work will be swept up finally. Who knows, they might just use a large enough broom for all Jews, eh?’ The two sniggered and blew smoke into the air while Rubin hardly dared release his own breath. Tossing aside their cigarettes, they moved inside, leaving Rubin to sprint from the shadows and head swiftly towards home and his wife.
In his own kitchen, Sara looked at him with disbelief and dread. ‘Is there no other way?’ she said.
‘I’ll get up in the attic as soon as I can,’ Rubin said in reply. ‘Make it the best I can without drawing too much attention.’
3
The Penny Drops
Croydon Aerodrome, 2nd August 1938
She was bent over pulling at a wrinkle in her stockings when they came into her vision – tan brogues that were well worn and polished, but expensive enough not to show their wear and tear. This particular pair she didn’t so much as recognise, but it wasn’t hard to marry them with the voice directed at the back of her head: ‘Hello, fancy seeing you here.’
Georgie pulled herself to standing and adopted the same expression she’d engineered at their meeting at the Ritz, a forced but well-versed half-smile. His was warmer, though also contrived, his eyes roaming into the distance of the airport lounge.
‘Your feet are not still playing up, are they?’ he said indifferently.
‘Just my stockings misbehaving this time,’ she replied, prickling with irritation that etiquette demand she wear them on such a hot day.
‘Are you off on your holidays?’ he went on.
‘No, no,’ she stammered. ‘A business trip.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his attention on small clumps of travellers milling around the gate.
For Georgie, it was too much of a coincidence; the penny had begun to drop, with the force of an anvil plunging into a deep, dark ocean. The man in front of her, however, had not put two and two together. His face was alight with blissful ignorance as he continued to skim the airport lounge. She prayed her thinking was wildly off track, or else this was a cruel irony that life – and her editor – was playing on her.
‘I’m off on business too,’ he said. ‘Supposed to be meeting someone here, only I don’t know what he looks like. He’s one of your lot, from the Chronicle, I mean. You probably know him, don’t you? George Young?’
It’s now or never, she thought. Better put him out of his misery or we’ll be here until our flight’s called. She extended a hand, in a ‘pleased to meet you’ gesture. ‘Georgina Young – most people call me Georgie …’
His eyes were at least on her, but he seemed to have been struck dumb by her introduction. Pupils wide and disbelieving, jaw sinking towards the floor, his hand falling away from hers in surprise.
‘Or George,’ she went on, to fill the yawning chasm of embarrassment between them.
‘Oh,’ he managed.
Is this really all he can say? Will he always be so inarticulate?
Finally, his fish-pout of a mouth closed and he was able to form some other words. ‘I … I just imagined …’
‘Yes, so do most people,’ Georgie said quickly. ‘You’re not the first, and I suppose you won’t be the last. I am quite used to it.’
He looked at her face-on. There was no apology, though no detectable malice either. More like a deep-seated disappointment that she recognised all too well. She suspected from their last meeting that his thinking aligned with the majority of male Fleet Street journalists, harbouring a long-held belief that women were incapable of being serious reporters, bar the tittle-tattle of the fashion or society pages. She might have quoted a long line of celebrated women who were both icons and heroines, but doing so was increasingly tiresome.
She squared her shoulders and stood tall – Georgie Young had served her apprenticeship and earned her place on this posting. She just had to prove it. Starting now, it seemed.
In time, he swallowed down his shock and pulled himself up, as a gentleman would. Manners overcame prejudice, and he held out his hand, searching for hers to shake.
‘Max Spender,’ he said, and she noted his cool, lean fingers, mindful hers were clammy with anticipation as the time of their flight approached. He hesitated, mid-shake. She watched a shadow move across his face, perhaps prodding at a dusty corner of his memory.
‘Wasn’t it you who secured the exclusive with Diana Mosley?’ His features clouded, with suspicion rather than admiration.
‘Yes.’ At the time, Georgie had been thrilled at being the first to probe the aristocratic wife of Britain’s foremost fascist, though she also knew it caused consternation among the other papers who missed out – rumours circulated of her using underhand means to gain access. ‘I had good contacts,’ she qualified, which was entirely true.
Max Spender’s expression said otherwise. Disbelief and accusation lodged firmly on his brow, and it took all her resolve to match his firm stare. Who would crack first?
‘So we’re to buddy up together, I hear,’ he said at last, in a tone that said he was trying hard to make the best of a bad job. He wasn’t forgiving, just brushing it aside – for now. ‘You’ve been to Berlin before, my boss says, on assignment? And you speak German?’
‘Yes,’ Georgie replied. ‘I was there in ’36, for the Olympics. Of course I wasn’t based directly in the city centre, but I saw a little of it, plus I’ve got a map. I daresay we’ll find our way around.’
‘I’m sure we’ll each be casting out on our own in no time at all,’ he came back quickly, not bothering to even manufacture a smile. She took it as a heavy hint – he really was planning to have as little to do with her as possible, she being tainted and untrustworthy. Well done, Georgie, off to a great start.
‘How’s your German?’ she pitched with genuine curiosity. His features stiffened then – this time, he could not feign any semblance of control.
‘Passable,’ he countered.
‘Fairly non-existent then?’ Georgie followed up with her own false grin, tinged with a smugness she couldn’t resist. If it was bordering on cruel, it was only payback for his own reactions. And for all those jibes she and every other female correspondent had been forced to endure with their lipstick smiles.