A good deal of Tempelhof Airport was still under construction, with builders milling about amid the staff. Georgie also felt a definite presence of Stormtroopers and army personnel, their red or white Nazi armbands easily picked out against the dull granite of construction and the ghost grey of SS troops, eyes narrowed under their caps. She stared almost open-mouthed at the spectacle, while Max the seasoned traveller strode confidently into the building, casting about for signs of the driver who was due to meet and transport them both into the city centre. Seeing no obvious driver, he stood awkwardly, shuffling his feet.
Georgie, for her part, was marvelling at the inside of the terminal, the great height of its ceiling and its coolness, sleek desks of chrome and muted beige, airport staff in crisp attire, plus a bustle and excitement that she only ever felt when travel and change were imminent. It felt a world away from her routine life in London. It was wonderfully cosmopolitan.
‘Coffee while we wait?’ Max said finally, gesturing at a small bar to the side.
Again, the answer was a resounding yes. It was one of the things about the continent Georgie missed most – like the French, Germans knew how to brew thick, strong coffee, unlike the distinctly weaker version back home. It was stout and uncompromising, and not unlike its politics at present. She was thirsty but coffee was needed most.
The bartender raised his eyebrows in anticipation, but Max’s eyes shifted uncomfortably. He turned to her instead. ‘What will you have?’ He’d lost his air of confidence – and authority – in an instant.
Georgie took up the mantle. ‘Zwei Milchkaffee bitte,’ she said, surprising herself at how easily it tripped off her tongue. Max pulled a wad of Reichsmarks out of his pocket before she had a chance to delve into her own bag, but she let this one go – for now. She would pay her way.
Balancing on bar stools, they sipped at the hot, strong liquid, the caffeine giving an instant thrust to their senses.
‘So, George, how did you get this posting?’ Max asked.
‘Not how you probably imagine,’ she said smartly. It was a common query from other journalists, almost always male.
‘And how would that be?’
Georgie looked at him squarely, trying to work him out; even if they were to have little to do with each other in Berlin, it irritated her that he already swayed in her estimation, minute by minute. She liked to get the measure of people quickly – her survival in this world depended on it. But so far she could make neither head nor tail of Max Spender; arrogance in abundance, yes, but there was something else. That large chip on his shoulder aside, she also tasted something nearing fear.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘either you imagine I’ve had some romantic liaison with an editor or publisher, someone who’s able to arrange a job like this, more as a way of keeping me out of the way of his wife, or that my daddy is someone rich in the city and has used his influence.’ She sipped again, keeping a firm look upon his face. Did she catch a split-second wince around his eyes? Maybe.
He was soon back to teasing, except she couldn’t decide if it was out of humour or conceit. ‘So which is it?’ he said.
‘Could you ever contemplate that’s it’s neither of those?’
‘Try me.’ His confidence was rising again in line with the caffeine consumption.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I got my degree in English at university. I worked on a local newspaper first and then climbed my way up at the Chronicle. From the bottom.’
‘Don’t tell me you started as the tea lady?’ His eyes sparkled at his own joke.
But Georgie wasn’t laughing. ‘Pretty much. You’d be surprised at how many pots of tea you have to make to get an editor to notice your work.’
He noted her vexation and heeded the warning. ‘So, was it in regional news that you earned your stripes?’
Now, her eyes dropped away – Georgie’s turn for her confidence to take a knock. She wasn’t ashamed of it, but she surprised herself at how hard it was to admit which department was responsible for her promotion to foreign news.
She flicked up her head, drew in a breath. ‘I started in fashion actually,’ she said. Her tone was tart, daring him to respond with incredulity.
He took a second to absorb the meaning of what she’d said. ‘You were here, at the Olympics, as a fashion correspondent?’ He was barely keeping his laughter under wraps.
‘Yes,’ she said. Steady, Georgie, she chanted to herself, don’t let them get to you. It had been her mantra almost since entering the Chronicle’s office just two years previously, principally when she was handed a sheaf of typing and told to ‘make it snappy’. Handing it back and voicing – calmly – that she was a reporter rather than one of the typing pool had taken a good deal of resolve. Good training for any journalist.
‘And we uncovered a good many stories that the news hacks did not,’ she added with pride. ‘It does well to be invited to plenty of social events and mingle among the gossips. It’s where tongues are loosened by too much champagne. In the end, it was the news boys who came to us for the goods.’ It was also where she had nurtured her contact for the Diana Mosley exclusive, but she held back on revealing that little nugget.
It was clear from Max’s face that he didn’t quite know what to do with this unexpected piece of information – his deep frown signalled it was worse than he could possibly imagine: stuck with a woman, and one who reports on tweed versus linen instead of hard news. Georgie, though, was unapologetic. Better she admit it now, rather than risk being ‘outed’ at some gathering of the press corps, when the drinks and the secrets flowed freely. She knew her resolve wouldn’t hold so well in a crowd.
Despite the office prejudice of some, Georgie truly loved the Chronicle. It was a people’s paper, filled with a diverse mix of news, features and stories; alongside the adverts for Bile Beans, Bird’s Custard and lawnmowers, there were endless articles on home management and ‘The best way with a cauliflower’. But the Chronicle was also keen to publish editorial on women’s career achievements, and not afraid to call ‘Jew-baiters’ to task. Its politics were firmly on the side of humanity.
‘I know I have plenty to learn, and plenty to prove,’ she said to Max, filling in the awkward silence.
‘You and me both,’ she thought she heard him mutter into his cup. But by then he’d leapt off his stool and was yards down the concourse, chasing after a man with a welcome sign. Their driver had finally arrived.
The journey north from Tempelhof took them through residential streets and then into the heart of bustling Berlin. Max rode in the taxi’s front seat, talking with the driver who had a decent grasp of English, while Georgie was happily alone in the back, tasting the air through the open window and enjoying the breeze on her cheeks. A chance to absorb, to take in the extraordinary sights.
Extraordinary it was, in overshadowing Georgie’s last view of the city in August 1936, when the world’s athletes had descended upon the unlikely choice of Berlin as host of the Olympic Games. Back then, the pomp and ceremony had been enough of an eye-opener. Streets around the city and the specially built stadium – designed to seat 100,000 spectators – were swamped with Nazi insignia, clean lines of flags that seemed programmed to flutter by order. Everything was precise and in its place. Pristine. The world was watching as the Nazis orchestrated their best show at the opening ceremony – a Wagnerian display of music and procession under the silver cloud of the imposing master airship, the Hindenburg, which hovered above, a tense build-up to when Hitler himself arrived in the arena with all the kudos of an emperor and strode up to his viewing box.