Even when African-American athlete Jesse Owens won four gold medals, threatening to soil the whiter than white showing of Aryan strength, the Nazis did not falter. Georgie heard foreign visitors with her own ears, muttering that perhaps France and Britain, even the US, had been wrong in judging the National Socialists too harshly. Germany – and with it, Berlin – seemed a place where you could feel safe. The Nazi propaganda machine had triumphed. What the visitors hadn’t seen, but the journalists were party to, was more telling; those Jewish athletes ‘persuaded’ not to take part, or the visitors who’d stood naively by during a Nazi parade without offering the Hitler salute, being shuffled off the pavement by Stormtroopers and given a firm, sometimes physical reprimand. Those were the stories that made it to Georgie’s ears, via the whirl of social parties and ‘trivial’ fashion journalism. The same stories that occasionally made it into the paper, buried as a few lines in the back pages, always overshadowed by the pseudo-fiction of the German Minister for Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, and his army of crack publicists.
Two years on, the sheen was gone and the Berlin in front of Georgie’s eyes was astonishing in a different vein; it was still ordered, the wide impressive streets designed in distinct, neat lines and the buildings grandiose and imposing. But there was no mask anymore, no need to hide what the National Socialist German Workers’ Party – the Nazis – were about. Their determination to dominate was unabashed; that much was clear from the imposing columns that came into view as the taxi approached and then turned into the capital’s most prominent thoroughfare, the Unter den Linden. Scores of white pillars, four abreast, swept down the entire length of the boulevard, many topped with the eagle emblem of the Nazi insignia, some white, some gold, blinding in the midday glare. It was no accident that Georgie needed to look upwards at these towering symbols of power, like the pictures of ancient Rome she remembered from her history books – the phrase ‘delusions of grandeur’ came immediately to her mind. It was an uneasy feeling, and one she would be keeping to herself.
The driver parked at the far end of Unter den Linden, on the Pariser Platz, unmistakable with the city’s iconic gateway directly opposite: the impressive Brandenburg Gate, with its six vast columns leading towards the Tiergarten, the city’s equivalent to Hyde Park. The gate was topped with the statuesque goddess of peace on her chariot and four horses, embellished nowadays with the Nazi emblem. Another supreme irony, Georgie mused, given the storm clouds of war looming in the nearby embassies and scores of government offices.
‘I think my hotel’s a bit further down this road,’ Georgie said. They were parked directly outside the renowned Hotel Adlon, and although the Chronicle had been generous in its first week’s allowance of a decent hotel, she definitely wouldn’t be housed in Berlin’s centrepiece of style.
‘Seems there’s a little bit of a post-lunch welcome party arranged for us in here,’ Max said from the front. ‘The driver says he’ll take our luggage on.’
She felt like royalty as the doors were opened by staff in neat blue livery, and then immediately underdressed in her tailored but worn everyday skirt and blouse.
‘Welcome, madam,’ the doorman said in perfect English, and she replied her thanks in German. Walking into the lobby was like entering a labyrinth of sheer opulence; her eyes combed over the vaulted and painted ceilings in Baroque style, feet stepping on intricate Turkey carpets, with statues alongside dripping in gilt, silent staff gliding to bring glasses that chinked with good cheer and echoed money. Somewhere in the background, the gentle trickle of water fountains calmed a total assault on the senses. Neither needed a journalist’s nose to locate the welcome party, following a general hum of conversation rising above the splendid aura of the Adlon.
‘This looks like us,’ Max said as he led them eagerly towards the bar.
‘Here they are, another couple of lambs for the slaughter,’ one loud voice boomed with good cheer, as his long arms extended and his imposing form scooped them into the fray. ‘What’ll you have?’
The drinks – Georgie opting for a soda water, while Max craved a cold German beer – seemed to appear magically and before long they were deep in conversation. The group was mostly made up of print journalists from the British, American and French papers, with a smattering of radio hacks too. Was this their first assignment? they quizzed. What was the feeling back in Britain? Was there much talk on the streets about Germany, Hitler or war?
The gathering of ten or so clustered around the bar introduced themselves, though the names swam around Georgie’s tired brain. She was glad to see two women on the edges of the group, heads together, and for a minute she didn’t feel quite so alone. She longed to approach them and ask how it was, being a woman on the job – how they were treated and viewed – but the two seemed preoccupied, perhaps a little aloof, so she didn’t dare intrude. There’s plenty of time, she told herself.
Max appeared very much at home, and as if he half knew some of the personalities. Certainly, his father was mentioned more than once, but he replied only briefly, steering the conversation promptly back to the Berlin of the moment.
‘I’m supposed to hook up with my bureau man today. Cliff Sutton?’ Max queried, draining his beer. As perhaps the longest serving of the resident correspondents attached to the overseas newspaper offices – or bureaux – Cliff was distinctly absent. Looks were exchanged across the group. Georgie noted several sets of eyes making contact with the floor.
‘Ah well, you’ve missed him for today,’ said Rod Faber, the New York Times’ veteran correspondent and he of the long arms, copious beard and resonant voice. ‘He’s usually here until about midday, but probably at home by now. I’d give him ’til at least six before you make contact.’
Max’s face dropped. Reading between the lines was essential for a journalist and, whatever his background, he was no exception. Anyone who propped up a bar until midday and then needed a rest was clearly a slave to the bottle – no wonder the London office had wanted a fit and mobile apprentice in Berlin. Someone who could focus.
‘And my contact – Paul Adamson? Will he be coming?’ Georgie asked. Surely they couldn’t be so unlucky in having two hacks married to the schnapps?
‘Hmm, Paul’s suffering from a touch of confusion,’ a man behind her pitched in. Georgie cocked her head with interest.
‘He’s fallen head over heels for a German actress,’ the man went on, then paused. ‘And his wife’s just about to have a baby in England, meaning you might not see a great deal of him, either before or after the birth.’ He placed his empty glass on the bar. ‘Still, you’ve always got us to guide you through, eh guys?’ There was a small cheer as they all raised glasses at the suggestion.
Georgie failed to dredge even a weak smile out of her supply bag, despite the friendship on offer. Instead, she glanced at an equally apprehensive Max. She had expected to think on her feet, even relished the challenge. But guidance in a foreign city was essential. She had no contacts and finding them would be almost impossible in the dark. These men and women of the press, they seemed nice enough, generous too, but everyone guarded a good story when they had one. That was just the name of the game. She cast around the Adlon and its luxury, the beautiful people of Berlin sipping coffee and cocktails, and it all seemed so perfect. But it wasn’t, was it? This was real life now, not a soiree or a socialites’ party designed to produce critical copy on whether lace or organza was more suited to the occasion. This would be hard, and she’d better grow up swiftly, or Berlin might swallow her whole.