Rubin pictured Sara’s once-vibrant, fit younger brother, now slumped in their tiny living room, his mind still active but his body broken by a heavy fall the year previously. His badly fractured hip and leg had been pieced together at the time by an elderly, out-of-practice doctor and it was a poor job, the nerve damage beyond repair. Elias would still be able to work, in an office perhaps, were it not for the Nazi decree banning him and all other Jews from work in public offices. The fit, healthy ones scrabbled for any job they could find, but Elias rarely left the apartment. In this tragic journey, he had lost the spark that made him such a lively spirit, and which Rubin suspected had lost him his health in the first place – he’d never admitted why he was on a high wall very near to the Berlin home of Heinrich Himmler, the unimposing but much feared overseer of Hitler’s secret police. The Amsels rarely spoke of the night when Elias was brought limp and bleeding to their home, his skin bearing the scrape of a bullet so close to his scalp. They both sensed that attending the state hospital would arouse a dangerous suspicion, yet never dared to question him about the cause. It was often safer not to know.
Rubin thought hard. ‘I suppose we just have to be extra vigilant,’ he told Sara. ‘Any knock at the door, we have to delay and get him up to the attic temporarily, with the children’s help if we have to.’
‘And will you tell him why we’re doing it?’ Sara said. ‘The consequences if we don’t?’
‘I don’t think we’ll have to,’ Rubin answered. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Elias’s imagination when it comes to Nazi capabilities.’
6
Welcome to the Ministry
5th August 1938
The following days lived up to expectations for the newest additions to the press pack: long and hard, with a steep learning curve. Georgie finally met her bureau chief after several attempts at pinning him down at their office. According to the Adlon crowd that she met with several times in those first few days, Paul Adamson was a competent journalist who’d become hopelessly distracted. He was certainly no film star himself, resembling more of an insurance broker, and so Georgie had to wonder at his charms to attract a German starlet.
‘I think perhaps the temptation is his British passport,’ someone at the Adlon had muttered, and Georgie felt sorry for both the actress and his heavily pregnant wife back home. Each was being strung along in blissful hope of a promised future.
Paul wasn’t offhand, only preoccupied. He didn’t so much show her the ropes as point Georgie towards buying a better map, and making a solitary phone call to request her press accreditation card – vital if she were to access any of the numerous news conferences hosted by the Nazi publicity machine.
‘So, if you can cover what’s in the diary,’ Paul said, pointing to a lengthy list of invitations, ‘that will free me up to do the rest.’
‘And what’s that?’ Georgie couldn’t help asking pointedly. It was abundantly clear he’d every intention of leaving her to do the donkey work.
‘Oh, just a story I’ve been working on a while. Can’t say too much right now,’ he replied, at which point the office phone rang and his voice softened in an instant, clearly placating the actress, whose flouncy tone Georgie could hear at the end of the line. An engaging story indeed, she thought.
Max appeared on the third day at breakfast, edging towards her table in the Bristol’s dining room, though only when it was clear he’d been spotted and couldn’t easily escape. She saw him pocket a small German dictionary as he sat.
‘How are you? Managing all right?’ Georgie said, gesturing towards the book slipped into his jacket.
‘Oh, that. Yes, fine,’ he said with obvious bravado. ‘Coming along nicely.’ His sheepish smile said otherwise.
‘Have you hooked up with your bureau man yet?’
This time, Max couldn’t attempt a convincing cover-up, puffing out his cheeks in despair. ‘I’m afraid they weren’t wrong at the Adlon – Cliff’s a nice chap, and a bit of a hero of mine as a writer, but he’s seen too much German beer. No wonder there weren’t many takers for this posting. Quite stupidly, it never occurred to me to wonder why. I thought I’d struck lucky.’
He smiled meekly into his teacup, and Georgie felt a pang of sorrow for his situation, despite his general offhandedness. His appearance was tall and commanding, but suddenly he seemed a little boy lost, and she wondered what portion of his outer confidence amounted to bravado.
‘Same here,’ Georgie attempted to reassure him. ‘Several in my office back home did ask why I’d volunteered for the “snake pit”, and I thought they were either jealous or joking.’
‘I suppose only time will tell,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of it. Along with seeking out that award-winning story, sure to make our names as crack correspondents. Let’s not forget that.’ This time he did smile at his own sarcasm, following it up with a deep sigh as he bit into a slice of heavy German bread.
‘Have you got your press card yet?’ Georgie asked.
‘Off to get it this morning.’
‘Me too – shall we go together?’ she shot back, then hoped it didn’t sound too eager or needy. While she was anxious to understand the Nazi machine, the Ministry of Propaganda, and the control it exerted over journalists, was something to be wary of.
‘Um … I have to pick something up on the way, so I’ll be a while,’ Max stammered, putting down his napkin. It was an obvious excuse, and Georgie sat for a moment as his frame disappeared from the breakfast room. It could be that I’m a woman, she said to herself, or that he doesn’t like me, or trust me. Perhaps all three. Whatever the reason, she was on her own again.
As it happened, she wasn’t alone for long. Georgie ascended the steps to the ministry building and the bear-like form of Rod Faber – he of the welcoming arms and New York Times – was on his way out. He greeted her like an old friend, and hearing it was her first trip inside, and not surprised to learn Paul Adamson hadn’t come to guide her, he took up the mantle. At first, Georgie resisted – she didn’t want any kind of special treatment as a woman, and wasn’t afraid to say so, in the politest way she could manage.
‘Hell no, it’s not because you’re a woman!’ Rod said in his distinctive American twang. ‘It’s because you have to know who to talk to, who to bribe and who to suck up to. I would have been eaten alive if I hadn’t had my own guide way back when.’
Rod’s wisdom was proven almost on stepping through the grand entrance, SS guards on each side of twin granite statues – all four stony-faced. They climbed the sweeping stairway and were faced by a large, dark and intimidating doorway, the first in a succession of hoops Georgie was required to leap through.
‘Papers,’ the military man inside barked, looking hard at her photograph, passport and letter from the Chronicle asserting her role, and then at her face, his steely eyes crawling over her loose hair and stopping short of her shoulders. The assessment was meticulous.
‘What on earth was he looking for?’ she whispered to Rod as they moved down the corridor and towards the next hoop. ‘I felt as if he was trying to stare into my soul.’