Berlin and London, January 1939
It was over too soon, and although Georgie would never admit it to her parents, it was among the best Christmases she’d had. Returning to Berlin, Geneva felt like a heavenly memory that no one – not even Herr Hitler – could ever seek to steal away.
Then, the hammer blow to quash her new-found spirit. She’d lost Rubin – as a reliable driver at least. Following Kristallnacht and the accusation against all Jews, the Reich imposed not only an outrageous one-billion-marks bill for damages, but followed up on their pledge – all Jews banned from driving cars or motorcycles. In one fell swoop, a good half of the Amsels’ income was wiped out. In addition, Jews were banned from key central areas of the city: concert halls, museums and public baths. Rubin said nothing, but she saw it in his face, echoed his thoughts: how many life layers were to be pared away, until there was nothing left of their liberty?
Georgie reassured him that with some careful juggling of the office expenses she could manage the retainer, find him some other employment and apply for an exemption permit allowing him to travel in and out of the city centre as a vital messenger for the bureau. ‘Foreign companies are still allowed more concessions than German businesses,’ she told him. Still, she watched with a heavy heart from the office window, seeing him push off on his bicycle, his shoulders rounded and carrying a dense personal load.
In brief conversations over work, Max and Georgie had agreed to prod at their contacts in trying to breathe any kind of life into Paul’s suspicions. But there was work too – agency reporters had been holding the fort over the holidays and Georgie needed to tempt Henry with more stories in fighting for her own space on the foreign pages. Her first conversation with him, however, put paid to that.
‘You’re being recalled to London,’ he said, his voice full of apology.
‘What do you mean recalled? For how long?’ Her voice was already cracking. ‘Why?’ Had she not done a good job? Henry always seemed pleased with her dispatches.
‘They’ve had several people leave on the home desk and they need you to fill in. I’m not sure how long.’
‘But what about here? It’s a crucial time, Henry. It could all blow up at a moment’s notice.’
‘I know, I know. But I’m an editor, Georgie, not a manager. I don’t make the decisions. They are looking for a permanent replacement for Paul, and in the meantime we’ll use agency material.’
Her disappointment transmitted clearly over the phone lines. Berlin was like walking on eggshells at times, and she had enjoyed the relaxation of time away, but to lose it entirely …
‘I’m sorry, Georgie, but the decision’s made. We’ll get you back there as soon as possible. As a pledge, we’ll pay your Berlin rent while you’re back in England.’
She couldn’t refuse. While her confidence had grown, she wasn’t at the level of selling her wares as a freelancer, and at least the Chronicle was showing commitment to her return. The thought of seeing her parents was inviting, catching up with friends and watching films not subtitled or badly dubbed, though it was a small payback for her deflation.
She didn’t hold back the tears at Zoo station, impossible with half the press corps gathered to wave her off, plus Sam. ‘Bring us back some of that heavy stuff you have over there,’ Bill said, prodding her to smile. ‘What is it? Fudge? I’d like some Cornish fudge.’
The fact that Cornwall and London were hundreds of miles apart didn’t figure to Bill, coming from the vast US Midwest, but she loved that he thought of it.
‘Hey, kiddo.’ Rod pulled her in for his best bear embrace. ‘I’m on a strudel strike until you return, so if you have any sympathy for a poor American and his stomach, you’ll come back soon.’
‘Promise,’ she said, wiping at her wet cheeks. It was like leaving family, and even Frida and Simone looked saddened in the background. Max stood alongside them, forcing a smile onto his stony face. As the train drew out of the station, he mimed a scribble on his hand. I’ll write, he mouthed, and then the cluster of people receded into the distance.
Berlin, part one at least, was over.
London seemed drab by comparison, and Georgie felt frustrated by its relative inertia. No one seemed to be talking seriously of the imminent threat in Europe and what might, very swiftly, interfere dramatically with the price of milk or the train delays. War, that’s what. Full-on, Europe-wide annihilation. How could they be so blind to the Nazis’ badly couched cruelty?
Work was a saving grace in keeping her busy. Georgie was seconded to the Chronicle’s crime desk, which was pacey yet still routine by comparison. There were no personalities like Herr Bauer to laugh at, and although the other reporters were a good bunch, she longed for the close camaraderie of the Berlin pack. She missed Rod and his hugs, Bill and his wry observations, Frida and her alternative take on life. She missed Max and his friendship. She scoured the Telegraph foreign pages, reading between his lines of what was really happening. She held her breath to read what seemed to be routine politics in the foreign pages, unable to bear the thought of missing out on something ground-breaking.
The Chronicle ran a piece on the Reich’s five-year plan to enlarge their fleet of ships, easily taking it to beyond the size of the British navy by 1944 – another pledge from the Versailles Treaty the Nazis had simply discarded. Equally, they published frivolous reports on Hitler’s purchase of a priceless painting, and the bizarre call from the editor of Der Stürmer to ban any loyal German from singing ‘The Lambeth Walk’.
On the home front, there were plans for evacuation and pictures of Londoners building garden air raid shelters, yet it still seemed so half-hearted, as if the world remained convinced it would simply go away when all wished hard enough.
The weeks seeped into months – Henry had warned her it wouldn’t be a short sabbatical – but London was a place to recharge. She hated the winter fogs and how they made her cough, but there was a less watchful atmosphere than in Berlin, and Georgie noted her shoulders relax as she walked the streets without an ear cocked for footsteps, not tempted to glance behind her. She managed several snatched weekends with her parents, whose anxiety was calmed by her looking so well. ‘I imagined you might be grey, with all that pickled cabbage and meat.’
‘Mother! It’s not some out-of-the-way foreign clime, you know. There are fresh vegetables.’ She didn’t dare admit how much strudel was wrapped around the apples she and Rod consumed.
Max kept his promise and wrote, not quite once a week, but enough to let her know things were merely ticking over. The press crowd were all using Rubin for a variety of jobs, keeping his wages constant. Then: ‘We went skating in one of the frozen-over lakes in the park, and had a lovely time – Frida is a dab hand on the ice. I missed laughing at your attempts (given what you were like on skis!). I noticed, though, that there were plenty of signs: No Jews allowed. How can one race feel that another isn’t allowed to have fun?’
Despite her own outrage and what it meant for people like Rubin, Georgie warmed at the human element pushing through Max’s pen, despite his best endeavours. Politically, he wrote that the Reich office was quiet, almost worryingly so.
‘The only news is that they shut down Berliner Tageblatt, which Rubin was especially sad about, but some of the reporters have got work as agency contributors on the quiet,’ he wrote. He said Frida had been a little cagey and absent, but he offered no news of Simone. ‘Rod has lost several inches off his waistline but is miserable, so come back soon. Please. Love and strudel, Max.’
Life appeared to be ticking over in Berlin, spring doing its utmost to break though in London, and yet each day seemed grey to Georgie; she hovered over the wire machine on the foreign desk, eager to know if Hitler had made a sudden move, her not in the thick of it. The thought of missing something vital created a new kind of daily anxiety. So she was concerned one lunchtime to see Henry’s form amble over to her desk, his face flat, giving nothing away. Was that a hint of regret that she detected in his features? Perhaps the news she dreaded – that she wouldn’t be going back; they’d found someone to replace her.
‘Good news,’ he said at last, holding out an envelope. ‘Ticket to Berlin, in four days. Train only I’m afraid.’
Georgie’s hand was out in a flash, awash with relief.
‘And we’ve decided on a replacement for Paul. How about it – George Young, Senior Bureau Correspondent?’
Henry wasn’t the hugging type, so she had to be content with a warm handshake and a thousand thanks. ‘You’ve earned it,’ he said. ‘Being plunged in at the deep end. Welcome back to the foreign desk fold. I look forward to lots of good copy.’