Read Flight from Berlin Online
Authors: David John
Denham put his beer down. ‘If it’s important I’d put King and country first, if that’s what you mean.’
His old friend’s expression was hard to read.
‘Rex, this is cryptic even for you. Was there some intelligence in particular?’
But Pat Murphy from the
Daily Express
had appeared at the table, rubbing his hands. ‘Evening, gents. There’s a rumour going around that one of the German lady high jumpers is, in fact, a man.’
‘Only one?’ Rex said, his face amused again.
Two Americans from the Reuters Bureau also pulled up chairs, and soon the table was in a haze of smoke from Rex’s reignited, smouldering pipe. Denham decided it was time to eat.
He was leaving the grand lobby when he found himself sharing the revolving front door with two women who were entering. One was short and chattering, the other a tall blonde with a stylish pillbox hat tilted low to one eye. She had a long neck, a wide, full mouth, and a beauty spot just to the right of her nose. No makeup. For a long moment they exchanged glances through the glass.
H
is favourite bistro on the Bergmannstrasse usually put him in a good mood. On quiet evenings, and if there were no uniforms in the place, the
patron
tuned the wireless to a Parisian jazz station that played live sessions of Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli. But tonight the place was crowded and noisy, along with every other restaurant on the street. He tried jotting some shorthand for his
Hindenburg
piece, but the evening’s conversation with Rex had riled him.
It seemed to confirm something he’d long suspected about his old friend: he had links to the British Secret Intelligence Service, the SIS. Not so surprising, perhaps. Spies and journalists alike were in the information game, courting contacts, mining for secrets. In times like these the jobs were almost identical. And as the chief
Times
correspondent Rex had sources all over Germany.
Phipps is one of us. Tell him you drink with me.
First an entrée to the ambassador at a high-level reception—what had prompted that?—then a heavy hint that any intelligence passing Denham’s way should be handed in to the British authorities. In other words, his longest-standing journalist friend was asking him not to be a journalist. He chewed his bread slowly as he considered this.
By the time he asked for the bill he’d decided that intelligence work, divining meaning from the tea leaves of figures, rumours, and whispers, or whatever it involved, was a game he’d leave to Rex.
T
he streetlamps were lit when he returned to Kopischstrasse, whistling ‘Frauen Sind So Schön Wenn Sie Lieben,’ which echoed around the gloomy hall. Why was it only the annoying tunes stick in your head? All was dark behind the frosted glass of Frau Stumpf’s door.
At the top of the stairs he switched on the landing light, only half registering the smell of an unfamiliar cigarette. He was putting his key in the lock when his door swung open from within. An enormous man in a hat and raincoat lunged from the darkness inside, shoved his fist into Denham’s chest, and sent him crashing against the landing wall. He had barely slid to the floor when a hard blow struck the right side of his head, knocking him flat. A mewling pain cried from his jaw and ear, and blood filled his mouth where he’d chomped down on his tongue.
S
ince the final month of the Great War, Denham and violence had shunned each other like repelling magnetic forces. Lately something had switched, and he seemed to be attracting it. He’d been attacked. And a week ago in Friedrichshafen, in the brush with those Brownshirts, he’d sensed how near violence was. As near as rain after catching its scent on the breeze. One ill-judged word, one ambiguous glance, would have released it.
From somewhere in the dark along the landing came the scratching of a mouse. Easing himself up, he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing.
The blood in his mouth tasted sour and ferrous. It was both unexpected and familiar, like the taste of strong liquor after years of temperance. The taste of violence.
He’d had a sense of two, maybe three men rushing past him down the stairs. In the dim light of the landing he’d seen only the departing back of the shot-putter in the raincoat. The front door of the building had slammed with a ghostly echo.
He nudged his door open with the tip of his foot. A soft light from the courtyard reflected on the ceiling of his sitting room, enough for him to see the devastation. His books were strewn across the rug, and opened, as if each had been individually searched; there was almost nothing left on the shelf. The armchair had been turned over and the threadbare cushions pulled from their covers.
He stood up and heard the blood singing in his ear, but the pain in his back where he’d hit the wall was abating. He picked up his hat and entered the apartment, noticing his hands shaking. His few pictures—of Tom’s junior cricket team, and a sepia photograph of his parents on their wedding day—had been pulled from the walls and the backs torn off the frames. In his bedroom the mattress was turned over and all the drawers pulled out, emptied, and searched. Again he noticed the rich, hempy smell of that cigarette.
When he saw his father’s gold cufflinks untouched in the saucer on the chest of drawers, he knew for certain his visitors were not burglars.
Who were they?
He lit an HB and watched the glowing tip.
If they were police of some sort then he had plenty to choose from. Apart from the regular police—the Orpo, who patrolled the streets, and the Kripo, who caught felons—there were also the Gestapo, the secret police, sadists who sifted through denunciations, and the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst
,
who controlled state security and intelligence. This last one was the Gestapo’s shadowy twin, and he had little idea of what it did, apart from sending shudders up everyone’s spine. But the more he thought about it, the less he believed that any of them would do such a crude job and allow themselves to be surprised in the act. If Gestapo professionals were investigating him he would never know they’d been in his apartment.
His head began to ache. Under the bed he found a quarter-full bottle of Johnnie Walker, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a generous swig. A rough anaesthetic, but it did the trick. Lying back on the bare mattress he focused on Tom, and on Anna, and on beautiful girls, and on the soaring sensation he’d experienced that afternoon from the prow of the airship, the sunlit white clouds like a child’s picture of heaven.
He opened his eyes.
‘Seven Beautiful Girls from the USA’ . . . the feature article with photos in the
Berliner Illustrirte Zeitung.
He’d read it over dinner at the Kurgarten. That’s where he’d seen that girl before. The lovely tall girl who’d walked into the Adlon as he was leaving.
M
artha Dodd, the daughter of the ambassador, linked her arm in Eleanor’s and led her towards the reporters seated around an open-air table at the Tiergarten Café. Gallico walked behind them. ‘Don’t be shy,’ Martha whispered. ‘Thomas Wolfe’s a sweetheart.’ The low cloud of the day before had returned, but Eleanor wore her sunglasses nonetheless. Somewhere in the trees a loudspeaker was blaring out the
Radetzky March.
The four men stood as Eleanor’s party approached.
What an odd pair we must look,
she thought. Martha was so short her head barely reached Eleanor’s shoulder.
‘Lord, don’t say you’ve eaten breakfast already,’ Martha said in the high, silvery voice she reserved for male company. ‘We’re starving. Hello, Walter. Hello, Tom. Hello, Bill. May I introduce Eleanor Emerson, who is staying as our guest for the duration of the Games?’ Pat Murphy introduced himself.
‘Mrs Emerson,’ said Thomas Wolfe. ‘Your fame precedes you.’ He was a hulking great man; her hand seemed lost in his.
Eleanor groaned. ‘You’re too kind, but please don’t offer me champagne. I don’t want to get thrown out of Berlin tomorrow.’
The men laughed politely.
Wolfe said, ‘You know, news of your being, uh, released from the US team has been all over the dailies back home, and not just the sports pages.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly what I wanted to be famous for.’
Coffee, eggs, and strudels were ordered; then to Eleanor’s embarrassment Martha began recounting for the men’s amusement the incidents of the voyage, with her run-ins with Brundage and the moments of her shame and disgrace told in an uproarious parody, so that by the end of the story she’d been made to sound like some tipsy Mae West in a game of truth or dare with Ming the Merciless. The reporters barked with laughter, drawing the attention of people at the other tables. This set off an intense round of gossip and rumour swapping as the men dished up what they’d heard about the regime’s stage management of the Olympics. Eleanor glanced at Gallico for support, and met a look of ferocious sympathy.
What a dear man you are,
she thought,
and thank God I didn’t tell Martha about Herb.
I’ll never see the funny side of that story.
Martha Dodd was twenty-eight years old, and petite, with a girlish round face and widely set eyes of a startling blue. She hosted literary parties, adored intrigue, and relished arguments—most unlike her father, the solemn Ambassador William E Dodd. Unfortunately for Eleanor, the girl’s sharp repartee could often sound like bitchiness; she seemed to think Eleanor’s ‘news column’ at the same time important and comical, which probably meant that she saw her guest as a bit of a joke.
And why wouldn’t she,
Eleanor thought.
I was good at one thing and one thing only, and I blew it.
‘Now, boys, we need to find some scoops for Eleanor to file—some proper news, mind you. Bill? What about the links between German athletic training and rearmament?’
Eleanor rolled her eyes at Gallico, the one person she didn’t mind knowing how much this was getting on her nerves.
‘It’s okay, Martha,’ she said. ‘There’s an important story for me right here.’ Eleanor turned to the
Daily Express
reporter. ‘Mr Murphy, tell me more about this kraut lady high jumper who might, in fact, be a man.’
B
y morning Denham had a high ringing in his ear from the punch to his head, and a purple contusion across his left cheek.
He ignored the mess in the apartment, simply returning the table and chair to their place so he could type up the
Hindenburg
piece from his notes while his courtyard neighbour, a locksmith, changed the lock on the apartment door.
Denham worked through the day, tapping away at the Underwood in a sleeveless undershirt, an HB hanging from the corner of his mouth. A warm, gritty breeze brought the sounds of the city through the window.
By late afternoon he was satisfied. He gathered the typewritten sheets, put them in an envelope addressed to Greiser’s press office, and set off by tram to the Friedrichstrasse to deliver it. If he was going to find Hannah Liebermann and tell her story to the world, he’d be wise to play things safe with Greiser in the meantime. Do nothing to upset the bastard.
Berlin’s transformation was complete—as though a long siege had been lifted. The streets were colourful and welcoming, with garlands hanging from every lamppost and shopfront along the Leipzigerstrasse. The Olympic rings billowed from the flagpoles of the Wertheim department store, and the
JEWS NOT WANTED
signs had disappeared from shops, cafés, and parks.
With the state’s sadism hidden from view, the Reich Labour Front had ordered a week of ‘jollity and cheerfulness’ prior to the Games, fearing that foreign visitors might be disheartened by the
Berliner Schnauze—
the surly local manner.
Only in a tyranny,
Denham thought,
are citizens ordered to be happy.
He delivered his article at the reception to Greiser’s office and emerged through the glass doors back onto the Friedrichstrasse, thinking he’d walk home. As he made his way along the shopfronts, tilting his hat against the sun, feeling for his matches in his jacket pocket, it was a few moments before he noticed the dark vehicle in the reflection of the windows. A forest green Humber Pullman with fat whitewall tyres was keeping pace alongside him in the street. A British car? He turned to look at it. A blind in the rear side window was pulled down, concealing its passenger. The car pulled over next to him; the back door opened, and a man in a bowler hat got out. He spoke in English.
‘Gentleman in the car would like a word, sir.’
Denham hesitated.
His expression blank, the man stood to the side of the door and gestured for him to step in.
With as much curiosity as suspicion he climbed the running board and into the back. There was enough headroom to wear top hats, and such a wide seat that he might have mistaken the tall, bony man sitting to one side for a discarded coat and hat. Another seat faced the rear, like a London cab’s.
‘Mr Denham? Get in,’ the tall man said, smiling. ‘Can we give you a lift somewhere?’ A light South Wales accent.
‘I was on my way home.’
Bowler Hat Man got into the backseat facing Denham, and the car purred into the southbound traffic before he’d given his address.
‘Sorry to ambush you like that,’ the tall man said, ‘but no one’s going to overhear us if we have a little chat in the car, you see. My name’s Evans. I’m attached to the embassy here.’ He offered Denham his hand across the seat, releasing a faint smell of mints. His long face was framed by white sideburns, and there was something lugubrious about his black homburg and wing collar. He paused, his eyes falling on the darkening wound on Denham’s cheek.
‘A chat about what?’ Denham said.
‘Yes, of course. You may like to know that your printed articles have been read with satisfaction in our embassy here, and in certain offices of Whitehall.’