Spitfire Girls (6 page)

‘Surely that is none of your concern.' Her hands had returned to a resting position.

‘Do you have a name?'

‘That bears no relevance to your visit, sir, which I will remind you is by the grace of the Honourable Gentleman.'

‘You forgot to say “from Suffolk North”, my dear,' quipped Kranz.

‘Lady Truman. And I am not your dear.'

‘Do you have a first name?'

‘In this country we refer to it as a Chris-tee-un name.'

‘So what if someone is a Muslim? What would you call the Grand Mufti?'

‘I beg your pardon?' She observed him carefully and smiled, as if humouring a maniac. Lady Truman did this job to pass the days, otherwise serving society as the wife of a millionaire. It had been unheard of when she became the first woman in her county to take a town job, but if staying healthy in mind meant offending her matronly equals
she would enjoy the luxury of offending. Her tall, thin frame was capped by a tight bun of brown hair, and her crystal-blue eyes bordered on the cruel. Taking in Friedrich Kranz, undoubtedly her most unusual guest this year, she left her chair and walked gingerly to the other side of the waiting room, then disappeared into a small passageway.

Kranz noticed that he felt warmer now he was alone.

‘Mr Kranz?' She was standing over him and as Haydon opened the door of his inner office at the end of the passageway, another cold blast of air swept by. Kranz journeyed down to the doors, wrapping the coat around himself more snugly. Haydon ushered the Austrian in, but did not offer a handshake.

‘Has the approach of war stopped the supply of coffee, sir?' asked Kranz.

Haydon looked at him with contempt. ‘Genista?' he shouted.

Lady Truman appeared.

Genista!
thought Kranz. What a wonderful name for a Christian––

‘White or black?'

‘White, please, Genista,' Friedrich crooned, bringing another blast of Arctic air into the room. ‘And nice and hot.'

Haydon regretted having to spend time with this man. ‘Suffolk – in fact East Anglia, Kranz – could be called the sleeping cradle of England. People have basic loyalties and old traditions – news travels fast if anything unusual happens. You were seen visiting Miss Cobb's air-joyride service, and partaking of her hospitality. Local farmers began to talk. This lady, whatever one may think of her
lifestyle, is part of a splendid county family, and one suspects you are seeking a marriage of convenience.'

‘That is ridiculous – I am already married.' Kranz found himself distracted by Haydon's comprehensively bitten-down fingernails.

‘It has been known. Foreign nationals – Levantines – coming to this country, bewitching wealthy young women and laying claim to their estates, once married. Passing themselves off.'

‘What is this expression – passing off?' Kranz knew what it meant.

‘Men masquerade as eligible bachelors but inevitably sport wives and masses of children back home.' Haydon reached for a box of Havanas.

‘You had better cherish those – war will bring rationing,' remarked Kranz.

‘Your sort of industrialist could find crates of Havanas even when the Boches are beating down the doors,' Haydon said, clipping the enormous cigar and searching for his lighter. Lady Truman had arrived with the coffee cups.

‘Genista, where is my lighter? I seem to have lost it.' Both looked at Kranz.

Haydon turned to his secretary. ‘You know how much it means to me. Where could I have put it?'

Kranz rose to his full height and for a moment fear struck the two passion-misted faces. What might the foreigner do next?

‘There it is,' Kranz said, leaning over the desk and reaching into the cigar box. He held up the exquisite lighter and one of the Havanas. ‘
Finders keepers
is the expression, I believe.'

‘I should say not!' Lady Truman exclaimed, snatching the lighter.

Kranz's hand was held high, and he still gripped the cigar. ‘You British are obsessed with heirlooms and animals. May I keep the Cuban?' he asked Haydon.

Haydon gestured disdainfully, and as his guest went back to the antique chair Lady Truman left.

‘That woman astonishes me,' the MP remarked. ‘Quite happy to make coffee and type, she goes home to one of the most powerful men in this nation and organizes hunt balls.'

Both men peered at each other. Then the MP examined his minimal fingernails.

‘You wish to stay in this country and become established as an aircraft manufacturer in Norfolk?' Haydon continued, lighting up and swiftly placing his treasured lighter out of sight.

‘It would give work to hundreds of men and women.' Kranz put the cold cigar into his pocket.

‘Why Norfolk? Why not Kent or Surrey, Kranz?'

‘These are nice people, in East Anglia – very much like home.'

Haydon puffed, smirking. ‘Regretfully, I doubt your reasoning.'

Kranz seemed unmoved. ‘In a short space of time special friendships have been made, and they happen to be in Norfolk. You should know, having been eavesdropping like a common voyeur.'

‘Valerie Cobb and Shirley Bryce have registered a formal complaint with my office about your frequent visits.'

‘That is impossible!' Kranz could feel his own passion mist rising.

‘Needless to say, Sir Henry is furious. In fact it was he who conveyed their grievance.'

‘Naturally, Cobb is upset.'

‘Why, Kranz?'

‘Could you possibly call me Dr. Kranz?'

‘Since when are you a doctor, Kranz?'

‘That is what I mean – you make me into a schoolboy you might wish to cane.' Thoughts of Valerie were coming fast, and he could feel his loins raging.

Haydon's colour was fading. ‘My summation of your case, Kranz, is that you are free to seek venture finance from one of the London Merchant Houses – they are all run by your brethren, so you will feel at home – but there are absolutely no plots of land in the whole of East Anglia, should you raise that capital. People like yourself are allowed to remain in this country by the grace of His Majesty's government. But, with war looming, German and Austrian nationals may be interned. Please do not say you have not been warned. By the way, do you hear from your family?'

‘My intention is to send for them.'

‘Good God, man – is there no end to your audacity? What makes you think this country is going to continue accepting refugees?'

‘We are not refugees. And how did you know I was Jewish?'

‘Instinct. It comes from dealing with refugees.'

‘We are
not
refugees!' shouted Kranz.

‘Bloody Einstein was! Good riddance, too, I say – he's a madman, if you ask me. Do you know, Kranz, we English took in Marx, and now Freud too. Your tribe does produce some troublemakers.'

‘Here sits another Goebbels.' ‘Who the devil is Goebbels – that poet?' ‘Goethe, I think you mean,' murmured Kranz. ‘In any case, Mr Haydon, please be assured that any Austrian businessman who brings his family to England will not become a burden to the State.'
Why am I grovelling so?
Kranz thought to himself.

Haydon stubbed out his cigar and remained seated, satisfied that he had rattled another imperfect immigrant. He loved his job. ‘You had better get yourself down to the City, my man,' he said, as Kranz seemed to disappear inside his obscenely expensive coat.
Thank God
, thought the MP for Suffolk North,
that no such man would ever be allowed membership of my club
…

Friedrich had departed, the rush of air causing Lady Truman's neatly piled documents to make a noisy whirlwind. She was furious.

Out on the pavement Friedrich regurgitated her coffee into the gutter, and did not notice Tim Haydon leaving the building, and passing behind him – laughing.

New York City did not appeal to Raine Fischtal, and after the Hindenburg Disaster she had decided to make Philadelphia her base. There was an excellent assortment of film labs and photographic studios in this seventeenth-century town. Indeed, Europe's greatest female cinematographer had begun to marvel at the architecture engendered by its Germanic founders. She had taken the 23 trolley from 10th and Bigler to Germantown, and had found the houses of which Goering had spoken so fondly one evening when they had sat together in a box at Dresden. He intended establishing a home in this part of America and had fallen in love with the images of Philadelphia. It had been the seat of government of the nation once before – was there any reason why it could not be the North American seat of the thousand-year Reich?

In her small hotel room overlooking the Delaware River at the very spot on which William Penn had landed, she leaned against the old-fashioned window and contemplated the cobblestones below. Had some ancestor of hers walked here? She had been told by her grandmother that an entire branch of the family had sailed here right in the thick of the Continental Congress. Goering had reminded her that every man in his village could boast of an enterprising Yank descended from an uncle's seed. What could people like Edith Allam possibly have in common with such good stock? How could Roosevelt allow people with questionable blood lines to hold powerful positions in post-Depression recovery programs?

Thankfully it was an unwritten credo in the American banking system that only Anglo-Saxons must be hired. Indeed, on a visit to a city-centre money exchange she had been pleased by the personnel, who would have looked equally at home in a cheerful Bavarian banking hall.

She hugged the canister of film close to her, feeling its cold penetrating the warmth of her woollen pullover. Her hands were unbearably tender, but she had made a vow not to let another American doctor near her – why had so many Jews been allowed to practise in Philadelphia? There should be quotas here, as were now being instituted in Berlin and Vienna. Indeed, her father might still be alive today had Mother not been forced to use one of them on Christmas Day a year ago. People always complimented the Jews who would come out to do jobs on the holy days so their Christian colleagues could observe the festival and have a rest. She was quite sure this pig of a doctor had wrongly diagnosed her father with malicious intent – had there been no next of kin he would most likely have drained his blood for use at some unspeakable ritual.

One thing she and Edith Allam had in common was their want of good looks. Both lacked shape and their faces betrayed the laws of symmetry. She had to confess that her features smacked as much of ancient rapes as did Edith's, and she had a sudden urge to meet the girl once more before departing for the Fatherland. What was the name of that cafe? Heimat? It couldn't be – she probably lived in a ghetto and they had their own food, like the tribes in Warsaw for whom even a Christian chicken was not good enough. Nevertheless she was intrigued to discover the eating place of a typical American photographer, and,
locking her canister away in her box-like suitcase, she clenched her teeth against her increasing pain and set out across the cobbles of Head House Square, looking up to admire the relics of the slave market.

Downtown Philadelphia had become dark earlier than usual because of an eerie yellow cloud-cover. Some said it was the souls from the ‘Hindenburg' floating over on their way back to German heaven. Walking up Broad Street, Edith thought of the German vision of hell she had witnessed on Raine's footage, and hoped Errol Carnaby would be in a mood to listen to her narrative.

She walked into Fidler's Automat and found her three friends waiting at a front booth for what they always referred to as her ‘entrance'. Tonight she did not disappoint them, her face still red from the incongruously combined thoughts of Raine Fischtal and Stan Bialik. Amid the din of a busy city-centre soda fountain, she could hear Errol spouting Blake and explaining to a rapt audience his current obsession, the four Zoas. As she approached through a maze of self-service trays carried by what seemed an endless stream of businessmen in hats, Edith could hear the Negro intoning:

‘Let Man's Delight be Love, but Woman's Delight be Pride.'

She put her hand on Errol's shoulder. ‘Did you tell them I've met that real Nazi again – the one from Lakehurst?' she murmured.

‘In Eden our loves were the same; here they are opposite.' Errol had not heard her, but Molly Santarello had.

‘Don't talk about Nazis right now,' murmured the Italian
beauty, whose fair hair and light eyes belied a temperament derived from the heat of Calabria.

Edith noticed that the three faces were fearful.

‘I'll get you a chocolate soda.' Kelvin Bray went to the counter before Edith could say no. She was hungry and wanted food, not drink. Molly moved along the seat to make room, and she sat, facing Errol.

‘That German film-maker is a legend in her own country. She wouldn't let Burt buy her canister.'

‘Do you want something to eat?' asked Errol. He shouted to Kelvin, still standing at the counter. The soda-jerk winced at the Negro's voice.

‘All my savings are going to go into my flight to Germany.'

Her companions were fearful yet again.

‘Are you nuts, Allam?' snapped Errol. ‘It's a jungle over there.'

‘You can't get chocolate sodas, for one,' said Kelvin, slamming on to the table the heavy glass foaming with Seltzer.

Molly had remained quiet throughout, letting her thoughts wander to her parents' town in Calabria, where Mussolini was making such an impression. What was it that made her American when she thought and when she dreamed? Their home town was like a primitive burial ground, where people were already dead as they began to grow up. Here, there was life.

‘If you go to Germany you can't leave until Molly gets her serenade – the Italian bridegroom-to-be sings to his fiancée,' Errol said, reminding her of the primitive rituals connected somehow with life. She turned to Edith: