Flight From Berlin: A Novel Page 13

  SWING TANZEN VERBOTEN!

  REICHSKULTURKAMMER

  At the other end a second heavy curtain was pulled aside and another door opened. It was a large venue, much too large for the crowd of a hundred or so youths, not yet dancing but gathered in front of the band on the stage where a vocalist was singing ‘Minnie the Moocher.’ He threw out the lines of the refrain, which the audience repeated back in mangled English. The attraction seemed to be the trumpeter, a chubby young man in a tuxedo who inflated his cheeks like Louis Armstrong, producing Armstrong’s coarse lilt. A clarinet, two saxes, another trumpet, three trombones, a double bass, a piano, and a drummer completed the band. Not a violin in sight. I’ll be damned, thought Eleanor. A serious swing band. Not large, but the acoustics filled out the sound nicely.

  A glitter ball cast its revolving constellation through the veils of cigarette smoke. On the right-hand side a long bar stretched almost the entire length of the floor. The left was taken up by a seating area of café tables arranged among large potted ferns.

  Eleanor thought that, seen together, moving in rhythm, soaking in the forbidden music, they were the most outlandish kids she’d ever set eyes on. They looked nothing like the English or Americans, more like some rebel faction whose appearance was exaggerated to look as unfascist as possible. Some of the boys had forelocks that extended into a bizarre whip down to their chins.

  ‘Hey—’

  Eleanor turned to see Friedl pushing his way towards them through the crowd. His black hair shone with brilliantine and a cigar stub was stuck soggily in the corner of his mouth. He stopped in front of her and Denham, exhaling a breath potent with rum. There was an edginess to him, and his eyes danced.

  ‘What d’you think of the band?’ he said, putting his arms around them. ‘It’s the “Flottbecker” from Hamburg. There are cats here from Leipzig, too, and Hanover. Here—’ He began pulling the shoulders of the youths in front of him, turning them around. ‘This is Ray, this one’s King, here’s Fats, Fiddlin’ Jim, Old-Hot-Boy—he’s from Hamburg, formed a huge club around one gramophone—and this is Eton-Charlie.’ This last youth had excelled himself with a derby hat and a silver-topped cane. ‘A dead smart look,’ Friedl said to Denham, ‘like your foreign minister, Anthony Eden, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Dead smart.’ Eton-Charlie put his nose in the air making the others laugh. Two girls introduced as Blackie and Swing-Puppy smiled with cyclamen purple lips.

  A waiter brought them drinks of iced Coca-Cola and rum.

  Applause from near the stage, and the singer stood down. Then the drummer beat the first bars of ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’—Bam bam bam-bam barram bam-bam—and the crowd went wild.

  ‘Benny Goodman, King of Swing!’ someone yelled.

  The slim boy known as Fats grabbed Eleanor by the hand, and she allowed him to pull her onto the dance floor.

  The crowd swung their arms high, kicked their legs out, and threw each other from the waist. Girls shimmied around the boys, hitched their short skirts up to reveal their panties; boys picked the girls up and banana-split their legs over their crotches. Many of the steps were crude, improvised by the youths themselves, or based on some variation of the old Lindy Hop. Eleanor found herself surprisingly moved by it all.

  At the bar Denham stood with Friedl. The young man was pale and sinking his drinks at an alarming rate.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Denham said.

  ‘Did you make contact with Liebermann?’

  ‘Briefly, after her match this morning. But the press chief stopped the interview.’

  Friedl’s head slumped to his chest. When he looked up Denham saw anguish in his eyes. ‘Go and find her. Interview her family, too. Publish the truth about these Games . . .’ There was an off note to his voice, as if mania was only just being contained. ‘I mean . . . it’s a good story for you . . . isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I got a tip-off . . . a few hours ago. My name’s on an arrest list. Probably tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘Christ. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m going away. Into hiding. I just came to see my friends. I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Are they coming for you because you told me about Liebermann?’

  ‘No,’ he said, managing a weak smile. ‘Not because of that.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  Friedl seemed to collect himself. ‘It’s safer if I don’t tell you. I have friends. You shouldn’t worry.’

  The band was now playing a swing arrangement of ‘Blue Skies,’ and about half the youths were sitting at the tables to the left of the floor, chatting, sweating, drunk, and laughing. The rest were still hitting their stride in front of the stage.

  The shrill note might have been the sax bringing in the next number until Denham realised, at the same moment as everyone else, that a whistle was being blown.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Friedl.

  Some fifteen Hitler Youth were entering the hall from the back and spreading out along the walls to both sides. Short hair; clean, hard faces. Brown shorts with daggers hanging from their belts.

  ‘Change the music,’ the one in the lead yelled, waving at the stage. ‘Hey you. Change the music.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye,’ Friedl said, his voice tight.

  Denham embraced him. Good luck.

  ‘Find Liebermann.’

  He turned and pushed his way along the bar to the corner of the floor, slipped behind the stage curtain, and was gone.

  The pianist struck up a halfhearted tango to whistles and jeers. ‘Not kosher!’ someone shouted.

  Suddenly a lit cigarette was thrown at the Hitler Youth leader. He recoiled, his fingers frantically brushing the bright embers from his shirt; then he lunged in the direction it had come from, fist raised. The brawl began instantly.

  Denham found Eleanor. ‘Time to go,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her towards the foyer.

  Seconds later they were through to the street.

  Behind them came shouting and the sound of a glass smashing.

  Eleanor said, ‘You don’t think there’ll be serious trouble, do you?’

  ‘Probably not. One gang of kids fighting another. They’ll all scramble before the Orpo get there. Those Hitler Youth were probably just looking for girls.’

  He told her about Friedl’s tip-off and his escape into hiding.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be okay?’

  Denham said nothing.

  A tram clattered over the carriageway. They meandered hand in hand down a deserted street. Denham had no particular destination in mind. The buildings were ornate, shuttered, and heavy, like old safe boxes. The air was still warm, carrying the sound of a far-off train whistle sighing into the night.

  ‘I’ve had a great time,’ Eleanor said.

  Before them the cobblestones glinted like mackerel scales, and in one of the trees around the streetlamps a nightingale trilled, answered a moment later by another in a nearby street.

  They turned and faced each other. Her eyes were swimming in the moonlight, her lips parted a little, her breath short.

  They kissed slowly, her tongue hesitant, then insistent, his hands clasping her to him. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman who appealed to him for reasons beyond base need. For a few moments he was lost in her. But then an old demon breathed in his ear and he released her.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re a married woman,’ he said, ‘and I’m a lost cause.’

  ‘Aren’t lost causes the ones worth fighting for?’ she said quietly.

  They embraced again, her warm cheek resting on his neck, and stood still for a few moments, rocking very gently, when she gave a sharp cry and jumped away, sending Denham’s heart into his mouth.

  The shriek echoed off the dark buildings. Her eyes were locked on a point over his shoulder.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Goddamn it, he’s there,’ she said, pointing to the darkness beneath t
he trees.

  Denham could see nothing.

  Then from out of the shadows the figure in the black trilby came quickly towards them.

  ‘Who are you?’ Denham shouted in German.

  ‘Please . . . ,’ said a young man’s voice. ‘Don’t run again.’

  He stepped into the light of a streetlamp, took off his hat, and Denham recognised him. The mutilated eye and stitched-up cheek glistened.

  ‘I want to talk to you . . .’ The young man’s voice was quick and rattled. ‘My name is Roland Liebermann. I’m—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Denham. ‘Relax, son, it’s all right. You gave us a fright, that’s all. How did you find us?’

  ‘Hannah told me about you while you were in the changing room with that official,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘She asked me to follow you, but I couldn’t risk approaching you in public . . . if they’d seen me talking to you, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I found you again as you left the stadium and, lucky for me, you took a taxi. I jumped in one and followed you home. Taxis are safe for me.’

  ‘Walk with us awhile,’ said Denham.

  Roland Liebermann glanced down the still street. A light had come on in a nearby window, and now there was movement behind a curtain.

  ‘There will be a Portierfrau with a telephone in every building along here,’ he said. ‘It’s too dangerous. I must go. My sister said we could trust you, and, if I found you, to ask if you will come to us—tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Denham.

  ‘We live at Winklerstrasse 80, in Grunewald. Will you remember that?’

  ‘Winklerstrasse 80.’

  ‘Gnädiges Fräulein,’ Roland continued, turning to Eleanor but still speaking in German. ‘I’m sorry I scared you. Tomorrow then,’ he said to them both. ‘But please, don’t let anyone see you approach our house.’

  Denham extended his hand to Roland. He hesitated, but then shook it firmly, before pulling the brim of his hat down and turning away. They watched him disappear up the street, darting through the shadows under the trees.

  ‘I understood enough of that to know you’re going to see Liebermann,’ Eleanor said. ‘And this time I’m coming with you. No arguments. What’s the matter?’

  Denham was looking down at the hand he’d just shaken with Roland Liebermann.

  ‘He had no index or middle finger.’

  The hallway in Kopischstrasse was in darkness when Denham got home. Inside Frau Stumpf’s apartment a clock chimed twice. Exhausted, he climbed the stairs, intending to fall straight into bed. He opened the door warily but found no sign of another forced entry. On the floor in front of him, though, was a telegram, which Frau Stumpf must have slipped under the door.

  It was from Anna, asking him to call immediately.

  A bud of anxiety popped into his stomach. He had a cordial friendship with his former wife, but they both knew that Tom was the only reason they kept in touch. Had something happened to him?

  He picked up the telephone before his imagination ran riot, got through to the exchange at Charlottenburg, and placed an urgent long-distance call. Within seconds the operator called him back with the connection.

  ‘Richard?’ Her voice sounded strained. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you since early this morning. There’s been no answer . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Tom . . .’ Anna’s voice wobbled. Behind the hiss and crackle on the line he heard her crying. ‘He’s disappeared.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Denham pictured his former wife as he usually did: lying under a quilt, clutching the handset of the bedside telephone. She was prone to tension headaches and retreated to her bed when vexed, her face pallid beneath her dark hair. Denham waited for her to stop crying, and then asked her to explain.

  ‘You see, on Monday evening I had some important news for Tom. Walter, the friend I’m sure I’ve told you about, has asked me to marry him—yes—and I thought Tom would be pleased. He’s so good to him, Walter is, but anyway I’m afraid Tom took the news rather badly.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I asked him to shake hands with Walter in the drawing room, but he was beastly about it, so I told him to apologise and he wouldn’t, so I sent him straight to bed, and—’ She broke off and began crying again. ‘And now he’s gone,’ she wailed.

  ‘Anna, try to keep calm. Any idea where he’s gone?’

  Denham was standing now, wishing he could pace, but the telephone cord wasn’t long enough, so he had to settle for scratching his head.

  But as she continued her account, he felt himself relax. The motive for Tom’s little adventure seemed plain enough, and he’d almost certainly come home when his bread and corned beef ran out, his protest made and his tail between his legs. All the same, where could he be hiding this time?

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Denham said. ‘Remember when he planned a long-haul expedition from the potting shed and you wondered where all the candles and Banbury cakes had gone? Or that time he spent the night in the Prendergast kid’s garage with my army knapsack?’

  Anna said nothing, which Denham knew better than to take as a sign of mollification. The line whistled and buzzed. ‘I’ll telephone again tomorrow,’ he said, ‘to see if there’s any news.’

  ‘You’re not coming over?’

  ‘Of course, but I’ll be very surprised if the boy isn’t back for breakfast. I’ll call in the morning. There’s a story here I’m investigating—’

  ‘A story?’ Her tone was sharp and accusing.

  ‘It’s a very big story, about a Jewish athlete who’s—’

  There was a rattle as she hung up.

  Denham had blamed himself for the breakup of his marriage, although hearing Anna’s reproachful tone made him doubt that things could have been different. He remembered her face when he told her he was leaving on a long trip to Brazil. Tom was only two, and she was right to be angry. But Germany was the last straw. He’d taken an assignment in Berlin—and when most foreigners began deserting it, had decided to stay. Anna had finally realised that he preferred to be alone and had cast him out. She couldn’t understand him. But he had a sense that Tom did. Tom had a child’s insight into his old man. He understood that his dad had to be by himself and that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

  In the morning he tried calling again but was told by the operator that he’d have to book his call for later. With so many foreigners in Berlin the lines were jammed. He didn’t want to antagonise Anna by failing to make contact, so he popped into the post office on the Bergmannstrasse and sent a telegram asking her to cable him with any news.

  At the kiosk outside the station he spotted a five-day-old copy of the Daily Express. He jumped onto the U-Bahn and read the paper’s coverage of the Olympic opening ceremony. Gushing descriptions of Berlin en fête filled the columns, with no mention of the brutalities that had been swept out of sight. But it was the lead article that dismayed him the most. It was of the view that the British athletes had let the side down by not giving the Hitler salute. ‘It would not have done the British any harm if they had made a gesture to the country housing the Games by following the unexpected example of the French . . .’ He would have to tease Pat Murphy about that.

  Eleanor was waiting for him as arranged: next to the flower stall of Berlin Zoo Station. He saw her first and smiled to himself. She wore a light raincoat and a black beret—an attempt, he supposed, at looking incognito—but coupled with her red lipstick, heels, and round sunglasses with white frames, the drab coat and hat only seemed to heighten her glamour.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, and explained about Tom. Eleanor looked concerned.

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘I’ll take the evening flight from Tempelhof if he doesn’t show up today, but the odds are he’s already come home for his toast and eggs, with dirt behind his ears.’

  The morning sun streamed into the station, casting dusty shafts of light onto the ti
led floor and long shadows among the scurrying rush-hour commuters. Denham led Eleanor up the steps to the platform. Trains disgorged passengers in a disorderly bustle; the station echoed with announcements. He and Eleanor were the only people embarking, and a minute later their deserted carriage was juddering out of the station and heading southwest to the suburbs.

  ‘We’re going to a smart address,’ Denham said. ‘Grunewald is the playground of Berlin’s filthy rich.’

  ‘Well, that figures. He’s head of an international bank, apparently, but discreet, you know? Not like Rothschild with foundations and charities, splashing his money all over town . . .’

  ‘Who is?’ said Denham.

  Eleanor took off her sunglasses and looked at him with exasperated amusement. ‘Don’t you research your victims, Mr Reporter? Jakob Liebermann is who. He’s a multimillionaire, so no wonder he lives in a swell neighbourhood. Over breakfast I asked Ambassador Dodd all about it. Hannah’s dad is some secretive art collector and head of this Jewish private bank with interests all over the place. The US would welcome him with open arms, but he’s been denied an exit visa. Martha says that’s because the Nazis want to strip his wealth from him before they let him out, and there’s nothing the State Department or anyone else can do about it . . .’

  The carriage door slid open and the beat of the rails came loudly in.

  ‘Ihre Fahrkarten bitte.’ They presented their tickets. ‘Danke. Heil Hitler!’

  Eleanor inspected her lipstick in her compact mirror. ‘Okay, now it’s your turn. What exactly is the story here?’

  ‘Hannah’s family has been threatened. She’s being forced to compete.’ Denham turned to watch the city roll past the window. ‘The trouble began when she told them no—to representing Germany in the Olympics, I mean. If it became public that she’d refused the invitation in protest over the Nazis’ hate laws against the Jews, it could have finished these Games. Dozens of wavering nations might have pulled out, with a tremendous blow to German prestige. That could not be allowed to happen. So they had to act quickly, and resorted to the methods they know best.’