The Words I Never Wrote Page 11

  * * *

  —

  ONE LUNCHTIME, SITTING OVER soupe à l’oignon, she noticed an elderly woman on her own at a window table, staring at her. She had the same carroty frazzled hair as Cordelia’s old German teacher, Frau Elsa Klein, only she looked far older, more faded, and terribly down on her luck, in a threadbare coat with a ratty fur collar.

  Her eyes lit up when Cordelia jumped up and kissed her.

  “Frau Klein! I thought it must be you, but why are you here? In Paris?”

  The instant she uttered the words, Cordelia cursed herself. Frau Klein was Jewish. Just another desperate German for whom Paris was a place of refuge.

  “I was fortunate.” The old lady smiled, stirring her coffee and sipping with the fussy elegance Cordelia remembered. “My Sigmund was long dead and I had no one to stay for. Things had become uncomfortable.”

  Uncomfortable. What kinds of affronts did that single word encompass? Insults? Threats? Or something worse?

  “I thought I might set up here as a teacher, but I have no pupils wanting to learn German. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But, Liebling, how are your family? Your dear parents? Irene?”

  “Actually”—Cordelia cleared her throat—“Irene’s living in Berlin.”

  The coffee cup clattered back into its saucer. “God forbid. But why?”

  “She married a German.”

  Beneath the drifts of powder, Frau Klein’s complexion blanched. “This husband, what does he do?”

  “He’s an industrialist.”

  “How frantic your parents must be.”

  “They don’t seem so. My father says no English person should hesitate to live in a European country.”

  “Irene must leave as soon as she can!”

  “She won’t leave. I think Ernst is close to the Nazis.” Cordelia hesitated, as though admitting it for the first time to herself. “He’s a Party member, I know that. And Irene loves their life. They move in high society.”

  The narrow mouth pinched and the old woman shook her head bitterly.

  “She’s going to regret it. The Nazis’ idea of high society is lower than any other.”

  * * *

  —

  ALL THE WAY BACK to the office Cordelia was lost in her thoughts, but when she arrived she found Torin deep in conversation with a visitor. The stranger was a swarthy figure with a demeanor as black and brooding as a newspaper full of bad news.

  “Cordelia, this is Arthur Koestler. The newspaper’s sending him to Spain.”

  Koestler gave a slight nod, his slanted eyes roving over her figure like an aggressive caress.

  “We were talking about what Hitler really wants,” Torin continued. “Whether it’s the Polish corridor, Czechoslovakia, or Austria.”

  “I’d say he wants all three,” growled Koestler. He was eating an apple, tearing off chunks with his teeth and devouring them, before chucking the core on the ground. Cordelia found him faintly repellent. “We need the Americans to wake up. That will sort it. Roosevelt’s a good man, but no matter what anyone writes, there are still half a million Yanks visiting Germany every year. They see pristine villages, neat houses, friendly people sitting in Biergartens, flowers everywhere, empty autobahns, and they approve. They think Hitler’s the only man preventing the red hordes from sweeping Europe and destroying civilization.”

  Cordelia had seen Hitler a hundred times on the newsreel, stabbing the air, his face contorted with anger, his voice a convulsive shriek. She marveled how anyone could find him attractive. “There must be millions of people inside Germany who hate him,” she proffered.

  Torin shrugged. “There are millions more who approve. The fact is, most Germans might find Hitler uncouth, but they admire what he’s doing. Their country is strong again. It commands fear, if not respect. They might disapprove of his methods, but they choose to look away. They refuse to see the big picture. They don’t want to see what’s right in front of their eyes.”

  “Surely there will be a revolution or something?”

  “The optimism of the young,” scoffed Koestler. “What did Lenin say? German revolutionaries would queue up and buy a ticket before seizing a railway station.”

  * * *

  —

  THE TWO MEN RESUMED their discussion of Koestler’s travel arrangements and Cordelia returned to her typing, but Torin’s words haunted her. Might those people—the ones who could not see the big picture—include Irene?

  In smaller details, her sister was famously observant. Whenever their parents gave dinners, it was always Irene who noted the eccentricities of a guest—the soup-slurping vicar, the rambling squire, the twitching aunt—and with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or a flare of the nostrils sparked fits of giggles in Cordelia. Irene could communicate a private joke that sent Cordelia into convulsions while her own face never flickered. And while Cordelia would invariably be reprimanded, everyone else, even their own parents, saw only modest courtesy in Irene’s inscrutable, wide-set eyes.

  Surely Irene, of all people, could see what was going on around her? And if not, she needed to start looking. Impulsively Cordelia scrolled a fresh sheet into the typewriter and began.

  The Courier,

  Place de l’Opéra,

  Paris

  October 20, 1936

  Darling Irene,

  I’ve just run into Frau Klein—she’s moved from Munich because she was obviously being persecuted, and she was so alarmed when I said you were in Germany the poor old thing almost dropped her coffee. She recommends that you leave right away, and I must say, I agree with her. Why don’t you come back to England, at least until the situation improves? The parents must be dreadfully worried about your safety. We have a correspondent called Koestler who lived in Berlin, and he thinks Hitler is actively planning to seize Austria. Torin says people who stay in Germany are picnicking on a volcano.

  Sometimes, dearest, I think you don’t tell me what you actually see. Please do. Why not make your letters a journalistic record? Take what’s in front of your eyes and put it down on the page. Tell the truth. Everything else is propaganda. But before anything else, let me know that you’re happy and safe. I miss you dreadfully!

  Chapter Twelve

  Villa Weissmuller,

  Am Grossen Wannsee,

  Berlin

  November 5, 1936

  Dear Dee,

  I’m so sorry to hear of Frau Klein’s troubles. I wish I could reassure her that I’ve never seen anyone being beastly to Jews. Most of the Germans I’ve met insist that Hitler focuses on what matters to people—making Germany great again. And as for plans for Austria to rejoin the Reich, one thing I do know, being married to a lawyer, is that Germans are terrifically proper. They adore bureaucracy and the rule of law. They would never do anything without a plebiscite.

  But I get enough of legal talk at home. I want to hear more about Paris! Have you met Picasso? Tell me more about your new friend Janet Flanner…

  “I must say, Liebling, you’ve made quite an impression.”

  Amusement mingled with admiration as Ernst entered the room and surrendered his trench coat to the maid.

  “On whom?”

  Irene was in the drawing room, where she always was at this time of the day, sketching a dish of oranges while she waited for Ernst to come home. Her husband liked her to be there when he returned from work, so she always seized the opportunity to draw. She was fascinated by the evolution of Picasso’s work and was trying to emulate the dynamism of his more abstract style.

  “I received a telephone call this morning from the secretary of Reinhard Heydrich.”

  The name ran through Irene like an electric charge. Heydrich—the man she had sat next to at the Goebbelses’ party. The head of the security service who had reprimanded her for her unwise joke. She droppe
d her pencil and forced her voice to stay even. “What did he say?”

  Ernst grinned. “Don’t worry. I know a call from Gruppenführer Heydrich is not what most people want, but on this occasion, it’s entirely social. Sir Thomas Beecham, the English conductor, is bringing the London Philharmonic Orchestra to Berlin. Heydrich wants us at the gala evening.”

  “Is anyone I know going? Ludi or Benno and their wives?”

  Irene liked Ernst’s old friends from his legal practice. They had enjoyed several evenings at comedy cabarets, and she noticed that their sharp wits and satirical humor managed to relax her husband and prick his pomposity.

  He shrugged and peered in the mirror, tracing the lines of his mustache with a dampened finger. “Ludi and Benno aren’t Heydrich’s kind of people.”

  “And we are?”

  “Seems so. You must have charmed him when you met. And I’m not surprised.”

  Ernst was delighted with the invitation. Already he was preening himself, dusting down an invisible evening suit.

  “It’s quite a coup. Heydrich’s very musical—he plays the violin himself—and presumably he thought you would enjoy an event in honor of one of your compatriots.”

  “But you hate concerts.”

  “In this case, I’m prepared to make an exception.”

  “Do we have to go?”

  “Yes we do!” Ernst whirled round and squeezed her waist. “And don’t look so glum, you silly girl. These invitations are greatly prized.”

  * * *

  —

  HIGH ABOVE THE STALLS in the Berlin State Opera House, encased in a baroque balcony overlooking a rippling audience of uniformed serge and silk and jewels, Adolf Hitler sat, a brown cuckoo squatting in a gilded nest. Buttressed by Joseph Goebbels and a sprinkling of ministers and generals, the Führer listened raptly to a repertoire that ran through Haydn, Mozart, Dvorak, and Sibelius, and would have included Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony had not Nazi officials requested the composer be dropped on account of his non-Aryan origins. Throughout the performance, like everyone else, Irene was intensely aware of the Führer. She stole frequent glances up at his box, but he was like a dark sun, difficult to focus on.

  As Sir Thomas Beecham took his bow and the orchestra prepared for an encore, Ernst whispered in Irene’s ear.

  “I’d call that a score draw. Officially, Beecham’s here because the Dresden opera company has gone to England and the London Philharmonic was invited in exchange, but in reality von Ribbentrop wants people to see that the Berlin Philharmonic is far better than its London counterpart.”

  “Why does everything have to be a competition? Even music?”

  “That’s just how it is here, darling. And the sooner you realize it the better.”

  * * *

  —

  ONCE THE MUSIC AND the mandatory singing of “Deutschland uber Alles” were concluded, the social part of the evening began. The British conductor, with his pointed goatee and portly figure, was detained in a pincer movement by von Ribbentrop and the Air Minister Hermann Goering, who had risen to the sartorial demands of the evening in a white evening suit, painted nails, foundation, and full eye makeup.

  “No wonder Beecham’s drinking,” murmured Ernst. “Stuck between those two. And he has a long list of concerts in Dresden and Munich after this. They’re extracting maximum propaganda value out of him.”

  Irene glanced around, hoping Martha Dodd might be somewhere in the crowd, but the ambassador’s daughter was nowhere to be seen. The audience seemed strictly composed of Nazi VIPs, Party members, and loyal supporters. Goering’s wife, dressed as for a Wagner lead in yards of satin and pearls, was talking to Frau von Ribbentrop, who looked about as glamorous as a molting hen beside her.

  Behind them, a small scrum suggested the advance of Hitler through the throng, surrounded by a jostling vanguard of lackeys and hangers-on.

  “I’m hoping if I stand here, he simply can’t avoid me,” confessed a woman at their side, in a burst of intimacy plainly occasioned by nerves. “We met in Munich in 1934.”

  “How pleasant,” murmured Ernst, scanning the crowd.

  “You’ve met the Führer, of course?” the woman breathed.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Oh, but you must! Being here and not meeting the Führer is like being in the Garden of Eden and not meeting God!”

  Irene gave a little exhalation and touched her brow. Ernst bent toward her.

  “Are you all right, darling?”

  “I’m feeling faint. It’s so hot in here. Actually…would you excuse me? I’m going to get some fresh air.”

  Slipping through the guests, she found a waiter with a tray of sparkling cocktail glasses and downed first one, then another, before making her way across the foyer and out into the chill of the November evening. As she pulled the ermine wrap more closely over her peach silk gown, she glanced around. Ahead was Unter den Linden, busy with traffic and the exodus of people from the theater district, chatting happily as they made their way home. To her left lay the open space of Opernplatz, dominated at one end by the gloomy bulk of St. Hedwig’s cathedral and at the other, Humboldt University. Heading down the steps, she secreted herself in an alcove and looked out across the square.

  It had rained during the concert, and the curls of steam rising from the paving reminded her of another cultural moment orchestrated on this square, a few years before she arrived in Germany, when Joseph Goebbels had organized a public burning of books. Watching it on the newsreels at a London cinema, the frenzied ecstasy of the young storm troopers had seemed to emulate the dancing flames as they flung cartloads of volumes onto the fire, lighting the night sky with a thousand glowing cinders. Heinrich Heine, Karl Marx, Albert Einstein, Erich Kästner, Sigmund Freud, Bertolt Brecht, Franz Kafka, Stefan Zweig; the names blazed briefly in the furnace of the brazier before the millions of incinerated words were transported in an engulfing diaspora of ash to every quarter of the city. As the guards stoked the fire with more and yet more authors to be burned, and their pages curled and flared like dead leaves, it seemed a conflagration not only of knowledge but of civilization itself.

  Some races were inclined to dramatics, Irene had concluded at the time.

  The crunch of a boot behind made her turn, and with a jolt she saw a man had followed her.

  “Sorry if I startled you.”

  In the darkness it took a moment to recognize the face, with its sharp planes and lofty brow. The officer from Pfaueninsel who worked for Heydrich. The man with the gaze of a hawk.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Of course. Sturmbannführer Hoffman. From Doktor Goebbels’s party.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting you, Frau Doktor.”

  “Not at all. Did you enjoy the concert?”

  “I admired the orchestra tremendously.”

  He withdrew a cigarette case from his top pocket and offered her one, then watched as she inhaled greedily, the drifting smoke intercutting the soft blossom of her perfume. For a while an unspoken intimacy arose as they looked out across the square, then he said, “When we met before, we were interrupted.”

  “By a fight. It was terrifically dramatic.”

  “Yes, it was. But because of that I neglected to tell you something important.”

  “How mysterious! Do say.”

  “I would, only I worry now that it might sound too direct.”

  “Please don’t, Sturmbannführer. I won’t be at all offended.”

  “I may be speaking out of turn.”

  “No, you really have to tell me. I insist. You’ve made me curious.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then I will. I wanted to warn you.”

  She felt a prickle of alarm. “Whatever for?”

  “The joke y
ou made to Heydrich. About the Führer’s book.”

  I can see why it’s called My Struggle. I struggled to get past the first chapter.

  “It was probably a bit of a faux pas,” she admitted.

  “I wanted to say, you’re a newcomer to this country, Frau Doktor, so you may be unaware, but you must be more careful what you say in such company. Making jokes to Heydrich is foolhardy. Especially about the Führer. Sometimes the most lighthearted of comments can be misconstrued.”

  “Misconstrued?”

  “You are English, after all.”

  “Not anymore. I’m married to Ernst Weissmuller. I’m a German citizen now.”

  In the darkness Hoffman leaned closer and placed a hand on her arm. The brief, unsolicited touch sent a vibration through her like a tuning fork. Though she could barely make out much more than his face, he was so close that she could smell the starch of his uniform and see the shadow of stubble along his jaw. His eyes seemed ignited by an urgent attention, as though he was confiding something of immense importance.

  “Remember this, Frau Doktor: in the eyes of the Reich you will never be German. You will never be trusted. You will always be observed.”

  A chill prickled her flesh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have nothing to do with politics. There’s no reason I would be observed.”

  “Everyone’s watched. Goering spies on Goebbels and Goebbels spies on Goering. All the senior men are under constant observation. Anyone of influence is treated with suspicion. Tell me, have you had a visit from a telephone engineer recently?”

  “We did. But only to check the connection. In July, just after we got back from honeymoon.”

  “Was the connection giving you trouble?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Then don’t say anything on it you wouldn’t want everyone to hear.”