The Words I Never Wrote Read online

  Her marriage was enemy country, and she would operate behind its lines.

  It was a power of sorts. Now she just needed to discover how to use it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The German rearmament and buildup of troops were sending shock waves throughout Europe. Writers of antifascist newsletters and magazines frequently visited the office, and Torin spent hours talking to diplomats who were either for or against French intervention in the Spanish Civil War. History seemed to be happening so fast it was all anyone could do to keep up.

  Even on the couturiers’ catwalks, it was impossible to ignore what was approaching. Rumors of war undercut all conversation like sweat beneath perfume. Politics pricked every bubble of fashion chatter. As the mannequins in their floating silks slid across the gleaming floor, Cordelia couldn’t help thinking of the passengers on the deck of the Titanic, frantically, elegantly dancing as the iceberg loomed.

  Yet while the political situation was a conundrum, it was Torin’s own behavior that occupied Cordelia’s attention. In recent weeks he had grown taciturn and self-absorbed. She found herself studying him when his back was turned, rolling a cigarette or inspecting the maps on the wall or running his hand through his hair so it stood up in tufts. Frequently, he would lean back, hands clasped behind his head, then spring up and leave the office without warning.

  Was he meeting a contact or a woman? She dared not ask.

  One day when Torin left the room, and driven by nothing more than curiosity, and the fact that it was lunchtime and she had finished that week’s column, she followed him.

  It was raining lightly, and a tide of umbrellas surrounded her, but she pulled her hat down low and focused on Torin’s trilby bobbing amid the pedestrians ahead. A taut excitement entered her limbs: it was as though she was playing a game, a forbidden game, that if discovered would end in tears, or at the very least angry confrontation.

  Torin turned east. He headed up the tree-lined boulevard, past the vast blocks with their Haussmann-era stone façades, then wove through side streets with his head down and his hands in his jacket pockets. Cordelia followed, keeping her distance. Since she had started covering the fashion shows, her own deportment had changed, and she walked with her spine straight and head up, yet even so she needed to stride fast to keep up with his long, elastic pace. She prayed Torin did not glance behind him. He must be meeting a contact; all journalists did that. So why should it feel as though his business was some kind of subterfuge?

  He headed toward the dense grid of medieval streets in the Marais quarter. Cordelia loved this district. She had spent hours wandering its steep walled streets, so narrow that in some places the sun touched them only for a few hours a day, gazing up at the turrets and angular slate roofs, peering into courtyard gardens behind immense wooden doors, savoring the jumble of architectural styles. It was an ancient, aristocratic part of Paris, full of convents and churches, and once the favored home of French nobility, and Cordelia had soaked in the history, its winding passageways so different from the broad avenues and grand squares elsewhere, exploring the sites of the thirteenth-century Knights Templar, peering up at Victor Hugo’s house in the exquisite Place des Vosges, tracing the cobbled alley off the Rue des Francs Bourgeois where the Duke of Orléans was assassinated in 1407.

  But whatever took Torin there that day, it was not ancient history.

  He crossed into the Rue du Temple, lined with buildings of butterscotch stone, and lanterns hung on elaborate wrought-iron brackets, and continued northward until deviating abruptly down an alley, forcing Cordelia to hang back beneath the awning of a corner café. She saw him stop halfway down the street, lean against a wall in the partial cover of a lamppost, and glance up at a building. He was watching, no doubt about it. Waiting. She had often noted Torin’s way of looking about him as though studying the discrepancies in a scene, like a naturalist waiting for a bird to show from its nest. Now, beneath the demeanor of casual relaxation, she could tell he was alert and on edge.

  But nothing happened.

  After a few minutes he crossed the street, passed beneath a porticoed arch, and inspected the building’s front door. A minute later he turned and his gaze flitted sideways for an instant before he continued to saunter up the street.

  Cordelia forced herself to wait a beat, then crossed for a better look. The building had an elaborate carved stone entrance, with a brass plaque to one side that read WORLD SOCIETY FOR THE RELIEF OF THE VICTIMS OF GERMAN FASCISM.

  She held the words in her mind, even though she had absolutely no idea what they might mean.

  * * *

  —

  THE FOLLOWING LUNCHTIME, SHE tried again.

  This time, when Torin left the office, his destination was equally surprising. He headed only a short distance from the bureau, just across the Place de l’Opéra, to the Café de la Paix. That was unusual because although the café, with its gilded fittings, marble columns, Italianate ceiling, and windows affording a perfect view of the Palais Garnier, was justly famous, its prices were equally lavish and neither of them tended to frequent it.

  The boulevard was busy with traffic. Cordelia crossed, almost run down by a bicycle, and glanced past tables of women with scarves and slim cigarettes to see Torin in conversation with another man. Two cups of espresso and glasses of water stood on the table in front of them, and Torin was leaning forward, his hand gripped around the water glass in the same demeanor he adopted for his more urgent arguments.

  His companion, by contrast, was relaxed, leaning back with a half smile. He was older than Torin, with receding hair and an air of suave self-possession that reminded Cordelia of men back in London, city friends of Irene’s, discussing cricket or the stock market. She could tell without a shadow of a doubt that the stranger was English, from his clipped mustache and Jermyn Street gray flannel suit to the leather gloves and folded newspaper on the table beside him.

  As she watched, Torin jerked his head backward in surprise and shook his head, but the man bent forward, as if to reiterate a point, and Torin’s shoulders sank.

  Half an hour later, he returned to the office, sat down, and picked up the telephone.

  Casually handing him a letter to be signed, Cordelia said, “By the way, I happened to be out at lunch and I think I saw you. In the Café de la Paix. I don’t think you noticed me.”

  He gave a grunt, but no answer.

  “You looked very deep in conversation. Who was it?”

  Abstractedly, Torin replaced the receiver. “What are you talking about?”

  “I had to leave the office and I happened to pass the café. It was definitely you. That man you were having coffee with. Was he a contact?”

  “Are you saying you followed me?”

  “Of course not. I just wondered who it was.”

  “For God’s sake, Cordelia! Must you always ask questions?”

  “Apparently. If I’m going to be a journalist. I heard it was a good idea.”

  Her flippancy died between them. Torin’s face flushed in annoyance.

  “If you’re going to be a journalist,” he said icily, “you’ll also need to learn the skill of keeping quiet.”

  Abruptly, he unhooked his jacket from the back of the door and stalked out.

  Cordelia sat down, heart thudding, hands resting on the typewriter keys. She was both mortified and astonished at Torin’s outburst. Her mind churned with questions. What on earth had prompted him to behave in such a bizarre fashion? He must have assumed she was following him deliberately, but why the fit of pique? Was it purely because he was furious with her for shadowing him, or was there something he was keeping from her?

  The other question she refused to ask herself was, Why was she so interested?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Villa Weissmuller,

  Am Grossen Wannsee,

  Berlin


  April 17, 1937

  Darling Dee,

  I must say, I could do with some of your newfound fashion expertise. It’s not that our social life isn’t fun—you haven’t lived until you’ve played mini golf on the roof terrace of the Hotel Eden or dined under the golden dome of Ciro’s nightclub—but all this socializing requires a tiresome amount of dress shopping.

  Not to mention the ability to keep a straight face. The other evening we were invited to a screening at Doktor Ley’s house in his new private cinema, and the film in question was Heinz Rühmann’s latest, The Model Husband. Which seemed particularly ironic considering that our host was blind drunk and poor Frau Ley jumped like a kitten whenever her own far from model husband addressed her.

  Now I know you’re going to ask me what the senior men were discussing, but to be honest, I’ve simply stopped listening. Unlike you, I find politicking tedious. Ernst doesn’t care for it either. He insists that all this partying is just business by another name. And the fact is, it does seem to be paying off…

  For days the Villa Weissmuller had been bathed in a glow of pride. Ernst had been awarded the Goldene Parteiabzeichen, the Golden Nazi Party badge given to those who proved especially valuable to the Reich. The announcement that accompanied the decoration said the increased output of the Weissmuller factory had been invaluable to the Fatherland’s rearmament effort, and the pin, with its gilded laurels and red- and black-enameled swastika, glinted discreetly in the lapel of Ernst’s dove gray pinstriped suit.

  But the pleasant atmosphere evaporated instantly when a letter arrived.

  Irene found Ernst in his study, a place of meticulous tidiness despite the fact that it was stacked with files concerning the factory, drawers full of corporate notepaper, rubber stamps, and passes relating to his workforce. On the desk he kept an array of items: a paperweight of an insect trapped in a fist-size chunk of amber that was a souvenir of childhood holidays in Königsberg, a silver-framed photograph of their wedding, and a new one of him meeting Hermann Goering at the State Opera House. In the corner was a three-foot-square steel safe, where, Irene knew, her passport was kept. She did not know the combination.

  As he scanned the letter, Ernst’s lips formed a thin line and his face paled with anger. Generally anger was red hot, but Ernst’s was an icy, controlled rage, like the molten metal that poured from his foundries and cooled instantly to a steely, durable mass. Explosions were rare, but when they happened, she had learned to fear them.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Lili. The secretary, remember? Her brother was detained. He was pulled in by the Gestapo and he mentioned my name.”

  “Poor Lili! Is there anything you can do?”

  “Do?” His eyes were hard. That white anger was brimming, threatening to spill in her direction now.

  “What would I do? The cheek of it, contacting me. As if I was the type of person to get round the law.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to do anything illegal. But you’ve a legal training, you could probably help—”

  “The first thing any legal training tells you is that the law’s the law.”

  “Lili probably couldn’t afford any other advice, Ernst. And she must be desperate if her brother’s in jail.”

  “Oh, it’s not that. They let him go once my name was mentioned. But they’ve fined him and she thinks it’s unjust. She wants my opinion, would you believe! Surely the girl knows that as a Party member, I am prohibited from having any kind of association or business with Jews?”

  “Has she found a job? Since she left us?”

  “She’s working at the Jewish hospital apparently.”

  “So what happened to her brother? Why did they arrest him?”

  “I have no idea.” Ernst slid the letter back into its envelope, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it into the bin. “It’s a shame. I’d never have thought it of her. But they’re clever.”

  “They?”

  “The Jews. Though not clever enough to see what’s in their best interests.”

  “Which is what?”

  “They can leave the country if they choose. No one’s stopping them. But they don’t seem to want to. Who knows what to do with them? There are men in the Party talking about moving them all to Madagascar.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “I agree it sounds like pie in the sky. An African island. The Reich’s transport system is second to none, but transporting thousands of people across a continent is hardly practical.”

  Irene felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach. She knew the cliché about marrying in haste, yet she had been so sure. She remembered their shared bond over the artists they loved and her bold proclamation, I am apolitical. Art transcends politics! It had seemed romantic, but what did romantic really mean? A rash decision made on first impressions. Had Ernst always been this way? Had she been too naïve to see it? Or had he changed?

  He glanced up at her over his half-moon spectacles. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you?” Irene’s gaze was level. Although inside she was trembling, her surface was calm, indomitable.

  “You’re thinking I’m unsympathetic. And you’d be wrong.” He shrugged. “I’m not. I liked the girl when she worked for me, and she was an excellent employee. But one thing I have always believed in, darling, is the rule of law. It’s what elevates us above animals. It’s what encouraged me to be a lawyer in the first place. Without law, we have only anarchy. It’s not for us to find solutions to social problems.”

  He lifted his eyes to assess her reaction and found his wife studying him, her lovely face impassive. She seemed to accept this rationale.

  “It’s an unpleasant business, but let’s hope there’s no harm done.”

  He pushed the glasses up his nose, turned away, and reached for another stack of papers. “And don’t forget the reception this evening. We’re guests of the American Ambassador. Or that daughter of his, to be precise.”

  * * *

  —

  THE SMOKY BLACK RHYTHMS of jazz, with its sly undertones of whiskey and sex, issued from the oval ballroom of the Dodds’ palatial villa at Tiergarten Strasse 27a. Martha Dodd didn’t give a damn about the Nazis’ strictures on music and if she wanted to listen to Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, or Django Reinhardt on sovereign American territory then she would, and her guests weren’t likely to object. In truth most of the dignitaries packing the room that evening still hankered after the old days, when Berlin was home to a hundred different cabarets and the seductive strains of swing issued from every bar.

  Once one was past the immense, stone-pillared entrance, the door was opened by a stocky blond butler in evening dress, and Irene and Ernst entered a ballroom packed with the diplomatic crowd, plucking caviar canapés from the waiters’ silver platters and helping themselves to free packs of imported Lucky Strikes.

  Martha swooped on Ernst, her eyes amused, suggesting some private intrigue.

  “Don’t you adore Duke Ellington, Ernst? When we first arrived, a pompous little guy from the Propaganda Ministry told me that the Führer hates swing because it represents the International Marxist-Jewish conspiracy. I told him to inform the Führer that was precisely why I loved it.”

  She drew Irene toward her and grazed her cheek with a kiss. “Thanks for coming. Mmm. What’s that perfume? You smell delicious.”

  “Je Reviens.”

  Dee had sent it. Irene loved its top notes of orange blossom and jasmine, followed by narcissus and iris and lingering base notes of amber and musk. It smelled wistful and brave, like liquid emotion, and she wore it all the time. Je Reviens. I will return. There was a promise in that name, she hoped.

  “Do you like the dress?” Martha performed a twirl.

  It was a halter-necked velvet evening gown, the color of crushed rose pe
tals, bias cut to hug the soft swell of her cleavage and sculpt the curve of her waist like a caress.

  “You look glorious. As always.”

  But beneath Martha’s usual flighty charm Irene sensed a shadow. Though she generally treated everything, even a totalitarian state, like an especially lighthearted picnic, that evening Martha seemed unnaturally somber as she circulated with her parents among the guests, offering kisses and canapés.

  After a while she plucked at Irene’s sleeve. “Listen. I want you to come with me. That butler is watching every move I make and the house is wired from top to bottom. I need to talk to you properly.”

  She led the way up the staircase and along a corridor, until they reached a bathroom, tiled in dazzling white with an enormous rolltop bath. Martha locked the door, went over to the bath, and turned on the faucet. Then she threw up the window sash and leaned out into the darkness, peering down at the garden below.

  “Sorry to drag you away. I’m really not in the mood for dancing tonight.”

  The arch flirtatiousness had vanished. Irene searched her face.

  “Did you actually mean that? What you said just now about the butler? And the house being wired?”

  Martha retrieved a mother-of-pearl cigarette case from her purse. “Sure. The only place I speak to people is here, with the faucet running.”

  “How can you be sure you’re being watched?”

  “Because I have eyes in my head.” A dismissive snort. “We noticed as soon as we arrived. There were observation posts opposite our house and we could see them writing down the license plates of our visitors, and how long they stayed. They make absolutely no attempt to be discreet. Whenever I leave the embassy I’m followed, either on foot or by car. There’s always someone on my tail.”