A Holiday Romance
Berlin, September 1935
"May I join you?" came a light, lilting female voice.
I turned towards the speaker, and my eyes took in a beautiful blond woman, with clear blue eyes.
It was 7.30 in the evening, on 1st September, and I was in the bar of the Hotel Adlon in Berlin nursing a large gin and tonic.
I'd passed my Bar exams in June, and as I'd discussed the possibility of specialising in international law with my grandfather, he'd agreed to give me a three-month sabbatical from the family law firm to travel, and find out a little more about our Continental neighbours. It had given me the opportunity to visit some of the great university law libraries of Europe, and dust off my language skills, and I'd been enjoying myself immensely.
Berlin had been something of an eye opener, though.
I'd been to Germany with my family once or twice on holidays when I was growing up, and I'd spent a couple of terms at the Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin while I was studying French and German at the Sorbonne in the late-20s. But seven years on, things were very different. Hitler's rise to power had changed the atmosphere beyond recognition, and the tension in the air was palpable. The Germany I remembered had still been recovering from the impositions of Versailles and the resulting economic collapse, but at least there was still a trace of optimism.
I wasn't feeling it now.
Perhaps the most obvious symptom of the change from a legal point of view - and therefore of most interest to me - was the Nazi renunciation of the disarmament clauses in the Versailles Treaty back in March, opening the way for German rearmament. In honour of this, the annual Nazi Party Rally, to be held in Nuremberg from 10-15th September, had been billed as the "Party Rally of Freedom". Part of the research I'd been doing in the university law school library had been connected with the German justification for the renunciation, both before and after the fact, and it had been an unsettling experience. I wasn't old enough to really remember the War: I'd only been eight when it finished. But I remembered seeing the wounded soldiers coming home from France, and I knew that if Germany continued on its current course of action, they wouldn't be the last.
The smile of a beautiful woman was just the antidote I needed to stir me from my reverie.
"I'd like that," I answered, and indicated the stool beside me, "what can I get you?"
"A martini would be lovely," she replied, and I attracted the bartender to get what the lady wanted.
"You're alone?" she asked, as she took her drink and sipped it.
"Not any more it would seem," I answered, with a smile, and offered her my hand, "Ian Cushing."
"Greta. Greta...Sachs," she said, placing her hand in mine.
I thought I heard a hesitation before she gave me her surname, but then she regaled me with a beautiful smile, and I put the thought out of my mind.
"We could go and sit somewhere more comfortable..." I suggested, indicating the main room, and she nodded. We picked up our drinks, and led me to an intimate table off to one side of the bar.
"So what brings you to Berlin, Herr Cushing?"
"Ian, please..."
"If you'd like...then call me Greta."
"I'm here doing research."
"You look a little old for a student?"
"I work for a law firm in London."
"English? I suppose I should have guessed from your name...but your German is very good."
"I studied here for a few months, back in '28."
"You must find our city very different," she said, with what appeared to be a regretful sigh.
It was a little disturbing that she was echoing my earlier musings quite so accurately, and I shrugged, not wanting to go into that. It felt wrong to discuss the ugliness I was seeing around me with such a beautiful woman.
"What about you?" I asked, "Do you live in Berlin?"
"Heavens no," she answered, with a coy smile, "I've just come up for a few days to do some shopping."
"From where?"
She shrugged.
"It's a little place to the south-west of here. You won't have heard of it."
I recognised a brush off when I heard one and decided not to push. But her reticence did trigger alarm bells, and I realised that I should probably be more careful what I said to her. After all, from the stories I'd heard from people I had talked to, there was no way to be certain that she wasn't a Gestapo informer trying to get to know a foreign visitor, in case he might prove useful later.
We sat chatting for about an hour, mostly small talk, both of us deftly avoiding giving too much more away about ourselves. She was very skilled at light conversation, and I mentally reconsidered whether she was an informer, tending more to the conclusion that she was more likely a high-class escort. After all, such ladies were not uncommon in the Adlon bar, given that it was the best hotel in Berlin, and its guests included politicians, businessmen and high-ranked dignitaries. Perhaps she thought I was one of them, rather than a humble barrister who was fortunate enough to have a well-to-do family.
"Can I invite you to dinner?" I asked, finally, "I have a table booked in the restaurant at nine."
"I'd like that," she answered.
Always the gentleman - mother had hammered that into me from a young age - I stood, helped her with her chair then offered her my arm to walk her to the restaurant. She was tall and slim, her blond hair bobbed neatly at her shoulders, and as I caught a glimpse of us in a mirror on the wall, the romantic in me thought that we made a handsome couple. I sighed inwardly, knowing that we were nothing of the kind.
That didn't stop her being delightful company at dinner, and as we chatted, I realised I hadn't enjoyed myself so much in months. Afterwards, I escorted her out to the lobby, more than half expecting her to invite herself up to my room to talk prices, but I was wrong. She told me that she'd had a wonderful evening, kissed me on the cheek, and then headed for the main entrance and asked the concierge to call her a cab. I watched her go with a smile on my lips, and then went upstairs to my room to take a cold shower.
I wasn't expecting to see her again, but the following evening, there she was again, perched on a stool at the bar when I came in after a day at the university library. She saw me come in, smiled, and indicated the table we'd had before. I ordered my standard gin and tonic from the bartender, and we went and sat down.
"How did your research go?"
"I got a lot done," I answered, "how was the shopping?"
"I got a lot bought," she said, and we burst out laughing. I'm not quite sure why, but it sounded as if she hadn't laughed in a long time, and I felt illogically proud of myself for having made it happen.
From there, the evening progressed much as the one before, but that night she didn't call a cab, and so started a blissful couple of weeks.
I'll admit, my research suffered somewhat, but I didn't care. I was enjoying her company far too much. We spent the days taking in the sites of the city, which was still beautiful, despite the new management; or hiring a car to drive out into the countryside for a breath of fresh air. Even when I forced myself to go to the university library to carry on my research, we often had lunch at a café on Unter den Linden, or strolled in the Tiergarten in the evenings, and as we got to know each other, we both opened up a little more. She still wouldn't go into specifics of where she actually lived, but after a while I formed the impression that she was running away from something. Despite her protestations that she was only in the city for a few days' shopping, after a ten days or so, she was showing no signs of wanting to go back.
Perhaps that should have flashed up warning bells, but I was too happy in her company to try to think it through. And apparently I lulled her into a false sense of security, as well, as looking back we should have been a lot more discreet. But I didn't realise that, and she didn't share.
By the 13th, rumours were abounding that Hitler was going to announced new laws for the "protection of German blood" on the final day of the Nuremberg Rally. I talked to a couple of legal contacts I'd made during my stay, and they arranged for me to be able to travel to the city. It would be a historic occasion, they said. I should be there.
But once the "Nuremberg Laws" had been announced, and the Rally drew to its conclusion, I understood only too well why there was no more optimism in Berlin.
I arranged to meet Greta in the Adlon bar at 6.30pm the following evening. She was perched on her usual stool, waiting for me when I came in, and smiled as she saw me.
"How was Nuremberg?"
"Educational," I answered, and she put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
"Not all of us are like that," she said, gently.
"And your voices will become less and less heard as time passes."
"Pah. You need cheering up, my love," she declared, and ordered a bottle of champagne. I really didn't feel in the mood, but I gave a weak smile.
"You go and sit...I'll bring it over."
She stood up, kissed me on cheek, and then headed over to what had become our usual table. I watched the bartender deftly open the bottle, catching the foam in one of the glasses. He put the bottle into an ice bucket, and placed it and two glasses on a tray so I could carry it. I tipped him, and then took it over to our table.
I sat down opposite her, my back to the door, but as I put the tray down, I realised that she'd gone as white as a sheet and was staring over my shoulder.
"Greta, what's wrong?" I said, turning and following her eyes.
In the doorway, I could see a great bull of a man, maybe 6'3" and built like a prop forward. He was in a well-cut suit, but was flanked by a pair of men in SA brown shirts, and he seemed to be scanning the bar.
"Ian, leave," she said, quietly but urgently, "leave now."
"Why...?"
"No questions, just leave."
By then the three men were moving purposely towards us, and the one in the centre looked furious. Inwardly cursing, I got to my feet and turned towards them, ready to stand my ground. As I did, the group reached us, and one of the SA men grabbed me by the shoulder to haul me out of the way.
"Now wait just a goddamned minute..." I began, trying to shrug off the man's hand, but he had a grip like iron. As I did, the larger man grabbed Greta by the arm and hauled her none too gently to her feet.
"Greta, explain."
Shit.
"Dietrich, it's not what you think..."
Husband?
Bollocks.
If that was who he was, then it was exactly what he thought, and we were guilty as charged. In and among suspecting her of being either an informer or an escort that first evening we'd met, the fact that she could be married hadn't even occurred to me. But I should have realised that no-one that beautiful would be single.
In response to her denial, he backhanded her across the face, causing her to cringe back in fear.
"What kind of idiot do you take me for?" he demanded, and raised his hand to strike her again.
I broke free from the thug and grabbed the man's arm, twisting downwards and pushed him into the wall.
"Leave her alone."
"This is none of your concern, English pig," he snarled, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me.
"I don't know who you are, but that is no way to treat a woman," I answered, furious. I didn't stop to consider whether my fury was at him...or her for deceiving me.
"She is my wife. I can treat her as I please."
"By hitting her in a public place?" I replied, my anger boiling over, "you think you have the right to do that?"
I gave him a swift upper cut to the jaw, which knocked his head back into the wall, and then tried to repeat the blow. But before I could, my arms were grabbed by one of the SA heavies again.
"I have every right," he replied, coldly, rubbing his jaw where my fist had connected, "whereas you...all you are is a careless foreigner who didn't even bother to find out if your 'girlfriend' was married."
He put his hands on my chest and pushed me away, and was sufficiently strong that I found myself stepping back, whether I wanted to or not. Then he gave me the blandest smile I had ever seen, but as I met his gaze, his eyes were burning with fury.
"But you're right in one respect," he said, more calmly than I would have thought possible, "here is not the place for airing one's dirty linen."
He turned to Greta, gave her a stiff little bow, and then offered her his arm. She glanced at me, her eyes pleading, but before I could do anything to help her, he had firmly taken her arm into his, trapping it to his side, and had begun moving towards the door, all but dragging her with him. I thought I felt the pressure on my arms from the heavies loosen a bit, and began to step forwards, but as I did, he turned back to us.
"Bader, Hass. Take the Englishman outside and teach him some manners."
"Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer," they responded, simultaneously.
Obersturmbannführer? The only German organisation with ranks with that many syllables was the bloody Schutzstaffel. Hitler's new best friends since Ernst Röhm's demise, a couple of years before. I didn't have time to consider the non sequitur of why an SS officer was accompanied by a pair of SA heavies, before they each firmly took one of my shoulders, and escorted me from the bar.
At least they didn't take me out through the beautiful, marbled lobby, filled with its beautiful, stone-cold people. Instead, they headed for a smaller door, into the staff areas, and marched me out through the back. And inevitably, once they had got me into the alley behind the hotel, they proceeded to beat me to a pulp with a thoroughness that I might have found impressive, if I hadn't been on the receiving end of it. I tried to fight back, and even landed some good punches, but there were two of them, and they obviously did this for a hobby.
I was still just about conscious, albeit lying curled up on the filthy ground of the alley, when I heard police whistles. My attackers cursed loudly in particularly colourful German, and after treating me to a final kick in the ribs, they sprinted off down the alley. Moments later, I was being helped to my feet by a humble beat cop. His partner took a few steps after the SA men, but turned round when he reached the end of the alley.
"Thank God you came," I said, "I think they were going to kill me."
"Papers please?" one of them said in reply, and I gingerly reached into the pocket of my now-ruined suit jacket and handed them over.
"Thank you, Herr Cushing. We will escort you to the hospital."
"Very decent of you," I answered, rather more flippantly than I had intended, which earned me a frown from the man who had helped me up. Maybe I had a concussion and it was making me light headed or loose lipped. However, true to their word, the took me back to their car, and then drove me to the nearest hospital.
"I want to press charges," I said, as they accompanied me inside.
"Against who, Herr Cushing?"
"Those two SA thugs. Bader and Hass."
"Do you have their full names? Their ranks?"
"No," I had to admit, "but they were working with an SS Obersturmbannführer."
"Do you have the name of the officer involved?"
Beginning to realise how futile this was going to be, I shook my head again, then said.
"A lot of people saw them in the Hotel Adlon bar. Surely you can ask some questions...identify them that way?"
"We will ask," came the answer, but as he said it, I knew that they had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Hell, I was probably lucky that they had even taken me to the hospital.
And in the meantime, Greta was God knows where now, with her bastard of a husband, and I didn't want to think about what he was doing to her.
"Thank you, Polizeimeister," I said, trying to hide my disbelief and keeping my tone neutral.
He nodded politely, and once a doctor had come to take charge of me, the pair of them departed. I watched their receding backs, and then foolishly shook my head with the helplessness of it all. Big mistake, as it left me reeling.
"Herr...Cushing," the doctor said, attracting my attention, "this way..." And I followed him to the treatment rooms.
They kept me in overnight for observation, and when I was released the following morning, they generously called me a cab back to the hotel. Thankfully, the lobby wasn't too full as I walked inside, stiff from the beating, my suit in tatters, and the bruises apparent on my face. The desk manager saw me the moment I stepped out of the daylight, and quietly and efficiently guided me to the staff lift, then escorted me up to my floor. His expression wasn't even particularly disapproving. I thanked him, and then let myself into my room.
On the table beside the door, I saw a note, written in a woman's hand. With a sigh I picked it up, smelling violets on the envelope, and opened it. It was written in English.
"Ian.
I'm sorry. I should have been more honest with you, but it was such a relief to be with someone who was happy to spoil me, that I didn't want to jinx things. I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.
I know you'll understand that I must never see you again - and you must never try to contact me - but please believe me when I tell you that I will always remember our time together.
Greta."
I read it twice, before crumpling it up and throwing it in the waste basket.
Then I headed for the bathroom and drew myself a long hot bath to wash away the aches and pains.