David John - Flight from Berlin

‘I’m not sure what you’re after, Mr Denham-’

‘Was he roughed up by the Gestapo to make sure you do what they want? To make sure you compete?’

‘For God’s sake…’ For an instant her face was livid with terror.

‘Forgive me,’ Denham said quietly. He knew he was going too far too quickly, but that coach would be back at any moment. ‘Hannah-if I may-if there’s something you want the world outside Germany to know, I can help you get it out there… the publicity may work to your advantage. It may stop them-’

‘Stop them doing what?’ Her voice was a baleful cry in the tiled room. ‘Destroying my life and my family’s? Do you know about that? Is that why you’re here? Yes, it might,’ she said with great bitterness, her voice trembling under the weight of tears, ‘or they may decide to make us disappear altogether. After the Games.’

Sunlight from a narrow window near the ceiling dappled on the white-tiled floor and across her head, which bobbed as she cried, and he saw that her hair was not black, as he’d thought, but a dark chestnut, with strands of copper and gold.

After a few moments she composed herself, wiped her eyes, and looked up at him with a hint of the steel he’d seen earlier.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I want to tell your story,’ he said. ‘The whole story.’

She looked into her lap, and her knee began to shake up and down.

Denham glanced towards the door. A sound of rubber soles came squeaking from the far end of the corridor outside.

‘I don’t know…’ she said, her face contorted with strain. ‘It might only make things worse…’

‘They wouldn’t dare harm your family if the spotlight of the world’s press is on you.’

She rose and began pacing along the wooden bench, nervous, pulling at her fingers.

The footsteps were yards away.

Denham said quickly, ‘The new laws have taken away any future for the Jews. You must know that. The pressure we bring could help get your family out…’

The door handle turned.

‘How do I contact you?’ she whispered.

The coach stepped in, gave them each a fishy look, and held the door open for another visitor, whose footsteps approached. Two seconds later Willi Greiser entered, accompanied by an SS man in black uniform.

The press chief’s eyebrows shot up when he saw Denham but soon recovered an expression of urbane cynicism.

‘Denham, I might have guessed it was you.’

‘Hello, Greiser.’

The two men held each other’s stare. A slice of dark blond hair had come unstuck and hung down over Greiser’s left eye. He wore a pale linen suit and a tie patterned with the Olympic rings.

Greiser said, ‘Fraulein Liebermann is here as a special guest of Germany’s…’

‘That’s an odd thing to say about a German.’

‘… under a unique arrangement that precludes her from giving any interviews to the press. Permission is refused.’ He turned to Hannah and the coach. ‘Would you excuse us while I have a word in private with Herr Denham?’

The SS man escorted them out to the squelch of the coach’s rubber soles.

The door closed, and Greiser dropped any pretence of conviviality.

‘If it weren’t for the Olympic fortnight, Denham, I’d kick you out of Germany today.’ He came closer, and Denham felt the warmth of his breath. ‘Last week you were in Friedrichshafen snooping around the Hindenburg- I should have you charged with espionage-and today I find you attempting to speak to Hannah Liebermann. I warned you-’

‘You warned me not to write any more damaging pieces, Greiser,’ Denham said calmly, ‘and I’ve taken your advice to heart. It’s not in my interests to be expelled.’

Greiser paused. The duelling scar on his right cheek was flushed a pale purple. ‘How much do you know about Liebermann?’

‘I know she’s the greatest woman fencer Germany’s ever produced, and she’s home after a long absence. That’s a story in itself. It’s the most natural thing in the world to want to interview her-’

Greiser exploded.

‘Listen to me, you piece of shit.’ He grabbed Denham’s lapels and rammed him against the changing room wall, his head narrowly missing a hook. ‘D’you think you can talk your way out of anything?’ he roared. ‘Stick your nose into this and you’ll be too risky for us to expel! We’ll make you vanish into night and fog. No one will ever hear of you again.’ His nose was almost touching Denham, into whose eyes he peppered flecks of spittle. ‘You-stay-away-from-Liebermann!’

Denham shoved him back, but Greiser made a grab for his neck. Denham tried to swing him into the wall, but Greiser’s grip was strong. They lost their balance and together crashed onto the bench, then to the floor, both now with their hands around each other’s throats.

‘Hey, what the hell’s going on in here?’

Eleanor was standing in the door. ‘Richard?’

The two men released each other, and Greiser looked away.

‘Who is this?’ he said, getting to his feet. His head was all gold, puce, and pink.

Denham sat up onto the bench. ‘Greiser, may I introduce Eleanor Emerson, a reporter with the Hearst Press; Eleanor, Willi Greiser is an old friend of mine. He’s the press chief. We were just catching up.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ she said.

Greiser straightened his tie and his sleeves, replaced the errant strands of hair, and walked out of the room without another word.

‘What happened? Why was that jerk mad at you?’

‘I think he was scared,’ said Denham.

‘Of what?’

Denham rubbed his throat, grimacing. It was the only explanation for that extraordinary outburst. He’d never seen the man lose his temper before. Greiser was always the suave operator. His masters must be acutely sensitive about Liebermann, and Greiser was under pressure. Plus he’d patently screwed up-by leaving her in the custody of that idiot coach. Not surprising that he panicked, perhaps.

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘A few words.’

‘Well?’

‘She wants to talk.’

He leaned over and picked up a small black leather ID pass of some sort from the floor under the bench. Two silver runes flashed in the light. Inside were Greiser’s mug shot and birth details, stamped with an eagle. It was a Sippenbuch, a racial record carried by all members of the SS. Greiser, it seemed, was an honorary SS-Standartenfuhrer, the equivalent of a colonel.

‘It must have come out of his side pocket,’ Denham said.

He looked up and smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you turned up, cavalry. Think I may have got my marching orders if you hadn’t.’

‘No problem. I was just worried when I saw her leave and there was no sign of you.’

‘Hm. Well, anyway, thank you. I shouldn’t have told him your name, though… I really shouldn’t have done that.’

Denham bought lunch from a stall and they joined the groups of fencing fans on the lawn outside the House of German Sport, picnicking next to a flowerbed droning with bees.

‘Your frankfurter looks nicer than my hamburger,’ Eleanor said.

‘Too bad.’

‘I think I’ll skip lunch.’

‘All right,’ Denham said. ‘Have mine. I’ll have your hamburger.’

The Reich Sports Field filled the horizon. Between rows of poplars, the new hockey and football fields were lurid with new grass. A quarter of a mile away the vast Olympic plaza led up to the stadium, which glared white in the sun. Every few minutes the breeze carried the roar of the crowd and the tinny strains of national anthems.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened in there?’ said Eleanor.

‘It’s tricky,’ he said, picking at some sauerkraut with a wooden fork.