A Season of Secrets (61 page)

Olivia’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s incredible, Papa. It’s more than incredible, it’s unbelievable.’

‘Unbelievable or not, it’s a fact – as is Zephiniah having Jewish blood, and the baby having been given to a Jewish family for adoption.’

Dieter said slowly, ‘And as far as you know, her papers are all in order and there is no problem about her entry to Britain?’

Gilbert nodded. ‘The delay can only be at the Vienna end of things.’ He laid his knife and fork down. ‘I’m travelling there tomorrow, in the hope of finding out what the
hiccup is and getting things moving.’

His words were greeted with a long silence.

Olivia and Dieter exchanged looks that indicated neither of them thought it likely his trip would meet with success.

At last Dieter said gravely, ‘I doubt it is, as you say in your understated English way, a “hiccup” that is the problem. If you think things in Berlin are bad for Jews, they
are far worse in Vienna. If Judith Zimmermann’s home, family possessions and bank account have been appropriated, then the next action is most likely to be her imprisonment in Mauthausen,
than the satisfactory handling of her exit visa.’

‘Mauthausen?’

‘A newly opened concentration camp near Vienna. The transportation of thousands of Austrian Jews to German camps such as Sachsenhausen and Dachau was deemed to be too costly and
time-consuming.’

The self-loathing in his voice was oceans deep. He said bitterly, ‘There was a time when Hitler made us proud to be German, but it’s hard now to remember that far back. Now I am so
ashamed, Gilbert, that there are times when I find it hard to breathe.’

His hand tightened around the stem of his wine glass until the knuckles were white.

Olivia said to him tentatively, ‘Now that Austria is merely another region of Germany, would it be possible for Papa to bring Judith back with him to Berlin? She would be safer here, with
us, than she is at the moment in Vienna.’

‘No matter how distant the connection, it couldn’t be known that a Jewish girl is part of our extended family. If nothing else, it would label us as Jew-lovers. My work at the
Foreign Office would come to a very swift end and I would come under the kind of scrutiny that could endanger all the people in
die Gruppe.
’

He didn’t have to specify what group he meant. Gilbert, as well as Olivia, knew very well to whom he was referring.

Olivia said, ‘Aryans are still allowed to employ Jews for menial work. She could work here in the kitchen until she gets clearance to leave for Britain.’

‘That’s true.’ Dieter paused thoughtfully and then said, ‘And that way there could be no speculation – not even from our existing household staff.’ He looked
across the table at Gilbert. ‘There is still a problem, though. The usual method of travelling to Berlin from Vienna is through Czechoslovakia. Judith’s passport would have to be shown
and, unless it already bears a stamp signifying that she has emigrant status, she would be turned back. A safer option would be to take a train from Vienna to Munich, and then from Munich to
Berlin. And whichever way you travel, don’t travel openly together. You are too obviously English, Gilbert. It will attract attention to her. Once she’s here with us she will, as Olivia
has said, be far safer than she is at present. Just make sure she brings every scrap of documentation she has, with regard to her emigration and entry into Britain.’

‘And the train times tomorrow from Berlin to Vienna?’

‘I don’t know the times of trains through the day. The most usual train to catch is the night-sleeper. It leaves Berlin at midnight and arrives in Vienna at ten in the
morning.’

‘Then that is the train I shall leave on.’

‘Before you do, I’d like you to take a short night-time walk with me in the Tiergarten.’

Gilbert, knowing Dieter wanted to update him on his fellow conspirators’ plans, said, as the door opened and a maid came in to clear the table, ‘Thank you, Dieter. There’s
nothing I’d like better than to see the Tiergarten under snow and by the light of the moon.’

‘Things are not progressing,’ Dieter said tautly as, with overcoat collars turned up against the bitter cold, gloved hands deep in their pockets, they crossed
Bellevuestrasse and entered the park. ‘There is too much difference of opinion as to the best way to proceed. Those in
die Gruppe
who, like me, are in the Foreign Office think the only
sure way to be free of Hitler is assassination. Men with an army background – the generals who are with us, but who have sworn an oath of loyalty to him – think the solution is a
coup d’état
. The result is stalemate.’

Snow crunched beneath their feet as they began walking along one of the park’s narrow pathways.

‘And although I am most firmly with those who wish to kill Hitler, I am also beset by other questions. For instance, once he is dead, who steps into his shoes? Göring? Goebbels? You
see the problem we have, Gilbert? A simple assassination is not enough. There has to be a complete, new, non-Nazi government ready to take over. The task we face is monumental.’

Gilbert could well see the problem Dieter and his fellow conspirators faced, but it wasn’t one with which he could usefully help. Mindful of how little time there was before he needed to
leave for the railway station, he said, coming to a halt, ‘There’s something I must tell you before I leave. Something it is best Olivia does not know – at least not
yet.’

Dieter turned to face him. Taking a hand out of his pocket to hold his coat collar together against his throat, he said, ‘Everything these days is a secret. One more will make no
difference to me.’

‘It’s with regard to Violet.’

Dieter tensed. ‘Olivia and I no longer spend time with Violet. A long time ago I was . . . over-friendly with Violet. Olivia has forgiven me, but she can’t forgive Violet. It’s
something I deeply regret, but I’ve always known the day would come when I would have to tell you why Olivia no longer has a loving relationship with her.’

Gilbert drew in a deep, steadying breath. He’d known Olivia and Violet were no longer on close sisterly terms, but had thought it had been down to Violet’s lifestyle.

The truth was a huge blow; not so much where Violet was concerned – at the moment he could forgive Violet anything – but where Dieter was concerned. He’d always had a great
deal of affection for his son-in-law and, since knowing of his involvement in the conspiracy to topple Hitler, a great deal of respect as well.

Now he didn’t know what he felt.

Dieter said awkwardly, ‘There were other things as well, Gilbert. Violet’s affairs with men like Goebbels and Göring . . .’

‘She’s had no such affairs.’

Dieter gave a disbelieving laugh.

Gilbert said bluntly, ‘Ever since Violet came to Babelsberg she’s been spying for the Americans. She loathes and detests the Nazis just as much as you do. I’m telling you
because I think the day may come when she will need your help – or when you may need hers.’

Dieter stared at him in incredulity and then understanding dawned, to be followed by horror as he realized how gravely both he and Olivia had misjudged Violet – and then horror followed
horror as he thought of the constant danger Violet was in.

He said, his voice raw, ‘But why for the Americans? I don’t understand.’

‘The suggestion that, as a high-profile film actress at Babelsberg, Violet was in a unique position to mix with Nazis close to Hitler and pick up useful information was made to Max
Bradley. And it was Max who recruited her. I doubt she needed much persuasion, but what clinched it was when he told her that whatever information she passed on would also be passed on to British
intelligence.’

Cloud covered the moon, and the snow-covered pathway was suddenly barely visible. Without speaking they turned, beginning to retrace their steps, aware that all that had needed to be said had
been, and that tomorrow, for both of them, was going to be another long, stressful day.

At five past ten the next morning Gilbert walked out of Vienna’s Westbahnhof station. When he had been a student he had spent a holiday in Vienna, but the city that now
greeted him was changed beyond recognition. There were uniforms everywhere: the brown uniforms of Stormtroopers; the black uniforms of the SS; the field-grey of regular army men. As for swastikas
– there were even more, if that was possible, than in Berlin.

He took the underground to Stephansplatz, in the centre of the city, wondering what it must be like for Judith and her fellow Jews, living with the fear that those uniforms and swastikas
created. The things that were
verboten
to Jews in Vienna and the rest of Austria were just as numerous as – if not more so than – the things that were
verboten
to them in
Germany.

They couldn’t go into cafes or restaurants without being humiliatingly refused service. If they tried to travel by tram, they were unceremoniously ejected, no matter what their sex or age.
Public parks and libraries were closed to them. Treatment was refused them at state hospitals. Pharmacies would not sell drugs or medicine to them. Hotels wouldn’t take bookings from them.
They weren’t even allowed to own a pet – and the pets they’d owned had been brutally taken from them.

Shops in Kärntner Strasse, which led off from Stephansplatz and was one of the city’s main shopping streets, nearly all bore signs stipulating ‘Jews Not Admitted’. The
only shops without such signs were those with Jewish names, and all of these had had their windows smashed and their stock looted.

Five minutes later, still in Kärntner Strasse, Gilbert turned left and then left again.

For a moment, as he entered the cobbled Schulerstrasse, he thought a Christmas entertainment was taking place. A crowd of people was laughing and jostling to get a better view of something
happening in the middle of the street. A couple of men had children high on their shoulders in order that they could see better. One of the children, rosy-cheeked and well muffled, was laughing so
hard he could hardly keep his balance. Even Stormtroopers on the inner ring of spectators seemed to be enjoying themselves.

He drew nearer, passing number nine Schulerstrasse and then number eleven. As he drew abreast of the crowd he paused, curious to know what was giving so much fun. What he expected, he
didn’t know. Perhaps a man dressed as Father Christmas, or festive street jugglers.

What he saw, as the crowd momentarily parted, was neither of those things.

A handful of old people, both men and women, were on their knees in the snow. There were placards on their backs with the words ‘I AM A JEWISH PIG’ written on them, and they were on
their knees, shovelling the snow away from the centre of the road with bare, red-raw, arthritic hands while their former neighbours laughed, jeered and spat at them.

For a second the scene was so diabolical Gilbert couldn’t register the reality of it.

When he did, he also registered his impotence. He couldn’t do anything to stop what was happening. Any attempt he made would be halted instantly by the Stormtroopers and, if he was to be
of any help to Judith, he couldn’t risk attracting their attention.

With bile rising in his throat so that it was all he could do to stop himself from vomiting, he kept on walking. He passed numbers seventeen and nineteen, and then numbers twenty-one and
twenty-three.

Then he reached his destination. Number twenty-five. The door was broken in. The windows smashed. He didn’t even attempt to enter it.

He leaned against the wall, his head back, his eyes closed, certain he had arrived too late and that Dieter had been right and Judith was now in Mauthausen. His sense of failure was total. How
was he to go about getting a young Jewish woman out of a concentration camp? How could he possibly go back to Berlin without her?

He became aware of a woman’s hurrying footsteps approaching from across the street. They came to a halt a few feet away from him.

Unwillingly he opened his eyes.

‘
Entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte. Sind Sie Englisch?
’ the woman asked.

She was middle-aged and, despite the bitter cold, had no coat on and was wearing an apron. He looked beyond her and saw that the door of the house directly opposite was ajar.

‘
Ja. Ich bin Englisch.
’

She looked nervously up the street at the crowd and the Stormtroopers. Then, looking towards him once again, she said in fractured English, ‘Are you Viscount Fenton?’

‘Yes,’ he said, hope flooding through him. ‘I am Viscount Fenton.’

‘You look for Fräulein Zimmermann?’

‘Yes,’ he said, every nerve in his body now taut. ‘I am looking for Fräulein Zimmermann. Do you know where she is?’

The woman gave another swift look up the road towards the Stormtroopers, but none of them were looking in their direction.

‘In my house,’ she said. ‘Come.’

She led him across the street and pushed the slightly open door further ajar. They stepped into a long, high-ceilinged, narrow hallway. There were closed doors opposite each other, and a little
further down the corridor, on the right-hand side, another door. A door that led into a living room. A door that was open.

The woman stepped into it and, his heart hammering, Gilbert followed her.

It was a typical middle-class German living room. The furniture was heavy and dark and smelled of beeswax. There was a piano. A table filled with silver-framed photographs. Standing in the
middle of the room, so tense with nerves that she looked as if she might snap into pieces, was a slender, dark-haired young woman with hazel eyes.

‘I am Gilbert Fenton,’ he said, stepping towards her, ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you, Judith.’

She wasn’t a blood relation. The correct thing to do would be for him to shake her hand.

He didn’t do so. Instinct made him open his arms wide and, with a small cry, she fell into them.

The top of her head fitted neatly beneath his chin and, as his arms closed protectively around her, he said, his voice thick with emotion, ‘I’m taking you to Berlin, Judith. My
daughter and her husband live there and, until all your emigration papers are in order, you will be safer with them than you are here.’