Flight from Berlin (8 page)

Before Denham could respond, a young steward was beside them, pointing at the leather case hanging from his neck.

‘No personal cameras permitted on board.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, man,’ Eckener barked. ‘He has
my
authorisation to take his camera on board.’ The young man stepped back, smarting, and Denham noticed the small Party pin in his lapel. ‘Make yourself useful by offering Herr Denham whatever information he requires to write his article.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Eckener smiled at Denham apologetically. ‘You will have to hand him your matches, however. Not even you are exempt from that rule.’

The noise of the engine test stopped, filling the hangar with an iron silence. Eckener leaned towards Denham’s ear.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to advise caution to you of all people. The Party has members among the crew. They’ll be watching you . . .’

Denham winked. ‘Don’t you worry. I won’t tell them your joke about a little girl going up to Hitler and—’

‘Till we meet again,’ Eckener said in a loud voice, cocking his head towards the offended steward, and then giving a wheezy laugh despite himself. ‘That was a good one. If you hear any more, remember them for me . . . now hurry.’

Denham turned and climbed the narrow aluminium stairway, thinking of the joke Eckener had told him. A little girl approaches Hitler and his entourage with a bouquet of flowers but stumbles. Hitler catches her, cups her face in his hands, and kneels down to say a few quiet words. Afterwards people crowd around her. ‘What did the Führer say to you?’ they ask. The little girl is puzzled. ‘He said, “Quick, Hoffmann, a photo!” ’

He was concerned about Eckener. Why did he have to go on making a stand like that, jeopardising his life’s work? It would not make one iota of difference.

Denham continued up into the belly of the ship. It was like boarding a flying ocean liner. He nodded to a bust of old Hindenburg on the landing, then turned the corner into a lounge furnished with modern, comfortable armchairs. On the wall a large mural map of the world traced the routes of the great expeditions, from the voyages of Magellan to the globe-trotting flight of the
Graf Zeppelin.

The lounge was separated by a low rail from a long promenade, where wide windows slanting outwards offered panoramic views. Most improbable of all in a craft where everything was designed to save weight, a baby grand piano built of aluminium stood at the far side of the lounge. Above it hung the obligatory portrait of the dictator, whose hyperthyroid glare followed Denham across the room. The soft red carpet deadened his footsteps. The area was deserted.

The
Hindenburg
was truly an airborne hotel, and a luxurious hotel at that. It was the mother lode of his fantasies, and even greater than he’d imagined—more beautiful, more spacious. He touched the Plexiglas window, almost expecting it to dissolve as he woke from a dream.

‘Zeppelin marsch!
’

Outside, Eckener shouted the order to move, and the hundreds of ground crew picked up the ropes and pulled, walking the giant craft out through the hangar doors like Lilliputians heaving Gulliver into the sun.

In the open, as the men waited for the signal from the control car, Denham caught himself wondering whether a thing so large was really going to fly.

‘Schiff hoch!’

The mooring ropes were thrown off, and together the men gave a mighty upward shove, pushing the ship into the air. He heard laughter and a smatter of applause from a crowd of bystanders as water ballast was released from the prow, dousing some of the men.

Within seconds the ground was receding at an alarming speed. At about three hundred feet the ship slowly stopped rising and drifted in silence for a few moments, over the Zeppelin field and towards Lake Constance. Sunlight danced among the sailboats, and rippled like satin over the distant foothills of the Alps. Among the gabled roofs of Friedrichshafen, cars seemed like toys moving among matchbox houses.

Suddenly the four diesel engines sputtered into action; the propellers churned the air and pushed the great ship forwards.

Denham swept his hat off and laughed, holding his arms wide. He was charged with an electrifying freedom, as though he were slipping the world’s chains, floating free of all its fear. How sublime, he thought, how miraculous, how—

‘Hello, Richard,’ said a voice in English.

He turned, embarrassed, as if he’d been caught pulling faces in the shaving mirror.

‘Ah. Hello there.’

The young man he’d met at the bar, Friedl something, stood at the entrance to the lounge in knickerbockers and a sleeveless cricket sweater over a white shirt. His mop of black hair was swept under a Basque cap, as though he were a weekend guest of the Great Gatsby.

‘We’ve almost got the ship to ourselves,’ he said with that hustler grin. ‘Just a few guests, my colleagues in the movie crew—and you.’

‘Yes, it’s rather a privilege.’

‘Tell me something . . . do you listen to swing?’

Surprised, Denham said, ‘I do.’

‘Good. I want to know what grooves these days’—he raised a hand to the side of his mouth in a mock whisper—‘and about all the other things that are banned here . . .’

Again, he was struck by the man’s candid nature. It seemed hard to believe that it hadn’t got him into trouble. And he listened to swing. If there were two things utterly anathema to National Socialism, they were Jews and hot jazz.

‘We’ll do an exchange,’ Denham said. ‘I’ll tell you what’s hot and you can tell me any gossip you’ve heard about the Games—and I mean real news, not official stuff.’

On the port side of the airship a long dining room filled the length of the space, separated by a low railing from another promenade, also with panoramic views.

Tables were laid with white linen, fresh-cut flowers, and silver cutlery; the china plates bore a Zeppelin motif. White-jacketed stewards were arranging ice buckets and dishes of cured ham and roast venison for a buffet lunch. Halfway along the promenade Friedl’s crew was adjusting a rig holding a telephoto-lens movie camera pointed through an open promenade window. Denham recognised the men from the bar at the Kurgarten. The two Party big shots Eckener had mentioned—for whose enjoyment the sumptuous lunch was provided—were admiring the view with their wives and two young children, a boy and a girl. Both were colourless men in their late thirties, complacent in their light brown tunics, gold-trimmed swastika armbands, and booted legs, set wide apart. In any normal society they’d be town clerks or farm inspectors, Denham supposed, but in Germany the Party could elevate the most humdrum official into a Caesar, free to build an empire from which to draw homage and fealty.

‘A pair of golden pheasants,’ Friedl said.

They walked to the windows at the opposite end of the promenade from the Party men and watched the Rhine wind its way into the horizon through steep, wooded valleys. The castle tower of Meersburg passed below. As it gained height, the ship tilted gently, and a broad patchwork of cabbage fields and hamlets filled the view for as far as the eye could see. Horses pulling a hay cart reared their heads at the sight of the giant ship looming above; a farm dog chased its shadow across a field, barking.

Corks popped and champagne was poured, and shortly after, lunch was announced. Denham joined Friedl at a table for two.

‘That’s our director of photography, Jaworsky,’ Friedl said, pointing at an older man talking to the captain. ‘The best cameramen in Germany today—made his name shooting Alpine movies, our equivalent of the western, you could say. And over there is Gerhard, our gaffer.’ He nodded with a flash of shyness towards a tanned lad in shirtsleeves who was lifting reels. The lad smiled back at them.

‘He’s your boyfriend?’ Denham asked, before he could stop himself.

A change of pitch in the propeller engines and the ship picked up speed.

Friedl stared at his plate, reddening, as though he’d been slapped across the face. When he looked up, his fine features hardened.

‘No, he is not.’ After another pause, he said, ‘As you yourself might have said, is it that obvious?’

Denham wanted to kick himself.

‘Please forgive me. It’s a reporter’s bad habit. I spend too much time with hard-nosed hacks. I hope you’ll excuse it.’

Friedl was about to speak when his eyes froze on something over Denham’s shoulder. He turned to see a dull-eyed, freckled boy of about ten, the son of one of the Party men, standing near their table, watching them. The type of boy who’d stone birds for fun. He wore the Jungvolk uniform. The belt around his shorts had a dagger hanging from it.

‘It’s rude to stare,’ Denham said in German.

‘Why are you speaking English?’

‘We’re American gangsters planning a bank robbery in Berlin.’

The boy looked from him to Friedl. ‘He doesn’t look like a gangster,’ he said, then ran off to report this observation to his father.

‘You wait,’ Denham said. ‘He’ll be telling them he’s discovered a spy ring on board.’

Friedl didn’t seem to be listening. For a few moments his eyes were naked, and Denham saw the truth of his existence: a secret life, of courage poisoned by fear. Fear of whisperers and informers. Of midnight knocks on the door.

‘You must miss the old republic,’ Denham said, still trying to atone for his gaffe. ‘I mean, no one in Berlin cared who was a warm boy then, did they? What happened to the old El Dorado on Motzstrasse?’

‘Closed down,’ Friedl said, his face sullen. After a long silence, he spoke in a distracted voice, as though his mind was riffling through banks of old memories. ‘Berlin was the centre of the world, you know. Jazz to rival Harlem’s, great movies, new things happening in art every week. Nightlife, atmosphere, freedom. I had work at the UFA studios; friends I’d meet in the cafés on the Ku’damm. It was a great life. Look at the city now . . . The only atmosphere left is fear. Everyone’s afraid. Even those golden pheasants over there will worry over what their children say about them on Jungvolk evenings . . . There is a shadow over everything.’

He looked at Denham, his face suddenly animated. Speaking in German, he said, ‘Didn’t we meet at a poetry reading in Mainz last year?’

Denham waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, pulling a dubious face. ‘Not sure I’ve ever been to Mainz.’ He knocked back his champagne.

Friedl continued to watch him for a moment, but a light seemed to go out in his face, and his eyes drifted to the windows.

They waited until the Party men and their families had heaped their plates; then he and Denham helped themselves to smoked ham, black bread, pâté, and pickles, and Friedl asked him what was new in Harlem and who was recording on which label, revealing an obsessive’s knowledge of jazz that petered out after about 1934. He listened keenly as Denham told him of Count Basie’s new tenor sax, and Benny Goodman’s move to Chicago.

‘Believe it or not,’ Friedl said, ‘something like the old life may return to Berlin for the duration of the Games. All part of this relaxed image they want to present while the city is full of foreigners. The police will tolerate jazz, and the Jews will get a break.’

A waiter refilled their glasses. They toasted each other, and Denham regarded his new friend with a mixture of respect and concern.

Friedl explained that nothing was being left to chance with the movie,
Olympia,
and with a blank-cheque budget from the Propaganda Ministry, they had more than forty cameras ready for every contingency. Any shots that could be filmed beforehand had been. ‘I’ve been on set at the stadium for a month,’ he said. ‘She films
everything
.’

‘She . . . ?’ Denham wasn’t sure why he felt surprised. ‘You work for Leni Riefenstahl?’

‘Yes.’ Friedl gave him a quizzical look, as if unaware of the opprobrium and awe that attached to the woman’s name in equal measure. Denham had seen
Triumph of the Will
and remembered being dazed with disgust and admiration. It was an astonishing work, casting Hitler as a nation’s Messiah, glowing with a monochrome aura. The bastard had literally given her a cast of thousands.

‘Well then,’ Denham said, buttering a slice of bread, ‘what stories going round would you care to share with a discreet reporter?’

Friedl munched slowly on an apple. ‘None that wouldn’t get me into trouble . . .’

‘So you do have a story.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Come on. If it’s the one about the German lady high jumper who might be a man, I’ve heard it.’

‘No . . .’ Friedl shifted in his seat. ‘It’s about the Jewish athletes, the ones who trained for the German team . . .’ He turned again, to make sure they weren’t being overheard. The Party men and their wives were taking second helpings, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. ‘Sorry, but if I tell you, they’ll trace it back to me . . .’

This was a familiar situation for Denham, and he seldom felt proud of himself when he had to use the old hacks’ tricks.

‘Look, if it’s a story that damages the Nazis, the world needs to hear it. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘These people aren’t your friends, Friedl. If you keep quiet you’re sort of helping them . . . aren’t you?’

Friedl fell silent. Denham waited.

‘Do I have your word you’ll protect my name?’

‘Naturally,’ Denham said.

‘The Jewish athletes in the Olympic Games . . . ,’ he began, and started again. ‘The Reich Sports Office had to allow some Jews to try for the German team; otherwise the IOC would have removed the Games from Germany . . . or countries would have boycotted.’

Denham searched his memory. There had been an outcry about this in the international press last year, before the Winter Olympics in Bavaria. The Americans sent a delegation to make sure the German-Jewish athletes were being given a fair chance.

Friedl leaned in closer. ‘It was a deception. The Nazis set up some fake training session for the benefit of the IOC, the press, and the Americans, with Jewish athletes present. But in fact the Jews got no facilities—nothing. They had to train in farmers’ fields. After all, they’re banned from every sports club in Germany . . .’