Unity (34 page)

Eerie, nervy atmosphere. Police helicopter overhead, drowning out much of eulogy. Police marksmen dotted among gravestones like resurrection of the damned. Most of the mourners wear scarves or wide-brimmed hats to frustrate police photographers who snap away, creating next generation of martyrs. Some carry placards, accusing authorities of torture. As coffins are lowered, a small group, dressed from head to toe in black, unfurl banner stating baldly
They were murdered
. At end of ceremony, when Pastor Ensslin raises fist in solidarity, I feel confident that struggle is entering its final stage.

Surprised by degree of personal recognition: intrusive from reporters, with TV cameras trained on me from cemetery gates to grave; inspiring from mourners, as constant stream of comrades walk up to shake my hand. To them, not child star striving to make comeback but serious actress who sacrificed career to work for Revolution. Several with tears in eyes as they thank me for just being there. F. a mere extra. G.M. (apart from coffins) in leading role.

Clashes inevitable. Police, who kept low profile prior to ceremony, make presence felt at end, setting up road blocks and inspecting papers. Anyone who objects is immediately arrested. Woman behind me desperate. Confides that she's a teacher and, if her identity is discovered, may be dismissed under neo-Fascist laws as
Enemy of Constitution. Remonstrate with officers on her behalf and, after refusing to back down, am hauled off to police station. Subjected to full force of state oppression. Porcine policemen – all guns and paunches – insist that I am stripped and searched for weapons. Hand me over to bull-dyke colleagues with hard,
invasive
fingers, while they ogle behind two-way mirrors. Constant clicking of cameras as they capture each humiliation for their locker-room enjoyment. F. meanwhile alerts Studios and, after due representation, I am released. No apologies, just sly, knowing smiles.

Keen to join protesters gathering outside station for march through city – 2 or 300 heroes defying massed ranks of police – but F. explains that she has given word we will go straight back to Munich. To her surprise even W. hostile, his only concern the wasted day.

Return to universal censure. No sympathy for ordeal – not even from A. who accuses me of jeopardising everything (it might help if I knew what!) for sake of side-show. Barely manage to mollify him when forced to contend with Luke, who turns up
unannounced
in F.'s suite. Baffled how anyone over six can have such a sanitised view of life. A. and I escape, only to part like
chambermaids
in the corridor.

New message from Truffaut. Can I fly to Paris one day next week for talks?

Yes, yes & yes.

Strange mixture of elation and emptiness. Listen to stomach (literally) and ring Room Service (for meal!).

a.m.: Not called. Black looks at breakfast. Attempt damage
limitation
with Henry and Dora.

Sir H[allam] flown home (frightening how soon he has been
forgotten!). Bump into agent's assistant collecting luggage. Sharp suit. Sweaty palms. ‘Quick cuppa?' Hands me his card.

Dinner with F[elicity] in suite.

Discloses details of A[hmet]'s plan. Swears me to secrecy. A. would be murderous if he knew she'd breathed a word – even to me.

Their visit to Olympic Stadium last week not idle tourism.

Memorial Service on Sun for Israeli athletes liquidated by Black September 5 years ago. Imperialists flying in from across globe. Schmidt and his lot. Dayan and ½ Israeli cabinet. Representatives of all governments incl Our Man – her uncle – in Bonn.

(Now I understand why A. so incensed by Stuttgart trip – and so much more concerned about F.'s presence than mine).

Uncle asked F. to accompany him. Neat mix of private reunion and public relations. Chance for HMG to invest stuffed-shirt image with film-star glamour. Quandary over whether to
withdraw
invitation but decided to proceed as planned. Typically English resolve to keep up a front.

Rigorous security. Having bungled events so badly 5 years ago, the authorities are determined that everything should proceed without a hitch. Nevertheless diplomatic pass = free access. F. sitting in VIP compound, two rows behind Germans and Israelis. Instructed to have device primed before she enters (‘Keep it under your hat' – Ha!). A few minutes into service, she will complain of sickness, remove hat, place it under seat and make swift exit to washroom.

A. has warned her that she has 2 minutes to escape blast.

G.M. surprised at time lag. Used to be a matter of seconds.

Fear that F. so committed to mission that blind to consequences. Plan is for her to rush back in hysterics on hearing explosion (an actress after all!). G.M.: ‘But, surely, the device will be easily traced?' F. adamant that all eventualities have been covered. Hat
made for her by Studio. She takes it to hotel where, unknown to her, A. inserts device. In all the excitement, no time to check whether slightly – ever so slightly (weighs a mere ½ lb) – heavy. A. and F. spotted passionately kissing on steps as embassy car comes to collect her. Another foolish English girl seduced by wily Arab (an actress after all!). Ahmet leaves immediately for E. Germany. Later that day, statement will be issued in Beirut claiming responsibility for attack and exonerating F.

Only trust that it will be so straightforward. F., supremely
confident
, declares that it's the perfect action. Quotes A. on killing single Jew in street more effective than killing 100 on
battlefield
.
153
She feels immensely proud to have been chosen. For years, a victim of Zionist propaganda that Munich deaths a Jewish tragedy. Now that she has understood plight of Palestinians, she knows the truth. 11 Israeli athletes revered as martyrs, but what of the 400 Palestinians slaughtered 3 days later in reprisal? Where is the memorial to them?

‘It's time to strike a blow against the whole panoply of
imperialzionism
and Western governments that are complicit in its crimes. The Fascists must be defeated. Remember the British agent who had a chance to assassinate Hitler before the War but turned it down because the Foreign Office thought that it wasn't cricket? Well I shan't make that mistake. I'm a woman. I don't even know the rules of the game.'

a.m.: Not called. Shadow F[elicity] around studios. Worried she may let slip remark, incriminating herself, incriminating A[hmet] or, even worse, incriminating innocent party.

‘Her story sounded so far-fetched that I paid no attention. I presumed it was a joke … a fantasy … a tease.'

To Geraldine Mortimer, the Dick Van Dyke
154
award for least convincing performance of the year.

Shoot scene in Swinbrook lavatory. Unity twisting pet snake around chain to intimidate governess. Snake determined to uncoil. Finally, W[olfram] loses patience and orders it to be placed on top of cistern with head dangling over edge.

F. petrified. Dreading scene. Pleads 1) with L[uke] to cut it out, but he too taken with symbolism; 2) with W. to use a double, but he deplores sham. Warns both – warns everyone – that they are courting disaster. Not governess who will faint but her. In the event, her fears unfounded. Holds snake as if hypnotised. Drapes it around neck and then puts it on cistern before withdrawing to wait for scream.

p.m.: Sitting room. Scene between Unity and Jessica as they
speculate
on ordering each other's execution. Politics as melodrama. Little different from a child's ‘You'll all be sorry when I'm dead.' Nevertheless, deeply poignant to one aware of the context. May be sentimental but I detect a new assurance in F.'s acting: clarity of purpose based on an understanding of what lies ahead.

Return to hotel. Filming seems futile when unsure whether it will ever be completed. If only the service could be postponed another week. Despise myself for putting career concerns first. Proof that I am as bourgeois as the rest. Resolve to read Gramsci as
corrective
. Persuade maid to let me into F.'s suite. Take back book and several others that may be of use.

 

eve: Attend W.'s regular weekend party. Expediency overrides distaste. Already living in retrospect (alibis, explanations,
statements
to press). Nerves so strained that I share a joint with Liesl, Helmuth & Erich. Vision remains disconcertingly sharp.

2 W.s [Wolfram and Werner] elated after screening of rough assembly. Sure that
Unity
will be triumph. W. already planning next film: liberal newspaper publisher caught between rival demands of radical journalists & reactionary printers. Suspect thinly disguised autobiography even – especially? – given that publisher a woman.

(Huge relief among old guard that subject domestic. Clear that they find current hotchpotch a trial).

Party in full swing. Luke ecstatic to have F. at side – and all over him. Her conduct surprising in view of a) her taboo on displays of public affection and b) passionate love scene she's due to perform with A. tomorrow afternoon.

A. uncharacteristically edgy. Is he afraid she might give game away? Does she talk in sleep? How would he know? No, mustn't go down that road. It's not my life that's about to be put on line.

Tell him he looks tense. Cite skills as masseuse. Feel cheap. To my amazement, he takes up offer. Invites me to his room. We fuck – no way to describe it as making love. Uses me as if oiling his gun. Then rapidly falls asleep. Grunts. Snores. (His breathing used to be so gentle.) Try to mould myself to his body without success. Creep out of bed, pick my way through fag-end of party and leave.

Feel bruised, inside and out. Share taxi to hotel with Dora. She drunk, deserted: ‘That's life. We order champagne but have to settle for beer.' Decline to respond to her chatter and try to work out why A. was so brutal. Was he acting like homeopath, treating me with small pain to ease greater pain of separation? Or was he using me like whore to relieve frustration at Felicity spending night with Luke?

This has to be final entry. Journal dynamite. Attempt already underway to portray Felicity as lone wolf, but everyone and
everything
under suspicion. Who knows what police may impound? Shall write today – must write today – and then mail it to Mother's, where everything safe.

Action aborted. Watched events unfold on TV. By chance, saw precise moment of detonation. Camera on Felicity as she and uncle walked through turnstile. Then Felicity on camera as bomb exploded and bits of her (or others) splattered over crowd. Mayoress of Munich's dress like butcher's apron. Picture blurred as though ageing star photographed through gauze.

4 dead: Felicity, her uncle, one of his security men and diplomat from Poland. 2 others critically injured: Deputy Ambassador and 2
^nd
security man.

What went wrong? Was bomb primed? Was pin unstable? Was it dislodged in the crush?

No reliable news, just the lies of TV bulletins and rumour-mill of hotel. In the end, against all practice, ring Serpent's Nest and ask for Mahmoud. Whoever answers sounds as though on other planet. Promises to fetch him. After 10 mins of crackling
emptiness
, put down phone.

Listen to World Service. PFLP have issued statement, mourning martyr and promising that struggle will continue until victory assured.

Must stop. Frightened every footstep may be a policeman on way to search room. Can I risk handing package to reception or should I wait for a.m. and take it to Post Office myself?

Is Ahmet safe? Will I ever see him again? Will he make contact or must I wait for another strategic location? Why did he reveal nothing about mission? Was he trying to keep me from danger?
Does that mean that he loves me? He placed Felicity in danger. Does that mean that he didn't love her? Why, after all that's happened, should that make me happy? So many conflicting emotions. No wonder we struggle with those of Diana, Unity and Hitler when we can never be sure of our own.

Was Felicity truly committed to Palestine? Did Ahmet use her? Allowing her to die would seem to be an answer. Yet, in his
tradition
, all who die for a just cause are promised a place in Heaven. What greater gift can you give someone you love?

Did he love her?

Did he?

Did he?