The City of Fading Light Read online

  He arrived on the Kurfürstendamm and turned into the Café Möhring, where he knew he would find Meg Arrowsmith. She was sitting at her usual table by one of the windows, lolling there with that quiet self-assurance, almost arrogance, that he had come to think of as the natural air of the English aristocracy. Though so far Lady Margaret Arrowsmith was the only aristocrat he had ever had tea with.

  “Darling!”

  She had a loud voice: another aristocratic habit, he presumed. She gave him her hand, as she always did, but he had none of the grace that, another presumption, her other admirers had; he did not kiss it but shook it and handed it back to her. He sat down opposite her, aware of the discreet stares of the others in the high-ceilinged restaurant. There were other more fashionable cafés, the Kranzler, the Romanische, the Trumpf, but Meg always came here for late tea before going on to whatever date she had for the evening. The Möhring’s clientele was conservative, solidly-built men and women of solid money and position; Carmody sometimes wondered if she came here looking for an echo of what she had left behind in London. Though he had no idea what sort of life she had led in England or if the Marquis of Avalon, her father, was a solid man of wealth and position. He had read that some of the English aristocracy were as poor as church mice. Well, cathedral mice.

  “Darling Sean—” She looked at him with affection. “You are so unspoiled. Why didn’t I meet you ten, fifteen years ago?”

  At thirty-five she was seven years older than he and looked it; in another couple of years she would look ten or twelve years older than he. She was good-looking without being anywhere near beautiful; her main attraction was the liveliness of her small thin face. It was a face that showed the ravages of a hectic life; she had been a rebel all her life and now, too late, had come to realize she had rebelled against all the wrong things. Including the spirit of her own country. He felt sorry for her and that was part of her attraction; he had never been able to pass by a lame dog. He grinned, wondering what his mother, Ida, the drover’s wife, would think of him if he fell in love with the daughter of an English marquis. It would kill Paddy, his father, the Irish hater of all things Pommy.

  “When are you going home, Meg?” His conversations with her often started so bluntly. It stopped her from the idle gossip that she loved and which bored him.

  She looked out the window and for a moment he thought he saw her eyes glisten. “Daddy telephoned this morning. He asked the same thing. You can both be so cruel.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Do your parents ever ask you why you don’t come home?”

  “They never understood why I came away in the first place.”

  “Did politics take you to Spain?”

  “I hadn’t a clue what was going on there.” He marvelled now at his innocence of three years ago; he had been an ignorant newspaperman in those days, still blinkered by the parochialism of the country newspaper on which he had done his cadetship. “I had wanderlust, something I’d inherited from my dad—he’d almost broken my mother’s heart and I guess I did the same when I tossed up my job and went to the States. I spent a year there hobo-ing around. I washed dishes, sheared sheep in Nevada, wrote some pieces for the Hobo News. Then I caught a ship for Lisbon, walked up over the hills into Spain and there was a war just breaking out. I wrote some freelance pieces and some papers in London and back home picked them up. Then I joined the International Brigade—well, I sort of drifted into it. No,” he said reflectively, “politics didn’t take me to Spain. But politics brought me here to Germany.” He looked directly at her.

  She looked away out of the window again. Politics had brought her here, too; but he saw her as naïve as he had once been. She truly believed that an alliance between Britain and Germany would be the saving of Europe, that nothing else could stem the tide of communism. She idolized Hitler, was on the fringe of his small social circle, had been one of Goebbels’ many mistresses. She was intelligent and kind and gentle, except in her views about Jews, and she was a fascist through and through. Till he had come to Berlin he had never thought that he would be sitting down to friendly tea chats with someone who admired fascism so openly.

  “I’ll never be able to make you understand, will I?” She looked back at him.

  He shook his head, waited till the waitress had placed in front of him a huge slice of strudel with a hillock of whipped cream and gone away. Cakes, not the persuasions of ideologies, would be his downfall; the Germans were getting at him through his stomach. He had put on seven pounds since coming to Berlin and he would have added more had he not done so much walking. War needed to break out to save him from his sweet tooth.

  “I just hope you get out, Meg, before the roof falls in.”

  “Darling, don’t talk like that! Let’s just talk of gay things—” Then she abruptly looked away again and said, softly and fiercely, “War can’t break out!”

  He attacked his strudel, content to let the argument peter out. He would never convince her she was wrong: she had jumped off her cliff and there was no going back. But she did occasionally give him bits of gossip, some bitter, some sweeter even than the Möhring cakes. He had met her by accident four months ago in the Tiergarten, where she went every morning to walk her dog, and, recognizing her, he had cultivated her. It was only later he had come to like her and to feel sorry for her.

  “General von Albern!”

  She put up her hand and the tall elderly man, about to pass their table, stopped, bowed and kissed the hand. He was handsome, distinguished-looking and vaguely familiar to Carmody. He stood very straight, as if on a parade-ground, and the well-cut dark grey suit looked out of place on him: he should have been wearing a uniform.

  Carmody stood up as Meg introduced him. He was of only medium height and von Albern topped him by five or six inches. The General looked down on him from an even greater height when Meg said he was a newspaperman.

  “How interesting, Herr Carmody.” His English was good, if careful. “You must find plenty to write about in Germany at the moment.”

  “More than enough, Herr General.”

  Von Albern nodded, kissed Meg’s hand again, bowed his head to Carmody and went on to a table at the rear of the big room, where a well-dressed woman waited for him.

  “That’s his mistress, Baroness von Sonntag. She’s married unfortunately.” She did not like to see any hindrance, no matter how legal, stand in the way of love.

  “Who’s he? Somehow he looks familiar. Is he any relation to Helmut von Albern?” He had heard Cathleen O’Dea speak of her cameraman.

  “His father. He was on the General Staff till about a year ago, then he suddenly retired, no reasons given, and went home to Hamburg. I gather he was not one of the Fuehrer’s favourite generals.”

  “Was the Fuehrer one of his favourites?”

  She smiled. “You don’t trap me like that, darling. Finish your strudel and let’s have no more argument.” She poured herself another cup of tea, Earl Grey’s best: there were certain English things one could never turn one’s back on. “There are some whispers that Goering wants to fly to London to see if he can break the deadlock between us.”

  “Can I write about them?” He always respected his sources’ wishes: that way they remained his sources.

  “Not yet, because nothing may come of it—he still has to get permission from the Fuehrer.” She never called him Hitler, always the Fuehrer. “I’ll let you know as soon as there’s something definite.”

  “Meg, what would happen to you if they knew you gave me all this information?”

  She shrugged. “I’d probably have a visit from the horrible Gestapo hoodlums.” She could be critical of some Nazi institutions. “But I don’t really care, darling. If I can do anything to prevent war between England and Germany, I’ll do it. Would you care to come back to my flat and make love to me?”

  She had often flirted with him, but had never been as direct as this before. For a moment he thought she was joking, then saw the lo
nely look in her eyes. He was embarrassed that he had to say no. “I’m sorry, Meg. That would spoil our friendship.”

  She rolled her eyes, laughed; but her eyes looked hurt. “Oh darling, you’re so old-fashioned. But you’re sweet—you’d never take advantage of a girl, would you? More’s the pity.”

  He felt inadequate and had a momentary urge to boast. There had been girls he had taken advantage of, as she put it: girls in Spain, in Vienna, here in Berlin. But they had all been girls who had come and gone in a night or two; and none of them had been a fascist, except in bed. Back home in Australia the one or two girls he had gone to bed with had been compliant, totally submissive; European women, or anyway the ones he had met, seemed to be different. He was losing his innocence abroad.

  Meg appeared to have put him and his rebuff of her out of her mind. She was looking across the room at General von Albern and his companion. “I wonder why he’s come back to Berlin? He’s supposed to have sworn he’d never set foot in the city again while the Fuehrer is still here.”

  “Maybe the lure of the Baroness was too strong.”

  She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “She doesn’t live here. She’s from Stuttgart. No, something else has brought him back.”

  “Well, don’t go telling your friends. Leave him and the Baroness in peace—they mightn’t have much longer.”

  She looked at him almost fiercely; then she shook her head, gathered up her handbag and gloves. She was always immaculately dressed, in the English style; she had told him, who knew nothing of such matters, that Berlin women were notoriously bad dressers and she hoped to set an example. “Pay the bill, darling. And do leave a decent tip.”

  When she had gone he sat a while carefully studying the General and the Baroness at their table in the rear of the room. He did not know how older lovers behaved when they met clandestinely; surely some of them must be more demonstrative than these two. They sat on opposite sides of the table, conversing with each other but not leaning forward as he would have expected lovers to do; there seemed no intimacy between them, just a constraint that might have been expected from an estranged husband and wife. Yet he was certain they had not quarrelled. Then he saw the General put a long arm across the table and take the Baroness’ hand in his. They sat there in silence, staring at each other; but he was too far away to read the expressions in their faces. He had, however, seen enough faces in the past week to guess at what the General and the Baroness might be thinking. Many of the older Germans were afraid of another war.

  He paid the bill, leaving a decent tip. His reputation as a poor tipper was spreading. Oliver Burberry, an expert in such matters, had told him that after women, who were the worst tippers of all, Australians came a close second. He would have to do something about improving the Australian image; but it would hurt. He hated giving money away for services that should have been paid for by the waitress’ boss. He was still a union man, even if he no longer paid dues.

  He went out into the street, started to walk towards Uhlandstrasse, where Cathleen had her apartment. It was a long ride out to the studio each morning but she preferred it to living in Neubabelsberg. As he walked along the Kurfürstendamm he glanced at the passers-by. They did not look like people eager for war, even the younger ones; they were animated, but not excited. But what, he wondered, of the people in Munich, Frankfurt, Hamburg, Essen, Cologne? He was learning that Germany had more than one face, that it was a collection of leaderless palatinates, something Hitler had recognized.

  III

  Extracts from the diaries of Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels:

  11 August 1939:

  Goering is still persisting with his suggestion that he should fly secretly to England and confer with Chamberlain and his ministers. The Fuehrer is listening to him, but I hope reason will prevail. Would the English take the buffoon seriously? If anyone should be sent to negotiate peace, it should be I. Who else believes in the futility of war more than I do?

  Out to Neubabelsberg today, where everything seems to be going well. I shall yet make our cinema the best in the world. We do not need the Jews and traitors who have fled to Hollywood.

  Met Fräulein O’Dea again. Am attracted to her, much too much, I fear. She has legs that remind me of Lida’s*—never thought I should see their equal. Never thought the Irish were noted for their legs. To be wrapped in Irish legs—what the English are missing!

  A press conference, where I held sway as usual, despite the cheap remarks of the Australian, Carmody. What a pity he works for an American wire service, otherwise we could withdraw his permit. But we need every avenue to the American public, especially in these next few weeks. The news from Moscow is expected within the next week.

  Then out to Schwanenwerder to see the children. How pleased I am to get them out of the city in the summer. What delight they give me! Spent an hour with them, the best hour of the day. Talked with Magda. Are all wives so difficult?

  In the evening screened Stagecoach. The Americans do this sort of film so well: simple story, simple characters, simple-minded. I should screen it for Himmler and some of the others.

  IV

  Extracts from the memoirs of General Kurt von Albern:

  . . . I had gone with the Kaiser, as one of his junior aides, to the funeral in London of King Edward the Seventh. The Kaiser, as usual, was much too voluble, offering advice right, left and centre to anyone unfortunate enough to be within range. At the funeral service, however, the Kaiser was suitably quiet and suitably impressed. “The English,” he said, “do everything so well where pomp is necessary. Especially coronations and funerals.”

  “They have had more experience,” said the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.

  “Of coronations perhaps,” said the Kaiser. “But not of funerals.” Occasionally, though rarely, he spoke sensibly.

  . . . Few of us spoke, or even thought, sensibly in those days. But that, of course, is the hindsight of an old man. We believed, or said we did, in the divine right of kings; we believed in the efficacy of prayer; and, our biggest mistake, we believed in Bernhardi’s theories of war.

  I wonder now at the youthful mind that saw truth in Bernhardi’s claim that “war is a biological necessity,” that nations must progress or decay and that, a natural progression from that latter thought, Germany must choose between world domination or its downfall. The duty to make war became almost a code of honour . . .

  As I write this, the duty to make war is being sounded again, though in another hymn. The hymn-master is mad, I am convinced of that . . .

  It is foolish and self-defeating to long for a return to the past, but there were golden years, or so it seems, in my youth. Every summer my family would go down from Hamburg to Baden-Baden, but I preferred to stay in Berlin. That was before I had joined the staff of the Kaiser and was still with my regiment; one did not have to be so circumspect as later in palace circles, one did not have to feel as if one was in some sort of secular church. There in Berlin in those summers in the parks, in the cafés, at the dances in the grand houses, we young men drifted through a gentle storm of young girls. We dressed up, army blades in the splendid scabbards of our uniforms. We looked, I am sure, so much more splendid than the fat clown Goering in his musical comedy outfits; what enemy could be afraid of a military man in powder blue! The girls, in memory, were all beautiful; the affairs discreet but satisfying; the future a golden road. But of course I was a career soldier and one dreamed of the glory of war, sometimes even in the arms of one of the lovely young girls . . .

  . . . None of us was an intellectual. We did not read Fichte, Hegel, Nietzsche or Treitschke, who told us Germans that we were Supermen. If we read at all, we read Clausewitz and Schlieffen, but most of the time we exercised our minds not at all. Why is it that, with so many of us, wisdom comes too late?

  How many of the Nazis will learn that lesson? . . .

  * * *

  *Lida Baarova, Czech actress, with whom Goebbels had an affair in 1938.


  2

  I

  “SEAN, THERE’S nothing wrong with me, I tell you!” Cathleen knew she sounded shrill and she tried to compose herself. “Please, honey—I’m just tired. I always am at the end of a picture—”

  “How much longer have you to go?”

  “Three weeks at the most, maybe less. I don’t know. It’s a lousy picture and I think the studio brass is getting worried Joe Goebbels might not like it. They may want to re-shoot some of the stuff.”

  “Joe Goebbels, as you call him, has got other things on his mind—he’s not going to be worried about a picture that’s gone wrong.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “Do you?”

  She smiled ruefully. “No, but I think I’m going to. He’s making a play for me.”

  “Stone the crows!” He still had some of the expressions of his boyhood clinging to him like burrs. “That’s what’s wrong with you. That would be enough to put anyone off their tucker.”

  She smiled affectionately at him, thinking what a country boy he still was at heart. Yet she knew he had seen more and suffered more than she had so far; she knew, too, that he could be as shrewd in his opinions as his more sophisticated competitors amongst the newsmen gathered in Berlin. Europe might occasionally smile at him, but he, she guessed, might have the last laugh . . .

  “. . . If there’s anything left to laugh at.” Her thoughts, going off at a tangent, often broke into voice.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You want your usual beer?”

  She poured them both a drink at the glass-and-steel cabinet in a corner of the big room. The apartment belonged to a film director who was at present in South America and it reminded her of sets from early Joan Crawford movies, the Bauhaus gone Hollywood. There was glass and tubular steel and black leather everywhere; she never felt comfortable in it, surrounded by reflections of herself in the mirrored walls. Even an actress can have too much of herself.

  She sipped her martini, found, too late to stop her tongue, that her mind had gone off at a tangent again. She would have to be careful in future. “Do you have any contacts in the Abwehr?”