What Tomorrow Brings Read online

  He wouldn’t have it. ‘Come on. You don’t get out of it that easily. Go and get your hat, powder your nose, do what you have to. I’ll wait.’

  I was going to refuse, but somehow his enthusiasm broke my resolve and I nodded. ‘All right. Give me a minute.’

  It was a Russian restaurant, dark and smoky, with heavy chandeliers and embroidered tablecloths. The place was busy and the waiters sped from table to table bearing trays full of aromatic dishes. The maître d’ grasped Charlie’s hand when we went in. ‘Mr Bradford,’ he grinned. ‘So good to see you, again.’ And he clicked his fingers, sending two waiters into a frenzy of arranging a table for us and then helping us into our seats. ‘A drink, while you consider the menu,’ he said, thrusting two large cards into our hands. I wasn’t asked what I wanted to drink or eat. A bottle of iced vodka and small glasses arrived almost immediately, followed by a platter of salami on circles of black bread surrounded by tiny pickled mushrooms.

  ‘We’ll eat shashlik after this and a vinegar beetroot salad. All right?’ Charlie said. I nodded. I didn’t care really. Food hadn’t been of interest to me for weeks.

  ‘Cheers,’ he knocked back his small glass of vodka in one gulp and waited for me to do the same. It burned my throat and made me cough. Tears came to my eyes, and that almost set me off again.

  I’d been crying for weeks.

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have drunk that,’ Charlie said anxiously. ‘After all, you’re not long out of hospital.’

  ‘What?’ I said nervously. ‘How did you know that?’

  He had the grace to blush. ‘I am a journalist,’ he answered, for once embarrassed. ‘I notice things. There was a letter from the hospital on your table. I read it while you were getting your hat.’

  I was horrified and tried desperately to remember the exact wording on the invoice from the private clinic. I looked up at him, hoping the agony wouldn’t show in my eyes.

  ‘It was a hefty bill,’ he said. ‘What was wrong?’

  I swallowed in relief. He didn’t know. ‘Appendix,’ I lied. ‘Had to have surgery.’

  ‘No wonder you look so pasty,’ Charlie laughed. ‘You need building up.’ He handed me a piece of bread and salami. ‘Eat up, Blake. That’s an order.’

  Later, when we were eating the delicious plum dessert, Charlie asked where I’d been for the last three months. ‘The word at the paper was that you had to look after your sister and that was why you had to leave so abruptly. However, Monica Cathcart was putting it about that Xanthe – is that her name? – had been seen about town. Then someone else heard that you’d had a nervous breakdown. Apparently that came from your sister. And now I discover that you’ve been ill with appendicitis.’

  ‘Yes,’ I licked my spoon. The dessert had been delicious and I’d eaten more in the last hour than I had all week.

  Charlie raised his hand and ordered tea for us. I loved the sight of the samovar being placed on the table, with the glass cups in their fancy metal holders and the dish of lemon slices.

  ‘Of course,’ Charlie said carefully. ‘Appendicitis is an acute illness, as I understand it, so that doesn’t really explain the last three months, does it?’

  I took a sip of tea and considered my reply. I could easily tell him to mind his own business, which is precisely what I intended to do. After the terrible row I’d had with my mother, I swore I’d never talk about it again. But when I opened my mouth I found that I was telling him about Amyas. ‘I fell in love,’ I said. ‘Suddenly, totally, and in the end, it devastated me.’

  Charlie leant forward. ‘So who was the lucky man?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t know him. He lives in Cambridge. Amyas Troy.’ I savoured his name, remembering the first time he’d said it, on the beach on that brilliant day.

  Charlie frowned and tapped his finger against his chin. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He left me. Went to Spain to join the International Brigade.’

  ‘Very noble of him. But it sounds as if there was more.’

  Strangely, I didn’t feel like crying now, while talking about Amyas. Perhaps I was coming out of the other end of grief, or it could have been that Charlie was a good listener. ‘There is more. He was living with another woman, a Mrs Cartwright. My parents had him investigated, because he’d asked me to marry him and they, well, my mother, didn’t approve. Anyway, this Mrs Cartwright is an older woman, an actress and she kept him. My mother said that he was nothing but a gigolo.’ I rested my chin on my hand, remembering the dreadful scene at Summer’s Rest after the almost silent drive back from the station.

  ‘A gigolo and a thief. My father found that several of his valuable books had disappeared.’

  ‘You think he took them?’

  ‘I know he did.’ I remembered him going into Father’s study just before he left; that, and the noise that his holdall made when he dropped it on the floor.

  Charlie reached his hand across the table and took mine in his grasp. ‘Think of it as an experience. We all have unhappy love affairs. You’ll get over it.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll love Amyas until I die.’

  I couldn’t understand why Charlie’s face took on such a bleak look. It was only for a fleeting moment, but I saw it and wondered if he too had had an unhappy love affair and was, therefore, able to sympathise with me.

  ‘Well, Blake,’ he sighed after a minute. ‘I think it’s time you went back to work.’

  ‘My job’s gone,’ I shrugged. ‘I made a mess of that.’

  He raised his eyebrows, then taking off his glasses rubbed his eyes. ‘How about working for me?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Being my assistant. I’ll pay you. Not much, I’m afraid, but, for now, you could be freelance and then, if you prove yourself, the editor will probably take you back.’

  I stared at him. The restaurant was now almost empty and when I spoke I could hear my voice echoing around the room. ‘Are you going abroad?’

  ‘Oh yes. And it’s we: we’re going abroad.’

  ‘To Spain?’ My heart was beating very quickly. If we went to Spain, maybe I could find Amyas.

  He laughed. He knew what I was thinking. ‘No, Blake,’ he said. ‘Not this time. We’re going to Berlin.’

  Chapter Six

  Berlin 1937

  MY ROOM AT the Hotel Adlon was on the fourth floor, a small single, but big enough for me and my new acquisition. It sat proudly on the table in front of the window and I felt excited every time I looked at it.

  ‘Get yourself a decent portable typewriter, Blake. The Remingtons are good,’ Charlie had said after lunch, when we discussed the details of our journey to Berlin. We were walking through Belgravia in the rain, and despite it being mid-afternoon on a working day, the streets were pretty empty. ‘I’ve got one but I’ll need it and it’s as well for you to have one too. You can type up my reports and pretend that you’re a real foreign correspondent.’

  That made me angry and I considered telling him to go to hell; that I wasn’t interested in his offer. I scowled at him. ‘You sought me out,’ I snapped. ‘You must have thought I could do the job. But if that’s what you think . . .’

  He laughed. ‘A thin skin is a terrible curse, Blake. Now, I presume you’ve got a passport, so we’ll leave on . . . er . . . how about Friday?’

  ‘Where will we stay?’ I asked, calming down. ‘D’you want me to . . .’ Did my job as his assistant include arranging accommodation?

  ‘Stop fussing. I’ve booked us rooms at the Hotel Adlon on Unter den Linden.’

  I must have looked blank because he added with a grin, ‘That’s the best street in Berlin and the hotel is excellent. It’s in the heart of the city, opposite the Brandenburg Gate. And anybody who is anybody stays there. Charlie Chaplin and Franklin Roosevelt have been guests, amongst others of that ilk. Don’t worry, Blake. It’s well up to your standards.’

  He left me at the door to my flat, with a swift kiss on the cheek. �
��Four days until we go, and I’ve work to do, arranging contacts and all that, so get yourself moving. You’ll have to carry your own luggage, so don’t bring much.’

  ‘I hadn’t planned to pack my ball gown,’ I answered, with a dismissive laugh.

  ‘Good.’ Charlie refused to rise to my sarcasm and turned to go. ‘I’ll pick you up Friday morning. The boat train goes from Victoria at seven, so be waiting for me at six. Bye.’

  While I was standing at my door, staring at his departing figure, Mr Weiss came out of his flat. ‘Good afternoon, Fräulein.’ He nodded kindly. ‘Ah, you are looking better today. I can see colour in the cheeks.’ The little dog in his arms gave a tiny yelp and Mr Weiss smiled. ‘Ja, she’s a pretty girl. Don’t you think, Willi? Ein shaineh maidel.’

  For once, instead of darting through my door to safety, I stopped and smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Mr Weiss. I do feel better today.’ Then, as I heard the lift mechanism working and knew that Charlie was on his way out of the building, I said excitedly, ‘I’m going abroad at the end of the week, on an assignment. I’m a journalist.’

  ‘A journalist? But not working recently, I think. You have been sick, yes?’

  I nodded and was about to go into my flat when a thought struck me. ‘You’re German, Mr Weiss, aren’t you? That’s where we’re going. Do you know Berlin?’

  To my surprise, his face fell. ‘Ja,’ he said slowly. ‘I know Berlin. It is my home.’

  Oh dear, I thought, I’ve made him homesick. ‘Do you visit often? Maybe you can tell me where the good restaurants are.’ The notion that I could surprise Charlie by finding a ‘great little place’ before he did tickled me.

  Mr Weiss shrugged. ‘I don’t know now. Things have changed since I was last there. I don’t visit because I would not be welcome. It has become a cruel place for people of my faith.’

  I must have looked shocked, because he reached out and patted my arm. ‘You will be fine, Fräulein. No harm will come to you and you will learn many things.’ Waving Willi’s paw he turned and went back into his flat, leaving me sorry that I’d mentioned my forthcoming trip.

  The four days passed in a flurry of activity. I bought my typewriter: not a Remington, but an Imperial Good Companion. Named, said the salesman, after the book by J.B. Priestley, and guaranteed to bring fame to those who typed on it. I didn’t believe him, but bought it all the same; the idea appealed to me. Then I bought clothes, a neat tweed suit, which had a similar weave to the one Xanthe had worn, but with a longer, belted jacket and large pockets. Comfortable brown shoes and a trench coat completed the outfit. I had a squashable brown hat, which would do. It wasn’t flattering, but then, I wasn’t going to Berlin to flirt with anyone. Trying them on the night before we left, I was pleased with what I saw in my long mirror. I looked the part, smart but businesslike. I would wear the outfit the next day and put a pair of slacks and a couple of blouses along with my underwear in the small suitcase I’d chosen. I had a shoulder bag and the typewriter to take, and I practised carrying them around my sitting room.

  A knock came at my door and for a moment I wondered, with a sinking heart, if it was Charlie, come to tell me that the trip was off. However, when I opened the door I almost cried in relief. It was Mr Weiss and Willi.

  ‘I wonder, Fräulein, if I could request of you a small favour.’ He was holding a rather bulky envelope and a piece of folded paper.

  ‘Of course, come in, Mr Weiss.’ I held the door wide and cautiously he stepped inside. I was surprised at myself. Only last week I would have rudely rejected any overture from a neighbour, but Charlie’s intervention, with his exciting job offer, had knocked a bit of sense into me. I thought of Amyas constantly, wondering where he was and if he was safe and why he had left me. At night I still cried, grieving for what I had lost. But I was young and my life had to go on, so I remembered my good manners and smiled at the old man. Taking off my silly brown hat I said, ‘Would you like a drink? Whisky?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He sat down heavily in the armchair and Willi curled up on his knee. ‘You are packed and ready to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Mr Bradford is coming for me in the morning, early.’

  ‘He is, perhaps, your young man?’

  ‘No,’ I smiled and handed him a glass of Scotch. ‘He’s my boss.’ I dragged the wooden chair from its place by the window and sat down beside the old man. I looked at him properly for the first time. He had a ring of white fluffy hair around a bald head, and kind eyes. His grey cardigan and white shirt were scrupulously clean and I was amused to note his floppy black silk bow tie. He could have been from another age; a musician maybe or an artist. But not from England.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you have someone else who is a boyfriend?’

  Did my face give me away? I think it did, for he watched me intently when I said, ‘I used to, but he’s gone now.’ I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me, so I added brightly, ‘He’s gone to Spain, to fight the Fascists.’

  Mr Weiss nodded. ‘That is good,’ he said. ‘The Fascists must be fought, everywhere.’ He sighed. ‘They have taken over my homeland. The people there are mad for them.’ He paused and then said wearily, ‘You will see it, dear Fräulein, when you are in Berlin. I think there is an insanity sweeping over my country.’

  Rain beat heavily against the windowpanes and despite the warmth of my room I gave a little shiver. I wondered what I would find in Berlin. I took a sip of my drink and turned back to the old man. ‘How long have you been in London?’ I asked.

  ‘Leah and I bought the flat in 1930. I came and went constantly for my business and then we decided to settle here. Leah had family in London, cousins of a sort, although they’re all gone now. My business is importing furs which I buy all over Europe and from across Russia. It has been a successful enterprise, although in the last few years, since Leah died, I haven’t travelled. An assistant, Emanuel, he travels for me.’ He smiled. ‘Emanuel’s a clever boy, a boy who likes to learn. He chooses the best pelts and gets them at a good price and I, who have the connections, sell them on. We work well together and I enjoy his company when he is in London.’

  Listening to his story I found myself feeling sorry for him; he seemed so lonely. ‘Have you children, Mr Weiss?’

  ‘Fräulein, you must call me Jacob. I would like that. We are friends now, are we not?’ I nodded, smiling. ‘No,’ he sighed and stroked Willi’s smooth little head. ‘No, I have no children living. We had a good boy and a gentle little girl, but they died of the flu in 1919. Leah and I were spared, but our poor children were taken. There were no more after that. But still, we had each other, until . . .’ He reached into his cardigan pocket and withdrew a large handkerchief. I looked away while he wiped his eyes and blew his nose. After a moment he said more brightly, ‘But, I do have a sister and niece in Berlin, and this letter,’ he held up the envelope, ‘is for them.’

  I looked at it. It had her name, Sarah Goldstein, but no address.

  ‘This is her address.’ Jacob showed me the piece of paper. ‘I would like you to take the letter to her. The mail . . .’ He shrugged. ‘The mail doesn’t always deliver to that part of Berlin. Sometimes the letters are opened; they look for money, you know. The postmen. They have no morals now. My letter to Sarah does contain money. Money for her and for Kitty to come to England and to live with me. Here, they will be safe.’

  I didn’t know what to say. It seemed such a small request and I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t do it, but there was something, just a feeling, that all was not right. I’d read enough newspaper reports to know that Jews were being persecuted in Germany and it was obvious that this was the problem.

  ‘Is this address in the city?’ I asked cautiously. ‘I don’t think I’ll have time to go further afield.’

  ‘Ja, it’s in the city.’ The old man frowned. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Hotel Adlon.’

  ‘Ah, the best. So, it is about two kilometres away. A walk for you, on a nic
e day. Or the bus if it is raining. You must cross the river. My sister lives by the girls’ school and her building is easy to find.’ He looked down at the little dog, settled and gently snoring on his lap. When he looked up his eyes were again full of tears. ‘It would be a great kindness, dear Fräulein, if you could do this for me.’

  How could I refuse? We sat quietly together and drank our whisky. He was looking at the luggage tag on my suitcase. ‘You are Persephone?’

  I nodded. ‘My friends call me Seffy. That’s what you must call me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he smiled. ‘I am honoured to have such a fine new friend.’ He watched as I put the letter and the piece of paper with his sister’s address in my handbag and then rose to his feet. ‘I wish you a safe journey, dear . . . Seffy, and I will watch over your flat. Shall I take the spare key or have you arranged for someone else?’

  I hadn’t even thought about it and now I realised that living alone had its responsibilities. ‘Here,’ I said, taking the key out of the drawer in the table. ‘Thank you, Jacob.’

  So, now I was in my room at the Adlon, where from the window I could look across to the magnificent Brandenburg Gate and down the broad street that was Unter den Linden. Sadly, the great lime trees after which the street had been named were gone, cut down recently to facilitate the building of the new subway, but saplings had been planted to replace them and in time they would grow to be just as magnificent. There was a picture of how it had looked before the trees were cut, in the Berlin travel guide I’d bought from Hatchards in Piccadilly. I’d studied this book all through the journey, on the ferry and on the train across Europe.

  Charlie had grinned when he saw what I was reading. ‘Very good, Blake,’ he’d said. ‘Background knowledge is always useful. However, there’s nothing like being there and talking to people.’

  ‘So why are we really going to Berlin?’ I was sitting opposite him in the comfortable compartment which we had to ourselves. The diesel train travelled smoothly with barely a jolt and we had the services of a smartly uniformed steward. The food in the dining car had been excellent and we had enjoyed our lunch and a glass of wine. Now, back in our compartment, Charlie had spent half an hour writing in his flip-over notebook and I, while reading my book, had lectured myself about my foolishness in not buying a similar pad. It was the most basic journalist equipment. I’ll get one in Berlin, I promised myself. Thinking that, I fished out the English/German dictionary from my handbag, to look up the correct words. I had remembered to buy that.