The Complex Moral Struggles of WWII German Women - Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "Fables and Lies"

BOOK EXCERPT

Chapter Five

Berlin, Sunday, 27 August 1939

The Adlon’s lobby was vast, with vaulted ornamental ceilings and a gigantic chandelier. The bannisters of the sweeping staircase were inset with bronze reliefs. Potted palms and Persian rugs added an exotic atmosphere. Well-heeled people bustled past, greeting friends, or headed for the reception desk. Freyja felt like an impostor. The Silesian girl masquerading as a society woman.

Voigt was sitting on a leather Chesterfield sofa next to a splendid arrangement of flowers. With a salute, and curt bow of the head, he welcomed her, his teeth very white against his tan. ‘You look charming. That blue brings out your eyes.’

She blushed at the compliment.

As the waiter led them to their table, she felt overwhelmed by the restaurant’s sophisticated decor, with marbled walls, cameo medallions and an arched gilded mirror. A pianist played a tune softly in the corner on a Baby Grand.

The waiter flicked Freyja’s napkin open and laid it across her lap. She removed her gloves and clipped them to her handbag, scanning the array of silverware and crystal glasses on the starched damask tablecloth. She would have to follow Voigt’s lead in which ones to use. The menu was unmarked by prices. She was relieved it was in German. ‘I thought the menu would be in French,’ she ventured.

He smiled. ‘It is haute cuisine, but the hotel uses patriotic language since the Führer took power.’ He summoned the waiter. ‘Two Krabbensalat followed by Doppellendensteak.’

She was in awe of his choices, too nervous to be offended he’d ordered for her. She’d never tasted shrimp or fine beef. She smoothed her hair. ‘You’re very formal, asking my father’s consent.’

‘I’m old-fashioned. And I was taught to respect veterans.’ He drew some photos from his inside coat pocket, pushing aside the cruet stand and spreading them on the table. ‘You were interested in Tibet. I thought you might like to see these.’

She scanned the foreign faces in the pictures: an old man drinking tea beside a tent of fur pelts, shaven-headed monks and a beggar with two arms missing. Their faces were weather-beaten, their eyes slanted, long hair drawn back, and with broad, flat cheekbones. She spotted a shaggy blond-haired man clasping the chin of a young woman. He was using a sliding compass to measure the distance between her forehead and cheek. ‘Who’s he?’

‘SS Obersturmführer Bruno Beger. A Racial Studies genius. The mother agreed to be examined after he dosed her sick baby. Most locals accepted first aid from us. I pulled quite a few rotten teeth. We gained their trust that way.’

He chose a snapshot of a tall man dressed in brocade robes, armed with an ancient flintlock and a curved sword in a jewel-encrusted scabbard. ‘This man is a Tibetan aristocrat,’ he said, comparing him to the peasants whom he considered had a jarring blend of blood: half Indo-Germanic, half Asian Mongoloid. ‘In contrast, the lord was taller, his skin lighter, his features finer. He even had reddish tinges in his black hair and grey-blue eyes. Finding him gave us confidence we’d found proof the primordial Aryan overlords once reached the Roof of the World.’

The waiter arrived with the wine, which Voigt duly tasted then signalled it could be served. Freyja was surprised. She thought Voigt, like the Führer, would disapprove of women drinking alcohol.

‘Some wine for a special occasion.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘Prost!’

‘Prost,’ she murmured, sipping her first taste of French wine. The flavour burst within her mouth. She sipped some more. Her nerves settled. ‘You conducted measurements with Beger?’

‘We were looking for certain characteristics based on a simple mathematical formula called the Cephalic Index. Some of the Tibetan lords were within the same range as Germans and Scandinavians.’