Mary. You’re going to find a lot has changed here.”
How could you explain, to someone who had been away for four years, just how Germany had changed in that time? Now, in the autumn of 1937, food was so much scarcer. Under Goering’s four-year plan, there was a new slogan, “Guns not butter,” to drive home the sacrifices everyone needed to make for the nation’s rearmament. Not that it was such a sacrifice, given the state of the butter when you did find it.
“There are food shortages all the time. You can’t find eggs. Any butter you get is rancid. The milk is so watered down they call it corpse juice. People have to save their crusts. On top of that, there are all sorts of rumors whirling round. Like the reason you can’t buy onions is that they are being used for experiments with poison gas. And out in the country, you can be hanged for feeding grain to pigs. There’s this song they sing.
Der Hitler hat keine Frau, Der Bauer hat keine Sau, Der Fleischer hat keine Fleisch, Das ist der dritte Reich.
Hitler has no woman, the farmer has no sow, the butcher has no meat, that’s the Third Reich for you.”
“Catchy.”
“Yes, and liable to get you arrested if you get caught singing it.”
“The place doesn’t look too different to me. The restaurants are full.”
“Sure, but they only serve two dishes. Try ordering anything else and you’ll find it’s sold out. And the waiters scrape the plates and take the scraps home to their families. According to the Reich Food Corporation, we need to make the nation self-sufficient. The only problem is, the government says if Germany is to be self-sufficient, it’s going to need more land.”
“Somebody else’s land, I assume.”
Clara handed her friend a cup of coffee, then tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa.
“Exactly. But let’s talk politics later. First things first. I want to know everything. What’s been going on in your life? What brings you back to Berlin?”
“Apart from the biggest story in Europe, you mean?”
“I mean how did you manage it? Being expelled by the Propaganda Minister himself isn’t an achievement all journalists can put on their résumés.”
“Oh, getting accreditation was a nightmare. I’d gone back to spend time with my father, and when he died, my mother wanted me to stay at home to entertain her. Given that her idea of entertainment is playing bridge at her country club and peekaboo with her grandchild, I was dying to escape. We never saw eye to eye. Keeping out of journalism was killing me. Once the civil war broke out in Spain, I said, Damn it, I just have to go. Mother’s always saying she wants there to be more between us. So I thought, Let’s make it the Atlantic Ocean.”
Clara laughed. “You went on your own?”
“Sure. I decided I was going to be a one-woman band. I took out a thousand-dollar bank loan and booked a passage. Took my Remington”—Mary tapped the typewriter case beside her—“and my lucky hat”—she pointed to a battered black felt creation that Clara recognized—“and set sail for Europe.”
“I can’t imagine what it’s like out in Spain. The reports are terrifying.”
“Words can’t describe it, Clara. I went to Madrid first, while it was being besieged by Franco. The International Brigades were fighting from street to street. I’d never seen a sight like it. They saved the city from the hands of the Nationalists at the last moment. Then in February I was on the Andalusian coast, where there were thousands of refugees fleeing the advance on Málaga. I passed mothers who actually begged me to take their children, because they were so certain they would be killed. Everywhere you go there are ruined buildings and desolation. This spring I moved all the way up to the Basque country. That’s where most of the Republican resistance movement is, and I can’t tell you the things I saw there.”
Mary stopped and passed a hand across her eyes.
“I will tell you,” she
How could you explain, to someone who had been away for four years, just how Germany had changed in that time? Now, in the autumn of 1937, food was so much scarcer. Under Goering’s four-year plan, there was a new slogan, “Guns not butter,” to drive home the sacrifices everyone needed to make for the nation’s rearmament. Not that it was such a sacrifice, given the state of the butter when you did find it.
“There are food shortages all the time. You can’t find eggs. Any butter you get is rancid. The milk is so watered down they call it corpse juice. People have to save their crusts. On top of that, there are all sorts of rumors whirling round. Like the reason you can’t buy onions is that they are being used for experiments with poison gas. And out in the country, you can be hanged for feeding grain to pigs. There’s this song they sing.
Der Hitler hat keine Frau, Der Bauer hat keine Sau, Der Fleischer hat keine Fleisch, Das ist der dritte Reich.
Hitler has no woman, the farmer has no sow, the butcher has no meat, that’s the Third Reich for you.”
“Catchy.”
“Yes, and liable to get you arrested if you get caught singing it.”
“The place doesn’t look too different to me. The restaurants are full.”
“Sure, but they only serve two dishes. Try ordering anything else and you’ll find it’s sold out. And the waiters scrape the plates and take the scraps home to their families. According to the Reich Food Corporation, we need to make the nation self-sufficient. The only problem is, the government says if Germany is to be self-sufficient, it’s going to need more land.”
“Somebody else’s land, I assume.”
Clara handed her friend a cup of coffee, then tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa.
“Exactly. But let’s talk politics later. First things first. I want to know everything. What’s been going on in your life? What brings you back to Berlin?”
“Apart from the biggest story in Europe, you mean?”
“I mean how did you manage it? Being expelled by the Propaganda Minister himself isn’t an achievement all journalists can put on their résumés.”
“Oh, getting accreditation was a nightmare. I’d gone back to spend time with my father, and when he died, my mother wanted me to stay at home to entertain her. Given that her idea of entertainment is playing bridge at her country club and peekaboo with her grandchild, I was dying to escape. We never saw eye to eye. Keeping out of journalism was killing me. Once the civil war broke out in Spain, I said, Damn it, I just have to go. Mother’s always saying she wants there to be more between us. So I thought, Let’s make it the Atlantic Ocean.”
Clara laughed. “You went on your own?”
“Sure. I decided I was going to be a one-woman band. I took out a thousand-dollar bank loan and booked a passage. Took my Remington”—Mary tapped the typewriter case beside her—“and my lucky hat”—she pointed to a battered black felt creation that Clara recognized—“and set sail for Europe.”
“I can’t imagine what it’s like out in Spain. The reports are terrifying.”
“Words can’t describe it, Clara. I went to Madrid first, while it was being besieged by Franco. The International Brigades were fighting from street to street. I’d never seen a sight like it. They saved the city from the hands of the Nationalists at the last moment. Then in February I was on the Andalusian coast, where there were thousands of refugees fleeing the advance on Málaga. I passed mothers who actually begged me to take their children, because they were so certain they would be killed. Everywhere you go there are ruined buildings and desolation. This spring I moved all the way up to the Basque country. That’s where most of the Republican resistance movement is, and I can’t tell you the things I saw there.”
Mary stopped and passed a hand across her eyes.
“I will tell you,” she
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