Page 13 of The German Mother

‘And I want to make a difference,’ she added hurriedly, ‘if that doesn’t sound too pompous – or ridiculous. I want to do something important.’

‘That’s good – we need people like that. But journalism is an increasingly dangerous game. There are people out there who want to stifle debate and suppress the truth. Here at thePost, we are doing our best to hold out against censorship, but it’s a constant battle.’ He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. ‘What you need to understand is that things could get rough, Leila, so I need journalists who are up for the fight. I sensed the other night that you might be one of those people…’ He fixed her with his twinkly blue eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Leila felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach, her palms growing damp with excitement. She was flattered by the editor’s comments, and proud to feel that she could be part of his “mission to tell the truth”, but she couldn’t deny that she also felt anxious – frightened even. ‘Yes,’ she replied quietly. ‘I think I might be one of those people…’

He smiled gently. ‘You’re still very young. Do you really understand what I’m asking? Hitler’s trial is coming up, and we’ll have a front-row seat. Hitler’s supporters will be out to convince the people of Munich that he’s a freedom fighter. It’s up to us to prove the opposite – that he’s a dangerous man, determined to rule by force and inflict totalitarianism on the people of this country. Journalists like us will be fair game.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ said Leila bravely – not completely convinced by her own answer.

‘Good. I’ll give you a three-month trial, all right? It will give us both a chance to work out if this is the right place for you.’

‘Thank you, Herr Auer.’

‘You can start in a few days’ time – on the first of January.’

Viktor had arranged to take Leila out for supper the following evening. She spent much of the afternoon preparing, surprised at how excited she felt. As she curled her hair and chose her dress – a mid-calf shift made of red velvet – she thought about Viktor’s wife, Saskia, wondering if she had been as beautiful as her name might suggest. She was a little jealous, which was ridiculous. How could she possibly be envious of a dead woman? But there was something about this man that made her want to be the most important person in his life.

Just before seven o’clock she went to say goodbye to her mother. Hannah was in the sitting room by the fire, mending one of Levi’s jackets.

‘You look very nice,’ she observed, laying her sewing on a side table. ‘Where are you off to? Out with Minki again?’

‘No…not this evening. I’m having dinner with a man I met the other night. He’s a publisher.’

Hannah looked slightly surprised. ‘A publisher? So, he’s not ayoungman then?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Leila, pulling on her evening gloves. ‘He was married before, but his wife died five years ago. I like him a lot.’

‘But you’ve only just met him, Leila.’

‘I know. But I have a good feeling about him. And before you ask: yes, he is Jewish.’

‘Well, that’s something at least,’ replied Hannah. ‘But don’t be too late home, all right?’

‘Of course not. We’re just going out for dinner.’

‘Why not invite him in afterwards?’

‘Not this evening, Mutti. Next time, maybe.’

At precisely seven o’clock Leila emerged into the cold night air, to find Viktor standing beneath a lamp post, his hat pulled down over his eyes, the collar of his coat up around his ears. Her stomach lurched with butterflies when she saw him.

‘Good evening,’ he said, walking towards her, his hands outstretched. ‘Erhard told me the good news about your job. I’m so pleased. Are you happy to walk to the restaurant? It’s still a fine evening. Or perhaps we should get a taxi?’

‘It depends where we’re going…I’m wearing evening shoes – not the most sensible footwear, I realise, for a long walk.’

‘I’m taking you to the Ratskeller. Have you been there before?’

‘Yes, but not for ages.’

He looked disappointed. ‘Oh that’s a pity…I was rather hoping you hadn’t. I like giving people new experiences. But given your pretty shoes, I think it’s best if we take a taxi. Let’s walk along the river as far as the bridge – I’m sure we’ll pick one up there.’

The sound of noisy diners rose up the stone stairs as the pair pushed open the restaurant doors from the street above.

Making their way down to the famous basement dining area, they were met by the head waiter. ‘Good evening, Herr Labowski. How good to see you again. Your table is ready. Please follow me.’

The waiter led the way through a series of interconnecting rooms, each one accommodating a few tables. Along the basement walls were smaller, more intimate booths with just one table inside, illuminated by flickering candles. The waiter stopped at one. ‘Will this be all right, sir?’

‘Perfect, thank you, Hans,’ replied Viktor.