Page 70 of The German Mother

Viktor poured out a large glass of wine and handed it to his wife. ‘I had some visitors myself, today.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Men from the National Socialists, based here in Munich. They came with a message from Goebbels. He objects to the books I publish, apparently. He seems to think he is entitled to tell us all what we can read or write.’

Leila slumped down onto a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Did they threaten you?’

‘Not physically, but they were pretty intimidating. They demanded a full list of all the authors I publish.’

‘I can’t believe it…and particularly after he asked you to publish his awful novel, for God’s sake.’

‘Perhaps I should have done…it might have kept him onside,’ Viktor said ruefully.

‘I don’t think anything would have kept that man onside. The trouble is that I can’t see any of this ending well. Every outcome I can imagine ends up with us being silenced…or worse.’

‘What I don’t understand is why they care about someone like me. I’m a small-time publisher, specialising in esoteric authors. Yes, some of them are Jewish, some are liberals, but they’re intellectuals, academics. I’m doing no harm.’

‘They don’t care about that. Your books challenge their views – that’s all that matters to them. Perhaps you should consider shutting down for a while?’

‘I’ll never do that, Leila. And I’m shocked you should even suggest it. No, I’m more worried about you. Martin and the rest of you are really goading Hitler. Your headlines, and the stories you run, make it clear you’re never going to back down. The elections are coming up in a few days. If Hitler gets control of parliament, I dread what will happen.’

‘If I’m honest, Viktor, so do I.’

A few days later Leila was in her office, trying to write an editorial about how Hitler’s new government was intent on removing freedom of speech from the press, and with it many of the rights of the German people. As she wrestled for the umpteenth time with the opening sentence, she suddenly felt as if she had received an electric shock.

‘Viktor!’ she said out loud. Her hands suddenly sweating, she stood up unsteadily, and hurriedly opened the door that connected her to the outer office. ‘Katja,’ she called out.

Her secretary stopped typing and looked up. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘Could you get my husband on the phone for me please.’

Leila went back to her blank piece of paper, her heart racing with anticipation, as she waited to hear Viktor’s voice on the phone.

Katja put her head round Leila’s door. ‘I’m sorry Leila…I tried the number but there was no reply.’

Leila tapped her fingers nervously on her desk. It was absurd to worry, she told herself. She checked her watch – it was two o’clock. Viktor had probably just popped out, perhaps to the pharmacy, she reassured herself. He had been unwell for a few days and still had the remnants of a cold. But she couldn’t stop herself feeling something had happened to him. After all, he had personally been threatened by Hitler’s thugs, and was married to a woman who worked for the very newspaper that had been attacking the government. Rumours were flying around Munich of liberals being arrested on the flimsiest of pretexts.

Unable to contain her anxiety any longer, she picked up her handbag, and grabbed her coat. ‘I’m just going out for a moment, Katja, I won’t be long.’

She hurried over to the news editor. ‘Julius,’ she began, ‘I’m sorry to bother you…’

He looked up absent-mindedly. ‘Yes, Leila?’ He was in his shirtsleeves, his glasses on the end of his nose, surrounded by paperwork.

‘I know you’re waiting for a thousand words from me, but I’ve got to go out for a moment.’

‘Fine,’ he replied, waving his hand in the air indifferently. ‘See you later.’

Leila ran the four or five blocks to their first-floor apartment. She unlocked the main door of the building and raced upstairs. Her hand shook as she fiddled with the lock.Why does it always stick when you’re in a hurry, she thought, resolving to get it fixed as soon as possible. The door finally swung open. Pale winter sunlight streamed through the window at the far end of the corridor, glinting on the oak parquet floor. The apartment felt empty.

‘Viktor,’ she called out. ‘Viktor, darling. It’s Leila…’

There was no answer.

Her heart thudding, she went into the sitting room, and noticed the book he had been reading the night before was still lying open on a side table, his spectacles folded neatly on top. But the small glass of brandy he had been sipping had been knocked over, pooling its contents on the inlaid table. She righted it, licking her fingers.

‘Viktor…Viktor…’ she called out as she went from room to room. The bed was unmade, as if he’d recently got out of it. His pyjamas were strewn on the floor. In the kitchen, crumbs were evidence that bread had been eaten. A cup of left-over cold coffee sat on the countertop. But there was no sign of him. She returned to the hall. If he had gone out, why was his coat still hanging on the rack by the door? It was cold outside, and it had been raining on and off all day. Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave without a coat – especially when he still had a cold. She picked up the phone to call his secretary at the publishing house, her hand shaking.

‘Michaela… it’s Leila.Is Victor with you?’