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‘Look…’ she began, ‘I know this sounds awful, but did we…you know, last night?’
He smirked slightly and pushed his dark brown hair away from his high forehead. ‘I should say so. You’re a remarkable girl, Minki.’
She blushed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember your name…isn’t that awful.’
‘Joe…Joseph Goebbels – we met last night. I’m a writer.’
‘Ah, yes, of course…you’re writing a novel, aren’t you?’
‘It’s more of a diary, but I’m hoping to turn it into a novel one day.’
‘I’m a writer too – at least I want to be.’
‘I know – we talked about it last night.’ He pulled on his shirt. ‘Don’t you remember anything?’
‘Bits and pieces.’ She sighed and shrugged. ‘Too much schnapps, I’m afraid.’
He laughed and hauled on his trousers.
‘Do you live here in Munich?’ she went on. ‘I was just thinking it was odd we hadn’t met before.’
‘No, I’m from Rheydt…a small town in the north. I came down here on political business and someone invited me to the party.’
Minki’s reporter brain whirred into gear. ‘What sort of political business?’
‘Meeting a few people.’ His reply sounded evasive.
‘Hitler’s people, you mean?’
‘Possibly…are you shocked?’
‘No, why should I be?’
‘I just thought…maybe you are a liberal. Most writers are.’
‘Not me…I’m a nothing. I’m completely agnostic when it comes to politics and religion alike. Lots of my friends are shocked by Hitler and his little gang, but I like to keep an open mind. In fact, I think the man is rather interesting – possibly mad, but definitely interesting.’ She laughed.
Joseph now sat on the edge of the unmade bed, and lit a cigarette. ‘You’re a fascinating girl. I’d love to see you again.’
‘Well, that’s very flattering. But if you don’t mind, I really ought to get on. I need to wash my hair.’
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ he replied, tying his shoelaces, the cigarette hanging limply from his lips. ‘I know where you live – I’m sure I’ll find you again quite easily.’
Minki headed for the bathroom, and climbed back into the bath, where she soaped her hair. She tried to decide if she found Joseph attractive or not. Something must have drawn her to him the previous evening, apart from the drink. He was obviously intelligent, but then so were most of her friends. But there was something oddly persuasive about him. When she finally returned to her room, she was relieved to see that he had gone. All that was left of him was an ashtray full of cigarette stubs.
Naked beneath her silk kimono, Minki ran down the three flights of stairs to the narrow entrance hall of the apartment building and unlocked her postbox. The tailor’s son peered out through the glass door that led from the hall to the tailor’s shop, ogling his father’s pretty tenant.
‘Good morning,’ Minki called out gaily. The young man shrank back from the glazed door, embarrassed to be caught snooping on his glamorous neighbour. Laughing, Minki ran back upstairs and, alone in her tiny kitchen, made herself a pot of coffee on her little two-ring stove. Flicking through her post, she noticed there was an envelope with a Nuremberg postmark. Inside was the letter she had been hoping for – from the editor of a newspaper calledDer Stürmer. Right wing, and with a dubious inclination towards risqué stories, it had only been going since the spring of ’23, but had already attracted a lot of attention, and its circulation was growing. The letter invited her to an interview later that week, and offered to put her up in a local hotel the night before.
Her heart racing slightly with excitement, she slurped her coffee and reread the letter. Nuremberg was at least two hours away by train, so if she were to take the job she would effectively be leaving all her friends behind. On the other hand, it was a great opportunity. Sipping her coffee, she mused on what Nuremberg would be like. She had a vague memory of visiting the town many years before with her father. It was pretty enough, she remembered, medieval in origin, but not famous for its nightlife; she would undoubtedly miss Café Stephanie and her friends. Nevertheless, it was the first step on the ladder to success and if she were offered the job she would take it.
In her bedroom, she flung open the wardrobe door to plan what she would wear for the interview. She debated what image she wanted to present – intellectual, or feminine? In the end, her choice was somewhat limited. Her father had stuck to his guns and refused to give her an allowance, and her meagre salary from the part-time diary pieces barely covered her rent. But she did have her mother’s furs – and they could add glamour to any outfit.
Rifling through her clothes, her eye fell on a fitted suit made of lavender-coloured wool that she had retained from her university days. She had taken it to a dressmaker, who had shortened the skirt to a more fashionable length and altered the line of the jacket. With her mother’s mink wrap draped over her shoulders she looked elegant, with a touch of glamour. She hung the outfit on the outside of the wardrobe door while she dried her hair in front of the gas fire. Then, dressed in a casual woollen day dress, she threw on her mother’s silver fox coat and went out to celebrate at Café Stephanie.
From there, she called Leila’s number. Her mother answered the phone.
‘Hello, Frau Hoffman. Is Leila there?’
