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Terms were agreed. The paper would offer her a loan against her first month’s salary and would supply a list of apartments she could rent.
‘I think that’s everything,’ said Streicher. ‘My secretary will make all the arrangements. Can you start next week?’
‘Yes, that should be no problem.’ Minki gathered up her handbag, preparing to leave. But Streicher hadn’t finished.
‘Fräulein, I hope you realise what we do here,’ he began, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘I’ll be honest with you – I don’t like Jews. I don’t like the way they dominate every area of cultural and business life – the theatre and the cinema, the world of banking, even the newspaper business. This is my paper – I own it, I edit it. Some might find what we do here offensive. Frankly I couldn’t care less. The readers love it and I’m making money. I hope we understand each other.’
‘Completely,’ replied Minki. But her confident answer belied her true feelings, for the truth was she was torn. Her best friend Leila was one of the people Streicher despised – a Jewish liberal journalist – and now she would be required to disown such people…to write vitriol about them – even to lie. But, on the other hand, Streicher was giving her a great opportunity, and the money was good. Besides, she didn’t have to believe everything she wrote. They were only words, after all, and words couldn’t really hurt people.
She stood up, and shook Streicher’s hand. It was slightly damp, she noticed, and she wondered if she made him nervous. He seemed so powerful, but underneath all men were the same…helpless when faced with a beautiful woman. As she left his office and crossed the newsroom, she heard him shouting for his secretary, barking orders: ‘The new reporter starts next week. Find her an apartment, and arrange for her desk to be just outside my office. I want her near to me so I can keep an eye on her. I think she’s going to be rather good…’
Smiling to herself, Minki left the newsroom and returned to her hotel. As she packed up her things, she pushed any negative feelings she might have about the new job to one side. Her dream of being a reporter was now a reality, and that ultimately was all that mattered. She was an independent woman, free of her father’s control, and as such she needed an income. Some women – like her friend Franziska – sold their bodies; Minki was selling her talent as a writer – both were simply doing what was necessary to survive. As the taxi drove her back to the station, she began to plan how she would spend her first month’s salary.
6
MUNICH
January 1924
With Hitler’s trial due to start at the end of February, Leila was given a swift introduction to newspaper reporting by the daily editor, Martin Gruber. A short stocky man in his early fifties, with a friendly, almost round, face, Gruber had edited the paper for over two decades.
‘ThePostis in my blood, Leila. It was the first paper I worked for, and I became its editor within ten years.’
‘I feel I have so much to learn from you,’ she replied earnestly, ‘…and so much to live up to.’
Gruber smiled. ‘We stand for the small people here, and against authoritarianism – that’s the key. Remember that and you won’t go far wrong.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘We’re going to start you off with court reporting – burglaries, fraud, petty theft, that sort of thing. Have you ever been to court before?’
She shook her head. ‘No, sir,’ she murmured.
‘Well, it’s fairly simple…you make a note of the offence and make sure you get the names of the perpetrator and the victim right. Then summarise the cases for both defence and prosecution. Oh, and try not to be out of the room when they pronounce judgment.’ Gruber smiled sympathetically. ‘And don’t look so worried – I’m certain you’ll manage perfectly.’
Over the next few weeks, Leila was sent to cover a wide variety of cases in the local courts – mostly involving petty burglary. Returning to the office full of excitement, she would spend hours reconstructing the case, describing everything from the atmosphere in the court to the attitude of the witnesses and the defendant. But she soon discovered this was not what her editor was hoping for.
‘Leila Hoffman,’ Gruber shouted across the newsroom one afternoon, waving a sheet of paper in the air. ‘Did you write this?’
Leila stood up nervously. ‘If it’s the case of the man caught stealing a kilo of apples, then yes, I did.’
‘That’s the one…look, you’d better come into my office.’
Leila nervously followed him and sat down gingerly opposite his desk.
Gruber read out loud from her text: ‘“Standing in the dock, the defendant appeared small and slight in stature. He crumpled slightly as the judge read out the charges against him, and his eyes filled with tears – not of shame, but of fear. To think he had descended to this and all for a kilo of apples…”’
Gruber sighed and looked at her over the top of his pince-nez spectacles. ‘Leila, you make him sound like the protagonist in a Tolstoy novel.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, her eyes stinging with tears. ‘Do you think there’s too much description, then?’
‘Leila…I don’t want to be discouraging – and believe me when I say that you write very well – too well really. The thing is, you’re reporter, not a novelist. I need facts, and that’s all. They can be written with energy and flair, but you can’t interpret, or imagine, what the man is feeling. How do you know, for example, that he feels either fear or shame?’
‘Well, I don’t, but I would…in his situation,’ she replied timidly.
‘Buthemay not feel those things. He may simply have wanted apples, and decided to take them. You can’t ascribe noble motives unless you have evidence for it.’
‘But he looked so poor,’ protested Leila. ‘His clothes were so shabby, and his boots had holes in them. Inflation means that ordinary people can’t afford even basic things like food. My father is a jeweller with a good business, but my mother says it’s getting harder to manage on her housekeeping by the day.’
