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‘The fact that inflation is rife is, of course, true, and your empathy does you credit, Leila. But you can’t conflate the two stories. Our job is to present the facts and allow readers to make up their own minds. Anything else is pure supposition. Effectively, what you’ve written is unwarranted editorialising. Do you understand?’
The tears that had been welling in Leila’s eyes spilled down her cheeks. ‘I see…yes. I’m so sorry.’
Gruber stood up and came round to the front of his desk, where he perched, laying his hands on Leila’s shoulders. ‘Now don’t start weeping on me,’ he said gently. ‘You need to be tough, remember?’
She nodded.
‘Go away and rewrite this – but take out all the stuff about “crumpling” and “tears”. Just give me the facts. If the defence can prove that this man had been an upstanding member of society who has been unjustifiably fired from his job, for example, then we say that. Or, perhaps, if an unprincipled landlord had thrown him out of his home, then we can report that. In either case, the reader will feel justifiable sympathy for this man, anger even. But if there is no such defence, and he’s just a little low-life, then that’s what we write. Uncompromising truth – remember?’
She nodded again, and Gruber took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here, wipe your eyes. Those vultures out there won’t admire you if you cry. You’ve got to toughen up, Leila. Show no fear – all right?’
‘All right, sir, and thank you.’
One morning, Leila arrived in the newsroom and was surprised to find a dark-haired young man sitting at her desk. He leapt up as she approached.
‘Good morning,’ he began, ‘I’m sorry…is this your desk?’
He spoke good German, but he had an odd accent, which she couldn’t place.
‘Yes it is. How can I help you?’
‘Martin Gruber told me to find a desk, and I saw this was empty.’
‘Are you working here?’
‘Yes, but only temporarily. I’m covering the Hitler trial for an American newspaper – theNew York Times. Martin has kindly offered me house room for the duration.’
He began to gather up his notebooks and stuffed them into a battered leather briefcase. ‘My name is Peter Fischer, by the way.’
‘I’m Leila Hoffman. It’s nice to meet you. I’m hoping to cover the trial too.’
He smiled, and they shook hands. ‘As you’ve probably worked out from my accent, I was brought up in America. My parents are German, but we moved to New York when I was a small boy. We often spoke German at home, so I grew up fairly fluent. It’s been pretty helpful…’
A spare desk was found for Fischer just a few feet away from Leila’s. Over the next couple of days she was able to see how he worked, admiring the large number of local contacts he seemed to have, and how much inside information he obtained about Hitler and his Party.
Intrigued to discover more about this self-assured young man, Leila invited him to join her for lunch one day at a nearby café, where they ordered bratwurst and beers.
‘You seem to know far more about our country and its politics than I do,’ she said honestly. ‘It makes me feel rather ashamed.’
‘I’ve been at the job a long time.’
‘But you’re still so young…’
‘I’m thirty-two – been doing this job since I left college. Because I speak fluent German, along with some French and Italian, I’ve covered a lot of foreign news stories. I spent quite a lot of time in Europe during the Great War.’
‘What do you think of Hitler’s chances – in his trial, I mean?’
‘I’d say they’re evens. Everyone back home thinks he’ll be executed, or at least jailed for life. Most of my colleagues believe that the putsch marks the end of his career. But I fear it’s just the beginning. Don’t underestimate Adolf Hitler.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Peter sipped his beer. ‘A few things, I guess, but mostly just the evidence of my own eyes.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well…I was at the bierkeller the night of the putsch, along with a crowd of foreign correspondents. We’d gone there to listen to Gustav vonKahr, the state commissioner of Bavaria – you know him?’
Leila nodded.
