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‘Are you sure? I got the impression you were rather close.’
Leila sat back in her chair. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Viktor. I’m working with him, and he’s teaching me so much. We’re covering the trial together. But there’s nothing between us. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it.’
She sipped her water, and irritably drummed her fingers on the starched tablecloth as the waiter, who had returned with the wine, now laboriously poured it into their glasses.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Viktor, as soon as the waiter left. ‘I can’t help it. I see you with a young man like that and I realise…that’s the sort of man you should be with – someone nearer your own age. Not an old fossil like me.’
Leila reached across the table and took his hands. ‘Viktor, darling – stop this. Stop being so silly. I like Peter, of course – he’s a very nice man, and a good journalist – full of passion for his work. But I feel nothing for him, I promise. It’s unlike you to be jealous. I’m here with you now –what more do you want?’
‘Marry me?’
Leila rocked back in her chair. ‘Marry you? But I’ve only known you a few weeks.’
‘You know I love you. But do you love me?’
Leila paused, considering her answer. She made it a rule to never lie. Looking across the table at Viktor now, she realised that she did love him. She was never happier than when she was in his company. ‘Yes, Viktor – I do love you, but I’m about to start work on the most important trial of the century. I can’t think about marriage now.’
Viktor looked downcast.
‘Look,’ she said gently. ‘Don’t think that marrying me will bind me to you. I’m with you because I want to be. Just be grateful for what we have. And if in a few months we decide to marry – then that will be wonderful. But don’t spoil it because of petty jealousy. You’re bigger than that, Viktor.’
7
MUNICH
January 1924
Before starting her new job, Minki gave a farewell party in an upstairs room of Café Stephanie. The guests were an eclectic mix: friends from her university days rubbed up against writers, artists and singers, along with the women who plied their trade from the café, including the legendary ‘Queen of Schwabing’.
The air in the room was foetid with cigarette smoke, and Minki threw open the window, allowing the sound of jazz music and laughter to filter out into the dreary rain-sodden street. Peering out, she spotted Leila and Viktor.
‘Leila, darling,’ she shouted down, ‘here you are at last – do hurry up!’
‘I brought Viktor with me,’ Leila shouted back. ‘I hope that’s all right?’
‘Of course, darling.’ With a wave of her hand, Minki disappeared inside.
She was waiting at the top of the stairs as the couple entered the café below. ‘Hang your coats on that rack in the hall,’ she called down to them, ‘and come up.’
They added their coats to the mountain of garments, and climbed the stairs.
Minki was wearing a sequinned grey dress with a matching feather boa, and wafting a long mother-of-pearl cigarette holder with abandon.
‘You look wonderful,’ said Leila, kissing her, ‘like an ethereal blond angel.’
‘Isn’t she adorable?’ said Minki, turning to Viktor. ‘She says the sweetest things. I’m going to miss her terribly.’ She grabbed a couple of cocktails from a passing waiter and handed one to each of her guests. ‘Have one of these… they’re dynamite. You’ll hardly be able to talk once you’ve drunk it! Now, you must meet some people…’
Minki pushed her way into the room, pulling Leila behind her. Loud American jazz music came from a gramophone on a table, and, in spite of the open window, the air was still grey with cigarette smoke. Looking for someone suitable to introduce Leila to, Minki spotted her sometime lover leaning languidly against a bookcase.
‘Joseph darling, you must meet my best friend, Leila Hoffman. Leila, this is Joseph Goebbels.’
The young man bowed slightly and kissed Leila’s hand. ‘Enchanted,’ he said, before nodding politely at Viktor.
‘And this is her boyfriend – Viktor Labowski,’ said Minki. ‘Viktor’s a publisher. Perhaps he’ll publish your novel.’
‘You’ve written a novel?’ asked Viktor politely.
‘Yes…well, I’ve written a diary that I’m thinking of turning into a novel,’ replied Goebbels tentatively.
