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BERLIN
September 1930
Minki Sommer waited at the side of the road for a tram to pass. As it snaked away, a gust of wind caught the brim of her trilby hat. Clutching it to her head, she darted across the road and into the offices ofDeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung– a conservative newspaper, based in Berlin. As deputy features editor of the women’s pages, she wrote articles that reflected the interests of Germany’s womenfolk, focussing on child-rearing, housekeeping and fashion. It was not, if she were honest, her ideal metier; instinctively she was drawn to political reporting. But after her time atDer Stürmer, with its poor reputation, she had found it hard to be taken seriously as a political journalist.
Minki had no regrets. Her new job was relatively well paid, came with a private office and phone line, and the hours were compatible with having a social life. Her colleagues were exclusively male, and many of them had tried to persuade her to go out with them, but so far she had refused them all. She had long ago made the decision not to marry a journalist. Instead, she was looking for a man with status and money.
Home was a charming one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of an elegant building in the centre of town. It was furnished with eclectic items she had found in junk shops – little gilded sofas jostled for position with Moroccan inlaid side tables. As in all her previous apartments, the kitchen cupboards were relatively bare, with just a couple of plates, cups and saucers. There was no need for more, as she ate out most evenings. Her one concession to domesticity was to grow geraniums in her window boxes – a relatively new passion. In the summer, she would throw open the windows and admire the cheerful scarlet flowers bobbing in the breeze.
One morning in early September, Minki settled at her desk, lit her first cigarette of the day and flicked through her notes for the piece she was intending to write. Her article would attempt to explain how a good German housewife could make one joint of beef feed a family of four for a week. After the relative hedonism of the late 1920s, economising was once again top of the German people’s agenda. The world financial crash in 1929 had heavily impacted the German economy, and explaining to readers how they could save money had become increasingly important. It amused Minki that she was responsible for providing culinary advice, for she rarely cooked. Instead, she had befriended a network of professional chefs who provided her with useful recipe ideas. As she fed a piece of paper into her typewriter, ready to start work, she was startled by the noisy jangling of her private phone.
‘Good morning, Minki.’ It was Joseph Goebbels.
Since Hitler’s release from prison at the end of 1924, Goebbels had risen swiftly through the ranks of the National Socialist Party. No longer the impoverished, unemployed writer, he was now the Gauleiter of Berlin – effectively the leader of the Party in the capital and one of its most influential voices.
‘Good morning, Joseph,’ said Minki. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I want you to come for dinner – tonight. I’m holding a small party in my apartment, and I want you to be there.’
It sounded more like an order than an invitation, but no journalist could possibly turn it down. Elections for the Reichstag were coming up later that month, and Minki’s close friendship with Goebbels put her in pole position to get the inside story on the Party’s election strategy. Although she was not herself a political journalist, having inside information increased her status at the paper. The editor would be intrigued by her perspective on the elections, knowing that her information came from the top.
‘Well, can you come to dinner?’ Goebbels persisted. Ever the tease, Minki made a small pretence of checking her diary.
‘Mmm, let me see…yes,’ she said eventually. ‘I think I can squeeze you in. What time?’
‘Eight? And wear something beautiful…’
The phone went dead.
Minki leaned back in her chair, exhaling cigarette smoke. ‘Wear something beautiful,’ she mused. ‘What on earth is he up to?’
Back in her apartment after work, Minki quickly looked through her wardrobe. She pulled out a selection of dresses, wondering which one would be the most alluring. She finally chose a dress of dark blue velvet. Fashionably cut on the cross, it clung to her body, emphasising her broad shoulders, long limbs and full bosom.
She hoped Joseph would like it. Although it had been some months since they had slept together, she interpreted his instruction to ‘wear something beautiful’ as an invitation that he would like her to stay. If that were his plan, she would probably agree. She enjoyed his company, and sex with him was pleasant enough. Occasionally, she had even wondered what it would be like to be married to him. They had much in common, after all. Both were writers, and understood the frustration of unemployment. Both had struggled at the start of their careers, but were now on the up. But was that enough? She admired his mind, but did she really love him? More importantly, did he really love her?
One of the perennial stumbling blocks in their relationship was his inability to be faithful to one woman at a time. Through all the years they’d known each other he had two, three or even four women on the go at any one time. Minki could put up with this sexual incontinence as one of his occasional lovers, but not as a wife.
Goebbels had finally abandoned the hapless Else, confiding in Minki: ‘How on earth could I marry a Jewish woman – Hitler would find it quite unacceptable.’ With Else out of his life, he had soon revived a previous relationship with a woman named Anka, who by then was married to another man and had a child. But that too fell apart, and since then numerous other women had come and gone. What they all had in common, it seemed to Minki, was their ability to ‘love him like a mother’. That was Goebbels’ constant refrain; but Minki was not a motherly sort of woman.
She finished dressing – selecting black suede shoes and a small velvet evening bag – and brushed through her thick blond hair, admiring her own reflection. Should she make a play for Goebbels? She wasn’t in love with him, but there was no doubt he was a catch. He was increasingly powerful, and with power came riches. In many ways he was everything a sensible woman could want in a husband.
Putting on her fur coat, she recalled the advice the countess had given her just before she left Munich all those years before. ‘Don’t marry for money, Minki, but marry where money is…’ It was good advice, but was it enough?
Goebbels opened the door to his apartment wearing a dark double-breasted suit with his red Nazi armband prominently on display.
‘Minki, it’s wonderful to see you, as always.’ He kissed her delicately on the lips – something he always did. It was his way of saying, ‘I know you, I have made love to you, so I’m entitled to kiss you this way.’
‘It’s lovely to see you too, Joseph.’
He removed her fur coat, revealing the blue dress, and gasped. ‘I see you took me at my word – blue is definitely your colour, Minki. Now, come through, there is someone rather important I want you to meet.’
Entering the large wood-panelled drawing room, Minki looked around at the assembled guests, and was startled to see Adolf Hitler standing by the fireplace. In all the years she had known Joseph, he had never introduced her to ‘the great man’. So why now? Perhaps that was the reason behind his instruction to ‘wear something beautiful’. Was she perhaps being set up as a future mistress for the Party leader?
‘Everyone, this is Minki Sommer,’ Joseph announced. ‘Minki’s an old friend.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her cheek –laying claim to me again, Minki thought. She smiled and nodded to the assembled guests, meeting Hitler’s gaze last.
He studied her for a few seconds, then strode towards her, his hand outstretched. ‘Enchanted,’ he said, bowing slightly to kiss her hand. ‘Joseph has told me all about you. You’re a journalist, I hear?’
Minki blushed involuntarily. Hitler was not handsome, but there was something powerful about him, a strength and masculinity, which was almost erotic. She recalled the women in the spectators’ gallery at his trial, fantasising about sharing his bath, and began to understand the appeal. ‘I’m delighted to meet you at last,’ she said. ‘I’ve followed your career with interest.’
