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In spite of their differences, the two girls were united in two things: their love of writing, and sheer ambition to succeed. Both were still leading lights of the student newspaper, and within a year Minki had become editor, and asked Leila to be her deputy.
Leila was flattered but uncertain. ‘Are you absolutely sure, Minki?’
‘Of course,’ said Minki. ‘You’re better than all the boys here. We’ll make a fine team.’
Despite the distraction of student journalism, the two friends studied hard and were rewarded with good degrees. On their final day at university, they hugged one another, aware it was the end of an era.
‘I can’t believe I won’t see you tomorrow, Minki,’ said Leila tearfully.
‘What do you mean? I’m not going anywhere…we can still see each other.’
‘But surely your father is expecting you to go home.’
‘He might expect it, but I’m not doing it. I suppose he’ll cut me off, but I don’t mind…I’m already looking for a job here in Munich.’
Leila smiled. ‘Why does that not surprise me? But I’m relieved – I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you again. As for me, I have no idea what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. If my mother had her way, I’d be married to the next nice boy I brought home.’
‘Would you like to get married, Leila?’
‘Yes, I suppose so…one day. I mean, I want children and a home…is that so odd?’
‘No, it’s perfectly normal, which I suppose is why I can’t imagine myself doing it.’
‘Oh Minki…you do say the funniest things. But seriously, you’re so beautiful – you’re bound to marry one day.’
Minki shook her head. ‘Not me…I’m going to be independent, and free of any man. As for you, darling Leila – just listen to your heart, and follow your instincts…’
2
MUNICH
November 1923
Leila Hoffman stepped gingerly around the puddles that were forming on the pavement. The rain, which had been falling in a gentle drizzle all afternoon, now gushed from the darkening sky, splashing the backs of her calves with mud, and soaking her brown leather brogues. She wished now she had worn her winter boots as her mother had advised that morning. Pulling the belt of her raincoat tightly around her, she took a silk scarf from her handbag and tied it over her hair. She had spent the afternoon visiting her old English professor – a man of great wisdom and integrity – to ask his advice about a possible career.
‘I could teach, I suppose,’ she suggested as they sipped tea together in his study.
‘Teaching is a vocation, Leila. You can’t do it if you don’t love it.’
She smiled. ‘Do you love it, Professor?’
‘Absolutely. It’s my life – to help young people discover and develop their intellect. So, if not teaching, what else might excite you?’
‘Well…if it doesn’t sound too silly – I’d like to write.’
‘That’s not silly at all. You have great skill as a writer, I always said so.’
Leila blushed with pleasure at her mentor’s approbation. ‘That’s kind, but you can’t just…become a writer, can you? I mean, novelists take years to learn their craft.’
‘Have you considered journalism? You wrote for the university paper, didn’t you? I always thought your pieces rather good.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I do. I also think there has never been a more important time for any intelligent young person to get involved with explaining what is happening in our country. We need people who are prepared to stand up for the truth.’
Leila looked up at the old man, searching his face with her dark eyes. ‘You think it’s really that important?’
‘Of course. We live in troubled times, Leila. Have a think about it.’
