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‘Perhaps I have. Or maybe it’s that the world around me has changed.’
On the way home Minki stopped at an optician and bought a pair of clear spectacles – little round tortoiseshell glasses that quite altered her appearance. At home, she went to her wardrobe and pulled out a dull grey suit that she rarely wore – the colour did nothing for her complexion or eyes. On the top of the wardrobe she found an old brown trilby hat belonging to Max. When she put on the whole ensemble, she looked less like her former glamorous self, and more like the earnest political journalist she hoped to become.
The first Reich press conference was held in the elegant neoclassical royal palace on Wilhelmplatz. This stunning building was now the headquarters of the grandly titled Reich Ministry of Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda.
Minki, dressed in her disguise of ‘the earnest reporter’, boldly showed her new press pass. She had chosen the name of Greta Schreiber. Greta, after her mother, and Schreiber meaning ‘writer’. The press conference took place in the ballroom, a room adorned with statues and paintings of classical Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. It was typical of Goebbels, she thought, to choose such a splendid location for his first formal encounter with the press. He had always had pretensions to grandeur.
A stage had been erected at one end of the ballroom, with a dark lectern in the centre, in front of which was a forest of microphones. Settling herself in the middle of the room, Minki looked around. She had been out of the journalism loop for so long that she recognised none of the other reporters – which was just as well, she thought, as no one would see through her disguise. In the old days she might have attended such an event with Leila. They’d always had fun together in their different ways – Leila, the serious one, earnestly taking notes, and Minki whispering in her friend’s ear, mocking the participants, barely able to control her laughter.
On the dot of ten o’clock, a functionary announced the start of proceedings, and the room fell silent. All heads turned to see Goebbels entering from the back, walking up the central aisle. In spite of his slight build and subtle limp, he cut an impressive figure in a well-cut charcoal grey suit, his dark hair slicked back to reveal his high forehead. Perhaps it was the grand surroundings, or possibly the reverential hush in the room, but it seemed to Minki that the man had been transformed. Gone was the impoverished, nervous young writer who had once been her lover and in his place was a self-confident politician about to address the nation’s top journalists.
Goebbels took his place behind the lectern. His stance was confident, almost imperious, as he threw his head back, preparing to speak.
He began with a welcome. He appeared friendly enough at the start, but within minutes it became clear that he saw the press people in that room not as journalists, but as propagandists for the government.
‘The purpose of these press briefings is to provide you with information on a daily basis. But you’ll also be given instructions how to report the news to reflect the Party’s opinion. We don’t want any independent reporting, or so-called “investigations”.’ Goebbels raised two fingers to indicate quote marks. ‘In short, we will tell you what to report and how.’
A murmur went around the room. The man on Minki’s right, a journalist from a centrist paper in Berlin, leaned across and whispered in her ear.
‘Who the hell does he think he is, giving us instructions. Is he mad?’
‘No, sadly – he knows exactly what he’s doing,’ she replied. ‘And I fear he’s just getting started.’
Over the following months, ‘Greta Schreiber’ attended all of Goebbels’ daily press briefings. She always sat near the back, in her disguise of fake glasses and dull clothing, and was never recognised. Sitting through these dreary events – in which Goebbels effectively harangued the press, demanding they print exactly what he wanted – made her realise the country was being taken over by a totalitarian regime. They weren’t really press conferences, but propaganda instructions. As a result the newspapers were reduced to printing almost identical stories, their texts almost word for word the same. Unsurprisingly, newspaper sales plummeted, angering the few press barons still publishing. Minki was surprised that Goebbels had not spotted the obvious flaw in his strategy. That he, of all people – someone who had once been a writer himself – had effectively made journalism redundant.
Towards the end of April, Max and Minki were invited to a grand dinner party at Goebbels’ state apartments. Minki was intrigued to find out whether Goebbels had any inkling that she attended his press conferences. After dinner she sought him out among the guests.
‘What a lovely party, Joseph.’
‘I’m glad you could come,’ he replied. He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m sorry about the last time we spoke…I was rather impatient with you. I was under a lot of pressure at the time.’
‘That’s all right. It was rather unrealistic of me to think you could help Viktor. A man as important as you is far above sorting a little local difficulty.’
‘I’m glad we understand each other. Max tells me you’ve gone back to work.’
Minki blushed slightly. ‘Yes…I’m trying to find my niche.’
She must be careful, she realised, not to be too specific. Goebbels had a way of sniffing out the truth.
‘I’ve not seen your byline recently – have you abandoned the women’s pages?’
‘No, not at all,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘I’m overseeing a junior writer. I’m in more of a strategic role now.’
He studied her with his piercing gaze. ‘Perhaps you should come and work for me on my paper?’
‘Why? IsDer Angriffrunning a cookery column now?’ She laughed.
‘Good point. I was thinking more of the political side – you know I’ve always thought you were wasted on the women’s pages.’
‘Well, it’s a flattering offer, Joe. And if things don’t work out I’ll be sure to consider it.’ She paused, before adding, ‘I hear you’re running press conferences now. How’s that working out?’
He smiled. ‘All going according to plan…it’s a way of keeping journalists in line. Quite honestly, Minki – between you and me – any man with even a modicum of honour would be a fool to become a journalist.’
‘Joseph!’ said Minki, with mock seriousness. ‘I’m shocked.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he replied, smiling. ‘You’re a realist, like me. That’s why you write about cooking. There’s just no point in being a political journalist any more.’
A couple of weeks after the party, Minki heard that university students all over Germany were being encouraged to ‘cleanse’ public libraries and bookshops of authors they considered ‘un-German’. Thomas Mann, H.G.Wells, Helen Keller and Ernest Hemingway were among the authors chosen to be banned. The writers had nothing in common, apart from the fact that their views did not correspond to the National Socialist vision for Germany. Once confiscated, the books would be burned publicly on a particular evening in May. In Berlin, the location chosen for this event was the square outside the State Opera House.
