that so?’ the man said calmly. ‘Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?’
‘She’s a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.’
‘And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?’
His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the duelling scar on one cheek and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.
‘Yes,’ she said.
A hand grabbed Schellenberg’s arm and shook him furiously. ‘Clear off – now. Unless you want your face kicked in.’
Schellenberg wasn’t in the least put out. ‘Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren’t you?’
He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the cuff-title of Himmler’s personal staff.
Schellenberg said, ‘A lesson is needed here, I think.’ He took the girl by the arm. ‘Fräulein.’
As he guided her firmly across the road towards the car, there was a sound of a blow, a cry of pain, but she did not look back.
Fifteen minutes later the Mercedes pulled in to the kerb in front of the Garden Room. Hans, the doorman, came forward hesitantly, a look of astonishment on his face when he saw who was inside. He opened the door and Schellenberg got out and turned to assist her.
‘So, this is where you work?’ He examined the photographs in the glass case beneath the poster. ‘“Hannah Winter and the Connie Jones trio, direct from the Albany Club, New York.” Sounds interesting. I must come one night.’
She said calmly, ‘I’m Jewish, as you very well know and, as you can see from the photo, Connie is a Negro. I hardly think we’d be of much interest to a member of the master race.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I understand you get excellent audiences.’ He smiled gently. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘I use the stage door.’
‘And I, on the contrary, always go in by the front.’
He had her by the arm again and she went without protest. Hans hurriedly got the door open for them. Her uncle was at the front desk talking to the hat check girl. He was a shrewd, kindly looking man, with a shock of grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses who always managed to appear untidy in spite of his dinner jacket.
At the sight of his niece and Schellenberg, the smile was wiped instantly from his face and he hurried forwards.
‘Hannah, my love, what’s happened? You are in trouble?’
‘I was, but not any more, thanks to Herr Schellenberg. This is my uncle, Max Winter.’
‘Herr Winter,’ Schellenberg said amiably and turned back to Hannah.
She was at that time just twenty-two, a small, rather hippy girl with good legs; a face that was handsome rather than beautiful with high cheekbones, dark eyes and black hair worn unfashionably long.
He took her right hand, holding it for a moment. ‘And now, Fräulein, after seeing you in a better light, I am more determined than ever to catch your act, isn’t that the American phrase? But not tonight, I regret to say.’
He raised her hand to his lips and again she was conscious of that unwanted hollow excitement.
‘Herr Winter.’
He went out and when Hannah glanced at her uncle she found that he had turned quite pale. ‘Uncle Max – what is it?’
‘That man,’ he whispered. ‘Where did you meet him? Don’t you know who he is? That is Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and major general of police. Heydrich’s right-hand man.’
Hannah Winter had been born in November, 1918, two days before the Armistice was signed to end that most terrible of all wars. Her father, Simon, once a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, emigrated to New York in 1920 and opened a small restaurant on 42nd Street in partnership with his wife’s father. During the years of Prohibition, the establishment developed into a highly successful nightclub, but his health had never been good because of chest wounds received while serving as an infantryman on the Somme and he died in July 1929.
The club, after Prohibition, once again became a restaurant and prospered under the shrewd direction of his wife. Hannah she had raised to be a nice Jewish girl who would one day make a good marriage, have children, do all the right things.
It might have worked, except for one important point. Hannah Winter had been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. She discovered her talent by chance, singing with a student jazz band at high school. From that time on, she had never seriously contemplated any other way of life.
At seventeen, she had appeared at the Paloma Ballroom in Hollywood with Benny Goodman. As a straight band singer she had toured with Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.
But she was at her best always in the more enclosed world of club and cabaret, preferably backed by a good trio. It was then that she was able to bring an intensity to her performance of the average popular song that rivalled anything Bessie Smith had been able to do with the blues.
And she could have been at the Paramount Studios in Hollywood now doing a film with Bing Crosby if it hadn’t been for Uncle Max, her father’s younger brother, who, in spite of the fact that he had been a naturalized American citizen for twenty-five years, had horrified them all by returning to the city of his birth in 1937 to open a nightclub.
Which was why Hannah was here. To persuade him that it was time to get out. But events had overtaken her with frightening rapidity. The phoney war was over and the Nazis were poised on the Channel coast with England as the next stop and nothing standing in the way.
She was applying her make-up when there was a knock at the door and her uncle entered. He pulled a chair forward and lit one of the small cigars he favoured, watching her in the mirror.
‘All right – what happened?’
She told him quickly, continuing the work on her face, then went behind the screen to change.
‘Not good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if I explained a few things to you. In Germany today the SS is all-powerful, but within the organization they have their own secret service department – the SD. Heydrich is director general although still under the authority of Himmler.’
‘And Schellenberg?’
‘He’s in charge of the counter-espionage section, but, more important, he’s Heydrich’s favourite. His right-hand man.’ She made no reply as she slid a long black dress over her head, taking care not to spoil her make-up. ‘Do you understand any of this?’
‘Not really,’ she said, emerging from behind the screen and turning so that he could button up the back of the dress. ‘So many titles – so many names. It’s all very confusing. And the uniforms – every second person you meet seems to have one.’
