which caused Eleanor to knock an ice bucket hard with her knee. Ice, wine, and glasses smashed across the floor.
A draught of cool air from ahead, and they saw, beyond the accordion players and another dining area, an open exit. The Kneipe had entries on two streets.
In another moment they were on the sidewalk again. This second street, lit by bright streetlamps, was crowded with a departing theatre audience. She and Denham pushed into the throng.
Eleanor looked back. ‘Have we lost him?’ She’d barely broken a sweat, though Denham was breathing hard.
‘Let’s find that party,’ he said, as if they’d simply taken a wrong turn.
She stopped and looked at him, incredulous, swinging him around by the elbow so that he faced her. The chattering theatre crowd flowed around them.
‘Would you like to tell me what the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ Denham said, shaking his head. ‘Look, Greiser warned me this morning to stay away from Liebermann. But I have no idea if that is why we’re being followed. I’ll explain as we walk
…’
He told her about the intruders he’d surprised as they ransacked his apartment.
‘Who were they? Police?’
‘I suspect not. The police would simply have arrested me, then searched.’
‘Thieves then.’
‘They didn’t take anything. No, someone somewhere is under the misapprehension that I have something they want.’
‘Well, what?’
Denham swept his hat off and put both hands in the air in exasperation. ‘I have no idea.’ It was the first time she’d seem him ruffled. Even in that locker room brawl he’d kept his nerve.
‘So that guy following us…?’
‘Could have been one of Greiser’s men keeping an eye on us; could have been one of my intruders; could have been anyone. Who knows?’
‘His face…,’ she said with a shudder.
T he theatre on Nollendorfplatz was an art nouveau palace adorned with decorative turrets and frescoes of erotic figures. No light came from inside, and heavy, dark curtains had been drawn behind the door.
‘We’re in the right place,’ Denham said, watching something over her shoulder.
The first things she noticed were the boys’ chequered jackets and wing-collar shirts. These, together with fedoras and rolled umbrellas, which they swung as they walked, created an eccentrically sharp look. The girls on their arms wore their hair waved, dyed, or curled; there wasn’t a Teutonic braid among them.
‘What’s with the umbrellas?’ Eleanor said as the darkened curtain was pulled aside and a faint trumpet, whining high over a drum rhythm, was heard from within.
‘Is he with you?’ said a voice in English. A young man in pinstripes and sporting a gorse bush of tangled hair nodded towards Denham, and slipped an arm round her shoulder.
‘Yes, he is,’ Eleanor said brightly, flicking his hand off.
They entered a marble foyer, where a large notice on an easel proclaimed in red letters:
SWING TANZEN VERBOTEN! REICHSKULTURKAMMER
At the other end a second heavy curtain was pulled aside and another door opened. It was a large venue, much too large for the crowd of a hundred or so youths, not yet dancing but gathered in front of the band on the stage where a vocalist was singing ‘Minnie the Moocher.’ He threw out the lines of the refrain, which the audience repeated back in mangled English. The attraction seemed to be the trumpeter, a chubby young man in a tuxedo who inflated his cheeks like Louis Armstrong, producing Armstrong’s coarse lilt. A clarinet, two saxes, another trumpet, three trombones, a double bass, a piano, and a drummer completed the band. Not a violin in sight. I’ll be damned, thought Eleanor. A serious swing band. Not large, but the acoustics filled out the sound nicely.
A glitter ball cast its revolving constellation through the veils of cigarette smoke. On the right-hand side a long bar stretched almost the entire length of the floor. The left was taken up by a seating area of cafe tables arranged among large potted ferns.
Eleanor thought that, seen together, moving in rhythm, soaking in the forbidden music, they were the most outlandish kids she’d ever set eyes on. They looked nothing like the English or Americans, more like some rebel faction whose appearance was exaggerated to look as unfascist as possible. Some of the boys had forelocks that extended into a bizarre whip down to their chins.
‘Hey-’
Eleanor turned to see Friedl pushing his way towards them through the crowd. His black hair shone with brilliantine and a cigar stub was stuck soggily in the corner of his mouth. He stopped in front of her and Denham, exhaling a breath potent with rum. There was an edginess to him, and his eyes danced.
‘What d’you think of the band?’ he said, putting his arms around them. ‘It’s the “Flottbecker” from Hamburg. There are cats here from Leipzig, too, and Hanover. Here-’ He began pulling the shoulders of the youths in front of him, turning them around. ‘This is Ray, this one’s King, here’s Fats, Fiddlin’ Jim, Old-Hot-Boy-he’s from Hamburg, formed a huge club around one gramophone-and this is Eton-Charlie.’ This last youth had excelled himself with a derby hat and a silver-topped cane. ‘A dead smart look,’ Friedl said to Denham, ‘like your foreign minister, Anthony Eden, don’t you agree?’
‘Dead smart.’ Eton-Charlie put his nose in the air making the others laugh. Two girls introduced as Blackie and Swing-Puppy smiled with cyclamen purple lips.
A waiter brought them drinks of iced Coca-Cola and rum.
Applause from near the stage, and the singer stood down. Then the drummer beat the first bars of ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’- Bam bam bam-bam barram bam-bam- and the crowd went wild.
‘Benny Goodman, King of Swing!’ someone yelled.
The slim boy known as Fats grabbed Eleanor by the hand, and she allowed him to pull her onto the dance floor.
The crowd swung their arms high, kicked their legs out, and threw each other from the waist. Girls shimmied around the boys, hitched their short skirts up to reveal their panties; boys picked the girls up and banana-split their legs over their crotches. Many of the steps were crude, improvised by the youths themselves, or based on some variation of the old Lindy Hop. Eleanor found herself surprisingly moved by it all.
At the bar Denham stood with Friedl. The young man was pale and sinking his drinks at an alarming rate.
‘Something wrong?’ Denham said.
‘Did you make contact with Liebermann?’
‘Briefly, after her match this morning. But the press chief stopped the interview.’
Friedl’s head slumped to his chest. When he looked up Denham saw anguish in his eyes. ‘Go and find her. Interview her family, too. Publish the truth about these Games…’ There was an off note to his voice, as if mania was only just being contained. ‘I mean… it’s a good story for you… isn’t it?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I got a tip-off… a few hours ago. My name’s on an arrest list. Probably tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Christ. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m going away. Into hiding. I just came to see my friends. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Are they coming for you because you told me about Liebermann?’
‘No,’ he said, managing a weak smile. ‘Not because of that.’
‘Where will you go?’
Friedl seemed to collect himself. ‘It’s safer if I don’t tell you. I have friends. You shouldn’t worry.’
The band was now playing a swing arrangement of ‘Blue Skies,’ and about half the youths were sitting at the tables to the left of the floor, chatting, sweating, drunk, and laughing. The rest were still hitting their stride in front of the stage.
The shrill note might have been the sax bringing in the next number until Denham realised, at the same moment as everyone else, that a whistle was being blown.
‘Oh no,’ said Friedl.
