The residue of the dream haunted her thoughts for the flight, putting her in a different world from the sisters who were chatting excitedly about the visit. Composing herself with a deep breath, she joined in and feigned joy at travelling around the most modern city in Europe.
Templehof Airport was busy as she descended the steps of the aircraft. Eva and the Mitfords watched the lines of international flights arriving and departing. Luftwaffe escort fighters taxied idly in lines, their pilots and crews lounging and standing in knots.
In the main terminal, she could hear British accents, French accents, and Swiss High German and Eastern European voices through the bustling arrivals area. Security was tight, with SS and Gestapo working alongside the police, everyone departing or arriving being subjected to questioning and identity checks. Once through the checks, they were greeted by a plain clothes party member who saluted them.
Mosley swept past him with barely a recognition; leaving it to Diana to make the introductions. His name was Otto Gottlieb and he had the careworn, nervous manner of an underling. Outside, a sleek plush Mercedes waited, with Nazi party flags flapping from the mudguards.
Mosley and the women sat in the back, the others following in a taxi behind. Eva’s eyes glanced around the city. Humbolt University where Jonas had been thrown off a balcony swept past. It brought a sudden unexpected stab to her heart. Within minutes they were at the Chancellery.
They were ushered into Hitler’s private chambers. He was regrettably unable to meet Herr Mosley, they were informed by his secretary, as he had an urgent matter to attend to. From beyond the door, there heard a man yelling, extolling and screaming out words, the door muffling what was being shouted.
‘The Fuhrer’s practising for his speech tomorrow. He’s spent hours rehearsing,’ she explained with a cold but effective smile.
Mosley, momentarily wrong-footed, spun on his heel and barked over his shoulder as he strode from the room, ‘I’ll talk to him tonight!’
The door opened and a tall, grey-haired man of about sixty, dressed in Donegal tweed and knee-high brown boots, appeared. He looked flushed as if he had been doing all the shouting.
‘You! Yeah you, miss. Get me tea, tea understand? — t-e-a with lots of honey. There’s a honey!’ He laughed at this.
The secretary turned, her face anxious.
‘Quickly, doll! Adolf thinks he’s losing his voice!’
She stepped back to her desk and phoned for tea to be delivered to the chambers. Eva held the man’s gaze as he stared at her. ‘Hello, Donald, we meet again. You don't remember me?’ she made her smile very enticing and Donald T Kincaid returned the smile, ''fraid not, doll.' He clapped his hands louder. 'Schnell, schnell. Christ what's keeping you guys!'
Unity enquired gently, 'Is everything alright with Adolf?'
‘Voice coaching. Giving him a little razzamatazz!’
‘Gosh,’ breathed Unity as Kincaid clapped his hands at the seething secretary. ‘Schnell! Schnel, doll!’
As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared back into the room slamming the door.
Hitler's bodyguards glanced at one another then ushered the party out into the hall.
That night Eva struck up a longer conversation with Kincaid, enticing him away from their table to the bar. Hitler had cried off, complaining of laryngitis, sending his apologies for not attending, trying to save his voice. Eva Braun and her sister Gretl took the roles of hostess, a role they took to with relish.
Mosley’s fury knew no bounds at being jilted a second time. His relationship with Hitler was strained at best. Hitler didn’t speak English; Mosley didn’t speak German. He sat at the table getting progressively more and more drunk and sullen. Diana, doing her best to lift his mood, was glancing mournfully at the churning dance floor.
Mosley’s former right-hand man William Joyce joined them, a livid scar running from his lip to his ear, giving his smile an unnatural sneer, resplendent in full SS regalia. His American — Irish accent roared out to Kincaid who acknowledged him with a wave. Joyce was already drunk, sliding off his seat from time to time and rising up onto the table, clutching it like a drowning man, ordering another whiskey from any passing waiter.
The party was to celebrate the annexation of Austria, welcoming a lost people back into the fold, Hitler’s kith and kin reunited with the German people. The room was festooned with Nazi flags and the flag of the Austrian Eagle. An orchestra was playing a number of up-beat polkas and waltzes beneath them.
The dance floor was thronged with swirling skirts and rigid uniforms, all moving to the beat of the music. Eva scanned the room as Kincaid roared into her cleavage about himself.
There were a number of high profile guests. She noted the British and French attaches from Munich, their staff, the Italian ambassador and surprisingly Russians — Molotov sitting with Von Ribbentrop’s staff — Americans too. A group of businessmen, immaculately attired, were speaking to Speer and Hitler’s deputy Rudolf Hess in a discreet huddle. It was the first party Eva had been at where there were no journalists or representatives of the ever-pervasive Propaganda Ministry mingling with the guests.
What she was witnessing was a series of high-level meetings happening sub rosa to the sound of an orchestra.
‘Who are those men, Donald?’ she enquired, proffering a cigarette to be lit. Kincaid fumbled around his pockets and found a lighter, gold plated with a swastika embossed on it. He cranked it a couple of times, swaying through the booze.
‘Those? Bankers, financiers, heads of pharmaceutical companies. We’re all looking for a piece of the action. Once Hitler and his boys start taking their Lebensraum, there’s going to be a lot of money to be made out of it. I have several of my people here negotiating newsreel, film and publishing rights.’
Kincaid’s expression altered momentarily, his eyes glazing over like the night he first spotted her. It was a look of unbridled lust.
She made a note of the men’s faces before he took her by the arm to dance. Despite being six sheets to the wind, Kincaid was an accomplished dancer which surprised her.
His moves were assured and she could suddently see how he was a successful womaniser — rich, funny and charming. She looked back at Unity and Diana. Unity was holding court with several SS junior officers, enjoying their attention. Further back, Diana stared out miserably as Mosley and Joyce leaned in close, drowning their sorrows.
The piece came to an end and everyone applauded in a mannerly fashion. Kincaid turned to Eva, planting a wet whiskey-smelling kiss on her cheek. ‘Come to America with me tomorrow. Let me show you around my studios. I could organise a screen test for a motion picture I’m planning to produce.’
Eva was taken aback at the suddenness of the request. She stared into his magnified eyes behind wire lenses, dropped her eyes and, in a voice Madame Yvette would’ve been proud of, breathed, ‘I’d love to.’ She then excused herself.
Kincaid was in an ebullient mood, mingling with his associates and filling glasses. Mosley and Diana had left earlier. Diana touched Eva's arm in concern when she told her she’d be flying out to America with Kincaid.
‘Don’t worry, Diana. I can take care of myself,’ Eva assured her with a wink.
Diana hugged her and told her to mind herself and stay in touch.
Unity had met an SS officer and was remaining behind, waving to the three of them that she was in control of the situation. This was indicated with a jolly thumbs-up.
Eva produced her camera, and catching Kincaid’s eye, held it up asking would they like to have a photo taken. Never missing an opportunity for his face to be on film, Donald T Kincaid lined up with a group of drunken men who posed for the shot. Pretending to be drunk, Eva tried several times to take the photo to the jeering shouts of the men. Shrugging in apology, she squeezed the shutter just as the group broke apart, the men reeling toward the bar, capturing them perfectly in profile.
Now she had to think of a way to get the camera to Chainbridge before she left for California.
Diana answered almost immediately after the second knock. Eva whispered into the gap of the hotel door that she was staying at Kincaid’s place in Berlin and his car was waiting outside. Eva handed the camera to Diana, telling her she’d dropped it, it had broken and could she drop it into a camera shop in Leicester Square, the address written down on a piece of Kincaid’s stationery? The shop would repair it.
‘Of course, dear,’ whispered Diana. ‘Are you sure you’re ok?’
‘Yes,’ grinned Eva. ‘He’s out cold. How’s Oswald?’
