‘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.’
He took her hand. ‘This isn’t Forty-Second Street, Hannah.’
She sat down facing him. ‘All right, Uncle Max. Then let’s go home.’
‘You are,’ he said. ‘All arranged – tickets and everything.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Connie and the boys leave Monday morning by train for Paris. The same night they’ve got berths on the sleeper to Madrid and so have you.’
‘And when was all this decided?’
‘Today. The boys have got a week at the Flamenco Club in Madrid. You knew that.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘No, but you can carry straight on to Lisbon from there. Plenty of boats going to New York. You might even get a seat on the Clipper.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ve got things to do here.’
‘Then I’m not going.’
‘Oh, yes, you are, Liebchen.’ She had never heard quite that tone in his voice before. He patted her hand and got up. ‘We’ve got a lot in tonight. I’d better go and see how the food’s working out.’
As he reached the door she said, ‘Uncle Max, you’re mixed up in something, aren’t you? Something serious?’
He smiled gently. ‘I’ll see you later. Slay the people, Liebchen.’
The door closed softly behind him and she sat there, staring into the mirror, her mind in turmoil. A moment later, there was another knock and Connie Jones glanced in.
‘Are you ready?’
She managed a smile. ‘As much as I ever will be.’
Connie was a large, rugged-looking Negro of forty-five, with close-cropped greying hair. Born and raised in New Orleans, he had been playing the piano like a dream since the age of seven and couldn’t read a note of music.
‘Trouble?’ he asked, sitting on the edge of her dressing table.
‘Uncle Max tells me I leave with you on Monday.’
‘That’s it. Twelve hours to gay Paree, then the night, express to Madrid from Austerlitz Station, and I can’t shake the dust of this town soon enough.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You’re worried about the old man, aren’t you?’
‘He says he isn’t coming, Connie, but if he stays here …’
‘If ever a man knew what he was doing, it’s your Uncle Max, kid. I’d leave it to him.’ He took her hand. ‘You worry too much and that ain’t good because we got a show to do, so let’s get with it.’
She took a deep breath, stood up and followed him out, immediately aware of the club noises. People talking, the laughter, the hustle. It had an electricity to it that never failed in its effect on her.
Two other Negroes waited in the shadows beside the small stage, both younger than Connie. Billy Joe Hale, the bass player, and Harry Graf, the drummer. They dumped their cigarettes and moved on stage with Connie.
Hannah waited and then the spots bathed the stage in white light and Uncle Max’s voice boomed from somewhere at the rear of the room. ‘And now, the Garden Room proudly presents direct from New York, the one and only Hannah Winter.’
And as Connie and the boys moved into a solid driving arrangement of ‘St Louis Blues’,