Introduction

The war is over. But there are still secrets to be found amidst the ashes …

Hamburg, 1946

The war is over, and Germany is in ruins. Posted to an Allied-run Hamburg, reporter Georgie Young returns to the country she fled seven years prior – at the onset of the conflict – to find it unrecognizable.

Amongst the stark horrors of a bombed-out city crumbling under the weight of millions of displaced souls, she discovers pockets of warmth: a violinist playing amidst the wreckage, couples dancing in the streets, and a nation trying to make amends.

Joining forces with local detective Harri Schroder to catch a killer targeting women on the city’s streets, curiosity draws Georgie deep into the dark underbelly, and she soon discovers that some secrets of war did not die with Hitler…

Editorial Review

No Editorial Review Currently Available

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE: THE RETURN

11 February 1946, Hamburg, northern Germany Georgie

She’s aware of her own shoes echoing on the rough concrete, soles slapping noisily as she looks left and right for the man who’s set to meet her. As with any arrival in a strange place – and there have been many over the last six or seven years – Georgie pitches her nose into the air, to gain the scent. To place herself, not so much in the geography of a town or country, but in the atlas of humanity. Good or bad, safety or danger. Too often it has been cordite and destruction, and death. Now, above her own scent of magnolia, the smell under her nose is unexpectedly worse: peacetime despair and decay has replaced dynamite. Death, too, remains firmly in the mix, bubbling under. Is that right now the war is over?

‘Miss Young?’ A man steps forward, marked out less by his khaki uniform than his frame, not weighty as such, but well-covered, his webbing belt snug against his waist. In comparison, the clusters of people gathered outside Hamburg’s military airport waver like blades of grass – even those whose clothes are not rags, but still hang loosely over shoulders that have little more substance than a wire coat-hanger.

The man’s rounded face broadens as his bristled moustache branches upwards with a smile. ‘Can I take that from you?’ he adds, gesturing towards her suitcase.

‘No. Thank you.’ Instinctively, Georgie pulls the brown leather valise tighter towards her knees, a reflex from past years. Through experience, she’s learnt to travel light, and so anything packed into her battered old suitcase is necessary, always guarded closely as she and husband Max moved over Europe’s battlefields – notebook, pens, toothbrush and at least one pair of clean underwear, a legacy from her mother that she hasn’t been able to shed, despite a world war. Max teased endlessly about her ‘extra pair’, until he ran out of his own supply one day and was forced to borrow hers. And for years afterwards wished he hadn’t, unable to escape her gentle mocking; the mere mention of the ‘battle knickers’ still has them laughing at their own, very private joke. The suitcase she carries now is the old and battered warhorse that’s been her constant through the entire conflict, Max having bought it for her in Paris as a wedding gift. Not romantic to some, but better than any sparkling bauble in the circumstances, just days after Hitler declared war on Europe. In truth, it belongs to a different era, and she really should retire it to the top of the wardrobe. Start afresh, along with several other elements of life. Somehow, that’s easier said than done.

‘I’m fine to carry it myself,’ Georgie says, remembering her manners. ‘Sergeant . . .?’

‘Dawson, miss. Or is it mrs? They didn’t say.’

‘Miss,’ she says swiftly, biting back on her sharpness. How many times has she had to say it over past years? Except Sergeant Dawson is probably more used to greeting the wives who have come to join their British officer husbands in the peace and enjoy the spoils of victory. She wonders when, if ever, she’ll get used to being addressed as ‘Mrs Max Spender’. She is his wife – willingly, and without regret – but so far it has never meant forsaking herself. Here in Hamburg, she is Miss Georgina Young. A journalist in her own right.

‘Sorry, miss.’ Dawson purses his lips and smiles nervously, bringing her back to the bustle of the airport. ‘I’m to take you to your hotel, and then the headquarters. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, thank you. Apologies, Sergeant – I’m just tired.’ He nods as if he understands, as if fatigue is a given after years of warring, seeping into your pores in the same way fire smoke invades and clings to every fibre. It sits alongside the same question common to all battle-weary survivors: will this so-called peace be any less exhausting?

This isn’t the way that Georgie Young, freelance correspondent, would have chosen to arrive in any European town, city or hamlet. The military transport she is well used to – jostling in the back of a jeep, or thrown around the innards of a troop carrier – but any arrangements over the course of a long war have tended to be ad hoc; her and Max cadging a ride on a requisitioned train, a notebook tucked in the inside of her jacket, his camera swinging from the strap around his neck. As with mostof the press, they piggy-backed on the action wherever they could, always with the prospect of danger, but of excitement, too. Looking death in the face was not something she and Max had pledged in their wedding vows – an impromptu ceremony back in Paris in the opening days of the war – but it was never destined to be a conventional marriage. And they’d both come out alive, hadn’t they?

Now, there’s no Max alongside, courtesy of a broken leg sustained while skiing in Scotland over Christmas, and she has to contend with the organisation in the British army. Or what passes as organisation. Back in England, she’d been warned that reliance on rail travel through Germany was a risk in terms of timing, comfort and the very existence of a train. Some apparently took weeks to reach their destination, packed like sardines with throngs of Displaced Persons. So, the occupying army of the British Zone has arranged air travel, and the very presence of Sergeant Dawson at the airport seems to suggest the military’s aim is to chaperone her, in favourably promoting their corner in the new dawn of occupied Germany.

They might need to reconsider, Georgie thinks, since she’s never been in need of a minder. The first time she set foot in the country as a news reporter, way back in 1938, she was a twenty-six-year-old novice, raw and naïve, but her innocence was short-lived. The black crow of Nazism hovered across Berlin, mistrust multiplying daily as Europe hurtled towards bloody conflict, forcing her and Max to learn swiftly. Then, the true battle, with tanks and guns and cruelty beyond measure. They both worked the war principally as a words-and-pictures press duo, but not exclusively. And always in partnership rather than as a married couple. In love, but never reliant. Dependence is not in Georgie Young’s nature.

But that life is over. Hitler is dead, the Third Reich conquered. Georgie is better travelled, and wiser – hopefully. Peace for almost a year now, though the world is far from back on its axis. The London that she and Max now call home is slowly hauling itself back on its feet with a building frenzy, but rationing remains harsher than ever, and the food queues as lengthy as those days of the Blitz. With Churchill no longer at the helm, Britain’s new Labour government talks of renewal and fresh ideas. And what of Germany, the losers in that bloody game?

Do they share the same hope? Can they? Are they even allowed?

It’s what she’s here to find out. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1. What three words would you use to describe The Hidden Storyteller, and why?

2. Which character’s perspective – Georgie, Harri or Meta – did you relate to the most, and why?

3. How important was the character of Meta in creating a true sense of Hamburg in 1946?

4. Georgie’s work is important, but also dangerous. Would you have travelled alone like she did? Do you think she took any unnecessary risks throughout the novel?

5. How important do you feel a woman’s intuition is to the plot of The Hidden Storyteller? 6. Which other books would you compare The Hidden Storyteller to, and why?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's book info

Book Club Recommendations

Recommended to book clubs by 0 of 0 members.

Member Reviews

There are no user reviews at this time.
Rate this book