Hitler's Girls Read Online Free Page B

do—they’ll take the steering wheel and the seats out of a car round here if they can get away with it.
    “‘Don’t cry, dear,’ I said to Monica. ‘Nothing wrong with finding you’ve a bit of blue blood in the old veins. Which of the Wilsfords was it?’
    “‘Jim, Jim!’ Mrs. Walker started shouting through the door. To punish me for not replying she’ll cut down the laurel hedge to an eighth of its former size and I’ll be left staring at her garden shed.
    “As I was thinking all this I suddenly thought ‘Oh, no. Not that one’—but the very thought had me laughing. While Monica was crying, if you get me.
    “‘Not the Honourable Clemency Wilsford,’ I said. ‘I thought she’d been shut up on that Scottish island all those years. How’d she manage to have you?’
    “Again, as I said the words a dreadful—a really laughable thought came my way. Someone was pulling poor Monica’s leg. It just couldn’t be—
    “‘Clemency Wilsford went to Germany—you know, before the War—’ said Monica through her sniffles.
    “‘Puhlease!’ I said. ‘I can read the Sunday supplements as tirelessly as the next man—joke, joke.’ But actually I couldn’t help thinking what snobs we all are, our British race. Why couldn’t Monica settle for being ordinary—like anyone else? OK, she’s adopted: does that mean she has to have titled relatives, the lot? Next thing she’ll say she’s descended from mad King Ludwig of Bavaria.
    “‘Clemency was in love with Adolf Hitler,’ Monica said. She was using her ‘tiny’ voice—there’s something very old-fashioned, fifties if you like, about Monica. You’ll never find that type of carry-on with Mel. Lives for now, old Mel.
    “I suppose I couldn’t face the implications of what Monica was saying. I mean, what do you do when a friend goes right out of it, like that?
    “I thought of going and calling Mrs. Walker, who had by now huffed off back to her own house. But I decided against it. To think of the gossip—no, I couldn’t do that to Monica. She has—had—a good mind, even if she couldn’t do the Times puzzle in ten minutes—I know, I know, but some can, no names mentioned.
    “‘I’m Hitler’s daughter,’ Monica said. ‘I’m being followed. Jim, for God’s sake help me!’”

HITLER’S DAUGHTER
GERMANY 1937
    Putzi took me to the circus today. You can walk to it across a wooden bridge over a stream, there are ducks swimming about and Putzi made me laugh when he threw bread onto the island and hit them with it. “Hurry up Clemmie,” the big woman calls to me as Uncle Leader and his friends arrive and sit down in ringside seats just in front of us. “Yes, hurry up and go with your Uncle Führer,” the big woman who is Magda shouts to me. A piece of paper, caught by the wind, floats over the sea which is shallow and choppy. I’m anxious—I want to go back to England—but when I see Uncle Leader smile at me I want to stay here with him. Is this the first time I have understood the Führer—does he smile at me because he secretly knows we love one another? Can I go over to him now, I ask the big woman Magda and she nods at me as the music grows louder, as the big woman settles in her chair and looks back at me and smiles, the same smile as Uncle Leader’s, only more happy and it’s all for me .
    It grew dark and torches were lit for the circus. I was happy at last. I know I have Uncle Leader forever—and I understand the game the Führer likes to play in the garden. To celebrate the genius of the Führer we must salute, we must stand like statues, waiting for him to grant us life .

NOTEBOOK
TUESDAY, MARCH 5TH, 3 A.M.
    I’m in Monica’s house. It was too late by the time I left Jim Graham, to find a cab. No minicab would come: “They don’t fancy coming through the Badlands to reach Bandesbury Road at this time of night,” Jim said and he laughed.
    I shall make no comment on Jim Graham. The transcription of his revelations and