Read an excerpt from The Berlin Girl, the heart-wrenching new WWII story from Mandy Robotham, bestselling author of The German Midwife
 More about the book!

The Berlin Girl by Mandy Robotham is out now from Jonathan Ball Publishers.

From the bestselling author of The German Midwife comes the heart-wrenching story of a country on the brink of war, a woman who puts herself in the line of fire, and a world about to be forever changed.

About the book

Berlin, 1938: It’s the height of summer, and Germany is on the brink of war. When fledgling reporter Georgie Young is posted to Berlin, alongside fellow Londoner Max Spender, she knows they are entering the eye of the storm.

Arriving to a city swathed in red flags and crawling with Nazis, Georgie feels helpless, witnessing innocent people being torn from their homes. As tensions rise, she realises she and Max have to act – even if it means putting their lives on the line.

But when she digs deeper, Georgie begins to uncover the unspeakable truth about Hitler’s Germany – and the pair are pulled into a world darker than she could ever have imagined…

Read an excerpt:



Heat and Dust

London, 23rd July 1938

Georgie sat with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracking the light glinting off the chandelier and noting several cobwebs that hadn’t been dismissed by the cleaning staff prior to this evening’s ball. The glory of the London Ritz held fast in its reputation, but in its pockets and corners the infamous hotel might have been fading just a little – clearly dirt and dust soiled even the rich. And yet the thought made Georgie feel oddly comforted; if this glamorous venue – a place she could have only dreamt about in her childhood – was hiding behind a façade, then there must be others who sported such a veneer. Maybe even a good portion of this well- populated ballroom. It made her feel less of a fraud.

She shifted on her bar stool in an effort to bat away the waves of unending heat. The barman caught her eye and she smiled meekly, trying not to give the impression of being either stood up or lonely, when she was neither. Still, he looked back with sympathy. Others in the room might not have noticed Georgie’s awkwardness, the way the strap of her dress cut into her shoulder, lent to her by a cousin who was clearly half a size smaller. Or the shoes pinching at each little toe, biting into her flesh as she was forced to endure a dance with the office lothario and his two left feet.

She’d managed to excuse herself after one long and painful tune, retreating to the bar, where she now sat, nursing a Martini. The dance floor was full again, as correspondents mingled with reporters and photographers, watching editors and their wives twirling amid the heady table chatter of wordsmiths putting the world to rights. The summer media ball was where hard-ened London hacks let their hair down for just one night and forgot about the simmering rivalry of Fleet Street – who was first to the story, who bagged an exclusive, and who splashed the biggest headline. For Georgie it was intoxicating, though not nearly as effective as the very strong cocktail mixed by the barman who, in his pity, had added a second shot of vodka. The music and the heat were making her head swim, but she was enjoying the spectacle too much to leave.

‘Sitting this one out?’

Georgie swivelled her head in the direction of the voice, her short, blonde curls swaying with the sharp movement. For a brief second she wondered if it was the lothario come to hound her for a second dance, but the tone was unfamiliar. When her eyes fell on its owner, she noted there was barely a smile to accompany it.

She nodded at her feet perched on the bar stool. ‘I might be willing but my shoes are working against me.’

‘Oh,’ he said, and leaned his elbow on the bar, one flick of his finger signalling to the barman. Either her reply had come across as tart or he was simply making small talk, and Georgie returned to her people-watching.

Still, something about him forced a sideways glance; he was tall, lean and appeared surprisingly cool in his full evening suit. Noting her glimpse, he grasped at his own cocktail and turned to face her.

‘Are you here as a guest of someone?’ He clearly didn’t absorb the sharpness of his own tone. Any other woman might have supposed it rude, but it merely bounced off Georgie’s well- constructed shell. Does he think I’m an imposter, some kind of gate- crasher? she thought. Her irritation rose, and then fell as her sense of humour bubbled upwards. There was always fun to be had with such men.

‘No, I’m here with my boss,’ she replied. ‘I work at the Chronicle.’

‘Oh.’ More of an enquiring air this time. ‘Whose secretary are you?’

Georgie dragged a smile out of her deep and varied supply bag, the type of expression that hid her contempt well. ‘I work with Henry Peters.’

Whoever this young man was, he couldn’t fail to recognise the name of one of Fleet Street’s most revered men on the Chronicle’s foreign desk.

‘Oh,’ the man said again.

Is this his entire vocabulary? Georgie mused. He can’t possibly be a journalist, with such a poor grasp on language. ‘And you?’ she asked, eyeing her Martini as if it held more interest. She wasn’t in a mood to feed his ego, but the alcohol was making her playful.

‘I’m with the Telegraph,’ he shot back, turning and puffing out his chest. ‘Foreign desk.’ His voice was pure public school, his stature and dress reflecting the same.

‘Oh,’ Georgie responded. Two can play at that game.

They both looked out onto the dance floor again, the silence between them hovering like a thick winter fog.

‘Strange to see so many newspapermen with their wives,’ Georgie said at last, when the fog began to feel cloying. ‘I’ve never seen this many on their best behaviour. Or smiling.’ And she peered at him, assessing if he’d caught her humour. His gruff cough signalled not. Still, he didn’t seem inclined to walk away either.

‘Not tempted to tie the knot yourself?’ she pressed, noting the absence of a wedding ring. It was like prodding at a roasting spit of pork, and Georgie felt slightly guilty at how much she delighted in it.

He looked at her quizzically. ‘Me? Oh no,’ he said decisively. ‘I don’t know how any serious reporter could contemplate it. Not the way the world is right now. A foreign posting is no place for a wife. Or any woman, in fact.’ His hard, blue eyes relayed complete conviction in his statement.

‘Really?’ Now Georgie wanted to prod some more. With force. And a sharp object. ‘Are you not a fan of Martha Gellhorn then?’ she added.

‘You mean the future Mrs Hemingway?’ he shot back. His assumptive pairing would have been a red rag to the celebrated correspondent herself. Likewise to Georgie.

‘I feel sure Miss Gellhorn would take you to task for assuming she is writing in Ernest’s shadow,’ she fizzed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m inclined to think her dispatches from the Spanish frontline are just as good, if not better, than those of her lover.’

Now he looked at her again, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What on earth would a mere secretary know about that? they seemed to be saying.

‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion,’ he said at last. ‘It’s dangerous out there. You need your wits about you. And besides, marriage isn’t for me.’

‘Oh,’ Georgie said again. And she withdrew the toasting fork. He’s not worth the wit, she thought and turned her eyes to the dance floor again, transformed to a kaleidoscope of activity and colour, music flooding the entire room, the chandelier teardrops swaying from thermals of cigarette smoke and human heat.

He swigged suddenly at his cocktail, perhaps gaining courage from the action and the alcohol combined.

‘Care to dance?’ he said, and held out his hand for her acceptance.

Georgie gestured towards her feet and scrunched up her nose. ‘Thank you, but my feet are telling me it’s way too dangerous out there.’

Those very blue eyes bored into hers for a second. Realising he’d been snubbed, the man turned tail without a word, striding up to the first lone woman teetering on the edge of the floor and almost yanking her into the dancing fray.

Georgie drained her own glass and signalled for one more. Despite her sore toes and her undersized dress, it really had been a very entertaining evening.


Categories Fiction International

Tags Book excerpts Book extracts Jonathan Ball Publishers Mandy Robotham The Berlin Girl

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