The Fourth Estate

“What do you want to say?” she asked, turning a page of her notepad.

“Have found suitable accommodation. Pack up everything and come immediately.”

As Sally wrote down his words, Armstrong rose from his seat. “I’m off to Der Telegraf to check up on Arno Schultz. See that everything runs smoothly until I get back.”

“What shall I do with this?” asked Sally, passing him a letter.

“What’s it about?” he asked, glancing at it briefly.

“It’s from a journalist in Oxford who wants to visit Berlin and write about how the British are treating the Germans under occupation.”

“Too damn well,” said Armstrong as he reached the door. “But I suppose you’d better make an appointment for him to see me.”

10.

News Chronicle

1 October 1946

THE JUDGMENT OF NUREMBERG: GOERING’S GUILT UNIQUE IN ITS ENORMITY

When Keith Townsend arrived at Worcester College, Oxford, to read Politics, Philosophy and Economics, his first impression of England was everything he had expected it to be: complacent, snobbish, pompous and still living in the Victorian era. You were either an officer or other ranks, and as Keith came from the colonies, he was left in no doubt which category he fell into.

Almost all his fellow-students seemed to be younger versions of Mr. Jessop, and by the end of the first week Keith would happily have returned home if it hadn’t been for his college tutor. Dr. Howard could not have been in greater contrast to his old headmaster, and showed no surprise when the young Australian told him over a glass of sherry in his room how much he despised the British class system still perpetuated by most of the undergraduates. He even refrained from making any comment on the bust of Lenin which Keith had placed on the center of the mantelpiece, where Lord Salisbury had lodged the previous year.

Dr. Howard had no immediate solution to the class problem. In fact his only advice to Keith was that he should attend the Freshers’ Fair, where he would learn all about the clubs and societies that undergraduates could join, and perhaps find something to his liking.

Keith followed Dr. Howard’s suggestion, and spent the next morning being told why he should become a member of the Rowing Club, the Philatelic Society, the Dramatic Society, the Chess Club, the Officer Training Corps an

d, especially, the student newspaper. But after he had met the newly appointed editor of Cherwell and heard his views on how a paper should be run, he decided to concentrate on politics. He left the Freshers’ Fair clutching application forms for the Oxford Union and the Labor Club.

The following Tuesday, Keith found his way to the Bricklayers’ Arms, where the barman pointed up the stairs to a little room in which the Labor Club always met.

The chairman of the club, Rex Siddons, was immediately suspicious of Brother Keith, as he insisted on addressing him from the outset. Townsend had all the trappings of a traditional Tory—father with a knighthood, public school education, a private allowance and even a secondhand MG Magnette.

But as the weeks passed, and every Tuesday evening the members of the Labor Club were subjected to Keith’s views on the monarchy, private schools, the honors system and the élitism of Oxford and Cambridge, he became known as Comrade Keith. One or two of them even ended up in his room after the meetings, discussing long into the night how they would change the world once they were out of “this dreadful place.”

During his first term Keith was surprised to find that if he failed to turn up for a lecture, or even missed the odd tutorial at which he was supposed to read his weekly essay to his tutor, he was not automatically punished or even reprimanded. It took him several weeks to get used to a system that relied solely on self-discipline, and by the end of his first term his father was threatening that unless he buckled down, he would stop his allowance and bring him back home to do a good day’s work.

During his second term Keith wrote a long letter to his father every Friday, detailing the amount of work he was doing, which seemed to stem the flow of invective. He even made the occasional appearance at lectures, where he concentrated on trying to perfect a roulette system, and at tutorials, where he tried to stay awake.

During the summer term Keith discovered Cheltenham, Newmarket, Ascot, Doncaster and Epsom, thus ensuring that he never had enough money to purchase a new shirt or even a pair of socks.

During the vacation several of his meals had to be taken at the railway station which, because of its close proximity to Worcester, was looked upon by some undergraduates as the college canteen. One night after he had drunk a little too much at the Bricklayers’ Arms, Keith daubed on Worcester’s eighteenth-century wall: “C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la gare.”

At the end of his first year Keith had little to show for the twelve months he had spent at the university, other than a small group of friends who, like him, were determined to change the system to benefit the majority just as soon as they went down.

His mother, who wrote regularly, suggested that he should take advantage of his vacation by traveling extensively through Europe, as he might never get another chance to do so. He heeded her advice, and started to plan a route—which he would have kept to if he hadn’t bumped into the features editor of the Oxford Mail over a drink at the local pub.

Dear Mother

I have just received your letter with ideas about what I should do during the vac. I had originally thought of following your advice and driving round the French coast, perhaps ending up at Deauville—but that was before the features editor of the Oxford Mail offered me the chance to visit Berlin.

They want me to write four one-thousand-word articles on life in occupied Germany under the Allied forces, and then to go on to Dresden to report on the rebuilding of the city. They are offering me twenty guineas for each article on delivery. Because of my precarious financial state—my fault, not yours—Berlin has taken precedence over Deauville.

If they have such things as postcards in Germany, I will send you one along with copies of the four articles for Dad to consider. Perhaps the Courier might be interested in them?

Sorry I won’t be seeing you this summer.