by Clare Harvey
Gerhardt looked ahead into the sluicing windscreen, hearing the squeak of the wipers, smelling the stale scent of cigar smoke. He closed his eyes against the darkness, letting the familiar memory take over.
The girl was waving from the kerb . . . The chauffeur pulled the car in beside her. Gerhardt looked questioningly up at his mother, who shrugged. ‘Hans must recognise her. Or perhaps she’s in trouble,’ she said . . .
‘Where shall we drop you?’ said Gerhardt’s mother. The young woman said anywhere, here will do, so Gerhardt’s mother tapped Hans on the shoulder, and the car came to an abrupt halt on a piece of waste ground near the railway station. The girl got out without waiting for Hans to open the door for her.
‘Shall I pass on your regards to the Count?’ Gerhardt’s mother called out through the window as Hans put the car back into gear.
‘Yes, do,’ said the young woman, smoothing her palms down her skirt.
‘Remind me of your name again, dear,’ said his mother, and the girl opened her mouth to reply . . .
‘It’s in the glove compartment.’ Boemelburg’s voice broke into his thoughts.
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘That package your uncle gave me. I keep forgetting to pass it on. It’s in the glove compartment.’
Gerhardt clicked open the little hatch in the dash. Inside was a paper parcel tied with string. He took it out, turning it over in his hands. He could feel the waxy nub of the von der Schulenburg seal on the reverse. Why had his father used the family seal? Why had he given it to Boemelburg instead of posting it? Gerhardt cracked the wax and opened the package. Inside were two sheets of smooth, thick paper, one that looked like a form of some sort, and the other a letter, but it was so dark in the car that it was impossible to read what was written on them. There was also a leather box. He could make out Patek Philippe in embossed gold lettering on the hinged lid. He snapped it open: a watch – an expensive one, too. He remembered the day when he’d been late for the interview – his father’s angry face. He pulled the watch from the case and turned it over in his hands. There was something engraved on the back. He rubbed a forefinger across the chill metal: the outline of a shield containing three four-clawed arms – the von der Schulenburg crest.
He put the watch on; it felt heavy, like a shackle on his wrist. He put the papers back in the glove compartment, telling himself that he didn’t care what the Count had to say. All he cared about was the impossibility of seeing her again. What difference could anything from his father make now?
Vera
Vera’s legs scissored through the chill as she crossed the Mall. To her right St James’s Park unravelled in faded brown and green. And up ahead – she checked her watch and strode on faster – up ahead were the vast cream blocks of Horse Guards Parade. It was twilight already. The air was cool and heavy: even the smoke from distant chimney pots slumped, unable to lift to the darkening skies. Men and women in various uniforms were starting to spew from the War Office buildings, bumping past her as they hastened homewards before blackout. Buses and bicycles sped past. Vera fought forwards against the rush-hour tide, ignoring the tightness in her chest, and the thoughts that flitted like disturbed bats in a cavern:
Dick is dead.
Someone knows all about you, Vera Rosenberg.
Dick is dead.
If they know your real name, what else do they know?
Dick is dead.
My precious darling, my love, my life.
A Jewess in Felbrigg Hall? No, that would never do.
Dick is dead.
Filthy Jewess, dirty Boche.
Dick is dead, dead and gone.
Through the fog of her thoughts, Vera carried on up Birdcage Walk, the War Box looming larger and larger ahead of her as she walked. A flock of geese suddenly rose from St James’s Park. They made just a small ‘V’-shape, like the chevron on a sergeant’s uniform, no more than seven birds at most. The flock flew, honking, right over her head, and then swerved, turning north-west, towards Buckingham Palace and beyond. The sky was purplish in the early evening light, like a bruise coming out.
Vera crossed the road, dodging traffic, and reached the sandbag-clad entrance. Two marines were on duty on either side. She paused at the doorway to remind herself: she was British now, part of the armed forces, she had important information to pass on, and she wouldn’t be fobbed off.
Inside the doorway a puffy major with a salt-and-pepper moustache looked up from his desk. ‘Full name, rank and nature of business,’ he said, pointing at the ledger in front of him.
‘My dear boy, I don’t have time for any of that nonsense,’ said Vera. ‘It’s a matter of extreme urgency.’
Chapter 19
Dericourt
‘What do you have for me, chéri?’ Jeannot’s voice fluted along the hallway. Henri was cold and wet. It was pelting it down outside. Why did she always demand presents? Miss Atkins’ diamond earrings pricked at his flesh from inside his trouser pocket.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered, putting the carrier bag down next to the front door. He’d had to hang about in the Ritz to collect it, whilst that Chanel woman finished her business with her German lover, and then, on the way back, the skies had opened. He couldn’t face trudging down avenue Foch in the rain. And anyway, Kieffer wouldn’t thank him for handing it over dripping wet.
Jeannot appeared in the bedroom doorway, swinging on it as if it was a lamp-post and she was a street girl. She had that grass-green frock on that he’d bought her in Marseille. But her waist was thickening, he noticed, seeing her swaying there. The buttons were pulling at their holes. She was starting to show her age. He took off his soaked shoes.
She skipped over and flung her arms about his neck, planting a cherry-drop kiss on his damp cheek. ‘Leave me; I’m drenched,’ he said, shrugging her off. He wanted to get out of his wet clothes. As soon as the rain cleared, he’d have to go.
‘You don’t care about me,’ she said, pouting. That was his cue. That was where he was supposed to tell her that of course he loved her, more than anything, and to make love to her, urgently, up against the wall, or on the hallway floor. But he was worn out. Dear God, he was bored of being treated like an errand boy. All this to-ing and fro-ing between London and Paris, the meetings, the debriefings, having to remember what he’d said and to whom. His leather satchel might be full of high-denomination banknotes, but his body was running on empty.
He sighed, pushing past her and into the bedroom. ‘Would I be here if I didn’t care?’ he said, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of the bedstead.
‘What kind of an answer is that?’ she said, and although he heard the dangerous waver in her voice, he lacked the energy to dole out the endless flattery and placation she needed. ‘Well?’ She followed him into the bedroom, standing so close he could smell the dusky rose scent of her perfume. He turned away, beginning to unbutton his shirt. ‘Are you ignoring me, chéri?’ she whispered.
‘I can’t do this now, chicken,’ he said. He had to get changed. Through the window he could see the rain was beginning to ease. There was a curved prism of rainbow, sliced apart by the roofs that forced up into the dark grey sky.
‘Don’t speak to me like that!’ she said.
‘Like what?’
‘Like I’m not important. Like I’m nothing to you.’
‘Of course you’re important, it’s just—’
‘Who is she?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, you think I’m stupid? In and out at all hours.’
‘I’ve told you, it’s my job, chicken. My life’s not my own these days. When the war is over I will be all yours again, I promise.’
It was following the usual pattern, and he should have expected it, but the sting of her palm on his cheek was still a surprise. He caught her wrist, held her fast. She had that look on her face: the colour high on her cheekbones, her pupils darkly wide. She wants me to push her down, pin her arms back,
and fuck her until she screams. That’s what she wants. He let go of her wrist. ‘I’m sorry, chicken,’ he said. He wouldn’t play her games, not now, not today.
‘Sorry?’ And she was on him again: scratching, pulling, ripping at his shirt, screaming about how much she’d given up for him, how badly he treated her, how he didn’t care. He held up his arms to shield himself, but she was relentless: all teeth and nails and the high-pitched screech of her voice and in the end he couldn’t help it. He struck out, hard, and she staggered back, banging her shoulder against the wardrobe.
They regarded each other, panting, across the dusty floorboards. Her head dipped. ‘It’s for her, isn’t it?’ she said, mouth agape, lipstick smeared.
‘What?’
‘In the bag. You’ve bought a present for your floozy, and you have the temerity to bring it here!’ She gestured through the open bedroom door into the hallway, where the Chanel bag rested against the wall. So that was it. He breathed out.
‘I just picked it up from Madame Chanel’s suite in the Ritz,’ he said: start with the truth and work sideways. ‘I have a contact who’s very close to her.’ (Still true: Boemelburg was friends with von Dincklage, Coco’s lover.) He saw Jeannot begin to relax: her shoulders lowering, her chin rising. ‘I was going to take it somewhere else, but then the rain came down, and I didn’t want it to get ruined,’ he continued. ‘I never thought I would be able to get you a real Chanel dress, since Coco closed her shops, but I had this opportunity and I took it. It was going to be a surprise, for your birthday.’ A tear began to make slow progress down her chalk-white cheek, reminding him of a painting of a sad Pierrot clown he’d seen once, and he knew he was on solid ground. ‘But perhaps we could celebrate your birthday early, chicken?’ He collected the bag from the hallway and presented it to her. She squealed, and held the midnight-blue velvet outfit up against herself, but before she could try it on, he began to kiss her. He made love to her quickly, bending her over the foot of the bed. Afterwards, he lifted her onto the counterpane and helped her pleasure herself to release. Then he kissed her forehead and her eyes shut like a doll’s as she slipped into a doze.
He changed into dry clothes. The rain had slowed to a patter on the windowpane. He could no longer take the Chanel dress to avenue Foch, but there must be an old frock of Jeannot’s that he could substitute? He opened the wardrobe and rifled through the hanging clothes. There was a black evening gown with ruffles that he hadn’t seen her wear since Marseille. She’d never notice its absence.
On the bed Jeannot sighed and turned in her sleep, clutching the Chanel dress like a teddy bear. He leant over and cut out the label with his penknife. Then he took a needle and thread from Jeannot’s workbox and quickly stitched the Chanel label into the home-made gown. After all, who would know? Who would care?
From the breast pocket of his jacket he took out a square of silk. Anyone who’d glimpsed it over the last few days would have thought it was a patterned handkerchief, nothing more – hide in plain sight, that’s what all Miss Atkins’ precious agents were taught. He tacked the material inside the bodice of the dress with large, swift stitches that would be easy to rip out. Nobody would think to look inside the dress, would they? That fat Frau in avenue Foch was almost too lazy to wipe her own arse – she’d never check. What more did Miss Atkins expect? He was a man, not a magician, he thought, biting through the cotton with his teeth. It was all he could do.
Henri slipped out of the apartment with the Chanel bag, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t want to wake Jeannot. He didn’t want to say goodbye.
Edie
The handcuffs fell open. Frau Bertelsmann took them and handed her the bag: Chanel it said on the front. Inside was a black dress. Edie pulled it out: silk taffeta, with ruffles on the sleeves and down the side of the skirt, like the fronds of some kind of undersea growth. She looked at the label. It did indeed say Chanel, but it was stitched on a little skew-whiff, as if the seamstress had been in a hurry, and the dress stank of stale smoke and heavy perfume. Frau Bertelsmann said something in German and Edie understood she was to put it on. Edie stood up and held it against herself. It was too long, and there were yellowish stains under the armpits, from the sweat of the previous owner.
It was a re-run of that first night when Frau Bertelsmann had strip-searched her, with Gerhardt standing, tense at the window. The Frau watched, arms folded, as Edie shivered out of her day things. But this time there was no Gerhardt, awkward, fists balled on the window ledge. And this time, the Frau helped her on with the evening dress: zipping up the back, patting down seams. The silk lining was slippery and ill-fitting over her chest, gaping slightly: the dress had been made for a plumper woman. The Frau pawed away a speck of fluff on Edie’s bodice, and then nudged Edie ahead of her, out of the doorway, carrying the handcuffs like a prize.
Down they went, past Gerhardt’s room, past Dr Goetz’s office, all the way down to the first floor. The air was cold against her exposed throat and shoulders, which rose from the slashed neckline of the rustling dress.
She’d watched the staff party preparations from her window that afternoon – vans delivering crates of champagne and pallets of food – as she’d continued to work away at the bar on her window. It was taking days longer than she’d hoped, because she had to stop and hide her work when there were mealtimes or transmissions, but she was almost finished now. She’d thought she might be able to get through tonight, when they were all busy at their soirée. But it seemed Kieffer had other plans. Edie remembered how she and Gerhardt had been encouraged to practise that song – ‘Im Traum hast du mir alles erlaubt’ – would she be playing it tonight? Would Gerhardt be there?
The lights were blazing and from inside Kieffer’s office there was the sound of voices and clinking glass, and the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke. She stopped in the doorway, at the point where the cool corridor air met the warmth of the crowded room.
There they all were, the people she’d come to recognise during her time here: the typists and the clerks she’d seen drifting in and out of the building from her attic-window vantage point. Over there was the rat-faced driver and the portly head of security, and beyond them the wireless-detector boys, laughing over some joke or other. Dr Goetz stood beneath the chandelier, pale as an overexposed photograph in the brightly lit room. And there was Kieffer, at the centre of it all, arms extended.
Behind her, Frau Bertelsmann huffed, and prodded her, so she almost fell, stumbling forwards into the crowd. For a moment the room fell silent. Everyone stopped talking and looked at her. Edie’s eyes skittered round. Was Gerhardt here? Had Kieffer recalled him so that they could perform together, as he’d planned? She looked and looked, but no, he wasn’t here. It was too much to hope for.
Kieffer’s Cheshire Cat smile faltered momentarily at the sight of her, but quickly repositioned itself on his face. He waved her over to the piano. The uniformed Germans parted before her as she made her way. She sat down on the stool, and Kieffer said something to the crowd.
There was a moment of dislocation as she settled her fingers over the ivory keys. She was above herself, looking down at the jewel-bright room and the clotted grey figures. She was looking down on the girl, pale face drooping like an arum lily, and the crumpled blackness of her dress. She heard the word ‘British’ and the word ‘Führer’. She heard the word ‘Coventry’ and a ripple of laughter ran round the room.
The Funkspiel was over. They’d get rid of her anyway, tomorrow. Where would Kieffer send her? To Fresnes Prison near Paris, or straight to Karlsruhe? Or would he just let her go, set her free like he had Justine and Felix, to provide sport for the Gestapo boys? Would jumping and breaking her neck be any swifter than being shot? She wasn’t sure – but at least that way she’d have some control. She’d had plenty of time alone up in her room with the dinner knife, picking up where the nail file had failed. Nobody had thought to check on her, too busy congratulating themselves on the success of the Funkspiel and
preparing for their precious party. The bar was almost sawn through now. She was nearly ready. Just as soon as she could get this performance over and done with.
‘You are to play the Beethoven.’ Dr Goetz’s voice suddenly loud, hissing in her ear, and she was back inside herself again. There was no music on the stand. She knew what she had to do: Kieffer wanted her to play the Moonlight Sonata, just as she had on that first night, when she was still trying to convince him that she was a piano teacher. She paused, looking up, raising her hands, seeing Kieffer’s smug grin across the room. And for a moment she wondered if her decision would have been different if Gerhardt had been there. Would she still have chosen to jump? No, it was too late to hope for Gerhardt. She let her hands fall.
But it wasn’t Herr Hitler’s favourite she played as her fingers crashed down onto the keys. It was three quick ‘G’s and a long ‘E’ flat: Beethoven’s Fifth, the opening chords echoing the dot-dot-dot-dash of ‘V’ in Morse: Churchill’s ‘V’ for Victory. She saw Kieffer’s smile slip: this wasn’t what he’d expected. But to interrupt now would be to lose face. He nodded, as if this were exactly what he’d expected, as if he weren’t aware of the powerful irony of it. However, a few minutes later, at the end of the first movement, when her hands rested momentarily, he began to clap energetically. Taking their cue from the boss, the others joined in. She saw him mouth something to Frau Bertelsmann, who bustled over and shoved her off the piano stool.
Edie felt numb, allowing herself to be pulled up, out of the room and into the corridor, barely hearing the applause.
Back in her room, Edie stood by the bed, hearing the key turn in the lock and the Frau’s footsteps disappear. Edie clasped and unclasped her hands. Then, with a large swift movement, threw her arms wide. In her haste to get back to the party, the Frau had forgotten to handcuff her. With her hands free, what she planned to do would be easier.
Through the barred window Edie saw people starting to spill out into the drive – off to a fancy restaurant, no doubt, to carry on their celebrations: hadn’t Dr Goetz said something about the Lucas Carton? She’d need to wait a little while longer, couldn’t afford to get caught. She thought again of Gerhardt as she listened to the sound of footsteps and voices in the driveway, and cars driving away into the night: he wasn’t here to save her this time. Suicide: such a slippery word. Would anyone at home ever find out? What would Miss Atkins tell her parents once the pre-written postcards ran out, she wondered.
