Black Roses

by Jane Thynne

  Perhaps that had been his mistake: to ever imagine that he could protect her.

  Somehow, shortly before she reached Brucknerstrasse, the shadow had picked up her trail again. As Leo approached the house from a group of elm trees across the road, he could see the shape of Clara behind the frosted glass in the door, by the looks of it preparing to leave. The image of Arlosoroff was by her side. Suddenly, a glimmer of movement caught his eye. A few feet away from him, shrouded in darkness and merged with the shadow of a tree, the man was standing. His outline was barely visible, and his tread was silent on the mossy earth, but in the damp air Leo caught the smell of him, a rank combination of beer and cheap aftershave. And even from behind it was possible to see hanging from his palm the unmistakable shape of a handgun. In the glint of moonlight Leo recognized it as a small Walther PPK, the Polizeipistol Kriminal, standard issue to all Nazi undercover agents.

  The shock of seeing the pistol, prepared and ready to use, astonished him. Was Goebbels really planning to shoot the messenger? What was the point of that? Unless, in Goebbels’ twisted mind, the death of Magda’s little go-between was intended as a stark message to cease her assignations with other men.

  For a moment, it was as though the four of them – Clara, Arlosoroff, Leo and the agent – were suspended outside time. Behind the glass door the figure of Clara and Arlosoroff remained talking. Arlosoroff had extended his arm to Clara’s shoulder. Leo heard the slide of greased metal as the man cocked his trigger.

  Was it the crack of a twig or some minute muscular twitch in Leo’s body? Whatever it was, like a rabbit scenting movement, the man sensed him and turned blindly, pointing the gun straight in Leo’s direction. Without hesitating, Leo felt for the Beretta that hung in a leather sheath just below his left armpit and for the first time in his life, in a single smooth movement, managed to fire directly at the figure in his sights.

  It was almost startling to see how swiftly the man crumpled and fell. He would never have guessed how easy it was to kill someone. How quickly life evaporated from the body, lifting off into the air like dew, even while his blood darkened the dirt. The man lay on the ground, arm splayed in surrender to his approaching death. Coming closer Leo saw that the shot had punctured his chest directly in the area of the heart. He was an ugly fellow, with a lantern jaw and a brow you could break your fist on. He gave a last cough, bringing a bubble of blood to his mouth, before turning his head aside, as if in a gesture of resignation. A clean kill, were the words Leo heard running through his head.

  He looked around him. If any local resident had heard the shot, they had probably pulled their curtains a bit closer and turned up the wireless. Turning a deaf ear to nocturnal crime was the best policy in Berlin right now. Shaking himself out of his shock, Leo caught the man by the armpits and hauled him up. He was a bruiser of an agent but the rush of adrenaline coursing through Leo’s veins made the effort almost negligible. He found a spot a few yards away where tree trimmers had left a pile of branches. That was unusual in an area like this. Tidiness was not just a civic but a moral virtue in Berlin. The danger was that someone would be back to clean it up all too soon. He had no choice, though. He covered the corpse as best he could, then followed Clara back to the city.

  Sitting there, in the pew, Leo buried his face in his hands and thought he detected the faintest trace of that perfume she wore. Evening in Paris. He had noted the bottle in her bag the first time they met, and his habit of scanning and memorizing peripheral detail meant he had consigned the name to memory instantly, without thinking about it. Clara had managed her double-dealing so far, but with Goebbels on her trail how much longer could she go on? He bitterly regretted encouraging her to become involved. How could he want her to become more like himself, gathering intelligence and engaging in deception? It was a rotten, corrupted way to live, lying to your friends, lying to people you loved.

  Yet, for him, what alternative could there be? Could you simply walk out of this and start again, as though it was a role you assumed and then shrugged off, like some ham actor in a forgettable B feature? He and Clara had talked about exile, but working for SIS was a permanent exile from everything that most people considered normal – a quiet life, a house and family and dreams that were not filled with horror and fear.

  A priest was approaching, with an enquiring look on his face. Leo got up quickly and walked back down the aisle. He left the church and took a big breath. At least the air was clean.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Dressed in sky-blue silk by the Jewish designer Max Becker, with a matching cloche hat and sable stole, Frau Bella Fromm had arrived. Frau Bella, as everyone called her, was the social editor of the Vossische Zeitung and the acknowledged queen of high-society gossip. She attended every diplomatic cocktail party and foreign embassy dinner going and her accounts were read each morning on all the best breakfast tables in Berlin. The fact that she was Jewish gave her reports an especially barbed edge, which in turn encouraged the denizens of high society to overlook her racial flaws, at least for the moment. Something about her quick eye and sharp, intelligent face reminded Clara of a beautiful bird of prey. One with an especially merciless method of dispatch. Her prey that day at the Grunewald horse track was Magda Goebbels, who was playing hostess at the Bureau’s first fashion show.

  Meticulously planted with rose beds between the stands and the paddock, the horse track in west Berlin was a popular society destination and Magda’s enterprise had brought them out in droves. Not only the Nazi top brass with their wives, but owners of fashion boutiques, representatives from the influential Horn fashion house and the big department stores, all coasting round the club house, viewing the exhibition of German clothes, complete with wholly German accessories of amber buttons, satin, flowers, feathers and lace. As if to make up for any restraint in the fashion, the female guests were decked out in glittering jewels, sapphire cuffs, ruby bracelets, teardrop pearls and enough diamonds to fill a mine.

  The idea was that all members of the Fashion Bureau should wear the Bureau’s own designs. Magda presided in a cowl-necked velvet dress in black, whose voluminous swathes lent her the air of a mournful nun. Clara had performed her catwalk in an olive-green pin-striped flannel suit, cut to mid-calf, and beneath it a silk blouse with a fussy bow. It was teamed with a soft green hat, to which a spray of silk roses was attached and another artificial rose served as a corsage. These token gestures of femininity did nothing to alleviate the drabness of the outfit. Clara couldn’t think what it reminded her of, until it suddenly came to her. She looked exactly like a ticket collector on a London bus. A clippie! She might just as well have been clumping her way up and down the stairs of a big red bus with a leather satchel on one shoulder. Though she performed with as much elegance as she could muster, it was clear that the ripples of applause for her outfit were about as genuine as the flowers in her hat.

  Now everyone had settled, with flutes of bubbling Sekt in hand, to hear Hans Horst, the Bureau’s acting director, make a speech about the future of German fashion. He was a pompous man with a deep love of his own voice, which boomed out of the Tannoy.

  ‘A beginning has been made. We know that the path will be difficult and full of thorns, but our belief in the new Germany and our conscious knowledge that we are fellow fighters in the work of Adolf Hitler will make our goal attainable.’

  This was about as much as Clara could bear. She moved unobtrusively to one side and headed out of the club house. But no sooner had she left than she found herself cornered by Bella Fromm. She came close, her beaky face eyeing Clara with a penetrating gaze.

  ‘Fräulein Vine. I wonder if I could have a quiet word.’ She communicated in a low, professional whisper, finely calibrated to deter eavesdroppers. ‘I suppose you saw this.’

  From her bag protruded a copy of the Herald Tribune, folded to expose the article it had picked up from yesterday’s New York Evening Post, headed: “German actress in suspicious death plunge. Mary Harker traces the
strange fate of one actress and her relations with the Nazi élite.”

  ‘You knew Helga Schmidt, didn’t you?’

  For a second, the sight of Helga’s face, beaming out of the newspaper in black-and-white, transfixed Clara. She longed to seize the article and examine it more closely, but with a supreme effort of self-control she composed her features. She had to admire Frau Bella’s perspicacity.

  ‘She was a friend of mine.’

  ‘And do you think she committed suicide?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘This writer obviously doesn’t. She thinks her suicide was staged. She says she had become an embarrassment to the élite. She made jokes. She laughed about Hitler’s sex life. Until someone decided she should be pushed out of her window by a gang of storm troopers.’

  ‘As I said, Frau Bella, I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘Well, Goebbels is furious. He’s told the paper the journalist’s visa will be retracted immediately. Apparently she’s packing her bags right now. She has a ticket booked on the night train to Holland.’ She eyed Clara sceptically. ‘I just wonder where she got all that inside information. She seemed to know everything about the woman. Right down to the jokes she told.’

  Clara recalled her meeting with Mary Harker two days ago at the Press Club. As soon as she had established why Clara was there, Mary had hailed a cab, and taken them back to her office, high above Unter den Linden. She ushered out her secretary, closed the blinds, and turned on the wireless. It felt intensely intimate in that room together, with a single desk lamp casting a pool of light on the table. Once there was no chance of being overheard, Mary had sat down, notebook in hand, as Clara told the story of Helga from beginning to end. Mary listened intently, and the only sign of her growing horror was the slight quiver in her fingers as she wrote it down.

  ‘Do you think you can use it?’

  ‘Put it this way. If I’m going to get thrown out for a story, I want to go out with a bang.’

  So right now, Mary was packing up her apartment in Nollendorfplatz and preparing to leave Berlin. Clara felt an unexpected sense of dismay. That single hour in the newspaper office had sparked a closeness between the two women. She regretted that they had not been friends before. They parted with a brief hug, but both knew, if Mary had stayed, they would have become true allies.

  ‘Suicide seems unlikely, doesn’t it?’ persisted Bella Fromm. ‘I mean, Helga Schmidt had a son to look after. And a part in a new film.’

  ‘Frau Bella, please forgive me, but I wouldn’t know.’

  At that moment Emmy Sonnemann bustled up, a small dog clamped under one arm like a furry clutch bag.

  ‘So this is our most popular design.’ She plucked at Clara’s sleeve with undisguised dismay. ‘Well, I suppose it is our patriotic duty.’

  Emmy herself was encased in the teal hunting outfit, which was straining slightly at the seams. A burst of pheasant feathers sprouted from her hat.

  ‘May I say how charming you look Frau Sonneman?’ said Bella Fromm sinuously.

  ‘I suppose you may.’

  ‘And did you hear this morning’s new law?’ Bella Fromm smiled. ‘The Propaganda Ministry has just issued an edict. From now on, all German actresses must wear only German fashion.’

  ‘I will decide what this German actress wears, thank you,’ said Emmy grandly, taking Clara’s elbow and steering her towards a buffet groaning with salmon, cold meats and potato salads. There were exotic fruit, oysters, lobsters and crabs. The buffet was making up for the domestic theme of the fashion show with an extravagant international spread of English pies, French pastries and Italian desserts.

  ‘Come and eat. You need something. You look pale as a sheet. Is something keeping you awake?’ She nudged. ‘Not Herr Doktor Müller, I hope!’

  As Emmy dumped the dog down and dug into an iced platter of caviar, Clara looked over at Frau Ley, surrounded by a bevy of men. She had selected a black velvet sheath with a low neck and a jet necklace at her slender throat.

  ‘I don’t remember that dress in the collection.’

  ‘Something tells me it’s not her dress they’re interested in,’ said Emmy, archly. ‘Didn’t you hear? That husband of hers commissioned a life-sized portrait of her in the nude and has hung it in the hall of their home? Can you imagine the shame? Apparently the men are queuing up to visit.’

  She stooped to pop a plate of caviar under the table for the dog. Its small pink tongue began slurping hungrily.

  ‘But then, I suppose, it’s all irrelevant. Magda won’t be around for much longer.’

  Clara stared at her.

  ‘Oh, hadn’t she told you? Joseph has decided it’s wrong for his wife to be involved in the enterprise. Doesn’t think it’s fitting for her to be mingling with actresses, I think is what he said.’

  ‘But the Führer—’

  ‘Agrees with him apparently.’

  They both looked over at Goebbels, who was deep in conversation with Hela Strehl, a simpering blonde fashion journalist from Elegante Welt. Just the sight of him caused a shudder of fear to run through Clara. There stood the man who had ordered Helga’s death as a warning to her, and whose shadows kept a constant watch on her. A barbarous man, clever and callous, who would use her if he could, but would never trust her. Right then she had the better of him, but she knew she could not let down her guard for a second.

  As if he could read her thoughts he broke off, came over, took her hand in his and kissed it. For a killer, he had beautiful hands.

  ‘Frau Sonneman. Fräulein Vine. I must say, you model with conviction. You both look like truly authentic representatives of German womanhood.’

  As usual his words were hard to read, suggesting a barbed double meaning. He dealt in ambiguities, sugared threats, a smiling sweetness concealing the savagery.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Clara.

  ‘No, Fräulein, it is we who are in debt to you. Which reminds me. It’s a little thing really. I wanted to thank you.’ His eyes fixed on her. ‘Personally.’

  ‘Herr Minister, you really don’t need to.’

  ‘Oh, but I think I do.’

  Clara was keenly aware that a small crowd had followed in his wake and were avidly listening in. Frau von Ribbentrop was hovering, her ample bust imprisoned in a faux riding jacket. Emmy was looking on with frank disdain. Magda gazed impassively from across the room. Bella Fromm already had her notebook out. Around them the chatter had died down as attention was fixed on the minister and the actress. This exchange was evidently going to be all round Berlin by the afternoon. It would no doubt make something juicy for the braver of the gossip columnists, those that still remained and dared to speculate on the complicated private life of the Propaganda chief. All eyes were trained on Clara’s face, eager to detect some scintilla of secret intrigue, a lover’s knowing look or flash of sexual chemistry. Probably Goebbels meant it that way. As she returned his look deadpan, Clara realized this encounter was as stage-managed as any march or rally he had a hand in. But why?

  ‘I wanted to give you a modest token to thank you for everything you’ve done and will continue to do. Please, take it.’ Astonished, Clara stared at him as he reached into his pocket and passed her a square box of navy leather, embossed in gold with the name of a Berlin jeweller.

  ‘Go on. Open it.’

  She remembered to smile lightly, but when she opened it and saw the brooch, nestling in satin, her face lost its composure. Her astonishment was unfeigned.

  ‘I hope you like it.’

  It was expensive, she could tell that at once. Made of silver and studded with diamonds, it must have cost Goebbels hundreds of marks, unless the jeweller, like so many tradesmen who supplied the regime, had insisted on providing a patriotic discount. Or had been informed, when he submitted a bill, that providing his services to the Nazi leadership was an honour in itself. Clara looked down at it with amazement as the brooch sat heavily in her palm. A glittering swastika.

  �
��Here,’ he lent towards her, ‘let me pin it on.’

  Chapter Fifty-four

  The only good thing about the frenetic level of activity at the Passport Control Office was that it made it impossible to think about anything else. That morning the usual queue system of anxious professionals had been disrupted early on by a hysterical woman who was desperate to obtain a visa for her husband, a Jewish doctor. He had refused to come himself, insisting that his patients needed him and he would never leave Germany, so his wife, who had relatives in Hampshire, was there on his behalf. But as the receptionists explained, nothing could be done unless they saw her husband in person. The woman, who had flaming red hair and a figure as sturdy as her personality, had plonked herself in the front office and refused to budge. The queue had begun to fray at this unexpected obstacle, edging around her like a river bursting its banks, until it broke down completely and became a single pressing mass of people bearing documents and wielding briefcases and announcing their case to no one in particular.

  The front office staff were becoming increasingly impatient with the obstructive woman who had spoilt their immaculate queue, but it wasn’t until someone suggested a policeman be summoned that Leo took the woman gently aside, fetched her a cup of tea and sat her down at his desk. After an hour working through her case, along with coaxing and tears and the forfeit of his clean handkerchief, he decided to volunteer to talk to her husband himself. It would mean going out to Treptow the next evening, and foregoing his supper, but the offer had the effect of calming the wife, who grudgingly agreed to leave. All of which meant that when Hitchcock telephoned, asking Leo to drop by in his lunch hour, he did not respond with undimmed enthusiasm. He grabbed a lukewarm cup of coffee and an egg sandwich and made his way across the Tiergarten.