The Winter Garden (2014)

by Thynne, Jane

  ‘I wonder . . . what an alliance would really mean?’

  It was something she had often thought about, but she had never before allowed herself to wonder out loud.

  ‘If you want to know what Britain would look like, take a look around you. Don’t imagine that England’s Jews or her free press or her politicians would be safe for long in an alliance with Hitler. How could they possibly defend themselves? Anyone who imagines that the English Channel is enough to secure their freedom is a fool. The Nazis would start straight away, ensuring their placemen were in positions of power, and those men would be increasing the power of the police, banning demonstrations, unless they happened to be marches by our friend Mosley’s people, curbing the trade unions, locking up the churchmen. Then it would be the turn of the social structures, schools and universities, the treatment of women. Books, plays, films, nothing cultural would escape scrutiny. Before long, a thousand years of British parliamentary democracy would be undermined. Britain would be a shadow of itself. And all the ugly, divisive passions that lie beneath the surface would be brought to the fore. That’s why it matters so much, Clara. The appeasers can’t know what Hitler has in store for them. It’s a deal with the devil.’

  He was no longer smooth and genial. The façade of bonhomie she had seen at the Goebbels’ party had entirely vanished, to be replaced by something deeper, more melancholic.

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot – about the aeroplane numbers and so on. Why do the Nazis give you so much detail?’

  ‘They want me to know. I told you, they regard me as a useful channel. Goering wants me to relay it to the people back home because he thinks knowing the strength of the Luftwaffe will concentrate minds and make the British realize there’s no point in putting up any resistance. They give me an astonishing level of performance data, reports on each aeroplane’s engine, manufacturing levels. We share information with them too. Their chaps were shown round some RAF stations this month, though they were only shown outdated aircraft, of course. Just the old crocks, nothing important. But there’s pressure of time. We have a deadline approaching.’

  ‘A deadline?’

  ‘A crucial one. Next month Lord Halifax, the Government minister, is coming to visit. What do you know of Halifax?’

  Clara racked her brain for details of the cadaverous Earl, with his homburg hat and icy, aristocratic manner. ‘I know he welcomed the reoccupation of the Rhineland. He said it was only Germany’s backyard.’

  ‘Halifax has been deputed to open dialogue with the Germans. Officially he’s here as Master of the Middleton Hunt, to visit Goering and shoot foxes with him. Unofficially, he’s sounding out German intentions. Goering is aiming to entertain him along with the new ambassador, Mr Henderson. As I said, Henderson is already predisposed to admire the Nazis. He’s claims to admire all the regime leaders, even Goebbels. He’s wilfully blind. He swallows everything the Nazis tell him about wanting closer ties between our two great nations. Halifax, I’m less sure about. But he has been heard to use the phrase “alterations in the European order” to refer to Hitler’s plans for Lebensraum.’

  ‘You mean he thinks any aggression will be confined to Poland and Czechoslovakia?’

  ‘Exactly. And the Nazis sense weakness. So it’s vital that before Halifax arrives I get accurate details of the extent of the Luftwaffe build-up. Halifax – and others – have to know what we’re up against.’

  ‘What are we up against?’

  He took a long, slow pull on his whisky and frowned at her.

  ‘I’d say Britain is at the most important crossroads she has faced in her history. Appease fascism, or face up to it. The future of the entire continent of Europe for years will depend on what happens in the next couple of months.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Clara braced her shoulders. ‘But I still fail to see how the future of Europe can have much to do with me.’

  He flipped open a packet of Senior Service and tilted it towards her.

  ‘I’m getting to that. Your friend Oberst Strauss.’

  Strauss. She thought of the ramrod figure at the Tempelhof aerodrome, with a tip of his hat, turning on his heel.

  ‘He’s not my friend.’

  ‘That may be. But it was when you mentioned meeting Strauss that I decided I had to confront you. I was in two minds before then. Even when I asked you to the café I hadn’t quite decided. I didn’t want to compromise you in any way. I didn’t see that you could really be useful to me. And you’re Dyson’s find.’

  She bridled at that.

  ‘I’m not anyone’s find, Captain Sommers.’

  He smiled apologetically. ‘Of course not. You’re independent. Like me. But you are immensely valuable. The problem with many British agents is that their accent is appalling. People can’t forget they’re not German. But your German is perfect.’

  ‘Really, Captain Sommers . . .’

  ‘Ralph. Do please call me Ralph. Anyway, Arno Strauss. How well do you know him?’

  ‘I barely know him at all. What do you know about him?’

  He chuckled. ‘Arno Strauss. Born Berlin 1896, son of Hans and Eva Strauss. Twin brother now deceased. Wealthy background. Trained as a pilot and flew Fokkers in the war. Became an expert in aerial combat, was highly regarded and awarded the Cross of Merit. Shot down forty-five British planes. Among Ernst Udet’s closest friends, if not the closest, and now working alongside him in the Technical Division of the Luftwaffe.’

  ‘Well then. You plainly know far more about him that I do. What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to get close to him.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘To cultivate him.’

  She gave a little choke. ‘And how do you propose I do that?’

  His mouth twisted into a smile. ‘I think you underrate your charm.’

  ‘Strauss doesn’t look like a man who is susceptible to charm.’

  ‘All men are susceptible to charm, Clara, believe me.’

  ‘And why on earth should I do this?’

  ‘In case an opportunity presents itself.’

  ‘An opportunity for what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that right now.’

  She stared at Ralph in amazement.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain Sommers – Ralph. I hope you don’t think me obtuse. But if you can’t tell me what you want of me, then why in God’s name should I agree to it?’

  He continued to look at her steadily, and gave a slight shrug.

  ‘Because of what’s at stake.’

  She looked around the room for a moment, considering, then scrutinized him afresh.

  ‘OK. My turn to ask then. You said you were a freelance. What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘It means this isn’t school, or the army, or any of those places where one has to keep in line and wait for others to do the thinking. As I said, there’s too much at stake. It’s a time for action, and utilizing every possible asset that we have. Individuals who are in a position to help have to act now.’

  ‘Yet you mentioned the Air Service. You said you’re working for them.’

  He stubbed his cigarette thoughtfully and crossed his long legs.

  ‘That’s true. I am. But they allow me a certain amount of freedom of operation. How can I explain it? Let me think.’ His eyes lingered on her while he considered. ‘When I was a boy I loved my biology lessons. I adored studying creatures under a microscope, analysing the way they work. And I remember looking at a butterfly’s eyes close up. Have you ever seen them? They have an infinite number of parts, and they all add their perspective to create one compound eye. Well, Intelligence works the same way as a butterfly’s eye. Lots of insights, wider perspective.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ said Clara crisply. ‘And who exactly will my insights be going to?’

  ‘To the right people. People in the Secret Intelligence Service.’

  ‘Does Archie Dyson know you’ve approached me?’

>   ‘Nobody knows. Just you and me.’

  ‘Then I’ll think about it.’

  He frowned slightly, at this hesitation.

  ‘Of course. You’re right to think it over. We can meet tomorrow and you can tell me your decision. It’s really rather pressing.’

  ‘I’m busy tomorrow. And then I’m going to Munich.’

  ‘Munich?’

  ‘There’s someone I need to see there.’

  There was a twist of annoyance in his eyes, as if he was unused to people thwarting his plans.

  ‘I see. Well as soon as you get back then. If you would.’

  His eyes seemed to be stripping her as she sat there. She sensed the fumes of whisky coming from him and realized he was slightly drunk. Though she had explained she needed to leave in the morning, he made no move to show her out. He smiled.

  ‘I still can’t get over how clever they are. Having an agent in place who is absolutely part of the furniture. Totally one of them, moving in all the right circles. Living here for the long term with every good reason. And a woman, what’s more.’

  Clara flashed him a look. ‘Perhaps you should have paid more attention in those biology lessons of yours. You might have discovered that a woman is every bit as capable and intelligent as a man. More so, probably.’

  He shook his head and shrugged.

  ‘But of course.’

  There was something infuriating about Ralph Sommers. As though age and experience gave him the right to issue her with orders and assume that his commands would be obeyed. Was it his remark about women, or his maddening assumption that Clara would drop everything to fall in unquestioningly with his plans that made her bridle beneath his gaze?

  ‘So what about you, Ralph?’ she said coolly. ‘Are you in Berlin long term? Is there a wife at home worrying about you?’

  He raised his eyebrows and flicked her a glance that was entirely unambiguous in its meaning.

  ‘Too busy for that.’

  He got up and stood at the mantelpiece with his hands thrust in his pockets, staring at the photographs there. ‘You ask me why I am prepared to run risks myself. I have some personal knowledge of the situation in Spain. My oldest friend signed up to fight with the partisans last year. But there’s been no word of him for nine months now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He still had his back to her. He was rubbing the edge of his jaw thoughtfully.

  ‘His name is Tom Roberts. I’ve known him all my life. We were at school together, and then Cambridge too. He was last heard of with a band of fighters outside Madrid, holed up in one of the university buildings with the windows blocked up with books of nineteenth-century German philosophy and ancient literature. That should suit him, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s all right.’

  ‘Yet again, your optimism does you credit.’

  Clara refused to be deflected by this brusque response.

  ‘Had you considered going out there perhaps? Looking for him?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Spain’s a big place.’

  ‘But you have Intelligence contacts. How hard would it be to find an Englishman answering his description? You could ask around.’

  He gave her a sharp look. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like out there?’

  ‘I have a friend who was in Spain. She’s an American journalist. Mary Harker of the New York Evening Post. She was with the International Brigades for some of the time. Would it be worth me asking her if she had run into him?’

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Forgive me for burdening you with my personal concerns. It was rude of me. If there’s one thing I know about Tom, it’s that he can look after himself.’

  He turned and faced her, the charming smile back in place.

  ‘Now then. If you’re busy tomorrow, you’ll need your beauty sleep. Think about what I’ve said, won’t you? I’ll be in touch in a few days.’

  Clara went to the door and hesitated.

  ‘There is something you need to know. Just so you understand . . . You mentioned Archie Dyson. The fact is, I saw him very recently and he told me that I had been talked about at Gestapo headquarters. He advised me to lie low.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Actually, he advised me to go back to Britain.’

  ‘And are you lying low?’

  ‘If I was going to, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’

  He approached and stood disconcertingly close. She smelled the faint trace of whisky and soap and the starched cotton of his shirt.

  ‘In that case, I hope you’ll be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful.’

  His eyes lingered on her thoughtfully.

  ‘You know, you took umbrage when I talked of you being a woman, but I happen to think the British are behind in using women for espionage work. The French are way ahead of us. The French have what they call their femmes galantes. Yet we Brits waste our women. You’re our best assets and we’re afraid to use you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Old-fashioned ideas. The people back in London say that women can’t keep a secret. They’re concerned that a woman will get emotionally involved.’

  He was surveying her quizzically. For a moment, she wondered if he might reach out and touch her. She had to force herself not to flinch beneath the intensity of his gaze. Once again she felt the current of attraction that had flickered between them when they first met, at the Goebbels’ party. An unspoken sexual connection that made the heat rise to the surface of her skin and her mind churn with possibilities.

  ‘You needn’t worry, Ralph. That’s not going to be a problem with me.’

  She turned quickly and walked out of the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There were more than six months to go before the baby was born and the gifts had already started arriving. Standing at the door of Reich Minister Goering’s turreted, palatial state residence in Leipziger Platz, clutching a Steiff bear, Clara wondered if she would appear madly presumptuous in bringing her own present for the forthcoming child. In Britain it was considered bad luck to bring a gift before a baby was born, but here in Berlin ambition was always going to come before superstition, and a gift for Goering’s child was likely to be one of the wisest investments anyone could make for the future. Besides, it was surely perfectly proper, given Emmy Goering’s insistence on inviting Clara to several parties on the basis of a tangential acquaintance over several years and the fact that they were both actresses. All the same, Clara was half hoping that Emmy was not at home.

  She was out of luck.

  The butler led Clara through a high-ceilinged hall into a drawing room. Here were none of the doily-draped side tables or dried flower arrangements of the traditional Berlin home, but a spectacular hall whose walls were hung with Old Masters and windows crowned with swags of burgundy draping. An enormous mosaic swastika was worked into the marble floor. Emmy was sitting in a red plush throne more suited to a pope, with gilded pineapples at the corners. She didn’t yet look as pregnant as her husband, whose vast bulk ballooned at the seams of his ministerial uniform, but she was visibly puffing up, like a zeppelin being slowly inflated. She wore a wedding cake of a dress, with voluminous cream flounces and a rivulet of frills, and her hair was coiffed girlishly around her face. She was smoking Turkish cigarettes and had a plate of cakes by her side.

  ‘It’s you, Clara. What a relief. I thought it might be another messenger from the Italian Embassy. Herr Mussolini has been so attentive since his visit last month. Have you seen what he sent me?’

  She gestured at a pair of diamond-encrusted gold antlers, poking out in absurd extravagance from a side table.

  ‘Extraordinary, aren’t they? Italian taste has changed a bit since the Renaissance, hasn’t it? I must say the Duce was terrifyingly tactile. I was afraid to be in the room alone with him. And in my condition!’

  Emmy Goering had been a provincial s
tage actress in Weimar, but once she had caught the eye of Hermann Goering her career had blossomed accordingly. Their wedding, a couple of years ago, made the Duke of Windsor’s ceremony look like a vicar’s tea party. Thirty thousand soldiers lined the route to the cathedral and the Luftwaffe had performed a fly past. Now, although acting would not be commensurate with her status as Reich Minister’s wife, Emmy liked to keep abreast of the film world and had taken to sending little notes to Clara, commenting on her performances.

  ‘Everyone has been exhaustingly generous. Can you believe it?’ She pointed to a stack of gifts ranged across two trestle tables. It included crystal vases, Meissen tea sets and a variety of other household luxuries entirely unsuited to the wants of a newborn infant. There was an ivory chess set studded with jewels – emeralds for pawns, rubies for bishops and diamonds for the King and Queen. The City of Cologne had sent a painting by Lucas Cranach. The Madonna and Child. Clara peered at the gift message and wondered if it was supposed to be some form of flattery. The Madonna, beneath her velvet canopy, did indeed possess corn-coloured coils of hair uncannily similar to Emmy’s, but that was where the resemblance ended. Emmy’s thickened girth and pudgy face couldn’t be further from the girlish maiden overwhelmed by the joys of nativity. Looking at the display, Clara’s bear felt smaller and less consequential by the second. Emmy took it, smiled politely and plumped it on top of a Dresden cake stand.

  ‘Presents are difficult, aren’t they?’ She sighed, fingering an especially hideous glass nude. ‘The Führer has the right idea. He only gives three things – a photograph frame, a smoking set or a portrait of himself. Usually an oil painting.’ She paused to chuckle. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to see the look on people’s faces when they unwrap that?’

  Clara risked a smile. ‘I’m glad to find you here. I thought you might still be in Bavaria.’

  ‘We’re just back. We’ve bought a house at Obersalzburg now but it’s a mistake, really. It means we’re at everyone’s beck and call.’

  ‘Was it terribly busy?’

  ‘Madly. Fräulein Eva Braun has a new hobby. You’ll never guess what.’

  Clara couldn’t.