The Pursuit of Pearls

by Jane Thynne

  The Hamburg City Orchestra. Where her mother had once played as a concert pianist. If life had been different—if the dashing Ronald Vine had not sat in that audience and fallen in love with the young Helene Neumann as she played a Brahms concerto, and she had not followed him back to England—then it might have been her mother on the radio that day. Except, of course, it wouldn’t, because, as the daughter of a Jew, Helene would have been banned from any orchestra in the Reich. She would have been excluded from the Reich Chamber of Culture because she could not show an Ariernachweis. And now her daughter was facing precisely the same terrifying predicament.

  After applying a light coat of Elizabeth Arden foundation, Clara finished her makeup with a dusting of powder, sprinkled a little salt on her toothbrush in lieu of tooth powder, and pondered her options.

  Archie Dyson, her contact at the British embassy, had been relocated to Rome, a plum promotion that must have thrilled his ambitious wife, but left Clara without any direct contact with British intelligence in Berlin. Even if she got a message to Major Grand through Benno Kurtz of the Ritze bar, and he was able to organize another ID for her, how long would that take? For a second she considered asking Mary Harker if she had any contacts, but such a request could compromise Mary, too, and that was a risk Clara refused to contemplate.

  A memory flickered. Something Steffi Schaeffer had said.

  We have a young man who produces passports and identity papers for us. He turns his hand to anything…His work is superb.

  She felt a rush of pure relief, like sun streaking across the lake, and her heart lightened. She made a quick cup of coffee, pulled on a jacket, and took up her bag. She needed to find Steffi without delay.

  —

  WITHIN AN HOUR SHE was on a bus, heading down the Königsallee. Fortunately, Berlin’s big cream buses, like London’s scarlet Routemasters, had open platforms at the back, making it easy to get on and off in a hurry. Clara sat, as always, at the back, which meant that she could observe whoever got on from behind. The bus reeked of stale clothes and unwashed bodies. The windows were mottled with condensation. Beside her, at eye level, the standard notice had been fixed: THE FARE DODGER’S PROFIT IS THE BERLINERS’ LOSS. Underneath was a line instructing readers to report anyone not paying the twenty-pfennig fare to the authorities.

  The bus was held up periodically by workmen installing the new air-raid shelters. A vast honeycomb of tunnels and shelters was being created beneath Berlin, a dark mirror to the new city rising above it. A rabbit warren of tunnels, cellars, and giant concrete vaults with soundproof walls several meters thick as though, if bombing happened, there was the faintest chance people would be able to sleep through it.

  —

  CLARA FOUND STEFFI SITTING in the back room of Herr Fromm’s shop with pince-nez perched on her nose, almost buried behind a length of field-gray serge.

  “Hold on a moment. I’m just finishing the buttonhole,” Steffi said in greeting. She unwound a length of thread expertly from the spool and matched it to the material, then continued sewing, her fingers slipping, dipping, tucking, and weaving, marrying needle and cloth in a balletic rhythm that was soothing to watch.

  “The Wehrmacht is extremely particular about its buttonholes. They insist they’re hand-stitched a certain way, and they always check. The stitches need to be a certain length and made from the correct thread. There are very precise regulations. Herr Fromm says no one knows as much about the details of a Wehrmacht uniform as I do.”

  “So you’re as particular with your Wehrmacht uniforms as you are with your Chanel frocks?” Clara smiled.

  Steffi would run up exquisite copies of designer outfits at prices even actresses could afford. Chanel, Worth, Lanvin, Patou; there was nothing she would not turn her hand to. She studied the originals and reproduced them down to the finest details so that it was impossible to tell the difference between Steffi’s creations and the real things.

  Now she frowned and bit off a length of thread. “More, if possible. I’ve done so many now, it’s become my new specialty.”

  “Some specialty.”

  Steffi looked up at Clara over her pince-nez. Her face was alive with suppressed meaning.

  “Oh, but it is, Clara,” she said softly. “Did you know there are more than thirty SS cuff bands and sleeve diamonds? Could you tell me what color stitching to use for a death’s-head collar tab and how that differs from the silver flat wire on the SS Gruppenführer’s collar tab? How the diamond insignia on an SS Obersturmbannführer’s collar tab should line up relative to the tresse? There may come a day when that kind of knowledge proves very useful.”

  She returned to her stitching.

  “Fortunately for me, most officers have their uniforms tailor-made, so I’ve had plenty of time to learn.”

  Clara felt in her bag for the bars of Menier chocolate. “I brought these for Esther. How is she?”

  “Not here, I’m afraid.”

  Catching Clara’s alarm, Steffi took off her spectacles and lowered her voice. “We had to move her.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a Konditorei—the Konditorei Herschel, do you know it?”

  “Of course. It’s in Winterfeldtplatz. At the end of my street. I’ve been there with my godson several times.”

  It was a typical Berlin place with a finely scrolled ceiling and delicately tiled floor filled with a fluctuating population of women chatting and men looking for a quiet moment of relaxation with a newspaper. Its cakes, displayed proudly beneath a glass counter at the front of the shop, were true works of art. Turks’ heads; sweet, flaky pigs’ ears; towering piles of profiteroles, Spritzkuchen, and Nusstörtchen. Soft sponge that melted in the mouth and pastries oozing cream and cherries. Even if the flour was low-grade and the butter was whale blubber, the nation’s sweet tooth demanded cakes.

  “That explains something.”

  Clara had noticed that certain visitors would enter the café and linger at the glass case, chatting to Frau Herschel, glancing around at the clientele happily consuming their coffee, and then leaving without buying anything. For a close observer like Clara, it wasn’t hard to deduce that Frau Herschel’s Konditorei had a second, more secretive, line of business.

  Steffi stood up and stretched, rubbing the ache in her lower back. “The proprietor there, Frau Herschel, has helped us in the past. She’s a good woman, but we can’t rely on her for long. We still need to get Esther to England.”

  Clara glanced behind to check the door was closed and said: “As a matter of fact, I didn’t just come to bring the chocolate. There’s something I need to ask you. You mentioned you knew someone who could do documents.”

  A wary glance. “Who is this for?”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “I need a new Kennkarte. And an Ariernachweis. Mine have been destroyed and…I don’t think it would be possible to get new ones.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The genealogy records would be lacking. Do you think your man could help me?”

  Clara was used to Steffi’s sharp scrutiny. The dispassionate look that came over her face whenever Clara tried on a new dress, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes raking ruthlessly up and down, taking in all her defects and not sparing honest comment if a line didn’t flatter or a style made her hips look too large. But this was one aspect of Clara that Steffi had never seen or suspected. Jewish blood.

  Nonetheless, she absorbed it swiftly.

  “Go to the zoo. Next Thursday lunchtime. Bring two photographs of yourself.”

  “Thursday! That’s six days away. I have no identity documents at all. What if I’m stopped before then?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the soonest our friend can manage. Go precisely at one o’clock and you will see a man there.”

  “Where? The zoo’s a big place. How will I recognize him?”

  “He’ll recognize you. When he sees you, he will leave immediately and you must follow him. He will lead you a few
streets away. When he enters a building, wait, then knock on the door twice. If anyone but him answers, say you were looking for a Herr Vogel.”

  “Herr Vogel? Is that his name?”

  “That’s no one. If our friend is alone, and certain that you were not followed, he will let you in.”

  “Is it safe in daylight? Shouldn’t we meet later?”

  “Our man believes he is far less conspicuous in daytime. Innocent people don’t go scurrying around at night. And, Clara…”

  There was the clang of the bell, and from behind the velvet curtain came the sound of someone entering the shop followed by the unctuous, indistinct tone of Herr Fromm’s voice and the curt male bark of a customer.

  Both women stiffened.

  “You should leave,” said Steffi. “But wait a moment, I have something for you.”

  She crossed the room and reached into a wardrobe, bringing out a slate blue jacket on a hanger. It was three-quarter length, with gold buttons and a rich scarlet lining. Clara recognized it at once. It was the same jacket she had seen hanging in the window of the Paris store.

  “A Schiaparelli jacket!”

  “I saw it in Vogue and I had to try it.”

  “But where did you get the materials?”

  “That’s the thing. You can’t get the textiles, but I thought, that shade is awfully familiar, and I realized it was close to Luftwaffe blue. And there was a bolt here that we had to reject on the grounds that it was not precisely the right shade. It wouldn’t pass inspection. The Luftwaffe is very strict like that.”

  “You shouldn’t have!”

  “Perhaps. But if war comes, clothes are sure to be rationed, and you won’t be able to get hold of a thing. Try it on.”

  Clara pulled the jacket on, sank her hands into the deep pockets, and did a little twirl. Steffi stood back, arms crossed.

  “Well, I’ll say this for you. You certainly look like the real thing.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Schwanecke’s wine bar on Rankestrasse was a popular hangout for actresses and theatrical types. In the old days photographers would gather outside, hoping to catch a shot of Marlene Dietrich as she emerged and the actress would favor them with one of her trademark hundred-watt smiles, but Marlene Dietrich was an ocean away now, beaming at Hollywood photographers, and the press had other things than actresses on their minds.

  There was a sign on the counter.

  DO NOT ASK FOR COFFEE. WE HATE TO DISAPPOINT.

  Clara was nursing a cup of watery tea. She had, as always, paid up front so that she could leave quickly if necessary. From her position at the back of the café, she could see every customer by profile, as well as keep an eye on potential observation points across the street as she leafed through a copy of the B.Z. am Mittag.

  Already the euphoria of the Führer’s birthday had faded and the paper had returned to its customary fail-safe formula of propaganda, threats, and atrocities. In the top right-hand corner was a list of people who had refused to contribute to the Winter Relief fund. Naming and shaming was a way of life in Germany. Anything from homosexual love affairs to hoarding food, reading banned books, or the catchall crime of holding “attitudes negative to National Socialism.” Often the only way to escape denunciation was to denounce the accuser. Recently, however, police had begun to buckle under the weight of accusations coming in, with the result that a fresh incentive had been dreamed up. Now you could win a reward for denouncing anyone making false denunciations.

  That day’s center pages, however, did contain something fresh. A double-page spread devoted to the scale model of the Welthauptstadt, the new world capital that Albert Speer had created for the Führer’s recent birthday. It was a marvel of its kind—far more impressive than the models Clara used to buy for Erich from Märklin’s toy shop in Charlottenburg. Every house in Speer’s city was rendered in bone-colored balsa wood, windows glinting, streets gleaming, the great dome of an enormous Volkshalle like an upturned ostrich egg and the replica cathedral cleansed of its grimy façade. It was a pearl-white paradise, delicate and shimmering as a heavenly city—except this was a city that existed only in Hitler’s mind. Clara imagined his fingers dawdling along the façades, poking into doors and windows, marching down Unter den Linden, caressing the curve of the giant dome. Every detail was perfect and exact, except for the fact that there were no people. It was as if the world had been tipped and all the untidy, inconvenient inhabitants had slid off the edge.

  Someone has been saying some very unkind things about you.

  For days, Magda Goebbels’s comment had been sounding at the back of Clara’s mind. What had she meant? Was it just the usual whispers that swirled around actresses, who were always the targets of gossip and innuendo? Or was it another scrap of the feverish speculation that obtained in the upper circles of the Nazi Party? Was Clara genuinely being watched? With filming on Love Strictly Forbidden ended and work on Germania yet to begin, there was a hiatus. So that morning, she decided to find out.

  All spies, Leo told her, must learn to read. Not newspapers but voices, body language, faces. She watched as a man entered the café and came to sit beside her and thought of the first rule on Leo’s list. Look out for the unobtrusive. Beneath the fedora the man had a worn, creased face and a hangdog expression, and this anonymity, as well as the fact that he made no eye contact and gave no subtle acknowledgment of her, instantly aroused her suspicions. That was until his roll and hot tea arrived and he began to wolf it down with feverish haste. She realized instinctively that the man must be a non-Aryan, no longer allowed in cafés or restaurants, and that he was desperate for a pleasure that he might not experience again.

  A speech came on the radio, and the owner reached over to turn it up. As the jackal’s bark of Joseph Goebbels rang out, all conversation hushed immediately—it was the law—and most people even stopped chewing, as if eating and drinking were disrespectful when the propaganda minister was holding forth. They weren’t far wrong. No element of normal life was too trifling to avoid Goebbels’s scrutiny, and this issue had, in fact, been covered in a recent pamphlet, “Instructions to the Catering Trade on Restaurant Etiquette in the Case of Political Pronouncements.” Clara, like everyone else, lowered her cup and allowed her face to go blank. In more zealous districts, customers would stand and salute the radio, but in this upmarket area silence was thought to suffice. It was not an easy listen. Hitler’s shriek was bad enough—it must hurt his throat as much as it hurt the listeners’ ears, Clara thought—but there was nothing seductive about Joseph Goebbels. Yet his voice reminded her of something he had said. You look totally unrecognizable with those spectacles. By chance the spectacles she wore for her film part were still in her bag. Fishing them out, she waited for the speech to finish, then left the café.

  —

  SHE WALKED DOWN THE great stuccoed apartment blocks of the Kurfürstendamm, now decorated with antiaircraft guns pointing into the porcelain-blue sky. Stopping at Harry Lehmann’s perfume store, she spent a few minutes testing her favorite scents—tulip, violet, and rose. Sunlight created iridescent reflections on the flasks of perfume, which were ranked along a shelf with a mirror at their back. A leisurely show of sniffing, dabbing, and testing enabled her to keep an eye on the street outside, but no figure shuffled to a stop, or loitered against the green Litfass advertising column to light a cigarette.

  After leaving the perfumery, she turned in to Fasanenstrasse and passed the remains of the synagogue, burned to the ground the previous November. When the fire was at its height, the synagogue cantor had appealed to the fire crews who drew up outside to save it, but the firemen explained they had come only to protect the neighboring buildings.

  Clara’s eyes scanned the road. It was the least likely people you watched for. The elderly gentleman in gray homburg, kid gloves, shiny boots and spats, an umbrella over his arm, proceeding at a leisurely pace along the other side of the road. The woman queuing outside the fishmonger’s for a fresh
consignment of herring. The newspaper seller, calling out a friendly greeting from his cast-iron kiosk.

  There was one man she noticed, with a sallow, forgettable face, proceeding at a steady pace behind her. She stopped where a salesgirl was rattling a Winter Relief box and fumbled for her purse. As she hunted for coins, the girl winked and said, “For guns.” Cynicism was everywhere on the streets, like a black-market brandy that passed from one person to another and warmed the secret places of the soul. It was what made Goebbels’s joke maker such an inspired idea. Clara deliberately dropped a few coins on the ground, but when she dipped to the pavement to collect them, the sallow man overtook her and vanished from sight.

  All the same, she descended into the U-Bahn, past the sign that said Jews and dogs were barred from the escalator, and let the first train leave without her. When the next train arrived, she waited until every other passenger had boarded before slipping on just as the doors closed. Two stops later she got off and caught a train in the opposite direction, then left the U-Bahn and jumped on a big cream bus as it was moving off.

  Eventually she came to the Marienkirche. The thirteenth-century church, with its red bricks and its green spire, could not seem more of a contrast to the granite monumentalism of Albert Speer. Although churchgoing was frowned on now, and most places of worship were deserted, a visit to the Marienkirche counted as a cultural outing because of its most famous artifact—the Totentanz, the dance of death.

  The fresco had been lost for centuries until it was glimpsed under a layer of whitewash and painstakingly brought back into the light. How like life that was, Clara thought. Death hovered out of the corner of the eye until it came suddenly, drastically into view. The theme was a German tradition. Death danced, holding the hands of cardinals and popes, saints, kings, and fools. Looking at the saints, with their eroded features, softened by time and devotion, Clara wondered: Would Hitler’s own features one day become dulled and worn away with familiarity, until, like that of a monstrous king, the sight of him no longer had the power to surprise?