by Jane Thynne
‘Some choice,’ said Clara, who would always take the option that avoided Goebbels.
‘It is. But Joey Goebbels is winning hands down.’
‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘He’s hit on a masterstroke. They may starve us of news, but we’re not going to starve any other way. He’s fixed the ration coupons.’
For some months a complex system of colour-coded cards had been issued by the Reich Rationing Office – blue for meat, yellow for fat and white for sugar. Aryans were allocated more than two thousand calories a day, Poles less than a thousand and Jews around two hundred. Some categories of the population, such as nursing mothers and manual workers, received special concessions.
‘There’s this system of handing out our ration coupons at the end of every conference – it’s a way of making sure the press turns up – and Goebbels has arranged for us to get double rations.’
‘Surely double rations are only for coal miners and heavy labourers?’
Mary shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Journalism counts as heavy labour, as far as I’m concerned. Sometimes I’m doing a sixteen-hour day. Anyhow, von Ribbentrop can’t work out why everyone’s opting to attend the Propaganda Ministry briefings instead of his. Say what you like about Mahatma Propagandi, he’s clever.’
‘There’s a lot else I’d say about him first.’
Mary looked at Clara, and her grin faded.
‘Are you having a problem with Goebbels? Apart from this film, I mean?’
‘Nothing I can’t cope with. I’m hoping the war means he’s too busy to bother with me any more.’
‘And your English heritage?’
‘You forget. I’m a citizen of the Reich now, so it needn’t be a hindrance.’
Mary knew that Clara had taken German citizenship, and she had a shrewd understanding of why, yet the two of them never spoke of it. It was better that way.
‘All the same. Lilian Harvey’s gone back to England.’
Like Clara, Lilian Harvey had joint German and English parentage. Although she had been born in Muswell Hill in north London, the actress had been Ufa’s favourite blonde bombshell in the last decade until she found the attacks on Jewish colleagues too much to bear and had fled, with plans to quit acting altogether and open a gift shop.
‘Something’s bothering you.’
‘Something’s bothering us all.’
‘How’s the family?’
‘They don’t write often and I’d need permission to telephone abroad. Besides, I wouldn’t risk it.’
‘And Erich?’
How swiftly Mary had got to the heart of the matter. She knew intuitively that Erich was the sole reason that Clara had stayed in Berlin, and not only because she paid for the boy’s support in his grandmother’s apartment.
‘Erich is hoping to join the Luftwaffe. Fortunately he hasn’t succeeded yet. I sometimes wonder if I could pull some strings.’
‘You mean get him drafted?’
‘I mean keep him out.’
‘And . . . everything else?’
Clara hesitated. Even now caution prevailed. Even now, when Leo was dead and there was no longer any earthly need to deny what had existed between them. Why was it so hard to allow the truth to bludgeon its way out from the frozen wasteland within? Why could she not even bring herself to say his name?
She gave a light shrug.
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘I still can’t believe you’re staying.’
Clara frowned. How to explain the new mood of resolution that had woken in her?
‘I’ve managed so far, haven’t I?’
Mary took off her spectacles and cleaned them on the edge of her skirt. It was a journalistic trick that generally bought her a little time while she considered how to approach a tricky subject, but Clara was no interviewee, and she knew there was no point probing further. When Clara wanted to keep something private, there was barely any chance of prising it out.
‘Well, whatever it is about Goebbels, watch out, won’t you?’
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t seen him for months and I’m doing my level best to avoid him.’
They remained a moment in silence, breathing in the mingled summer scents of cut grass and wood smoke. They had reached that stage of friendship where they knew so much of each other’s lives that certain things could stay unsaid, and what remained unknown would never be allowed to come between them. Mary pulled out a packet of Marlboro and flipped the top.
‘Have one of these. Bill Shirer brought them back from the States. God, I miss real tobacco. The stuff they sell here makes mud taste good. And you can’t scrub the stain off your fingers for weeks.’
They lit up, savouring the toasty flavour, so helpful in deadening hunger pangs.
‘In fact, it’s not just the cigarettes I miss.’
Mary aimed a sudden, searing glance at her friend.
‘The truth is, I’m not sure I can stand it here much longer.’
‘You’re not thinking of leaving?’
Shock made Clara’s voice unnaturally loud.
‘I don’t know how long I can go on dealing with these people. You must hear the stories – one of my German colleagues was arrested last month and taken to Gestapo headquarters. He was beaten to within an inch of his life. His own daughter didn’t recognize him when he returned. Another guy, a contact of mine, simply vanished. He never came home and two weeks after he disappeared his wife received his spectacles in the post. Just that. The Herald Trib correspondent got thrown out yesterday for suggesting the Germans and the Russians are no longer getting on.’
‘But you don’t write about the politics.’
Mary Harker’s Berlin Life, which ran in the New York Evening Post, was designed to take a sideways look at the city, focusing on everyday ‘human interest’ stories away from current affairs. Privately Clara had always welcomed this approach, aware that in the realm of political reporting Mary and her visa would be easily parted.
‘Everyday life is politics now. It’s impossible to say where one ends and the other begins.’
Mary didn’t need to spell it out. Even among the actors and studio staff Clara knew, people were cracking up. Wondering if they would be denounced or accused, whether the knock would come on their front door and they would join the disappeared, rotting away in prison camps as their relatives mounted ineffectual campaigns for their release. Berlin was a city full of fear, where people watched their backs and hoped the slam of the car door at dawn was for their neighbour, not themselves.
‘All of us American correspondents are under intense pressure. It’s becoming almost impossible to report objectively. And if the Nazis invade England, the Post will want me to embed with the German forces. I don’t know if I can bear that. I love your old homeland. I lived there for a while, remember, back in ’36? In a pretty cottage in Kent while all that fuss was going on about the King’s abdication and the wicked Wallis Simpson.’
She paused and exhaled a luxurious plume of smoke.
‘God, that affair was romantic. It is impossible to discharge the duties of King without the help and support of the woman I love. And then the Duke went and enraged his nation by coming to Germany on honeymoon.’
Clara smiled wryly.
‘I remember.’
She had seen the couple briefly on their Berlin visit, the Duke, tiny and trim, and his new wife Wallis, beady-eyed and swathed in fur like a trapped mink, with a look on her face that said she had never planned ending up on the arm of an ex-King, let alone dragged around Europe, mocked and reviled, far from the fast society she loved. Yet once they were wedded, the couple did everything to keep up appearances. Wallis Simpson was a couturier’s dream and the pair were competitive dieters who survived on a regime of olives and cocktail nuts that made their Nazi hosts appear all the more gargantuan.
‘I was at a party Goering hosted for them out at his country place, Carinhall. The entire top brass turned out in force. E
veryone in England was furious about it. I almost felt sorry for them.’
‘Wonder what they’ll do now.’
‘I’m sure the Duke will be going back to Britain if he hasn’t already. He’ll want to play his part.’
‘Actually . . .’ Mary hesitated, relishing the gossip she was about to relay. ‘That’s not what I heard. Churchill is begging them to come home but word is they’re having a very enjoyable time in Europe. The Duchess is digging in her heels. She’s refusing to get dragged into the war.’
‘Even someone as accustomed to getting her way as Wallis Simpson might find it hard to avoid an international war.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Wally’s American, remember, so she’s not involved. And she won’t lift a finger to oblige the British. There’s been endless underhand sniping from the Royal Family.’
‘Families are good at that kind of thing.’
‘Your Royal Family make everyone else look like amateurs.’
‘But if the Nazis continue to occupy mainland Europe, they’ll have to go. They’re English royalty, for heaven’s sake. What do they expect will happen?’
‘Wallis is a survivor. If she can survive the British Royal Family, she’ll certainly manage the Nazis.’ Mary stretched out her legs and sighed. ‘Anyhow, in the meantime, I’ll stay as long as I can. I’ve been offered a new job.’
‘That’s fantastic news!’
‘It’s only a short contract but it’s something entirely different. It’s radio, Clara, and I think I’m made for it. CBS gave me a test broadcast and I thought I’d freeze to the microphone but as soon as I opened my mouth I got quite carried away and I realized, yes! This is what I’m good at. Talking.’
‘You mean no one told you?’
‘They’ve asked me to come up with some short pieces. “Berlin in Wartime”. That’s why I came to see the camp. Though I think I’ve seen enough now.’
In the distance a volley of jeers and cheers heralded the end of the boxing match. Two burly prisoners seized the loser by his underarms and were dragging him from the ring, heels scraping on the mud, a line of blood soaking the earth.
Mary ground out the half-smoked Marlboro, placed the stub in her pocket and looked up at the darkening sky.
‘I felt a spot of rain, didn’t you?’
As they passed the rows of prisoners returning to their work, almost imperceptibly Mary slipped a young man her cigarettes.
‘Careful,’ said Clara. ‘Someone got four months in prison the other day for giving a single cigarette to a Pole, let alone an entire packet.’
Back at the studios they retraced their steps down a corridor and past the sound stage where the Zarah Leander musical was being filmed. As they passed, a hulking six-foot soldier in an angel costume emerged, a cloud of chiffon flapping behind him, head bent awkwardly as he attempted to remove a sparkly earring. His face was coated in Max Factor’s Pan-Cake and his lips were a crimson rosebud. He caught the women’s eyes on him, coloured, and stalked off with as much dignity as he could muster.
Clara and Mary managed to contain themselves until they were out of earshot, before convulsing with laughter all the way back to the foyer. They were about to pass through the revolving glass door when they were stopped by a bark of command.
‘Fräulein Vine! One minute!’
A shrew-featured young man wearing the uniform of an SS-Untersturmführer was marching self-importantly towards them. He clicked heels and pointed an envelope at Clara like a Walther PPK.
‘I’m glad to find you. I have an urgent communication for you from Herr Doktor Goebbels.’
He gave her an envelope, which Clara pushed straight into her bag.
‘I don’t think you understand,’ he said officiously. ‘You need to read the letter now.’
‘And why is that?’
The Untersturmführer made an impatient gesture towards a sleek black Mercedes 320 standing with its engine idling in the studio forecourt.
‘The Herr Doktor has sent his car for you. He wants to see you without delay.’
Chapter Three
‘Before we leave, girls, Volksmaske practice.’
Thirty scrubbed faces, thirty neat heads, thirty pairs of blue eyes so similar they belonged on porcelain dolls, and thirty pairs of hands reached for the canisters at their sides. Katerina Klimpel, jolted from her daydream by a sharp dig in the ribs, did the same. Fräulein Stark, the Mädelführerin, a skeletal figure with anaemic skin stretched like tissue paper across her face, stood with her arm raised and when she dropped it, everyone pulled on their gas masks in the stipulated ten seconds and fastened the loops behind their ears. The masks were bizarre objects, bristling with straps and buckles, and when Katerina peered out through the murky eyepiece she thought Fräulein Stark, with her great circular eyes and long rubber proboscis, resembled some antediluvian reptile from the swamps of Berlin’s prehistory, ready to stalk the city streets.
As they took the masks off again and folded them back into their tins, Katerina wondered what the poison gas would look like when it came raining down. Would it resemble a glitter of pollen spiralling in the warm evening air or the smoke that was right now wafting from the bonfire in the park outside? Could it be seen, in the way planes made a scribble of light on a clear blue sky, or would it be sucked invisibly into the ground, swirling up from the earth like marsh gas and causing flowers to wilt? And what about all the animals, the dogs and the cats, would they have Volksmasken too?
‘And before we leave.’
What followed needed no prompting. The girls sat silently and bent their heads, murmuring the words.
‘Hände falten, Köpfchen senken, immer an Adolf Hitler denken.’ Hands folded, head lowered, thinking always of Adolf Hitler.
It was important to end the weekly session with a Moment of Thought about the Führer, yet whenever they did Katerina could never prevent her mind from wandering. It was always the same. There was something about Hitler she just couldn’t focus on. Perhaps it was because she had never seen him – so it was impossible to think of him as a real person. Or that he came in so many different incarnations. She remembered her first induction as a ten-year-old Jungmädel, in a room furnished with a portrait of the Führer on a black stallion, wearing a silver suit of armour. That was her favourite image of him, like something out of a fairy tale, yet most of the time he seemed more of an idea than a human being. An idea that seeped out across the entire Reich, filling up every space, every scene, every mind, like poison gas. No. Not poison! This was exactly why she should never speak her thoughts out loud. She was apt to get things mixed up, or say things that were not what people wanted to hear. Whenever she tried to articulate the images that ran through her mind, they always came out wrong. Perhaps that was because language was designed to express the sentiments that people in authority believed. Like the things Fräulein Stark said. ‘The trust of this great nation must be buried deep in your souls.’ Phrases that went right through Katerina’s head. Even when Fräulein Stark used ordinary words, like work or freedom, she managed to make them sound harsh and ugly, as if they were twisted in wrought iron.
That said, Katerina was quite interested in the Volksgeist, the spirit that lived inside you and helped you learn your duty to your country, particularly because there was also an evil spirit – a Geisteskrankheit – which stopped you from taking pleasure in National Socialism. The good spirit and the bad spirit. That was easy to remember. Yet most of what they learned at the Bund Deutscher Mädel slid through her mind like water through open fingers.
Fortunately, she’d hit on a solution. Whenever she was asked to think of the Führer, she would think of his dog instead. Her friend Heidi’s cousin had paid for a hair of Hitler’s dog. It came from the vet and it was absolutely authentic. Katerina’s own dog was the dearest creature on earth, or she had been before she went. A dog was the first thing Katerina would acquire when she was older, and she liked to amuse herself with endless speculation about breeds and nam
es. So her Moment of Thought was usually a silent prayer that one day she would have another dog, and perhaps a family, and a home of her own.
A general shifting signalled that the Moment of Thought had ended and the BDM girls struck up their leaving song.
We must forge a discipline
Obedience, subordination
Must fill us all because
The nation is within us.
Katerina joined in lustily. She loved this one with its jaunty tune and when she still lived at home she had sung it often, drawing a scornful raised eyebrow from her half-sister Sonja. Originally she had assumed that this was because Sonja was a professional singer. In striking contrast to her personality, Sonja’s voice was sweet and gravelly, with a husky, lilting quality that ensured her a loyal following in the city’s cabarets and nightclubs. She would perch on a high stool, cigarette in one hand, a feather boa of smoke weaving around her shoulders, and her voice would tie you up in knots and wring you out, even if you had no idea what she was singing about.
Katerina initially assumed Sonja’s scorn was directed at her atrocious singing but lately she had realized that it had more to do with the song itself.
It was always hard to tell what Sonja thought, especially about her. It must have been hard seeing her own mother replaced with Katerina’s, when Sonja was just twelve years old, and then so shortly afterwards being introduced to a tiny newcomer with a cloudburst of white-blonde hair and shell-pink skin who rapidly became the apple of their father’s eye. Perhaps Sonja had felt hostile to Katerina all her life. Or maybe scornful distance was just Sonja’s style. It was hard to tell.
She wasn’t exactly unfriendly. There were plenty of times when she would entertain her half-sister with songs, or read, or chat to her about actors and actresses, or show her how to apply make-up and quiz her about the girls at school. Sometimes she would arrange for Katerina to watch her perform at the Café Casanova, her lithe body draped over a piano in a dress of golden silk, hair tumbling in glossy waves, singing Noël Coward’s Mad About The Boy in heavily accented English, with a wistful quality that made you think she was genuinely, hopelessly in love. But there were far more times when Katerina felt like an unwanted encumbrance in her older sister’s life. When they were out together, Sonja would stride ahead, her hands clenched into fists in her pockets, while Katerina tagged along behind, her heart freezing over.
