Solitaire

by Jane Thynne

  ‘Perhaps you should join them. It would be useful to know what those women spend their time gossiping about, though I suppose I can guess.’

  He lit a cigarette and passed it to her, then lit another for himself.

  ‘But I didn’t invite you here to discuss trivia, pleasant though it may be. Tell me, do you know who I mean by Walter Schellenberg?’

  The name alone was enough to send an ice cube down the spine. Clara did know, but it was probably better if she didn’t.

  ‘Could you remind me?’

  ‘Chief of Amt IV of the RSHA.’

  Despite the numerical obfuscation beloved of intelligence-speak, Clara knew this meant the Reich Main Security Office, the Nazi intelligence service, of which SS-Sturmbannführer Schellenberg had just been promoted to head the counterespionage arm. He was the man in charge of rooting out spies in the entire Reich. He was said to be as ambitious as he was good-looking, and he was tackling his new job with formidable zeal.

  ‘I think I might have seen him once. Across a crowded room. But I never had the opportunity to speak to him.’

  ‘Well then. Perhaps your chance has come.’

  Goebbels leaned forward, elbows on knees, and lowered his voice.

  ‘I brought you here because this is an extremely confidential matter. It’s not the kind of thing I could discuss in my office because it’s stuffed with idle secretaries whose ears are flapping and Babelsberg is full of loose-tongued gossips who love nosing in other people’s business. And it goes without saying that if a word of this gets out I will hold you personally responsible.’

  He paused to examine his nails, buffed regularly by a personal manicurist. Skilled as she was in observing the smallest details, Clara noticed they were bitten to the quick.

  ‘Herr Schellenberg has received intelligence that the Reich Chamber of Culture has a traitor in its ranks.’

  ‘A traitor?’ She lowered her glass. ‘What kind of traitor?’

  ‘A spy who is liaising with the British. That kind.’

  Clara knew her expression was entirely impassive. As an actress she had trained every muscle in her face to register only the emotions she wanted to express, and if her eyes widened at these words, or her cheeks paled, then it was entirely justifiable. Who would not be shocked at such a notion? Yet Goebbels’ words terrified her. What was he implying? Was he about to confront her with allegations of her own espionage?

  To steady herself, she took a sip and made a show of savouring the crisp white wine, as its undoubtedly hefty price tag deserved.

  ‘Can I ask who this spy might be?’

  ‘One of my favourite artists, I’m afraid.’ Goebbels glowered and twisted his cigarette into a cut-glass ashtray, as if the situation had arisen precisely to vex him.

  ‘Hans Reuber.’

  Clara exhaled with relief.

  ‘You know him, of course.’

  Everyone knew him. You could hardly escape him. Hans Reuber’s face was on ten-foot billboards the length of the Reich. He was a celebrated stage entertainer, and his particular act, a mix of illusions, hypnotism and magic tricks, had become wildly popular in recent years, as the Nazi clampdown on political cabaret and risqué nightclubs made way for more inoffensive entertainment. Posters of Reuber in evening dress, or wearing a turban, or bending suggestively over a prone woman, were everywhere, promising Screams of laughter every evening! Despite the comic, ridiculous and downright erotic situations he induced, there was no shortage of willing secretaries and clerks happy to drop into a trance for the amusement of others.

  ‘As Reuber is in the Chamber of Culture he falls under my responsibility, so Schellenberg quite rightly came to me first. He wanted to arrest the fellow straight away, but there’s no evidence. If you botch that kind of thing it plays badly with the public. It shakes their faith in the authorities. People like the man. They don’t want to hear that he’s a traitor. Not without solid evidence and Schellenberg doesn’t have that, so I forbade him to act, and he was obliged to listen to me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Clara knew that if Schellenberg had wanted to proceed, he would have done so with or without Goebbels’ permission. The security of the Reich trumped all other concerns, particularly trifling issues of box office popularity. Perhaps the notion of Reuber’s treachery was more of a hunch, or a smear. Not a day went by without some public figure being denounced for anti-Nazi tendencies, based on nothing more than malice and professional jealousy.

  ‘However, seeing that Schellenberg had sought my advice, I said I would mull it over, and I had a rather good idea. It involves you.’

  Clara felt herself freeze as Goebbels’ eyes travelled over her; from the carefully shined shoes that were wearing thin in the sole, over the rose pink summer dress that was several seasons old and patched at the hem, up to the pearl necklace at her throat and the Prussian blue eyes that returned his gaze with perfect equanimity.

  ‘Forgive me if I’m a little puzzled.’

  ‘You’re what – thirty-three? And still single.’

  Clara’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass and she willed herself to remain impassive. Did he know – could he know? – about Leo? She felt a fury rise in her gorge – as though Goebbels himself was responsible for Leo’s death, even though she knew that was not true, and she forced herself to push it back down.

  ‘I’m not as fortunate as you, Herr Doktor.’

  That was careless. Many times over the past seven years the miserable Magda Goebbels had taken Clara into her confidence, with the result that Clara was probably as familiar with Joseph Goebbels’ marital shortcomings as he was himself. Her reply grated, even to herself, but he gave a brittle smile.

  ‘No indeed. We can’t all be so lucky. Your work, though, must be a consolation.’

  Strangely, he was right. After Leo’s death, it seemed obvious to Clara that there could never be another man in her life, so shrugging on the shallow, glossy existences of the characters she played was a fantasy, like donning a flimsy piece of lacy couture. Their lives were an escape from the void of her own.

  ‘It keeps me busy.’

  ‘Yet you haven’t had the role yet to make you a star. You’re well known, of course, in your profession, but you’ve never had a task that really tested your mettle.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but . . .’

  ‘Don’t interrupt. I think I’ve found it.’

  ‘Is this another film?’ she queried, confused.

  ‘Not exactly. It’s a little more taxing than that. Though it’s still technically a performance and perfectly within your abilities. In fact, this could be your moment. I’ve often thought that what distinguishes a real star is the ability to seize the chance when it presents itself. That’s a lesson I’ve learned in politics, but it applies in all areas of life. In some respects you’re still a rough diamond, Clara Vine, but I intend to polish you into a jewel. I’ve always had you down as someone who would be good at guarding a confidence. There’s something reserved about you – I would say sly, but I don’t want to sound rude, so let’s just say you seem like you might be good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I thought as much. So I’ve chosen you for a little mission. I hope you won’t let me down.’

  He stood up and limped over to the window, staring out at the Bogensee beyond. The drizzle was getting heavier, pattering through the damp trees, darkening the terrace in the fading light. A cloud of rain was rolling over the surface of the lake. The absolute solitude was disturbed only by the harsh call of a goose rising precipitously from the reeds.

  The interval gave Clara a moment to compose herself and she stood up. When Goebbels turned, she was regarding him with equanimity. She didn’t even flinch when he came right up close and examined her. At five foot six they were the same height and their faces were directly level.

  ‘Look at you! Your reaction tells me everything I need to know.’

  Inside she felt the twist of her
intestines and the clutch of fear.

  ‘You haven’t turned a hair. I ask you to undertake a confidential mission and you behave as though you’ve had an invitation to a garden party. My instincts are always right.’

  ‘And what do your instincts tell you, Herr Doktor?’

  ‘They tell me you will be perfectly suited to our little arrangement. Nothing formal, of course, but I would like there to be an understanding between us. I may have future tasks for you if you are successful this time.’

  ‘Could you explain what this mission will involve?’

  He threw himself back into his chair and fixed her, eyes glittering.

  ‘You will make a trip to Paris. The Führer wants nothing more than the most civilized of occupations and therefore he has asked me to ensure that the French people have a taste of German culture free of charge.’

  ‘What kind of German culture does he have in mind?’

  ‘Symphonies, plays, that sort of thing. The Reich Chamber of Culture is holding concerts in the parks and a couple of the theatres will be staging work by German authors. Reuber’s performing too, though his task is to entertain the troops. You will be visiting Paris as a singer. You do sing, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really. I mean I can sing, but . . .’

  Goebbels waved a dismissive hand at Clara’s objections, as if brushing away a small but irritating fly.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. No one’s expecting Marlene Dietrich. Your main task is to befriend Reuber. How you do it, I don’t mind – he’s a vain man and he loves a pretty face so you’ll be pushing at an open door, but the moment you have any evidence of his treachery, I want you to report your findings. Reuber will be dealt with accordingly.’

  ‘But . . .’ Clara tried to absorb the instructions Goebbels was delivering. It seemed he was asking her to lay a honey trap for a fellow performer, a hypnotist at that, and one who had every reason to be on his guard.

  ‘Surely Reuber would be suspicious to encounter a German actress in Paris.’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve heard of the Frontbühne, it’s my new association for the entertainment of German troops abroad. We have a division performing in Paris right now. You’ll be joining them for a couple of days.’

  ‘Just a couple of days? How will I explain that?’

  ‘I’ll leave the details to you. You’ll come up with something. You’ll need to because I’ve booked you a spot on the Request Show in a few weeks’ time to discuss it.’

  The Wunschkonzert für die Wehrmacht, the Request Concert for the Wehrmacht, was Germany’s new favourite show, a weekly mélange of light music and personal requests for soldiers at the front that drew half the population to their radio sets. ‘For every request two marks to the Winterhilfswerk!’ was the programme’s slogan, repeated with bracing regularity. The musical numbers alternated between marching songs and love ballads – parents tended to request uplifting military music for their sons whereas girlfriends and wives chose love songs. Every celebrity, from Hans Albers and Willy Fritsch, to Marika Rökk and Werner Krauss, was desperate to be part of it.

  ‘You’re going to talk about your work for the Frontbühne. The challenges, rewards, your pleasure at serving the Reich. The usual script. I’m sure you’re capable of that kind of thing. Anyway, the train tickets and the Reisepass will be delivered to your apartment and you will leave in forty-eight hours.’

  It seemed he had thought of everything.

  Following him as he made his way briskly to the door, Clara suddenly realized that this request was not a disaster but an opportunity. Leaving the Reich was almost impossible for German citizens, yet in France it was different. From Paris it might be possible to find an escape route to England. If that was what she wanted.

  Goebbels paused, one hand on the door handle, and gave a smile as fake as the cream cakes in Schiller’s Konditorei.

  ‘How’s that lad of yours? Helga Schmidt’s child, isn’t he? I hear you take care of him.’

  He had caught her off guard. Clara had no idea that Goebbels had ever heard of Erich.

  ‘He’s doing well. He’s a very promising student.’

  Goebbels smiled pleasantly, but there was ice in his eyes.

  ‘It’s good of you to look after the boy. I suppose he has no one else to take care of him. What would he do without you? It would be sad if anything befell him.’

  The smile dropped like a stone.

  It was not until she was crossing the gravel drive towards the official Mercedes that would transport her back to Berlin that the full import of Goebbels’ audacity dawned on her. Erich was his hostage. If she didn’t return to Germany, Goebbels would ensure that her beloved godson came to some harm.

  He really had thought of everything.

  Chapter Five

  Katerina was sitting at the front upstairs window of the children’s home, looking out at the latest arrivals. The word ‘home’ was somewhat misleading to describe the forbidding Gothic block in Lichterfelde, southwest Berlin, where the NSV orphans lived. Beyond an iron fence, a stretch of gravel and an honour guard of rose bushes gave way to a red brickwork entrance edged with pale, triangular inserts like the jagged teeth of an opened jaw. With its blank face and five imposing floors it looked more like a factory than a children’s home, which, in a way, it was. A factory that took in orphans, drilled and processed them and turned out useful members of society, ideal adornments to any family and perfect citizens, to be relocated through the Reich Adoption Service. And on account of the war, there was now a never-ending supply. They came in their best clothes, with a knapsack and either a single favourite toy, provided that it met the ideological requirements, or a book, so long as it was in German. Looking through the flaky iron bars that filled half the window frame, Katerina heard the gates close with a metallic clang and was reminded of the children who followed the Pied Piper of Hamlyn, the great rocky doors of the mountain groaning shut behind them.

  Inside the home the Gothic gloom theme continued, with floors covered in ugly linoleum, walls painted an institutional brown and high narrow windows through which a listless light penetrated, illuminating by way of decoration a series of instructive posters pinned to cork boards. Most of the posters had messages like Girls! Do Your Duty! and Collect for Youth Hostels! and Save Bones for Aircraft Production! but others depicted happy, flaxen-haired families clustered around a hearth, or gazing at a swastika-lit sunset, or hiking through Alpine fields on a Strength Through Joy holiday, though whether these were deliberately designed to remind the orphans what they were missing, or merely insensitive, was not entirely clear.

  The orphanage was close to the military barracks that trained the Führer’s bodyguard and frequently lessons and meals were interrupted by the sound of gunfire. The children gossiped that the barracks were where people were assassinated and there was supposed to be a wall spattered with bloody flesh, but the teachers cracked down harshly on talk like that. Outside, soldiers marched past day and night, and inside, with equally military precision, the female officials of the NSV, called the Brown Sisters, held sway.

  The Brown Sisters were nurses who were committed to National Socialism and had taken an oath of loyalty to Hitler. Unlike nuns, who had been responsible for a lot of government childcare in the past, the Brown Sisters had no difficulty with modern practices like sterilizing idiots that the more old-fashioned nurses shunned. They were sticklers for regime and as if they were not controlling enough, they received a steady stream of memos from SS-Reichsführer Himmler on subjects ranging from the correct way to steam vegetables to the amount of porridge to serve orphans at breakfast each morning and the importance of administering cod liver oil. There was a bath once a week and a daily cold-water wash. The Brown Sisters were also responsible for sorting their charges into one of four classes. First- and second-class orphans would go to the best SS families and receive support from the government. Third-class children frequently remained at the orphanage, or were sent to families of lower social status
. No one knew what happened to fourth-class children.

  Until last December, Katerina had never known any children who had no parents. Even now, she didn’t think of herself as an orphan. Orphans were like something out of the books she used to read, always being abandoned, or abused or left on a doorstep or a mountainside. They cropped up everywhere from Greek myths to Cinderella, and fairy tales were full of them. Generally orphans were plucky and resourceful characters who ultimately came good, whether it be finding the parents who had mislaid them, turning into princesses or inheriting kingdoms. Indeed, sometimes, having no parents seemed like a precondition of making an adventure of your life, but the NSV home was nothing like an adventure. It wasn’t even like a home. The only privacy was a small box beneath the beds in the dormitory, where orphans stored their meagre clothes and their sole permitted possession. Most of them chose stuffed toys that would be taken out and hugged at night, their eyes blank and beady, their fur wet with tears, but Katerina had selected a much-thumbed magazine about dogs.

  Probably the worst thing that had happened after Papi died was having to say goodbye to Anka. Papi had found Anka in a sack tossed into the Landwehr Canal, a shivering, curly-haired puppy who cringed when anyone stroked her. She grew into a glossy creature of boundless energy, racing across the Tiergarten at dawn, sniffing and chasing and leaping into Katerina’s lap at inappropriate moments with a little yelp of joy. She could still feel the way Anka would push her nose into the crook of her leg, or reach up to lick a hand in a demonstration of unconditional love. When Papi died, the same committee of relatives who had ordained that Katerina live in the orphanage had arranged for Anka to be rehomed. Katerina had not known a thing about it until she came home from school to discover her dog gone and Sonja smoking irritably in the kitchen, charged with delivering the news. It was perhaps the only occasion Sonja had been properly tender towards her. She explained that she had not known about the plan, but that Anka was now in the countryside, loving her life on a farm, able to run off the leash and with plenty of fresh meat to eat. She had no details of where this farm might be, but she was firm that there was no chance Anka would return. In the meantime, to help her get over it, she had bought Katerina a copy of HundeWelt, Dog World. Katerina had read the magazine so many times she knew it by heart.