Solitaire

by Jane Thynne

  Nearly 1,600 boxers, Dobermann pinschers and German Shepherds have joined the Wehrmacht. Her favourite picture was a photograph of the Führer reaching out to pet a stray dog on a French battlefield. The Führer loved animals, almost as much as he loved children, and enjoyed feeding wild deer that came to his hand at the Berghof.

  There were no animals at the NSV home, unless you counted the bees that drifted through the air to the old wooden hive at the end of the orchard, and it was hard to form much of an attachment to them. They had studied bees in Nature lessons at the BDM. Never run away from bees, there was no point – the swarm would capture you if you angered them. A single person had no chance against thousands of stinging insects. Much better to make the swarm feel that you were no threat. Bees were utterly disciplined, each with their own task and purpose, all working for the good of the hive and the figure at the centre, their queen. Some of them were workers, others drones, condemned to fulfil their allocated functions.

  Bees were a good model, they were told, for girls of the BDM.

  When the letter had dropped onto the mat on Katerina’s tenth birthday, informing her that she must buy a uniform and report to the Jungmädel group nearest to their home, she had been overjoyed. From that group she had graduated nine months ago to the BDM, along with all her friends, and acquired the leather knot, ID card and special emblem to be stitched onto her clothes. Being a solitary child, with only a father who spent most of his time at work, the idea of a ready-made group of friends to see every week was delightful, though Sonja was unimpressed.

  ‘What do you do at that place anyway?’

  ‘We play games. We bake cookies and sing songs and tell fairy stories.’

  Sonja set a lot of store by reading. There had been a time when she would even read to Katerina. The best stories have a little piece of glass in them. It might prick you and make you bleed inside, but it also reflects a bit of your own life back at you. She must have changed her mind, though, because now she shrugged.

  ‘I can get all the fairy stories I want listening to Goebbels on the wireless.’

  Katerina tried to think of something more impressive.

  ‘We’re always collecting for charity.’

  When she was issued with her first WHW collecting tin she brought it home and placed it proudly on the mantelpiece, but one day, entering the room unexpectedly, she came across Sonja raiding it for cigarette money. Her sister had merely looked askance and said, What are you going to do, call the police?

  Now Katerina wondered if she should call the police.

  Every time she thought about her sister, she had a sick feeling of dread. Despite her other failings – and even at her age Katerina realized that those failings were many – Sonja had always been reliable about telling her younger sister where she would be.

  So long. Be good, kid.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single finger on her shoulder, causing her to startle and jump to her feet, trying to stand as straight as possible, pulling herself to her full five foot nothing and holding her damaged leg as stiff as she could bear. Fortunately it was only Fräulein Koppel, the kindest of the Brown Sisters. Unlike most of them, who had faces like the gargoyles on Berlin Cathedral, Fräulein Koppel was extremely pretty and even managed to make the shapeless brown serge of the nurses’ uniform look chic. She had curls of coppery hair peeping out from under the starched white cap, a confetti of freckles and frank, grey eyes that were now looking at Katerina in speculative fashion.

  ‘You are a proper orphan, aren’t you?’

  ‘I have a sister.’

  ‘No parents, though?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’ve given it some thought, and I think you will be suited to a very special task.’

  ‘Thank you, Fräulein Koppel. Can I ask – I mean, what is it?’

  She leaned forward with a sweet, confidential smile and whispered in Katerina’s ear.

  ‘I can’t explain right now, but come to the nurses’ office at eight p.m. All I can say is, it’s a very great honour.’

  Chapter Six

  Since the war, Berlin had gone grey overnight. Luxury was the scarcest of commodities. The grand hotels – the Kaiserhof, the Esplanade, the Adlon and the Excelsior – were doing their best to retain the glamour of their pre-war days but beneath the gloss, there were unavoidable signs that the gilt was wearing thin. Five o’clock Tea Dances had been banned, both because dancing was disrespectful to the troops, and because tea itself carried distasteful connotations of Englishness. The scented wealth of pre-war days was long gone and with all young men conscripted, a shuffle of ageing waiters, shirt fronts whitened with talcum powder, promoted an air of decrepitude. The furnishings were down-at-heel. Although the restaurant menu still advertised a number of meat dishes, shortly before lunch waiters would circulate with pencils, striking all but one dish from the menu, leaving only floury potatoes and canned vegetables. What else could guests expect at a time when everyone, even farm animals, had their own ration cards?

  The monumental Hotel Eden, across the street from the zoo, was once the most stylish of all Berlin rendezvous. Rising with staid grandeur from Budapester Strasse, it boasted a pavilion, a ballroom and an American grill. From its rooftop café diners could enjoy dazzling views from Charlottenburg to the far stretches of the Tiergarten as they consumed their Kalbsbraten and champagne. Now, however, its pocked marble lobby and reek of cleaning fluid had an air of the public convenience. Past the reception desk with its mandatory silver-framed placard announcing, We Don’t Deal With Jews, Clara entered the brass elevator and rode six floors, stepping out onto the roof where once all Berlin society went to tango. Between two potted palm trees a banner had been strung.

  Ein Volk Hilft Sich Selbst.

  A People Helps Itself. The motto of the NSV.

  The NSV was in charge of all welfare activity in the Reich. Its aim was to secure the health of the German people, though obviously only those of desirable political, racial and biological stock, and despite reports that its funds were squandered on luxury, the nation’s favourite charity had gone from strength to strength since the government decided to dock a compulsory donation from every worker’s pay packet. Yet with the advent of war even this master stroke was not enough to meet the nation’s welfare needs so it was now deemed essential that every citizen make some kind of a personal contribution. In Clara’s case this meant being conscripted onto a committee organizing a series of high-profile fundraising events. At least, she thought as she pushed into the throng, it would take her mind off Paris and the impossible task facing her there.

  Trays of Sekt and soda water were circulating among a cluster of glossy women dressed in hats and chiffon tea dresses. While most of Berlin’s citizens looked increasingly shabby, the glorious expansion of the Reich had brought some welcome souvenirs for the lucky few: silver fox from Norway, shoes and hats and silk dresses from Paris. The miasma of French perfumes in the air made the upmarket parts of Berlin smell like a beautician’s salon. Clara had rescued from her cupboard a pale green Chanel-style suit that had been run up by her seamstress friend Steffi a few seasons ago. Although no hotel, restaurant or café was allowed to sell cigarettes to women, most of those present toted Moslems and Aristons between their jewelled fingers, and their glinting eyes and angular, observant features gave them the appearance of intelligent birds.

  Clara made a quick automatic scan of the crowd. This reception was to launch a fundraising evening for orphans to be held in August and while it was hard to imagine any group in Germany having less in common with underprivileged children, the scheme was the brainchild of Emmy Goering, which meant attendance was pretty much compulsory. The female ranks of the Nazi regime were out in force. A cast of A-list actresses, including Marika Rökk and Jenny Jugo, as well as a panoply of politicians’ wives, had fallen into line. Only Magda Goebbels was a conscientious objector. There had to be some upside to being pregnant for a sixth time.

  ‘C
lara Vine!’

  Emmy Goering came barrelling towards her, the white enamel gold cross of the Badge of Honour for Caring for the German People bouncing on her corsage.

  ‘I hope you realize it was me who got you elected onto this committee. There’s only a small number of us. Frau Doktor Goebbels has not seen fit to attend despite the fact that she is the NSV’s official patron.’

  ‘I think she must be indisposed. I heard she was expecting another child.’

  ‘Hmm. One might think she had the hang of it by now. Anyway, we’re unveiling plans for our cabaret evening at the Hitler Youth building. It’s in aid of orphans of the Reich. The announcement will be made here and carried in tomorrow’s papers. The committee is just me and a few of the senior women and you. It is rather an honour.’

  ‘I realize that. Thank you.’

  ‘I said to Hermann, this fundraiser is all about children and as poor Clara Vine doesn’t have any little ones of her own the least she can do is work with needy families.’

  A sympathetic frown creased her features.

  ‘Don’t you sometimes wish for a child, Clara?’

  ‘I’m not married, Frau Goering.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter so much at times like these. Lots of women are raising children single-handed. And didn’t you tell me you had a godson you looked after? Motherhood is the most rewarding calling. Can you believe our little Edda just celebrated her second birthday?’

  Edda Goering was, by any reckoning, the most important child in the Reich. A tiny replica of her father with the same wide cheekbones and broad mouth, she was commonly known as the Crown Princess and treated with appropriate reverence. Not for Edda the humble wooden toys and dolls in dirndls; her playthings included a complete replica of Sans Souci Palace erected in the ministerial garden.

  ‘If you had a child you’d be no different from any other widow who’s lost her man in the fighting.’

  ‘I suppose. But to tell the truth, I’m too busy to even think about it.’

  ‘Yes, you do look a little tired.’

  ‘Aren’t we all tired?’

  Fatigue was everyone’s favourite subject, what with disrupted nights and extended working hours that meant factory workers had their shifts lengthened to twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and even actresses were being required to work overtime. At every canteen, bread queue or tram stop encounter, the same topic would surface. People never got tired of how tired they were.

  ‘I can see it round the eyes. Look at you.’

  Even if she could, Clara didn’t need to look at herself. Outwardly she knew she was little changed; still poised, though thinner than she had been, and while her eyes were a little shadowed, her complexion was mostly unlined, yet inside she had transformed entirely. It was as though all the years in Berlin and the hammer blow of Leo’s death had carved their way into the marble of her being. Experience had chiselled her into someone sharper and more distinct.

  ‘You need to get yourself a doctor’s appointment. I’ll see if I can fix you up with Theo Morell.’

  Doktor Morell worked out of a fancy slice of wedding-cake baroque in the Kurfürstendamm, whose stucco entrance was garnished by nude sandstone caryatids in far better shape than his most famous clients. Saggy jawlines and irregular features were a lucrative part of Doktor Morell’s business, his marriage to the actress Hannelore Moller having brought him plenty of custom at the Ufa studios where he had long been the first choice for adjusting noses and removing unsightly blemishes. But his real star patient was one whose stubby nose, bulging eyes and ugly features were never going to be fixed. Morell had got lucky in 1936 treating the Führer’s perennial stomach cramps with a concoction of vitamins, and thereafter Hitler appointed him his own personal doctor. All the senior Nazis followed suit, despite the rumour that Morell did not set too much store by patient confidentiality.

  ‘I’m fine, really.’

  ‘If you’re sure. But we all need to be fighting fit if we’re to help others.’ Emmy Goering glanced impatiently away. ‘Now the Hitler Jugend has organized a consignment of orphans to be photographed for Sonne ins Haus . . .’

  The Sun in the House was a leading Nazi family magazine, much given to True Life stories, beautiful baby competitions, recipes for fat-free cake and all types of heart-warming sentimentality. Fundraising events for orphans was its bread and butter.

  ‘The children should be here any moment, so if you see one you like, just say the word . . .’

  Fortunately, this train of thought was derailed by the spectacle of the statuesque Zarah Leander passing through the throng, standing out from the crowd by a good head. Her neck was circled by a serpentine diamond collar and the pale gleam of her Swedish skin was set off by gems that dazzled like a lighthouse beam whenever she turned. Emmy Goering’s mouth twitched.

  ‘Wouldn’t it make sense to have a fully German actress as the Diva of the Third Reich? I know Goebbels thinks it’s helpful to have a Scandinavian since the Reich occupied Denmark because it enhances our reputation there, but really, I would have thought a pure-blooded German woman . . .’ Possibly recalling Clara’s mixed heritage, she stopped herself, reached for a passing ham sandwich, ate it and collected a spare. Clara helped herself too, marvelling at the quality.

  ‘Mmm. I haven’t tasted Black Forest ham for a year.’

  ‘One has to eat when one can. Given we’re living in permanent Lent.’

  Frau Goering dabbed at her mouth.

  ‘Anyhow, it will be over when the British see sense. That’s what my husband’s always saying.’

  ‘How is the Herr Reich Marshal?’

  A theatrical sigh.

  ‘It’s been so difficult. The Belgium incident. You may have heard.’

  That January, Goering had suffered a serious political setback when a Luftwaffe plane carrying secret plans for the invasion of France crashed in Belgium. The pilot swore that he had burned the documents himself and there was no chance that anyone could have pieced together the charred remains, but all the same the debacle cast a cloud over Goering’s reputation.

  ‘Hermann consulted my clairvoyant who assured him the papers were destroyed, but the Führer was angry and my poor darling has suffered terribly. His glands are playing up. He’s heavier than ever and his war wound is inflamed. He’s in constant pain.’

  Clara had heard that Goering kept a dish of codeine pills on his desk and ate them like sweets.

  ‘He’s absolutely exhausted. Do you know he had a stag imported from France – a little victory present to himself – and sent up to Carinhall last weekend? But when he went out with his gun he fell asleep on the stand before he could shoot it.’

  She passed a hand across her eyes.

  ‘Please God all this can be over soon. The Führer says the British are a reasonable people. They’re not going to reject an offer of peace. Of course, you should know, you’re half English. I so often forget.’ She paused pensively. ‘Other people keep mentioning it, but whenever they do I say, Clara Vine is one of us!’

  Clara smiled. ‘Do they keep mentioning it?’

  ‘My dear, you mustn’t worry. I’m not one to listen to unkind talk. If you want to gossip about someone, I’m the last person you should come to. Rumour and speculation are so damaging. If you have nothing nice to say about a person, don’t sit next to me, that’s my motto.’

  She was distracted by a guffaw of laughter from across the floor. A bleached blonde in a tight-fitting plum silk dress with a shrill, fizzy laugh, like a champagne glass overfilled, was drawing fascinated looks.

  Frau Goering raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You haven’t met our other committee member. Irene Schönepauck.’

  ‘I don’t know her, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. She’s only just arrived on the scene. She’s landed a very high-ranking fiancé.’

  Clara looked again. The young woman could not have appeared less like the standard Party spouse, firstly because she was attractive
, secondly, because she was defying all the basic rules for Nazi women by wearing vivid orange lipstick, thirdly because she was poured into a body-hugging silk dress, and then a whole lot more reasons to do with her Slavic cheekbones, liberally applied eye make-up and tumbling platinum curls.

  ‘I’m not supposed to say anything about it because the man in question has only just divorced his last wife.’

  Clara waited. Whenever Emmy Goering mentioned a secret, a disclosure was sure to follow. For her, morsels of gossip were like canapés; no party was complete without them.

  ‘But just between you and me, his name is Walter Schellenberg.’

  The breath caught in Clara’s throat.

  ‘Schellenberg!’

  ‘I know. It’s a surprise, isn’t it? Everyone was astonished. Frankly, we all assumed that, if anything, Schellenberg was more interested in the boss’s wife. Frau Heydrich. Everyone thought they were having an affair. Apparently Heydrich believed it too because he took Schellenberg out for a walk and threatened to poison him if the rumours were true.’

  Even as Emmy Goering dispensed her news, Clara’s mind was busily calculating. Walter Schellenberg was the man whose suspicions had led to her new role as a honey trap. An opportunity to meet his new fiancée, and find out more about the man himself, was too good to miss.

  ‘Schellenberg is a devil, though,’ whispered Emmy Goering. ‘A brute, and a ruthless one. You heard all the talk about Coco Chanel? I wonder if this girl knows what she’s getting into.’ She broke off because the blonde woman was sashaying towards them, in a strut more suited to a Parisian catwalk than a Party meeting. The eyes of the crowd stuck to her like burrs.

  ‘Mind you, she looks like the type who knows what she’s doing. Let me introduce you.’