A War of Flowers (2014)

by Thynne, Jane

  Map-making was an appropriate enthusiasm for the Nazi regime, given that it was intent on revising the maps of Europe all over again. Also on the wall was a map that had been redrawn since the Anschluss to include Austria, now renamed Ostmark, and stamped with a decorative swastika whose crooked arms seemed to extend like hooks across the continent, angling for other nations to ensnare. Cartography was certainly a good career choice in Nazi Germany. That, or making battleships.

  Austria had shattered him. At the age of thirty-six, with a good fifteen years in journalism behind him, Rupert Allingham no longer expected that a news story could make him weep, but the things he had seen in Vienna in the past month had brought tears to his eyes. The sound of German drums beating like an iron heart as the troops marched into the city centre. The sight of strapping blondes fighting to get a glimpse of a Jewish surgeon on his hands and knees, scrubbing the pavement with delicate, experienced fingers that had probably saved the lives of hundreds of Austrians and were now bruised and bleeding from the slashes of the whips wielded by thugs in swastika armbands. The Viennese Nazis were far more brutal than the Germans and they lost no time in jailing Jews and confiscating their property. The rich or élite Jews, like Sigmund Freud, were able to flee, but the others were stranded. Even before they crossed the border the Gestapo had assembled a hundred thousand names with Viennese addresses, and now an official called Adolf Eichmann had been put in charge of an Office for Jewish Emigration in Vienna. The trouble was, nobody else wanted them. Czechoslovakia had closed its borders to Jewish refugees. President Roosevelt had convened a conference in France to address the problem, but France, too, was making it hard for Jews who wanted to escape. The word was that since the Nazis had given up the hope of the Jews moving en masse to Palestine, they had a plan to ship them to Madagascar. All sorts of schemes were in the pipeline, formulated by fat officials behind desks in Berlin, reducing the faraway lives of thousands of people to a stack of paper. One plan had been floated to arrest all the Ostjuden on a single night and transport them at gunpoint to Poland. Canada, Angola, Haiti, Abyssinia had also been mooted. What kind of minds devised these schemes? Did they consider what it would mean for people to be wrenched away from everything they knew? It was sometimes impossible to avoid the conclusion that some of the nastiest acts of the century were being perpetrated not by evil geniuses, but by bureaucrats.

  No wonder he drank.

  ‘You waiting for something, Allingham?’

  A voice cut through his reflections. It was Herbert Melcher, from the Associated Press, a quiet American with a wit as dry as a vodka martini.

  ‘I’m waiting for the Fourth Reich to begin.’

  ‘You might be waiting some time.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  Melcher had a face full of creases, like a newspaper that had been balled up and smoothed out again. He was more softly spoken than a lot of the correspondents, whose voices tended to match the size of their by-lines, but he had been around a long time, and Rupert respected him.

  ‘Mahatma Gandhi was on frenetic form today, I thought. Determined to avoid all mention of the international situation. Incredible that he should be talking about an exhibition of German culture at a time like this.’

  ‘Sure. If you want an exhibition of German culture, just take a walk down the Jewish quarter when a marching band’s been through.’

  ‘Heard about this reception he’s holding?’ Melcher asked. ‘A showcase for Hollywood? A night of the stars to flatter the executives of the big American studios?’

  ‘Can he be serious? They’re never going to turn up at a time like this.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. The invitations have gone out already and I’ll bet they’ve all been accepted, too. What Hollywood mogul would miss a chance to drink Goebbels’ champagne and eyeball his actresses? Germany’s an important market for them and they’ll do a lot to keep in the Reich’s good books.’

  ‘So no movies about aggressive nations marching to war.’

  ‘Precisely. Stick to candy-floss romance. Take the public’s mind off their troubles.’

  ‘Are the press invited to this extravaganza?’

  ‘The society columns will be for certain.’

  The newspaper gossip columns were full of actresses sleeping with sports stars and countesses having affairs with gigolos at the Adlon and Goebbels always encouraged them, chiefly because they never dared mention the spiciest society gossip, concerning himself.

  Melcher moved closer and brought his soft felt hat up to his face. ‘Here’s something you won’t find in the social columns, though. You know about Goebbels’ Czech girlfriend?’

  ‘Who doesn’t? The porter here told me he’s had a suite installed behind his office. It has a system of bells so that no one disturbs them.’

  ‘Might prove unnecessary. From what I’ve heard, the girlfriend’s about to be banished from the Reich on the Führer’s orders. The Minister’s beside himself. He asked Hitler to make him ambassador to Japan instead, and let him leave with the girl, but Adolf said no. Went crazy apparently. Ordered Goebbels to focus on promoting the role of the family in the Reich.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rupert. ‘Hence this morning’s new ordinances.’

  In the twice-daily Propaganda Ministry briefings, the domestic press was issued with straightforward directives – everything from which story to carry to what line to take on each newsworthy incident and which minister to be mentioned – but it was trickier with the foreign press. Foreigners couldn’t be told what to do, so they were told what not to do instead. That morning’s prohibitions included a new ordinance against any negative media, film, theatre or literature comment about large families. Gross offences would result in the loss of the licence to practise journalism.

  ‘You filing that?’

  Melcher stroked his chin.

  ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment. As if things weren’t frantic enough, Chuck Lewis, you know, the chap from the Chicago Herald, has gone absent without leave so I’m being asked to cover.’

  Rupert knew Chuck Lewis. A louche, handsome devil, with a deadly mixture of intelligence, amorality and southern charm.

  ‘Lewis’s gone AWOL?’

  ‘Nothing serious. Woman troubles. Seems they’re not confined to government ministers. Talk of the devil . . .’ A bustle of uniforms burst through a set of doors across the hall. ‘Here comes the poison dwarf now.’

  Goebbels was barrelling towards them, a huddle of minders around him. The minders, all senior officers of the Ministry, were an ill-assorted crew, full of bluster and menace but lacking real conviction. If you were casting a movie, Rupert thought, these would be the ones who never made the recall. Melcher melted away.

  ‘Ah, Herr Allingham. Another member of the press intent on whipping up hatred against me,’ rasped Goebbels.

  ‘Not at all, Herr Reich Minister.’

  After the lengthy monologue Goebbels delivered each morning, there was a brief interval for questions. These took the form of craven queries from the domestic press and slightly bolder ones from the foreigners. Following Clara’s request, Rupert had stood up and asked about the possibility of a woman falling overboard on a KdF cruise. His question had been met with incredulity, bewilderment, then anger.

  ‘I assure you there has been no such tragedy on any of our KdF holidays. The Labour Front’s commitment to health and safety is second to none. The Kraft durch Freude programme is unparalleled in the world and the pride of the Reich.’

  That seemed to cover it, so why had Goebbels come after him now? Rupert guessed he was about to find out.

  ‘I’ve had a thought, Herr Allingham, given your interest – might I say unexpected interest – in female affairs.’ Goebbels paused to let this witticism reverberate amongst his minions, who chuckled nastily. In a flash, Rupert realized precisely their assumptions about his private life.

  ‘I have decided to grant you an interview with Frau Scholtz-Klink. The Führerin will be pleased to
meet at your convenience.’

  The Führerin. Hadn’t Clara mentioned something about her and a documentary Goebbels was making about the Deutsche Frauenschaft?

  ‘Can I ask what exactly . . .?’

  ‘I shall leave it to Frau Scholtz-Klink to elaborate, but I can tell you it’s a very interesting initiative designed to honour German womanhood,’ said Goebbels. ‘I’m offering you a scoop, in fact. And a rather more inspiring one than some fictitious tittle-tattle about the KdF.’

  The alacrity of Goebbels meant something, but Rupert couldn’t tell exactly what. At a time when the whole world was holding its breath, when every news desk in Europe wanted articles on peace talks and ultimatums and conventions, and when ambassadors could not leave their front doors without being dazzled by the flashbulbs of the international press, the idea of wasting a morning talking about German womanhood was a crazy diversion. But refusing a direct request from Goebbels was equally crazy right now, and the Minister knew it. The best thing Rupert could do was to get this business over with as fast as possible.

  ‘Sounds fascinating, Herr Doktor. I shall make an appointment immediately.’

  ‘Do that.’

  The Propaganda Minister limped swiftly away. If the Nazi sterilization laws had any logic to them, Rupert thought, they’d have started with Joseph Goebbels.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Artists’ House in Munich had a new car park. Until a few months ago, the site just off Lenbachplatz had been occupied by the centuries-old Munich synagogue, but on Hitler’s orders the synagogue had been razed to the ground to create more parking spots for the patrons of his favourite club. In the past, when the Party had risen to power in Munich, the Führer had loved relaxing at the Artists’ House, hosting parties there and inviting actresses from whichever show he had seen to reprise their dances or singing in a more intimate capacity. Even though international events now precluded such harmless diversions, Hitler, like Goering and Goebbels, still liked to think of himself as a tasteful sophisticate with a special regard for art. All the senior party leaders portrayed themselves as men of culture who understood that art had a role, and it wasn’t just about enjoying yourself. Art was a sacred thing and the Artists’ House, with its marbled halls and gilded ceilings, echoed that idea. On the outside, caryatids supported ornate gables, Neptune and Bacchus adorned the walls and the gateway was crowned by the statue of a centaur wielding a club. Inside, the ornate ceiling was spattered with gilded stars. To the casual visitor the place was like some exotic, pagan temple, and one which had witnessed equally exotic goings-on. That afternoon, however, the rather more routine business of auditions was taking place.

  Standing in the gleaming marble hallway, Clara waited uncertainly. Despite the fact that Good King George was merely a cover for another more serious assignment, she still felt the familiar nerves which came with any audition – even now, when she was well established in her career.

  When she had first come to Germany, and applied for work at the Ufa film studios, she had needed to learn her craft all over again. Until that point she had been a stage actress, but she quickly discovered that acting for the movies was an altogether subtler affair. It required intense control over the tiniest nuance of gesture and facial expression. A raised eyebrow could contain an ocean of expression. A glance was enough to convey a heart full of love or hate. You needed rigid self-discipline to portray emotion in a camera close-up, and the effort Clara put into her acting provided useful respite from her secret life. It might seem perverse that being in front of the camera should be the place she felt most relaxed, but the spotlight was a refuge from the task she had willingly taken on. It also provided her with an authentic cover. Clara Vine was exactly what she said she was, an actress who devoted herself diligently to each role. Except that now, in Eva Braun’s home town, her other role suddenly felt more real and more impossible.

  Having consulted the receptionist and been told to wait, she went over to a chair at the foot of the stairs, took out a silver enamel compact from her bag and applied another coat of her rapidly dwindling Elizabeth Arden Velvet Red. Then she found her copy of Rebecca and tried to lose herself in the landscape of the faraway south coast of Cornwall where she had spent so many of her childhood holidays, tramping through damp rhododendrons and picking the sand out of sandwiches beside the icy sea.

  ‘Clara Vine! Thank God. At least there’s someone I’ve heard of here.’

  A statuesque blonde swept through the door as though pursued by a phantom horde of pressmen touting flashbulb cameras and notebooks. She was dressed as for a first night, complete with a hat featuring a little bird picked out in diamanté, a taut silk dress against which her breasts strained, and perfume which trailed luxuriously after her like a mink wrap. Her face was a flawless expanse of creamy foundation and her bleached hair shone like a pale flame in the dim light of the hall. Perching on the chair beside Clara, she extracted a cigarette from her bag, lit it, took a disdainful drag and peered loftily about the hall.

  Clara tried to contain her astonishment. Ursula Schilling was an A-list star, one of the country’s favourites. For years her face had stared seductively out from billboards and film hoardings, and the gossip columns of innumerable newspapers and glossy magazines. It was a face simply made for the screen. Ursula Schilling could drown a man in the depths of her violet eyes and unleash a tide of contempt with a twitch of her high arched brows. She possessed a kind of sulky grandeur which made men want to kiss her or slap her, usually both. Yet here she was auditioning for a potboiler which would barely get screened at the local Munich fleapit, never mind the Ufa Palast am Zoo.

  ‘Ursula! What a surprise to see you!’

  ‘You can say that again, darling.’

  Ursula gave Clara a sidelong look and exhaled a stream of smoke sideways out of her mouth. On previous occasions, when they had passed in the corridors of the Ufa studios, or rubbed shoulders at parties, Ursula barely deigned to speak to Clara, but now, it seemed, things had changed.

  ‘God knows why I came. It’s not my kind of film and to top it all I’m being asked to play the wife’s friend. A role with about three lines! Fritz Gutmann told me she was the girl-next-door type and I had to tell him, “Fritz, I’m a movie star. That’s why people come to see me. If people wanted the girl-next-door look, they could just go next door.”’

  ‘But you accepted?’

  A faint shrug.

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘Herr Gutmann must have been thrilled to get you.’

  ‘He didn’t show much sign of it.’ Ursula flicked her hair impatiently and out of sheer habit looked around for the crowd she would usually draw.

  ‘What about you? Which part are you up for?’

  ‘Well, actually . . .’

  Clara was saved from an immediate answer by a shout of greeting. A flamboyant man with a sweep of brown hair and a generous mouth was clipping down the stairs towards them. Though his SS uniform was personally tailored by Hugo Boss, he wore it like an evening dress accessorized with an invisible feather boa.

  ‘Ladies! What a relief. At last we can expect some quality in this production.’

  Hitler had often opined that if he had not been singled out by fate for the role of Führer and saviour of his nation, he would have chosen to be a theatrical set designer, but as it was he would have to settle for patronizing the genius of Benno von Arent instead. The pair of them would linger late into the night, poring over the Führer’s own designs for sets and revolving stages and lighting techniques. As well as designing blockbusters like Viktor und Viktoria, Hitler Youth Quex and Clara’s most recent film, Es leuchten die Sterne, the Reich stage designer also had the job of transforming Die Meistersinger every year at the rally into a Nazi extravaganza, complete with massed crowds, flags and banners.

  He glanced curiously at Clara’s book.

  ‘I always forget you’re English.’

  ‘Half, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

&
nbsp; ‘You play the German half so well. Why don’t we ever see you in the Künstlerklub?’

  The Künstlerklub in Berlin was one of Goebbels’ recent business enterprises, a private members’ club with dancing, restaurant and bar. It was full of actresses with plunging necklines and strutting Nazi officials, most notably Goebbels himself, who liked to take actresses there to discuss their work as a prelude to other matters. When he first had the idea of creating his own nightclub Goebbels had seized on von Arent, as the Führer’s favourite, and put him in charge and the choice had paid off handsomely.

  Von Arent wagged a finger. ‘No excuses. I insist you come. In fact we’re holding a reception for the Propaganda Ministry to honour the American/German artistic friendship. I think that’s what they called it. Anyhow, everyone will be there. I’ll send you two ladies invitations when we’re back in Berlin.’

  ‘Which can’t come soon enough,’ added Ursula.

  ‘Come, come, sweetheart, it’s not that bad. This may not be Babelsberg but I shall be making you the most magnificent costumes. Get the clothes right and the rest will follow, that’s what I always say. They tell me the script is an absolute disaster, but if there is any way of saving us all from total humiliation . . .’ He whirled round. ‘And here’s our director now.’

  If it was true that Fritz Gutmann was preparing to flee to England, he was giving no sign of it, other than a complexion as grey and mottled as the ash from his own cigarettes and a frame as starved as a Giacometti sculpture. His green-shaded director’s cap with tufts of hair sticking out reminded Clara of the ostriches at Berlin Zoo. He was not Jewish – or he would have been barred from working as a director by the Reich Chamber of Culture – but his films were hardly noted for their ideological fidelity to the Reich and were routinely branded as turkeys in the press conferences of the Reich Chamber of Film. This latest production would, no doubt, suffer the same fate. When he shook hands Clara noticed that his nails were bitten to the quick.