by Thynne, Jane
He looked up.
‘What are you saying?’
‘I think someone pushed her.’
‘Pushed her?’ Gerlach exhaled a stream of smoke, a little smile dancing on his lips. ‘You sound like a girl with a vivid imagination.’
A vivid imagination. That was what her father always said. But when her father said it, he meant it as a compliment. Gerlach made it sound like a crime.
‘I’m not imagining it. I’m absolutely sure of it.’
‘This isn’t some fantasy that’s got into your pretty little head? Not been watching too many movies?’
‘Not at all,’ she retorted. ‘I saw the body with my own eyes.’
That made him sit up. He ground out his cigarette and steepled his fingers.
‘You saw it?’
‘Yes. When she was taken out of the water.’
‘And you saw her being pushed in too?’
She allowed a little shrug.
‘Not exactly.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I think she was pushed. Or worse. But . . .’
‘But what?’
She was beginning to regret ever mentioning it.
‘I probably shouldn’t tell you any more. In fact, the Captain came to see me and advised me not to talk at all about what I’d seen.’
Gerlach raised his eyebrows.
‘Exactly,’ said Rosa. ‘But . . . why would he do that, if he wasn’t trying to cover something up?’
‘Wait a minute, let’s get this straight.’
Gerlach lit himself another cigarette and flicked the match over the railings to immediate extinction in the Spree.
‘You saw a dead body and you think this girl was murdered? And you think the Captain of the Wilhelm Gustloff was involved in a conspiracy to cover it up?’
Rosa was bitterly wishing she had never brought the subject up with August Gerlach, who obviously thought she was some kind of fantasist. When he put it like that, it did sound melodramatic and she felt compelled to convince him that she was not crazy.
‘I’m not making this up. It’s a feeling I have. Anyway, I’m trying to decide if I should tell anyone.’
‘How many people have you told so far?’
‘None.’
‘Well, that’s not true, is it? You told me quite happily. And we’ve only met twice.’
‘I said, I’ve told no one.’ She looked sideways, towards the sluggish waters of the canal, and couldn’t help thinking of the bodies that they said were found floating there too, mushrooming up from the gloomy depths. Miserable relicts of humanity reduced to puffy white flesh, pulled up by the bargemen at dawn.
‘You don’t seem that bothered about what the Captain said.’
A spark of alarm flickered through her.
‘What are you? A policeman or something? Obviously the Captain had a reason for asking me not to discuss it, and it might have been simply that he didn’t want to alarm the other passengers. But it could have been something else.’
‘Which is why you’re going to discuss it with all your friends.’ Rosa was not going to mention that she had very few friends. The women at work tended to avoid her, wrongly believing that she would repeat their gossip back to the Führerin.
‘I would never do that.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He was cool, now, rolling his cigarette between his fingers, scrutinizing her with his head on one side. ‘But how about your parents?’
‘It would scare them.’
‘The rest of the family?’
‘We don’t really have that kind of conversation.’
‘You told me, though. Despite the fact that the Captain specifically asked you to keep it confidential.’
Rosa felt a hot rush of indignation rising within her. Who was August Gerlach to lecture her?
‘Well, I’m sorry. You seemed like the kind of person I could confide in.’ He didn’t of course, but she could hardly say that.
This remark made him smile. He looked out across the canal, as though contemplating her conundrum, and exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl up into the air.
‘Want to know what I think, Rosa? I think you’re a nice girl. Perhaps you watch too many detective movies, but you’re a bright lady and you have good prospects. You should keep your nose out of this business.’
The waitress interrupted, bringing their drinks, and Rosa took a huge gulp of her beer, in the interests of finishing it quickly. Gerlach’s eyes followed the tight skirt and shapely legs of the waitress as she retreated, then turned back to Rosa.
‘So are you going to follow my advice?’
She nodded. She was desperate to let the subject drop. She had no idea how long she would have to sit here before she could get away. When a man invited you for a drink, did it actually mean just a single drink?
Gerlach reached across to her hand and patted it.
‘Don’t look so worried, sweetheart. I’m just looking out for you. Let’s not spoil any more of our evening talking about dead bodies. Not when there are movies to talk about. On the subject of which, I took the liberty of getting tickets for The Divine Jetta. It stars Grethe Weiser as a cabaret singer wooed by a Tyrolean count. Tuesday evening at the Kino Sportpalast. How about it?’
Chapter Twenty-nine
It would be a relief, in a way, to see Erich.
He had called the day before and although Clara always did her best to keep any telephone conversations from her apartment to a minimum, nothing that Erich ever said could possibly arouse the suspicion of the hidden army of listeners at the telephone exchange who eavesdropped on the calls of every foreigner, or even half-foreigner, in Berlin. Erich wanted to give her something, apparently. Perhaps a gift from his holiday that he had forgotten. They arranged to take advantage of the last vestiges of warm weather and go to the Strandbad at Wannsee.
The beach at the Wannsee was an old favourite of Erich’s. A short walk from Nikolassee Station on the S-Bahn, down a sandy, pine-fringed lane, the beach, lapped by the shallow fresh waters of the lake, was a welcome relief from the dusty heat of the city. Jetties protruded into the Wannsee and yachts could usually be seen tacking their way in the distance, framed against the gloomy pine fringes of the eastern shore. Bathers could hire deckchairs or hooded seats in white wicker called Liegestühle, from which to survey the view. With its sausage and beer stalls, the Strandbad offered an entirely egalitarian experience for Berliners, unless of course they happened to be Jewish. As Clara and Erich made their way down the steps to the beach they passed a sign announcing Badeverbot für Juden am Strandbad Wannsee. Jews should not even think about using the beach. Clara, of course, thought about that sign every time she passed it, but on this day she had more on her mind than the possibility that her Jewish self should be discovered defiling Aryan sand.
Erich, as he always did, plunged straight into the water and swam a strong circuit, while Clara queued for a couple of bottles of lemonade. As this was likely to be the last opportunity before the approach of a Berlin winter made such diversions impossible, the beach was well populated with groups of Hitler Youth and Bund Deutscher Mädel flirting and showing off, families commandeering rings of deckchairs and lovers admiring the caramel smoothness of each other’s bodies. Loudspeakers, lashed to the lampposts, broadcast a medley of light and military music, interspersed with the odd homily from Joseph Goebbels. As she queued, out of the corner of her eye Clara noticed a man buying a copy of the Völkischer Beobachter at the kiosk, and thought he was looking at her, before glancing down and realizing that his gaze might just have more to do with her tanned legs in their bathing costume.
She returned to her spot on the beach and sat staring out at the sparkling lake and the dark fringe of the Grunewald beyond. How incredible it was that she should be sitting in this lovely place, surrounded by the carefree laughter of Berliners relaxing, while back in the city a group of plotters were preparing to mount a coup on the Reich Chancellery. Clara was glad she was
wearing sunglasses or her face would surely betray the anxiety that was thrumming through her mind and Erich would ask her what was wrong. She wished, more than ever, that she could share her thoughts with him, the person in Berlin who cared the most for her, yet she knew it was impossible. Some secrets were too heavy for a boy his age to bear, and besides, Erich’s sense of duty and patriotism were bolstered daily by his sessions with the Hitler Youth.
That was just how it was for boys now. The speeches and slogans and marching songs they learned at the age of ten in the Pimpf were repeated for all their formative years in the HJ, followed by the service year and then the armed forces beyond. Everyone knew Hitler’s motto: ‘The weak must be chiselled away. A young German must be as swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather and as hard as Krupp’s steel.’ Children were no different from cars or aeroplanes on the Führer’s production line and if it came to a conflict between his beloved godmother and his adored Hitler Jugend, who knew what Erich would say or do?
He came and flung himself on the sand beside her, scattering icy drops of water like a dog.
‘Nothing’s as good as swimming in the Wannsee.’
‘Not even the Atlantic Ocean?’
‘No. There were pools on the cruise ship, but I prefer our lakes.’ Erich rolled over, propped himself up on his elbows and squinted up at her with Helga’s dark, quizzical eyes.
‘I wanted to ask you, Clara . . . Did you find anything out about that woman? Ada Freitag. Like you said you would?’
Clara wondered how to tell him that her enquiries about Ada Freitag had reached a dead end. What had Rupert said? Someone seemed very keen to keep her death a secret. Keen enough to alter the ship’s log to suggest that the woman had left the Wilhelm Gustloff, rather than falling overboard. Keen enough that the Kripo’s own Missing Persons file on her had been disposed of. Was that merely an instance of traditional Reich paranoia, mounting a cover-up to conceal an official mistake? To avoid any stain on the glamorous reputation of Strength Through Joy, which was right up there with the Luftwaffe as a source of Nazi pride? Or was it something more?
‘I did ask a few questions, Erich. I got a journalist contact of mine to make some enquiries at the police station, and I saw him the other day to follow it up. But so far there’s not much . . .’ She decided in the circumstances a lie couldn’t hurt. ‘Obviously they’re investigating the situation.’
‘Good. Because I was meaning to tell you, she left some things.’
He sat up and felt for the satchel at his side.
‘Remember I said Ada was a fan of yours? And she had a complete collection of the Ufa stars series? Well, the last time I saw her, when she said she had to go off for a few minutes, she asked me to look after her belongings.’
Out of the satchel he drew a silk scarf, patterned with green and blue rhombuses which contained within them the interlocking double C of Chanel – and a large book.
‘She left this scarf.’
‘It’s lovely.’
Clara examined it closely, looking at the hand-stitching and the rolled edges, wondering what kind of young woman came by an expensive silk Chanel scarf.
‘And this. I tried to give them back, but when I went back to her cabin all her stuff was gone and the place had been cleaned. So I thought I’d look after them for her. I mean, I don’t want anyone to think I was stealing. I would have given them back.’
‘Of course you would.’
‘But if you’re going to be finding out about it, perhaps you should have them. They could help the police investigation. Here.’
He tucked the scarf into Clara’s bag and opened the gilt and scarlet album. Clara turned the pages dutifully.
‘You’re Number 37.’
She smiled briefly. That made sense. Everyone in Germany had a number.
Erich reached over and pointed Clara out to herself. It was a wistful shot of herself gazing skywards as Gretchen, the part she had played the previous year in The Pilot’s Wife. She recalled so clearly the day it had been taken. It had been easy to look sad, because she had just heard of the death of a Luftwaffe pilot, Arno Strauss, who had become a friend. Indeed it was a miracle she wasn’t crying.
‘I remember that day.’
‘Ada said she was a fan of yours. I’m sure she’d be glad that you have it. Will it help the investigation, do you think?’
‘It might. You never know.’
A bank of cloud passed over the sun and the bathers on the beach gave a collective shiver. Faces turned as one to the sky and bodies tensed, assessing whether it was a passing chill or if the darkened sky meant this long spell of fine weather was finally breaking.
‘Fancy a Wurstsemmel?’
Erich nodded and Clara headed back up the beach towards the concrete parade where a line of booths sold beer and snacks and ice creams. Queuing for a couple of sausage rolls she glanced around her and as she did, the feeling came, the one she knew so well, that said someone was watching her. She had no idea how she knew it, yet she recognized pursuit the way a wild animal recognizes the presence of a predator. It was as if some current in the air – not sound or smell but something infinitely lighter, driven along the same particles, like a pheromone, alerted her to danger. She looked about carefully, studying the faces of the people around her, and that was when she noticed it. The man whom she had seen buying the Völkischer Beobachter at a newspaper kiosk earlier – the one who had glanced at her legs. He was there again, standing with his back to her as he chatted to the girl behind the counter. There was something wrong about him, but what could it be? He was in his thirties, with a sharp-planed face, steel-rimmed spectacles and wiry hair, wearing shirt sleeves and braces, and a jacket dangling over his arm. He had a deep tan but there was no sign of sand on his trousers or his lace-up shoes. What kind of man came to the beach in office clothes? As he handed over his change, tucked the paper beneath his arm and sauntered off down the parade, Clara realized what it was that disturbed her. It was the newspaper. No matter how exciting the news from the continent, what man bought two copies of the Völkischer Beobachter on the same day?
Alarm washed over her. Everything she had feared since that day in Sabine’s salon was confirmed. Max Brandt was right. There was a shadow after her and she had finally set eyes on him. As the metallic taste of anxiety rose within her, she walked slowly back to Erich on the beach, gave him his sausage roll and said, ‘It’s getting cold now. I think it’s time to leave.’
They took the S-Bahn back to Friedrichstrasse. Clara chose the seat in the corner with a view of the entire carriage and Erich, buoyed by his swim, sprawled across the seat, chatting constantly. Clara stared out of the window, trying to filter out his conversation while she worked out what the newspaper man might signify. The glimmering reflection of the window afforded her a good view of the other inhabitants of the carriage, most of them fellow day-trippers, with swimming costumes bundled into baskets and canvas bags, but a few minutes into the ride the connecting door of the carriage clanged and a man entered, taking up a seat as far as possible from her own. The wire-rimmed glasses were unmistakable. Like Clara, he gazed studiously out of the window. She glanced across at him a couple of times but his gaze didn’t flicker. It was almost a relief to have set eyes on him at last, but was he one of Heydrich’s men? Were they planning to arrest her?
At Friedrichstrasse Station she parted from Erich, made her way down to Leipziger Strasse and crossed the green slug of the canal, heading for Nollendorfplatz. Then she paused. There was no point leading the tail straight to her apartment. From there she would have no idea who was watching her, or why. And she needed to know. She turned on her heel and headed north.
Potsdamer Platz was its usual tumult of traffic and Clara paused on the pavement, as though waiting to cross, while she took stock. Bicycles wove in and out of the tram tracks and pedestrians milled around the green clock tower stationed on a patch of grass at the centre of the square. Neon advertising slogans shouted at each other
above people’s heads and late Saturday shoppers poured into the Wertheim department store. On impulse Clara dipped into one of the cast-iron octagonal lavatories, known as Café Achteck in Berlin vernacular, slipped from her bag the Chanel scarf that Erich had given her, and tied it round her hair. When she emerged she jumped on the first tram.
The tram took her to the far east of the city, to areas she rarely visited, past tenements with dank courtyards where hawkers and vegetable sellers parked their carts. She glimpsed the insides of blocks with dingy whitewash and peeling plaster, occupied by the type of family where the men would spend their wages drinking and fighting, before coming home for a repeat performance. Disembarking, she walked along and saw little notices everywhere pasted onto gates and doors. To be sold. Carpets in good condition, furniture, other items. Utensils. Jews who fled, or ‘evacuated’ in the official terminology, were obliged to leave all their possessions behind, and these belongings, everything from china to sheets and armchairs, were itemized and listed and passed to the state, so it made sense to sell as much as possible before you left. How dispensable people were, Clara thought, and how trifling the possessions they had spent a lifetime acquiring.
She continued at a purposeful pace, neither too fast nor too slow. She had developed a way of making herself intensely aware of the sounds and sights around her, stilling her own thoughts to register every sensation that occurred – the high screech of a train running above the buildings out to the suburbs, blue electricity flashing in the dusk. A man pouring a zinc bucket of water into a drain, a child hauling her toy pram up some steps. At one point a cat approached, rubbing against her legs, and she stooped to caress it, feeling the push of its silky head in her hand. As she stroked it, she glanced around, but there was nothing behind her, no one out of the ordinary, no figure slipping from the edges of her vision like a shadow.
On the corner of Knaackstrasse she stopped in a café, choosing a table in the way that Leo had taught her – halfway along the room with her back to the wall and clear sight of the exits – and ordered a pot of coffee. The window afforded a view across a wide intersection, and as she watched the people and the traffic going past, another phrase of Leo’s came into her head.
