A War of Flowers (2014)

by Thynne, Jane

‘So if he doesn’t know . . .’

  ‘Goebbels found out,’ she said flatly.

  ‘You told the Herr Doktor?’

  ‘Are you mad? I wouldn’t tell Goebbels the time of day! I’ve no idea how he discovered. I think perhaps Dr Morell told him. I made the mistake of consulting Dr Morell once in Munich. Odious man. Not about this – it was something else – but doctors can detect things, I suppose. Though he never manages to detect what’s wrong with Wolf. Anyhow, when Goebbels found out he was utterly hateful about it.’

  ‘What business is it of his?’

  ‘He says every aspect of the Führer’s life and image is his business. And I’m part of that.’

  That sounded like Goebbels. Eva dragged a handkerchief from her sleeve and sniffed.

  ‘Now I’m terrified that he’ll tell Himmler.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘It might be that Himmler has a secret on him, and he gives Himmler my secret in return.’

  ‘Would that really matter?’

  Tears gleamed on her pallid cheek like rain on wet stone.

  ‘It would be the end of me.’

  Though Clara’s nerves were straining for sounds of activity in the building below, she found herself transfixed by Eva Braun’s predicament. Marooned in her private misery, the Führer’s girlfriend seemed entirely impervious to the world around her.

  ‘Himmler despises any form of physical imperfection. He would tell Wolf that I was unsuitable to be the wife of the leader of the Reich. Wolf is always talking about what women are for. And what they’re not for. Women are not for politics, they’re not for talking at the table. They are for looking pretty and doing their best to appeal to their men. But the main thing women are for is having babies, and that’s the one thing I can’t do. Himmler says childbearing is the only purpose of women. That’s what he tells his SS men. Women are about safeguarding racial purity and providing the next generation. The other day at the Berghof he told me his latest idea is that women who can’t bear children should never be allowed to marry. And men who are married to barren women should be permitted to divorce them immediately. What would that mean for me and Wolf?’

  Gently, Clara said, ‘But you’re not married to the Führer.’

  ‘Not now. But Wolf has said he will marry me. I finally got him to promise and he said he would after . . . well after . . .’ She tailed off.

  ‘After what?’

  She shrugged. ‘After some time has passed.’

  Clara checked her watch. Ten forty. Her entire body was tensed for sounds of action. Very soon she was going to have to persuade the unhappy girl in front of her to hand over the key to the private entrance. Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself getting up, pulling aside the heavy damask curtain and glancing out of the window down to the Wilhelmstrasse below. Just yards from here, in a string of secret apartments and houses, men were preparing to launch an audacious coup. Soldiers were mustering, waiting for the signal to strike. Officers were readying weapons and grenades. Colonel Oster, Ulrich Welzer and Max Brandt were bracing themselves in their uniforms, gathering the surge of courage they needed to make their move.

  She scanned the windows, looking for evidence of telescopes trained on the Reich Chancellery, and then looked up and down the street, searching for signs of approaching men, but there was nothing to see.

  Eva sprang up skittishly, and squeezed Clara’s arm.

  ‘Sorry I was a bit off earlier. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s wonderful to have company.’

  ‘Does anyone else visit?’

  ‘Hardly. Wolf suggested I read, but there’s nothing to read here except great tomes about . . . I don’t know, Bismarck and people. And no one ever visits me here except the girl from Ludwig Scherk’s. I had her come over a few months ago because I wanted a fragrance for Wolf and I needed her to bring some samples, and we got quite friendly. She told me some fascinating things about perfume. But even she hasn’t been for a while.’

  The chime of the clock outside cut into Clara’s thoughts. Fifteen minutes to go. Beneath them, cars were still drawing up at the Chancellery entrance, delivering more participants to the mêlée below. The distinctive figure of the French ambassador, François-Poncet, in homburg and spotted bow tie, hurried from his car.

  Eva followed her gaze as they looked down on the traffic of grey uniforms and peaked caps.

  ‘It’s busy today.’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘It’s something to do with the Czech crisis. That’s why he’s put me in Schutzhaft.’ She meant it ironically. Schutzhaft, ‘protective custody’, was the term the Gestapo used for brutal detention without trial.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, Clara. About my problem.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’ Clara took Eva’s hands in hers. ‘I won’t tell anyone, Eva, on one condition.’

  Eva reeled away from her, shock writ large on her face. Could it be true that the woman in whom she had been confiding should now be attempting to strike a bargain? Dismay and fear clouded her eyes.

  ‘One condition? What do you mean, Clara? I thought I could trust you!’

  ‘You can.’

  Eva’s face was beginning to contort in a hysterical spasm. ‘You’re one of Goebbels’ spies, aren’t you? One of those actresses he sleeps with? You must be, you’ve had so many roles. They say all the most successful actresses have to sleep with him. Is that why you made friends with me? Is that why you came to the house when I’d taken the pills?’

  ‘Of course not! Don’t be silly.’ Clara was soothing, desperate that Eva’s raised voice might attract the attention of the guards. ‘I’m not Goebbels’ spy. I came to your house that day because I had a feeling.’

  ‘People don’t have feelings.’

  ‘Some of us do.’ Clara smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Eva. You’re getting upset about nothing. I’m only asking for a little thing. Just between women. You remember that Sturmbannführer I was talking about?’

  Eva’s face relaxed.

  ‘Steinbrecher? The one who’s sweet on you?’

  ‘That’s him. Well, I noticed him in the lobby downstairs. And to be honest, it’s a bit awkward.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I don’t want to encounter him again. For personal reasons.’ She paused to let the feminine implications sink in. ‘And I remember you saying you use a private entrance to the Reich Chancellery.’

  ‘That’s right. I have to. In case anyone sees me.’ She pulled a face. ‘In case Magda Goebbels or that bitch Emmy Goering or any of the other wives discover that little Miss No Private Life is in town.’

  ‘So would you mind if I borrowed the key?’

  Eva frowned.

  ‘Are you sure? The entrance is rather awkward to find. You have to cross the ballroom and find a door set into the panelling, but I can’t show you the way. I don’t dare. Wolf has absolutely banned me from leaving this room.’

  Clara shook her head, the route to the private entrance seared into her mind.

  ‘Don’t worry. I can always ask.’

  ‘No! You mustn’t do that! The private entrance is confidential. Only a very few people know it exists. Hardly anyone has a key. If you said you were going there it would cause all sorts of fuss. They’d probably arrest you. It’s a security issue.’

  ‘I’ll be very discreet.’

  Eva frowned at her doubtfully, then shrugged.

  ‘OK. It’s a door set into the panelling exactly two thirds of the way down on the left-hand side of the ballroom. There’s no handle, because that would spoil the line. You have to know exactly which panel it is and push it. Then it leads out into the garden. You can borrow the key. I’m not going anywhere today. You must drop it back in later though. Mark it for me and seal the envelope tight and leave it with the guard at reception.’

  Clara wondered what the next hour would bring for Eva Braun. Arrest, almost certainly. And terror. Perhaps pain. She felt a stab of guilt at her part in the young woman’s fate, but reminded herself of Ste
ffi Schaeffer and her daughter Nina, and everyone else who had suffered or was suffering under the regime of Eva’s beloved Wolf.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Don’t bother to promise. I’ve learned not to believe anyone’s promises.’

  Nonetheless, she gave Clara the key and allowed her to slip out of the door.

  Clara moved swiftly along the corridor, her footsteps drowned in the deep carpet. The floor plan seared into her mind told her that she needed to pass the library and descend two floors by the main staircase, then turn left and thread back through the ballroom. The key weighed in her pocket as she forced herself to slow down. By her reckoning she had precisely two minutes to find the door and open it. Even now, the infantry would be making their way from Potsdam and the Chief of Staff would be escorted from the Bendlerstrasse to arrest Hitler himself.

  She descended the first set of stairs and saw, immediately opposite, a sentry guarding a door framed by a pair of caryatids. On the sleeve of his black uniform was embroidered in silver ‘Adolf Hitler’, identifying him as a select Leibstandarte bodyguard. As he stiffened she felt fear pushing against the inside of her skin like something alive, but he didn’t challenge her so she passed quickly along the corridor until she reached the second set of stairs. As she stood at the top of the steps, she became aware of a level of frenetic activity, like a hive which has been stirred, an angry mixture of adrenaline and excitement that transmitted itself through the air. All around the marble hall were echoing voices, slamming doors, the sound of telephones ringing in distant rooms.

  She crossed the cavernous hall with confidence, making for the corridor that led northwards, towards the ballroom. Suddenly, from up ahead came the sound of hurrying footsteps and she saw a group of officers approaching, at their centre the figures of Goering and Ribbentrop.

  Fighting an immediate urge to retreat, Clara attempted to slow her racing heart. What if she was recognized? It could not be more terrifying to enter Hades and meet the god of the underworld, than to encounter Ribbentrop, the man who suspected her of spying, in the nerve centre of the Nazi regime. Yet the men were advancing, occupying the entire width of the corridor, their conversation a harsh jangle which resounded off the marble walls. There was no chance that she could avoid them. Clara froze, hearing her own heartbeat, hard and heavy in her chest as a piece of iron.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she opened the door immediately beside her and stepped inside.

  The room was dominated by an enormous table, set as if for a meeting, with paper pads, ink, blotters and ashtrays. Each chair was decorated with an eagle and swastika on its back and around the walls a library of sorts was ranged. This must be the cabinet room. The place where Hitler’s cabinet met to debate, in the days when there was still any semblance of debate about the Führer’s aggressive plans.

  The air seemed to solidify, making it hard to breathe, and Clara reminded herself that she had every excuse to be in the Chancellery. Eva Braun would vouch for her presence. She was making a friendly visit. It was all perfectly plausible. But for what possible reason would a casual friend feel the need to hide in the cabinet room?

  The footsteps halted outside the half-opened door and from her vantage point Clara could see a slice of Goering, his vast bulk swathed in Luftwaffe grey, his huge feet in polished shoes, and beside him Ribbentrop, with his back to her. The swell of voices grew louder. They were talking about war. What could they mean?

  It dawned on her that they must be intending to enter that room. Every fibre in her body froze, except for the tiny muscle next to her left eye, which flickered its alarm. Against every possible rule she had come out with no real cover story, other than the one she had spun for Eva about not wanting to bump into an old boyfriend, and how likely was anyone else to fall for that?

  As she shrank behind the door, it was clear that Goering and Ribbentrop were having an argument. She strained to hear the substance of the conversation, but caught only occasional phrases: ‘Luftwaffe power is entirely inadequate to destroy London’ and then a little later, ‘There’s no money for war.’

  Suddenly, Goering’s voice rose to a bellow, and he shouted,

  ‘You’re a warmonger and a criminal fool, Ribbentrop. I know what war is, and I don’t want to go through it again! I tell you, if war breaks out, you can sit beside me in the first bomber!’

  His footsteps strode off down the corridor, forcing his followers to keep up. Ribbentrop, too, marched away. Clara realized that she had been holding her breath and let it out in a great sigh.

  Checking her watch again, she knew that she needed to reach the private entrance now, or the raiding party waiting for access would be halted in the garden. But as soon as she entered the ballroom, she saw it would not be as easy as she had imagined.

  The ballroom was a relatively recent addition – created to accommodate the increasing numbers of visitors invited for receptions. It was hung with grand chandeliers and the walls were clean and white as an iced wedding cake. Great pillars of blood red marble flanked each side of the room and in between the pillars was a blank of ivory panelling, perfectly regular, stretching the length of the room. The door was, Eva said, set two thirds of the way down on the left. Or was it three quarters? The panelling looked as smooth and untrammelled as a sheet of snow. Forcing herself to concentrate, Clara made her eye sweep the length of the wall, searching for anything that might stand out. It took several scans before she saw it. A slightly thicker panel, with the shadow of a dark slit at the top. She crossed the room quickly, pushed it, and a door opened.

  The contrast between the ballroom she had just left and the corridor she found herself in could not be more stark. It was pitch dark and icy cold. The trademark cast-iron wall sconces that Hitler favoured in his nostalgia for some mediaeval Germanic past were unlit, and there was no sign of any light switch in the wall. The brickwork was as damp as a dungeon and the sour smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Fumbling along, she almost tripped when she reached the first in the flight of ten steps that led steeply down towards a heavy steel door. That had to be the air-raid shelter. Turning blindly right, she fumbled for a second door, and grappled in the dark until she found a chill steel handle and with her fingers located the keyhole.

  She turned the key and walked up another ten steps into the light.

  Clara must have passed the Reich Chancellery in Wilhelmstrasse a hundred times, yet it was still a revelation to find several acres of garden behind its walls. The garden was designed on the same monumental scale as the Chancellery itself, more of a park than a garden, with spacious lawns bisected by gravelled paths and rose beds running the length of the block from Wilhelmstrasse right through to Hermann Goering Strasse. On the far side a barracks had been built to house Hitler’s personal guard and flanking the terrace were two giant bronze horses. Directly opposite them, facing Hitler’s study, was an orangery – more of a small glass palace in reality – dedicated to the cultivation of the Führer’s vegetables. The only actual gardening going on was being performed by a young man about a hundred metres away, hoeing a bed of roses around the base of an ornamental pool. Of the raiding party, there was no sign.

  Slipping the key back in her pocket, Clara stepped into the garden, leaving the door ajar. She had not thought properly what she should do at this point. She had simply assumed that Welzer’s party of soldiers would be ready and waiting for her. Instead, it now looked like she would need to find the exit Brandt had talked of, that led onto the Wilhelmstrasse.

  She threaded along a gravel walk skirting the back of the old presidential palace, directly beneath what she knew was Hitler’s bedroom and private study. She compelled herself to walk calmly, as though she had every reason to be strolling in Hitler’s private garden on a busy weekday morning. God forbid she should encounter the Führer himself, hands clasped behind his back, in his habitual stroll. She scanned the surrounding area, nerves jangling, until she detected, at the far side of the garden, a sentry emerging from
the guardhouse with a black dog tugging against his tight leash, his long pink tongue lolling. He had not noticed her, and the pair seemed to be heading away from her, but how long would it be before that dog scented her presence, and alerted its owner to a stranger?

  Eventually, at the end of the palace wall she saw it, a narrow aperture that formed a claustrophobic alley, barely two feet wide, running along the side of the Agricultural Ministry building. It extended more than a hundred feet between the two buildings, culminating in a wrought-iron gate. She passed along and pushed the gate open, to find herself back in the bustle of pedestrians and traffic on the Wilhelmstrasse.

  She hesitated as the sounds of an ordinary weekday morning rose up around her, and glanced swiftly down the street, scanning for any signal that could indicate the approach of troops. At that moment a man exited the bronze double doors of the Chancellery to her right and marched purposefully towards her.

  Ulrich Welzer’s chiselled face was an impenetrable mask. Fear was coming off him like an electric current as he came up close to Clara, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘Thank God,’ he muttered, under his breath.

  She glanced behind him in bewilderment.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The words escaped his mouth like a gasp. ‘It’s all off.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Suddenly his face shuttered, and a movement behind Clara drew her attention. She turned her head to see another uniform approaching and it took less than a second to recognize the razorblade cheekbones and the aquiline profile. The mathematically slicked fair threads sitting above a face that was not so much horse-like as lupine. Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich.

  Fear insinuated itself, trailing down her spine, turning her insides liquid, as Heydrich’s narrow eyes ranged over her.

  ‘Well? Don’t keep us all waiting, Colonel Welzer. Has something happened?’

  Welzer seemed to jerk himself from paralysis to click his heels and give a knife-sharp salute.

  ‘Wonderful news, Herr Obergruppenführer! News has come from Britain that Chamberlain has agreed to fly to Germany. Herr Mussolini wants Hitler to postpone mobilization for twenty-four hours and the Führer has agreed. The British ambassador Nevile Henderson has just arrived at the Reich Chancellery and the word is that the conference will be held tomorrow morning in Munich. The Führer is heading down to meet Mussolini tonight.’