by Jane Thynne
‘Can I help you?’
He was a sinewy young man with a lean, evasive face.
‘Just sheltering from the rain.’
But he was bone dry. No pearls of water clung to the fabric of his umbrella or dripped from its spokes, nor was there any drop on his coat, dampening his felt hat or soaking his scuffed leather shoes. He carried a bulky case, and avoided her eye when she addressed him.
That was the moment she decided. Clara was experienced enough to distinguish between the instinctive feeling of being observed – that constant prickle of self-awareness all actresses develop – and the insidious lick of nerves prompted by Gestapo surveillance. She had learned to trust her instincts and at that second they told her it was time to switch locations without delay. She had no desire to check the face of every street sweeper or sneak a glance into every idling car on the kerb. Fortunately, she remembered Ursula’s offer of house-sitting. Out in Griebnitzsee there was very little chance of passing strangers. It was almost too isolated. But then, she might not be spending too much time at home.
She propped an invitation on the mantelpiece. It had arrived two weeks ago at the Babelsberg studios, with no covering note. It was printed on stiff, heavy, ivory card with shiny, engraved lettering and gold edges – the kind that Angela ordered from Smythson’s in Bond Street for her cocktail parties and At Homes. Just the feel of it gave Clara a jolt of nostalgia for Angela’s smart society gatherings, the Mayfair ballrooms filled with actors and politicians, the theatre people and poets. She pressed it to her nose and inhaled the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.
Captain Miles Fitzalan
requests the pleasure of the company of
Miss Clara Vine
At a ball at the St Ermin’s Hotel
Victoria
London SW
Champagne and carriages at 1am
The only difference about this invitation was, Clara did not know any Miles Fitzalan and nor had she heard of the St Ermin’s Hotel. And she guessed, whatever this meeting was about, it would certainly be no party.
Chapter Three
Being seduced by Joseph Goebbels was every starlet’s worst nightmare but for foreign journalists it was a rather pleasanter experience. The Press Club he had established at a cost of half a million marks on Leipziger Platz was a comfortable mansion of gleaming wood and chrome, superbly fitted out with ornate restaurant, reading room, library and bar where journalists were encouraged to congregate in the clubby armchairs and write their stories in luxurious ease. The restaurant served the type of white-fleshed schnitzel, buttery vegetables and rich, flaky pastries that were no longer available elsewhere in Berlin, accompanied by fine wines and the holy grail of Viennese coffee. All the international newspapers were available, a Tannoy system was in place, and journalists could obtain anything from reduced-rate opera tickets to special red identification cards for procuring taxis. They could also write their copy on the typewriters there and have it cabled directly back to their own newspapers, if they didn’t mind the censors crawling over every word.
The club was practically in earshot of the Propaganda Ministry in Wilhelmplatz, but that was irrelevant because beneath every plush leather banquette was a listening device to collate conversations, and anything missed was scooped up by the superbly attentive waiters who doubled as Goebbels’ spies. All the journalists knew the Press Club was an eavesdroppers’ paradise, but the quality of the food and the prices at the bar made it a popular destination, just so long as you didn’t mind your thoughts being shared by a wider audience, which journalists by their very nature generally didn’t. The level of comfort encouraged harmonious conversation and the only permanent disagreements came from the three clocks on the wall, telling the time in Paris, London and Tokyo.
Clara made her way towards Leipziger Platz with some difficulty. Battling the throng of people who had spent all day at the birthday parade was like wading through a drunken river upstream. It was as though every one of Berlin’s five million souls had turned out to see the Führer. Whole family groups walked several abreast on the pavement, the fathers lugging picnic baskets and the mothers folding seats. Clara breasted the flow, passing bars belching beer breath through open doors and navigating crash barriers, skirting the boozy crowds and dodging the sharp sticks of flags trailed by exhausted children who had been up before dawn.
Eventually she escaped up the porticoed steps of the Press Club, edging around a twenty-five-foot portrait of the Führer in the lobby proclaiming ‘Our Loyalty: Our Thanks’ and entered the party.
Like everywhere else in Germany, the Press Club was celebrating with unrestrained joy. Goebbels had allocated a large quantity of Sekt to assist the celebrations and despite the fact that the drinks came accompanied by a liberal sprinkling of bureaucrats from the Reich Press Chamber, the foreign correspondents had decided en masse to take full advantage of it. Clara looked round for the plump, sandy-haired figure of Mary Harker, the journalist she had met when she first arrived in Germany and who was now a close friend. Mary, with her passionate concern for the underdog and her deep sense of justice, had been reporting from Europe for the New York Evening Post since 1933. Having someone good-hearted, wholly on her side and who, most importantly, had an inkling of her secret role, meant that Mary was the only person with whom Clara could genuinely relax.
Mary’s hearty laugh and distinctive New Jersey accent were instantly recognizable from the far side of the room. She had barely changed since they first met six years ago. She still had the same mordant sense of humour, the same favourite old black dress, her hair was a corn-coloured tangle and her lively eyes were hidden behind heavy-rimmed black spectacles. As usual she was at the centre of a throng, and loudly enjoying herself.
‘Clara, let me introduce Bill Shirer, from CBS, and Louis Lochner, head of the Berlin bureau of the Associated Press.’ She indicated a short man with a moustache, waving a pipe, and his balding colleague. ‘And Sigrid Schultz of the Chicago Tribune,’ she gestured at a tiny, china-complexioned woman with a fierce stare. ‘Guys, meet Clara Vine. A star of the Ufa studios, as I expect you know.’
The group nodded politely. American correspondents were thick on the ground in Berlin. There must have been at least fifty, staffing the wire services, broadcast stations and newspapers, but you rarely saw so many together.
‘Quite a turn-out,’ said Clara.
‘We’re congregating for safety,’ laughed Shirer. ‘Roosevelt has refused to send Hitler a birthday card, so we Americans aren’t flavour of the month any more.’
‘At least you remember what it’s like to be popular,’ came a voice from behind. ‘We British haven’t been popular for years.’
Clara didn’t know the voice, yet in another way, she recognized it instantly. It was the kind of voice that echoed across public school playing fields and down the corridors of the British civil service in Whitehall. The same voice that belonged to friends of her brother back in England: precise, understated and slightly mocking. A tone that said most things should not be taken very seriously and very little should be taken seriously at all. Clara turned to see two men, one tall and lanky in a three-piece suit of Harris tweed and another, shorter figure with a shock of blond hair, a freckled face and alert blue eyes, his old school tie secured with a tiepin.
‘Clara, meet Charles Cavendish and Hugh Lindsey. Your fellow Brits,’ said Mary, eliciting a look of pure puzzlement on the men’s faces.
‘Clara’s half English, didn’t you know? She’s the daughter of Sir Ronald Vine.’
‘The Ronald Vine?’ asked Cavendish, with the look of disdainful astonishment which always accompanied any mention of Clara’s father’s name. Almost immediately he concealed it with a polite smile and stuck out a hand, but not before Clara had noticed.
‘The same.’
To be known as the daughter of one of England’s most prominent Nazi sympathizers had been invaluable in gaining the trust of senior members of the regime. Her father’s lo
yalties had been Clara’s ticket into the inner circles of the Third Reich. Yet still, it was an uncomfortable façade to maintain, especially with the British.
Somehow, the other journalist, Hugh Lindsey, appeared to understand. His eyes travelled over her with intuitive sympathy. He had an easy laugh and an expansive manner that seemed to put people at their ease.
‘None of the Nazis love us Brits any more. Despite the Duke of Windsor’s best efforts.’
‘Hugh’s just arrived from London,’ Mary explained.
There was a rapid turnover of foreign journalists in Berlin. Reporters were constantly having their visas withdrawn for overstepping Goebbels’ mark, or allowing criticism of the regime to creep into their stories.
‘He’s Rupert’s replacement,’ added Mary.
‘Not that Rupert could ever be replaced,’ said Hugh, gallantly.
Clara gave Mary a quick, private glance. At one time Mary had been half in love with Rupert Allingham, the aristocratic head of the Daily Chronicle’s Berlin bureau. Eventually his increasing frustration with the regime, combined with his increasing drinking, had the predictable results and when his friends gathered at the Lehrter Station to wave him off, they agreed that however much they were going to miss him, Rupert’s expulsion from Germany had been an accident waiting to happen.
‘You have big shoes to fill,’ she told Hugh.
‘Big beer glasses too,’ he replied lightly.
‘Rupert’s well out of it,’ Charles Cavendish remarked. ‘There won’t be any war. I’ve heard Chamberlain is having a nervous breakdown. Whenever people try to talk to him, he just stands feeding pigeons through the Downing Street window.’
‘You wonder how the Nazis would even have the time for war,’ added Bill Shirer. ‘They’re so busy being at war with each other. Von Ribbentrop and Goering aren’t even on speaking terms, I hear, and Goebbels can’t stand either of them.’
‘I’ll be able to update you on that,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve been granted an interview with Goering tomorrow. My new minder just told me.’
‘Your minder?’ said Clara.
‘Sure. Over there.’ Mary jerked her Martini glass to indicate a group of officials towering over Goebbels’ five foot six frame. They were vigorous, hard-faced men, mostly in uniform, and those in civilian dress wore the Party emblem in their buttonhole.
‘We have one each. Mine’s the one with the face like Babe Ruth and the charm of Al Capone. They’ve been appointed to keep an eye on us.’
‘Don’t they have enough spies?’ complained Shirer.
Every newspaper office in Berlin had its quota of government informers, from the translators to the secretaries, following them like wasps at a picnic and keeping a watch on their contacts.
‘Goebbels says Germany’s message needs to be better controlled than ever. The minders have to note every word we write and every place we go. Mine’s going to be spending a lot of time at the Adlon bar.’
‘Mine too,’ laughed Hugh.
Clara glanced again at the group of men clustered around Goebbels and as she looked, one man caught her gaze and returned it. He was a haughty figure in a closely pressed uniform, with a hawkish nose and cheekbones as sharp as an SS dagger. Even from across the room she felt his eye travel over the contours of her silk cocktail dress, down her body then up again to her face. As their eyes met a brief smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He nodded and raised his glass very slightly in her direction.
‘Did you see all those presents being taken into the Chancellery this morning?’ said Cavendish. ‘Weren’t we always told it was frightfully spoiling to have too many presents? What’s wrong with cake and champagne?’
‘You can forget the champagne,’ said Mary. ‘I asked. The Propaganda Ministry informed me that the birthday dinner consisted of asparagus tips and artichoke hearts in cream sauce. And the only alcohol on offer was beer at one per cent proof. I’d love to see the guests’ faces when that was served up.’
‘I heard our host gave Hitler a hundred and twenty feature films,’ said Hugh Lindsey. ‘But then what do you give the man who has everything?’
‘Poland, probably,’ said Mary.
Clara glanced again at the tall figure who had caught her eye. In her time she had evolved many tricks for remembering faces, and one of them was to think of which animal she was reminded of. This man would be a large, powerful creature, a panther perhaps, with his dark colouring, black livery and sleek, muscular demeanour. There was an impatience about the flare of his nostrils and the brief glance he cast towards the door which said that as far as he was concerned, the party couldn’t end soon enough. As she looked their eyes met again and he gave a smile that suggested amusement at some private joke only they shared. Immediately she looked away.
She wandered over to the window to watch streams of people returning from the parade, their flags turning the street below into a shimmering sea of swastikas. Having spent all day offering rigid salutes at every opportunity, they were relaxed now, drunkenly loud, singing off key. Overhead, the last squadrons were passing, their drone fading into the distance. The crash barriers were being folded away and litter collectors were busy picking up the odd abandoned flag and empty cardboard Wurst carton. More than any city on earth, Berlin liked order. On the surface at least.
‘It’s an historic occasion.’
Clara turned. The man who had been surveying her from across the room had come up behind her. At closer quarters, he was more than merely good-looking – there was a kind of perfection to his features. His eyes were grey as pewter, his silver-flecked hair swept precisely from the kind of face Clara had seen on statues in the British Museum – haughty, aristocratic, chiselled by generations of breeding, and a nose that in relief would fit perfectly on an ancient Roman. The only unambiguously German thing about him was the four silver pips and stripe on his collar badge that marked his rank as an SS-Obersturmbannführer.
‘I suppose. We have an awful lot of historic occasions nowadays. Sometimes one longs for a simple, unhistoric day.’
The Obersturmbannführer raised a dark eyebrow.
‘Aren’t you enjoying the holiday?’
‘I’m not a great one for holidays. I’d rather get back to work.’
Close up he smelled of fresh leather. No one, except soldiers, smelled of that any more: the rest of the leather in Berlin was worn, scuffed and long overdue for replacement.
‘Personally I’m finding it a welcome respite. But perhaps that’s to do with my current occupation.’ He rocked backwards on his heels and followed her gaze down at the street.
Clara didn’t ask him to elaborate so he continued.
‘Herr Doktor Goebbels has suggested I acquaint myself with all aspects of the Reich Chamber of Culture. I can cope with the concerts, but the Minister thought I should watch as many films as possible and frankly, I’m finding it a formidable job. He’s provided me with a list of movies and I’m having them screened as often as I can bear it.’
‘Tiresome for you.’
‘Indeed.’ He drained his glass. ‘I’m managing two per evening.’
‘Almost as many as the Führer, and he watches movies for pleasure.’
‘Well it wouldn’t do to compete with the Führer,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Though watching these films does rot the brain, don’t you find?’
‘Considering I spend my time acting in them, I suppose not.’
If the Obersturmbannführer was abashed by his obvious faux pas, he didn’t show it. A small sardonic smile danced on his lips.
‘So you’re an actress! That’s the work you’re so keen to get back to. And what are you acting in at present?’
‘A romantic comedy.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Clara kept her eyes concentrated pointedly on the street below.
‘Not much to tell. It’s nearly finished,’ she replied tersely, hoping he was not going to ask what her current project was called.
‘And what’s
it called? Just so that I can look out for it?’
There was a sarcastic composure about him. It was clear he enjoyed prising the information out of her. Turning, she met his gaze full on and said, ‘It’s called Love Strictly Forbidden.’
His smile broadened slightly.
‘Very stirring. And is it your character who is forbidden to love?’
‘You could say so.’
Liebe Streng Verboten was a romantic comedy of the most frivolous kind. It was set in occupied Vienna and Clara played a ditsy girl who fell for a local hotelier. Although the movie was sure to be a cast-iron success, secretly Clara understood the officer’s disdain. Love Strictly Forbidden had as much in common with cinematic art as Kaffee-Ersatz had with a rich blend of Ethiopian Arabica. It would take no more than a couple of weeks to film and the result would be the same as ninety per cent of the Ufa output – frothy romance, as light and forgettable as a Haribo marshmallow candy. But although she knew this, Clara was not about to sympathize with this man’s patronizing remarks. She wondered exactly who he was. He must be fairly secure if he was prepared to disrespect Goebbels so airily. She inclined her head.
‘It’s not often you meet someone who never visits the cinema. Presumably you never see the newsreels either. You must feel awfully out of touch.’
‘Sometimes I think it’s the only way to live at the moment,’ he murmured, then the supercilious expression returned, and he said, ‘But you’re right. The cinema is important and I’m attempting to embrace it.’
‘Which films have you embraced recently?’
‘I tried watching Dance on a Volcano.’ He paused, with a soupçon of scorn, his lips curled. ‘It was billed as an historical drama, though I’m still trying to work out what it had in common with History. But then, perhaps History is whatever Doktor Goebbels says it is.’
