by Jane Thynne
The Hamburg City Orchestra. Where her mother had once played as a concert pianist. If life had been different – if the dashing Ronald Vine had not sat in that audience and fallen in love with the young Helene Neumann as she played a Brahms concerto, and she had not followed him back to England – then it might have been her mother on the radio that day. Except, of course, it wouldn’t, because as the daughter of a Jew, Helene would have been banned from any orchestra in the Reich. She would have been excluded from the Reich Chamber of Culture because she could not show an Ariernachweis. And now her daughter was facing precisely the same predicament.
After applying a light coat of Elizabeth Arden foundation, Clara finished her make-up with a dusting of powder, sprinkled a little salt on her toothbrush in lieu of toothpaste, and pondered her options.
Archie Dyson, her contact at the British Embassy, had been relocated to Rome, a plum promotion that must have thrilled his ambitious wife, Lettie, but left Clara without any direct contact with British Intelligence in Berlin. Even if she got a message to Major Grand through Benno Kurtz of the Ritz bar, and he was able to organize another ID for her, how long would that take? For a second she considered asking Mary Harker if she had any contacts, but such a request could compromise Mary too, and that was a risk Clara refused to contemplate.
A memory flickered. Something Steffi Schaeffer had said.
We have a young man who produces passports and identity papers for us. He turns his hand to anything. His work is superb.
She felt a rush of pure relief, like sun streaking across the lake, and her heart lightened. She made a quick cup of coffee, pulled on a jacket and took up her bag. She needed to find Steffi without delay.
Within an hour she was on a bus, heading down the Königsallee. Thankfully Berlin’s big cream buses, like London’s scarlet ones, had an open platform at the back, making it easy to get on and off in a hurry. Clara sat, as always, at the back, which meant that she could observe whoever got on from behind. The bus reeked of stale clothes and unwashed bodies. The windows were mottled with condensation. Beside her, at eye level, the standard notice had been fixed: The fare-dodger’s profit is the Berliner’s loss! Underneath was a line to report to the authorities anyone not paying the twenty-pfennig fare.
The bus was held up periodically by workmen installing the new air-raid shelters. A vast honeycomb of tunnels and shelters was being created beneath Berlin, a dark mirror to the new city rising above it. A rabbit warren of tunnels, cellars and giant concrete vaults with soundproof walls several metres thick as though, if any bombing happened, there was the faintest chance people would be able to sleep through it.
She found Steffi sitting in the back room of Herr Fromm’s shop with a pair of pince nez perched on her nose, almost buried behind a length of field-grey serge.
‘Hold on a moment. I’m just finishing the buttonhole.’
She unwound a length of thread expertly from the spool, and matched it to the material, then continued sewing, her fingers slipping, dipping, tucking and weaving, marrying needle and cloth in a balletic rhythm that was soothing to watch.
‘The Wehrmacht is very particular about its buttonholes. They insist they’re hand-stitched a certain way and they always check. The stitches need be to a certain length and made from the correct thread. There are very precise regulations. Herr Fromm says no one knows as much about the details of a Wehrmacht uniform as me.’
‘So you’re as particular with your Wehrmacht uniforms as you are with your Chanel frocks?’ Clara smiled.
Steffi would run up exquisite copies of designer outfits at prices even actresses could afford. Chanel, Worth, Lanvin, Patou; there was nothing she would not turn her hand to. She studied the originals and reproduced them down to the finest details so that it was impossible to tell the difference between Steffi’s creations and the real thing.
Now she frowned, and bit off a length of thread.
‘More, if possible. I’ve done so many now it’s become my new speciality.’
‘Some speciality.’
Steffi looked up at Clara over her pince nez. Her face was alive with suppressed meaning.
‘Oh, but it is, Clara,’ she said softly. ‘Did you know there are more than thirty SS cuff-bands and sleeve diamonds? Could you tell me what colour stitching to use for a Death’s Head collar tab and how that differs from the silver flat wire on the SS-Gruppenführer’s collar tab? How the diamond insignia on an SS-Obersturmbannführer’s collar tab should line up relative to the tresse? There may come a day when that kind of knowledge proves very useful.’
She returned to her stitching.
‘Fortunately for me, most officers have their uniforms tailor made, so I’ve had plenty of time to learn.’
Clara felt in her bag for the bars of Menier chocolate.
‘I brought these for Esther. How is she?’
‘Not here, I’m afraid.’
Catching Clara’s alarm she took off her spectacles and lowered her voice.
‘We had to move her.’
‘Where?’
‘There’s a Konditorei – the Konditorei Herschel, do you know it?’
Clara started in surprise.
‘Of course. It’s in Winterfeldtplatz. At the end of my street. I’ve been there with my godson several times.’
It was a typical Berlin place with a finely scrolled ceiling and delicately tiled floor, filled with a fluctuating population of women chatting and men looking for a quiet moment of relaxation with a newspaper. Its cakes, displayed proudly beneath a glass counter at the front of the shop, were true works of art. In the past one might have found Turks’ Heads, sweet, flaky Pigs’ Ears, towering piles of profiteroles, Spritzkuchen and Nusstörtchen. Soft sponge that melted in the mouth and pastries oozing cream and cherries. Now the flour was low grade and the butter was whale blubber, but there was always something on display. The nation’s sweet tooth demanded cakes.
‘That explains it.’
Clara had noticed that certain visitors would enter the café and linger at the glass case, chatting to Frau Herschel, glancing around them at the clientele happily consuming their coffee and then leaving without buying anything. For a close observer like Clara, it wasn’t hard to deduce that the Konditorei Herschel had a second, more secretive line of business.
Steffi stood up and stretched.
‘The proprietor there, Frau Herschel, has helped us in the past. She’s a good woman, but we can’t rely on her for long. We still need to get Esther to England.’
Clara glanced behind her to check the door was closed and said,
‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t just come to bring the chocolate. There’s something I need to ask you. You mentioned you knew someone who could do documents.’
A wary glance.
‘Who is this for?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’
‘I need a new Kennkarte. And an Ariernachweis. Mine have been destroyed and . . . I don’t think it would be possible to get new ones.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The genealogy records would be lacking. Do you think your man could help me?’
Clara was used to Steffi’s sharp scrutiny. The dispassionate look that came over her face whenever Clara tried on a new dress – arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes raking ruthlessly up and down, taking in all her defects and not sparing honest comment if a line didn’t flatter or a style made her hips too large. But this was one aspect of Clara that Steffi had never seen or suspected. Jewish blood.
Nonetheless she absorbed it swiftly.
‘Go to the zoo. Next Thursday lunchtime. Bring two photographs of yourself.’
‘Thursday! That’s six days away. I have no identity documents at all. What if I’m stopped before then?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s the soonest our friend can manage. Go precisely at one o’clock and you will see a man there.’
‘Where? The zoo’s a big place. How will I recognize him?’
‘He�
�ll recognize you. When he sees you he will leave immediately and you must follow him. He will take you a few streets away. When he enters a building, wait, and then knock on the door twice. If anyone but him answers, say you were looking for a Herr Vogel.’
‘Herr Vogel? Is that his name?’
‘That’s no one. If our friend is alone, and certain that you were not followed, he will let you in.’
‘Is it safe in daylight? Shouldn’t we meet later?’
‘Our man believes he is far less conspicuous in daytime. Innocent people don’t go scurrying around at night. And Clara . . .’
There was a clang of the bell, and from behind the velvet curtain came the sound of someone entering the shop followed by the unctuous, indistinct tone of Herr Fromm’s voice and the curt male bark of a customer.
Both women stiffened.
‘You should leave,’ said Steffi. ‘By the way, I have something for you.’
She crossed the room and reached into a wardrobe, bringing out a slate-blue jacket on a hanger. It was three quarter length, with gold buttons and a rich scarlet lining. Clara recognized it at once. It was the same jacket she had seen hanging in the window of the Paris store.
‘A Schiaparelli jacket!’
‘I saw it in Vogue and I had to try it.’
‘But where did you get the materials?’
‘That’s the thing. You can’t get the textiles, but I thought, that shade is awfully familiar, and I realized it was close to Luftwaffe blue. And there was a bolt here that we had to reject on the grounds that it was not precisely the right shade. It wouldn’t pass inspection. The Luftwaffe is very strict like that.’
‘You shouldn’t have!’
‘Perhaps. But if war comes, clothes are sure to be rationed and you won’t be able to get hold of a thing. Try it on.’
Clara pulled the jacket on, sank her hands into the deep pockets, and did a little twirl. Steffi stood back, arms crossed.
‘Well, I’ll say this for you. You certainly look like the real thing.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Schwannecke’s wine bar on Rankestrasse was a popular hangout for actresses and theatrical types. In the old days photographers would gather outside, hoping to catch a shot of Marlene Dietrich as she came out, and the actress would favour them with one of her trademark hundred-watt smiles, but Marlene Dietrich was an ocean away now, beaming at Hollywood photographers, and the press had other things than actresses on their minds.
There was a sign on the counter.
Do Not Ask for Coffee. We Hate to Disappoint.
Clara was nursing a cup of watery tea. She had, as always, paid up front so that she could leave quickly if necessary. From her position at the back of the café she had every customer in sight by profile, as well as an eye on potential observation points across the street, as she leafed through a copy of the BZ am Mittag.
Already the euphoria of the Führer’s birthday had faded and the paper had returned to its customary fail-safe formula of propaganda, threats and atrocities. In the top right-hand corner was a list of people who had refused to contribute to the Winter Relief fund. Naming and shaming was a way of life in Germany. Anything from homosexual love affairs to hoarding food, reading banned books or the catchall crime of ‘attitudes negative to National Socialism’. Often the only way to escape denunciation was to denounce the accuser. Recently, however, police were beginning to buckle under the weight of accusations coming in from one citizen against another, with the result that a new scheme had been dreamt up. Now you could win a reward for denouncing anyone making false denunciations.
That day’s centre pages, however, did contain something fresh. A double page spread devoted to the scale model of the Welthauptstadt, the new world capital that Albert Speer had created for the Führer’s recent birthday. It was a marvel of its kind – far more impressive than the models Clara used to buy for Erich from Märklin’s toyshop in Charlottenburg. Every house in Speer’s city was rendered in bone-white balsa wood, the windows glinting, streets gleaming, the great dome like an upturned ostrich egg and the replica cathedral cleansed of its grimy façade. It was a pearl-white paradise, delicate and shimmering as a heavenly city – except this was a city that existed only in Hitler’s mind. Clara imagined his fingers dawdling along the façades, poking into doors and windows, marching down Unter den Linden, caressing the curve of the giant dome. Every detail was perfect and exact, except for the fact that there were no people. It was as if the world had been tipped and all the untidy, inconvenient inhabitants had slid off the edge.
People are keeping an eye on you. Somebody has been saying some very unkind things about you.
Ever since the evening at the Valhalla, Magda Goebbels’ comments had been sounding at the back of Clara’s mind. What had she meant? Was it just the usual whispers that swirled around actresses, who were always the target of gossip and innuendo, or was it another scrap of the feverish speculation and spin that obtained in the upper circles of the Nazi Party? Was Clara genuinely being watched? With no call for filming that morning, she had steeled herself to find out.
All spies, Leo told her, must learn to read. Not newspapers, but voices, body language and faces. As a man entered the café and came to sit beside her, Clara thought of the first rule on Leo’s list. Look out for the unobtrusive. Beneath the fedora his worn, creased face had a hangdog expression and this anonymity, coupled with the fact that he made no eye contact or subtle acknowledgement of her, instantly aroused Clara’s suspicions. That was until his roll and hot tea arrived and he began to wolf it down with feverish haste. She realized instinctively that the man must be a non-Aryan, no longer allowed in cafés or restaurants, and that he was savouring a pleasure he might not experience again.
A speech came on the radio, and the owner reached over to turn it up. As the harsh jackal’s shriek of Joseph Goebbels rang out, all conversation hushed immediately – it was the law – and most people even stopped chewing, as if eating and drinking were disrespectful when the Propaganda Minister was holding forth. They weren’t far wrong. No element of normal life was too trifling to avoid Goebbels’ scrutiny and this issue had, in fact, been covered in a recent pamphlet, Instructions to the Catering Trade on Restaurant Etiquette in the Case of Political Pronouncements. Clara, like everyone else, lowered her cup and allowed her face to go blank. In more zealous districts, customers would stand and salute the radio, but in this upmarket area a respectful silence was thought to suffice. It was not an easy listen. Hitler’s yell was bad enough – it must hurt his throat as much as it hurt the listeners’ ears – yet it had a mesmerizing quality. There was nothing whatever seductive about Joseph Goebbels. But his voice reminded Clara of something he had said. You look totally unrecognizable with those spectacles. By chance the spectacles she wore for her film part were still in her bag. Fishing them out, she waited for the speech to finish, and left the café.
She walked down the Kurfürstendamm, past the great stuccoed apartment blocks whose baroque decoration was now topped with the ultra-modern addition of anti-aircraft guns pointing into the porcelain-blue sky. Stopping at Harry Lehmann’s perfume store she lingered and spent a few minutes testing her favourites – Tulip, Violet and Rose. The flasks of perfume were ranked along a shelf, a mirror at their back, spangled with iridescent reflections from the sun. A leisurely parade of sniffing, dabbing and testing enabled Clara to keep an eye on the street outside but no figure shuffled to a stop, or loitered against the green Litfass advertising column to light a cigarette.
Turning into Fasanenstrasse she passed the remains of the synagogue, burned to the ground the previous November. When the fire was at its height the synagogue cantor had appealed to the fire crews who drew up outside to save them, but the firemen held back, explaining they had only come to protect the neighbouring buildings.
Clara’s eyes scanned the road. It was the least likely people you watched for. The elderly gentleman in grey homburg, kid gloves, shiny boots and spats, an
umbrella over his arm, proceeding at a leisurely pace along the other side of the road. The woman queuing outside the fishmonger’s for a fresh consignment of herring. The newspaper seller, calling out a friendly greeting from his cast-iron kiosk.
There was a man she noticed, with a sallow, forgettable face, proceeding at a steady pace behind her. She stopped where a salesgirl was rattling a Winter Relief box, fumbled for her purse and extracted some coins.
‘Here.’
‘All in a good cause.’ The girl winked. ‘Our soldiers need their guns.’
Cynicism was everywhere on the streets now, like a black market brandy that passed from one person to another and warmed the secret places of the soul. It was what made Goebbels’ joke-writer such an inspired idea. Clara deliberately dropped a few pfennigs on the ground, but when she dipped to the pavement to collect them, the sallow man overtook her and vanished from sight.
All the same, she descended into the U-Bahn, past the sign that said Jews and dogs were barred from the escalator, and let the first train leave without her. When the next train arrived she waited until every other passenger had boarded before slipping on just as the doors closed. Two stops later she got off and caught a train in the opposite direction, then left the U-Bahn and jumped on a bus as it was moving off and disembarked at Alexanderplatz.
Eventually she came to the Marienkirche. The thirteenth-century church, with its red brick and green spire, could not seem more of a contrast to the granite monumentalism of Albert Speer. Although churchgoing was frowned on now, and most places of worship were deserted, a visit to the Marienkirche counted as a cultural outing because of its most famous artefact – the Totentanz, the dance of death.
The fresco had been lost for centuries until it was glimpsed under a layer of whitewash and painstakingly brought back into the light. How like life that was, Clara thought. Death hovered out of the corner of the eye until it came suddenly, drastically into view. The theme was a German tradition. Death danced, holding the hands of cardinals and popes, saints, kings and fools. Looking at the saints with their eroded features, softened by time and devotion, she wondered if Hitler’s own features might one day become dulled and worn away with familiarity, until, like a dreadful saint, the sight of him no longer had the power to surprise.
