by Jane Thynne
‘Why can’t I trust you?’
‘I told you I wanted you to accompany me to the cinema but now it comes to it I can think of nothing worse than wasting an evening with you watching drivel. I would far prefer to take a ride and talk to you. And we’re lucky to have countryside like this so close to the heart of the Reich.’
Clara had found Adler’s postcard when she returned home the previous day. Vermeer’s A Young Woman Seated at a Virginal. A sweet-faced girl in a blue dress, dreamily poised with her fingers on the keys, the sunlight dazzling off the blue of her silk gown, a choker of pearls around her neck. She snatched up the card with apprehension, wondering how Adler had managed to find her address, before turning it over and reading his invitation.
The Reitclub Grunewald. 12pm tomorrow?
The invitation threw her into an agony of indecision. Since that evening more than a week ago in Paris, Adler had a terrifying hold over her. He knew the truth about her, yet she had no idea what he intended to do with it.
The horse assigned to Clara tossed his head fretfully and Adler rubbed its velvety nose, easing a place where the bridle was tight.
‘D’you think you can handle him? Perhaps he’s too large for you.’
‘I used to have a horse back in England. Inkerman. This one’s about the same size.’
‘Then this will remind you of happy times.’
She took the reins from Adler and swung herself up into the saddle and Adler’s groom helped him onto his own horse.
‘Thank you, Karl.’
They made their way along the bridle path, out of the sunshine and into a tunnel of shadow where the density of the darkness was layered with the low gurgle of wood pigeons. Once or twice the flash of a coppery squirrel crossed their path. The horses picked their way expertly along a route they knew by heart, their hooves padding softly over the leaf mould. It was just as Adler had said. The sight of the conker-brown horse in front of her and the rising scent of warm horsehair, oiled harness and burnished leather provoked a sharp stab of nostalgia. In truth, he was right – the horse was larger than she was used to – but he seemed calm, and she loved the sensation of him moving beneath her, the instinctive communication between animal and rider. It had been years since Clara had been on horseback, and then it was down lanes in the Surrey countryside, fringed by hawthorn hedgerows. Here in the Grunewald the air was fresher, with an edge of pine, and unlike the deciduous English woodland, the densely packed pine trees were dark and impenetrable.
Apart from the occasional command to his horse, or a suggestion of right or left, Adler progressed without speaking, following a route deeper into the wood. From time to time Clara glanced across, but could tell nothing of his thoughts other than he was apparently absorbed in his ride. Leaning down to slap the horse’s neck he said, ‘What do you think of Flieger? He has the most wonderful pedigree, but I don’t care about any of that. I bought him because he is such an intelligent animal. The moment I saw him I had to have him.’
There was a tenderness in his voice she had not heard before and her heart warmed to him in response. She had never met a man who loved horses the way she did. The men she knew liked a hard competitive gallop, or a morning’s hunting on the South Downs, but they rarely spoke about their mounts with the same undertow of attachment.
‘Karl looks after him wonderfully. I’ve told him to make the most of it while he can.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s a Jew,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘The Führer’s shortly to ban Jews from caring for animals so Karl won’t be able to work at the stables any more. He’s going to be looking around for a new occupation.’
After a while they emerged from the forest trail to a clearing where a timbered biergarten stood, complete with a cobbled yard dotted with scarlet geraniums where drinkers were sitting in the sun. A man in lederhosen and a short Bavarian hat was playing Mozart on the violin, and sparrows hopped and pecked between the tables. A stag’s head hung above the door, and glancing into the dim interior Clara saw a collection of other animals – birds, badgers and pine martens in glass cases. Foxes’ heads snarled at each other across the room and a moulting hare, inexpertly stuffed, cocked a glassy eye. At the entrance a stuffed bear with the fur rubbed away at the snout stood, paw extended like a maître d’ welcoming new customers.
‘This place has been here for centuries. Shall we stop?’
They tethered the horses on the fence and sat in the dappled shade. Adler ordered beer for both of them.
‘So. Did the ride bring back pleasant memories?’
‘I’d almost forgotten how much I loved it. I haven’t ridden for so long. It reminded me of being a child.’
‘What were you like as a child?’
His question brought her up short. Her childhood seemed locked off from her now. A vanished dream of gardens and lessons, of intense, intimate adventures with Angela and Kenneth. Yet also, she realized with hindsight, a time of secrets. Of concealed diaries, repressed feelings and hidden emotion.
‘I suppose I was a typical middle child. Self-reliant. Very reserved.’
‘Yes.’ His keen eyes seemed to penetrate her. ‘I can see that. Though from my time in London I would say that’s something of a national trait. The English are very skilled at concealing their emotions.’
She smiled briefly, but did not trust herself to reply. Since Adler’s discovery of her forged document she was determined to guard every detail. She had no idea of his intentions towards her, or what he planned to do with her secret. She wondered if he would raise the matter, or if he expected her to throw herself on his mercy. She would not bring it up herself. She decided to wait and see.
‘Why were you reserved? Were your parents unhappy?’
He could not have dissected her more accurately if he had been armed with a scalpel. Towards the end of her mother’s life the marriage was over in all but name. She had found herself going between her parents like a double agent, translating and embroidering their comments for each other, shoring up the glaring cracks in their façade of family life. Her father retreated to his study with its bay window overlooking the rose garden and her mother to hours of practice on the grand piano.
‘I think they were mismatched. They had a whirlwind romance – I suppose that’s what you’d call it – and once it died down they discovered they were very different.’
‘There’s nothing worse than a romance that has gone sour. It’s why I have always preferred my solitude. What was your first memory?’
‘The Titanic sinking. I remember my parents sitting at the breakfast table – our breakfast room had high walls with a pattern of dark green leaves like wreaths and I was counting them. My father was reading the newspaper and he said, “All those people dead.” I tried to allot a wreath in my mind to each dead person. It filled me with fear.’
‘Why? It wasn’t your tragedy.’
‘The idea that death could come quite suddenly, out of nowhere. And then of course it did. My mother died when I was sixteen. I thought as time went by I would miss her less, but in fact I miss her more.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Helene. Helene Neumann.’
Not the name on the gravestone in the Surrey churchyard of St Michael and All Angels, softly eroding as the rain dripped down its runnels. But her mother’s absence was chiselled into Clara’s life in a way that could not be erased. It had brought home to her the telescoping of Time. The way it felt tangible, curdled, the minutes growing thick. Gradually running out.
‘I miss my sister too. We were so close at one time, you would never believe. We just grew apart.’
‘Do you see her much?’
She had a sudden, passionate desire to talk about Angela. It had been so long since anyone asked her questions like this. Yet she refused to let herself relax.
‘Not really. And I haven’t seen my father for years.’
‘Would you like to?’
‘I suppose.’
> ‘Why stay in Germany then?’
‘For my work.’
‘Can your work be so important?’
‘I think so.’
She took a deep draught of the beer. It was a Berlin Weiss, with a shot of fruit syrup – unexpectedly refreshing. Adler’s questions disconcerted her. Maybe that was the point. She shifted beneath his forensic gaze.
‘Enough of me. What about you. Were you born in Berlin?’
‘No. My family comes from Weimar.’ He leaned back in his seat, languidly stretching his jodhpured legs. ‘I’m a count, actually. Von Adler. The decoration was bought a few generations back. I’m not proud of it, that’s just how things are. I had every blessing I could ask. A perfect heritage, a bloodline, money, and land in the finest city in Germany.’
‘I’ve never been to Weimar.’
‘You should. It’s the home of the Reformation and of Goethe, of course. Have you read Faust?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘You must know the story. The man who made a pact with the devil.’
‘He sold his soul in return for anything he wanted on earth.’
‘That’s the one. Don’t go reading anything into that, though.’
Adler tilted his glass towards her and took a sip of foamy beer. The sun caught his glass and made it sparkle.
‘I often think of my life back in Weimar. The place was enormous. You can’t imagine the upkeep, but as a boy one never thought of those things. We had horses, of course, stables of our own, magnificent gardens. A lake and a chapel. Even an ice palace. My mother was much younger than my father and neither of them had any idea about children. I was the only one they had and they treated me as a type of miniature adult. Or rather . . .’
He paused with his head tilted, as though this was the first time he had ever considered it.
‘Like a dinner guest. They were always utterly courteous. Polite. They talked about politics, or history, or art, as though I would understand, which of course, being intelligent, I did.’
Clara looked into Adler’s impenetrable eyes and tried to see in him the young boy, isolated and awkward. Polite.
‘In the winter we would go hunting. There’s a hare there that learns to camouflage itself perfectly against the land. It has a deep grey coat but in winter it undergoes a moult and turns entirely white. I admire that. The skill of camouflage. You can’t be a good hunter unless you’ve studied camouflage. This little hare turns white so expertly that only the best hunters can see it against the snow.’
‘Sounds like you miss it.’
‘I do. I often wish I’d made my life back there, managing the estate, living quietly. Keeping out of politics.’
‘So why did you?’ She kept her voice low but her words flared with passion. ‘Why get involved in all this . . . brutality? If you didn’t have to?’
Adler observed her change of expression, then gave a cool shrug. ‘It was necessary to join the Party if I was to pursue my work as an art specialist. Once the Reich Chamber of Culture was instated, it was mandatory.’
‘You didn’t have to enter politics.’
‘I didn’t think of it as politics. When von Ribbentrop was made ambassador to England, he invited me along as his aide, and I liked the idea. I’ve always enjoyed foreign travel.’ He leaned in confidentially. ‘Though I would have liked it a lot more if it hadn’t been for the attentions of his wife.’
‘Can it really have been so bad?’
‘She never let me alone. She liked my wealth. My aristocratic heritage. Probably the same reasons you like me.’
Clara smiled.
‘Who said I like you?’
He laughed, delightedly.
‘But of course. You came here this morning solely for the exercise. And you accepted my dinner invitation in Paris out of a desire to discuss international affairs.’
She fought the urge to tell him how accurate he was.
‘Talking of Paris, I was wondering. Who was that man you met?’
Adler’s face shuttered instantly, the way it had on the bridge.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Is it something I shouldn’t know?’
He sighed.
‘His name is Alfred Rosenberg. You’ve heard of him, I take it?’
Alfred Rosenberg was the mad philosopher seer of the Party, one of the earliest members to demonize Jews, freemasons and Communists.
‘There are a lot of Jews selling their stuff right now, trying to raise money to leave France, and there’s desperate competition for it, from the highest places. Paris is crawling with art experts, art restorers, art packers, cataloguers.’
‘So how does that involve Alfred Rosenberg?’
‘He’s overseeing it all. It’s a joke really. Rosenberg likes art about as much as he likes Jews. To have a man like that in charge is quite ridiculous.’
‘So he’s in charge of paintings being sold?’
‘Not just that.’ A dry laugh. ‘He’s masterminding the cultural audit of Paris.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘All these questions, Clara Vine. Your curiosity is extraordinary.’
‘I’m interested.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll tell you. We’re bureaucrats, we Nazis, you see. That’s where we excel. Some of the best works in the world are in Jewish hands – all the rich families, the Rothschilds, the Wildensteins, the Seligmanns. Rosenberg’s scouts are finding where the Jews live and marking down their addresses. Inventories are being made of every important object of artistic and cultural value. Not just paintings, but sculptures, furniture, tapestries, bronzes, carpets, antiques, jewels.’
‘Jewels?’
He’s hunting for a jewel. He’s looking for it high and low. God help anyone who gets in his way.
Adler shrugged. ‘Everything. It will all be noted and entered in a ledger just in case the Reich needs to acquire it.’
‘Just in case.’
‘As you say. Just in case.’
‘So the people at the Louvre . . .?’
‘They were trying to outwit Rosenberg. The French are working overtime sending all their museum works to châteaux and other hiding places in the countryside. They think they can hide things, but it’s futile. Rosenberg’s spies know precisely where the valuable things can be found.’
Clara could scarcely believe she was hearing this. She tried valiantly not to look around her, to see if they were being overheard, until she realized that these comfortable burghers, with their great steins of frothing beer and their plates of Heaven and Earth – clouds of mashed potato with black pudding – probably agreed with Adler. The riches of a foreign country would sit far better in the Reich.
‘So France will be relieved of her art if the country is invaded.’
Adler gave a casual shrug.
‘Is it any different from what Napoleon did? He was the greatest art thief in history. And what about your Elgin Marbles? The glories of the Parthenon carried off to London. Beautiful objects will always be desired by the powerful. They will be well treated, appreciated. Loved, even.’
‘And you’re one of Rosenberg’s spies.’
‘God, no!’ His eyes flashed with steel and Clara saw that a savage anger lay beneath Adler’s urbane exterior. An anger he generally managed to suppress.
‘I’m sorry. What else should I assume? He seemed to want to speak to you pretty urgently that night.’
‘As I told you, I was advising on a collection.’
There was silence between them for a moment, and Adler stared sightlessly out into the forest before recovering his composure. Then his eyes became mellow again, dancing with amusement as though everything that had passed between them was a game.
‘On the subject of Paris . . . I mentioned I was there to see beautiful things, and as it happens,’ he reached to his side, ‘I did come across something beautiful.’
He brought a minute parcel from his pocket. It was a burgundy coloured box, with the name Cartier tooled
in gold. Adler flicked the catch to display its glinting contents sitting snugly on snow-white linen and pushed it across the table towards her. Two sparkling diamond earrings set in bright, buttery gold. A large diamond at each centre and a cluster of smaller ones around it. A shaft of sun lit the stones like a lick of flames at their core.
‘Like fire behind ice. They reminded me of you.’
‘I can’t possibly.’
He swept a nonchalant hand.
‘I was inspired by those pearls you wore the other evening. You seemed a woman who suits fine jewellery.’
‘I couldn’t accept them.’
‘I hoped you might see them as by way of apology. For inconveniencing you. On the bridge.’
Clara couldn’t take her eyes off the diamonds. They were lovelier than any jewellery she had ever possessed. Before she could help it, an image flashed through her mind of Conrad Adler fastening the studs to her naked ears.
Quietly, she said, ‘I don’t think diamonds are the answer to that.’
‘It’s a gift, but if you find it inappropriate then really, no matter.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She slid the box back across the table.
‘As you wish.’ He picked it up and replaced it in his pocket.
At once Clara worried that she had acted too hastily. Would the rebuff anger him? She had no desire to encourage Adler’s romantic interest, but he was a valuable contact if she was to learn anything about the inner thinking of the Foreign Ministry.
‘Shall we go?’ He was rising from the table and reaching for his crop. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you.’
Adler strode ahead of her, out of the biergarten, remounted and led the way further into the wood.
It was darker here. The pale sky was lanced with branches and in the complicated shadows, deer skittered away through the brushwood. They carried on further as the bridleway narrowed, forcing them to duck beneath low-hanging trees with fists of fungus protruding from their trunks. The air tasted of dusk and decay. The claustrophobic gloom was freighted with the dank aroma of moss and soft, rotten mulch underfoot. Clara could not help thinking of Lotti Franke, and how, just a few miles from here, her body had been found.
