Faith and Beauty

by Jane Thynne

  In the courtyard of the Schloss Bellevue, a fountain shot a shower of diamonds into the night air. High above, fireworks blistered the sky and inside everything was candlelit; china, crystal and flowers, all captured in an antique golden glow. It could have been a tableau from another era as butlers dressed in knee breeches and powdered wigs welcomed men in eighteenth-century frock coats and women barnacled with jewels in long, sweeping gowns. The great hall was hung with art treasures and perfumed by elaborate sheaths of hothouse orchids, roses and white lilacs. But despite the historical decor, nobody was giving much thought to the past. Not when the future hung so perilously in the balance.

  A flurry of attention signalled the arrival of Goering’s car, a distinctive, aviation-blue Mercedes 540K cabriolet, dubbed the Blue Goose. Because he liked to drive himself, the vehicle had been modified not only with the standard bulletproof glass and armoured walls, but a specially engineered seat broad enough to squeeze the corpulent Minister behind the wheel.

  It was obvious, once he had heaved himself out of the car, that whatever his wife might claim, Hermann Goering’s diet was not a success. The Minister’s fat fingers were manacled with emeralds and gems of sweat were already glinting as his gargantuan paunch preceded him into the reception hall. His outfit of embroidered mauve frock coat, frilly cravat and tight silk breeches didn’t help, nor did the floor-length white fur coat flatter his curves. Emmy, at his side, looked almost svelte in a low eighteenth-century gown, the neckline drawn aside like a pair of theatrical curtains to reveal her powdered bust.

  An extensive cast of diplomats, aristocrats, politicians, hangers-on and members of the film and theatre world had been assembled to greet the Yugoslav royals. Tonight was the summit of the state visit and the culmination of Hitler’s attempts to flatter and intimidate Yugoslavia into remaining neutral in case of war. Yet alongside this important agenda, a range of lesser ambitions were on display. Joseph Goebbels, in white uniform and medals, was purposefully late. Magda lagged a deliberate few steps behind her husband with a dyspeptic glare. And von Ribbentrop had opted to accessorize his full Foreign Ministry fig with the magnificent diamond-studded collar of the Annunziata, expressly to annoy his host.

  Once the guests were gathered, a string quartet struck up a waltz and a host of Faith and Beauty girls, done out in taffeta dresses as white as clouds, began to dance.

  Clara skirted the packed reception, the reds and blues and golds unfurling and mingling before her eyes. The sparkle and glitter of the evening reminded her of the line from Paradise Lost about ‘barbaric peal and gold’, yet it was impossible to concentrate fully on the scene when her mind was still in tumult. She was in possession of a secret more valuable than diamonds – the date for war – but there was nothing she could do with it. The month that Major Grand had allotted her was about to elapse. Yet still, she could barely focus on anything. Thoughts of Leo drowned everything out. After the meeting with Albert Goering she had gone to the Ufa studios in a daze, and spent the afternoon buried in the costume department, selecting a dress for the evening ahead.

  ‘You know what they’re all gossiping about.’

  The voice was icily familiar. Syrup undercut with steel. Clara turned to find Annelies von Ribbentrop, sheathed in grey lamé as tight as aircraft fuselage, standing uncomfortably close.

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m sure you do,’ she insisted, lips puckering into a smile. ‘All anyone’s talking about is the pact.’

  The pact. Could it really be this simple? Was the alliance so far advanced that it was already a topic of casual party conversation?

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?’ The malice in Frau von Ribbentrop’s face glittered like the diamonds at her neck. ‘I thought someone who likes gossip as much as you would be bound to know before the rest of us. You always seem to have your ear to the ground.’

  ‘Not in this case.’

  She shook her head sorrowfully.

  ‘It’s the pact between the Goebbels. Joseph has signed a document with Magda agreeing to a year’s good behaviour and Hitler has offered to act as guarantor. It’s the only peace treaty Hitler has ever put his name to.’

  Clara looked over at Magda. Though she towered like a chessboard queen over her husband’s pawn, she had evidently succumbed to checkmate. The pact may be a small victory in her marital war, but she had plainly been obliged to attend the ball, and to add to her humiliation she was at that moment being introduced to Veit Harlan and his wife Kristina Söderbaum, the director and star of Die Reise nach Tilsen, the film that Goebbels intended to commit his affair to romantic posterity.

  ‘You wonder why Goering has to invite all these actors. I mean, I know our hostess feels more comfortable surrounded by fellow . . . performers, but really, there must be the entire staff of Ufa here tonight. Was there some kind of round-robin invitation?’

  ‘I was asked because the Minister wanted some English speakers.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ She took a sip from her glass and winced, as if she had been drinking vinegar rather than the best Sekt. ‘The English are all very well, I suppose, but must they endlessly try to butt in on our business? Threatening war over the return of a city like Danzig, which is German already. And when the Poles provoke us in the extreme. Hitler has been in love with England for years, but I tell him, it’s unrequited. All these years he has paid court to England, admired her empire, entertained her aristocrats, and what does he get for it? My husband says all we ask of the English is that they recognize the Germans are also a great nation, with our own special sphere.’

  Clara was saved from continuing this conversation by the announcement that dinner was to be served. Annelies von Ribbentrop disappeared to take her place on the top table, and Clara drifted towards the grand dining room, where a feast of clear soup, goose with potatoes and lettuce, cheese, fruit, coffee and pastries was waiting. Not forgetting the kilo of Russian caviar which had been delivered that morning from the Soviet Embassy.

  They were only on the first course – crab royale à la mayonnaise with asparagus – when a muffled cry and a shout caused heads to turn up to the balcony. A beautiful young woman whom Clara recognized as the violinist from the string quartet was leaning over the balcony, screaming something and pulling from her lace-edged yellow jacket a flutter of paper, white and coloured, that came drifting down onto the heads of the crowd. The guests ducked and cowered, as if bombs, rather than leaflets, were being rained on their heads. One drifted to the table beside Clara and the man next to her, a Dutch diplomat, picked it up and studied the headline. Hitler means war! Almost immediately he dropped it, as if he had received an electric shock.

  Most of the guests politely averted their eyes from the balcony, but Clara watched the girl with her heart in her mouth. For a second she stood poised, as if planning to fly down and join them, before three soldiers arrived and seized her roughly, stretching her arms outwards like a crucified saint. The light shone a gold halo on her hair and the tendons stood out on her slender neck as her terror transmitted itself through the air. As they wrested her away the girl’s face was drained of colour but she submitted quickly, walking with dignity between the men, her upright bearing failing entirely to disguise her fear.

  At the table waiters leapt forward instantly, sweeping up stray leaflets like embarrassingly spilt milk. Goering’s face was puce with fury but for the first time that evening, Goebbels gave a thin, colourless smile.

  Conversation started up again and the clatter of cutlery resumed, but Clara’s appetite had deserted her. It was impossible to eat with the memory of the violinist’s bloodless face in her mind and the thought of what she might now be enduring. The girl looked so young. The fact that she must have known the penalty for such a public protest was no consolation. Suddenly, Clara felt as though all the colours in the room were vibrating and blurring into each other, the candlelight off the chandelier splintering into a thousand stars.

  ‘Ple
ase excuse me. I feel a little dizzy.’

  She escaped to the terrace overlooking the magnificent garden, lit that evening by a hundred lanterns, and waited for her head to clear. From the shadows beside her, a figure appeared.

  ‘Hello, Clara. I thought it was you.’

  Olga Chekhova was wearing a deep, strapless gown with a full-skirted froth of grey tulle studded with roses at the hem.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I needed some air.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. That poor girl. One dreads to think . . . Breathe deeply, darling, and drink more champagne. It’ll settle you.’

  She came and leant her arms against the stone parapet with a sigh.

  ‘I had to get away from Goebbels. Do you know, he uses me as an alibi? When he’s been seeing that woman, Lída, he tells Magda that I’ve invited him for dinner. He does drop by my apartment, but he only stays a few minutes and then he leaves. So every time I see Magda she stares like a witch who has put a curse on me. Tell me, is she watching now? Don’t make it obvious.’

  Clara peered back into the ballroom.

  ‘I can’t see her.’

  ‘Good. I wish I’d never come. I only came because the Yugoslav Princess is half-Russian and she’s a fan apparently, but Goering hasn’t even bothered to introduce me. He’s been utterly boorish towards me, in fact. Quite rude.’

  Clara realized there might be no better opportunity than this, in the quiet gloom of the garden, to tell Olga what she knew.

  ‘Actually, I think I understand why.’

  A sharp, interrogative look.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Frau Goering mentioned it to me and I haven’t had the chance to tell you. The fact is, Olga, Goering suspects you of spying.’

  In the darkness, the actress’s expression was hard to read, but she coolly opened her velvet evening bag and drew out a cigarette, lighting up before replying.

  ‘Well I can’t say I’m surprised. Why should he be any different? Everyone suspects me of spying. You have no idea what a nightmare it is for me, Clara. I’m both German and Russian. In Moscow, they suspect me because I live in Germany, and here, people assume that I will be leaking secrets to my brother, Lev, because he’s close to the Russian government. And I can’t say a word. How could I ever denounce Stalin while my relations are living in Moscow?’

  ‘It must be hard.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. The truth is, Clara, it’s you I’m worried about.’

  The older woman inclined her head. Behind them the blithe precision of a Viennese waltz danced out of the open doors and a hundred pairs of gleaming shoes shuffled on the shining floor.

  ‘The other day in the Adlon, you were talking to a man.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t see me. I called and you didn’t reply.’

  ‘Forgive me, my darling, I did see you. But I pretended not to hear. The fact was, I couldn’t disappear fast enough. You see, I knew that man. The one you were with. He’s a friend of my brother Lev’s.’

  Clara looked out into the darkness. Her fingers were so tight around the stem of her glass, she almost crushed it.

  ‘The man you were talking to is a senior officer in the NKVD. I would recognize him anywhere but I hardly expected to find him standing in the bar of the Hotel Adlon.’

  In the second before Clara completely understood, it was as though she was standing in the shadows of the sound stage, looking into the dazzle of the set, trying to see a face against the light. Waiting for the face to take shape as her eye adjusted.

  And then she knew.

  ‘Be careful, won’t you?’

  Olga Chekhova touched Clara’s shoulder lightly, and walked away.

  Chapter Forty

  It was late by the time her taxi reached Griebnitzsee. A lustrous moon made the shadows denser, the darkness blacker. Firs crowded in across the narrow road. Silence came sifting down like snow and a fine sheen of rain puckered the glistening surface of the lake.

  She guessed now who it was that had given her name to the Gestapo and the knowledge had made the world change shape and close in around her. Her adrenaline was firing like an electrical charge, sparking through her body, yet her mind was focused and determined, rinsed clear.

  The big villas with their gates and long drives were draped in darkness. Shutters were closed and curtains drawn. Either the owners were away or they weren’t bothering to light the street for the benefit of a rare, late-night passer-by. Yet again Clara regretted moving to this isolated spot. In the city there would be noise and nosiness, but in Griebnitzsee there was only indifferent silence.

  As she approached the house, she remembered another point on Leo’s list. Listen to what you don’t hear. Pay attention to anything unfamiliar, to the gaps in the environment around. Any whisper that lay behind the natural stirrings of the forest and the waves thudding against the jetty in the lake. She stopped for a moment, ears strained for any change in the texture of the silence. Anything that might make her senses prickle, the way they did when danger was near.

  And it was there. The rattle of the front gate that had been left unlatched. The gate that Clara always closed. Like a bat squeak of menace, it sounded a high note of alarm in her ears.

  But it was not until her key turned in the lock that she realized he would be waiting for her.

  Hugh Lindsey was standing in the drawing room holding the postcard of the Vermeer painting that Clara had propped on the mantelpiece. The lamps were unlit, but the flood of moonlight washing in through the long windows accentuated his face in unfamiliar chiaroscuro.

  ‘I like this one. Young Lady seated at a Virginal. It’s from the National Gallery, isn’t it?

  ‘What are you talking about, Hugh?’

  He carried on, as though she had not spoken.

  ‘Vermeer’s ladies look so pure and innocent, don’t they, but who’s to say they are really? Isn’t that what appeals to us about them? The suggestion of corruption underneath? This one here – this little musician – we know that she may have more than music on her mind, because there are erotic paintings behind her. There’s Cupid and a procuress.’

  Clara snapped the light on, causing him to blink.

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’

  ‘I’ve been here a couple of times actually, since I drove you that evening. I wish you’d invited me in then, but there was obviously something on your mind. I’ve been thinking about you. I’ve watched you.’

  ‘You watched me.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally, Clara. I like you a lot. I know your family. But ideology means more than pure sentiment.’

  ‘You mean Bolshevik ideology.’

  ‘If you like.’

  She remained where she was standing, by the door. Her legs were trembling too much to move.

  ‘You probably don’t know but your dear Bolsheviks are planning to team up with the Nazis. There’s a pact underway right now. What does that say about them that they’re prepared to ditch their principles at a moment’s notice?’

  He smiled. ‘Principles are a luxury that other people pay for. Besides, this pact you’re talking about – if it happens – will ultimately advance the cause of Bolshevism.’

  ‘And how is helping Hitler going to advance your cause?’

  ‘I’m no admirer of the Nazis, as you well know. But Stalin needs to protect the world from the expansion of British imperialism.’

  ‘Protect the world? The English are the only ones who will oppose Nazism.’

  ‘Oh, Clara.’ He gave an indulgent smile, as though at the foolishness of a child. ‘The English are hopeless. They have no idea of the Nazis’ methods or intentions.’ He looked around him, restlessly. ‘I suppose you don’t have any more of those Gauloises with you?’

  She reached in her bag and withdrew the packet, tossing it to him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Pulling out his Dunhill lighter he inhaled languidly.

  ‘There’s something about u
s English which makes us think that because we all go to the same schools and belong to the same clubs, White’s or Brooks’s, or the Athenaeum, or at a stretch the Reform, and because we share the same tailors, that we must also share the same mind. King, Country, Class and Club, that’s our religion. The effortless English gentleman. Born to rule the waves. The only rules being not to sleep with a colleague’s wife and not to light one’s cigar before the third glass of port. Our highest test of character is being a good cricket umpire and playing by the rules. Ideological dispute is the stuff of university common rooms. Well I’ve never been part of that pompous, self-satisfied tribe.’

  ‘So it was better to become a spy?’

  He gave a gravelly, cigarette-choked laugh.

  ‘My dear, isn’t that rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black? It takes one to know one.’

  If Hugh Lindsey knew about her, what others might he be aware of? Despite his outward languor, Clara felt their two minds matching each other, calculating, intensely alert. Trying to compute which of them was the more dangerous.

  ‘As soon as I realized what you were about I informed my friendly local Gestapo, but for some reason they allowed you to slip the net.’

  Clara had heard that in extreme situations, fear would turn to anger, and now she felt fury, pure and hot, coursing like fuel through her veins. It was so difficult to equate the handsome, cultured, smiling being before her, with the threat he posed.

  ‘Why not have the courage of your convictions and join the Russians outright?’

  ‘Perhaps. But how much more satisfying to destroy the citadel from within. It’s rather a thrill, outwitting others. Hugh St John Lindsey. Just the sort of chap they expect to mingle with them, attending their grand dinners at the Grosvenor House and the Dorchester and Claridge’s, listening to their deeply misguided speeches.’

  Claridge’s.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You were the man Lotti Franke met in London. The one she fell in love with.’

  ‘There was a hotel dinner. The Faith and Beauty girls were being paraded like Hitler’s little princesses. The pearls of the Reich. Well, a couple of nights in the company of the lovely Lotti was enough to settle that question. Lotti was like one of Vermeer’s girls. An exquisite face and the morals of the gutter. Did you see that photograph of her in the paper the other day – the one by Yva? It captured her perfectly, I thought.’