Widowland

by C. J. Carey

  ‘Do you know what this place is?’ said Helena.

  Rose went closer. The wall was bullet-scarred – a leftover from the Time of Resistance – but next to the door was a smart brass plaque etched with the word Lebensborn and underneath in curly italics The Fount of Life. She couldn’t remember where she had heard the name before, but it echoed in the ether like a fragment of a bad dream.

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it but I’m not sure what it is.’

  ‘Me neither. Well at least I wasn’t, until last week.’

  Helena chewed her bottom lip and a frown appeared on her perfect brow, like a breath of wind on a millpond.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Helena! If you can’t trust me . . .’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Rose received the calamitous news as calmly as she could.

  ‘Congratulations. Are you happy? Is it . . . ?’

  ‘Rolf’s? Yes. I’ve told him.’

  ‘How did he take it? He’s married, isn’t he?’

  ‘He was fine. Perfectly fine and not angry at all.’

  ‘You mean, he wants . . . ?’

  ‘No.’ Helena paused, her eyes glinting with tears. ‘He doesn’t want to marry me, if that’s what you’re asking. Or to be a father for the fifth time. The thing is, Rose, Rolf said, when it’s time, he wants me to come here. It’s a place where women of the right stock can have their babies without prying. He says there’ll be no problem. We have proof of racial purity on both sides. And it’s wonderful for the mothers, he says. They have extra rations, cream and meat and all sorts, and specially trained Paulas to look after the children.’

  Rose squinted through the long windows at the ghostly shapes of women dressed in white moving around behind them. Distantly came the howl of a child, and the fast, gulping sobs of a young baby wanting milk.

  ‘After the birth you can stay for weeks . . .’ Helena tailed off.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Rolf says babies with Nordic attributes are highly valued by the Lebensborn. If your kid has blond hair and blue eyes, then it will have a fabulous life.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? How do they know it will have a fabulous life?’

  Helena bit her lip, and kneaded her hands, frowning at the ground. Maybe it was the glow of pregnancy, but to Rose she had never seemed more beautiful. Her waist was tightly cinched in a red leather belt that complemented the flowers of her skirt, and small pearl buttons marched down the front of her cardigan. She stared at the pavement with her head gently inclined, like the soft face of a woman in a Vermeer portrait, or a Renaissance Madonna.

  ‘You don’t understand. Rolf’s not like Martin. He doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.’

  ‘Are you saying . . . you don’t get to keep the child? They take your baby away?’

  Helena looked at her straight.

  ‘What other choice do I have?’

  A barren womb spells doom. That was one of the sayings they taught in the Alliance Girls. Gelis, on account of their superior racial characteristics, were expected to bear children, but only within marriage. An unmarried Geli who was foolish enough to have a baby alone faced rapid declassification. She would be relegated immediately to the lowest sector of Class III womanhood, moved out of her elite accommodation and she would have her rations dramatically reduced. The only way to avoid this was to find a man prepared to take on a pregnant bride and raise a child that was not his own. Those men, understandably, were vanishingly rare.

  ‘And it’s not as if I can . . .’ Helena left the unmentionable act hanging in the air, but Rose grasped her meaning instantly. Abortion was out of the question. It was a crime, punishable by death. Desperate women might procure one, dangerously, in city backstreets, but it was outlawed for all but Class V females. Class VI would be exempted too, but they were assumed to be beyond childbearing.

  ‘I’m not sure I want kids, anyhow,’ said Helena, brushing her tears away roughly. ‘I don’t know the first thing about them.’

  Celia had said the same. Rose remembered her grappling with the newborn Hannah, saying, Infants aren’t really my thing, as though babies were a pair of kitten heels that you could take back to the shop.

  ‘It’s not what we imagined, is it, when we were kids?’

  ‘I can’t remember what I imagined,’ said Rose automatically, before adding, ‘No. Nothing like it.’

  She thought of Hannah, her hair bright cinnamon gold, her sandy freckles and sweet, round face, playing with her stuffed toys. Hannah still lived in a world of possibility, where anything might happen. Not only that animals might speak, or nymphs live in trees, but that girls could grow up to be anything they wanted. A parallel universe, so close that it almost touched the real one. Rose dreaded the time when that world of possibility would end.

  At that moment the door opened and a vast pram emerged, two rosy, bonneted toddlers peering curiously over the side, like first-class passengers on a cruise liner. A pudding-faced Paula proceeded to bump them down the steps and push them up the street with a flat-footed tread, glancing neither left nor right.

  ‘What about you, Rose? Do you want children?’ said Helena, looking after them.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘God forbid one might ever be a Klara. I always thought I’d be like my own mum. Marry a nice man and move somewhere in Surrey. Have a Labrador that wouldn’t be allowed on the sofa. Four kids, I thought, two boys, two girls. Not . . . this.’

  There was an edge of anguish in Helena’s voice and she turned away, blinking. A pang of pure love went through Rose and she took her friend’s arm protectively.

  ‘Hush. Is there anyone who might . . . ? I mean, my sister knows some older men. She has a dentist lined up for me. I could give her a call.’

  Helena gave a sniff and braced herself. ‘It’s all right. I’ve already decided.’

  ‘Don’t come here.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ With a last look at the Lebensborn, Helena linked arms with Rose and pulled her along the street. It was as though they were sixteen again, skipping out of the Rosenberg Institute, marching into a sunlit future of friendship and fun.

  ‘Rolf’s right, you know,’ Helena said. ‘We’re lucky to be Gelis. Better food. Lovely clothes. Kind men to spoil us. We have the golden ticket, remember? So what if we don’t get to keep our babies? We have a wonderful life.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Martin’s club, in Garrick Street, lay in the tangle of streets around Covent Garden and although she had never set foot inside, Rose had heard plenty about it. Behind its portentous facade, speckled with soot like ash down a dinner jacket, generations of men had enjoyed billiards, port, cigars and a warm sense of entitlement. All the London clubs were popular with the regime – von Ribbentrop had joined the Athenaeum in 1936 and was now its president. Robert Ley was in the RAC. Goebbels felt happier at the Reform. But unlike their rivals, members here considered themselves a cut above the rest by virtue of their enlightened interest in literature and theatre. Perhaps that was why it had been commandeered by a group of Culture Ministry men wanting to replicate the Herrenklub culture of their homeland with social gatherings of like-minded males, garnished by old wines and young women.

  When, in the taxi, Martin told her they would be having dinner with his friends, Rose was astonished.

  ‘I imagined we’d be alone. You never let me meet the people you know.’

  ‘I thought it was about time.’

  After they first became lovers, when Rose was seized with curiosity about her handsome seducer, she had longed to meet his friends, if only to discover more about the enigmatic Assistant Commissioner who had laid claim to her. Yet in all their time together, not once had Martin suggested socializing with his associates. They had attended events together, they had frequented the Ritz bar and the Savoy Grill, but never in a private setting. Rose knew she should have felt gratified to meet these men now, yet she was also alarmed. Did this
mean that Martin had decided to publicize their relationship? If so, why?

  ‘Evening, sir. Miss.’ The porter nodded to Martin as he took their coats, adding for good measure, ‘Pleasure to see you again, Mein Herr.’

  The club’s dining room was a place of heavy mahogany and oil paintings, with a carpet the colour of green chartreuse and oppressively dark red walls. Soft lamps and candelabras lit a long table furnished with stiff linen napkins and thick silver cutlery, its length groaning with plates of beef, roast potatoes, vegetables and fruit. The very air smelled expensive – of perfume and polished wood and lavish food with elaborate sauces. Beneath a dense fug of cigar smoke, a group of men in SS dress uniform lolled in their chairs, and between them, dainty as foals, sat several Gelis, their hair waved and nails polished. Their dresses looked expensive and foreign, Rose thought. Their fingers bristled with cocktail rings and one had pear-shaped diamonds hanging from her ears.

  ‘So, this is your girl, Martin. You kept her well hidden. And I can see why.’

  ‘Rose, this is Obersturmbannführer Hans Kinkel.’

  Kinkel was claret-faced and looked badly drunk. His eyes glittered with savage laughter. Martin continued with a list of Sturmbannführers and an Oberführer and she nodded as these plump and gleaming men ran their eyes over her. There was a pug-faced officer from the Film Copyright department and a couple of the men from the Ministry who would stride the corridors with a Leni or two fluttering at their heels. Here they had a couple of women apiece, and none was providing secretarial assistance.

  ‘And this is SS-Brigadeführer Ulrich von Aachen.’

  This man was not drunk. Lanky, and arrogant, he inclined his head very slightly towards her. There was a silkiness to his menace that matched the fine lawn of his grey uniform with the three silver oak leaves on the collar.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said.

  Kinkel leaned back in his chair, arms clasped behind his head. Malice hung in the air.

  ‘A real beauty, this one, Martin. I take it she’s not for sharing.’

  Rose sensed a frisson among the other Gelis and was reminded that Martin was considered more courteous and reserved than his colleagues. A true gentleman. He was seen as a man of rare sensibilities and she guessed the other men knew that too.

  ‘Or is she? Come and sit next to me, sweetie.’

  Kinkel beckoned her, a Havana cigar between his sausage fingers, and the Geli next to him made room.

  ‘Our friend Martin’s very popular with the ladies. I’ve often wondered why. What is it about him that you girls like?’

  The Geli with the diamond earrings laughed.

  ‘It’s his artistic temperament.’

  ‘Is that it? Then let’s have some of it. Give us some music, Martin. There’s a piano in the corner.’

  Without protest, Martin complied. He got up, sat at the piano and began to play some Rachmaninov, his face rigid. Unreadable.

  Kinkel turned his attention more closely to Rose and placed a hand on her cleavage. She was wearing a low-cut evening dress with a black velvet bodice and his splayed fingers thrummed a tattoo on her skin as though she, too, was an instrument to be played. Her entire body clenched, defensively, yet she remained rigidly still. Kinkel sloshed wine into a glass and pushed it towards her. Alcohol seeped from his every pore.

  ‘Perhaps Sturmbannführer Kreuz is romantic. Is that it?’ His voice assumed a falsetto. ‘My Liebling, you’re the only one for me!’

  The other men were laughing uneasily. Rose sensed that the veneer of civility was tissue-thin and beneath it swelled a bridling aggression.

  Kinkel gripped her chin and tilted her face to the light. ‘You Gelis will believe anything. You’re all the same.’

  The conversation moved on to a debate about the contrast between British and German culture. The pug-faced officer was holding forth.

  ‘The Leader is on record as saying that the English cannot tell the Germans anything about culture. He says, a single German, like Beethoven, achieved more in the realm of music than all Englishmen of the past and the present together.’

  This disquisition was interrupted by a raucous cheer, provoked by another man slapping his passing girlfriend on the bottom. It was a sharp assault that caught her off-balance and sent her careering into a Gretl who had just entered with a steaming china tureen. The shove sent the tureen and its contents – a scalding Mulligatawny soup – crashing to the ground, splashing the trousers of some of the men as the china smashed into pieces on the edge of the fireplace.

  The Gretl, stoop-shouldered and aged, with fearful eyes, bent immediately to the floor, as if she could physically sweep up the tide of liquid with her hands.

  The commotion diverted the attention of the quiet SS-Brigadeführer. His demeanour barely changed but he leaned over, plucked a billiard stick from a rack and brought it down on the Gretl’s fragile back.

  ‘Careless whore.’

  The blow was crippling – a professional hit designed to exert maximum pain. The elderly woman arched her back in agony and staggered backwards, hands raised in self-defence. For a moment it looked as if von Aachen would repeat the assault until he said with deadly quiet, ‘Get out.’

  Rose couldn’t take any more. A wave of nausea swept over her and she jumped to her feet. Leaving the room, she hesitated in the hall, trembling violently, but Martin was hurrying after her.

  ‘For God’s sake, Rose, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’

  He gripped her arm and led her through a sweeping hall to a small side room. It was a library of some kind, its walls lined with books and a maroon leather Chesterfield sitting in front of the fireplace. A green shaded lamp spilled a pool of light onto a side table set with crystal decanters and glasses.

  ‘Calm down. You’re hysterical.’

  Rose shook off his hand and tried to sort the thoughts racing through her brain. So, this was how they thought of her. Not only her but Helena and Bridget and all the other women who imagined that being singled out by men gave them a special status. That their classification by a male-dominated regime made them elite. Elite. What empty mockery that sounded. We’re lucky to be Gelis, Helena had said. How was this lucky?

  ‘Is that how you see me? Like one of those women?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why did you bring me here then? To show you could be just the same as them?’

  She had no idea what possessed her. She had never spoken to Martin as directly as this. Revulsion at seeing the old woman beaten had unleashed a rage that forced her words out, unfiltered and raw.

  ‘I told you. We need to talk.’

  ‘We could talk anywhere. At your flat. Or mine. There’s no reason—’

  He gripped her arms to interrupt.

  ‘I’m being transferred. Away from here.’

  A rush of relief ran through Rose. A sudden lightness, which lifted her almost physically, so she stood taller as she faced him. She checked herself, forcing herself to remember how happy Martin had once made her. Those few days in Berlin when they had visited Clärchens Ballhaus, a vast imperial ballroom, moulded with creamy stucco and parquet floors, where they danced the foxtrot, the tango and the waltz. Whirling around in Martin’s arms, she had thought herself properly in love. Yet whenever she tried to hold on to it, the feeling faded as fast as the music.

  ‘Helga will be pleased.’

  ‘I’m not being sent to Germany. It’s Paris.’

  ‘But that’s good. You always loved Paris, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. No.’

  His face was creased with worry.

  ‘It’s a demotion. I don’t understand why. I worked myself to the bone here and I always assumed the Protector appreciated me. It’s almost as if the Commissioner wanted me out of the way.’

  Rose felt a clutch of fear. She should tell him what she knew, but the terror of revealing the Commissioner’s threat was overpowering.

&n
bsp; ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Martin sank onto the arm of the Chesterfield and rubbed his brow.

  ‘Eckberg called me in just before the reception last week. He thanked me for my work but said that immediately after the Leader’s visit I should prepare for a move to Paris where I would henceforth work as a meaningless functionary. Those weren’t his actual words, of course. Deputy Supervisor of Cultural Cleansing was how he put it. Making visits to private homes to check for hidden works of art. Chasing up valuables not declared by greedy householders. Seizing degenerate paintings. Low-level stuff. One up from a rent collector.’

  ‘So you told him no?’

  ‘It wasn’t a question.’ He drew a deep breath and blinked. ‘Anyhow. I’ve decided. When I take the Paris position, I want you to come with me.’

  ‘How’s that possible?’

  ‘We’ll marry.’

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘But how . . . ?’

  ‘I’m going to ask Helga for a divorce.’

  Instantly, she was shaking her head.

  ‘Divorce is hard for senior men. Unless you’re Goebbels. The Protector thinks it should be outlawed. The Party doesn’t like it and it smacks of moral turpitude. You’d need permission.’

  ‘If they don’t allow me, I’ll invoke SS privilege and take a second wife.’

  The SS was Himmler’s personal fiefdom and its members enjoyed special dispensations where women were concerned. In Himmler’s view superior men should be permitted two wives, both because they possessed a natural excess of vitality and because they were valuable breeding material.

  ‘Helga would hate that.’

  ‘She’ll have to live with it. She knew what she was getting when she married me. Besides . . .’ – his eyes clouded – ‘I don’t think she would entirely mind.’

  With an effort he attempted to conjure some brightness into his voice.

  ‘Think of Paris, darling.’

  ‘How can I think of it? I’ve never been there. I’ve got no idea what it’s like.’