by Jane Thynne
Clara looked away, to hide the film of tears that had suddenly misted her vision. Was it the mention of her father, or the fact that she was speaking English in the room of an archetypal Englishman, that brought a sudden, painful nostalgia for her homeland? Her home in Ponsonby Terrace, her friends, the theater school, the parties and plays, even the BBC programs on the wireless—all seemed so far away. Another life. For an instant, her mind traveled back up the railway line through Kent, past embankments blowing with wildflowers and horses gazing peaceably over the fences, then slid into dingy, busy London, with its parks and squares and sooty spires.
“I wonder…what an alliance would really mean.”
It was something she had often thought about, but she had never before allowed herself to wonder out loud.
“If you want to know what England would look like, take a look around you. Don’t imagine that England’s Jews or her free press or her politicians would be safe for long in an alliance with Hitler. How could they possibly defend themselves? Anyone who imagines that the English Channel is enough to secure their freedom is a fool. The Nazis would start immediately, ensuring their placemen were in positions of power, and those men would be increasing the power of the police, banning demonstrations, unless they happened to be marches by our friend Mosley’s people, curbing the trade unions, locking up the churchmen. Then it would be the turn of the social structures, schools and universities, the treatment of women. Books, plays, films—nothing cultural would escape scrutiny. Before long, a thousand years of English parliamentary democracy would be undermined. Britain would be a shadow of itself. And all the ugly, divisive passions that lie beneath the surface would be brought to the fore. That’s why it matters so much, Clara. The appeasers can’t know what Hitler has in store for them. It’s a deal with the devil.”
Sommers was no longer smooth and genial. The façade of bonhomie she had seen at the Goebbelses’ party had entirely vanished, to be replaced by something deeper, grimmer.
“You seem to know an awful lot—about the airplane numbers and so on. Why do the Nazis give you so much detail?”
“They want me to know: I told you, they regard me as a useful channel. Goering wants me to relay it to the people back home because he thinks knowing the strength of the Luftwaffe will make the English realize there’s no point in putting up any resistance. They give me an astonishing level of performance data, reports on each airplane’s engine, manufacturing levels. We share information with them too. Their chaps were shown round some RAF stations this month, though they were only shown outdated aircraft, of course. Just the old crocks, nothing important. But there’s pressure of time. We have a deadline approaching.”
“A deadline?”
“A crucial one. Next month Lord Halifax, a government minister, is coming to visit. What do you know of Halifax?”
Clara racked her brain for details of the cadaverous earl, with his homburg hat and icy, aristocratic manner. “I know he welcomed the reoccupation of the Rhineland. He said it was only Germany’s backyard.”
“Halifax has been deputed to open a dialogue with the Germans. Officially he’s here as Master of the Middleton Hunt, to visit Goering and shoot foxes with him. Unofficially, he’s sounding out German intentions. Goering intends to entertain him along with the new ambassador, Mr. Henderson. As I said, Henderson is already predisposed to admire the Nazis. He claims to admire all the regime leaders, even Goebbels. The man’s willfully blind. He swallows everything the Nazis tell him about wanting closer ties between our two great nations. Halifax, I’m less sure about. But he has been heard to use the phrase ‘alterations in the European order’ to refer to Hitler’s plans for Lebensraum.”
“You mean he thinks any aggression will be confined to Poland and Czechoslovakia?”
“Exactly. And the Nazis smell weakness. So it’s vital that before Halifax arrives I get accurate details of the extent of the Luftwaffe buildup. Halifax—and others—have to know what we’re up against.”
“What exactly are we up against?”
He took a long, slow pull on his whiskey and frowned at her.
“I’d say England is at the most important crossroads she has faced in her history. Appease fascism, or face up to it. The future of the entire continent of Europe will depend on what happens in the next couple of months.”
“I can see that.” Clara braced her shoulders. “But I still fail to see how the future of Europe can have much to do with me.”
He flipped open a packet of Senior Service cigarettes and tilted it towards her. “I’m getting to that. Your friend Oberst Strauss.”
Strauss. She thought of the ramrod figure at the Tempelhof aerodrome, with a tip of his hat, turning on his heel.
“He’s not my friend.”
“That may be. But it was when you mentioned meeting Strauss that I decided I had to confront you. I was of two minds before then. Even when I asked you to the café I hadn’t quite decided. I didn’t want to compromise you in any way. I didn’t see that you could really be useful to me. And you’re Dyson’s find.”
She bridled at that. “I’m not anyone’s find.”
He smiled apologetically and nodded. “Of course not. You’re independent. Like me. But you are immensely valuable. The problem with many British agents is that their accent is appalling. People can’t forget they’re not German. But your German is perfect.”
“Really, Captain Sommers…”
“Ralph. Do please call me Ralph. Anyway, Arno Strauss: how well do you know him?”
“I barely know him at all. What do you know about him?”
He chuckled. “Arno Strauss. Born Berlin 1896, son of Hans and Eva Strauss. Twin brother now deceased. Wealthy background. Trained as a pilot and flew Fokkers in the war. Became an expert in aerial combat, was highly regarded and awarded the Cross of Merit. Shot down forty-five British planes. Among Ernst Udet’s closest friends, if not the closest, and now working alongside him in the Technical Division of the Luftwaffe.”
“You clearly know far more about him than I do. So, what do you want from me?”
“I want you to get close to him.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“To cultivate him.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
His mouth twisted into a smile. “I think you underrate your charm.”
“Strauss doesn’t look like a man who is susceptible to charm.”
“All men are susceptible to charm, Clara, believe me.”
“And why on earth should I do this?”
“In case an opportunity presents itself.”
“An opportunity for what?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.”
She stared at Ralph in amazement.
“I’m sorry, Captain Sommers—Ralph. I hope you don’t think me obtuse. But if you can’t tell me what you want of me, then why in God’s name should I agree to it?”
He continued to look at her steadily, then gave a slight shrug. “Because everything’s at stake. Everything.”
The word hung between them, glittering and lethal.
She said: “Okay. My turn to ask then. You said you were working freelance. What exactly does that mean?”
“It means this isn’t school, or the army, or any of those places where one has to keep in line and wait for others to do the thinking. As I said, there’s far too much at stake. It’s a time for action, and utilizing every possible asset that we have. Individuals who are in a position to help have to act now.”
“Yet you mentioned the Air Service. You said you’re working for them.”
He stubbed out his cigarette thoughtfully and crossed his long legs.
“That’s true. I am. But they allow me a certain amount of freedom of operation. How can I explain it? Let me think.” His eyes lingered on her while he considered. “When I was a boy I loved my biology lessons. I adored studying creatures under a microscope, analyzing the way they work. And I remember looking at
a butterfly’s eyes close up. Have you ever seen them? They have an infinite number of parts, and they all add their perspective to create one compound eye. Well, intelligence works the same way as a butterfly’s eye. Lots of insights, wider perspective.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Clara crisply. “To whom exactly will my insights be going?”
“To the right people. People in the Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Does Archie Dyson know you’ve approached me?”
“Nobody knows. Just you and me.”
“Then I’ll think about it.”
He frowned slightly at this hesitation.
“Of course. You’re right to think it over. We can meet tomorrow and you can tell me your decision then. It’s really rather pressing.”
“I’m busy tomorrow. And then I’m going to Munich.”
“Munich?”
“There’s someone I need to see there.”
There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, as if he was unused to people thwarting his plans.
“I see. Well, as soon as you get back then. If you would.”
His eyes seemed to be stripping her as she sat there. She sensed the fumes of whiskey coming from him and suddenly realized he was slightly drunk. He made no move to show her out.
“I still can’t get over how clever they are. Having an agent in place who is absolutely part of the furniture. Totally one of them, moving in all the right circles. Living here for the long term with every good reason. And a woman, what’s more.”
Clara flashed him a look. “Perhaps you should have paid more attention in those biology lessons of yours. You might have discovered that a woman is every bit as capable and intelligent as a man. More so, probably.”
He shook his head and shrugged. “But of course.”
There was something infuriating about Ralph Sommers. As though age and experience gave him the right to issue her orders and assume that his commands would be instantly obeyed. Was it his remark about women, or his maddening assumption that Clara would drop everything to fall in unquestioningly with his plans that made her bridle beneath his gaze?
“So what about you, Ralph?” she rejoined coolly. “Are you in Berlin long term? Is there a wife at home worrying about you?”
He raised his eyebrows and flicked her a glance that was entirely unambiguous in its meaning. “Too busy for that.”
He got up and stood at the mantelpiece with his hands thrust in his pockets, staring at the photographs there. “You ask me why I am prepared to run risks myself. I have some personal knowledge of the situation in Spain. My oldest friend signed up to fight with the partisans last year. But there’s been no word of him for nine months now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure.”
He still had his back to her. He was rubbing the edge of his jaw thoughtfully.
“His name is Tom Roberts. I’ve known Tom all my life. We were at school together, and then Cambridge too. He was last heard of with a band of fighters outside Madrid, holed up in one of the university buildings with the windows blocked with books of nineteenth-century German philosophy and ancient literature. That should suit him, anyway.”
“I’m sure he’s all right.”
“Yet again, your optimism does you credit.”
Clara refused to be deflected by this brusque response. “Had you considered going out there perhaps? Looking for him?”
He shrugged. “Spain’s a big place.”
“But you have intelligence contacts. How hard would it be to find an Englishman answering his description? You could ask around.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like out there?” He gave her a sharp look.
“I have a friend who was in Spain. She’s an American journalist. Mary Harker of the New York Evening Post. She was with the International Brigades for some of the time. Would it be worth me asking her if she had run into him?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Forgive me for burdening you with my personal concerns. It was rude of me. If there’s one thing I know about Tom, it’s that he can look after himself.”
Finally, he turned and faced her, the charming smile back in place.
“Now then. If you’re busy tomorrow, you’ll need your beauty sleep. Think about what I’ve said, won’t you? I’ll be in touch in a few days.”
Clara went to the door. Then she hesitated.
“There is something you need to know. Just so you understand…You mentioned Archie Dyson. The fact is, I saw him very recently and he told me that I had been talked about at Gestapo headquarters. He advised me to lie low.”
“I see.”
“Actually, he advised me to go back to Britain.”
“And are you lying low?”
“If I was going to, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
He approached and stood disconcertingly close. She smelled the faint trace of whiskey and soap and the starched cotton of his shirt.
“In that case, Clara,” he said softly, “I hope you’ll be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
His eyes lingered on her thoughtfully.
“You know, you bristled when I talked of you being a woman, but I happen to think the British are behind in using women for espionage work. The French are way ahead of us. They have what they call their femmes galantes. Yet we Brits waste our women. You’re our best assets and we’re afraid to use you.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged. “Old-fashioned ideas. The people back in London claim women can’t keep a secret. They’re concerned that a woman will get emotionally involved.”
He was watching her quizzically. For a moment, she wondered if he might reach out and touch her. She had to force herself not to flinch beneath the intensity of his gaze. Once again she felt the current of attraction that had flickered between them when they first met, at the Goebbelses’ party. An unspoken sexual connection that made the heat rise to the surface of her skin and her mind churn with possibilities.
“You needn’t worry, Ralph. That’s not going to be a problem with me.”
She turned quickly and walked out the door.
CHAPTER
17
There were more than six months to go before the baby was to be born, and the gifts had already started arriving. Standing at the door of Reichsminister Goering’s turreted, palatial state residence in Leipziger Platz, clutching a Steiff bear, Clara wondered if she would appear madly presumptuous in bringing her own present for the forthcoming child. In Britain it was considered bad luck to bring a gift before a baby was born, but here in Berlin ambition was always going to come before superstition, and a gift for Goering’s child was likely to be one of the wisest investments anyone could make for the future. Besides, it was surely perfectly proper, given Emmy Goering’s insistence on inviting Clara to several parties on the basis of a tangential acquaintance over several years and the fact that they were both actresses. All the same, Clara was half hoping that Emmy was not at home.
She was out of luck.
The butler led Clara through a high-ceilinged hall into a drawing room. Here were none of the doily-draped side tables or dried flower arrangements of the traditional Berlin home, but a spectacular room whose walls were hung with Old Masters and windows crowned with swags of burgundy draping. An enormous mosaic swastika was worked into the marble floor. Emmy was sitting in a red plush throne more suited to a pope, with gilded pineapples at the corners. She didn’t yet look as pregnant as her husband, whose vast bulk ballooned at the seams of his ministerial uniform, but she was visibly puffing up, like a zeppelin being slowly inflated. She wore a wedding cake of a dress, with voluminous cream flounces and a rivulet of frills, and her hair was coiffed girlishly around her face. She was smoking Turkish cigarettes and had a plate of cakes by her side.
“It’s you, Clara? What a relief! I thought it might be another messenger from the Italian embassy. Herr Mussolini has been so attentive since his visit last m
onth. Have you seen what he sent me?”
She gestured at a pair of diamond-encrusted gold antlers, poking out in absurd extravagance from a side table.
“Extraordinary, aren’t they? Italian taste has changed a bit since the Renaissance, hasn’t it? I must say the Duce was terrifyingly tactile. I was afraid to be in the room alone with him. And in my condition!”
Emmy Goering had been a provincial stage actress in Weimar, but once she had caught the eye of Hermann Goering, her career had blossomed. Their wedding, a couple of years ago, made the Duke of Windsor’s ceremony look like a vicar’s tea party. Thirty thousand soldiers had lined the route to the cathedral, and the Luftwaffe had performed a fly-past. Now, although acting would not be commensurate with her status as a Reichsminister’s wife, Emmy liked to keep abreast of the film world. She had taken to sending little notes to Clara, commenting on her performances.
“Everyone has been exhaustingly generous. Can you believe it?” She pointed to a stack of gifts ranged across two trestle tables. It included crystal vases, Meissen tea sets, and a variety of other household luxuries entirely unsuited to the wants of a newborn infant. There was an ivory chess set studded with jewels—emeralds for pawns, rubies for bishops, and diamonds for the king and queen. The city of Cologne had sent a painting by Lucas Cranach. The Madonna and Child. Clara peered at the gift message and wondered if it was supposed to be some form of flattery. The Madonna, beneath her velvet canopy, did indeed possess corn-colored coils of hair uncannily similar to Emmy’s, but that was where the resemblance ended. Emmy’s thickened girth and pudgy face couldn’t be further from the girlish virgin overwhelmed by the joys of nativity. Looking at the display, Clara felt her bear becoming smaller and less consequential by the second. Emmy took it, smiled politely, then plumped it on top of a Dresden cake stand.
“Presents are difficult, aren’t they?” She sighed, fingering an especially hideous glass nude. “The Führer has the right idea. He only gives three things—a photograph frame, a smoking set, or a portrait of himself. Usually an oil painting.” She paused to chuckle. “Wouldn’t you just love to see the looks on people’s faces when they unwrap that?”