by Jane Thynne
“Unity Mitford destroyed them?”
“She smashed them to pieces. She is, as you said, an emotional woman. She felt if they fell into the wrong hands, they could do the Führer some harm.”
“The Führer. Why?”
“Because of…the scenes they represent.”
“And how did they come into your hands, Fräulein?”
“They were in a lap case that belonged to Anna Hansen. The bride who was murdered. The case was passed to me because they thought I knew her family.”
Goebbels held the larger of the shards up to the light, squinted curiously upwards, then put it quickly down. Instantly he understood.
“No doubt the wretched woman intended some blackmail. Have you discussed this with anyone?”
“Not a soul.”
There was something strange about Goebbels’s reaction. Why was he not more surprised? Clara had presented him with the solution to the bride’s murder, and yet he was as phlegmatic as ever. He looked her up and down, noting the splashes of mud on her dress and the locks of hair that had fallen from her chignon.
“It seems you arrived in a hurry, Fräulein. Perhaps you would like to sit down for a moment.”
He held out a chair for her, leaned forward, and lit her a cigarette. As he thumbed the lighter she noticed that the silver polished rectangle was inscribed with the initials AH. It was the Führer’s birthday present, she remembered. Part of the set that Goebbels had shown her that day at the studio when he asked her about the Mitford sisters. Suddenly, something came into focus. That remark Heidi had made about Anna. She said Hitler had given Anna presents. But Hitler only gave three presents, didn’t he? One of them was an oil painting, wasn’t that what Emmy Goering had told her? That, or a photograph frame. Or a smoking set. A cigarette box and a lighter. Anna Hansen had a lighter with her own initials on, but what if the AH stood not for Anna Hansen but for Adolf Hitler? If Goebbels had found out about Anna’s lighter, if he had been shown it, he would have recognized it instantly as one of the Führer’s special gifts. Identical to his own. And he would have understood that Anna was a special bride indeed. A bride with a past.
The Nazis were fond of blaming violent crimes on convenient half-wits—they had managed, after all, to find a simple Dutch boy to take the rap for burning down the Reichstag. But when Goebbels saw the lighter, he would have realized that it was no softheaded gardener who killed Anna. He must, at the very least, have suspected that Anna was murdered for a reason. That was why he sent the Gestapo to interrogate that poor girl at the Bride School.
“I wonder how this blackmailing bride came by these photographs.”
“She had a boyfriend back in Munich. A Rudolf Fleischer.”
“Fleischer, you say?” He pulled out a card from his inside pocket and made a note.
“Oberstleutnant Fleischer now, I believe. He’s employed in the Technical Division of the Reichsluftfahrtministerium. He met Anna Hansen when he worked as an assistant to Heinrich Hoffmann.”
Goebbels’s eyes widened.
“I see. Then I think this is best dealt with quietly. Thank you, Fräulein. It seems I am yet again in your debt.”
“I’m very anxious that you will be able to explain to the Führer…”
“I will assure the Führer of your good intentions. Rest assured he will hear of your service.”
He rose and gave her a swift, assessing glance, noting the silver and diamond swastika that he himself had given her.
“I would suggest, of course, that you stay on for the film, but I suspect, Fräulein, you might prefer to return home.”
“I am rather tired. And rehearsals begin tomorrow.”
“Then you must let my driver take you back to your apartment.”
—
AS SHE WAS DRIVEN through the streets in the ministerial Mercedes, Clara’s thoughts roiled. Where was Fleischer now, and how long would it be before Goebbels’s men found him? How those pictures must have haunted him! What rage he must have felt when the past rose up and threatened to overtake him. Yet in the end, even murder had not been enough to save him.
In the entry at her apartment building, Rudi’s collection point was brimming. There were tins, balls of aluminum foil, cutlery, even a frying pan, all destined to be melted down and turned into airplanes. Junkers and Henschels and Stuka bombers, which might one day cross Europe and drop their lethal bombs on England.
Clara stopped for only a second, then tossed Erich’s knife on top of the pile.
CHAPTER
43
“Your publicity shots, Fräulein.”
The studio boy put his head around the dressing room door and smiled politely, handing Clara a thick cardboard envelope. Both she and Udet would that day be signing publicity photographs to be sent out to all Germany’s film magazines and newspapers. This honor was new for Clara because Gretchen was her first title role. They had taken photographs of her scanning the skies, presumably in search of her lost husband, and another, which would be the film’s poster, featuring her in the arms of Ernst Udet, gazing rapturously up into his eyes. It had been hard, shooting that one, because Ernst kept making her laugh.
Automatically she reached in her bag for a mark to tip the boy, but when she looked up, he had gone. That was unusual, Clara thought. The studio runners were generally eager to collect as many tips as possible. It occurred to her that she had not seen this particular runner before.
She opened the envelope. Inside she found a scrap of notepaper and a single line of sharp handwriting, uncoiling like barbed wire across the page. As she read the words, she saw the brief, twisted smile behind them.
In belated thanks for the photograph you sent me, my dear Clara. Here are some in return.
There was another envelope within. She pulled out a sheaf of prints. They weren’t publicity pictures at all; in fact, they looked like nothing she had ever seen. Bewildered, she shuffled through them, trying to make sense of the gray and white blotches until she realized that they were pictures of terrain from above, a patchwork of fields, dull masses of buildings, and soft blocks of forest. She sifted the pictures through her hands, as aerial views of ports, factories, railway lines, and bridges came into view. There were coastlines and hills, all rendered with astonishing detail. They seemed at once alien and familiar. It took her several minutes until she realized; the photographs were not of Germany but of England. She was looking at the land of her birth.
Gradually the images came to life and she saw Essex, Kent, Surrey, Sussex, and, farther west, Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall. Hills, valleys, oil refineries, churches, and power stations. Aerial shots of factories, railways, reservoirs, and ports. There was London, with St. Paul’s and Big Ben and the Tate Gallery, and farther out the woods and fields, villages and market towns. The docks at Plymouth and Portishead, Croydon Airport, the Firth of Forth. Sissinghurst in Kent and Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club leapt out at her. They seemed so real to Clara it was as though she could touch the grass in the fields, see the drifting fog over the Thames, and smell the tang of petrol in the London streets.
She let the pictures fall to her lap while she worked out what they meant. Together, these photographs made a meticulous map of the whole of Britain, but what exactly had Britain been mapped for? Destruction or invasion? Or simply accommodation, when the Duke of Windsor returned as president with Hitler’s blessing?
Jumping to her feet, she looked down the corridor for any sign of the delivery boy, but he had vanished. She shut the door and leaned against it, the pictures pressed to her chest. Arno Strauss had not put his name to these photographs, but he might as well have.
Strauss knew that Clara was deceiving him, yet in a way he had collaborated. Perhaps deception, like love, needed to have two willing partners. He had been assigned a part, and he had agreed to play it. So where was he now? She remembered his face as she’d left Horcher’s restaurant. A test flight, wasn’t that what he had said?
Realization dawned in a rush of d
read. I know that I shall meet my fate. She thought about him circling in the sky. Diving to the earth without a passenger to think of. She thought of him dead, his name pasted on the long list of those who had died in the glorious service of the Fatherland. His eyes glazed over, matching the blankness of the clouds. His body in the earth, with nothing above it but the patter of deer’s hooves.
Strauss had never said goodbye, but these photographs, she suspected, were a farewell of sorts.
CHAPTER
44
Like Roman emperors displaying their foreign captives, the march past to showcase the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who were taking the train down south to meet the Führer, was subject to the full pomp of the Reich. So far the duke had attended Wagner’s Lohengrin performed by the Berlin Labor Front, visited the training school of the Death’s Head Division of the SS and a luxury hotel development on the Baltic for the Nazi Youth. The duchess, meanwhile, had been shopping. Now they were approaching the finale of their visit, tea with Hitler, and their car was swallowed up in a sea of swastika flags, jackboots, and the proud, bobbing caps of the Hitler Youth.
Clara and Ralph were walking through the trees towards the Avenue of the Dolls, the wide boulevard that ran north to south through the Tiergarten. It got its nickname from the thirty-two marble statues commemorating Hohenzollern princes that were lined pompously to each side. When they were installed, the statues had been designed for posterity, but no one in Berlin cared about the Hohenzollerns now that a new kind of aristocracy held sway.
It was a sparkling morning, as though, just for a while, winter was holding its breath. The grass was seeded with glittering frost, and the linden trees throbbed with vivid autumnal red. In the distance a tumult of church bells challenged the tramping feet of the Nazi parade.
As the centerpiece of the march passed them, Clara caught a glimpse of the duke and duchess, performing that peculiar English royal wave, which gave the unfortunate impression of brushing an annoying insect away. Wallis was wearing a tailored suit in teal wool with a matching cape, clutching a bouquet of orchids and white lilac. Around her neck was a mink stole, its sharp claws glinting in the sun. Her husband was in a light gray double-breasted suit, with a blood-red carnation.
“If Hitler gets his way, they’ll be traveling down the Mall before long,” said Ralph.
Clara tried to imagine the royal pair driving down the Mall before a subdued crowd, the Duke of York and his wife relegated to a later horse-drawn carriage, perhaps followed by some of Edward’s German associates, their black SS dress uniforms towering over the eighteenth-century leather seats.
“That document you told me about. The one they’ve drawn up for the duke to sign,” said Ralph quietly. “We’ve been given a copy of it.”
“So it’s true?”
“Yes, and we have Strauss to thank for it.”
She stared at him.
“Strauss gave you the document?”
“So it seems.”
“As well as the photographs.” She bit her lip. “That was brave of him. He said he had to be careful. There was a leak in Luftwaffe intelligence.”
“Did he say that?” Ralph gave a dry laugh. “That leak was himself.”
“But…”
“Strauss had been passing small pieces of information for some time. The Air Ministry had their suspicions, but they hadn’t yet pinned him down. Nothing he gave us, though, was as valuable as his gift to you. Those reconnaissance maps are intended for a new Luftwaffe intelligence operation under Oberst Beppo Schmid. It’s been formed to monitor the capabilities of foreign air forces and to select targets in case of war. The photographs you received show all England’s key factories, railway stations, and power stations. Anything strategic has been marked out for bombing.”
“So they intend to bomb London.”
“Apparently Hitler was heard to say he was pleased that there are so few Baroque buildings in Britain. Baroque is his favorite style, and he hates having to destroy it. Those maps are an open rebuke to anyone who says the Germans have no thought of warfare.”
Above them a plane passed, and its vapor cut the sky like a knife. The image of Strauss’s face came forcefully back to Clara, and she tried to block out the thought of that final sortie, which had ended in a forest south of Berlin in a heap of fused metal and twisted limbs, a plume of black smoke rising into the sky. Whatever she had suspected, it was still a shock when she passed the newspaper stand at Nollendorfplatz on her way home from the studio and saw a grainy photograph of Strauss on the lower half of the evening paper’s front page. She had taken it home and wept so hard she could barely read the platitudes that accompanied the cursory report. An unavoidable mistake at high altitude. A tragic loss for the Fatherland. A hero’s death. She had stared at the photograph until it grew damp with tears, struggling to read some motive in his ruined demeanor. What had Arno Strauss thought before he embarked on that final flight? Had he looked the future in the face and found it overwhelming?
“How exactly was Rudolf Fleischer involved?” she asked.
“Ah, Fleischer.” Ralph’s mouth narrowed at the thought of the man who had so nearly managed to take Clara’s life. “Fleischer had all the qualifications to work in the new operation. Not only was he an ardent Nazi but he had an extraordinary technical ability with cameras. Hoffmann had recognized it years ago back in Munich, where he first employed the man in his laboratory. When the Technical Division was looking for experts to develop a camera that could function at high altitude, Hoffmann recommended Fleischer to Udet and…you know the rest.”
“What do you think will happen to him now?”
“He’s already been arrested. Goebbels is no doubt delighted to have one of Goering’s boys behind bars.”
They had reached the road, and they threaded through the crowd to watch the march trundle on. A battalion of cyclists passed, swastika pennants fluttering, followed by a cadre of Hitler Youth. Periodically a forest of right arms would rise, as though hoisted by an invisible magnet. Suddenly, through the mêlée of marching boys, Clara caught sight of Erich, carrying his bomb collecting box, his face shining with pride and concentration. She jolted Ralph’s arm.
“There he is! Erich!”
She waved and smiled when Erich, still facing rigidly ahead, gave her a sideways grin. She had met him from school the day before and taken him for a meal, answering his shamefaced apology with the promise of a chance to meet Ernst Udet. If she seemed unusually somber, he didn’t detect it. His enthusiasm was infectious. He’d launched into a disquisition on which planes he intended to fly when he was a pilot, all memories of the unfortunate birthday outing forgotten. Now Clara had a sudden craving to introduce Erich to Ralph—to join together the two halves of her life—but she realized immediately how impossible that was. Would it be years or even decades before she could live her life without secrets? Would it ever happen?
Once Erich had passed, Ralph drew her away again to walk across the frozen grass.
“I’m leaving for London this afternoon. The sooner these pictures are seen by the men who matter, the better. I’m taking them personally, in my own briefcase. I suppose there’s no chance of you coming over with me?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. We’ve already started filming The Pilot’s Wife. Udet came to Babelsberg yesterday, and we have a day out at Tempelhof tomorrow.”
Udet had stopped her in the studio corridor and started to talk about Arno Strauss, but almost immediately he had turned away, his face contorted with grief, and for the rest of the day, as if by mutual consent, they had not spoken of Strauss. Udet seemed hunched with sorrow, and the smell of schnapps on him was stronger than ever. Clara wondered how much he suspected about Strauss’s motives, or what he knew.
“Udet can’t devote more than a couple of days to filming. And after this one, I get the impression I’ll be busy. Goebbels has already sent down some other scripts for me to consider.”
They were walking closely, hand
s brushing lightly, deliberately projecting the impression of casual acquaintances, out for a stroll. But the feeling of his skin against hers made her nerves tingle, and suddenly she couldn’t keep the urgency from her voice.
“Promise me you’re coming back.”
“How can you doubt it?” He gripped her hand briefly, then drew away. “But it might not be soon. I’m going to return through Spain.”
“Spain?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. I met that American friend of yours, Mary Harker, at the reception for Colonel Lindbergh. Jolly girl, isn’t she? She told me all about her time in Spain, and she mentioned that she’d come across an Englishman name of Pericles. I was immediately interested.”
“Pericles?”
“Did I say Tom was a classicist? Pericles was his great hero. That would be just like him.”
“So Tom Roberts might be alive? That’s great news, isn’t it?”
“It is. Only…” Ralph’s jaw tightened. “There’s more I need to find out. It was something Mary said. This chap Pericles had information about German movements. He was aware of all the details of the impending attack on Guernica before it took place.”
“How is that possible?”
“One of the pieces of information Strauss gave us was that the Germans believe their high command in Spain has been compromised. They think they were infiltrated by spies working for the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. Better known as the NKVD.”
“NKVD. You mean Stalin’s people?”
“That’s right. Stalin’s people. Though not always Russians.”
“Are you saying…Ralph, are you suggesting Tom Roberts is a Russian spy? I thought you said he lost interest in politics.”
His face was solemn. He avoided her eye.
“Tom was always a passionate man. And he saw things in black and white. I thought I knew him well, but how well do we know anyone? Communism is a faith, Clara. It can be a kind of fanaticism that blinds you to injustice or cruelty. Tom always feared that our ruling class would find common cause with Fascism, so he must have concluded there was only one way to fight them.”