by Jane Thynne
The sigh was replaced with a bright smile.
‘Well, it’s good luck I ran into you. I’m planning a cocktail party tomorrow night at our new home. Won’t you come? And bring Fräulein Vine with you?’ She glanced briefly at Bauer. ‘And your young lady too, Herr Bauer.’
Clara looked around her to see Helga open-mouthed.
Chapter Seven
‘Filthy tea, I’m afraid. I’ll ask Miss Jenkins to bring fresh, if you like. You’d think in the British Embassy tea would be the one thing we could get right.’
Sir Horace Rumbold poured a watery stream from the silver teapot, pushed a cup towards Leo, then leant on the stiff-backed sofa with a sigh. The British ambassador was a lofty man, whose benign, mild-mannered face and flaring nostrils gave him the look of a friendly camel. His neat moustache and horn-rimmed spectacles imparted a myopic expression, quite at odds with his keen wit and sharp sense of humour. He had asked Leo to see him in the library of the British Embassy, a wood-panelled room from whose walls portraits of past ambassadors stared out mistily. In pride of place above the fireplace was the King, with something of the morose bloodhound about him, looking gloomily similar to his exiled first cousin, the doddery Kaiser Wilhelm, who was now safely confined in Holland, well away from any temptations to power. Around the room burnished leather armchairs rested on slightly threadbare rugs as though a gentleman’s club had been uprooted from Pall Mall and translated to the German capital.
‘Tea is one of those things that can never be the same,’ agreed Leo diplomatically. It sounded like a cliché but he meant it. Tea for any Englishman evoked a cascade of associations, symbolizing consolation and continuity, a pause in the day, a moment of reflection. He doubted very much though that Sir Horace shared the same associations as himself. For Leo, the thought of tea evoked his mother, with her worn apron, reaching for the battered caddy decorated with red-jacketed soldiers, which lived on the shelf above the range, spooning one for each person and one for the brown Bessie pot. The rich, musty scent of Assam brought with it the memory of a hundred afternoons working on the dining room table in the fading light, while his parents tried not to disturb him, a deep russet cup of tea at his elbow. So unlike the pallid offering here before them, in porcelain cups stamped with the British Embassy crest.
‘Sugar?’ said Sir Horace, proffering the bowl.
‘No, thank you.’ Leo took a sip and said, ‘You were going to explain, sir.’
‘Yes, I was, Quinn. All in good time.’ He bit into a biscuit. ‘Tell me, how is it going? You’ve been in Berlin what, a couple of months?’
‘Six months.’
‘And you’re happy? Getting around? In the evenings?’
‘I’m seeing a bit of the clubs, as you do. But to be honest, sir, most evenings now I’m dead beat.’ He laughed. ‘Must be feeling my age.’
‘Feeling your age!’ Sir Horace guffawed, exhibiting teeth as mottled as old piano keys. ‘My goodness, man. How old are you? Barely thirty! At your age I was good for a couple of receptions a night and dancing till dawn. And you’re a single chap too. No lady on the horizon? We shall need to get you sorted.’
The face of Marjorie Simmons rose in Leo’s mind and he wondered if a mention of her appeared on his file. More curtly than intended he said, ‘This is not about my social life, I take it.’
‘Only tangentially.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s a simple brief really. Now, you were at Oxford. Not at the House, were you?’
Leo flinched inwardly at the assumption that he would not have attended the upper-crust Christ Church, popularly known as “the House”.
‘I was at Balliol, sir.’
‘Of course. Well, you’ll have seen The Times. This vote in the Union. “This House would not in any circumstance fight for King and Country”.’
In fact, Leo had read the report that very morning. The sensation caused by the Oxford Union’s vote against fighting was picked up by newspapers throughout Europe, including the Vossische Zeitung, the liberal-leaning paper that Leo read daily over his coffee and roll.
The university’s debating chamber, the Union, liked to think of itself as a miniature House of Commons, and might as well have been, given the number of men who graduated pretty seamlessly from one to the other. The result of the debate had prompted headlines everywhere. Winston Churchill had called it “abject, squalid and shameless”. But Leo had not bothered to accord it much attention. For one thing he recoiled from the kind of undergraduate posturing he remembered only too well. For another, he was too damned busy. The pressure of work was keeping him awake at night. Being called in to see Rumbold, while intriguing, only meant more piles of paperwork when he returned.
‘It’s in the nature of undergraduates, sir, to be provocative. This kind of thing is just an immature pose. I’m certain if war broke out tomorrow they would sign up just as fast as their fathers did.’
‘I’m sure that’s true. Bloody shameful nonsense all the same.’
Sir Horace put down his cup, wandered over to the window of the library and stared down at the churning traffic on Wilhelmstrasse below. Along the principal thoroughfare of the government district, housing the Reich Chancellery and the Foreign Office, a pair of gleaming Mercedes-Benz 770s containing Nazi top brass could be seen cruising.
‘The thing is, Quinn, these are interesting times. We are officially still feeling our way with the new regime. We don’t want to antagonize them. In some respects their hatred for the Reds is shared at home.’
Leo nodded. That much was clear from what Hugo Chambers said. For some years now the British Security Service, which monitored domestic subversion, had focused all its energies on the threats within Britain from the Left. It was only recently that anyone had taken a closer interest in the activities of the Right.
‘As we all know, there’s a rapidly growing body of Englishmen who favour disarmament at all costs. You know the sort of thing they say. That the last war should mark the end to all wars. Any rearming is sanctioning large-scale murder. I’m sure you’ve heard the kind of thing.’
‘Frequently.’
‘I think we both agree that a powerful England is vital to ensure peace. Yet these pacifists at home have no idea of the effect their talk has on our reputation abroad. I’ve already been informed that various associates of Herr Hitler believe our young people are “soft”. If they think Hitler has any time for pacifists, they are much mistaken. To Hitler, man is a fighting animal and any country which does not fight back deserves to be overtaken. I fear this new administration brings out the worst traits in the citizens too. Jingoism, brutality, all this business about the Jews. It leaves a very nasty taste in the mouth.’
Rumbold turned and a brilliant, diplomatic charm suddenly illuminated his features, as though by a switch. That was the kind of thing you simply couldn’t learn, Leo thought. It was purely Darwinian. It had to be bred into you, as in Sir Horace’s case it had. He came from a long line of baronets, and had travelled the globe in a distinguished career. As well as German, he spoke fluent Arabic and Japanese.
‘Now, Quinn, you’re very busy at the moment, I’m sure.’
‘We have Jews coming to the office daily. There’s a queue by the time I arrive, and it doesn’t go away until I leave. It’s hard to turn them away.’
‘I can see it getting busier. So I hope this request I have for you doesn’t take you away from your work too much. I know you’re frightfully well connected on the social side.’
Leo gave a polite laugh. ‘For once I fear your intelligence is wide of the mark.’
‘None the less, this is merely an eyes-and-ears brief. It shouldn’t be too onerous. I’m leaving soon, as you know.’
‘I very much regret it, sir.’
‘As do I, though with the way things are, my lady wife, I think, will be glad to spend more time in England. And what one’s wife says, as you have yet to find out, Quinn, is law.’ He smiled, removed his glasses, rubbed his wa
tery eyes, and replaced them.
‘This is what I had in mind. I want you to keep an eye on any visitors you may meet who pass through here from England, especially those who are mingling with the Nazi élite. Some of them are very young, impressionable, you know, and they get caught up in the excitement of the moment. They make friends with handsome Nazi officers, and they don’t see the whole picture, do you get my drift?’
‘I think so.’
‘They see a country whose economy is on its knees, and they think Herr Hitler is the answer to everyone’s prayers. It’s not their fault that they are unable to see beyond the glamour, but it matters very much what they say when they return to England. Favourable reports about the new regime will only encourage elements in England who want to disarm.’
‘I understand.’
‘There’s something else.’
Rumbold was craning towards Leo, almost as though he feared the occupants of the gleaming cars sailing down the Wilhelmstrasse might be able to overhear his words.
‘If you do come across any of our compatriots who have communication with the élite, it would, of course, be useful to hear the gist of their conversations. Should they be amenable to that. I’m not talking about espionage here, merely intelligence gathering. You know Dyson, my attaché, of course?’
Archie Dyson was an unflappable Etonian who had taken Leo out for a solitary gin at the Adlon on his first night here. He was clever and not especially likeable. Manners like silk, but a mind like a steel trap.
‘I’ve met him, yes.’
‘Dyson is compiling some contacts who can give us a glimpse behind the scenes, so to speak. So if you do find anything . . .’ Rumbold fingered his moustache thoughtfully, ‘we might be able to put more resources into it. But you’re going to have to be very careful, Quinn. You’re known to be connected to the Embassy. The political police have eyes and ears everywhere. ‘
‘I see.’
Rumbold leant back.
‘I’m giving a party for Goering shortly. There’ll be a host of interesting people passing through. Perhaps you could get going then. I’ll get my secretary to send an invitation to your place. Where are you living, remind me?’
‘Orianenburger Strasse.’
‘Ah yes. How original. Well, do let Miss Jenkins have your address on the way out.’
Chapter Eight
The Goebbels’ new home was in the grounds of the Ministry of Agriculture behind Wilhelmstrasse. It was a large whitewashed mansion built for a former Prussian court official and looked like a small country house, surrounded as it was by a plantation of old trees. It was a princely home for one of Germany’s new aristocracy, and once Goebbels decided he wanted it, a team of gardeners from the state parks authority had been brought in to restore the overgrown grounds, with their rusting skeletons of greenhouses and swampy lily ponds, and install paths and flowerbeds. In the drive stood a natty beige and brown Mercedes convertible, a recent present from the car company to Herr Doktor Goebbels, and a sparkling green cabriolet for his wife.
Clara and Klaus Müller proceeded through the door flanked by a pair of flame-shaped lanterns and into a room with ornate fluted pillars and a gigantic, sparkling chandelier. There were yellow and gold carpets on the floor and large bowls of hothouse flowers. The blond wood walls were hung with tapestries and paintings. Müller took a glass of Sekt from a tray and handed it to Clara.
‘Looks like it’s going to be all German wines from now on,’ he murmured.
Clara gazed around her.
‘Delightful place, don’t you agree?’ he said. There was a mocking, superior edge to his voice, which made it hard to work out what he genuinely thought.
‘Very.’
He surveyed the room. ‘Goering has a huge place behind Leipziger Platz, all gloomy panelling and stained glass and absolutely stuffed with Renaissance furniture. You feel like you’re on the set of the Ring Cycle. Fortunately the Doktor has rather better taste.’
Clara stared around her. What on earth was she doing here? When the two men had invited them for a drink, she had agreed because that was what Helga wanted, and Helga had been good enough to take Clara under her wing. Besides, she had no other plans for anything at all. Then Magda Goebbels had extended her invitation, Helga’s face had lit up, and there was no way she could have refused.
Perhaps there was no harm in it. Just this once. She would hardly have chosen to spend an evening with National Socialists, but this was a party, wasn’t it, and at least she had something to wear. Angela’s low-cut red satin evening dress went perfectly with her scarlet shoes, and her mother’s silver locket glinting at her throat. And it was just as well she had carried out that small act of theft because she was in serious danger of appearing underdressed. All the women here were done up in the height of international fashion: Chanel, Schiaparelli, Vionnet, Mainbocher. The room was awash with shimmering lamé and pleated organza, and Frau Goebbels herself was wearing a long silver silk dress, fretted with lace on top, a diamanté belt and white evening gloves, spattered with red from the customary hand kiss of female guests.
Even so, there weren’t enough women to go round. The female contingent was sprinkled among the dark male mass like a tree with too few fairy lights. Not that the men seemed to mind. Like Müller, they were mostly in uniform and stood in clusters, laughing and toasting each other. Something about them – perhaps it was the short hair and pink cheeks – reminded Clara of her brother’s school rugby team, delighting in their shared masculinity, celebrating their kinship with a self-congratulatory air as if they had just won a First Fifteen match, rather than been catapulted into power on the back of a shaky electoral process. But that was where the likeness ended. There was a pent up aggression amongst these men, a sense of violence barely contained. Some of them favoured toothbrush moustaches, presumably under the impression that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, and most of them shared a barber too, judging by the uniformly shaven haircuts, which left scalps as gleaming and knobbly as scrubbed potatoes.
Müller’s heavy hand was on her elbow, steering her towards a group of men and Clara, who hated being steered, instinctively shook herself free. Instantly she felt his annoyance.
‘Forgive me, Fräulein. I would like to introduce you. This is Herr Doktor Bayer.’
Bayer had the face of a gargoyle and a smile like a coffin handle.
‘So this is the English actress who is to star alongside Lilian Harvey.’
Clara smiled back, disliking him on sight. ‘I hope so.’
‘I love her movies. So magnificently kitsch. The Germans have a sweet spot for kitsch in their soul.’
‘Next to the spot of steel,’ laughed Müller.
‘Ein blonder Traum. That’s my favourite. That girl really knows how to get the juices going,’ said another, a piggy little man who looked as if he had been poured into his uniform with some left over. ‘Did you see it?’
‘Sorry, but no.’ The films Clara admired were moodier and darker-edged, with dramatic, shadowy sets. The brooding Expressionist masterpieces like M and Metropolis. Monsters and murderers with haunted eyes, sinister and macabre.
‘I loved The Cabinet of Dr Caligari though. And I thought M was a masterpiece. I could hardly sleep after I saw it.’
‘You enjoyed that, did you?’ said Müller dismissively. ‘Herr Lorre, I believe, is no longer with us.’
‘Anyway,’ said the fat man, cranking his eyes from her breasts to her face, ‘how do you find Babelsberg?’
‘It’s gone a little quiet at the moment.’
‘While they work out who’s in charge, eh?’
‘So they should. It’s time for change,’ said another, a severe figure with eyes that were freakishly pale, and skin like white veal. ‘We need to sweep out the attic of German cinema, isn’t that what the Herr Doktor said? The place needs fumigating.’
‘Fumigating? asked Clara, thinking how he looked like something that had been kept in an attic himself, a
n etiolated insect deprived of daylight.
‘Herr Richter means,’ smiled Müller, ‘it is time we freed cinema from the hands of Jews.’
‘Why does he say that?’
‘Ach, they have turned the art of film into a business,’ said Richter. ‘That’s what happens when something is Hebrewized.’ He flipped his hand, as if brushing away the pioneers of the Ufa studios like dust. ‘We need films that reflect the true aspirations of the German people. They’re not interested in the decadent tastes of the international market.’
‘But Doktor Goebbels is a great admirer of Fritz Lang. He enjoyed Metropolis, didn’t he? And Die Nibelungen?’ Clara tried to remember the comments she had overheard in the Babelsberg foyer.
‘Oh, Fritz Lang,’ Richter’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘Herr Lang, I think, is overrated.’
‘Another one who needs his horoscope read to him,’ laughed the fat man.
Clara looked around for Helga. How could she possibly have wanted to come here? Helga was on the other side of the room, her shingled hair rippling in the light of the chandelier, her ice-blue satin dress provocatively skimming her curves. Perhaps it was that which had already secured her the top spot of the party, talking to her host, Doktor Goebbels, crooking one leg so as not to tower over him. Bauer, even though he was a bull of a man, was hanging back, allowing Goebbels to pull rank. The Propaganda Minister’s thin lips were stretched in a smile as wide as his face was narrow, his eyes fixed on Helga like a lizard waiting to devour an especially plump fly. Surveying his unnaturally skinny arms and strange, misshapen body, Clara wondered what on earth a woman like his wife saw in him.
Frau Goebbels was watching them too. Her face was a tense, thoughtful mask and the set of her mouth gave her an air of private pain, rigorously suppressed. As their gazes locked, she came across the room with a stiff smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
‘So, Fräulein Vine, how are you enjoying your work at Babelsberg? I hear you’re to be in a film called . . . Schwarze Rosen, was it?’