by Jane Thynne
She selected one train and set it running round the track. On its side it bore the beautifully painted livery of the French flag, and inside portly French gentlemen in evening jackets could be seen dining in the restaurant car, raising miniature glasses in a toast as they passed through the tiny countryside. After the train had performed one lap, Emmy flicked a switch on the side of the table and from one side of the room a Junkers aeroplane attached to a wire puttered through the air.
‘It’s a four-engine bomber. Hermann had it specially made when he was given the Ministry of Aviation. He loves his toys.’
When it reached the French train, the model plane released a tiny parcel which fell with precision, knocking the back half of train from the tracks. The parcel gave off a crack and a puff of white smoke. Inside the derailed train, its wheels whirring uselessly, the little Frenchmen could be seen, glasses still raised in futile celebration.
‘He did that for the French ambassador. It was so funny. You should have seen his face!’
For a moment they gazed as if dumbfounded at the train set, until there was a sudden cry from Annelies von Ribbentrop.
‘Mein Gott!’
One of the lion cubs, which had followed them in and had been scampering round the room, had urinated on her handbag.
Magda had plainly had enough.
‘If you come now, Fräulein Vine, my driver can give you a lift as far as you want.’
Chapter Twenty-two
The labour camp in Spandau was an old poorhouse that had been taken over by the Party, disinfected, cleaned and furnished. There were forty-eight girls, twelve to each dormitory, squashed in on narrow wooden bunks with blue gingham bedspreads, and sheets which looked like they had been straightened with a set square. They probably had, for all Mary knew. This place was a long way from the summer camp her parents had once forced her to attend, in the mistaken belief that a dose of countryside and communal living was all their daughter needed to cure her quirky, solitary addiction to books. She’d bet there were no toasted marshmallows and apple-pied beds round here.
‘It’s very tidy.’
‘But of course. There is an inspection check every morning.’
Frau Hegel, the supervisor, a flat-faced ideologue in braids, who could have done with a lick of make-up, explained how the girls made their beds every day at five a.m. The occupants of this hut had also saved their daily allowance of thirty pfennigs to buy a portrait of Hitler, which now glowered above them on the dormitory wall.
Mary jotted down details on a notepad as she followed the supervisor round. Labour camps were a relatively new institution in Germany. They had been established on a voluntary basis to provide work for young people, in the belief that menial labour, moving away from home for six months and mixing with other classes was an emancipating experience. The boys made bridges and roads, worked on wasteland and shovelled coal, while the girls laboured on farms and in private houses. A six-month spell at an Arbeitsdienst was soon to be compulsory for all German youth. And from what Mary could see, it looked as though singing songs and being insanely cheerful already were.
She gazed through the window at the field outside where someone had marked out a track and the girls were staging running races. Large and small, fat or thin, they all wore the uniform of the BDM and it was not a good look: white blouse, tied at the neck with a black scarf and leather knot, belted navy-blue skirt, short white socks and clumping leather shoes with flat heels.
‘Every girl must run sixty metres in fourteen seconds, throw a ball twelve metres and complete a two-hour march,’ boasted Frau Hegel.
Just watching them reminded Mary with a shudder of school sports days and herself flailing along at the back of the hundred metres while her mother, in her best dress and too much lipstick, cheered weakly on the sidelines. Not putting a child through all that was yet another advantage to having no kids, she thought grimly.
She had suggested the trip to the labour camp with bad grace after Frank Nussbaum told her he wanted to know about ordinary women’s lives, and he had been predictably excited.
‘Great idea, Mary! It’ll make a change from writing about storm troopers roughing people up and depressing everyone.’
And it had to be said, no one looked especially depressed here. Even the girls on kitchen duty who got up at four a.m. to chop carrots and peel potatoes for the army camp nearby. Everyone else got to lie in until five a.m., Frau Hegel explained, after which there was roll call, then an hour’s run through the woods, before a day hoeing or ploughing in the fields.
‘Hard work,’ said Mary, who felt exhausted just hearing about it. It had been tough enough getting up at six to drive here. She was simply aching for a cup of coffee, but nothing had been proffered so far. She reached in her handbag for a cigarette and lit up, ignoring the supervisor’s steely glare.
‘But it needs to be hard. The idea of the Arbeitsdienst is to teach girls the value of work, to harden them up.’
‘Harden them up for what, exactly?’
‘For marriage, of course,’ said the woman, as though to an idiot. ‘At the end of the course they will get a certificate, which marks them out as fit for marriage. The idea is that they should make good wives.’
‘Very romantic.’
Frau Hegel’s face crinkled in disdain. ‘Come and see our little farm.’
They walked out to the outhouse where along one wall stood a long row of cages, like a military barracks, with hundreds of pink, twitching noses protruding through the wire.
‘This is our special experiment.’ She gestured at the cages with pride. ‘It could be a very profitable enterprise for us. They are angora rabbits, so we can use the meat and sell the fur. It’s very luxurious. The Luftwaffe use their skins for lining flying jackets. Here, take a look.’
She opened a cage and hauling a rabbit out by its scruff, plumped it in Mary’s arms, where it sat, its tiny heart juddering, as she stroked its velvet ears uneasily. What was it about the rows of docile creatures, palely fattening in their cages, that made her think of flaxen girls obediently breeding for the Fatherland?
Mary replaced the quivering animal carefully in its cage. A couple of girls were washing down the yard, and, as she passed, the supervisor scanned their scrubbed faces as if checking for evidence of ideological disobedience.
‘There should be no shame about manual labour,’ she told Mary. ‘Nor should the daughter of factory owners shirk the company of children of factory workers. Now you wanted to find Gretl. There she is.’
Mary looked across to where a red-faced girl in glasses, her cheek squashed against the flank of a cow, was tugging squirts of milk unevenly into a tin pail. She was recognizably Lotte Klein’s sister, though younger and fatter.
‘Gretl had never been near a cow. Now she is an Arbeitsmaid she loves them. She can milk as though she was born to it.’
Mary thought the plump and sweating Gretl resembled no more a natural milkmaid than she did Greta Garbo.
‘What if she doesn’t want to work on the land? Is there any point learning how to milk a cow if she’s going to spend her life in a city?’
‘But of course. Besides, our girls learn the kind of domestic skills that will set them up for life.’
‘Such as?’
‘Cooking, sewing and knitting. Baby care.’
Frau Hegel left her side to reprove a group of giggling girls, who were bungling the herding of goats. Mary took the opportunity to crouch down beside Gretl.
‘Hi Gretl. I work with your sister Lotte and she suggested I visit. My name’s Mary Harker. I’m a journalist.’
‘Oh, Fräulein Harker! I’ve heard of you.’
With a broad smile, Gretl let go of the cow’s teat and offered a damp hand, which Mary tried to take without flinching.
‘Lotte has told me all about you. She loves working in the office. And meeting your friends. It sounds so stimulating!’
‘It is, I suppose. So, do you like it here? Do you really enjoy l
earning how to cook and milk cows?’
Gretl removed her glasses and blinked. ‘If it helps to make me a better woman, then of course!’
Mary wanted to take her by the arm, shake her and say, “Milking cows never helped anyone be a better woman! Finding your vocation makes you a better woman!” Instead she waited while Gretl finished the bucket, emptied the milk into a giant churn, wiped her hands on her apron and accompanied her across the yard to the poorhouse block.
From the cows, it seemed a natural progression to the baby lesson, where Mary stood and watched while a howling infant was prised from its crib and passed between a group of girls, having its nappy inexpertly removed and replaced several times. The poor creature rolled and kicked to no avail, thrashing its fat legs, its little face scrunched in scarlet protest, its wails resounding round the concrete walls. Mary gritted her teeth. She tried to switch off but the cry went through her like a knife. She wondered who the baby belonged to.
The previous night she had told Rupert Allingham she was coming to visit the labour camp and he had laughed.
‘Baldur von Schirach told me all about those camps for Hitler maidens. From what I’ve heard, most of them aren’t maidens by the time they return.’
The pass-the-parcel continued around the circle of girls until the baby came to a stop next to Mary, where it was seized by a tough-looking girl with a peasant’s face and muscles like tennis balls on her upper arms.
Mary recalled what she’d read. “A minimum of intellect and a maximum of physical aptitude are required to make woman what she is intended to be: the womb of the Third Reich.”
‘Your turn.’ The peasant girl passed the kicking infant to Mary.
‘I think I’ll pass.’
Gretl came up beside her and took the baby, gently placing it in Mary’s arms. By now the infant had exhausted itself. It stopped resisting and stared up passively, its little face wet with tears, exuding a mingled smell of urine and soap. A tiny belch of milk leaked out of the side of its mouth. As she looked into its navy gaze and felt the damp weight of it, nudging and stretching in her arms, Mary had the most unexpected feeling. A deep, almost physical tug somewhere inside her, a hot, protective urge, which was different from anything she had felt for the legion of dogs and horses she had owned throughout her life. She had loved all her animals fiercely, especially her dog Walt, and her favourite horse, a gorgeous Appalachian called Dora, who jumped like a dream. But this was different. This was visceral and frightening.
She guessed that must be how it felt to want children. Luckily, almost as soon as the feeling had come, it passed.
‘Don’t you adore babies?’ asked Gretl.
‘I think they’re an acquired taste,’ Mary said, passing it on.
‘But surely you want to be married yourself, Fräulein?’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘I suppose you would have to give up your job then,’ said Gretl, thoughtfully.
Mary declined the invitation to stay for an evening of folk singing. She had another date that night with Rupert. No doubt it would involve visiting his favourite bar, drinking too much and talking about the way things were going. But at least a girl didn’t need a certificate for that.
Chapter Twenty-three
If you wanted to find the busiest place in Berlin, you would probably choose Potsdamer Platz. With its five-way streetlight and spaghetti of tram lines, the intersection was a torrent of cars and people. Leo was weaving, quite fast, through the crowds past the Josty Café and along the western side. Clara was trying to keep up with him without obvious exertion but with his long stride he far outpaced her, forcing her to patter inelegantly at his side as she ducked through the shoppers, and making her very slightly breathless.
He kept up a rapid, clipped commentary as he walked.
‘First thing is, you will need to know if you’re being watched.’
‘I thought I was being asked to watch them.’
She dodged as they crossed the road and a number 15 tram seemed certain to run them down.
‘Befriend them, is your task. That’s all.’
‘Surely they wouldn’t watch me.’
‘They have no particular reason to suspect anything about you, but even so, the Gestapo will be wary of an unknown British female. They will be curious about you. But they won’t necessarily be heavy-handed. Bear in mind that anyone who is following you will look unremarkable, absolutely mundane. The type of chap or girl you wouldn’t give a second glance. Anyone who sticks out, who does anything unusual, is absolutely bound to be innocent. If you notice a chap hanging round a shop, looking in the windows, coming back time and again to look in the windows, he’s not following you, he’s wondering if he should buy that suit. Don’t spend your time looking over your shoulder because he’s as likely to be ahead of you than behind you. He might be the other side of the street. He or she might change their appearance to suit, they might sport a very bright jacket, or scarf, which they can easily remove. Look at the shoes. They’re the giveaway. It’s very hard to change shoes in a hurry.’
Whatever else she thought Clara was certain she would never be able to tell anything from looking at people’s shoes.
‘So what do I do if I am followed?’
‘If you think you are being followed, it helps to engage someone in conversation. That way, they will have to follow the person you spoke to as well, which reduces their effectiveness. And if they’re still following you, lead them a dance. Give them some exercise. And meanwhile work out how you can lose them. It might be more than one, of course.’
‘But wouldn’t that make them more noticeable?’
‘One behind and one in front. Then they swap positions. It’s called a box. It could be a man and a woman. Expect the unexpected. It could be a woman with a pram. If you find there’s someone on your tail, you’ll need to find a way of disguising yourself. That’s what this game is about. Concealment.’
‘I don’t know if I’m really suited to this game, as you call it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you are. Concealment comes easily to the English upper classes. I bet you were taught never to speak in front of servants.’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘Besides, you’re an actress. It’s what you do.’
‘But . . .’ How could she explain that this wasn’t anything like the acting she knew, where you were on a stage, and repeating lines in front of a delighted audience, who would clap at the end and, if you were lucky, write a complimentary review of your performance in a newspaper.
‘It’s not just about acting,’ Leo continued, slowing a little, ‘it’s about observation too. You can tell an awful lot about people from the slightest glance. For example, that woman over there.’ He pointed to a woman of about thirty, in a headscarf, walking calmly along the pavement. ‘You can tell she’s not a mother.’
‘How can you tell that?’
‘Because when that little boy fell over, just beside her, she didn’t stop. She didn’t even turn to look.’
‘He has his nurse with him.’
‘That’s not the point. A mother would stop. Mothers always think they know best.’
Clara was beginning to suspect that Leo Quinn, too, always thought he knew best.
‘You seem to know a lot about mothers,’ she said testily. ‘All mothers aren’t the same.’
He shot a look at her. ‘The main thing, Clara, is that if you want to help us, you’ll need to be on your guard. Observe everything. Get into the habit of noting everything around you, even if it seems inconsequential. And sounds, too. They can be important. You need to look in a new way. To notice the kind of details that would pass everyone else by.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Absorb everything about a person. Be acquainted with their actions and their habits, and think what they say about them. Haven’t you ever done that?’
Clara couldn’t help thinking of her childhood game for long train journeys: observing her fello
w passengers unawares and making up stories for them.
‘I suppose I have.’
‘Good. Follow me.’
A tram had drawn to a halt beside them and Leo jumped into the rear carriage as if on a last-minute impulse, so swiftly that she had to scramble to follow suit. The tram was packed and she guessed, from the way he stood hanging onto the rail and gazing into the distance, that he didn’t want to continue their conversation just there. It was fascinating, she thought, watching him in the window’s reflection, swaying with the tram’s motion, how easily he managed to fold in on himself, to appear practically anonymous, despite his height. He might have been just another clock-watching commuter in a mackintosh dreaming of five o’clock after another dreary day in the office.
When the road passed under an elevation where a train thundered above them, making the metal pillars shake, he gave an almost imperceptible nod, which she took as a signal to dismount. They had arrived at the Zoologischer Garten.
The zoo was thronged with people enjoying the sunshine. A blanket of begonias bloomed tidily in rectangular beds. A couple of fat old men, with no sense of absurdity, were pulled along by minuscule dachshunds in tartan coats. Leo and Clara walked along the winding paths between the animal enclosures, beneath palm trees and over a little wrought-iron bridge. Leo bought a zoo guide in Italian, which he consulted gravely as if he was really trying to choose between the tigers and the reptiles.
They passed the Ostrich House, done out in ancient Egyptian style, complete with pillars, and an Antelope House with stone centaurs standing guard, along a quiet path that led to the great cats. In one cage a panther padded restlessly, the muscles rippling beneath its sleek pelt, an agonised intelligence in the depths of its liquid black eyes. It paced and paced, measuring out its confinement the way a blind man gets to know the precise dimensions of his home without touching them.
‘Rilke wrote a poem about a panther, didn’t he?’ said Clara. ‘Do you know it?’
Leo leant on the rail beside her.