Black Roses

by Jane Thynne

  ‘When did they arrest you?’

  Bruno put down his beer with a trembling hand. ‘A week ago. More, perhaps. It was before dawn, anyway. They must have been hammering at my door for some time before I answered it. I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t break it down entirely. There were about six of them, they came in waving revolvers and I thought they were going to shoot me. I said, “Can’t you wait until I’ve put some clothes on?” but when I went to my wardrobe, they flung all the stuff out, saying, “Look at the finery this Jew can afford! All this money he’s been stealing from us!” Then they started asking me about my Communist activity. I said I’m not a Communist, just an artist, and one said, “What do you make then? Bombs?” I said I had never made any bombs, and he said they knew I was planning to bomb the Führer’s birthday parade. He was going to beat the truth out of me, then another one said, “You think this is art? This repulsive stuff?” There was something about this man . . .’ Bruno hesitated. ‘He was different from the others. More aggressive. He really looked at the paintings before he ripped them, and when he did he took his crop and slashed them right across, the breasts and the legs, and you know, the groin, as if they were real women, you know? As if he could really hurt them.’

  The food seemed to have revived him and he reached over to grasp Leo’s arm.

  ‘Mr Quinn, I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I’m an admirer of your work, Herr Weiss.’

  ‘But you were running a risk yourself, weren’t you? I never applied for a visa. You must know that.’

  ‘Desperate times, et cetera.’

  ‘But who told you I was there? Was it my parents?’

  ‘A friend of yours got in touch. A woman called Helga.’

  ‘Helga! Is she all right?’

  ‘I think so.’

  For the first time he smiled, and braced his shoulders.

  ‘Is that visa real?’

  ‘Of course. In fact, perhaps we should begin to think about your travel arrangements and so on. I take it there are people you could stay with briefly, when you arrive, just until you get settled?’

  Bruno Weiss smiled and shook his head. ‘Oh, my dear man, I’m not going,’ he said lightly. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘With respect, I think you’d be foolish not to.’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘There’s Helga to think of. As long as she’s here, I’ll be here too.’

  ‘I don’t know that I could guarantee a repeat performance.’

  Across the plastic table top, however, a transformation had taken place. From the hunched and trembling figure of a few moments ago, Bruno now sat straight, eyes shining with defiance, the life flooding back into him as he talked.

  ‘Mr Quinn, I love my country. Whatever my political sympathies, we Germans are not the same as Russians you know. We’re civilized. Nor are we Italians. We will never turn Fascist. You’ll see. The Nazis are having their moment now, but it’s our turn next.’

  Leo raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You think it amazing that I can say that after what I’ve been through? Maybe. But these thugs, they’re not everything. The great heart of this country is sleeping now. The people are slow to be provoked, but they’ll rise. I promise you.’

  Leo cast a swift, automatic glance at the drink-sodden loner he had noted, slumped over the bar. ‘So you’re not afraid?’

  ‘No. It’s not fear I feel now. It’s shame. I’m ashamed that this murderous gang should be returning my country to the fourteenth century. But it won’t last, dear Mr Quinn. It won’t last.’

  Leo’s heart sank. Who was to say that Weiss was not right, and all those people who lined patiently up outside his office each day, eager for the unassuming indigo stamp that would mark them as exiles, ready to leave their homes and history for an uncertain impoverished future, were not wrong? Perhaps they were crazy to queue all day not just at the British Consulate, but the embassies of any godforsaken part of the world, just to obtain permission to escape the regime that hated them, but not enough to let them go. Yet how could it be that Bruno Weiss, of all people, whose desolate paintings testified to all the horror and despair of which human beings were capable, should feel any optimism about the fate of Germany now?

  Bruno was devouring slices of bread and salami, as though he had just realized how hungry he was. He looked up and smiled, as if broaching a subject that Leo might find difficult to understand.

  ‘One thing this dreadful experience has made me understand, Mr Quinn, is that I must be more outspoken from now on.’

  ‘I would have thought you were quite outspoken enough already. Your paintings are pretty eloquent, Herr Weiss, let alone those pamphlets you help produce.’

  Bruno laughed. ‘I’m not talking about politics! I meant with women. You see, my feelings for Helga are very strong, yet I have always disliked that kind of discussion that women seem to want. Talk of love, and so on. But now I see that just as it would be cowardly of me to leave Helga in Germany while I seek safety elsewhere, so it is cowardly of me not to express my feelings for her.’

  For some reason, the image of Clara’s face in the shimmering darkness of the Neukölln cinema came into Leo’s mind. Her mouth, with its teeth slightly crooked and the press of her lips as he kissed her. The astonishment in her eyes and the unexpected softness of her skin. He had acted on sheer operational instinct. He hoped she understood that.

  Bruno wiped his mouth. ‘There are times, Mr Quinn, when we need to be truthful about what we feel, don’t you think?’

  It was a curious thing to ask of a British Government passport official, Leo thought as he signalled for the bill. He decided to consider the question as strictly rhetorical.

  Chapter Forty-one

  ‘So what does Müller talk about?’

  Two weeks had passed with no contact and then on Saturday another envelope was waiting for Clara on the hall table, containing a U-Bahn ticket for Krumme Lanke at the south-west end of the U1 line. There was also a ticket to a lunchtime concert at a lake-side restaurant.

  The Grunewald’s villa colonies grouped around the lakes were a favourite spot for Berliners who wanted to escape the city and get a breath of air. Although the area was being developed, with fresh roads being laid into the pine forest and pretty pale gabled houses being erected, there was still a rural feel, with jays and woodpeckers raucous in the trees around them and bluebells and primroses clumped on the banks. As she walked, Clara passed a group of boys running through the wood in shorts and gym shirts, and a band of Wandervogel scouts, marching along the footpath singing.

  The café was right on the waterside, a number of wooden tables set inside fancy wrought-iron fencing surrounding a small dance floor, where couples and a few girls together were twirling in the sun. One of the girls, dancing with her soldier, was dressed in a blue dirndl with puffed sleeves. Magda would approve, Clara thought.

  Leo had made a point of sitting as near as possible to the band so that it drowned out their voices and made Clara lean towards him to be heard. His face was thinner, she thought, and he looked more than usually sombre. She felt a lurch of desire so intense it surprised her. As he fiddled with the beer bottle, she badly wanted to take his hand in hers. She wanted him to lean across the table and kiss her again.

  ‘Müller gossips. I think he’s lonely. He’s a widower, you know.’

  ‘My heart bleeds. What does he gossip about?’

  Clara knew what he was doing. She did the same now. She sieved her conversations with Müller like a prospector panning for gold, extracting those fragments that she thought might be useful to Leo.

  ‘There was something. When he gave me a lift back from the studio the other day we passed an airfield. He began talking about rearming and how the Deutsche Luft Hansa is being readied for air warfare. But that’s not supposed to happen, is it?’

  ‘Under the terms of the Treaty of Versailles, Germany’s not allowed an airforce. And they’re supposed to restrict their fl
ying activities to gliding. But if this regime stuck to what was supposed to happen, life would be very different.’

  ‘Müller said underground airports and factories are being built. They’re designing new planes and a school for pilots is being established near Gatow, twenty miles from here.’

  ‘New planes?’

  ‘Müller heard rumours that Goering was boasting of having five hundred operational aircraft by the end of next year. And civilian aircraft are being designed so that the baggage compartments can be deployed as bomb bays, if that should be needed.’

  Leo made a swift note, then replaced his pad in his inside pocket.

  ‘Sounds like he’s still sweet on you.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Don’t do anything to discourage that.’

  His voice fell as a group of men in uniform passed, looking for a table, and then a waitress approached. Leo ordered herring in sour cream and onions along with a glass of beer. Although it was lunchtime Clara wasn’t hungry. Being with Leo caused excitement to pulse through her, dulling her appetite.

  ‘So tell me about the Führer’s girlfriend? Do they talk about her much?’

  ‘Eva Braun? She never mingles with the other women. I don’t think it’s because they refuse to invite her, I think it’s because Hitler doesn’t allow it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I suppose he knows what they would think.’

  ‘And what do they think?’

  ‘That she’s not good enough for him. She’s only twenty-one. She wears cheap jewellery, she loves fashion.’

  ‘You might think she could help out in the Fashion Bureau then.’

  ‘He never even lets her come to Berlin. She lives down in Munich with her sister in an apartment he bought for her. And she goes to stay with him at Obersalzberg. But really, she wouldn’t fit in with the wives.’

  Leo smiled wryly. ‘I can imagine. And how are the Ribbentrops?’

  ‘He is visiting England soon in a mission to cultivate pro-German feeling. He’s to stay with a man called Ernest Tennant.’

  ‘Ernest Tennant. A great enthusiast for Hitler.’

  ‘My father knows him too. They’re hoping he can fix up a meeting with the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Mr MacDonald? Are they indeed?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And what about your father? Does Müller mention him?’

  ‘Frequently. He hopes he’ll be visiting me soon, which is a worry because I haven’t even told my father where I’m staying. I’m going to have to write to him soon, Leo. That is all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Keep it vague. But Müller trusts you because of your father, you know that?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t let him think otherwise.’

  She focused on the couples on the dance floor without reply.

  ‘Have you seen the first lady?’

  ‘Yes. She’s angry with Joseph.’

  ‘Again. What’s he done this time?’

  ‘He’s had her former husband arrested for tax irregularities. But it’s really because Quandt has been restricting access to Harald, his son with Magda. Though I still think there’s something else . . .’

  Clara was now certain that some private matter was dominating Magda’s thoughts. Since that day of the row, when Magda had seemed on the brink of confiding in her, Clara had puzzled over her comment. “There’s something you might help me with. A matter of some delicacy”. Something was weighing on Magda’s mind, she was sure of it.

  ‘There must be a problem.’ She traced a line down the condensed pearls of her beer glass. ‘We weren’t due to meet until the day of the fashion show at the Grunewald Race Track a couple of weeks away. But she left a message asking me to call at her house on Tuesday morning.’

  Clara looked out across to the other side of the lake, where a border of pine trees ran along the sandy shoreline. The water was corrugated by a brisk breeze. A jetty protruded into the lake and a group of boys were taking turns to curl up into balls and hurl themselves into its silver depths. She watched how they hesitated for a second before plucking up the courage to jump, how the water fractured into a thousand sparkling shards and how exhilarated the boys looked as they emerged icy and dripping, their skin rosy from the freezing lake.

  ‘Do you think she suspects something?’ asked Leo.

  ‘No. She trusts me. I’m good at concealing my feelings.’

  ‘You must be. I can never tell what you’re thinking.’

  Clara allowed herself a quick smile.

  ‘Have you always been that way?’

  No one ever asked her that. But then no one had ever spoken to her the way Leo did, or shown an interest in her private feelings. Despite how recently she had met him, the peculiarity of their situation had forged a strange intimacy between them.

  ‘Since my mother died.’

  Her mother’s funeral, at the village church of St Michael and All Angels, was the first time she had ever thought about the need to hide her emotions. It was absolutely essential, Angela had told her, not to cry. It was simply not done. ‘If you feel the tears coming, dig your nails into the palm of your hand’. And she had managed it. Even though the little country church had been full to bursting with friends and relations. Even at the graveside as the coffin bumped its way into the damp ground and Clara pictured her mother’s tiny, wasted frame jolting against the inside of the box. Even as the family, like terrible conspirators, shared in the act of covering her with earth. So resolute was her self-control that for a few days afterwards she had continued dry-eyed, as if her mother had died merely to inconvenience her. “My mother is dead”, she said to herself over and over in her head, as if practising the words of an unfamiliar part. It was days before she found herself lying as if paralysed on her bed as the great continent of grief inside her thawed and the dry heaving sobs turned into tears.

  ‘I remember my brother, Kenneth, telling someone a few days later that he was over it.’ She laughed, drily. ‘I suppose in the short term children do get over it. In the long term, of course, never.’

  Leo nodded. He was still regarding her with a peculiar fixity. She might almost have called it tenderness. She looked at the curve of his lips, which not so long ago had kissed her. She felt a desperate urge for him to take her on the dance floor, and hold her in the circle of his arms. It was a physical longing to be touched by him, to plunge beneath that cool exterior.

  ‘Why don’t we ever talk about you, Leo? I feel I know nothing about you.’

  He shrugged and looked away. That was how it was supposed to be. Let others know as little about you as possible. He had spent so long trying to be unknowable that he barely knew himself.

  ‘Not much to know.’

  He wanted to talk to her. He longed to respond to that quick, inquisitive gaze, but he simply couldn’t. It would complicate matters. Instead he took a long draught of beer and forced himself to the task in hand.

  ‘Anyway. You say Müller is still sweet on you.’

  Her face fell. She focused on the boys on the jetty. There was one, a flaxen-haired boy of around eight, who seemed more nervous than the rest. He was banging his arms against his sides for warmth, his chest concave beneath a ladder of ribs, gearing himself up for the plunge while his friends laughed. At last, unable to bear the jeers he took a run, folded up his knees and hurled himself into the implacable depths, surfacing with an expression of shocked delight.

  ‘Müller’s going to be making demands on you. He probably already has. You’re going to have to make your mind up about that pretty soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why. For the same reason we’re doing any of this. So that we can get valuable information. Like the tip about the pilot school. That kind of thing helps us enormously. You’ve no idea how helpful it is. How vital it might prove if relations between Britain and Germany take a turn for the worse. If the Germans really are rearming, we’re going to need to keep up that flow of information, whatever it might take.
’

  ‘Whatever it might take?’

  ‘To have someone close to the leadership, privy to all that uncensored chat. Seeing them socially, totally accepted by them. It’s tremendously important, what you’re doing. More important than you realize.’

  ‘Perhaps I should get a medal for it.’

  He ignored the sarcasm. ‘It’s appreciated.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Quietly he said, ‘Look, Clara, this isn’t cricket. Nor is it the kind of game you play in some English drawing room on a wet Sunday afternoon. We can’t always play by the rules. There are more important things at stake than ourselves.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between ignoring the rules and sleeping with a Nazi captain.’

  He cast his eyes around quickly. ‘It’s your call,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought I made that clear. It’s always going to be your call.’

  For a second she didn’t say anything. Then in a low voice she said, ‘What would you think of me, Leo, if I did?’

  He was saved from a reply when a bird landed on the table right in front of them. It was a sparrow with a bright, enquiring eye, hopping with a delicate frisk of feathers to peck at a crumb. He thought how endearing it was that such a tiny, fragile thing should be unafraid of the larger creatures around it. The laughing soldier in SA uniform and his girlfriend stopped to look at it.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ cooed the girl, and her boyfriend leant over and kissed her. ‘So are you.’

  The couple smiled at their slight indiscretion, and Leo grinned back at them.

  Clara waited until the young couple had returned to the dance floor. The image she had a few moments ago of dancing with Leo had evaporated, supplanted in her mind by the idea of Klaus Müller, and the trip she had arranged with him the following day, to examine the country house he had discovered, just outside Potsdam. She rubbed her arms as a chill breeze blew in from the lake.