by Jane Thynne
Bitterly she said, ‘That’s the thing about this place. It’s like a picture book. Everything looks sweet and clean but inside it’s rotten to the core.’
Leo reached across to her and lightly brushed the back of her hand, then pulled away.
‘Clara, if you’re finding this too hard . . .’
She shrugged, her face set, chin jutting defiantly. Physically she was still right next to him, but he sensed she had receded from him.
She was remembering something Paul Croker said to her when she was tackling a tricky role.
“Whatever you do, Clara, if you really want to do it convincingly, you need to find your motivation”.
“My motivation?”
“The trigger that makes your character act the way she does. The emotion that guides her. The reason that carries her through. If you have your character’s motivation, you have everything you need”.
She had that, at least. Her motivation. It remained to be seen if it would be enough to carry her through.
Chapter Forty-two
Klaus Müller’s find was in Caputh, a village on the fringes of a pine forest, a few miles outside Berlin. To get there they took the autobahn in the direction of Babelsberg and travelled past Potsdam into the countryside. Clara wore sunglasses and a red cotton scarf tied round her neck in a way she had copied from Olga Chekhova. It was a fine day and the blue sky was lightly feathered with clouds as Müller’s BMW convertible, freshly waxed and polished, sped along the empty road. He had the hood down and the wind rushed against her face with an intoxicating edge of grass and damp earth. Looking into the dark coniferous forests as they passed, she almost expected to see girls with braids and baskets weaving their way through the trees, the way they did in Germany’s deep ancestral imagination, and would do again, if Hitler had anything to do with it. But it being Sunday, the sides of the autobahn were dotted with picnickers, sitting on rugs watching the cars go by.
The road moved out from the forest to run between wide meadows, waving with great lances of wildflowers, and fields blunt with the stubble of early crops. Clara looked at everything they passed with interest. She fed greedily on the beauty of the landscape, as if by focusing on the journey she could forestall the arrival.
‘When Elsa was alive we always planned to find a place out here,’ Müller shouted to her, above the rushing air. ‘But it’s taken me a while to get round to it. Luckily, there’s plenty of property available right now.’
Caputh was set in a beautiful position between two lakes, in which, he explained, he planned to do some sailing and fishing, should work ever let up enough to give him the chance. But the village’s most notable feature, he told her, was that it contained a house that had been built for Albert Einstein, a two-storey, timber-framed construction looking out over Lake Templin, which had been a fiftieth birthday present from the city of Berlin to its eminent resident. Unfortunately, the eminent resident had recently decided to reside anywhere but Germany and just two weeks ago had turned up at the German Consulate in Antwerp to renounce his German citizenship.
‘So a great use of taxpayers’ money that was.’ Müller waved a contemptuous hand in the direction of the house. ‘I hear the local police had to raid the place the other evening. They were tipped off that they might find weapons left there by Communist agitators.’
‘You’d never have thought of Professor Einstein as the sort to hide machine guns under the bed,’ said Clara mildly.
He cast her a quick glance to assess the level of her flippancy so she shot him a bright smile, glad that her eyes were hidden by the glasses.
‘That’s exactly the point. He may have looked like a crazy professor – no doubt he was – but he was also a lying Jewish Communist and there’s no depths to which those people won’t stoop. We’re better off without him.’
Müller was wearing a leather jacket and open-necked shirt with braces. He looked different in his weekend clothes, fleshier, and less intimidating. He retained his air of jocular cynicism, but he looked more like the businessman he had once been than a Nazi officer. Clara wondered if in normal times she might have been attracted to him, but she doubted it. There was a flatness in his brown gaze, a lack of depth and questioning, that reminded her of a Rottweiler dog that Kenneth had once looked after. She shifted in the seat, her flesh sticking to the warm leather. Part of her was impatient to arrive, the other part hoping the journey would never end.
He drew up at the end of a track, where a small wooden house with sloping gables stood, surrounded on three sides by forest. It was quiet here. The air was mossy and tinged with woodsmoke. A tiny garden was falling into genteel disrepair and weeds were beginning to thread through the gravelled drive. The only sound was the birds squabbling in nearby branches. Müller hauled a picnic basket from the back seat, fished out the house keys and flung open the door.
‘So what do you think? It’s charming, isn’t it? Not big, but I don’t need much space. It’s just me, after all, for now.’
Clara looked around her. The door opened straight into a small sitting room where a couple of armchairs were arranged before a wood-burning stove and a pair of antlers fixed incongruously above it. Apart from the sparse furnishings, the house had the pitiful look of the recently abandoned. On the walls she noticed pale rectangles where the pictures of the last occupants had hung. She imagined they might have been family photographs and how the people in them had turned into a blank shadow of themselves, inverted negatives, remaining only as ghostly reminders of absence.
‘How did you find it?’
‘The people who owned it had to leave in a hurry so the house had become available quite suddenly. Fortunately I keep my ear to the ground.’ He shrugged happily. ‘I tend to know what’s going on.’
At the back of the house was a tiny kitchen, no more than a work surface in solid pine, a cooker and a sink. Clara peered through the back door to the forest outside.
‘It’s rather remote, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. There’s houses on both sides. It just seems so. And that’s what I like about it. I love a little rural tranquillity. More than ever right now.’
She had felt sick in the car, a rising nausea that all her improvization couldn’t dampen. It was plain from the moment she stepped into the car what the purpose of this outing would be. Images of what was to come flashed through her mind. This was what she had been dreading and it had arrived. She half worried that she would be incapable of it, but she wasn’t entirely inexperienced. It would be hard to have come through several seasons in rep and remain a virgin, and her time with Dennis had taught her that the physical act required only passive acquiescence. Yet she knew also that a show of enthusiasm would be required if Müller was to continue trusting her and feeding her information in the future. The future! The very thought was too difficult to contemplate just then. All she could do was focus on the here and now. She must make everything shrink to the essence of herself, standing there in the silent house. She must let all distractions and thoughts fall away and enter fully into the act. She had decided to do this and as there was no getting out of it, there was no point waiting either.
Müller seemed to have the same idea. He took her in his arms.
‘Do you know why I brought you here?’
‘To see the house?’
He gave a short, impatient laugh. ‘I hope you’re not going to behave like a little tease again.’
He ran a hand down her body and an unexpected shudder of fear ran through her. He was so much larger and stronger than her and whatever he said, the place seemed so remote. She flinched and took a step backwards.
‘Don’t avoid me. You’re a grown woman. You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want to.’ His lips were wet against her ear. ‘You’re no little innocent, my dear. Don’t imagine I’m taken in by that lovely, pure face.
He reached for the belt of her dress, and with deft fingers eased the buttons and pulled it off. Suddenly a wave of panic rose within her and
she fought against the impulse to flee. Feeling her struggle he grasped her more firmly.
‘Come now, my little actress. Stop your play acting.’
He tipped up her face and kissed her greedily. His tongue was large and thick and his moustache scratched her. It took everything in her not to push him away. Leo’s remark burned in her mind. “Don’t do anything to discourage him.”
He cupped her breasts roughly and she sensed the excitement and lust coursing through him. He let his hands roam down, over her bottom, plucking at her suspender belt.
She looked away and said, ‘Is that a Riesling in your basket?’
Reluctantly he detached himself and took out a bottle and two glasses.
‘I was going to chill it for later, but why wait?’
They chinked glasses and she drank it down. It was intense and fruity. He poured her another, then half unwound the scarf from her neck, using it to draw her towards him.
‘You might think I spend my life with beautiful women, but you’d be wrong.’ His face was flushed and drops of sweat had formed on his temples. ‘I was attracted to you from the moment I saw you.’
The drink was a good idea. It meant his mouth now tasted of wine, not cigars, and Clara, whose tolerance for alcohol was low, knew that her head would very soon be swimming.
‘Come here.’
He took off his shirt and Clara, unprompted, removed her bra. Muscle barred his chest like the ridges of a barrel and he was surprisingly hairy. She ran her hand down it. At her touch, he quickened and turned away, fumbling with a contraceptive, then drew her down to the carpet and laid her beneath him.
She had wondered if she might, despite herself, become aroused. Just as a mechanical reaction to his caresses, as had happened momentarily in the opera house. But as it was, she remained entirely cold. His earlier comments about Einstein had helped.
He placed one meaty thigh between her legs and pushed them apart. Clara imagined watching herself, studying her own performance the way she had done with Herr Lamprecht in the editing suite, detaching herself from any connection with the girl there on the floor of the house in the German countryside, the sound of birds loud in the trees outside. It was important that she throw herself into this. Convincingly, she shut her eyes.
It was quick, and he apologized, a little shamefacedly.
‘You’ve made me wait too long, Schatzi.’
He lay on the rug beside her and stroked her naked body, while she stared away from him, up into the timber ceiling.
‘What a girl you are. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’
‘I certainly am.’
For once, the sardonic edge in his voice had given way to a note of unguarded gentleness. She thought of Leo. She had done her bit all right. She had done “whatever it takes”. Soon she would have to figure out what she did next.
‘Do you remember those roses I sent you?’
‘Of course.’
He dawdled a finger on her bare skin. ‘When you pluck a rose, you know it’s beautiful but you also know you might get hurt. That’s what I’m wondering right now.’
There was nothing to say to this. She tried not to look him in the eye.
‘When I told you the other day about not liking to be unmarried, well, it’s not just because of my needs as a man. It’s not good for a senior man to be without a woman. The party doesn’t like it. It gives the wrong impression.’
‘I’m sure there are plenty of women who would like to be with you.’
‘Of course there are! I wasn’t saying that.’ He frowned at her lack of understanding. ‘I’m the aide to the Minister of Propaganda. I could have any actress I wanted. But I don’t want just any actress. I want a woman of refinement.’
She smiled.
‘You think I’m being sentimental, don’t you? You’re right!’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘It’s the German vice! I’ll stop at once.’ He sprang up, suddenly boyish, and pulled his trousers on.
‘Stay here. I’ll get some food together.’
She went into the bathroom to wash and he went out to the car to carry in a box of possessions he had brought from the Berlin apartment. Cups and plates, knives and forks. A stack of books, soap and shaving things. The bread, ham and apples he had brought for their lunch. A Luger pistol, wrapped in a cloth. He seemed utterly happy here. Relaxed from the straightjacket of his professional duties he had also shed the carapace of vicious cynicism he habitually wore. Whistling a tune, he carefully began setting out photographs on the mantelpiece. First the face of Elsa, the dead wife, and then the inevitable image of the Führer. Clara turned away.
Chapter Forty-three
‘Fräulein Vine. A pleasure as always.’
Goebbels’ gaze was intent as he stepped out of the way to allow her into the house. The stare from his large brown eyes had a peculiar quality, and his expression was unmistakable. He distrusted her, sure, that much was plain, but that didn’t mean she didn’t also intrigue him. He stood pulling on pale, calfskin gloves to go with his silk striped trousers and patent leather shoes. A newspaper was rolled under his arm. Fortunately he was on his way to the Ministry. A uniformed chauffeur stood outside holding the door of his Mercedes, but he hesitated.
‘So what is it today, Fräulein?’
‘The show we are preparing for the Winterhilfsverk, Herr Doktor,’ Clara replied smoothly. It was an invention, but it was easier to volunteer something than to reveal she had no idea why Magda had sent so suddenly for her. Helping out the poor with food and fuel was everyone’s favourite charity, despite what people said about the funds being funnelled directly back to the Nazi Party.
‘Of course. A good cause. You must give me a private view of these fashions you are modelling for my wife. It would be of great interest to me. I am, after all, in charge of all aspects of German culture.’
‘I know, Herr Doktor.’
He cast a quick, instinctive glance up at the house. ‘Perhaps you would like to call at the ministry one day soon. Do you know it?’
‘Of course, Herr Doktor. Everyone knows it.’
The Propaganda Ministry was an imposing building in front of the Reich Chancellery.
‘It would be interesting to have a longer talk with you.’
She quailed. She knew what long talks with Goebbels meant, and talking was not a big part of it.
‘I’ll look forward to it, Herr Doktor.’
‘Well, then. I shall send for you. Good day!’
He got in his car, slammed the door and was driven away, swastika pennant fluttering in the breeze.
The maid showed Clara up to the yellow dressing room where Magda sat with her back to the door, her eyes huge and dark in her pale face. She was dressed smartly, in a rose satin shift and matching jacket, but she was plainly in no state to go anywhere. The ashtray was full of stubs and she was sucking at another cigarette, her cheeks hollowing with each breath.
‘Thank you for coming, Fräulein. You don’t mind?’
It was unusual for Magda to register that other people might have work or social lives or any kind of priority that couldn’t be dropped at a moment’s notice.
‘Of course not.’
She gestured towards a tray containing blue and white Meissen coffee cups and a silver coffee pot.
‘Help yourself. I had to talk to someone and I didn’t know who else to call.’
If this seemed like an extraordinary confession of weakness, she didn’t elaborate. She wasn’t looking at Clara. She was leaning towards the table, knotting a handkerchief distractedly, as if speaking to herself. From the opened window came the scents of spring grass and the distant rumble of traffic. Clara poured herself a cup of coffee and added cream.
‘You might have noticed in the past few weeks, that I have had something on my mind.’
So she had been right: the instinct Clara had from the moment she met Magda that some emotional struggle was tearing her apart. The melancholy face, the rows, the tears. What Müller desc
ribed as her ‘hysteria’.
‘I know it’s been a difficult time for you.’
‘Yes, it has. Would you mind if I told you something? A story?’
‘Of course not. I’d like it.’
‘It’s about someone I met. Someone from the past.’ Magda gave a huge sigh and dabbed her eyes where the mascara had run.
‘When I was fourteen, I think I told you my family was forced to move from Brussels to Berlin. The war and so on. I went to the Kollmorgen Lyceum and I became best friends with a girl called Lisa Arlosoroff Her family had come from the Ukraine but her father was dead, so Lisa’s mother had to cope alone. She had a sister, Dora, and a brother called Victor. Perhaps because I was an only child, I loved their family. They were so lively and welcoming. I spent a lot of time with them at their apartment, which was quite humble, you know, but always full of people, quite unlike my own home. Anyway, Victor became a good friend too. He was a very clever young man. A Zionist actually. It was his ambition to establish a Jewish homeland in Palestine and for a while I was quite convinced by his arguments . . .’ She shot a quick glance at Clara. ‘Well, you don’t need to know all that. All you need to know is that we had a youthful attachment and at one point I agreed to marry him.’
Clara put down her coffee. Had Magda really just told her that she had agreed to marry a Jew? The wife of Adolf Hitler’s right hand man, the First Lady of the Reich, had once been engaged to a Jewish man? But now was not the time to express amazement. Clara leant forward to take a cigarette from the silver box and the only sign of her astonishment was a slight widening of the eyes.
Magda sniffed. ‘As it happened I decided I was not a part of his world and we separated. But some years later, when I was married to Gunter Quandt, I met him again. It was back in ’29. I was unhappily married.’
She tapped a cylinder of cigarette ash in the cut-glass ashtray. ‘I was so bored. My husband left at seven in the morning and didn’t come back until late at night. I had a big house with fourteen staff, and only little Harald at home. I played the piano, I helped with the child’s homework, I went shopping. I drank coffee on the Ku’damm and I went to dinner with bankers. And that was it. Christ! It was like being buried alive.’