by Jane Thynne
That morning, Frau Lehmann had insisted they listen to what Doktor Goebbels had to say about the Führer’s birthday.
‘Normally the great men that we admire from a distance lose their magic when one knows them well. With Hitler the opposite is true. The longer one knows him, the more one admires him, and the more one is ready to give oneself fully to his cause.’
Fräulein Viktor’s knitting had fallen to her lap as she listened with rapt attention. Clara had not dared to meet the eyes of Professor Hahn.
Once the parade had passed and the crowds began to disperse she went and sat in a café reading the Morgenpost. A telegram of congratulations for the Führer had been sent from Rome, assuring him of “unflinching co-operation” from the Vatican. More than four thousand cities had awarded Hitler honorary citizenship. Clara tried to concentrate on the news but her eyes kept sliding off the page. Helga’s death had left her not just scared, but stunned. And the only person who had spoken of it was Goebbels himself.
Goebbels. The meeting with him the previous evening had filled her with a fresh terror. What did he mean by his request to “keep an eye” on his wife? How could she possibly fulfil that? Could she really manage to act like a double agent in the Goebbels’ marriage, all the while reporting to Leo? Such a prospect would surely test her acting skills to the utmost. Besides, she didn’t need reminding, this was the man who had had her friend killed. And who would not hesitate to kill again. Until Helga’s death the idea that she might be risking her life had never seemed real to her. Now she wished she had accepted the pistol Leo had offered her.
She became aware of a man watching her. He sat two tables to her left, between her and the door, and was ostensibly reading a newspaper but in fact stealing frequent glances in her direction. He was in his fifties, a creased, anonymous-looking character with steel-grey hair cropped close to the skull, and a hat beside him on the seat. Worn shoes, but neatly pressed trousers. Shabby, yet clean. Either he was a slow reader or he was especially fascinated by the page of foreign news in front of him. He was no longer taking sips from his cup, plainly suggesting that he had finished his coffee long ago.
Clara was immediately alert. She wondered if there was a back way out of the place but apart from a single doorway to a half-glimpsed kitchen, it was clear that the café considered itself too small to provide toilet facilities for its customers. She had instinctively chosen the table furthest from the front window, right at the back of the café, but that meant if she wanted to leave she would have to walk right past him, giving him the advantage of observing the direction she took and following at his own pace. For twenty minutes she sat it out, till her own coffee was just a grainy, brown puddle at the bottom of the cup, willing him to leave, but noticing that his glances had become more frequent and less disguised. She was about to get up when he stood himself and approached her, proffering a packet of cigarettes.
‘I saw you were alone.’
His voice was hesitant and eager, his eyes had all the pathos of the lonely pick-up. Instantly she perceived that his interest in her was not as a shadow but as a solitary man, hoping to have found a fellow loner.
‘I wondered, would you care for another coffee, or a drink perhaps?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I have to leave.’
Folding some notes beneath the saucer, she stepped quickly out into the street, almost laughing with relief, and remembered Leo’s remark: ‘A girl like you must get used to being looked at.’
It was true. The sensation of men’s eyes on her, attracted by her face first, then running over her breasts or her legs, was perfectly normal to her. It was the same for most women. No matter how professional or polished the man, a woman could tell in a split second when he was assessing her looks. Yet how far off that kind of innocent observation seemed now.
She moved cafés and sat until five o’clock, overdosing on caffeine and toying with a Mokke cake she couldn’t eat, until she decided it was time.
Magda had been right. It was a good day to choose. It couldn’t be better. Though it was early evening, the streets were still thronged and busy, with crowds jostling the streets and strolling through the parks, enjoying their day out. The sun had gone and an edge of chill had entered the air, mingling with the scent of wurst and beer and a trail of cordite from the celebratory fireworks.
Clara stood opposite the Friedrichstrasse station, waited until the conductor of the 177 tram had rung the bell then jumped into the back carriage. A stop later she entered the U-Bahn, catching a train to Leipziger Strasse, from which she emerged straight into the front door of Wertheim’s. The department store, hung with plate glass and mirrors, was ideal for her purposes. Each time she passed a mirror she studied the reflection of the faces among the shoppers for any she recognized. It was nearly closing time but the shop was still packed with customers taking advantage of the day out to see the country’s biggest department store. She took the escalator up to the second floor, stepped off and came down the opposite side immediately, allowing her to glance at the people passing her on the way up. There was no sign of a shadow. There was a moment when she noticed that a trout-faced middle-aged woman who she had seen on the ground floor buying perfume appeared alongside her at the gloves on the first floor. She got into a dispute with the assistant, which was exactly what Clara would have done if she had been the shadow, drawing attention to herself and behaving atypically because she had been spotted. For safety’s sake, Clara slipped into a door marked ‘Staff Only’. Pausing to remove her cherry beret and bright cotton scarf, she walked along a corridor and down a flight of concrete steps, emerging in the china and glass department. Leaving the store she crossed Potsdamer Platz to Stresemannstrasse and entered the Haus Vaterland.
The Kempinski Haus Vaterland was five towering storeys of entertainment beneath a brilliantly lit dome, the idea behind it being spelt out in large neon letters on the frontage: “The World in One House”. Clara remembered Helga talking about it. It was a kind of world tour under one roof with twelve international restaurants catering for up to six thousand diners at any one time. Clara had thought it sounded pretty dreadful then, but it suited her purpose now. And it was gratifyingly busy. Passing the Spanish bodega, the Turkish bar and the Viennese café she made for the first-floor Rhine Terrace, a cavernous hall set with tables where murals depicted a Rhine landscape complete with castles and the Lorelei rock. From the sound alone, she knew she was in luck. The particular draw of the Rhine Terrace was that once an hour the lighting was dimmed and a thunderstorm was simulated. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled and artificial rain spattered down on the landscape, misting the nearest diners to their evident delight. As Clara entered, the weather show had just begun. She stopped a moment and looked about her. All eyes were on the far end of the hall. No one was looking at her. Weaving her way through the tables, she slipped into the ladies’ lavatory, locked herself in a cubicle and removed the blonde wig from the studio which she had brought in her satchel. Fixing it, she smiled at herself in the mirror, seeing a lighter, gayer self emerge, then took out a navy soft-brimmed felt hat and a gabardine which she had carried rolled up, covered herself up and became immediately less conspicuous. When she came out she checked the faces of those around her, and saw nothing but entranced diners, watching the display and enjoying the sensation of having the whole world at their feet.
She turned right and walked down the street to the Anhalter Bahnhof, took the U-Bahn one stop, then got off quickly and changed carriages, choosing a seat next to a fat woman, leaning in to her slightly, inhaling the greasy air of cooking that arose from her. Clara felt intensely in control of herself, keeping her expression deadpan, every movement deliberately relaxed. She crossed her legs and an old man seated opposite caught her eye then looked away. Both of them noticed the small swastika flag lying crumpled on the floor of the carriage, but neither of them picked it up. She travelled a further two stops, watching the lights reflected in the window veer towards them and slide away, b
efore alighting at Steglitz.
Steglitz-Rathaus station was almost deserted apart from a youngish man smoking in the yellow-tiled waiting room. It was as though everyone in the locality had gone into the centre to watch the festivities and decided to make an evening of it. Turning out of the station, she passed into a tree-lined street. With the thrum of traffic heading towards the city centre behind her, the quiet was deep and domestic. She heard a mother calling children in to bed, and from another house a sweet female voice issued from a wireless singing. She came to a road lined with shops. One was boarded up, the streetlamp glinting on a tidy rubble of broken glass, and next to it were the lighted, steamy windows of a restaurant, the Bar Axel. A celebration of some kind was underway. The light spilt around the animated figures like players on a set, yet it was she, in the dusk, who felt the intense concentration, the heightened alertness of an actor on a stage.
A Persian cat stalked by on a wall, its feathery tail aloft. The occasional car passed, but from what she could tell no vehicle followed her. She checked each parked car for occupants, but saw none. Look for any unusual activity, Leo had told her. She watched for anyone behaving aimlessly, or pretending interest in shop windows, who might look away if she caught their eye. But there was no one. She was just thinking that she was being absurdly cautious, and priding herself on the thoroughness of her route, when she caught the flicker of a figure a few yards behind.
Leo had told her what to do. ‘Stop a while. See if he stops too. Cross the road.’
So she stopped and made to look into a shop front, and when she glanced behind she saw nothing.
She was being hypersensitive, she told herself. She had followed every step of Leo’s lesson and had no reason at all to suppose that she was being tailed. She carried on as the shops gave way to apartment buildings and the pavement darkened in the intervals between the street lamps. Two blocks on a ticking sound approached from behind and she looked into the side of a gleaming car to see a boy wheeling a bicycle coming past her. Though her nerves were jangling she forced herself to keep in steady step and felt glad for the anonymous gaberdine and the soft-brimmed hat, which shaded half her face.
She carried on for half a block, but moments later she heard a faint, metallic clatter. She had trodden on a drain cover a few moments before and her heel had made that very sound. This time, in the reflection of a window she saw him, a man in a trench coat, pale hat, and newspaper rolled up in one pocket. A pale tie and dark suit trousers. There was no doubt about it. She was being followed. A kick of nerves assaulted her but she forced herself on. Though she managed to keep herself from trembling, fear ran through her like electricity snaking along a wire.
A bus trundled past and as it did, Clara took the opportunity to step into a narrow, unlit passageway, smelling of urine and litter. A few steps along was a doorway and she wedged herself in, her heart jolting with fear, until she saw the man following her pass on the other side of the street. He proceeded with a firm tread, looking neither left nor right, as though he was a private citizen, entirely lost in thought. But he would soon realize that he had lost her and retrace his steps.
Clara saw that the passageway was in fact an alley, a narrow space between the brick walls of the houses, barely wide enough for a single person to pass. The stench of garbage was overpowering. Squeezing along, she emerged at the other end into a residential street, cursing herself for being so complacent before. For assuming that, because the man in the café had been a well-intentioned stranger, it meant no one else was on her tail.
According to the map she had memorized, she was getting near to Brucknerstrasse. She readjusted her directions and turned down a street full of prosperous-looking villas set back from the road. At a crossroads, she turned left into a street of undistinguished blocks with scrubby front gardens. The perfect place to sink into anonymity. She counted the numbers and checking the road quickly right and left, crossed to a tall, red-brick mansion house, went up the steps and knocked five times. When the door opened, she said, ‘I am an old friend of Lisa’s,’ and he let her in.
Victor Arlosoroff was a tall, densely-packed man with tight curly hair the texture of wire wool, round horn-rimmed glasses, and a belligerent air. He had a hard, knuckly brow, bulbous nose, and a protruding lower jaw. His forehead was heavily scored with lines and his face was bunched as a fist. Not even his mother could call him good-looking. As she followed him through a shadowy hall into a cluttered front room where thick curtains were drawn, Clara was amazed yet again at why Magda should be attracted to men who were so physically unprepossessing. He was smoking a pipe with short, savage puffs, and looked at Clara searchingly. His eyes, through the thick glasses, were tiny.
He waved her to a chair, and sat down. There was a piano, with a Beethoven score open, and dusty glass cabinets stacked with books. Many of them, she noticed, had titles in Hebrew, just like Magda’s letter. A quick scan of the photographs on the shelves suggested that this house did not belong to Arlosoroff and the clatter of dishes in the distance confirmed that other people were in residence.
She handed him the envelope and he read the letter through, then leant back and surveyed her.
‘So you are a friend of Magda’s.’
‘Yes. My name is Clara Vine.’
He chuckled. ‘She doesn’t like me sending letters to her mother’s house. It’s come to something when old friends can’t communicate, eh?’
‘She is quite frightened.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Do you know, I wasn’t even aware until a few weeks ago that she’d married that club-footed loudmouth. How could she be taken in by him? And the gall of him, holding the wedding at the country estate of her first husband! I suppose she told you there was a time she was going to emigrate to Palestine with me?’
‘She did.’
He tipped up the envelope she had given him and Clara caught the flash of something gold. A necklace.
‘Do you know what this is?’
‘A Star of David?’
‘I gave it to her as a present. She loved this necklace. She wore it all the time. She has sent it as proof that this letter could have come from nobody but her. A Nazi minister’s wife using the Star of David to vouch for her identity. You have to admit that’s original!’
‘So what went wrong?’
For the first time the anger seeped out of his face and his stubby features drooped. He tapped his pipe, which was issuing gouts of smoke like a badly laid fire, got up and hunted round the musty, brown room for a book of matches, then sat down again.
‘I wish I knew. Our friendship goes back a long time. She was a friend of my sister Lisa. Her own family seemed pretty remote, so she was always around our place, for dinner or playing music. Then, in 1920 I left for Palestine for the first time and whenever I came back to see my family, it meant I saw Magda too. And she’d grown so lovely, I don’t mind telling you. A beautiful woman and so . . . so feminine. We grew very close, and I shared all my dreams and plans with her. My ambitions for a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Proper co-operation between Jews and Arabs. We discussed everything. Anyhow, it stayed like that, on and off, until three years ago. At that time she had split up from her first husband and had another lover, a young man called Ernst who was crazy about her. He fired a revolver at her when she refused to go with him and it only just missed. She simply laughed at him. She’s got guts, you see. She’s very strong-minded.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘Can I offer you something? A drink?’
He waved a bottle at her and she nodded, accepting the glass of rough brandy he proffered and taking a tiny, fiery sip.
‘This time, when I came back, a good friend, Robert Weltsch, the editor of Jüdische Rundschau, met me at the station and he had some news for me. “Remember that pretty woman you used to see?” he said. “Well she’s married to the Minister of Propaganda now.” Magda was married to Joseph Goebbels! I almost passed out. Magda Friedla
nder! My beautiful girlfriend. The woman who once discussed coming to Palestine with me to establish a proper homeland for the Jews!’
He stood up and crossed the room to correct a chink in the curtains.
‘But then it crossed my mind that this could also be a blessing in disguise. It fitted with my plan.’ He fixed Clara with a shrewd look, as if still uncertain of her motivation. ‘You see, it’s my view that the Jews in Germany should be helped to come to Palestine. We already have Jewish organizations here training people in the practical skills they need for our homeland. They’re learning everything under the sun! Cooking and baking, sewing and tailoring courses, typing, shorthand, bookkeeping, photography, and language classes. Agriculture, nursing, all these things. And the National Socialists say they want as many Jews as possible to emigrate, so why should they not help fund the transit of people who want to leave? Perhaps, I thought, Magda could help me with that.’
Was he brave, Clara thought, or foolhardy? It was dreadful to imagine him making this proposition to some sadist of a Sturmhauptführer, his features contorting with incredulous contempt. Even Klaus Müller would laugh in his face, before having him arrested for audacity. The Nazis may have convoluted morals, but the idea of them using the coffers of the Reich to assist their declared enemies was simply unimaginable.
‘I assume it didn’t work?’
‘No. In fact it has been made clear to me that not only do the Nazis have no interest in helping us out, but I may myself be in serious danger.’
‘Herr Arlosoroff Victor. I think everything you’re doing, training Jews to start a new life, helping people to leave Germany, is invaluable. It was brave of you to come back. But if the Nazis won’t co-operate, and they’ve already threatened you, I would advise you to leave straight away.’
He smiled, acknowledging her concern with a tilt of his head. ‘That’s what I’m telling everyone I know. There’s no way a Jew can stay in Germany much longer. The Germans won’t rest until they have locked every one of us up. I’m well aware that Berlin is not safe for me.’ He took his pipe out and gazed searchingly at her. ‘Yet there is something I need to do before I leave. A proposal I have for my dear Magda. I am wondering, my friend, how far I can trust you.’