by Thynne, Jane
Her entire body became rigid with shock, but she managed a laugh and, to deflect his scrutiny, coolly withdrew a cigarette from her bag.
‘What an extraordinary suggestion. I never told you any such thing.’
He pulled out his lighter and the flame leapt up to touch her cigarette.
‘Oh, not overtly of course. You’re far too skilled for that. Far too clever to make any number of little slip-ups. You’re cautious. I’ve seen you check the street around you for shadows. I’ve noticed the way you assess a situation before you progress. You have that alert intelligence in your eyes that lets nothing escape you. You’re always listening, even when you seem to be far away. And you speak several languages. To speak another language fluently is to inhabit an entirely different character, don’t you think? But the fact is, you told me what you were the instant you mentioned your lover’s name. Sturmbannführer Steinbrecher. I recognized that name at once. I know him actually.’
‘You know him?’
‘Very well.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘I don’t think you do. You see, that’s my name.’
‘Steinbrecher?’
‘Shall we say my codename. The British gave it to me. When I first made contact with them.’
As she stared at him he sank down into the armchair, gazing into the fire, and then leant forward, hands clasped together and elbows on his knees. There was no smile in his eyes any more, just deadly seriousness.
‘It was about a year ago when I first made contact with members of the British Foreign Office. I volunteered my services and privileged information to a foreign power in what is effectively treason, or would be, except that I regard it as pure patriotism. You see, Clara, I no longer recognize the Germany I love. I see these brutes strong-arming a small nation like Austria, and now threatening Czechoslovakia, because they can and no one will stop them. I see them running riot with the rule of law – Germany, whose legal system is the greatest in the world, which has always stood for justice and right. And when I see this gang of thugs flooding the streets of my beloved country with tides of blood, I feel hatred swelling inside me and I think damn them all, these savages who are making our country a pariah. Damn these men like Himmler and Heydrich who are sadists of a kind I can hardly bear to imagine. I hate this false Germany, as much as I love the real Germany. And I intend to do something about it.’
‘What can you do?’
‘I’m part of a conspiracy, a plot to overthrow Hitler. We intend to mount a coup.’
‘A coup?’ The word seemed to ring out in the silence of the room.
‘More an act of self-defence. Defence of Germany against an aggressive madman.’
His face sideways on seemed older, anxiety etched into the lines.
‘I mean it, Clara. Someone needs to tell the truth about Hitler before it’s too late. We’ve been waiting for the opportunity for an overthrow. And now I think the time has come.’
‘We? Who is we?’
‘I can’t tell you that right now. To be honest, it’s not safe to give you that information. It would compromise you, as much as them. But one thing is certain, Clara. We need Britain to understand our resolve. If Britain believes there’s serious opposition to Hitler among the German military, she will be empowered to take a stronger stand against him. Then if this madman proceeds to attack Czechoslovakia, he will face an Anglo-French alliance on one side and a Czech force, perhaps allied with Soviet air power, on the other front.’
Clara tried to control her conflicting emotions. The relief, that Brandt was not the tool of Heydrich she had feared, the growing admiration for his bravery and, underlying both, the potent attraction she felt for him.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘I wanted to. I couldn’t bear you thinking of me in the same light as them. Some black-shirted gangster who thinks ethics belong in ancient Greece.’
He reached forward and brushed a curl of hair from her forehead.
‘And there’s another reason. There’s something you could do for us, Clara.’
She had a sinking realization that this was the culmination of what he had been planning since the moment he met her.
‘What could I do?’
‘I’m torn. Part of me doesn’t want you to be involved with this in any way. I don’t want to put you in danger, any more than you might be already. I was already thinking about how you might help us when I met you on the Ku’damm that day . . .’
‘Which wasn’t a coincidence?’
‘No. I went looking for you. Even then, I hadn’t quite decided whether to approach you. But when I discovered you’d met the Führer’s girlfriend, I realized the opportunity was too good to miss.’
‘So what do you need me to do?’
‘If, as I assume, Eva Braun recovers from her little cry for help, she will be returning to Berlin with the Führer. That’s where we’ll need you. I can’t yet tell you how, or even when, but you’ll get adequate warning.’
‘What sort of warning?’
‘I can’t tell you that either. Not yet.’
He ran a single finger in a line down her cheek.
‘Do you know why I chose the name Steinbrecher? It’s one of our native flowers – a stone breaker. It grows in the Bavarian Alps. It’s nothing much to look at, this little flower, but it’s vigorous and strong enough to break paving stones apart. It makes its way up through the cracks in the rock and fragments them. It’s a fragile thing, yet it has the power to tunnel through granite.’
‘It suits you. You’re brave.’
He reached out his arm to her.
‘If I were really brave I would make love to you, as I’ve wanted since the moment I saw you. I would not hesitate because, after all, you came here willingly and a woman who comes alone to a man’s hotel room must have a pretty good idea of what he would like to do with her. I would pick you up in my arms and carry you through to that bed – it’s what I was planning from the moment we arrived. I would persuade you that it was the right thing to do, even though I know there’s something holding you back. And I know it can’t be Sturmbannführer Steinbrecher.’
His hand followed the contours of her body, as his voice wound through her mind.
‘Perhaps you can’t bear to sleep with a Nazi officer. Even if he detests the Party. Is that it?’
‘I’ve done it before.’
‘Then you find me too old, too unattractive?’
‘No.’
‘I’m still married. Is that it?’
She shook her head.
‘There’s someone else?’
‘There’s no one. I think I’m meant to be alone.’
‘If you’re not waiting for someone, then it’s only your past that’s stopping you. And we shouldn’t cling to the past, Clara, we should seize the day. Isn’t that what we said?’
Something yielded in her. She was lonely, wasn’t she, and what was the point of refusing the most basic human solace? Whatever her thoughts about Nazi officers, Max Brandt was a decent man. Surely you should cling to the good you found, like a pearl in the harsh rubble of oyster shells? And he was right. It wasn’t as though she was waiting for anyone.
Brandt sensed the give in her and pulled her closer. His hands reached to her shoulders and caressed her arms, before his full, soft lips met hers. His strong fingers loosened the buttons at the back of her dress and let it fall, and his hand found its way to her stocking tops, plucking at the suspender belt.
‘I’ve taken off my uniform. Why not slip out of yours?’
She arched her body against his chest, and felt the warm circle of his arms around her.
From outside came the sharp screech of car tyres against the road. Brandt cocked his head and put his hand against her mouth.
‘Hush.’
He moved over to the window and lifted a narrow aperture, then let the curtain drop. The lights of cars passing in the street outside reared up, making scissor shapes across the ceiling and pi
cking out his face in the gloom. Clara came up behind him.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a particular car in the street down there. I noticed it before.’ He turned.
‘I saw it this morning, in Wasserburgstrasse, when I went to find you. I wonder if it might be you they’re following. Do you have any reason for thinking the Gestapo might be on to you?’
‘Frau von Ribbentrop told Lina Heydrich she didn’t trust me. She advised Lina Heydrich to tell her husband. But I didn’t think Heydrich would pay attention. Not at a time like this.’
He contemplated this. ‘It never does to underestimate them. And von Ribbentrop knows his wife is twice as intelligent as him. If the Führer allowed women in his cabinet he would do well to sack the Foreign Secretary and instate his wife.’
‘Do you think they’d arrest me?’
‘If they saw you go into Eva Braun’s house, almost certainly.’ He began to pace the room. ‘The only thing is . . . if they know you’re here, I would expect them to come straight in. It’s not like the local Gestapo to wait around.’
He regarded her solemnly.
‘You need to go back to your hotel and pack. You must leave Munich. There’s no alternative.’
‘There certainly is. I’ve a part to learn. I’ve got a film to make. I can’t leave Fritz Gutmann in the lurch.’
A shadow passed over his eyes.
‘I’m afraid Fritz Gutmann is in a worse place than that.’
‘What are you talking about? I saw him only the other day.’
‘He was arrested yesterday at dawn. He is being questioned on suspicion of assisting foreign powers.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘Remember I mentioned I had a little cultural business to attend to? I went to the studios to warn Gutmann, but it was too late. I blame myself. I got wind of it a couple of days ago, then I was held up in Berlin. I should have left immediately. As soon as I discovered I went to the police station. That was how I happened to hear of your call from Fräulein Braun’s house. I had an inkling the caller might be you. There’s nothing I could do to help Gutmann. Now another fine man is destined for the attentions of Heydrich.’
‘What will they do with him?’
‘Work him over first, ask questions later. That’s the way they usually operate.’
Clara could not help herself reflecting on what Fritz Gutmann knew. If his association with London Films had been detected, the entire operation was compromised. And even if he did not know exactly what Clara did, he had arranged for her to meet the Führer’s girlfriend. If Gutmann was interrogated and confessions flooded out of him, there was no telling how many people his knowledge might threaten. Interrogations were like throwing a stone in a lake. The consequences of confessions rippled far. And the Gestapo liked throwing stones.
‘So what will happen to the film?’
‘Nothing, for the moment.’
Brandt’s face was absent. Calculating.
‘I’ve changed my mind. We’ll leave right away. You can’t go back to your hotel. You’re coming with me and we’re catching the first available train.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s dangerous for you to stay here. There isn’t any time to lose. You’re coming back with me to Berlin.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Villages and towns sped past as the train made its way northwards in the six-hour journey to the Anhalter Station. Dawn was gradually lightening the fields and forests and in the farmsteads, cherry, apple and nut trees were in fruit. Mist was rising from the grass as it was warmed by a low morning sun.
They had taken window seats in an ordinary second-class compartment. Around the carriage photographs of the Bavarian countryside were framed on the walls alongside a sign decreeing ‘Nicht Raucher’. Max Brandt sat opposite her in his Foreign Service uniform. Clara was still wearing the previous day’s clothes. The only other occupants of the compartment were a kindly-looking elderly couple in Bavarian costume unwrapping hot bacon rolls whose smell quickly filled the carriage and piqued Clara’s senses.
They had already agreed not to talk openly, so Clara occupied herself by gazing out of the window at the fields, the odd cluster of farmhouses and occasional small church. They passed a youth camp, with little wooden huts, and a banner over the entrance reading, We were born to die for Germany. Looking out at the fat, uniform squares of corn rolling into the distance, glinting in the morning sun, Clara couldn’t help but be reminded of the shots of the Nuremberg rally, with hundreds of thousands of people ranked in the rally ground, stretching as far as the eye could see.
At one stop, a young man entered the carriage, hauled a heavy suitcase up onto the baggage rack and settled himself in a corner. In sharp contrast to the traditional costumes of the old couple, he wore a floppy cravat and a suit with a wide stripe. The savoury fragrance of the bacon rolls caused him to dab his moustache fastidiously with a handkerchief, before he extracted a newspaper and fenced himself off.
Brandt sat with his jackboots stretched out and occasionally his legs touched Clara’s. When a tunnel plunged them momentarily into darkness, he reached over and felt for her hand, only to withdraw it again when daylight flooded back.
The train clattered and groaned, and the gentle swaying on the tracks was soothing, yet Clara’s mind was churning. She was still reeling from Brandt’s revelation of the plot to oust the Führer. The coup would take place very soon, within days perhaps, and they – the plotters – wanted her involvement too, though they could not yet explain how. She was also shaken by his casual comment that she was being followed, which meant that Sabine’s warning was justified and her instincts, as she moved around Munich, had been entirely correct.
They had made their arrangements hastily, on the way to the station. Clara would go to Brandt’s Berlin apartment the following Sunday, where he would explain precisely what they wanted of her. He made her memorize his address in Clausewitzstrasse – Prussia’s greatest military strategist, appropriate in the circumstances, don’t you think? – then warned her not to utter another word, not on any subject, not even the movies. Yet though they had agreed not to talk, she continually caught Brandt’s glance on her and felt his probing eyes. Despite her anxiety about the plot, another question was running through her mind. Was he right about the instinct that had caused her to draw away from him?
If you’re not waiting for someone, then it’s only your past that’s stopping you.
Every so often the train halted at a platform long enough to see newsstands hung with bright magazines and newspapers pegged to their sides. With Hitler and Chamberlain for peace! Countrywomen were selling fruit, and tubs blazed with scarlet geraniums. Other stations they sped through too fast to catch more than a blur of faces on the platform, and in between fields unfolded, occasional lakes shimmering like silver lamé in the bright morning and great tracts of deep German forest, as mysterious and impenetrable as any fairy tale from the Brothers Grimm. Clara remembered a report about an impassioned farmer who had managed to plant silvery saplings in the shape of an enormous swastika amongst the pines on his land, so that foreigners arriving in Berlin by plane would see even the ancient woodland bearing Hitler’s mark.
Just before Berlin they passed a succession of trains full of munitions and artillery, and then an airfield, where a flock of sleek silver planes stood beside their hangars. Shortly afterwards the train began to slacken and came to an unscheduled stop. There was a banging of compartment doors and the sound of boots coming down the corridor as three men in SS uniform, followed by the train’s own guard, shouldered their way along the carriages, demanding identity documents. Immediately, a subdued tension pervaded the carriage, as everyone sat up and braced themselves for scrutiny.
A guard slammed open the compartment door with a surly announcement. ‘Identity check.’
He was a burly character, with a prominent gut and a thick, creased neck encased in olive-green uniform. He passed his eyes over the
old couple’s papers so swiftly he could barely have registered their names, then turned to Clara.
‘Your papers, Fräulein.’
Without a word, Clara handed them over, her heart hammering.
The guard looked at the photograph on Clara’s red identity document, then at her face, then at the document again. He took his time, twenty, thirty seconds, as a look of blunt puzzlement formed on his florid countenance. She reminded herself that she need not be unduly concerned. This often happened, when policemen who checked her papers happened to be film fans too. Frequently Clara would have to endure a conversation about her latest movie, as well as some gratuitous film criticism of the kind that Goebbels himself had recently banned. But normally she would see recognition dawning in the policeman’s eyes, not the bridling suspicion she detected now.
‘Can I ask where you boarded this train?’
‘Munich.’
‘And what was your business there?’
‘I was making a film.’
‘A film?’
‘At the Geiselgasteig studios. I’m an actress.’
That was superfluous. Why had she said that? It was as though she was undermining her own authenticity, inviting him to distrust her.
‘What film?’
‘It’s called Good King George.’
God forbid that they knew of Fritz Gutmann’s arrest. She wondered if Max would intercede if she was arrested.
Eventually the guard grunted and returned her papers, then turned to Brandt, who handed his own documents over with languid confidence. Noting his rank, the guard clicked his heels.
‘Thank you, Sturmbannführer Brandt.’
The young man with the cravat then furnished his documents. His sallow complexion had paled further and a line of sweat had formed on his upper lip. There was a slight, barely detectable tremble in his hand. The guard read the papers, but did not return them. His failure to find fault with Clara seemed to make him more determined.
‘You are travelling to Berlin, Herr Honigsbaum?’
‘That’s what it says on my ticket.’ The young man was trying to sound authoritative, but merely sounded arch.