Faith and Beauty

by Jane Thynne

  She was convinced that someone had entered downstairs, only to conclude that it was the wind in the distance banging the gate. Yet she always made sure to latch the gate. A few moments later, she heard it again. A faint creak. And from outside a sound like the crunch of the gravel on the drive. Her heartbeat quickened, but when she drew the curtains there was nothing there but the rain-pitted Griebnitzsee and beyond it the black emptiness of the forest.

  She lay down, regretting again that she had sought refuge so far from the city, wishing herself back in Winterfeldtstrasse in the busy heart of Berlin, with the comforting presence of millions of fellow citizens slumbering nearby. She missed everything about her old apartment. Her beloved blue and white china, her comfortable red velvet armchair with its stack of novels alongside, and her chic little mirrored bathroom. The tree-lined cobbled streets with the old-fashioned green water pump operated by its dolphin handle. Even her unlovely view of cluttered rooftops patrolled by pigeons, the pipes extending down the backs of houses and the washing cobwebbing the narrow alleys below.

  Eventually, her thoughts turned to the other issue – the issue which was crowding out every other concern in her mind. Major Grand’s request. How was it possible to gain any insight into von Ribbentrop’s mind? The idea of a casual gossipy chat, the kind she could have with Emmy Goering, was an impossibility with the Foreign Minister’s wife. Yet how else would she discover if the Nazi regime was genuinely contemplating an alliance with their old enemy?

  It was an hour before she dropped asleep and when she finally did, Leni Riefenstahl’s parting remark echoed in her mind.

  The September issue! That’s ambitious. Who knows what will be happening when September comes?

  Chapter Twelve

  If the marriage of Joseph and Magda Goebbels really was one long screaming match, then their children had inherited their tendencies, judging by their shrieks as they tore around the back garden of the Propaganda Minister’s residence. The window of Mary Harker’s room in the back wing of the Adlon Hotel had a clear view of the Goebbels’ garden, which was located on a street that had been, to the Propaganda Minister’s great irritation, freshly renamed Hermann-Goering-Strasse. As Clara waited for her friend to finish typing a dispatch, she gazed in fascination at the antics of the little blond Goebbels children. They had arrived in yearly instalments as regular as any Volkswagen production line and they were given names beginning with ‘H’ in homage to the man whom both parents loved more than each other. The eldest, Helga, in a white smocked dress, was chasing Helmut, the only boy, rumoured to be slow and a great disappointment to his father, while Hilde, a ringleted five-year-old, was pushing two-year-old Holde around the paths on a wheeled wooden horse. All the while the latest addition, Hedda, slumbered in the shade of a lime tree in a baby carriage. Of their mother there was no sign. Perhaps it was true, what everyone said about Magda Goebbels; that she was too busy engaging in an affair in bitter retribution for the way her husband had humiliated her.

  ‘See what you think of this.’

  Behind her Mary Harker sat back from her Remington, removed a sheet of paper and read aloud:

  ‘A few years ago Adolf Hitler declared war. It was war on “degenerate” art – which to him means any work in a modernist style, or colours “not found in Nature” and, most of all, any work by Jewish artists. George Grosz, with his emaciated prostitutes and bloated plutocrats, was declared cultural Bolshevik number one. To comply with the Führer’s wishes, Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels instigated the seizure of thousands of artworks from the Reich’s museums by modernists like Picasso, Dali, Léger, Miro and Van Gogh. German Jewish artists have fled; Max Beckmann to Amsterdam, Max Ernst to America, and Paul Klee to Switzerland. Others live in internal exile, forbidden to paint, or even buy paintbrushes. Some of them carry on secretly by the most ingenious of means. One of them has switched to watercolours, so his neighbours will not notice the smell of oil paint. But now the war against degenerate art has been taken to new levels.’

  ‘So what’s happened?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Mary leaned forward, ‘it’s something rather shocking. Even by the standards of the Nazis, and they do know how to shock. My editor, Frank Nussbaum, wants it on the front page. Last month a fresh stash of confiscated artwork from Austria arrived in Berlin. There’s meant to be a system. They store the art in a warehouse in Kopernikusstrasse and a dealer called Hildebrand Gurlitt has been appointed to separate the so-called “degenerate” pieces from the rest. Then they sell them, supposedly so that they can make money out of what they call garbage. But Goebbels has done something drastic. He held a symbolic bonfire.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me he burned all those artworks?’

  ‘A thousand paintings and sculptures, nearly four thousand drawings and watercolours. All burnt to ashes in the courtyard of the Berlin Fire Department.’

  ‘Just like he burned the books on Opernplatz in 1933. I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘They’re saying Goebbels did it deliberately to spite Goering because Goering was desperate to have some of those paintings for himself. I suppose it makes sense. They’re at each other’s throats all the time.’

  Clara sat in contemplation, trying to puzzle out something in her head. Slowly she said, ‘I heard something else about Goering. I don’t know if it’s significant but he’s very upset about a jewel.’

  ‘A jewel?’

  ‘You saw me talking to his wife at the Foreign Ministry, remember? Frau Goering told me he had been cheated out of this jewel and it was obsessing him.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Mary. ‘It wouldn’t be his jewellery anyway, would it? It probably belongs to some poor Jew. Everything they touch is stolen.’

  ‘So how did you discover about the bonfire?’

  ‘Hugh Lindsey discovered it. He had a contact down at the warehouse, who told him everything that had happened and Hugh told me.’

  ‘Nice of him to share a scoop like that.’

  ‘Well Hugh is nice, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.’

  ‘I have. He seems charming.’

  ‘So . . . what are you saying?’

  Mary snatched off her glasses and theatrically narrowed her eyes.

  Clara laughed. ‘I’m saying he’s charming! I think he’s very good-looking, but I’m not interested.’

  ‘Good, because I rather like him myself. There’s something about him that reminds me of Rupert.’

  Clara could see that. The humour, the laconic English drawl, the underlying implication that there was nothing in life that could not be solved by a dry sherry and a quiet chat between gentlemen. A way of talking that made the other person feel the wittiest, most amusing person in the room.

  ‘He’s such a contrast to his friend,’ said Clara. ‘Charles Cavendish is so patronizing. He’s the worst kind of Englishman. I wonder how Hugh can bear him.’

  Mary’s face lit up.

  ‘The one thing I’ve discovered about Hugh in the short time I’ve known him is that he’s utterly loyal to his friends. Even the objectionable ones.’

  Clara smiled. She dearly hoped a romance might flourish for her friend. Mary was popular with the male reporters, but too often her dry humour, quick wit and raging interest in politics ensured that she was treated as a colleague first and a woman second. Perhaps this time, Clara could do a little matchmaking of her own to help it along.

  As these thoughts went through her head, Mary was scrutinizing her with a forensic attention.

  ‘How about you, Clara? I have the feeling there’s someone in the picture. I hope it’s not that Nazi we met the other night at the Press Club.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’

  Clara had never told Mary that Leo Quinn had returned to Berlin the year before, or that their love affair had resumed. So, however much she longed to, she now could not share the anxiety that was tearing her apart.

  ‘Well if there’s no one keeping you here, you need to think about the f
uture.’

  Mary was giving Clara one of her direct looks, the kind that brooked no evasion. That quality must be what made her such a fine journalist. She never shied away from asking the important question, and she never let tact, delicacy or embarrassment hinder her pursuit of the truth.

  ‘Your two countries are on the brink of war. You don’t have journalistic protection, like me.’

  ‘I have my identity documents. I’m a member of the Reich Chamber of Culture.’

  ‘They’re pieces of paper, Clara! The Nazis never let pieces of paper get in their way. If they decide that your loyalties are divided, it will get very difficult for you. Let alone if . . .’

  Mary fell silent and raised her eyes to the light fitting. Both women knew that rooms in the Adlon allocated to foreign journalists came accessorized not just with tea-making equipment, telephones and soda siphons, but high-quality listening devices, monitored and changed as regularly as the bed linen.

  ‘Don’t say anything you wouldn’t like to see on the front page of Der Angriff.’

  Der Angriff was Goebbels’ own paper, full of the worst kind of accusations and propaganda.

  But Mary didn’t need to say any more. Her face said everything. Despite a passionate concern for her friend, she knew Clara’s existence in Berlin was not as straightforward as it seemed.

  ‘As it happens, I am thinking about the future. I’m off to Paris in a couple of days.’

  ‘Paris!’ Mary’s eyes lit up. ‘How did you swing that? What wouldn’t I do to be in La Coupole right now, drinking with Hemingway, or living at the Hotel Scribe and having cocktails at the Crillon. And the food! Foie gras sautéed with grapes. Blanquette de veau. What are you going for?’

  ‘A magazine shoot.’

  Despite her friend’s delight, Clara wondered what Mary must truly think. What would anyone think of a woman who tripped off to model the latest fashions when the only outfit on everyone’s mind was an army uniform and the colour of the season was field grey?

  Mary sighed.

  ‘Just thinking about Paris makes me want a vodka Martini. Let’s get to the bar.’

  From the tinkle of a piano to the soft patter of the famous elephant fountain and the murmur of moneyed voices, everything about the Adlon said that, despite all circumstances, it was still the social epicentre of Berlin. It was far too grand to display signs reading ‘No Jews or Dogs’, which graced less smart establishments, although a discreet placard next to the lifts announced that they were barred for non-Aryan use. Yet while superficially the Adlon was the same, there were signs that all was not well. The hotel was crowded, but that was because people thought there was no point holding on to their money. The same three-piece orchestra played in the lobby, the same women in satin evening gowns congregated for parties and the famous grill room and bar was still the central meeting point for foreign journalists mingling with diplomats, military attachés and businessmen in fur-collared coats. But now their conversations were more guarded. Everyone wanted to know what was going on but no one wanted to be the person imparting privileged information. Gossip was less likely to concern marital indiscretions than military manoeuvres. Scraps of information would be pounced on and passed around. The Adlon was one of the few places in Berlin where foreign newspapers were available, and hotel staff could be seen in the corridors leafing quickly through the papers before delivering them to guests.

  Hugh Lindsey was standing with Charles Cavendish and Bill Shirer at the bar, reading aloud from the classified advertisement section of that day’s BZ am Mittag.

  ‘Listen to this! Two vital, lusty, race-conscious Brunhildes with family trees certified back to 1700 desiring to serve their Fatherland in the form most ennobling to women, would like to meet two similarly inclined Siegfrieds. Marriage not of essential importance. Soldiers on leave also acceptable. Who said romance was dead?’

  ‘Desiring to serve their Fatherland? Does that mean what I think it means?’ asked Mary.

  ‘It certainly does. Fidelity and chastity are out of fashion, didn’t you know? And not just for race-conscious Brunhildes. The whole of the top echelon of the Party are at it. Heydrich is a regular womanizer. Rumour has it he’s established his own brothel up in the West End called Salon Kitty’s. He’s wired the place throughout so he can spy on his own men. And we all know about Goebbels, not to mention the gossip about his wife.’

  ‘One wonders how she finds the time,’ drawled Cavendish. ‘Frau Goebbels is in and out of clinics like a cuckoo from a clock.’

  Mary took the newspaper from Hugh and turned it over. It was folded into a rectangle, and the other side bore a large photograph of Lotti Franke. She gave Clara a sympathetic glance.

  ‘Still no news on your Faith and Beauty girl?’

  Clara looked, but a quick scan confirmed that nothing had changed in the investigation. The press was merely taking the opportunity to run another picture of a photogenic young woman to drive its circulation. Death had given Lotti the celebrity that life had never offered.

  ‘The way they’re reporting it, they’re treating it like a national tragedy,’ complained Charles Cavendish, loftily. Clara felt a stab of dislike. Everything about his reaction reminded her of the snobbish young men of Angela’s set, who would only talk to women as a last resort, and then only those whose fathers or brothers they knew.

  ‘Presumably it feels like that to people who knew her,’ glared Mary.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Cavendish, with a light apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry. How’s work, Clara?’

  ‘Busy, thank you. I’ve been cast in Leni Riefenstahl’s latest film.’

  He raised a laconic eyebrow.

  ‘That’s quite an honour, isn’t it? The Führer’s favourite film director. Goebbels says Leni Riefenstahl is the only woman in Germany who truly understands what the Party is about.’

  ‘I’m a woman and I have a pretty good idea of what they’re about,’ interjected Mary.

  Their talk drifted on to other subjects – the bonfire at the art warehouse, their forthcoming trip to the cabaret, the endlessly engaging rumours about the Goebbels. But as they talked, Clara’s eye was caught by a stately figure progressing along the far side of the gleaming marble lobby, beyond the palm court and its celebrated elephant fountain, towards the revolving doors.

  Erect and dignified, she seemed to glide rather than walk, and lurching in her wake were two burly men in ill-fitting dark suits, like a pair of tugs accompanying a ship in full rig. As she passed, a momentary hush descended on the matrons taking coffee and cake and the Party members quaffing cognac at the bar. The Adlon might be the epicentre of glamour in the Third Reich but it was not every day one had a close-up sight of the biggest star of German cinema, the beloved Grande Dame, Olga Chekhova.

  Everything about Chekhova emphasized her star status, from the ropes of pearls to the beautifully cut dress and mink stole, strong Slavonic face and high cheekbones. Her immaculate complexion glowed as though lit by an internal lightbulb. She had the star’s innate charisma, an invisible forcefield of energy that rippled through the space around her, causing heads to swivel magnetically and voices to hush. Impulsively Clara called out.

  ‘Olga!’

  Hearing her name the actress looked over and a flash of recognition passed between them, yet almost immediately she turned again without replying and carried on.

  Clara was stunned. Olga Chekhova had cut her dead.

  She was baffled as much as hurt. She had worked with Olga on several films and had been invited to numerous dinners at her smart Kaiserdamm apartment, hung with icons and Fabergé enamel frames and thronged with White Russian emigrés in astrakhan coats. The evenings were long and sentimental, filled with anecdotes about Olga’s Moscow childhood and fuelled by red caviar and blinis, borscht, poppy seed strudel and delicious Russian vodka. Despite her fame, Olga had always taken a keen interest in Clara’s career and treated her more like a daughter than a rival actress. So why, when it was patently obvious that
she had seen Clara just yards away, should she choose to ignore her?

  Clara had a sudden, devastating flash of intuition. It must be to do with the two business-suited men; swarthy, anonymous types whom she could not place. They didn’t look like film industry figures. They didn’t even look German. Was it possible that Olga did not want Clara to see who she was with? Although the incident had lasted a matter of seconds Clara had a sense of sinking dread. Perhaps it was true, what Emmy Goering said. That as well as being Hitler’s favourite actress and the greatest star of Third Reich cinema, Olga Chekhova, the sister of an NKVD operative, was herself a Soviet spy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The headquarters of the Ancestral Heritage Research and Teaching organization – the Ahnenerbe for short – was situated in a handsome building in one of the most upmarket areas of the city, 19 Pücklerstrasse, Dahlem, just a few doors down from Martin Bormann’s town house. Its vine-covered walls and gleaming, stained-glass windows projected a hallowed air of academic respectability, as though this centre of German heritage combined a sacred chapel and a university in one. The strongest impression, however, was that everything about the building, from its ivory sandstone façade, to the new model Cabriolet parked on the gravel drive, reeked of money. Whoever was funding Germany’s search for its own cultural identity wasn’t short of a few Reichmarks.

  Crunching across a half-moon of pristine gravel, Clara stood for a second at the door, summoning her courage, before entering and looking around the expensive wood-panelled hall. The place seemed deserted. Ranks of display cases lined the walls, filled with stone carvings and wooden figures. There was a tortoiseshell – a vibrant swirl of orange and black – a papery snakeskin and a glass-eyed fox. There were photographs of cave drawings and eerily lifelike plaster casts of human faces momentarily reminding her of visits to the Natural History Museum in London during the long school holidays of childhood. But that was where the resemblance ended. Approaching the first cabinet she saw with a shudder that it contained a selection of human skulls alongside a series of instruments that resembled callipers. On inspection she saw that they were steel measuring implements, designed to record the size of noses, cheekbones and jaws. Alongside each skull was a note about the previous owner’s racial characteristics.