Faith and Beauty

by Jane Thynne

  At that moment there was an almighty crash, the sound of splintering glass and a volley of shouts arose from across the courtyard. Furious voices called for help. The guard glanced behind him in confusion and waved them through. Leni drove the Mercedes into the courtyard and the gate clanged behind them.

  Once inside, the forbidding, mediaeval-style exterior gave way to a triangular courtyard that contained an unexpected bustle of activity. The crash they had heard was a steel ladder falling from a truck containing lighting equipment being unloaded down a ramp into one door of the castle. It appeared the ladder had narrowly avoided decapitating a camera operator. Other production staff scurried around, trailing wires and carrying megaphones. Standing arc lights, lenses and a number of aluminium boxes were being ferried into the building. Against an opposite wall, the drivers leaned, killing time with a cigarette break. A couple of SS officers in leather coats skirted the truck with unmistakable irritation at the intrusion of the film world into their private domain, but Clara was glad for these tokens of normality. Wewelsburg castle was under siege that day, and she didn’t care if the movie world laid waste to it.

  Leni parked up, adjusted the rear-view mirror, touched up her mascara and gave herself a quick dab of powder.

  ‘If this is the only time women are allowed to set foot in the castle, a girl has to be her best. I’m not looking bedraggled with the cream of SS honour guards standing around me.’

  Yet again Clara was astonished at Leni’s coquettishness. She was the greatest female director in the world, she had the ear of Hitler himself – yet still she cared about her complexion in front of a bunch of SS leadership trainees.

  Leni stowed the make-up away and grabbed her bag.

  ‘Right. The crew have had plenty of time to set up. I need you in position straight away. You’re up on the north tower. We open with a leaflet fluttering along the battlements. Its headline says Germania. The camera will pan up towards your face. You look towards the East. You are solemn, but transfixed. Your face glows with optimism for the future and faith in the Führer. And remember, you represent your country.’

  It was chilly on the battlements and needles of rain were carried on a sharp wind. Clara spent an hour gazing into the distance with Leni and a cameraman lying on a trolleyboard at her feet. Though she tried her best to summon a look of optimism for the future, the sight of an SS guard marshalling in the courtyard beneath with parade ground precision made it quite a challenge.

  After five takes Leni was satisfied and the crew began to dismantle their equipment.

  ‘It’s the wedding next.’ A sardonic grimace. ‘Irna Wolter’s special day. We don’t need you in this scene, Clara, but you’re welcome to watch.’

  Clara followed her down the stone steps.

  For a wedding, it would be hard to imagine a venue more funereal. With its spartan brick floor, exposed timbers and windowless walls, the oppressive gloom of the consecration hall was barely penetrated by the greasy light of a gas lamp hanging from a wrought-iron fitting. At the front, a wooden table was furnished with a pair of völkisch candlesticks and oak leaves, and as a gesture to the essentially joyful nature of the occasion a picture of their host, Himmler. The groom was in place already, fiddling with his belt and cap and trying valiantly to ignore the bevy of lighting men, sound men, cameramen around him, not to mention the figure of Leni Riefenstahl, crouching at knee level. He looked scarcely out of his teens, rigid with tension and bearing a bubble of blood on his cheek where he had cut himself shaving. All around him black-uniformed officers engaged in the same awkward chat that occupies any wedding party, as they await the entrance of the bride.

  Irna Wolter looked younger than her twenty years. She had procured a long white dress and had been furnished with an armful of creamy roses whose weak fragrance wavered faintly across the chilly space. Her expression was strained, as well it might be, considering the amount of preparation she had devoted to this moment in the previous six weeks. Apart from her time at Bride School, essential to gain the document of marriage consent, Irna must also have compiled a sheaf of further certificates – proof of her ancestry and physical health, of the measurement of her facial features and her blood type, not to mention medical certificates to ensure that no one in her family suffered from any mental or congenital illness. There was more paperwork in a Third Reich wedding than any amount of confetti.

  The prospect of being filmed for posterity did nothing to ease Irna’s nerves. Directly in front of her Leni had mounted a step ladder and was softly instructing the camera operator to focus on the bride’s face. As the officiating officer began his talk – a lengthy drone centring on the responsibilities of SS marriage, including at least four children and entering their names in the clan bible of the SS Sippenbuch – Irna was as pale as a ghost. Her hand visibly trembled during the exchange of silver rings engraved with runes, but she managed not to drop the gifts of bread and salt, nor the specially inscribed copy of Mein Kampf that was presented to all happy couples.

  What must Irna feel? Had she winced at the chill steel of the calliper, measuring the distance between her nose and upper lip? Had she trembled at the prospect of tainted blood or disease being detected deep in her ancestry? Did she fret at swapping one set of regulations at the Faith and Beauty Society for the fresh constraints of married life? Or was anything bearable, if it meant being with the man you loved?

  For a brief second the proceedings in front of Clara faded and it was she herself in the white dress, standing at a church altar in England somewhere with Leo beside her smiling into her eyes. The image hovered only a moment in her mind before she blinked, and brushed it away.

  Suddenly the oppressive air of the wedding chamber was more than she could bear. The tension of being in Wewelsburg was making it hard to breathe. Turning tail, she slipped softly out of the door and headed off down the corridor, trying to remember the route back to the north tower.

  It was more complicated than she had imagined. After two wrong turns she found herself in a long brick corridor studded with doors that appeared to be offices. Between them were arranged suits of armour and collections of ancestral knives and swords. The passage was narrow and badly lit and the icy walls themselves seemed to exude a sense of menace. Clara hesitated, wondering whether to turn back, when from the far end of the corridor came the crunch of boots and she hurried on, taking the next available turning and descending a flight of treacherous steps into depthless darkness.

  It was a crypt of sorts, about fifteen metres wide, and as her eyes adjusted she saw that the blackness was penetrated by spears of light lancing down through narrow apertures onto twelve seats set into the walls. Each had a wall niche set above it, and on the ceiling, a swastika extended its crooked arms. In a circular depression in the centre of the room, an eternal flame flickered, filling the air with smoke and acrid incense. She guessed at once that the twelve seats represented the twelve knights of King Arthur and the round table. A devotion to Wagner was compulsory among the Nazi élite. Hitler would stand on the balcony of the Berghof with the prelude to Parsifal playing on his gramophone. Goering had concocted his own Wagnerian fantasy in the shape of his hunting lodge Carinhall and even Goebbels claimed to love the composer and devotedly attended the annual Bayreuth festival. Himmler – intent on surrounding himself with a band of racially pure blood brothers – had chosen Wagner’s Camelot as his personal obsession, but the future occupants of these seats would be no knights in shining armour.

  The blood pumping in her ears, Clara felt the air around her contract. She remembered the feeling she had at the Faith and Beauty house of a rapt devotion, a sense of belonging in the women to something greater than themselves. The same claustrophobic feeling existed in this crypt, savage and almost tangible, inspiring a terror as real as if she had plunged down a lift shaft with no chance of escape.

  Scanning the crypt, she detected at the opposite side a gap in the wall. It led to a spiral staircase of damp stone and she laboure
d blindly up countless winding steps until she felt the first breath of fresh air on her face and saw a glimmer of daylight ahead. By her calculation she was close to the battlements once more, but as she reached the top she was distracted by the sound of voices and stopped in her tracks.

  Leni Riefenstahl was standing with the falconer they had seen on their arrival. The hawk was hooded now, with a bell tied to its leg, and the falconer was running his finger down the bird’s glinting plumage, tenderly stroking the feathers of its neck, as Leni engaged in a lively argument with two men. The men had their backs to Clara, but even from behind, the shaved skull, wide breeches and black cap of the nearest man would be unmistakable to any citizen of the Reich.

  SS-Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

  Clara shrank back against the wall of the staircase as their conversation carried on the wind.

  ‘I thought you understood, Fräulein Riefenstahl. Animals are prohibited in Reich film making. Surely you of all people should know that?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that birds were covered by that edict,’ said Leni, with a sweetly furious smile.

  ‘Of course, birds. I, of all people, understand the intelligence of birds. I ran a chicken farm for years. No German under my command will mistreat animals or birds or inflict any unnecessary suffering. I hope I can ensure that you will abide by these restrictions for the remainder of your stay.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Herr Reichsführer.’

  Gesturing to the man beside him, Himmler turned on his heel.

  Clara found Leni cursing softly.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I had a beautiful shot lined up with that hawk. It was to be the final image of the entire film. The brooding ancient walls, the sheer perfection of the lines of young men, then I pull focus to find a single hawk climbing upwards, eastwards, until it disappears into a rent in the clouds. The hawk symbolizes ambition, the future, the eternal quest of the Reich. But Himmler, of course, disapproves. He understands nothing about art. He says filming his damn hawk constitutes illegal exploitation of animals.’

  ‘Who was that man with him?’

  ‘Oh, his masseur.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘I know. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?’

  More than hard, the image of a prone Himmler, relaxing for a tender muscle rub, was inconceivable.

  ‘Himmler was unbearable because he was in constant pain and no one could help him. His staff were beside themselves, until eventually someone discovered this man, Felix Kersten, who had studied Tibetan skills under a Llama. Himmler was persuaded to try it and fortunately for Herr Kersten, the treatment actually worked. Himmler was an instant convert, but the thing is, Kersten has to stay a big secret. That’s why Himmler meets him here. He does everything he can to keep Kersten out of sight.’

  ‘Is he embarrassed?’

  ‘Are you joking? Nothing could embarrass Himmler. No, he’s terrified that Heydrich will find out and get hold of his medical details.’

  ‘But Heydrich is his own deputy.’

  ‘That means nothing. In Heydrich’s mind, information is power. He has a locked safe that he refers to as his “poison cabinet” where he keeps all his files on the senior men.’

  Looking at Clara’s face Leni laughed, and added, ‘Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But the fact is, all the top men are at each other’s throats. Their true war is with each other. Goering hates Goebbels far more than he could possibly hate Poland, and you know how much Goebbels despises Himmler. Himmler is rivals with all of them. I never told you why I chose you for this part, did I?’

  ‘You said I had the right face.’

  ‘Of course, darling.’ A smile of malicious pleasure. ‘But I could have chosen any number of actresses. It’s not a difficult part, after all. No, the real reason I chose you was not to annoy Goebbels but Himmler.’

  The wind was battering their words away, so there was no danger of being overheard, but all the same Clara lowered her voice.

  ‘Why on earth would choosing me annoy Himmler?’

  Leni chuckled like a girl revealing a conjuring trick. ‘Oh, he was terribly interested in you. I’ve overheard him asking about you and I was curious because Himmler doesn’t go for actresses as you know. That’s Goebbels’ speciality. And despite all his windbaggery about Wagner, Himmler doesn’t really have a cultural bone in his body. I despise him actually.’

  Clara looked down the battlements to the field below, where the hawk was swooping again, its pewter plumage gilded in the sun. It rose high, then dropped like an arrow onto its prey.

  ‘But . . . you said it would annoy him if I had the part?’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  ‘Why? What was he saying, when you overheard him?’

  ‘Just enquiring about the rumours.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  A moment of pity softened Leni’s sardonic features. As if explaining to a child, she said, ‘That you were in some way non-Aryan.’

  Clara was frozen with shock. It explained everything. Magda’s remark. Someone has been saying some very unkind things about you.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. There’s nothing new about it. They’re always discovering that someone might have Jewish roots. Goebbels set up that rumour about me, only he reckoned without my blessed Führer. He made his photographer, Hoffmann, take a photoshoot of Goebbels and me walking together in my garden to scotch the rumours.’ Leni’s face brightened at the memory. ‘Anyway, the fact is I can’t stand Himmler or his wretched Ahnenerbe, so choosing you was ideal. It’s mischievous of me really, but I thought what a laugh it would be to cast Clara Vine as the symbol of Germany. Himmler couldn’t object because the Führer has given me absolutely free rein, and besides . . .’

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘They have nothing on you, do they? They must have gone over your background with a fine toothcomb. If there was a drop of Jewish blood in you it would have leaked out by now.’

  Tension was holding Clara’s limbs together like steel cords, tighter than the most expert masseur could relax.

  ‘When you overheard him discussing me, who was he talking to?’

  ‘It was at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. I try to keep away from that place, but I was called in a while ago so that Himmler could discuss this film with me. We were in Heydrich’s office and Himmler and Heydrich were talking together and there was someone else there – that Obersturmbannführer, Conrad Adler.’

  ‘Adler?’

  ‘D’you know him? Frightfully good-looking, but a bit of a mystery. I can’t get on with him, to tell the truth, though they say he’s a loyal member of the Party and he’s worked for the Foreign Ministry for years.’

  ‘He’s at the Propaganda Ministry now.’

  ‘With Goebbels? No. Adler’s been seconded to Heydrich. That’s why he was there. He’s working on some special project. I’ve got no idea what it is, but it’s terrifically hush-hush. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it.’

  Two hours later they had loaded up the trucks and Leni’s Mercedes was making its way down the cobbled road out of Wewelsburg. The effort of trying to appear normal as she processed Leni’s revelation was almost beyond Clara. Conrad Adler, the man who had approached her, who had asked such tender questions about her childhood, had taken her riding and propositioned her, was an acolyte of the head of the SD security service. Reinhard Heydrich, with his long equine face and hair shaved a savage three inches above his ears, was a sadist, pure and simple. Clara racked her brain to recall what Adler had specifically told her about his secondment and realized that, in fact, she had simply assumed he was working for Goebbels. I’m on loan. Like a painting in a museum. But if Adler was working for Heydrich, what was his interest in her?

  The drive back would be long, but Leni was in high good humour. She leant her arm out of the window, trailing a thin scarf of cigarette smoke in her wake.

  ‘I’ve just had a message from the Führer.
He’s told me that Albert Speer is to set aside thirty thousand square yards in the new capital for the Riefenstahl Studios. All funded by the state! He’s going to announce it next week. In fact . . .’

  She glanced across, beaming.

  ‘He’s invited me to a film evening at the Chancellery. I have to go, so you might as well come with me. I’ll put your name on the guest list. It’s next week. Brace yourself though. Goebbels may well be there, along with that ghastly wife of his. But the event will be useful. While we’re there I can think about how to shoot the Führer.’

  Clara gave a start and Leni looked at her curiously.

  ‘On film, of course.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Berlin was alive with rumours. The British Prime Minister had resigned. The Poles were about to attack. An illegal radio network called the Freedom Station had emerged, moving its transmitter around Berlin to avoid detection. An atmosphere of nervous anticipation stalked the city like a living thing. The proximity of war made every goodbye more intimate, every kiss more intense, every friendship more important. At tram stops, in the bread queues and amid the momentary knots of customers that coalesced round coffee stalls, conversation flowed between strangers. Rumours rose and faded like echoes of sound through static. Yet while the talk was of foreboding, there was also excitement in the air. It eddied down the quiet residential streets of Schöneberg, rippled through the smart boulevards of Wilmersdorf and Charlottenburg, swirled round the dank tenements of Moabit and Wedding and Prenzlauer Berg. People felt part of something, even if it was not something they desired.

  At times over the preceding days Clara had felt as though Thursday would never come, but at last it dawned, heavy, the sky stippled with cloud. She had invented an appointment at the Charité hospital to escape her filming commitments for a few hours and even thrown in the name of her former neighbour, Doktor Engel, for good measure. By ten to one she was standing on Budapester Strasse outside the outlandish, spectacular Elephant Gate of Berlin Zoo. The gate, with its green turrets, red and gold arch and kneeling sandstone elephants, could not be more of a contrast to the sombre street architecture around it. It stood freakishly proud, a splash of oriental colour that jarred against the orderly greys and browns. It suggested that merely by entering, citizens could escape the gloom of Berlin for a more joyful, exotic world.