Groups of three are tricky. As Freya’s neighbor, Ruth was by rights a closer friend—Klara had only been around since elementary school. But recently the dynamic had changed. Freya’s father was an official in the Nazi Party. And Ruth’s family were Jewish. A rift had grown between the neighbors, which Klara secretly welcomed.
The bickering stopped with the unexpected return of Freya’s brother, Matthias. Eclipsing the sun, he stood over them, his huge backpack weighed down by a tent. Freya and Klara leapt up.
“Matti!” Freya squealed. She tackled him with a hug. Klara beamed at him. He was taller and broader than the last time she’d seen him.
Ruth became quiet.
He shrugged off his pack, which landed with a thud and a clank; then he opened his water canteen and took a swig. Klara watched as a rivulet of water escaped his mouth and splashed onto the collar of his uniform. At fourteen, Matthias existed in the heady stratosphere of teenage adventure, having spent a month with his Hitler Youth troop in Austria.
Matthias’s eyes flickered over Ruth. “What are you doing here?” He spat on the ground next to her.
“Don’t be mean, Matti,” Freya said weakly.
Ruth flushed a deep crimson.
They all sat down again. Matthias moved deliberately away from Ruth and stretched out on the grass next to Klara, who smirked without thinking, eager for the older boy’s attention.
Three blond heads against one dark one.
When Klara finally met her friend’s gaze, it was betrayal that registered on Ruth’s face. Her trusting eyes, her steady friendship stamped on, tossed aside for one moment of approval from Matthias, pumped up and peacocking in his uniform.
Freya’s mother called out to them. She was crossing the lawn carrying a tray.
“I should go home,” said Ruth.
* * *
—
Clara heard voices again. She was still in Freya’s yard and the voices were calling out to her in German, but they were muffled, or under water. A door banged. It jolted her awake. As she came to, she realized she was still in the vault.
“Klara, Klara?” Finally she recognized Max’s voice in the corridor.
She responded—a hoarse, unintelligible cry. But would he hear her through the doors? “Max! I’m in here. Vault five.” But he didn’t have the combination. She started to rattle it off. “Fifty-five, twelve, five, fourteen.” Or was it five, fifteen? The numbers swam before her eyes.
Suddenly the vault door burst open. There was Max and Miss Simkin. “Clara!” Their shocked faces reflected the state she was in, tied up, tear-stained, and bloody. In the distance the whine of sirens grew louder.
* * *
—
That night, after Clara’s head wound had been patched up by the studio doctor, after the police had gone over her story, after she’d been driven home in a police car with Max as chaperone—Clara lay in bed, groggy and aching, unable to close her eyes.
Around ten p.m. the doorbell rang. Clara could hear agitated voices. Moments later her mother showed Gil into her bedroom. Her face was severe and disapproving. “He wouldn’t leave until he saw you,” she said in German. Then she turned to Gil and switched to English, “Five minutes.”
Clara assumed she was dreaming when she saw him standing there in her room, incongruous against the flower wallpaper, as if he were on the process stage and the wrong background was being projected.
He came over and knelt down by her bedside, took her hand, and placed it against his cheek. “Clara—I can’t believe—” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“You’re cold,” said Clara.
He gave a soft laugh. “After the cops let me go, I drove like a bat out of hell across town. I had to see you.”
Gil told her Brackett had been apprehended. The detectives figured a more seasoned criminal wouldn’t have hung around, but Roger’s vanity—his Achilles’ heel—had kept him tethered. His white Packard was spotted outside a dry cleaner’s on Vine just before closing. Apparently he’d needed newly laundered suits for his getaway. Not one for brave acts or daring, he had given himself up almost immediately when the police had surrounded the building—some kind of Western shoot-out wasn’t his style.
Gil leaned close. “I’m glad you’re okay, Clara.” He kissed her softly. In the background Clara’s mother hovered at the bedroom door, arms folded. Gil took the hint and was unceremoniously ushered away. Clara could hear her mother in clipped English telling him that her daughter needed rest, not updates on the case.
Later that night as Clara skirted the edge of sleep, thoughts of the past—things forgotten, long since put away—drifted into close-up: images, moments, like frames of film retrieved from a dusty vault and held up to the light. Her collection of Russian dolls on the mantelpiece of her bedroom in Berlin; the pattern of cracks on the pavement outside their apartment; the smell of lilacs, thick with blossoms, nodding to her by Freya’s front gate. Inevitably she returned to that day in September ’38 in Freya’s backyard.
After Ruth left, the others devoured Frau Thome’s baking. Matthias’s reservations about civilian life were forgotten as he helped himself to a slice of his mother’s Baumkuchen. The girls constructed new flower crowns as Matthias regaled them with tales of camping in forests and hiking over streams. Captivated, Klara listened to him talk passionately about Heimat und Volk—Austria and Germany coming together into one big Vaterland. As he described his Alpine adventures, she let herself imagine.
Next year it would be her turn.
Klara’s parents hadn’t permitted her to join Hitler Youth, the Bund Deutscher Mädel, or BDM for short. You’re too young, end of discussion. Her parents’ reaction had seemed irrational. Who could object to fresh air and rambling, outdoor sports and sing-alongs? Klara wouldn’t connect the dots until later. Until the crossing to America.
Freya’s mother, on the other hand, had signed her daughter up the day she’d turned ten—a source of bitter envy on Klara’s part. Klara would linger by the noticeboards at school, staring at the poster of a smiling girl with braids: Auch du gehörst dem Führer. “You, too, belong to the Führer.” And another one: Girl, come. You, too, are part of us. How often she had gazed at these idols, these BDM girls, and thought, One day. After many arguments and bouts of sulking, her parents had finally relented and a compromise had been reached. The following year she would be allowed to join the BDM. Of course it was a false promise on her parents’ part—the Bergs would leave Germany at the end of October ’38—never to return. But this was only September, and Klara was unaware of what was to come.
Freya upended a bag of tent pegs.
“Leave that,” said Matthias. “It took me ages to pack everything properly.”
Klara prodded the canvas tent. “Let’s put it up.”
Matthias closed his eyes and groaned theatrically. Enthusiasm spent, he was now lying on the grass, his head propped up against his kit bag. “Now? I just got back.”
His show of reluctance didn’t last long, and for the rest of the afternoon, under the shade of the copper beech, the Thomes’ lawn became an outpost for Hitlerjugend troop 173.
The unraveled canvas smelled of sweaty gym class and grass clippings. Klara got a burn on the palm of her right hand pulling the guy rope taut. She didn’t care. Watching Matthias strike the wooden stakes sent a thrill through her with each blow. His arms and neck were bronzed a shade darker than the tan of his uniform, his flaxen hair almost white in the sunlight. He seemed older. When he caught her staring at him, she volunteered a question about knot-tying—her blush disguised by the hard work of setting up camp.
They lounged inside the tent, which was stuffy and dim, with just a chink of sunlight slicing through the tent flap. They drank tart lemonade topped with raspberries, which exploded on Klara’s tongue. She could taste the following year—1939—picturing Freya a
nd herself side by side in the regulation white blouses, blue skirts, and neckerchiefs. Like sisters, arm in arm.
With the cake finished, Freya headed for the kitchen in search of second helpings. It was hot in the tent, but Matthias and Klara didn’t decamp. Flashes of sunlight glanced off Matthias’s hair. He tugged at the leather toggle to loosen his neckerchief. Lying on his side, head propped up on a hand, he looked directly at Klara as though seeing her for the first time—not as Freya’s friend and a fixture around their house but as a girl. She held his gaze, the air thick and still between them. His Hitler Youth pin glinted in a sunbeam, a small black swastika on a red diamond—as bright and benign as a ladybird. He removed her flower crown and set it down. “You don’t need this.” He caressed her blond hair lightly. “This is your crown.” Without warning he leaned forward and kissed her. Swift, firm, deliberate. There was a formal quality to the kiss, as though it were a handshake or a wave—a social obligation. When he drew back, Klara stared at him, unable to find anything appropriate to say—this had never happened to her before. But beneath her shock was delight. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep a grin from escaping. Freya returned with a plate of cookies. The tent was abandoned; they spread out on the lawn.
In years to come the distinctive smell of canvas and trapped summer would transport her back to this afternoon. Every summer would be daisy-chained to this one. In 1943 a camping trip with high school friends to Santa Barbara would catapult her back to the Thomes’ backyard and to Matthias, his image (to her eleven-year-old eyes) the epitome of male beauty. Over time she recut the memory, and the episode with Ruth was left on the cutting room floor of her mind. Eventually Ruth’s presence that day faded completely; it was just her and Freya bickering, the looming cloud of going back to school the source of their irritation. She recalled Matthias’s return and the tent and of course the kiss. Walking home in the fading light, the feeling of fulfillment, on the cusp of arrival. Was this what growing up felt like? In less than two months the Bergs would leave Germany for good.
Once, they had been three. A friendship drama for the playground, the inevitable follies of immaturity and jealousy, ended up playing out along Nazi Party lines.
Klara would never see Ruth again. When school started up, Ruth wasn’t there. Her family had moved without saying goodbye. It wasn’t until years later that Clara found out the truth.
News began to trickle out after the Allied invasion, and in March 1945 a letter from Berlin arrived. It was from their old neighbor, Frau Krupke, the woman who had packed up their apartment—it was an account, the dreadful tally, of what had become of friends and neighbors. She revealed on page three that the Hoffmans had been taken to Auschwitz and all of them had perished.
* * *
—
It was late, after midnight, and Clara lay in bed, exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t stop churning. Hours earlier she had stood in the dark waiting to die. Thoughts and images had surfaced, imagining Ruth in a concentration camp, standing in the dark waiting for the gas, and all the horrors that Clara had heard of, the crematoriums, the smoke stacks, the burning bodies; stories of scavenging for gold and silver fillings from the ashes. Silver recovery.
Finally Clara began to drift off to sleep. She could feel the pitch and lurch of a ship beneath her—and yet she wasn’t on a ship, she was in her bedroom in Berlin, she could see her set of Russian dolls on the mantelpiece. She opened the dolls, one by one. Each wooden nesting doll appeared to be a different version of herself. When she reached the smallest one—the tiny doll that didn’t open—she discovered it was painted in shiny red and black, emblazoned with the crooked cross of the swastika. Her own dark little Nazi heart.
The dream skipped ahead. Freya, Ruth, and Klara walking to school arm in arm. She could hear a phrase repeated, over and over, as though she were pressing the foot treadle on a Moviola—rewind and play, rewind and play—to find the edit point. It was Detective Rivetti leering at her. Three’s a crowd, three’s a crowd.
Chapter Forty
The Pool
DETECTIVE IRELAND CAME TO the cutting room, unannounced, a few weeks after Roger’s arrest. It was June and the days were getting hotter, the evenings longer. Just shy of six p.m. and Clara still had the blinds down to cut the glare.
“Mrs. Milligan wanted you to have this.” Ireland put a package in brown paper on her desk. “She’s packing up to go back to San Bernardino with the little one.”
Clara took it. “What is it, a book or something?”
He gave a small shrug. “You’ll see.” The detective looked out of place standing in the cutting room, hat in hand. “How’s that head?” he said. “You took quite a knock. Right as rain now?”
Clara smiled. “Yes, right as rain.”
The detective edged toward the door. “I won’t keep you. Movie magic is busy work.”
In truth, she wasn’t busy, now that the shoot was done and Sam’s assembly of the footage was almost finished. He had already left for the day, and Clara was done typing up the list of additional dialogue to be recorded for the final sound mix. Sam had given her a second chance, and she wasn’t going to mess up again.
Ireland paused at the door. “You were right on the money, Clara. Good copper instinct.”
“Thanks, Detective,” she called after him, but he was already gone.
Clara unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a notebook with a green speckled cover and gold print numbers on the front: 1938. Seeing that date sent a jolt of electricity through her.
Connie had started off strong in January of that year, diligently recording everyday life—a shorthand test, a new skirt, a date at the soda fountain. By the end of February the entries had petered out, only to start up again in December, when she got hired to work for Mr. Pearce in Palm Springs. What girl wouldn’t want to document every moment—being away from home for the first time, in a winter resort town for Hollywood stars? She had turned seventeen in the fall—the date in late September was circled. In rummaging through her bedroom for clues, the police would have dismissed an out-of-date diary. A teenage girl’s ramblings could have no significance—boys and bobby sox. But in these pages, in round blue handwriting, the truth was written.
Mr. Brackett and the German lady spent the afternoon pretending to write their script. She prefers doing laps in the pool.
Clara imagined Connie watching them greedily through those huge glass windows, concealed by the bright reflection of the pool.
Mrs. Irvine says the German lady is Hitler’s girlfriend. Nonsense—I think she’s been at the sherry. What woman would take a second look at that ugly severe-looking fellow. He’s always shouting. The German lady only has eyes for the screenwriter.
Connie had helped Mrs. Irvine prepare for a party in honor of the “German actress.” Connie was asked to serve drinks. Her eyes nearly fell out of her head when Mrs. Irvine told her how much a case of champagne cost. There was a different receptacle for each kind of food and drink. She didn’t envy Mrs. Irvine cleaning up after—all those dishes. Connie was soaking up every detail, storing it, hoarding it. Nothing would go unnoticed because she coveted this glamorous world. It was what Clara had done at the studio; nothing was casual or ignored.
That same evening of the party, in one of the guest bedrooms, piles of fur coats lay across the bed. When no one was watching, she stole to the room and lay down on the sea of fur, soft against her cheek, the hint of perfume on a sleeve. Outside, a bright moon cast shadows of palm trees across the surface of the swimming pool, it lay as still as a photograph.
As Clara turned the pages of the diary, a couple of photographs slid out. The first snapshot must have been taken at the Palm Springs Racquet Club. Clara recognized the blue and white umbrellas. Seventeen-year-old Connie Milligan was sitting on the diving board posing like a starlet, in a two-piece bathing suit. The bottoms had a little skirt that flared ou
t. The other picture—a desert shot—made Clara’s heart stop for a beat. Connie, her eyes caught in a blink, was holding a slate up to the camera. ‘Camera test: SP3191.’ She must have visited the shoot, Clara thought to herself. That’s how she had found the production number—she had it all this time. Perhaps after reading the Nazi Pin-up article she turned to her diary of that winter in Palm Springs. She found the snapshot and scrawled the number on the cover of her script.
The diary for 1938 included the first week of January ’39. Wednesday the fourth was her last day working for Mr. Pearce. He had taken off that morning to go back to Los Angeles. Connie was to type up the last correspondence, which Mrs. Irvine would post. Mr. Brackett and the “German actress” planned to have a last game of tennis at the Racquet Club—they would drive back to Los Angeles from the club. In the background Mrs. Irvine was cleaning the rooms noisily—according to the housekeeper, Mr. Brackett was always the last to leave, the kind of guest who just wouldn’t take a hint. Leaving after Mr. Pearce, the impertinence.
As she read the pages of the diary, Clara could feel every moment as though she had lived it, as though she herself had sat by the glass walls of Pearce’s desert house, licking stamps and gazing out at that perfect turquoise pool….
* * *
—
Connie finished typing the last letter; then her eyes drifted automatically to the window. She had been tempted by that pool since her first day at the house. For her last day, she wore her bathing suit under her dress, and the skirt kept bunching up in an uncomfortable way when she sat down. When should she ask for permission? She couldn’t find quite the right moment. The rush of Mr. Pearce’s departure, Mr. Brackett lollygagging, Mrs. Irvine in a tizzy about some new curtains she had to order.
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