Black Roses (12 page)

“We are on the threshold of an era of strong men. Women must not struggle for the place of men, but fulfil their own important destiny. That is why the professions of the law, government and the military have been closed to women. No one is saying that a German woman may not work, but when it is a case of choosing between marriage and a career, the German woman will always choose marriage.”

Leo looked at the toasters and electric food mixers in the shop window beside him. It was bad news to be female right now. Alfred Rosenberg, the mad head of the Foreign Affairs Bureau, whom the Nazis held up as some kind of philosopher guru, had even suggested women should go back to the spinning wheel and the loom. Leo thought of the girls you would see in the Tiergarten. Those groups of Bund Deutscher Mädel marching past with their rosy cheeks and shining faces. Drawing admiring glances for all the wrong reasons in their gym vests and navy shorts. The government said these girls were happy to be serving the state, absorbed in one great endeavour. But what did they really think? How would you ever find out? It was not as though women were writing in the newspapers, or performing sketches in cabarets. Only the female élite, the Frau Goebbels of this world, were allowed to broadcast. And perhaps even she held very different views in private, if you could ever get to hear them.

He thrust his cigarette away and carried on in the sooty darkness. It would be useful to know what those Nazi women thought. It could tell you a lot about the cohesiveness of the top brass. Behind every powerful man was a wife, after all, who heard things he would tell no other living soul. They may be Lady Macbeths, or Caesar’s wives. They may urge caution, or goad their men on. But how would you ever get to the wives? There, Leo had to admit, he was stumped. It was not as though he knew much about women at the best of times.

The girls’ faces were painted in livid white, and elaborate silver wigs were piled in looping curls on their heads. Their bosoms swelled like fresh dough from their tightly stitched bodices and they wore pale yellow crinolines frothing with lace. They had tangles of pearl necklaces, dainty eighteenth-century satin slippers on their feet, and cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Either they couldn’t read, Clara thought, which was just about possible given the silliness of their laughs, or they were so far in character they assumed that the notice behind them on the Babelsberg lot which said
Rauchen Verboten
simply couldn’t apply to them.

There were numerous historical films being made just then. Light hearted films about Italian heiresses, aristocrats in danger, Bohemian kings who had been denied their crowns or, as in this case, candyfloss comedies about the lives of Louis XIV. Sweet, syrupy confections that rotted your brain instead of your teeth. They were popular, upbeat and instantly forgettable.

Perhaps people preferred to focus on the past rather than the realities of the present, Clara reflected, as she passed through the lobby and made her way to Albert Lindemann’s office. Perhaps those French costumes were the truest kind of Nazi fashion, because they were expressly designed to take your mind off what was really going on.

Still, she didn’t need to think about that now. Not after the good news.

Albert had called the previous evening, as she was sitting in Frau Lehmann’s front room after another dreary dinner with the other lodgers. Her fellow guests were Professor Hahn, who taught at the university and sported a bow tie and a monocle, and Fräulein Viktor, who had wide, rabbity teeth and staring eyes, and spent her evenings knitting. Professor Hahn in particular had welcomed the arrival of another lodger, and used the opportunity to practise the English he had learnt on a visit to Bournemouth in his youth. He had fallen into the habit of bringing home English newspapers from the university, in the mistaken belief that Clara might be homesick. Nonetheless she took one eagerly that evening, because flipping through reports about the financial crisis in America or a review of
42nd Street
, was a foolproof way to forestall further conversation.

She had told no one about Frau Goebbels’ extraordinary suggestion. There was no one to tell, really, except Frau Lehmann, who was already regarding her with more circumspection than before. Modelling! Let alone modelling for the National Socialists. Yet, without any other work, how else was she going to pay the bills? And she was astute enough to see that refusing would be awkward. The invitation was at the behest of Goebbels himself, who was now in control of Babelsberg. Turning down his request might mean giving up any chance to act in the studio’s films. And she couldn’t go back to London. Not yet. She simply couldn’t face it.

Just then, as she worried away at the problem while the professor tried and failed to engage her in conversation, had come Albert’s call with the promise of a part.

Clara took the call in the hall, well aware that Frau Lehmann would listen in as much as she could. As soon as she realized that she might have some work, she raced up to her room with a light heart. At last! With the prospect of a part and a salary there would be no need to go slinking back to London. Even better, she would be too busy to model dirndls for Frau Goebbels.

From Albert’s office, high above the great hall, it was possible to look right down into the set of the eighteenth century French film as it was shot. Cameras slid backwards as they followed a couple strolling through a painstakingly realized interior, complete with lovingly crafted Louis XIV furniture. A director in shirtsleeves kept bounding onto the set and asking them to repeat the scene. Clara couldn’t tear her eyes away. What must it be like to stand before those painted flats, with the clapper board in front of your face, and walk convincingly through a make-believe world of cardboard walls and forests with fake branches? To appear entirely unaware of the great glass eye that tracked your every gesture?

Albert had his feet up on the desk with one thumb hooked into his braces and in the other hand a cigar, like the movie tycoon he obviously hoped to be.

‘I think we might just have found a part for you,’ he announced, airily. ‘A new film directed by Gerhard Lamprecht. He recently made
Emil and the Detectives
, which, as you know, was a fabulous success. He’s very highly regarded.’

‘He does know I haven’t been screen-tested yet?’ she asked anxiously.

Albert waved his hand. ‘He’ll arrange that. He’s editing at the studio on Cicerostrasse right now, but he’s due back at Babelsberg next week. He’ll give you an audition.’

‘And he realizes I’ve never been on a film set before?’

‘My dear, don’t worry. A lot of people aren’t going to survive with the talkies. It’s no good having the face of an angel if you have the accent of a barmaid. Your voice, I’m sure, will melt hearts.’

‘So what’s the film?’

‘It’s a spy story.
Ein gewisser Herr Gran
–
A Certain Mr Gran,
in the English version. He’s got Hans Albers and Olga Chekhova. It’s set in Venice. Hans plays a special agent who needs to save some military secrets from the enemy.’

‘A spy story! So what would my part be?’

‘You would play Alicia, the daughter of the hotel owner. In the German version they have Karin Hardt, so you’d double up for her. Herr Lamprecht would like you to come for a read-through. If you come here on Monday I can introduce you. How does that sound?’

She could have kissed him.

‘Albert, it sounds wonderful. I’d love to! How clever of you to arrange it for me.’

‘It was nothing.’

He stood up and together they gazed down at the monumental great hall spread out beneath them.

‘It certainly looks busy.’

‘It is. Things were quiet for a while, until people worked out what this government wants, and now it’s picking up again.’

‘So they know what the government wants?’

‘Let’s just say the Doktor has not been slow to acquaint us with his thoughts.’

He clapped a clumsy hand on her shoulder.

‘Still, I’m glad we’ve got you fixed up. It’s a small part to start with but you could go far.’

‘And how about Helga? Do you think Herr Lamprecht could offer something to her?’

‘Don’t worry about Helga. There will be plenty of parts for her.’

There was something in his expression, a wariness perhaps, that Clara couldn’t read.

Either that, or she chose not to see it.

With a curse, Mary Harker, special correspondent to the
New York Evening Post
, slammed the phone down on her editor with a furious clatter. Or in her dreams she did. In reality, she replaced the receiver and stared crossly out of the newspaper office’s fifth floor window, which looked directly onto Unter den Linden. Way below there was a military march – another one – drilling its way down the street, giving the players foot-ache and the listeners earache. She scowled as she replayed the editor’s infuriating instructions in her mind.

‘It’s about that Hitler interview, Mary. I’m taking you off it and putting Tom onto it. I’ve got other plans for you. I’d like you to focus on how life is for ordinary people. Women and kids, you know. We’d like to see what the Third Reich means for them right now.’

‘Ordinary people?’ She strove hard to keep her tone level. ‘With respect Frank, anyone could do that. I’m not some rookie reporter. I should be interviewing Hitler and Goering at a time like this, not filing fluffy colour pieces on what the Berlin hausfraus are baking in the new Reich.’

‘I don’t want fluffy colour, as you call it, Mary. And believe me I know you’re not a rookie. I want the best you can give me. We already decided Tom should cover the interview with the Chancellor, and I can see you’re feeling sore, but given that Herr Hitler says the Reich’s going to last a thousand years, I’m sure there’ll be plenty more chances.’

‘Damn it, Frank, Dorothy Thompson interviewed him last year!’ said Mary, hating the whine that had entered her voice, but too annoyed to do anything about it.

‘Mary, I’m not doubting your prowess. I’m just saying that Tom is the man for this. Besides, from what I hear, things are going to get tougher for women under our pal Hitler. There’s a rumour he’s about to ban married women from holding jobs. Restrict female university students to ten per cent of the total. Hell, from what he’s said, he doesn’t even believe in the vote. That’s a pretty important area, wouldn’t you say?’

Mary sighed. Even from a thousand miles away, she could picture him in his eyeshade and braces and scarlet spotted bow-tie, giving her that quizzical look that said he knew best. Frank Nussbaum was a great guy. Mary had met him back in New York and he had been personally responsible for getting her hired when she came out here and applied for work as a stringer in the bureau. After six months he had ensured she was taken on full time. She owed Frank more than she could say, but sometimes he was so obdurate she could scream.

It had not been easy negotiating the break from her New Jersey home to come out here. She was the only daughter of elderly parents, who regarded a visit to New York as foreign travel and whose lives revolved around their country club and their bridge nights. Her mother had taken to demanding grandchildren like a kid demanding a puppy. But that wasn’t going to happen in a hurry, or ever, as far as Mary was concerned. She felt about as enthusiastic about staying in New Jersey as a medieval nun would feel about being bricked up in the walls of an abbey. She had experienced a twinge of guilt as the liner sailed from New York harbour, but by the time they passed the Statue of Liberty she was over it.

Europe was glorious. Everything was dirt cheap and you could travel around third class for nothing. Everywhere was swarming with Americans, painting and writing and editing literary magazines. A lot of them headed for Paris, where the franc was depressed and life was great, but Mary preferred Berlin. Here people seemed to like Americans, perhaps because they weren’t tangled up in any of these European affairs, or perhaps because the dollar was strong. Everywhere there were flags flying, brass bands playing, flowers tumbling from the window-boxes, smiles on faces and food in the shops.

There was plenty of work too. Newspapers and magazines and wire services like AP and the United Press were all offering work to freelancers or people who were prepared to take short-term contracts. Then Frank had taken her on full time for a hundred dollars a month and she found a lovely apartment near Nollendorfplatz in Schöneberg, which was one of the liveliest areas in town, full of bars and late night jazz joints. She got by in German with the help of a tutor and a dogged determination to practise on everyone she met. It was a further relief when her mother back in New Jersey began to concentrate all her attention on her daughter-in-law, who had furnished her with a grandchild in a way that her own daughter seemed incapable of.

The first cracks had come last month, soon after the Nazis had secured power. It was a little thing. Mary was locking up one night when Lotte Klein, the woman who kept supplies of typewriter ribbons and carbon paper, typed letters and generally managed the office, took her aside. Lotte Klein was a mousy young woman in her twenties, whose sober navy suit and spectacles put a good couple of decades on her.

‘I noticed, Fräulein Harker, when the delivery man came the other day you made a joke to him about the German newspapers.’

It was true. Rudi Koch, who brought up a stack of papers to the bureau each morning, was a friendly old guy, whose eyes always lit up when he saw Mary. They frequently joked about the contents of the press. There were two hundred newspapers in Germany and nowadays they divided into two camps – those that supported the Nazis and those that opposed them. You made your choice there, but there was no choice when it came to journalistic standards. Party newspapers like the
Völkischer Beobachter
thought nothing of printing news that was weeks old, or running the same piece twice. The efforts of the
Angriff,
Goebbels’ paper, left even more to be desired.

That morning Mary had jokingly complained, ‘How come the
Beobachter
says Germany is being swamped with Jews coming into the country when all the other papers say they’re trying to leave?’