Black Roses (20 page)

‘Miss Vine?’

‘I wondered if you might be free for a talk. I thought we might go and walk somewhere.’

‘As you can see, I’m busy right now. There’s rather a lot of people here and they’ve been waiting some time. But . . .’ He replaced the cap on his fountain pen and nodded at the secretary, who left reluctantly, shutting the door behind her. Standing up, he came round to the front of his desk and stuck his hands in his pockets.

‘Can I ask what this is about?’

She shivered at the chill in his voice. He might just have been tired, but he sounded unfriendly. As though she was wasting his time.

‘What do all these people want?’

‘They want to leave, of course. They’re Jews.’

‘Do they all want to go to England?’

‘Not at all, no matter what your friends in London may tell you. Most Jews are going to France and Holland. They think things will improve, you see, and they can return when this lot are kicked out. The realists are going to Palestine. Because that’s our mandate, they need visas from British Passport Control.’

‘And do they queue like this every day?’

‘Right now we’re overwhelmed with applications. They’re pleading with us to get anywhere in the British Empire. They’re mostly professional people – teachers, doctors, war heroes. We think there’ll be more than fifty thousand leaving the country this year.’

‘And have you been told to give them all passports?’

He smiled slightly. ‘We haven’t been told anything. We have no special instructions at all. But as my boss sees it, our job is to make sure as many of them get passports as need it. Anyhow,’ he glanced at the clock. ‘If this is just a social visit . . .’

‘It’s not a social visit. Leo, I’ve just been at Babelsberg. All non-Aryans have been fired today. Under the orders of Doktor Goebbels. In the interests of making Ufa more patriotic’

‘Yes, I heard it on the wireless.’ He had been called late the previous evening to provide a document enabling one of the country’s best-known actors to pass into Britain. ‘I can’t say it came as much of a surprise.’

‘Klaus Müller told me the Jews would be given every encouragement to leave.’

‘That sounds like the sort of thing he would say.’

‘And I just want to tell you, the thing we were talking about before, the other night?’

Leo came nearer, so close that she felt uncomfortable, though she didn’t show it. Could he possibly think they would be overheard? Instinctively she reduced her voice to a murmur.

‘I’ll do it.’

He was surprised, she could tell that from the way his eyes widened.

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Do you need to ask?’

He went back to his seat, took out his pen and bent his head over his work again, so she added, ‘I’ve been invited to call at Goering’s house tomorrow.’

‘That’s good,’ he said tersely.

‘Should I go?’

‘Yes. And meet me on Thursday. At the front entrance of Wertheim’s department store in Potsdamer Platz. The one nearest the U-Bahn. Let’s say one o’clock.’

Clara was startled at the speed with which he accepted her proposition. She had acted on impulse, stunned by the revelation of her father’s dealings with the Nazis and the discovery of her own Jewish heritage. Yet having asked for her help, Leo’s manner was now distinctly cool and businesslike. Dismissive, almost. It wasn’t as though she was expecting gratitude, but did he realize how hard this would be for her? She had thought there would be some discussion, or acknowledgement of the risks she would be taking. Instead there was just this curt acceptance. Dismayed and bewildered, she turned towards the door.

‘And, Clara . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t go straight home from here, will you? Pop into a department store and spend a good long time in the ladies’ fashions.’

The former official residence of the Prussian Minister of Commerce was a grand, balconied block off Leipziger Strasse, which Hermann Goering had recently picked out for his new townhouse. It was a bright morning and as Clara and Magda waited, a shout of laughter could be heard from behind the massive door. It was opened by a butler wearing white cotton gloves and Emmy Sonneman bustled through to welcome her visitors into the gloomy interior.

‘Come in!’

She led them through a warren of rooms crammed with Renaissance furniture, Gobelin tapestries and Old Masters so exquisite they looked like they belonged in a museum. As indeed they did.

‘I have my own apartment, of course, in Bendlerstrasse, but Hermann likes me to be here,’ said Emmy airily. ‘Now if you come through, Frau von Ribbentrop is waiting in the study.’

Annelies von Ribbentrop was perched on the edge of a huge, over-upholstered sofa as though wary it might eat her. It wasn’t the only thing that was larger than life. Everything about the place was enormous. The sunlight that poured through the French windows fell on a giant swastika embedded in blue and gold mosaic floor tiles. In the corner a stuffed bear reared on hind legs with its mouth open, as if it shared its owner’s gargantuan appetite. An antique rifle, possibly the very one that had dispatched it, was displayed on the wall. An elephant’s foot, mounted in silver, served as a side table, and to one side of the room stood a mahogany desk, with what looked like a throne behind it. It was like being in a cross between a museum and a hunting lodge, where every exhibit had something ominous to say about its owner.

Beside a pair of silver candelabras the size of antlers was a large photograph of Hitler. Magda picked it up.

‘How curious! This is similar to mine, but so much bigger. And yet the Führer always presents the same size photograph in the same size frame. I know because he has them especially designed by Frau Troost, the architect’s wife.’

Emmy looked momentarily abashed. ‘Oh, Hermann had it enlarged. He likes everything big.’

‘Including his women,’ murmured Frau von Ribbentrop in English, just loud enough for Clara to hear.

‘Hermann likes décor to reflect his personality,’ said Emmy, fondly. ‘It’s the actor in him. I often wish he’d gone into the theatre instead of politics. He has such a good eye for display.’

There was a sudden scuffle and from the corner of her eye Clara saw something large and golden bound into the room. For a fraction of a second she thought it was a Labrador, until she realized it was a lion cub. It approached Annelies von Ribbentrop, who sprang away with a shriek.

‘Get down, Caesar!’ shouted Emmy merrily, as the cub raked its claws down her skirt. ‘If you ruin another pair of my stockings, I’ll have you sent right back.’ Then, to the others, she said, ‘Don’t worry, he’s a darling. They roam completely free, they wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Lion cubs?’ said Frau von Ribbentrop, incredulously.

‘Hermann had them sent from the zoo. They’re perfectly adorable little things, completely safe, though they shred the stockings with their claws if you get too close. I’ve been through so many pairs but when I complain Hermann just laughs.’

‘Why can’t they keep cats, like everyone else?’ murmured Magda.

‘Hermann is devoted to them.’ Emmy crouched to fondle the animal around its glossy neck. It relaxed, blinked its dark gold eyes and a rasping purr filled the room. ‘He fed Caesar himself from a baby bottle.’

‘So charming,’ said Frau von Ribbentrop, a smile frozen on the pallid expanse of her face.

‘He washes them every week and puts them under the drier,’ said Emmy, cupping the animal’s face to hers and kissing its nose. ‘Can you imagine! When he’s finished with them they’re all round and delicious like furry little plums.’ The lion rose to its hind legs and narrowly avoided ripping the pearls from her neck. She disentangled the huge paws and lowered him to the ground. ‘The only thing is, we have to send them back when they’re a year old. It’s so sad. They get too big. They frighten the guards.’

The animal scampered off and she came and plumped herself down.

‘Ooph. You must forgive me. We’re so busy with the play I hardly know what time of day it is. There’s to be a special performance for the Führer’s birthday and you can’t imagine how nervous that’s making us.’

‘But you have wonderful reviews,’ said Frau von Ribbentrop sweetly. ‘All except for the
Angriff.
’

‘Oh,’ Emmy flicked her hand as though swatting a particularly irrelevant fly. ‘Who reads the
Angriff
?’

Clara noticed Magda stiffen. The
Angriff
was Goebbels’ personal newspaper, dedicated to the most extreme kind of Nazi propagandizing. Could it be that Emmy didn’t know? She seemed entirely insouciant, passing round cake and pouring a stream of fragrant, creamy chocolate for her guests.

‘I adore chocolate! My father owned a chocolate factory, so I had all I wanted as a child. Now I can’t do without it. I’m addicted for life!’

‘None for me,’ said Magda briskly, opening her files. ‘I find too much sugar so bad for the figure, don’t you? Now let’s get on with deciding which designs to make up for our first photographic session.’

Clara sipped her chocolate and tried to focus. She had been awake for most of the night and her face was washed out with fatigue. She had brushed a bit of life into her cheeks with rouge, but her eyes were red-rimmed and the contents of several cups of coffee were already buzzing through her veins. She felt acutely alert, her every nerve standing on end, yet full of trepidation. How was she going to do this? It was essential to behave as normal, but what was normal? She was an imposter now, and for that reason, normality was a façade. Yet it was a façade that felt impossible to achieve.

Leo’s parting advice to her the day before had startled her
.
‘
Don’t go straight home
’. She had no idea why she could not go straight home, but she had obediently visited KaDeWe and tried on some dresses, though she would not be able to afford another thing until her first pay packet, whenever that might be. The idea that someone might be watching her was new. It had taken her an hour and a half to make her way back to Frau Lehmann’s and even there she found it hard to relax. For most of the night she had lain awake, turning the arguments over in her head. Am I a spy now, if I do what Leo wants? What is a spy anyway? Is it someone who watches at windows, listens at doors? Someone who discovers things that other people might want to keep hidden? Or just a sceptical observer? Surely, if I do it, it can’t cause any harm, and might do some good.

Eventually, these thoughts swirling round her head, she fell into a fractured sleep in which her father and sister were talking, facing away from her, and she could not make out a word they said.

Magda had taken out the sketches that had been made up for her by Hans Horst, the design executive assigned to the Bureau, and circulated them. The women stared at them quizzically.

‘As I mentioned, we felt that the international silhouette was too restrictive for the German woman. All those tight waistlines and hips are going to discourage women from having children. And we want to reflect the German national character.’

‘I suppose Hermann would like this one,’ said Emmy, holding out a teal green suit with leather inserts and a Bavarian hunting hat with a feather in the side. ‘All it needs is a gun and a brace of pheasant to set it off. Perhaps we should go the whole way and add a pair of lederhosen?’

‘The Führer detests trousers on women, as you know.’

‘Frau Goebbels, I was joking. Though it’s true that Hermann would like it. He adores hunting. His latest plan is to recreate a primeval German forest. He’s bought some land on the Schorfheide. He’s going to have real herds of bison roaming, just like they did in the Ice Age. Only German bison, of course.’

Magda pressed her lips together as though her patience was being sorely tried.

‘I do wonder if the folk influence is a little strong,’ commented Frau von Ribbentrop dubiously. Her own navy suit, with puffed shoulders and a row of buttons down the front, was by the Jewish tailor Fritz Grünfeld, as was Magda’s sleek black jacket with its mink cuffs. ‘The young woman in the city might find this a little . . . rural.’

‘There’s a different feel for the urban woman. No one is saying that our women need to look primitive. The Führer himself says it makes him happy when a woman looks pretty.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Emmy, mournfully. ‘But this one has an apron. Can you imagine me wearing an apron? Someone might mistake me for the cook!’

With her heavy hips and weighty forearms, the image was far too accurate for anyone to risk a comment.

‘So we’re decided then,’ said Magda briskly. ‘When we stage our presentation it will involve all German designers and all German materials, like cotton, wool and worsted.’

‘Such a shame about the fur,’ said Emmy. ‘Personally I couldn’t live without my ermine cape.’

‘It would be wrong,’ said Magda, impatience cracking through the ice. ‘Hitler hates killing animals for fashion. You know that. And he’s specially asked that our models do not paint their nails or pluck their eyebrows.’

At the mention of models, Clara was aware of all faces turning towards her. Frau von Ribbentrop in particular had a hint of suspicion in her eyes. ‘On that subject, surely,’ she said, ‘it might be more appropriate to have a full German as our first model. After all, Fräulein Vine is half-English.’

Clara bent down to stroke the lion cub, which had come up to her and was now purring round her legs. Its fur smelt hot and sweet, and she tried to picture Reich Minister Goering shampooing the struggling animal in his bathtub.

‘Fräulein Vine is only one of a number of actresses who will be modelling. Olga Chekhova is Russian and Lida Baarová, as I’m sure you’re aware, is Czech, but they still reflect the German ideal.’

‘And the Doktor wanted Fräulein Vine to be involved,’ added Emmy, her voice laden with heavy semaphore. ‘It was his
specific wish.’

Frau von Ribbentrop tightened her lips in disdain. The message was clear. The Herr Doktor’s inclinations were well known. However humiliating that might be for his wife.

‘Well then of course.’

‘How about Leni Riefenstahl?’ said Emmy. ‘I hear she’s been appointed the party’s Film Expert. And she has a figure to die for.’