Black Roses (23 page)

But Angela had come back across the lawn to her. She came so close that Clara noticed she had been experimenting with make-up, a slick of lipstick riding up over her cupid’s bow and a line of kohl – their mother’s no doubt – emphasizing the violet eyes. Her teeth were as perfectly enamelled as a Fabergé jewel.

She hissed an urgent whisper,
“Don’t talk about being an actress, Clara. You won’t ever be an actress. I can tell everything you’re thinking. Every single thing you think is written all over your face. You couldn’t act to save your life.”

Why had Angela said that? What did she mean?

Turning to Leo she said, ‘A German man came to visit our house in Surrey. He was a friend of my parents and he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. It was then I decided to be an actress. I hadn’t ever thought about it before. I only said it for effect, to annoy my sister. She was always telling me what to do. She thought she knew best. It made me terribly cross.’

She looked up and found him smiling at her.

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I can imagine you as a cross little girl.’ For a moment his eyes gleamed with humour and something flashed between them. ‘And I can just imagine you hating being told what to do.’

‘And I can just imagine you thinking you knew best.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Do you know,’ she said slowly. ‘I think that man, the man who came to visit us, must have been von Ribbentrop.’

‘He was.’

She stared at him, as comprehension dawned.

‘You knew?’

His answer confirmed everything she had feared. It gave her the impetus to broach the question she had been avoiding all along.

‘That my father had been meeting the Nazis?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before you met me?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t connect him with you until later.’

She felt a sinking dismay. ‘So what else do you know that you’re not telling me?’

‘That he has been working hard to advance the fascist cause in England. Clara, tell me, have you heard of Maxwell Knight?’

She shook her head.

‘He runs a unit called B5b. It’s part of the British Security Service, investigating political subversion. They observe the activities of various groups and their political tendencies. It was he who alerted us to your father.’

‘Are you saying that the British secret services are watching my father?’

‘He’s being watched, yes. Though it’s a pretty recent thing. Back in London they’re really more interested in sympathizers of the Left, but since last month there has been a little more interest in those who are keen to develop relationships with the Right.’

‘But my father was a Conservative MP until the last election!’

‘I know. And now he’s keen to forge alliances with fascist organizations across Europe. He’s part of an enclave of the British ruling class who are determined to avoid war at any cost. They will deal with Hitler, or anybody, if it avoids war.’

‘Surely there’s nothing wrong with wanting to avoid war?’ she said, but even to her own ears her voice sounded hollow and uncertain.

‘It depends on what terms.’

Clara looked away, so that he should not see the tears pricking the corner of her eyes.

‘How long have they been watching him?’

‘I don’t know that. But there was something particularly that alerted our attention. Earlier this year your father visited Germany and met Hans Frank, who has just been made Minister of Justice for Bavaria. He had a friend with him. A lady called Anna Wolkoff.’

‘Anna? Whose family owns the Russian Tea Room?’

Anna was a White Russian, an intense, dark-haired woman whose family had once been in the service of the last Tzar, and whose life in exile, running a little café on Harrington Road near the South Kensington tube, struck everyone as a bit of a come down. In fact, Anna Wolkoff preferred to describe herself as a couturier rather than a café owner. She had, after all, designed dresses for the Prince of Wales’s friend, Mrs Simpson.

‘Anna’s a dress maker. She made an evening gown for my sister. Emerald-green silk with sequins.’

‘She’s also made several trips to Germany in the past few years and held meetings with senior Nazis, including Rudolf Hess.’

‘With Hess? What were the meetings about?’

Leo raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t imagine she was measuring him for an evening gown.’

They came out of the Aquarium, blinking in the bright sunlight and drifted over to the elephants. A line of sharp nails set into the ground prevented the animals from overstepping their enclosure. A new baby elephant was being offered pretzels by some children. It kept trying to reach their outstretched hands with its trunk, before teetering on the edge of the nails and having to step back.

‘I’ve decided I hate zoos. Let’s have a drink.’

Clara headed towards a little café and sat, as she knew Leo would want, in the quietest corner facing the room. The other occupants of the café were an elderly man reading a copy of the
B.Z. am Mittag,
a couple holding hands and stealing kisses across the table, and a pair of women, enjoying creamy wedges of cake and what looked like equally delicious gossip.

Leo waited until a waitress in a black uniform and lacy cap had taken their order, then said softly, ‘You know, of course, you mustn’t mention any of this to your family. Or indeed anyone. That’s imperative. You do understand?’

‘I do.’ She bit her lip and focused on a child nearby who was eating
Bratwurst
and onions from a paper container.

‘And you are absolutely committed to helping us?’

‘Yes.’ His green eyes were on her intently. Without knowing why she added, ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything.’

‘Good. Well, the first rule is, keep yourself safe. Otherwise you endanger others.’

‘What’s the second rule?’

He laughed. ‘I suppose the second rule is, sometimes you have to abandon the rules.’

She was playing with her coffee spoon, twisting it round in her fingers so that it made her two-faced, at first narrow and concave, then round and moonlike. She hesitated while the waitress served them and then said slowly, ‘Just because I’m an actress, Leo, doesn’t mean I’m good at deception. They’re not precisely the same thing. The people you act for actually want to be deceived.’

‘A willing suspension of disbelief.’

‘That was Coleridge. And he was talking about literature. This is something different. These people don’t want to be deceived. You might say, “Just act natural” but how do I do that? How do I act natural?’

‘Well, let’s see.’ He paused. ‘How would you do it on stage?’

She looked at him suddenly with a flicker of understanding. ‘You’d do it by degrees.’

‘Tell me.’

‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘The first thing you do is study the character, so you absolutely know the way she talks, the way she carries her shoulders, say, or swings her hips as she walks, whether she would hold her cigarette like this.’ She took the cigarette from his hand and held it between her second and third fingers and curved her palm round her mouth, ‘Or like this . . .’ she flicked her hand carelessly outwards, away from her, in a pose he always thought of as intensely feminine.

‘You have to know the way she stands, and the way she relaxes. For example, does she cross her legs, does she hold her head to one side?’

She tilted her head at him coquettishly and pursed her mouth in a way that reminded him suddenly of Marjorie Simmons. ‘Is she one of those women who just loves being centre stage all the time, or does she like to fade into the furniture? Does she have any little habits, like twirling her fringe, or biting her lip, or, I don’t know, blowing smoke rings?’ She inhaled and blew a perfect ring of smoke which hung trembling in a shaft of sunlight. He couldn’t help but laugh. It was a trick he had tried many times and never managed to achieve.

‘Then, when you’ve worked all of that out, you have to forget it. Say you’re playing a bold, careless, flighty girl, like Sorel Bliss in
Hay Fever
, who doesn’t think too deeply about anything, and just wants to have a good time. Well, you have to become that person, so it’s natural for you, so you do all that without thinking about it. Because usually onstage you have so much else to think about.’

She looked about her brightly, smoothed a curl of hair behind her ear and for that second she seemed totally transformed. It was true, Leo thought. It was as though, through the tiniest of gestures, she actually had become that flighty girl she had mentioned, who just wanted to have a good time. He felt a prickle of envy. How liberating it must be to have that release, to be able to escape from yourself and inhabit a different personality entirely.

They left the café and walked to the oriental elephant gate that led out onto Budapester Strasse. Its gilded arch and green Chinese turrets couldn’t have looked more out of place in the modern Berlin, with its clean lines and sombre, monumental architecture. The arch looked gloriously defiant, a crazy, extravagant gesture of an architect who’d let his fantasies go mad. Though nothing like as mad, of course, as the minds behind the buildings now being planned for the streets of the new Reich.

Gazing upwards, Clara said lightly, as if commenting on the sunshine spilling through a rent in the clouds, ‘So what do I do now?’

‘Just what we’ve been discussing.’

‘And what if I don’t have anything to tell you?’

He turned his head away from her, looking down the street, as if searching for a taxi.

‘Tell me what they talk about, that’s all. No matter how trivial. And go along with anything Magda asks of you. The main thing is, they mustn’t suspect. Don’t ask questions. Don’t talk about England. Don’t ever write or type anything. No addresses or names.’

‘How am I supposed to remember, then?’

‘How do you remember lines? You must have a method. And Clara . . .’ He paused and for a moment looked at her directly. ‘Don’t trust anyone.’

‘You sound so suspicious.’

‘Why should the Nazis have a monopoly on suspicion?’ He glanced around him. ‘Berlin is full of sharp ears and eyes. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s on the alert. The number of informers is increasing constantly now. The police encourage people to report anything they might think odd. Someone away from home, someone printing pamphlets, someone entertaining a lot of men. A woman like you, frequenting the Herr Reich Minister’s home, is bound to attract attention. Despite everything I said about blending into your surroundings, that might not be easy for you.’

There was something in the way he looked at her. A flicker of attraction in his eyes. He hesitated for a second, but didn’t elaborate.

‘And if you go straight from the Goebbels’ to the British Consulate, well, even they can make elementary calculations.’

He pointed to the red-jacketed
Baedeker Guide to Berlin
that was poking out of her bag. ‘Wait a minute. Pass that to me.’ He flipped through. ‘They know where I live and they may well know where you live, but tourist spots are always difficult. Crowded and busy and full of people speaking other languages. That’s where we should meet.’

‘How will I get in touch with you?’

‘You won’t. From now on you mustn’t. I’ll contact you. In fact, I’ll send you tickets. They’ll have the time and the date on. All you have to do is turn up.’

He leafed through the book and found a sketch of a nineteenth-century red sandstone building in the style of a Corinthian temple.

‘Everyone should visit the National Gallery. Have you seen it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘It’s easily found. On Museum Island. Mostly edifying German art but a lovely collection of French Impressionists, and I think there’s still some of what the Führer describes as degenerate art.’

‘So when will I see you?’

‘Look out for the tickets.’

He tipped his hat and she felt a slight pang of disappointment as he turned without saying goodbye and walked quickly away.

It was fortunate that the sunny weather continued because on Saturday Helga’s son, Erich, arrived and she invited Clara to spend the day with them at Luna Park.

Luna Park was a vast amusement park at the end of the Ku’damn, the largest one in Europe, Helga said, as if that was proof that Germans really were having a bigger, better time than anyone else. From some way off the thunder of the rollercoaster could be heard and the tinny music carried in the wind. Inside there were attractions like the Swivel House, where an entire house tilted precariously to one side, and a spinning machine called the Devil’s Wheel, which whisked people round and left them feeling sick. There was a Tin Lake, where little boats sailed on a metallic expanse while artificial waves beneath billowed and coiled. At night, Helga said, there were cabarets and boxing matches and firework displays that spattered a glowing graffiti on the sky.

That Saturday was as loud as ever with the screeches of the rides and the calls of the men behind the stalls. A rime of petrol hung in the air, mingling with the hot oil from the sausage stalls and the yeasty baking scents of the pretzel carts. But up close everything, from the fairy tale palace, with towers and a staircase leading down to the lake, to the stalls and the rides, was going very obviously to seed. There was a sad, down-at-heel feeling to it, not made any better by rumours that the Nazis planned to bulldoze the place shortly, on account of the decadent fun it represented. Their own favourite hobby was building new roads and as it happened there was one planned right through the centre of Luna Park.

‘So what do you think of my boy, then?’

The two of them had met Erich that morning off the train from Havelberg. Short for his age, with a crew cut and carefully pressed clothes, Erich was far more polite than the children Clara knew in England. Compared to her brother Kenneth, who at the age of ten had spoken to adults only under sufferance and had scarred knees and pockets stuck together with melted chocolate, Erich was a model of maturity and decorum. He had shaken hands solemnly with Clara and risen to his feet without prompting on the tram to give a seat to an elderly man. Clara couldn’t help thinking Erich’s grandmother had made a rather better job of raising him than his own mother would have. Yet the affection between the two of them was plain to see.