Black Roses (31 page)

The opera was wonderful, even without the Staatsoper’s star conductor, Otto Klemperer, who had left Germany that week. Puccini’s music rose and soothed Clara so that for a while she almost forgot where she was until Müller’s hand descended and began massaging her thigh, gently stroking his fingers upwards. She repressed the urge to shift in her seat and tried to imagine herself relaxed, enjoying the evening. She was an ordinary girl, spending a night at the opera with a man to whom she owed a debt of gratitude. It was a part like any other, which required a little extemporizing perhaps, a touch of improvization, but nothing beyond her talents. It required her only to separate the sensation from the emotion, to shut out all thoughts of place and circumstance, and focus only on the rhythmic touch of his hand, the mingled masculine aroma of cologne and cigars. If she did that, it almost worked. She pictured herself as a young actress excited by the splendour of the opera house, dazzled to be at the heart of society and oblivious to its dark undercurrents. Indeed, when she felt the warm pressure of his thigh against hers and laid her hand lightly on his arm, a brief, treacherous flicker of arousal ran through her flesh, before the sly, lascivious glances directed at her by other Nazi officials shocked her back into cold reason. Through her mind ran Leo’s comment,
“
You’re not doing this for you, are you?” But what exactly was she doing? And how far could she remain in control?

By the time Butterfly had killed herself and the opera ended, Müller’s normally suave manner had been replaced by a heightened excitement and she sensed an expectation in him that filled her with dread. There was to be a champagne reception in a private room, at which Hitler would be introduced to the performers, but before that they were obliged to wait for a number of standing ovations and
Heil Hitlers
, and then for an enormous bouquet of roses to be brought on stage and presented to the diva, tied with a scarlet sash which spelt out ‘Adolf Hitler’ in gold lettering. Then, in a new convention, everyone had to salute and sing
Deutschland Über Alles
followed by the Horst Wessel Song. After that the etiquette was to allow the Führer’s party to leave first, but the process was slow, given that Hitler was besieged by well-wishers, beaming and wanting to salute in his face so, seizing her hand, Müller ducked through a door marked ‘Private’, and into a concrete-walled corridor. A little way off two SA men were sneaking a cigarette. No one wanted to risk smoking in Hitler’s presence.

Müller lit up himself with greedy desperation and passed one to her.

‘I can’t stand all these women wailing and killing themselves, but that’s opera for you. The Führer loves it, of course.’

He looked down at her with his habitually sardonic edge. ‘Speaking of wailing women, how’s our First Lady?’

‘She’s fine. The Fashion Bureau is going well. We have a new headquarters now.’

The new HQ had been organized by Goebbels. It was in the sumptuous Columbushaus in Potsdamer Platz, an ultramodern office building with a Woolworths at the bottom and a restaurant at the top. The building was considered an architectural triumph, but that was rarely mentioned now since its architect, Erich Mendelsohn, had bought a one-way ticket across the border.

‘Someone told me she was throwing another fit this morning.’

‘Really?’ Yet again Müller seemed to be looking to her for information. She was valuable to him too, she realized. A spy behind the scenes of his boss’s private life.

‘Yes. One of the men was saying she’d consulted a fortuneteller who has prophesied that she will meet a violent death between the ages of forty and forty-five.’

‘How terrible!’ Perhaps that had been the reason for the red eyes. ‘They’re so irresponsible, these people. They can’t imagine the hurt they cause.’

Müller’s face was contemptuous. ‘Exactly. No wonder the Herr Doktor find this superstition stuff repulsive, if it makes women hysterical. He calls it witchcraft. He’s planning to ban all this astrology and fortune-telling; those charlatans who claim to see the future through the bumps on your head. What would they make of mine, eh?’

He took her hand and ran it playfully over his hair. He had just had a cut, so it was shaved even shorter at the sides, but the top was lustrous and springy. Clara had learned to control her instinct against physical contact, but it was hard. She kept her touch light and clinical, like a nurse’s.

‘I can’t feel any bumps.’

‘Perhaps I have no future then. Is that what you think?’ She didn’t answer so he shrugged. ‘Anyhow, what do we need hypnotists for? You’ve seen the Doktor talk. He mesmerizes millions. He has them eating out of the palm of his hand. What hypnotist could beat that?’

Clara frowned. ‘But doesn’t the Führer have an astrologer of his own? Herr Hanussen?’

‘Ah, Herr Hanussen, he’s different. He always gets it right.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because he has the good sense to know what the Führer wants to hear.’ He shrugged. ‘The Doktor hates him. He’s convinced he’s a Jew. But, you know, Hanussen’s quite an act. One of the sights of Berlin. In fact, you should see him. I’ll take you to his place next week. The House of the Occult, he calls it. It’s extraordinary.’

He leant one arm against the wall, and looked down at her. ‘On the subject of acting, how is Frau Sonnemann?’

‘She’s invited us all to her latest performance.’

‘I feel sorry for you. Emmy can’t act her way out of her own sweater. But still,’ he touched her cheek. ‘I like to hear what these women are up to. What they fill their little minds with. It helps me know what kind of mood the boss is going to be in tomorrow.’

‘So that’s why you like to see me!’

‘It’s not the only reason, my dear, as you know.’

He leant closer and put a hand on her shoulder. His grip was weighty and rough. He eased a finger through the strap of her dress, as though he was about to undress her.

‘I think you’ve enjoyed making me wait.’ His voice was thick with desire. ‘But it’s not good for a man in my position to be without a woman. People make assumptions.’

‘Of course they don’t. No one could think you were that kind of man.’

‘They think I may be going to parties with Ernst Röhm.’

‘But you’ve been married. You had a lovely wife.’

‘Perhaps. But it’s been years.’ Her mention of Elsa had the desired effect. He recoiled slightly. ‘However, I’d better watch out. The boss has his eye on you, I think.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s been asking a lot of questions about you.’

‘Questions?’

‘About your opinions. He’s desperate to know if you have boyfriends. He wants to know if you are spoken for.’

‘And what do you tell him?’

‘What would you like me to say?’

‘Tell him I live for my art.’

He laughed. ‘All right then. I will. But I warn you, the Doktor doesn’t trust you.’

‘Why should he not trust me?’

‘I don’t know. He said the other day that he dislikes the company you keep.’

A cold current of fear went through her. Could it be that she was being watched, just as Leo had said? She forced herself to keep smiling.

‘And what would the Doktor know about the company I keep?’

He shrugged. ‘I assume he’s talking about your friend Helga.’

‘Helga?’

‘Yes.’ He lowered his voice, though there was no one listening. ‘In fact, I should give her a little advice if I were you. Tell her to be more careful. Tell her that her sense of humour is not shared by everyone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just what I’ve been hearing. At the Sportpalast the other night. She has a loose mouth.’

‘Why? You’re scaring me now.’ She gave his arm a little push. ‘What has she done?’

‘Do you want to know?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Then I’ll explain in more detail.’ He ran a hand down the curve of her body and she smelt his sweat beneath the clean starch of his shirt. ‘Tonight, in fact. I’ve reserved a room at the Adlon for later.’

At that moment he broke off and straightened up. From the end of the corridor a slight figure had emerged. Even from a distance his hobbling gait was unmistakable. He had donned a camelhair coat over his uniform and was accompanied by a woman whose dark head was bent close to his, a black velvet cape round her shoulders. It was Leni Riefenstahl.

‘Damn,’ Müller’s face darkened and he threw the cigarette away. ‘The brass neck of the man. He can’t stop himself.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘Officially? Officially they’re discussing a film he wants her to make about Hitler. Unofficially, they’re going to spend some private time at the Adlon. He sneaks her in the Wilhemstrasse entrance. He imagines his wife is unaware.’

Clara sensed her escape.

‘Poor Frau Goebbels. She’ll be upset. I must go to her.’

‘Wait.’

Müller barred her way with his arm and leant down to kiss her. At the last moment she turned, so that his kiss landed on her cheek. He scowled, frustration rising from him like the scent of the lime cologne he wore. For a second, his face twisted in annoyance, but he swiftly repressed it and summoned a smile.

‘Very well, gnädige Fräulein. We are still getting to know each other. But don’t make me wait too long. Unlike our dear Leader I do not intend to be married to Germany. I’m too young for that.’

‘So Goebbels’ home is burgled, and he comes home and says to Magda, “What did they steal?” And she says, “Only the results of next year’s election!” ’

Rupert Allingham threw back his head and roared. The others clustered around the table followed suit. Die Taverne restaurant was an Italian place of low ceilings and long wooden tables, fogged with cigar smoke and the deeply ingrained scent of beer. The proprietor was not Italian at all, but a big, bluff German called Willy Lehman, who ran the place with his amiable Belgian wife and provided for British and American correspondents not just a hearty meal but a sanctuary. Here they gathered most nights, trading jokes and news and information, notwithstanding the fact that young storm troopers liked to meet there too, plus a sprinkling of government spies who eavesdropped despite the best efforts of an American jazz band.

Most evenings, until the small hours, their regular table was occupied by journalists swapping stories. Mary had discovered that the burning instinct all journalists felt to safeguard a scoop was actually less pressing than their desire to relay the facts behind the new Nazi Germany. If Americans were ever to know just what it was like here, everyone involved in reporting it would need to overcome their competitive instincts and help each other out.

In here, crowded around the table, with a huddle of journalists making jokes and telling stories, it was intensely warm and relaxed. There were five of them that evening. Next to Rupert was a British friend of his, a handsome man with a shock of blond hair, called Stephen Spender, who wrote poetry, Rupert said. Alongside him sat Quentin Reynolds, the Hearst correspondent, a huge man with curly hair and a big smile who had just arrived in town. Mary had squeezed in next to Sigrid Schultz, of whom she was slightly in awe. Sigrid was the bureau chief of the
Chicago Tribune
, a feisty American who had grown up in Paris, attended university in Berlin and was known for speaking her mind to the Nazi leaders. She had the porcelain complexion of a china doll, which was entirely at odds with her penchant for smoking a pipe. It was either the pipe smoke or the personality that inspired Goering’s nickname for her as “the dragon from Chicago”.

Mary had almost given the meal a miss that night, but she was glad she came. For one thing she was famished. They were eating a knuckle of pork with sauerkraut, and it was delicious. The heavily marbled meat had been braised for hours and was covered with a thick layer of crispy fat, perfectly complemented by a plate of pickles. It was a chance, too, to see Rupert and try to work out exactly where she stood with him. He always beamed when he saw her and flung his arm round her shoulders, throwing out compliments about ‘the cleverest correspondent in town’, but then Rupert was always ebullient and good-mannered to a fault. That was the problem with these damned Brits. It was so hard to know what was going on underneath.

They had spent several evenings in each other’s company now, and she had gathered that he was very close to his mother, whom he called the Countess, although that was not her actual title, just an expression of affection. Confusingly, she did have a title, her name was Lady Isidora Allingham, not plain Lady Allingham as you would imagine (though Mary wouldn’t) because she had the right to use her Christian name as the daughter of a duke. Mary said in America everyone had the right to use their own goddam Christian names, but when she asked Rupert to explain all the ranks and titles and so on, he had just laughed and said if you thought you understood the English aristocracy, it meant you hadn’t understood it.

It wasn’t that he was self-obsessed. Like any good journalist he asked her a ton of questions about herself, her home and family, he’d even got the name of her dog out of her. Walt. Whitman or Disney? he asked, then got it right first time, and even quoted Whitman, to boot. He knew her dream was to settle in Europe, going wherever the story led her, and said for his part he was simply longing to visit New York, and perhaps she could show him some day. It was just that she felt she existed for him as a specimen of curiosity. Something you might observe in order to write about, a character who might pop up in a sketch one day, when the veteran correspondent finally published his memoirs. Yet however baffled and frustrated that made her feel, she wasn’t going to let it spoil the evening.

She flicked through the pile of newspapers they always brought along with them while Rupert dominated the table with an incessant stream of tales and jokes.

‘Have you noticed how these Nazis boast of their prowess in the war? I was talking to one the other night who insisted that Hitler won his Iron Cross second class for capturing fourteen Englishmen singled-handedly.’