Black Roses (34 page)

‘And is she good company?’

‘Not exactly. She’s a staunch Party member.’ She made a face. ‘Last night she invited me to her sewing circle. They sew armbands and perform good deeds.’

‘Good deeds?’ asked Mary, through a mouthful of meatballs.

‘Like taking in washing for SA men or cooking meals for Brown Shirts in need. Last night someone did a reading from
Mein Kampf.
I suppose it stopped them going on at me about when I was going to start a family.’

‘Don’t you want a child?’

Lotte blushed. ‘Of course, I would love children. Wouldn’t any woman?’

‘So what’s stopping you?’

‘There’s my job, for a start.’

‘You’d have to give it up?’

‘Almost certainly. They want you to. The government has just announced state loans for furniture and household necessities will be made to women who quit work.’

‘That sounds like an expensive policy.’

‘I know! And Fritz says the funny thing is, there are so many senior men who don’t have many kids, their wives are going to look like members of the resistance.’

Mary was savouring the food. The soup was rich and creamy and the
Königsberger Klopse
were deliciously filling meatballs in a spicy gravy, served with nutty, brown bread. She let the tastes flood through her with satisfaction. She loved food, especially German food, and of all the German food she loved, desserts were her downfall. A swift glance at the menu suggested that today was going to be no different. She ordered apple cake with whipped cream and iced coffee for two.

‘Tell me more about Margarete.’

‘Oh, where do I start?’ Lotte grimaced. ‘Her latest excitement is the Strength Through Joy project. It’s a brand new thing organized by the Labour Front. They have concerts and plays and day trips and they say they’re going to have cruises on the Baltic too. It’s amazing value. You can go on a walking holiday in the mountains for twenty eight marks a week. The mountains are glorious.’

‘The company probably isn’t.’

‘I know. But she’s booking a holiday for us all the same. Fritz and me, Margarete, Dieter and their children. Gretl’s invited too. Margarete’s planning our route and everything. Only before that, she’s got her wedding to prepare for.’

‘Her wedding?’ Mary almost spat out her coffee. ‘Isn’t Margarete already married?’

‘It’s a group wedding. Lots of couples, twenty or so – some of them are already married – are going to the Lazarus church on Saturday to reaffirm their vows to show their dedication to the Party. Margarete and Dieter plan to take their children along and make a day of it. It’ll be a huge event. Fritz is grumbling like mad about it already.’

‘Well, that takes some beating. One wedding would be quite enough for me.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to come along then? In fact . . .’ Emboldened by the outing and the food, Lotte’s habitual propriety was thrown to the winds, ‘it might inspire you. They say you often meet someone at a wedding. I mean I’m not sure what kind of men you like?’

What kind of men did she like? If you’d asked Mary that ten years ago she would have answered without a beat, a man straight out of Jane Austen by way of Charlotte Bronte. A man who was capable of being intelligent, sensitive and elemental all at the same time. Matching all three was as hard as winning on a fruit machine, of course. She’d have settled for two out of three, but even those had been like hens’ teeth in New Jersey, and nor had any appeared in the years since. And then, into the first press conference of the new Nazi Government had strolled Rupert Allingham, with a sceptical expression and volume of
Berlin Alexanderplatz
under his arm, and she was hooked.

‘Is there someone special?’ Lotte persisted.

‘Maybe.’ Mary finished her apple cake, licked a little whipped cream off her finger, then reached for her cigarettes. ‘But it’s early days.’

She had fallen for Rupert hard, but she still had not the faintest idea what he felt for her in return. On one level they got on so well. They had explored Berlin together and investigated the nightlife pretty thoroughly too, regularly tumbling out of clubs in the early hours. Mary adored hearing about Rupert’s family and the Jacobean house with its deer park and its priest-hole. She pictured herself visiting London and walking with him past those dazzling white Nash crescents in Regent’s Park or wandering through Soho streets discussing politics late into the night. Rupert, for his part, claimed to admire America, too. He even talked about settling there one day. But at other times she suspected there was something in his British background he would never break free of. Class, conformity, tradition – call it what you wanted. It was as though he was carved into his niche like a stone nobleman on a cathedral face. She feared that conformity might apply to women too. In her worst moments she imagined that somewhere back home Rupert’s future wife already existed, tending roses or taking sketching classes, a slender, polished, ivory-skinned beauty, ensconced in one of those moneyed chunks of English countryside he so affected to despise.

As she lit up, a man came over and pointed aggressively at the sign above the bar. It was inscribed in the dense, curly letters of German Gothic script, and for good measure he read it aloud very slowly.

‘ “German women do not smoke”.’

Mary inhaled deeply for his benefit.

‘Then I’m thankful to be an American, sir.’

Gerhard Lamprecht descended from his platform on the crane camera like a god from heaven. Which he might as well have been, judging by the gaggle of technicians, script assistants, continuity staff and electricians who stood at his bidding in the wings, along with the girl whose whole job was to stand behind the camera with his cup of coffee, and replenish it every time it grew cold.

‘I need to see Fräulein Vine. In private, please.’

The crowd behind the cameras parted like the Red Sea as he strode off the set, motioning to Clara to follow him. Olga Chekhova rolled her eyes and the other actors cast sympathetic glances as the director and actress proceeded in silence down the corridor to the elevator, and from there to an edit suite with blacked-out windows. Clara’s stomach was a quivering knot of nerves. She felt certain Herr Lamprecht was about to deliver a stinging critique. Instead he closed the door behind them, turned to her and smiled.

‘We’ve just had the rushes back of your first scenes. I thought you might like to see.’

He sat at the editing deck, rested his cigar on an empty film canister and started the reel of film. Images of Clara’s face passed before them in a monochrome flicker. There was a short encounter between herself and Hans Albers against the background of the Venetian hotel, and then, slightly less convincingly, her hair blowing in a makeshift breeze as she rode a speedboat across the painted lagoon.

‘It’s just as I said. The camera loves you.’

Clara smiled awkwardly at the extravagance of the compliment. She felt deeply embarrassed. She wanted to say,
I
understand why you are paying unusual attention to a junior actress with a miniscule speaking part. I realize you’re acting out of concern
for your own career.
But what good would it do to articulate such thoughts? It would only be disrespectful to Herr Lamprecht, whose kind nature and obvious skill she had grown to admire and, besides, she couldn’t help feeling flattered that such an eminent director should devote any time to her, whatever his motives.

‘It’s only a tiny role!’

He nodded complicity. ‘Even the tiniest roles can be crucial, Clara. Never dismiss the importance of the cameo.’

Clara studied the rushes with interest. She had never seen herself on film before. There was something about watching the movement of her own limbs, the luminous sheen of her skin as the light slid across her face, that gave her quiet pleasure. Just as Herr Lamprecht said, the camera brought out certain qualities she did not even know she had. The skilful lighting sculpted and rounded her features so that she appeared more finished and self-possessed. She watched herself with none of the usual agonies of self-consciousness. The black-and-white girl in the rushes was both her and not her, and observing it was strangely liberating.

‘Everyone starts with a small part. It’s what you make of it that matters.’ He was looking at her cryptically. ‘Next time, I think we can find you something more promising.’

At the words ‘next time’ Clara felt a little pulse of pride.

‘And by the way, you should look out for a little piece about yourself in
Filmwoche.’
He winked. ‘A reporter called and asked me to tip some upcoming talent, and I may have slipped them your name.’

‘Herr Lamprecht . . . I’m very grateful. I hope you don’t think that—’

He silenced her with a wave of his hand.

‘No need to be grateful. Just wait for the premiere.’

The premiere! She allowed herself to picture it. It would be, almost certainly, at the Ufa Palast am Zoo, which had its own Wurlitzer and could hold two thousand people. It was a favourite place for film premieres, and could regularly be seen decked with swastika banners as the top brass strutted in to sample the latest releases. The crowds would stand three deep as the stars walked down the red carpet, bathed in the metallic crackle of flashlights. The politicians loved it because it was their chance to be seen with the beautiful and the famous, and the actors loved it because what actor didn’t love a red carpet? She would invite Leo, she thought impulsively, before sense intervened. She reminded herself that she could never be seen with Leo in a public gathering like that and besides, she was only in the film because Klaus Müller had arranged her part, and so it would be his arm she rested on at the film’s opening night.

She was longing for Leo’s next summons, even if she had nothing to tell him. The memory of that kiss in the cinema burnt in her mind. She returned to it again and again, feeling the imprint of his lips and the surprising passion in it which seemed to contradict the notion that it had been merely a gesture of desperate convenience. Either that, or he was a better actor than she was.

Days had gone past, however, without any fresh tickets appearing on the hall table. She spent the following week at the studio, and twice Klaus Müller arrived on set to see her, but fortunately he had been too busy to do anything more than give her a lift back to town, during which he complained bitterly of the workload that the establishment of the new ministry was placing on him and the foul temper of Goebbels, who was being distracted from important affairs of state by the hysterical moods of his wife.

Then, as Clara arrived home on the Friday evening, another call from Magda came.

The von Ribbentrops’ villa in Lentzeallee, Dahlem might have been a Surrey stockbroker’s home at the end of the Guildford line, if Surrey stockbrokers had a penchant for swastika flags on the gatepost. All around the neighbourhood Jews and shopkeepers were leaving, to be replaced by Nazi officials, who built high walls around their houses and parked pristine Mercedes in the drives. The Ribbentrops had a large, white building with wooden gables and balconied windows on the upper floors, and a flight of marble steps leading to a grandly porticoed front door. Outside a lawn as manicured as a Nazi haircut led to a swimming pool covered in water lilies. Crimson budding rhododendrons lined the beds where a gardener was digging in compost for the first flowers of spring.

A butler opened the door. He was around fifty with a white tie, a tailcoat and to Clara’s surprise, a London accent.

‘You are the first to arrive Fräulein. Frau von Ribbentrop will be with you soon.’

‘You’re British?’

‘Indeed, Fräulein. As are all of Herr von Ribbentrop’s staff.’ The butler’s face was a mask of decorum and his eyes focused flintily on the middle distance. He had that way of seeing without looking, which English people expected from their staff. It probably came in especially useful here.

He ushered her into a chilly drawing room. Although the furniture was austere and modern, the walls were hung lavishly with oils of the German countryside, French landscapes and, in pride of place, an exquisite Madonna and Child which, Clara recognized with a start, had been painted by Fra Angelico.

She drifted over to the bookcase, which to her surprise contained several books by British authors, and noted the customary photo gallery of Hitler looking misty-eyed. She was getting used to the idea that everyone liked to see pictures of their Führer at all times. There was a less than flattering photograph of Goering in field grey, resembling a sea lion at the zoo, and a tall man she recognized as Reinhard Heydrich, an angular figure with narrow eyes whose skin stretched skeletally over his face like a medieval martyr. Von Ribbentrop himself was wearing some kind of naval uniform, beaming out of the frame and rubbing his hands like the captain of a yacht nervously awaiting his latest client.

On a nearby table someone had left a copy of
Harper’s Bazaar
open. It was turned to a page featuring a majestic Coco Chanel leaning against the fireplace in her Rue Cambon apartment. There was drawing of a bottle of Chanel No. 5 below the photo, accompanied by the caption: “Madame Gabrielle Chanel is above all an artist in living. Her dresses, her perfume, are created with a faultless instinct for drama. Her Perfume No. 5 is like the soft music that underlies the playing of a love scene.”

Evidently Frau von Ribbentrop was not planning to forsake the soft music of Chanel couture anytime soon. Incredible, really, given the enterprise they were engaged in. Clara was just marvelling at this when she felt a draught of cold air behind her and turned to find the woman herself appraising her.

It was said that von Ribbentrop was terrified of his wife and it was easy to believe. Despite her pudgy face and the air of a dowdy librarian, she had a certain steely chic. A tight little string of pearls formed a genteel garrotte round her neck and a beige cardigan hung from her shoulders. That day she was favouring the Rhine maiden look, wearing her dark coiffure wound in earphones on each side of her head and the kind of smile that could freeze blood.