Black Roses (4 page)

Clara crossed the car park, navigating the gleaming ranks of Mercedes and Daimlers, and paused to watch workmen erecting the set of an entire medieval street, complete with a drawbridge and wooden gargoyles on the plaster walls. Actors dressed as monks passed by, carrying bottles of beer, and a couple of ringletted actresses sat in the sunshine, reading novels. She drank it all in, taut with excitement, before entering the foyer.

The walls were plastered with posters of Ufa’s triumphs. There was the dramatic advertisement for
Metropolis
, the city of the future, with its skyscrapers bisected by daggers of light, and Leni Riefenstahl clinging to a mountainside in
The Blue Light.
The famous, hooded eyes of Marlene Dietrich, her skin a severe, silvery sheen, hung next to a poster of Lilian Harvey in
The Three from the Gas Station,
sitting at the wheel of her red-leathered cabriolet, her hair bright as a flame.

A man in a small glass cubicle looked up from his copy of the
Völkischer Beobachter,
satisfied himself Clara was not important, and languidly removed his cigarette.

‘Can I help?’

‘I’m here to see Mr Townsend. Max Townsend?’

The man consulted a list. ‘Which film?’

‘Schwarze Rosen.’

His shrug expressed infinitesimal regret. ‘He’s not here.’

‘Do you know when he might be back?’

He turned his mouth down and gestured at his list as though it was Holy Writ. ‘All I know is, his name’s not here. Perhaps he’s one of those gentlemen who’s smelt which way the wind’s blowing. Like a lot of them who used to be here. Perhaps he’s taken a vacation with a single ticket.’

‘He’s English.’

The man stroked a moustache which was as broad and waxed at the Kaiser’s. ‘English? I suppose someone has to be. I can’t place him. But everything’s changing here. Come back tomorrow and he may be my new best friend.’

A woman walking past in a tight pink sweater, her dark hair swept off her face, turned backwards with a smile.

‘Did you say Max Townsend?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

The woman gave a light laugh. ‘All the girls here know Max. I haven’t seen him lately but I can take you to his office. Leave her to me, Herr Becker, I’ll take good care of her.’

Herr Becker grimaced, replaced his cigarette and returned to the newspaper reports of how Herr Hitler’s aeroplane visit to Munich had been a triumph.

‘Take no notice of him, he’s a professional Berliner, which means his bark’s worse than his bite. He sits there pretending to read his Nazi newspaper, but really he knows everything that’s going on. So why are you seeing Max?’

‘He might have a part for me in this film he’s producing.
Black Roses.
The one with Lilian Harvey.’

‘That sounds like Max. He loves Lilian Harvey. She has special appeal for him.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because she’s English born. It means Max can actually talk to her. He’s never bothered to learn German. He says he can communicate at a deeper level. By which he means the language of love.’ She pursed her lips in an exaggerated kiss and giggled. ‘Oh, I hope I’m not being indiscreet. I mean Max is a dear, of course. It’s just what he tells all the girls.’

‘It’s all right. I’ve never met him, actually.’

‘And you say he has Lilian Harvey in his film?’

‘Yes, she’s playing the heroine.’

‘Only,’ a tiny frown formed on her face, ‘Lilian Harvey’s just gone to Hollywood. Didn’t you know? Some of the top brass here are a little unhappy, actually. She is one of Babelberg’s biggest stars.’

‘I don’t know much about her at all.’

‘You must know her! She’s just done
The Congress Dance
with Conrad Veidt. She makes about sixty thousand marks a film. Everyone expected her to marry Willy Fritsch someday soon, only now they’re saying she’s turned her back on Berlin. Germany isn’t good enough for her. She wants to make a name in America.’

Clara felt her heart sink within her.

‘But let’s go and find Max anyway!’ The girl thrust out her hand. ‘Before we go any further, I should introduce myself I’m Helga Schmidt.’

She had a sweet-natured face with pencil-thin eyebrows that arched above lively brown eyes, and lips outlined in cherry red. Her face was as brown and freckled as an egg. The combination of her tight skirt and sweater suggested wholesome curves, but her eyes had a knowing twinkle and her voice had a whole packet of cigarettes in it.

‘Clara Vine.’

‘Delighted. Oh, mind out.’

A man carrying a lighting rig nearly collided with Clara as she pressed herself against the corridor wall. He disappeared through a double door ahead of them and they found themselves staring into an enormous studio.

It was probably the biggest single hall Clara had ever seen. It was the size of a cathedral, and contained both a medieval village, with cobbled street and cosy little houses, and an Italian piazza complete with a marble fountain. A series of façades encompassed a whole host of architectural styles – Gothic windows, Renaissance palazzi, Spanish roofs. There were stained-glass windows reflecting violet and scarlet light and to one side an entire street was decked out as the American Wild West.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

Clara gazed around her. It was a sight that seemed to suggest endless transformations. Something about it reminded her of the exact reason she had wanted to act. For her, a performance was not something to appear in, but rather something to disappear into. Acting let you do that. It was a transcendent experience, even if, when you looked behind the sets, there was only plaster and struts propping them up.

‘They built this studio for
Metropolis
. They used thirty-six thousand extras, can you believe, and a cool six million marks. The most expensive film ever made. It’s called the Marlene Dietrich Halle.’ Helga winked. ‘Only since she left I don’t think it’s called
that
any more.’

The place seemed astonishingly busy. There was hammering and drilling from men installing a set, and others were carrying sound equipment to fix on an immense crane. Girls with scripts scurried past, dodging prop makers and electricians. Clara stared curiously at the model of an Arabian harem, right next to the background of a windswept mountain.

‘Are they making more than one film at the same time?’

‘More than one?’ Helga burst out laughing. ‘Hundreds! People never get tired of films, do they? Luckily for us actresses. The rest of the country may be going to hell but Ufa is doing wonderfully. At least, they were until recently. Now I think Max’s office is somewhere along here.’

They climbed a flight of steps, turning into a long corridor, and came to a glass door, through which could be seen a man in shirtsleeves, bow-tie and red braces, gesticulating on the telephone. He was cadaverously thin, with tombstone teeth and hollow cheeks. It was hard to tell how old he might be. His face was as wrinkled as yesterday’s newspaper and suggested just as much worrying news.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Albert. We’re looking for Max.’

‘Who isn’t?’ he replied gloomily, raking a hand through sparse locks of hair. ‘I’m thinking of putting out a police search for him. Except it’s no doubt the police who’ve tracked him down, knowing Max. He’s probably in a cell somewhere, waiting to be bailed out.’

‘Clara, this is Albert Lindemann. Albert, this is Fräulein Clara Vine, and apparently she’s up for a part in Max’s new film.’

Albert eyed her briefly. ‘If I had fifty marks for every girl who said that I could give up this filthy job and spend my life skiing.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Helga laid a hand on Clara’s arm. ‘He’s joking. If he tried skiing he’d have a heart attack.’ To Albert she said, ‘Perhaps you could ask Max to find a part for me too, darling. I’m twenty-six now and I’m getting tired of playing the chorus.’

‘Tell him yourself,’ said Albert, cracking open a cigarette packet, lighting up and inhaling as if his life depended on it. ‘You’ve got far more to persuade him with. I haven’t the faintest idea where he is, he’s not answering his telephone and all I get is people complaining to me. What was this film he’s supposed to have scripted?’

‘Black Roses.
Lilian Harvey’s going to star.’

‘Well, if you wait for Lilian you could be waiting a long time. She may be in love with Willy Fritsch, but I bet she’ll love Hollywood more.’

‘That’s what I said,’ added Helga. ‘I’d say she’s definitely there for good. Gone the way of Marlene Dietrich and all the others.’

‘So that’s it, is it?’ said Clara, trying to keep her voice level. ‘There’s nothing else you can suggest?’

Noticing the dismay on her face, Albert said more kindly, ‘Now I didn’t say that, did I? Everyone’s on the lookout for English speakers. Why not come back tomorrow? Or Max might decide to turn up for work. You never know.’

Clara thanked him and closed the glass door behind her. She took a few steps and then stopped and leant against the wall, as though her knees might actually buckle beneath her. She felt physically stunned. Her entire rationale for coming to Berlin was suddenly dashed. Max Townsend seemed to have vanished and with him her whole reason for being here. The glamour of the studio, which just a few moments ago had seemed to offer a whole new world to her, existed now only to taunt her. How could she have been so naïve as to come all the way here on the word of a complete stranger? Everything Angela believed about her – that she was flighty, unreliable and irresponsible – was being proved true. Clara had a vision of herself returning humbly to Ponsonby Terrace just as Angela poured her evening Martini, and her sister saying, “Never mind. If you really need work I’m sure Gerald can fix you up with something at his office.” Or Dennis’s mother, Mrs Beaumont, with her grim stripe of a smile, declaring, “Least said, soonest mended.” The thought of it ran through her like steel and she braced herself. Whatever happened, she simply couldn’t go home.

Helga fell into step beside her.

‘Max not being here . . . It might just be Max, but it’s more likely something to do with everything that’s going on.’

‘You mean politically?’

At the word, Helga glanced momentarily around.

‘It’s a strange time at Babelsberg just now. For the last couple of weeks, since the new government, it’s like everything’s on hold. No one’s looking at new scripts. No one wants to put a foot wrong before they know what the game’s going to be. So many people have gone already. Just this morning I heard Billy Wilder and Peter Lorre took the night train to Paris.’

‘Why have they gone?’

Helga rolled her eyes. ‘Why d’you think?’

Close up, the elegance of Helga’s appearance was diminished slightly. There was a line of grime beneath her fingernails and the kohl under her eyes was smudged, giving her the look of someone who has stayed up far too late, as she probably had. Clara wondered if she really was twenty-six as she claimed. There was a worldly wisdom in her expression that suggested she had lived longer and seen more than she was letting on.

‘Catch me going anywhere though? The talkies are going to be my big break. Everyone says I have the perfect voice for them.’ She reached over and touched Clara’s arm generously. ‘And they’ll be good for you too! They’re crying out for actresses who speak English. You’ll have more work that you can cope with. You’ll see!’

As they reached the lobby there was a commotion. A man in brown uniform bustled past, and Clara could hear the sound of doors slamming. Outside a fleet of gleaming, black Mercedes-Benz cars had drawn up, from which climbed a group of important-looking men in suits. A palpable tremor ran through the air. Heads craned out of office doors all down the corridor as the group swept in, raising their arms in swift, automatic salutes. At the front was a man in a wide-belted trench coat and a fedora with a thin black band. He was a peculiar figure. Not much over five foot and with his hair swept back in an oiled wave, he mounted the steps with a swift, dipping gait. Looking down Clara saw he had a deformed right foot that turned inwards as he walked, supported by a built-up platform sole. Quickly she dragged her eyes from foot to face.

It was obvious the man knew exactly what she was thinking. She felt his eyes travel over her, checking her colouring, the bobbed dark hair with its faint haze of chestnut, the heart-shaped face and slender physique, lingering perhaps too long on the swell of her bust. Though she was quite used to being on a stage studied by hundreds of pairs of eyes, there was something in his expression that made her squirm. He held her gaze for a second, eyes cold as a shark, then flipped a swift salute. It was only as he smiled that Clara realized she had seen him before. It was the man in the wedding photograph, the picture she had seen in the shop window as she walked up Friedrichstrasse.

‘That’s Dr Goebbels,’ Helga whispered. ‘Officially he’s the new Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. Unofficially they call him the Tadpole.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t you see it?’ she laughed. ‘That big head and little body?’

‘They also call him the Babelsberg Buck,’ murmured Albert, who had come up behind them. ‘He has a real eye for the ladies. You two had better be careful!’

‘Who’s he talking to?’

‘Ludwig Klitzsch, the chief of the studio. And Alfred Hugenberg. Technically he’s the chairman of Ufa, but he’s been told to hand the whole place over to Goebbels, lock, stock and barrel.’

A glance at the assembled studio executives said it all. The men had dark, anxious eyes and smiles that looked like they were held up by piano wires. Goebbels spoke with a declamatory air, as though he was addressing a large public meeting, which meant the conversation carried clearly across the lobby.

‘I assure you the government has no desire to control any films being made. Art is free and should remain so. I have always said that.’

The men around him nodded at these snippets, as though they proceeded from the mouth of Socrates. He was a devoted admirer of the power of film, Goebbels continued. There were certain films that had made an indelible impression on him. Fritz Lang’s
Die Nibelungen
, for example, and
Battleship Potemkin.