Black Roses (43 page)

Unusually, Magda answered the door herself. The turbulence of her last visit had gone, to be replaced by an iron composure.

‘Thank you for coming. I knew I could rely on you. I’ve sent the maid to take the baby for a walk.’

She ushered Clara quickly up the stairs and into her dressing room.

‘I have it ready for you. Here.’

Magda felt under the blotter on the desk and withdrew a letter. The expensive cream notepaper was covered in curious stubby letters, like nothing she had seen before.

‘Is it in code?’

Magda gave a strange guttural laugh. ‘That’s Hebrew. You didn’t expect that, did you? My stepfather taught me. Victor always liked that about me.’

She folded the letter, then folded it again with precision, as though it was an elaborate piece of origami, whose perfect shape must echo the perfection of its sentiments. She stared at it a moment, then bundled it into a plain envelope. There was something else in there, something metallic, Clara saw.

‘Hide it, please. No . . . not in your bag.’ Her eyes scanned Clara thoughtfully. ‘In your brassiere please. Keep it there.’

Clara unbuttoned her dress, folded the letter awkwardly and placed it inside her bra, where it wedged uncomfortably next to her skin.

‘When do you want me to take it?’

‘Tomorrow night. Tomorrow is the Führer’s birthday. Everyone will be busy. You are to meet him at Brucknerstrasse 46, Steglitz. At seven o’clock. Repeat it.’

‘Brucknerstrasse 46, Steglitz. At seven o’clock.’

Her face was so pale it seemed almost translucent. A narrow blue vein throbbed down the side of her temple, like the tracery on a piece of fine porcelain.

‘And when you knock on the door, just say you’re a friend of Lisa.’

‘A friend of Lisa.’

‘He’ll understand.’

Clara decided to walk back to Frau Lehmann’s. She had adopted the practice of changing her routes around the city, trying to avoid patterns in the way that Leo had advised. Skirting the Kroll Opera House she proceeded along the northern side of the Tiergarten, barely noticing how far she was walking in the darkening streets.

As she went, she mulled the astonishing matter over in her mind. Magda was in love with a Jewish man. Magda, whose marriage and ambitions and entire life were founded on a violent antipathy to Jews, was in love with Victor Arlosoroff. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as such a surprise. After all, Magda’s stepfather, Richard Friedlander, was Jewish. The Friedlander household observed all the major laws and festivals of his faith. How was it then that Magda should now ally herself with someone like Goebbels? How did that angry and emotional woman come under the spell of such a violent and tyrannical man?

Magda did not, Clara was sure, share Goebbels’ relish for physical violence. Although Leo had said she had actively campaigned to have SA members freed when they were convicted of murder, it was hard to imagine her enjoying the scuffles in the streets, the smashed heads and brutal humiliation of the Jews. Yet she had been merely uninterested in the plight of Bruno Weiss. Could it be that Magda was merely yearning for drama in her life? If so, she certainly had it now. Magda Goebbels had all the drama she could ever want.

Clara was walking quickly. Her palms prickled with sweat and her dress was sticking to her back. One sharp edge of the envelope was digging into the flesh of her breast. She shook her shoulders to try to move it but she didn’t dare touch it. Not there in plain view. She would adjust it in the shelter of a shop front.

As she slowed to duck into the porch of a delicatessen, she heard the grunt of brakes and a saloon car pulled up alongside her. She barely had time to look around in the gloom before, with the engine still running, the driver sprang out. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, and he gestured as he opened the back door.

‘Get in please.’

A jolt of fear ran through her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Fräulein Vine, you are to come with me.’

So he knew her name.

‘What’s this about?’

The driver didn’t reply. He gestured again to the seat. Clara contemplated running but saw immediately that there would be no point, so she climbed inside. The car pulled out into the traffic. Her entire body was shaking.

‘Where am I being taken?’

The driver murmured something about “orders”. He was driving far too fast. They headed north, across a sullen canal, oily water glinting beneath a bridge, and she couldn’t help thinking of Rosa Luxemburg, shot and dumped in the depths of the Landwehr Canal and only dragged up four months later. They cut through badly-lit back streets, and she saw a prostitute in a doorway, arms wrapped round her chest to keep warm. They must be in the Moabit area, Clara calculated. Tall blocks loomed above and the belching stack of a factory sent clouds of soot into the air. She stared out in panic and tried to orient herself, or at least memorize the street names, but she had lost all sense of direction and guessed that the driver was taking a deliberately circuitous route, looping back on himself, to disorientate or torment her. It was too dark to see. She eyed the rolls of flesh on the neck in front of her.

‘On whose orders exactly?’

He must have heard her, but he said nothing. The iron railings of another bridge passed and Clara glimpsed a barge sliding beneath and rubbish floating on the inky water. The sign of an S-Bahn entrance flashed by, too fast for her to read. Through a street of cobbles they passed a man sweeping the pavement and a shopkeeper putting up the steel grille on his window. Then another stretch of canal and the halo of streetlights wavering in the mist. Clara had a mad impulse to wrest open the door and jump out, but dismissed it instantly. She would need to rely on her wits.

‘Am I being arrested?’

She caught a flicker of his eyes in the mirror, then nothing. She fell silent, feeling the powerful thrum of the well-oiled Mercedes beneath her, attempting to quell the dread that was rising within her. There was an acrid taste in her mouth, a sharp wash of adrenalin. What lay at the end of this journey? A cell, or something worse? And who would she contact for help, even assuming she was given the chance?

After perhaps twenty minutes the car slowed and drew up at the entrance of a building of pale stone, with arched Palladian windows. The driver held the door for her and then led the way up a flight of white steps. They entered a vast marble hall, crossed it, and Clara followed him up more stairs and down a long, ill-lit corridor, past rooms where, even at this hour, the clattering of typewriters could be heard. The driver kept a couple of steps ahead. Though he had uttered barely a word, he was enjoying this, just as he had enjoyed their unnecessary diversion around the backstreets. They reached some red-carpeted marble steps and came to a door. He put out his hand and took her handbag.

‘I’ll look after that.’

Then he knocked and gestured her inside.

The Reich Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda was sitting behind an enormous desk, wearing a dark suit and a natty pink and green striped tie in a wide Windsor knot. He sprang up with a smile.

‘Fräulein Vine, what a pleasure. Do come in. What do you think of my new headquarters?’

‘It’s very smart.’

‘Do you think so? I think it’s hideously old-fashioned. I detest all this damask and brocade and silk. So drab. I’m having it entirely redecorated by Herr Speer. Ocean liner style, he says. I want walnut veneers and smooth curves everywhere. And I want frescoes running along the tops of the walls. But it’s very slow going. A few days ago I got so frustrated I tore off a load of old plaster and wood lining and tossed it down the stairs. How can people work without light and air?’ He threw up his hands. ‘We’re also planning a theatre hall with state-of-the-art equipment for all the latest movies. You’d be interested in that. There have been some hitches with the electrical components apparently, but Speer possesses great technological wizardry. I’m a big believer in technology, aren’t you? I rather think technology can solve any problem, no matter how complex. Please sit down.’

He walked over to a cocktail tray, poured her a whisky and soda and came over to her with two glasses. He smelt strongly of pomade. She noticed the immaculate fingernails and thought again of the nail file in his study.

He leant back against his desk and said casually, ‘I understand there was a suicide of one of the Ufa actresses. A friend of yours. My condolences.’

Clara looked up at him, and felt her mask almost slip. How could he have heard so soon about Helga’s death? And, what was more, how could he know that she knew? He must have had her followed, that much was obvious.

‘You knew Helga, I think, Herr Doktor.’

‘Yes. As I said, I’m sorry.’

‘And do you think she committed suicide?’

‘I will await the police report, as we all must.’ He lit a cigarette and crossed his legs. ‘Though from what I heard she was a fantasist. Possibly that pointed towards some form of mental disorder.’

Clara sat rigidly. She knew it was better not to reply. He must know what she thought, yet it was essential she said nothing. Danger flickered from his skinny form like an electric spark from a wire. She wondered what he wanted of her.

‘I understand she jumped out of the window just as some storm troopers were coming to interview her about vicious gossip she had spread concerning the Führer. She was a girlfriend of Walter Bauer, I heard. Some men can be very zealous in their loyalty to our leader.’

‘I see.’

‘She was also known to fraternize with Jews and Communist criminals.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘On the other hand,’ he spread one hand, inspected the moons of his fingernails and blew lightly on them, ‘amongst all these theories, there will be people who say let her death be a warning. Perhaps that’s what happens to young women who don’t do as they should.’

His eyes held hers, steadily, as he waited for recognition to dawn on her. And when it did, Clara’s shock deepened to horror.

Helga hadn’t been killed because of her loose mouth and off-colour jokes. She hadn’t been murdered because she made fun of Hitler’s sex life or Goering’s weight or Goebbels’ crippled foot. It wasn’t even because she fraternized with a Jewish artist of Communist sympathies. If Clara read Goebbels’ implication correctly, the order for her death was a specific message to Clara herself. “Let her death be a warning.” But a warning about what?

While his message was sinking in, Goebbels stopped for a meticulous moment to pick a strand of tobacco from his teeth.

‘Commiserations aside, that’s not why I wanted to see you, Fräulein. I wanted to see you because I think you can help me.’

It was dark in the room. The chief source of light was the green shaded lamp on the desk. Goebbels’ shadow fell huge against the wall behind him. It was hard to make out his mood from the intonation of his voice.

‘I can help you, Herr Doktor?’

‘That’s what I said. It’s about my wife.’

‘Frau Goebbels . . .’

‘Indeed.’

He indicated a painting of Magda on the adjacent wall. It was a full-length official portrait, painted in the lush, idealized style that was popular with the Nazi leadership, and the spotlight above the frame caused Magda’s face to loom out like a ghost. Her complexion was milky and there were no shadows beneath her eyes. She was holding a spray of flowers and gazing radiantly towards some distant Nirvana. For some reason Clara heard a poem running through her head.

‘Magda likes you, I know,’ said Goebbels. ‘She’s told me. She trusts you. But you need to understand she’s frail. She’s not herself sometimes.’

‘She takes on a lot of work,’ said Clara carefully.

‘Yes, yes. As must we all.’

‘What with the baby and all her social duties, and then the Fashion Bureau.’

‘I’m not sure how long I’ll allow her to carry on with that.’

‘But Herr Doktor, I thought it was the Führer’s own wish?’

‘Let’s just say I’m not sure it’s proper for the First Lady of the Reich to be gallivanting around with film actresses and people of low morals.’

Was this meant to include her? Everything he said seemed double–edged. He flashed her his famous broad smile. It was impossible to tell.

‘You need to understand that my wife has had a difficult life. She had an unhappy marriage in the past and she became prey to people who took advantage of her. Sometimes she feels obligations to people which she doesn’t really need to fulfil, but she is easily pressured and has a very high sense of duty. The thing about her is . . . she’s all too quick to see the good in people. She’s often blinded to their faults. Now that can be an admirable quality – as a husband I have benefited from her generous nature myself – but I don’t feel the same about other people. In fact, if I discovered that someone was deceiving her, I don’t know what I’d do.’

‘Deceiving her?’

‘Yes. And I have reason to think that may be happening. Do you understand what I am referring to?’

His voice now carried an undertone of menace. He scanned her face intently. Into Clara’s mind the face of her sister came, that afternoon a long time ago. Angela’s warning.

“
Don’t talk about being an actress. 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
.”

Clara’s face barely flickered. Though her heart was pulsating so hard that it was making her chest shake, she kept her eyes steadily on his.

‘I can’t imagine what you mean, Herr Doktor.’

‘What I mean is, I have suspicions that someone is taking advantage of my wife for disreputable ends. If I discovered that was happening . . . well, let’s just say, I would not tolerate it.’

Averting her gaze, Clara glanced out of the window. Some lights were burning in the Chancellery, where a few dedicated secretaries worked on late into the night, processing the burgeoning bureaucracy of the new Reich. Down the hall the distant peck of a typewriter could faintly be heard. But most people had packed up for the day. In the cavernous room she felt acutely alone. How much did Goebbels know? Did he know about Arlosoroff’’s deception, or about Clara herself? He was having her followed, that much was obvious by the fact that the car had been able to waylay her, so did he know she was deceiving his wife? Yet if he did, surely she would not be sitting here in his office calmly sipping a whisky and soda? Surely she would be lying crumpled on a street like Helga, or bleeding by the side of the road after a car accident, or sinking slowly beneath the foul waters of a Berlin canal.