Black Roses (9 page)

She slipped along the corridor to the front hall. Out on the drive a number of Brown Shirts lounged, keeping guard over the entrance and an eye on the cars, taking the opportunity for a quick cigarette. But no sooner had she wandered through the door than a black Mercedes limousine, with long curving fenders, tubular exhausts and polished chrome headlights, glided towards her and the driver leapt out to open the door. Behind her she heard the crunch of gravel and Müller appeared at her shoulder.

‘Fräulein Vine, you’re not leaving already, surely? Were you not enjoying yourself?’ His voice was heavy with irony. ‘Let my driver take you home.’ He gestured to the car. ‘Please.’ It was not a question, but a command.

She had no choice. Embarrassed that she had so obviously been leaving without telling him, she nodded, and climbed into the car as he held the door open, and then her heart sank as he climbed in alongside her.

The car smelt of tobacco and expensive new leather, and the mottled walnut dashboard gleamed. As they swept west through the dark streets, the shadowy mass of the Tiergarten to each side, she saw the driver’s eyes flick towards her in the mirror. His neck was pink and raw, a thick, shaven sausage. She could feel Müller regarding her with jocularity, as though he saw something ridiculous in her clumsy attempt to escape.

‘The Herr Doktor certainly knows how to throw a party, don’t you think?’

‘The house is very impressive,’ she said noncommittally.

‘Ach, the man is a genius. He has such an eye for colour. It was he who chose the red for our banners, when everyone else wanted a dull black. He understands aesthetics, you see. That’s why he’s so interested in film. Unfortunately,’ his eyes slid towards her knowingly, ‘he is also very interested in film actresses.’

‘I hope Helga’s all right.’

‘To me it looked like she was getting on just fine.’

‘His wife seemed a little unhappy.’

‘I doubt it. The Frau Doktor adores cultural conversation.’

‘Was tonight what passes for cultural conversation? Discussing how there are too many Jews in the cinema?’

He smiled tightly. ‘You are rather hasty in your judgements, Fräulein. This is politics, you understand.’

‘Are you a politician, Doktor Müller?’

He exhaled thoughtfully, as though she had posed an interesting philosophical question.

‘I suppose I am really. I qualified in law originally. But I didn’t practise for long. My uncle wanted me to take over his business.’

‘What was his business?’

‘He produced magazines and newspapers. It was very profitable, though he published nothing you’d have heard of. Trade papers, mostly. Hardly the
Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung
.’ He leant towards her, mock confidentially, ‘though not
Der Stunner
either.’

‘Yet you’re in uniform tonight,’ she said, looking at his buttoned brown jacket and tie, and his cap, on which a silver eagle spread its wings.

‘I’m proud to be.’ He ran a hand down his breeches. ‘Until recently this uniform was banned, if you can believe it.’

‘But if you’re not a soldier, why would you want to look like one?’

He folded his arms and looked at her quizzically. ‘You dislike the military, don’t you, Fräulein Vine? Let me tell you, if Hitler had not come to power there would be half a million lying dead in the streets.’

‘I’m not sure I understand . . .’

‘You can’t understand because you haven’t lived here.’ His voice hardened. ‘You haven’t seen what the Communist rabble can do. I have. When it was at its worst, after the war, you couldn’t drive down the Ku’damm without some mob attacking the car. The Reds were everywhere. They shot my father.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was 1921. He was in the Freikorps. So now I’d give my life’s blood to exterminate Bolshevism. In fact, if every Communist in Germany was lying dead in the streets, I couldn’t be happier. But what? You seem surprised? Why?’

‘It’s not the way people talk in England.’

‘Oh, England.’ His contempt was withering. ‘I’m sure it’s different in England. England is rich, she has her empire, she has the luxury of moralizing. But don’t fool yourself. That British Empire of yours was built on war too. War, oppression and blood.’

The combination of his words, uttered so scathingly, and his uniform with its hard ridged leather and glossy knee boots lazily extended, was chilling. Clara watched him out of the corner of her eye as the bars of sodium from the streetlights slid across his face. He took out a cigar and lit it, letting the thick, noxious smoke envelop the car.

‘Perhaps my words seem harsh. But you’re much younger than I am, Fräulein, so it’s harder for you to see. How can I forget hauling a suitcase of notes to the baker’s shop to buy bread? Or my mother arguing with swindling Jews when she tried to pawn her rings?’

He was looking out of the window pensively. ‘Since the war our country has been bleeding to death and the Communists have tried to throttle what life remains. We’ve been weak, but now we’re going to be strong again.’

‘You seem very certain.’

‘I am. It’s our time now. The Führer has a description. He says he is building up our country again like a stonemason builds a cathedral. The people are his stone. A mason needs to cut sometimes, to shape his art. But the result will be beautiful.’

‘People lying dead in the street doesn’t sound especially beautiful to me.’

She saw his jaw tense and a muscle ripple in his cheek.

‘Perhaps, Fräulein, you need to see a bit more of Germany before you jump to your conclusions.’

‘And perhaps you should see a bit more of England before you jump to yours.’

There was a silence, like a sharp intake of breath, and then he laughed delightedly. ‘Maybe you will be my teacher. In fact, to tell the truth, I have a great admiration for England. As do all of us in the Party.’

He leant forward and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder.

‘Fräulein Vine will be joining me for a nightcap before she goes home.’

His words sent a prickle of anxiety through her. It was one thing to attend a party with a man like this, but to visit his home? Already the car was drawing up in a square of tall apartment buildings, and the driver was jumping out to open her door. She followed Müller out warily. No one, she need not remind herself, knew she was here. A shiver of sexual apprehension stirred beneath her skin. She looked around, but the square was dark and there were few passers-by. The chauffeur smirked, as though smirking was part of the uniform.

Müller opened the door of his apartment and ushered her inside. He lit a lamp to reveal a gloomy, high-ceilinged drawing room papered in green stripes, with a piano at one end and dusty velvet curtains drawn. A spiky pot plant withered silently in a corner. While he went over to a drinks trolley and poured from a decanter, Clara looked at the photographs on the piano. There was a picture of a small, plain woman wearing a dirndl, with plaits like ear muffs and an alpine scene in the background. In the foreground a giant Alsatian drooled at the camera.

‘My wife, Elsa,’ he said shortly. ‘And our dog, Rolf.’

‘Where is your wife now?’

‘I am a widower. She died in ’26, in a tram collision. She was on her way to see a doctor because we could not have children.’ He gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Hence I have no children.’ He handed her a cut-glass tumbler, glinting amber.

Clara sipped it, feeling the brandy burn her throat. His mention of his wife had exposed a crack of vulnerability in his grandiloquent demeanour. He gestured to a capacious leather chesterfield, but she chose an armchair, so he plumped himself down on the sofa instead, crossed his legs and spread his arms expansively along the back.

‘You seem wary of me, Fräulein. There’s no need. I’m nothing like my acquaintance Herr Bauer, whatever your friend may have told you.’

‘She told me nothing.’

He gestured to the photograph of his wife. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well we had no children. The Party takes up all my time now. Tell me, is there a fiancé back in England for you? Or a boyfriend?’

‘Not any more.’

‘I’m surprised.’ He lit two cigarettes and gave her one. Then he flung off his cap, took off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. She glimpsed a curl of dark hair below his throat and caught the scent of lime cologne, mingled with cigars. There was something intensely masculine about this apartment, with its well-used drinks trolley, its drab furniture and musty undertow of loneliness. She hoped he wasn’t going to start confiding in her. She didn’t want to relax in his company for a second.

‘So tell me about this
Schwarze Rosen
. What kind of film is it? Not another one of those gloomy murder stories you were saying you liked?’

‘No, actually. It’s a historical costume drama. About a young woman who falls in love with a soldier.’

‘Now that sounds much more my sort of thing! Call me bourgeois, and I don’t pretend to know anything about art, but I’d say Germany is well rid of all those creepy dramas about insane murderers and such like. Give me a love story any day, and a pretty actress with a figure, not one of those mannish skeletons who’ve become so fashionable.’ He winked at her and drained his glass. ‘There, I’ve said it. You’ll probably think me uncultured, but I’m only telling you what a man really likes.’

Clara shifted uneasily. The last thing she wanted to start discussing was Müller’s taste in women. She needed to change the subject.

‘About Frau Goebbels . . .’ The minister’s wife had been puzzling her all evening. There had been such a contrast between the glittering evening and her air of private misery. ‘Does she not enjoy parties?’

‘She should do. She gives them all the time. The Goebbels are famous for their receptions. In fact, the Führer spends most of his evenings with them, listening to the piano or watching movies.’

‘She looked unhappy.’

‘Unhappy? Really?’

‘She was rather cold.’

He laughed. ‘Ah, well, that’s true. No one needs ice in their schnapps when the Frau Doktor is around.’

‘Perhaps she just doesn’t like actresses.’

‘She sees enough of them. She always gets some actresses along for the Führer to provide feminine distraction from his work.’

‘She didn’t seem too friendly towards Helga.’

‘Well since you ask, I think your friend should watch herself. She seems the chatty sort. She should be careful. Especially with a man like Walter Bauer. Bauer is not known for his tenderness towards the fair sex.’

‘I’m sure Helga can take care of herself.’

‘That’s an admirable opinion. I hope it’s justified.’ Müller got to his feet and made for the drinks trolley. ‘But as for you, Fräulein Vine, don’t worry. I don’t think Frau Doktor Goebbels saw you as a mere actress. You are the daughter of Sir Ronald Vine and a welcome guest.’

‘A
mere
actress?’

He poured another schnapps for himself and smiled. ‘Well here in Germany acting is not a job one would wish one’s wife or daughter to undertake.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘But of course.’ He waved his glass expansively. ‘Only because we believe in better things for women. There is no objection to a young woman having a career, of course, but the proper place for a German woman is in the home.’

Clara was about to argue, but what was the point? It would only prolong their encounter. And it was no different from what Dennis believed. Briskly, she said, ‘As it happens, the producer I was expecting to meet hasn’t arrived yet. So I don’t have a part at the moment.’

‘Perhaps I might have a word with someone.’

‘But I don’t see how you . . .’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

His eyes lingered on her thoughtfully. ‘You know, despite what I said, you have a face that should be on screen. There’s a freshness about you.’

‘Thank you.’ Now was most certainly the time to leave. Clara reached for her fur wrap, but Müller placed a restraining hand on her arm. Up close, his breath had the sour, yeasty odour of cigars.

‘What I meant was, you have a purity that appeals to me.’

‘I’m sorry, I really do have to go. Frau Lehmann is expecting me.’

He smiled and offered her an ironic bow. ‘Of course. My driver will see you home.’

He walked to the door, but instead of allowing her through he stood in front of it. Her skin prickled. Despite the fur, she was shivering. Up close his acne-scarred neck looked like sand pitted with rain. He seemed huge and muscular in the semi-darkness. She knew he was using his physical bulk to intimidate her. Standing over her he suddenly reached out and tilted her chin towards him. She wondered what she would have to do if he tried to kiss her. He caught the look in her eyes, and held up his hands in mock surrender.

‘You look frightened, my dear Fräulein. Now tell me, what could you possibly have to be frightened of?’

The waitress had the body of a goddess and the eyes of a devil. Wearing a nude costume with silk fig-leaves sewn on strategic places, she pressed her chest against Leo’s as she passed, giving him a sly wink.

The Katakombe was Leo’s favourite club. It wasn’t anything to look at: a cramped underground den, crowded with wooden tables and a stage on which a variety of musical acts and sketches were performed. Crimson Chinese lanterns swung from the ceiling and the air was heady with the clash of cheap perfumes. The smoke was as thick as a London smog and the beer was indifferent. Your waitress might be a pretty girl, but was just as likely to be a six-foot male with a dress like Cinderella’s ugly sister and knuckles like a beer-house thug. Still, Leo liked it here.

There were any number of clubs like the Katakombe, most of them with lashings of straight or unconventional sex. There was the Blue Angel and the Tingel-Tangel, and most famous of all the Weisse Maus, where Anita Berber would perform her naked, drug-induced dances to an audience of spectators wearing black masks to conceal their identity. Excitement ran high, and if the spirit took you, for a few extra pfennigs a back room could always be secured for a sweaty, furtive consummation.

Seedy as they were, the clubs were a magnet for intellectuals and dissidents, artists and writers. The menu of satire, sketches and songs had enough of an edge to help people laugh at the reality outside them. Years before, back in the high days of Weimar, patrons would sip champagne as they laughed at the innuendo. But since then the luxury had worn thin, like the plush on the gilded chairs.