The Pursuit of Pearls (24 page)

“Not just that.” A dry laugh. “He's masterminding the cultural audit of Paris.”

“What does that mean?”

“All these questions, Clara Vine. Your curiosity is extraordinary.”

“I'm interested.”

“Fair enough. I'll tell you. We're bureaucrats, we Nazis, you see. That's where we excel. Some of the best works in the world are in Jewish hands—all the rich families, the Rothschilds, the Wildensteins, the Seligmanns. Rosenberg's scouts are finding where the Jews live and marking down their addresses. Paris is crawling with art experts, art restorers, art packers, catalogers. It's the same all round Europe. Inventories are being made of every important object of artistic and cultural value. Not just paintings but sculptures, furniture, tapestries, bronzes, carpets, antiques, jewels.”

“Jewels?”

He's been cheated out of a jewel. He's looking for it high and low, and God help anyone who gets in his way.

Adler shrugged. “Everything. It will all be noted and entered in a ledger just in case the Reich needs to acquire it.”

“Just in case.”

“As you say. Just in case.”

“So the people at the Louvre…?”

“The French are working overtime sending all their museum works to châteaus and other places in the countryside. They think they can hide things, but they'll never outwit Rosenberg. His spies know precisely where the valuable things can be found.”

Clara could scarcely believe she was hearing this. She tried valiantly not to look around her, to see if they were being overheard, until she realized that these comfortable burghers, with their great steins of frothing beer and their plates of heaven and earth—clouds of mashed potato with black pudding—probably agreed with Adler. The riches of a foreign country would sit far better in the Reich.

“So France will be relieved of her art if the country is invaded.”

Adler gave a casual shrug. “Is it any different from what Napoleon did? He was the greatest art thief in history. And what about your Elgin Marbles? The glories of the Parthenon carried off to London. Beautiful objects will always be desired by the powerful. They will be well treated, appreciated. Loved even.”

“And you're one of Rosenberg's spies.”

“God, no!”

“He seemed to want to speak to you pretty urgently that night.”

“As I told you, I was advising on a collection…On which subject…” Adler had recovered his composure and his eyes were mellow again, dancing with amusement as though everything that passed between them was a game. “I mentioned I was in Paris to see beautiful things, and as it happens”—he reached to his side—“I did come across something beautiful.”

He brought a minute parcel from his pocket. It was a burgundy leather box, with the name Cartier tooled in gold. Adler flicked the little catch to display its glinting contents sitting snugly on snow-white linen and pushed the box across the table towards her. Two sparkling diamond studs set in bright, buttery gold. A shaft of sun lit the stones like a lick of flames at their core.

“Like fire behind ice. They reminded me of you.”

“I can't possibly.”

He swept a nonchalant hand. “I was inspired by those pearls you wore the other evening. You seemed a woman who suits fine jewelry.”

“I couldn't accept them.”

“I hoped you might see them as by way of apology. For inconveniencing you. On the bridge.”

Quietly, she said, “I don't think diamonds are the answer to that.”

“It's a gift, but if you find it inappropriate, then really, no matter.”

“I'm sorry.” She slid the box back across the table.

“As you wish.” He picked it up and replaced it in his pocket.

She felt a surge of panic. Had her rebuff angered him? Knowing what he did about her, she would be mad to provoke him.

“Shall we go?” He was rising from the table and reaching for his crop. “There's something I'd like to show you.”

Adler strode ahead of her out of the
Biergarten,
remounted, and led the way farther into the wood.

It was darker here. The pale sky was lanced with branches, and in the complicated shadows, deer skittered away through the brushwood. They continued as the bridleway narrowed, forcing them to duck beneath low-hanging trees with fists of fungus protruding from their trunks. The air tasted of dusk and decay. Dark-dappled birds flashed out of the boughs in a rustle and shiver of leaves, and in the claustrophobic gloom, all you could sense was the dank aroma of moss and soft, rotten mulch underfoot. Clara could not help thinking of Lottie Franke and how, just a few miles from here, her body had been found.

Suddenly, the trees cleared and an expanse of lake lay ahead. On the far bank it was possible to see a large white villa, modeled in old Tyrolean style with red roofs and formal, well-cultivated gardens. Adler dismounted and tethered his horse to a low branch. Clara followed suit.

“That's my home.”

“It's beautiful. And very isolated.”

“There's no one there apart from my housekeeper and my dogs.”

“Were you ever married?”

“More questions, Clara.”

“You're quite happy to question me.”

“No, then. Never married.”

“Don't you get lonely?”

“I like it that way.”

He turned towards her and reached out. “Perhaps you'd like to see it someday.”

He leaned to kiss her, but she averted her face so that his lips merely brushed her cheek. Undeterred, he put his hands round her waist, pulled her roughly towards him, and tipped her face up to his.

“Don't tell me some part of you doesn't desire this.”

Shock made her laugh, but she could hear the bubble of fear beneath.

“I can't imagine why you would think that.”

“Can't you? I thought you were different from the others, Clara. Do you want me to play some complicated game, to court you with flowers and violins?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Because I'm not like that. If something pleases me, if it gives me pleasure to look at, then I say so. If I like it, I make that clear. I may be much older than you, but I sense we're both realists. We're both capable of taking what we want.”

“This is not what I want.”

He frowned, as if her refusal was some ancient philosophical problem that he was determined to solve.

“There must be someone else then. But he's not in evidence. Let me think. He must be married to another woman. Are you one of those actresses who have to make do with the scraps of a married man's attention? Or delude themselves that he will ever leave his Frau and his
kleinen Kindern
. Who live out their lives waiting for the telephone to ring, losing out on their own hopes of happiness? Take a lesson from Frau Goebbels. You've heard the gossip. A woman is capable of making her own romantic decisions.”

“This man isn't married.”

“But he's not here, is he?”

“No.”

“Nor, I assume, is he married to you?”

Clara passionately did not want to tell him any more. She had been crazy to give away any details about her personal life. Any scrap of information was enough for the Gestapo to work on. Like a single drop of blood to a hungry predator, the smallest detail was enough for them.

He was staring down at her, arms crossed, eyes drilling into hers. “I'm not sure I believe in this phantom lover of yours. I don't believe in ghosts.”

“He does exist.”

“What's his name then?”

Leo.
His name leapt into her mouth, but Clara could not give it breath. Instead she said, “It doesn't matter.”

“You don't swallow all that nonsense about there only being one person, one soulmate, do you? It's a delusion, you know.”

“Not to me.”

“You're far too intelligent to fall for all the nonsense about love. That kind of thing is only fit for the script of
Love Strictly Forbidden
. You know as well as I do that's not for adults. Human emotions are entirely untrustworthy. I, for one, have never been in love and I don't intend to start now.”

He was smiling, yet she could see from the bruised eyes and the way his fingers flicked that her refusal had bothered him.

He paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Perhaps I could think of a bargain,” he said lightly, taking her hand. “If you become my mistress, no one would need to know that you were Jewish.”

Instantly all Clara's fear was turned to a scalding fury. Any attraction he had ever roused in her evaporated. She wrenched her hand away. “If that's what you think I am, why would you want a Jewish mistress?”

He looked at her impatiently. “I told you. I don't care about race. Pedigree. I thought you realized.”

“What would that relationship be worth, if you bought it at a price?”

“Everything comes at a price. Even the greatest art is traded in the marketplace like bread or eggs.”

“And you think human beings have a price?”

“Don't be a fool, Clara. Of course they do. I'm proposing a bargain. We all make bargains in our lives. I'm not a savage. I don't want to force you into something against your will. That would be beneath my dignity.”

“So is making threats against me!”

He lifted a hand to touch her cheek, and she jerked away.

“You can't want a woman under these circumstances. What about love, or affection?”

He shrugged. “Just words.”

An image flickered through her mind. Something she had not thought of for years. Her brother Kenneth's collection of butterflies. Ken had been obsessed with butterflies. He'd collected them throughout one summer—red admiral, cabbage white, purple emperor—and once they had expired he stuck them with pins into a frame. As a girl she had shuddered to see those tiny fragments of beauty, designed to be seen only in a transitory flutter, fixed forever, the dust on their scalloped, intricately patterned wings offered up to the most analytic gaze. That was what she meant to the bored, cultured Conrad Adler. A pretty specimen to be studied and admired, but imprisoned by compromise and circumstance.

Ducking out of his arms, she sprang back onto her horse, turned his head sharply, and spurred him to a canter. The horse responded willingly, flying much too fast through the difficult forest terrain until a bird whirring up from the brushwood caused him to startle and he shied forcefully to one side, wrenching her loose from the saddle. There was a blur of brambles and a sharp scratch of thorns before the jolt of collision sent pain splintering down her shoulder and arm and a shower of dank earth in her face.

Instantly Adler was at her side. As he hauled her up with one hand, the sardonic, jousting manner was gone.

“Are you all right?” His eyes were serious and concerned.

“Yes. I think so.”

He caught her horse's reins and slung them across a branch, then squatted beside her.

“Rest a minute. Lean against my arm. Take a while to recover.”

The shock of the fall had momentarily dazed her. She leaned back against him, grateful for his reassuring solidity, and when he touched a tentative hand to her forehead, she did not resist. A minute passed as the blood returned to her head and her heart slowed. The quiet of the forest surged around them, birds scuffled in the undergrowth and dust and leaf mold spangled the sunlight where it filtered through the high trees.

He had slender hands, the hands of a pianist or an artist or a surgeon. Hardly the hands of a member of Himmler's elite. But then, what were the hands of an Obersturmbannführer supposed to look like? Delicately he traced a lock of her hair away from her brow and with infinite gentleness turned her face towards him. Yet already the old, sardonic smile was back in place.

“You should think about it, Clara. After all, I'm not a ghost. I have the great advantage of being flesh and blood.”

S
he had lived all her life in Berlin, yet Hedwig had never set foot in the Admiralspalast, even though it was everything she loved. With its scrolly Expressionist façade, it was the biggest and brashest of the fantasy palaces that lit up Friedrichstrasse's theater district. The Admiralspalast was a great baroque barn of a place, seating twenty thousand people for a repertoire that included dance acts, operetta, magicians, and every aspect of light entertainment. It was probably the last place on earth that Jochen would want to visit, so it was with a mixture of astonishment and delight that she heard he had tickets for the Saturday evening show.

That night an eager queue wound along the street. Theater attendance was up this season. Everyone was trying to escape the worries of the present—the continual daily niggles of what the next meal might resemble and, when they'd eaten it, how to look presentable enough to go out. And once they'd gotten there, whether the gaudy signs and blinking neon billboards of the theater might be plunged into darkness if war arrived in a few months. Just then, all anyone wanted was to get lost in a few hours of romantic nonsense, and that evening's variety performance perfectly fitted the bill.

Standing beneath the pillared entrance, her face dappled emerald and ruby in the flashing lights, Hedwig shuffled her feet and hoped Jochen would not be much longer. Her legs ached. All day the Faith and Beauty girls had been practicing waltzes for the Goerings' ball. Their own ball dresses—white taffeta and silk with blue sashes—were not yet finished, so they were wearing gym uniforms, which only seemed to make the waltz practice more ridiculous, and the routine was being supervised by Fräulein von Essen, whose hefty form was more at home on an alpine hike than pirouetting around a dance floor.

Waltzes were what the Führer loved best, due to his Austrian heritage, and not only would the Führer actually be present at the ball but there was a chance that one of the Faith and Beauty girls would be asked to dance with him. Even the thought of that made Hedwig rigid with horror. If the Führer's gaze fell on her, would she have the courage to go through with it, or would her legs simply give way beneath her? She consoled herself with the knowledge that Fräulein von Essen would regard the partnering of Hedwig and Hitler with precisely the same horror, and would ensure that if there was any line of female partners for the Führer, Hedwig would be at the back of it.

Especially after that morning's practice. Hedwig had been partnering Hilde, one of the prettiest and most graceful of the Faith and Beauty girls, with a doll's delicate, creamy complexion and a glossy crown of braids. It was bad enough that Hedwig had two left feet, but Hilde's skill made everything worse. A couple of Kripo detectives, part of the investigation team for Lottie's murder, had loitered at the doorway ogling and making ribald remarks, but the sensation of the policemen's eyes on her had made Hedwig trip on Hilde's feet, and even from the other side of the room she could hear the detectives' snorts of laughter.

She gazed anxiously up the street. Friedrichstrasse was thronged with people. The crowds flowed seamlessly between those returning from work and others setting out for an evening's entertainment. Trams screeched, people jostled, and neon dazzled all around them. The show was due to start in less than five minutes, and Jochen was nowhere to be seen.

I was going to ask you something.

Every night since he had said that, she had lain awake, puzzling over it, cherishing it like some delicious secret, wondering what it might be. Or, more precisely, what her decision would be, because she had guessed already what Jochen was going to ask.

He was planning for them to elope. The idea sent a thrill through her, even as she mentally shied away from the daring it would entail. How would she pluck up the courage to leave the home she had known all her life? There would be more work for her mother without help in the kitchen, let alone with all the boys. Yet also there would be one less mouth to feed, and with the apartment so crowded, they could use the extra space. But how could she leave the children? How would darling Kurt, with his sleepy smile and milky breath, cope without her? Kurt was more like her own child than her brother. What would it do to him if she suddenly disappeared?

Despite these dilemmas, Jochen's proposition had come as a welcome distraction. It was the only thing diverting her from endless brooding about Lottie's death.

“Sorry I'm late, Hedy. Work.”

He broke into her dreams with a gust of cold air and a rough kiss on the cheek. He had his briefcase in one hand, and with the other he took hers and tugged her through the throng. “We have precisely two minutes.”

They edged their way in and settled in a row at the front of the stalls, waiting for the luxurious swags of purple velvet to rise and reveal the stage.

“What have you been doing?” he whispered.

“Practicing for Reichminister Goering's ball.”

“Sounds interesting.”

He was being polite. That was another change. Jochen had been in a difficult mood lately, and much as Hedwig tended to attribute all problems to her own deficiencies, she knew it was more likely the stress of work. His company had been working overtime making anniversary editions of
Mein Kampf,
and Jochen was an important part of that process, crafting the elaborate medieval-style frontispiece for each edition in Gothic writing, replete with swirls of black ink, oak leaf swags, and fat little cherubs at the margins.

“It's not just dancing. We're having to practice conversation. They say it's important that the Prince of Yugoslavia gets a good impression of Germany.”

Most girls could barely lift their thoughts above their families and their favorite movies, but Faith and Beauty girls needed to understand the currents that motivated world affairs.

“Apparently Russia holds a Bolshevik dagger at Germany's throat but Prince Paul can help the Führer restore balance to Europe.”

“And how exactly will he manage that?”

“I can't remember.”

Hedwig was sketchy on the details because she had lost all ability to concentrate. Every visit to the Faith and Beauty home these days filled her with apprehension. Everything had changed. The place was buzzing with policemen, shouldering their way through the corridors, building a picture of Lottie's last hours. A pair of detectives had even come into the art class and hauled Herr Fritzl out for questioning. Hedwig couldn't help thinking that his face, chalky with fright, had resembled one of the pieces of Degenerate art he was so eager to condemn.

“They read a speech from Reichsführer Himmler. He says he wants us to be
hohe Frauen,
sublime women. We're going to be trained in several languages, as well as debating and chess.”

“So I'm taking out a sublime woman, eh? I don't need Heini Himmler to tell me that.”

She could feel the undercurrent of laughter in his voice. Not derisive mockery, like the Kripo men, but affectionate amusement.

The lights darkened, and she shuffled down in her seat as the chorus line came on. A variety show always started with the chorus. The orchestra struck up
“Dein ist mein ganzes Herz,”
the song that Richard Tauber had sung to Marlene Dietrich in
The Land of Smiles
. “You Are My Heart's Delight.” It could hardly be more perfect. Hedwig reached across to Jochen and felt his warm fingers stroke the back of her hand.

Even though they were dressed in feathers and tulle, the girls performed with as much military discipline as any storm trooper in the Führer's birthday parade. When they goose-stepped, turned, bent, and regarded the audience through their parted legs, Hedwig expected to feel Jochen stiffen with distaste, but instead he was transfixed. It was a revelation to her that he might like dancing. She hoped he never wanted to dance with her.

The girls changed costumes and returned dressed as red Indians with strategically placed feathers preserving what little modesty they possessed. Watching Jochen more closely out of the corner of her eye, Hedwig realized that, despite their shapely legs and high kicks, it was not the dancers who had captured Jochen's attention but the orchestra. And in particular, one member of the orchestra. Following his gaze, she saw a stunningly lovely brunette playing lead violin, her instrument clenched beneath her chin and her bow sawing the air with febrile energy. She must have been in her early twenties, her thick hair bundled up like a ballerina's from a face that acted as a mirror to the passions of the music, by turns grave and joyful. Jochen was studying the girl with intensity; it was as though all the dancers, musicians, the theater audience, and even Hedwig herself did not exist.

A blind surge of jealousy erupted in Hedwig. Early in their relationship she had coaxed out of Jochen the dismaying news that he preferred brunettes to blondes, except in her case. Now, she knew, he was reverting to type.

WHEN THEY EMERGED FROM
the theater two hours later, Friedrichstrasse was glinting with a thin sheen of water, the puddles rippling with speckled light. People jostled for cabs and flung up their umbrellas. Others huddled into their fur collars and turned down the brims of their hats. To her surprise Jochen seized her hand and ushered her around the corner into the dank alley to the theater's stage door.

“I just need to see someone for a moment. Don't mind, do you? It's work.”

“Work?”

His face was shuttered in the way that brooked no argument. “I'll be out in a moment.”

Hedwig stood mutely beneath the misty light of the stage door, trying to keep out of the rain and to prevent herself being engulfed in a wave of misery and outrage. How could Jochen bring her to the theater if his true interest was some brunette who played the violin? Did he imagine she wouldn't notice? Or did he think she was the kind of doormat who would tolerate some amorous adventure when he was supposed to be on a date with her? She heard her mother's voice again, with its knowing, cynical ring.

There's something about him I don't trust.

Less than two minutes later he was back, briefcase under one arm.

Hedwig walked stiffly, trying to transmit her unhappiness through silence, but Jochen actually preferred walking without conversation, so eventually she said, “What was all that about?”

“All what?”

His mouth was a tight line, and his jaw was set like rock. As they dodged the crowds pouring out of theaters and cinemas into the evening's drizzle, he increased his stride.

“The girl in the orchestra. I saw you watching her. Then you went to meet her, didn't you?”

“You're not jealous, surely.” He gave a little humorless laugh.

He was walking fast. Hedwig had to do a little skip to keep up.

“Why did you see her?”

There was an even longer silence, so that she feared he was furious. Part of her longed to abandon the matter entirely, although another part insisted that she discover everything. After a while he said, fiercely, “You don't want to ask these questions. You won't like the answers.”

“Just tell me!”

They had proceeded as far as the Gendarmenmarkt, where the gray stone Concert House was flanked by two matching cathedrals, the French and the German. The plinth where the bust of Schiller, Germany's Shakespeare, had stood for generations was still empty, the sculpture having been removed a few years previously on account of his newfound degenerate status.

Still Jochen stared ahead, saying nothing. Something intense and dangerous loomed between them. Hedwig didn't care anymore about the rain that blurred her spectacles and mingled with her tears. She didn't know where they were heading, or why the man she loved was behaving in this cruel and unfamiliar fashion. Her voice choked in her throat.

“Jochen?”

Eventually he replied. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

She nodded weakly. She didn't trust herself to talk.

“All right. I'll tell you. Her name is Sofie. We meet every Tuesday.”

“Do you love her?” she asked, in a small, stricken voice.

“Sofie has nothing to do with you and me.”

“I asked if you loved her.”

“I admire her, certainly.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Some time.”

“And where do you meet?”

“Her father has a villa in Dahlem.”

It was everything Hedwig feared. Her beloved Jochen was in love with a clever, rich, beautiful woman. A woman whose family lived in Dahlem, which was so far from Moabit in its social status it might as well have been Timbuktu. No social graces Hedwig could ever learn at the Faith and Beauty school—no amount of ballroom dancing, or flower arranging or chess—could match the social status of a girl named Sofie who lived in a villa in Dahlem.

“And does she take you there?”

“Yes. For dinner. Her family know all kinds of artists, politicians, and priests. Important people. They talk about literature—Brecht, Schiller. Other people I've not heard of.”

A conflict of emotions warred in his face. “A lot of them are aristocrats, bohemians. Not my sort. But their hearts are in the right place. And the main thing is…”

He stopped, turned to her, and moved his face very close. “They all hate the Nazis.”

His words floated quietly on the night air, like a hiss.

“Some of them hate National Socialist politics, but others just consider the Nazis ill-bred. Rich people think like that, you know, but being smart works in these people's favor. No one believes a family like Sofie's could have money and still belong to the KPD.”

The KPD
. The banned German Communist Party. Hedwig's heart sank like lead. Mutti had been right.

“Are you a Communist?” she whispered.

It was not a word she ever used. It felt as bitter in her mouth as a lump of shrapnel. Communists were never mentioned at home, except as a curse. Bolsheviks were Germany's worst fate, it said on the radio. The Jew devil.