The Pursuit of Pearls (26 page)

The officiating officer began his talk—a brief drone centering on the responsibilities of SS marriage, including having at least four children and entering their names in the clan bible of the SS Sippenbuch—and after overseeing the exchange of silver rings engraved with runes, and gifts of bread and salt, he presented the happy couple with a copy of
Mein Kampf
.

Either the oppressive air of the wedding chamber or the ever-present fear of meeting Himmler was suddenly more than Clara could bear. The tension was making it hard to breathe. Turning tail, she slipped softly out of the door and headed down the corridor, trying to remember the way back to the north tower.

It was more complicated than she had imagined. After two wrong turns she found herself in a long brick corridor studded with doors that appeared to be offices. The passage was narrow and badly lit, and the icy walls themselves seemed to exude a sense of menace. She hesitated, wondering whether to turn back, when from the far end of the corridor came the crunch of boots and she hurried on, taking the next available turn and descending a flight of treacherous steps into depthless darkness.

It was a crypt of sorts, about fifteen meters wide, with spears of light lancing down through the narrow apertures onto twelve seats set into the walls. Each had a wall niche above it, and on the ceiling, a swastika extended its crooked arms. In a circular depression in the center of the room, an eternal flame flickered. She guessed at once that the twelve seats represented the twelve knights of King Arthur and the Round Table. A devotion to Wagner was compulsory among the Nazi elite. Hitler would stand on the balcony of the Berghof with the prelude to
Parsifal
playing on his gramophone. Goering had concocted his own Wagnerian fantasy in the shape of his hunting lodge, Carinhall. Even Goebbels claimed to love the composer and devotedly attended the annual Bayreuth festival. Himmler—intent on surrounding himself with a band of racially pure blood brothers, had chosen Wagner's Camelot as his personal obsession, but the future occupants of these seats would be no knights in shining armor.

Scanning the crypt, Clara detected at the opposite side a gap in the wall. It led to a spiral staircase of damp stone, and she made her way up countless winding steps until she felt the first breath of fresh air on her face and saw a glimmer of daylight ahead. By her calculation she was close to the battlements once more, but as she reached the top she was distracted by the sound of voices. She froze.

Leni Riefenstahl was standing with the falconer they had seen on their arrival. The hawk was hooded now, with a bell tied to its leg, and the falconer was running his finger down the bird's glinting plumage, tenderly stroking the feathers of its neck, as Leni engaged in a lively argument with two men. The men had their backs to Clara, but even from behind, the shaved skull, wide breeches, and black cap of the nearest would be unmistakable to any citizen of the Reich.

SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

Clara shrank back against the wall of the staircase as their conversation carried on the wind.

“I thought you understood, Fräulein Riefenstahl. Animals are prohibited in Reich filmmaking. Surely you of all people should know that?”

“I wasn't aware that birds were covered by that edict,” said Leni, with a sweetly furious smile.

“Of course, birds. I, of all people, understand the intelligence of birds. I ran a chicken farm for years. No German under my command will mistreat animals or birds or inflict any unnecessary suffering. I hope I can ensure that you will abide by these restrictions for the remainder of your stay.”

“Whatever you say, Herr SS Reichsführer.”

With a curt gesture to the man beside him, Himmler turned on his heel.

Clara found Leni cursing softly.

“Damn.”

“What was all that about?”

“I had a beautiful shot lined up with that hawk. It was to be the final image of the entire film. The brooding ancient walls, the sheer perfection of the lines of young men, then I pull focus to find a single hawk climbing upwards, eastwards, until it disappears into a rent in the clouds. The hawk symbolizes ambition, the future, the eternal quest of the Reich. But Himmler, of course, disapproves. He understands nothing about art. He says filming his wretched hawk constitutes illegal exploitation of animals.”

“Who was that man with him?”

“Oh, his masseur.” Leni rolled her eyes, good humor partially restored. “I know. Hard to imagine, isn't it?”

More than hard. The image of a prone Himmler, relaxing for a tender muscle rub, was inconceivable.

“Himmler was unbearable because he was in constant pain and no one could help him. His staff were beside themselves, until eventually someone discovered this man, Felix Kersten, who had studied Tibetan skills under a lama. Himmler was persuaded to try it, and fortunately for Herr Kersten, the treatment actually worked. Himmler was an instant convert, but the thing is, Kersten has to stay a big secret. That's why Himmler meets him here. He does everything he can to keep Kersten out of sight.”

“Why? Is he embarrassed?”

“Are you joking? Nothing could embarrass Himmler. No, he's terrified that Heydrich will find out and get hold of his medical details.”

“But Heydrich's his own deputy.”

“That means nothing. In Heydrich's mind, information is power. He has a locked safe that he refers to as his ‘poison cabinet,' where he keeps all his files on the senior men.”

Seeing Clara's face, Leni laughed and added: “Sounds crazy, doesn't it? But the fact is, all the top men are at each other's throats. Their true war is with each other. Goering hates Goebbels far more than he could possibly hate Poland, and you know how much the Goebbelses despise Himmler. Himmler is rivals with all of them. I never told you why I chose you for this part, did I?”

“You said I had the right face.”

“Of course, darling.” A smile of malicious pleasure. “But I could have chosen any number of actresses. It's not a difficult part, after all. And I knew Goebbels would not be too happy with the idea. But the reason I chose you was to annoy Himmler.”

The wind was battering their words away, so there was no danger of being overheard, but all the same Clara lowered her voice. “Why on earth would choosing me annoy Himmler?”

Leni chuckled like a girl revealing a conjuring trick. “Oh, he was terribly interested in you. I've overheard him asking about you, and I was curious because Himmler doesn't go for actresses, as you know. That's Goebbels's specialty. And despite all his windbaggery about Wagner, Himmler doesn't really have a cultural bone in his body. I despise him, actually.”

Clara looked down the battlements to the field below. The hawk was swooping again, rising high, then coming in like an arrow onto its prey. “And…you said it would annoy him if I had the part?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Why? What was he saying, when you overheard him?”

“Just inquiring about the rumors.”

“Rumors?”

A moment of pity softened Leni's sardonic features. As if explaining to a child, she said, “That you were in some way non-Aryan.”

Clara was frozen with shock. It explained everything. Magda's remark.
Someone has been saying some very unkind things about you.

“I wouldn't worry too much, Clara. There's nothing new about it. They're always discovering that someone might have Jewish roots. Goebbels started that smear about me, too, only he reckoned without my blessed Führer. He made his photographer, Hoffman, take a photo shoot of Goebbels and me walking together in my garden to scotch the rumors.” Leni's face brightened at the memory. “Anyway, the fact is I can't stand Himmler or his wretched Ahnenerbe, so choosing you was ideal. It's mischievous of me really, but I thought what a laugh it would be to cast Clara Vine as the symbol of Germany. Himmler couldn't object because the Führer has given me absolutely free rein, and besides…”

“Besides what?”

“They have nothing on you, do they? They must have gone over your background with a fine-tooth comb. If there was a drop of Jewish blood in you it would have leaked out by now.”

Tension was holding Clara's limbs together like steel cords, tighter than the most expert masseur could relax. She asked, “When you overheard him discussing me, who was he talking to?”

“It was at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. I try to keep away from that place, but I was called in a while ago so that Himmler could discuss this film with me. We were in Heydrich's office and Himmler and Heydrich were talking together and there was someone else there—that Ubersturmbannführer, Conrad Adler.”

“Adler?”

“D'you know him? Frightfully good-looking, but a bit of a mystery. I can't get on with him, to tell the truth, though they say he's a loyal member of the Party and he's worked for the Foreign Ministry for years.”

“He's at the Propaganda Ministry now.”

“With Goebbels? No. Adler's been assigned to Heydrich. That's why he was there. He's working on some special project. I've got no idea what it is, but it's terrifically hush-hush. I shouldn't even have mentioned it.”

TWO HOURS LATER THEY
had loaded up the trucks and Leni's Mercedes was making its way down the cobbled road out of Wewelsburg. The effort of trying to appear normal as she processed Leni's revelation was almost beyond Clara. Conrad Adler, the man who had approached her, who had asked such tender questions about her childhood, had taken her riding and propositioned her, was an acolyte of the head of the SD security service. Reinhard Heydrich, with his long equine face and hair shaved a savage three inches above his ears, was a sadist, pure and simple. Clara racked her brain to recall what Adler had specifically told her about his assignment and realized that, in fact, she had simply assumed he was working for Goebbels.
I'm on loan. Like a painting in a museum
. But if Adler was working for Heydrich, what was his interest in her?

The drive back would be long, but Leni was in high good humor. She leaned her arm out of the window, trailing a thin scarf of cigarette smoke in her wake.

“I've just had a message from the Führer. He's told me that Albert Speer is to set aside thirty thousand square yards in the new capital for the Riefenstahl Studios. All funded by the state! He's going to announce it next week. In fact…” She glanced across, beaming. “He's invited me to a film evening at the Chancellery. I have to go, so you might as well come with me. I'll put your name on the guest list. It's next week. Brace yourself, though. Goebbels may well be there, along with that ghastly wife of his. But the event will be useful. While we're there I can think about how to shoot the Führer.”

Clara gasped, and Leni glanced at her curiously.

“On film, of course.”

B
erlin was alive with rumors. The British prime minister had resigned. The Poles were about to attack. An illegal radio network called the Freedom Station had sprung up, moving its transmitter around Berlin to avoid detection. An atmosphere of nervous anticipation stalked the city like a living thing. The proximity of war made every goodbye more intimate, every kiss more intense, every friendship more important. At tram stops, in the bread queues, and amid the momentary knots of customers that coalesced round coffee stalls, conversation flowed between strangers. Yet while the talk was of foreboding, there was also excitement in the air. It eddied down the quiet residential streets of Schöneberg, rippled through the smart boulevards of Wilmersdorf and Charlottenburg, swirled round the dank tenements of Moabit and Wedding and Prenzlauer Berg. People felt part of something, even if it was not something they desired.

THURSDAY DAWNED HEAVY,
the sky stippled with cloud. There was no call for filming that day, so ostensibly Clara had the day free. By ten to one she was standing on Budapester Strasse outside the outlandish, spectacular Elephant Gate of Berlin Zoo. The gate, with its green turrets, red and gold arch, and kneeling sandstone elephants, could not be more of a contrast to the somber street architecture around it. It stood freakishly proud, a splash of Oriental color that jarred against the orderly grays and browns. It suggested that merely by entering, citizens could escape the gloom of Berlin for a more joyful, exotic world.

Clara felt it, too; the zoo was special to her. It was the place that Leo had first taken her to teach her the art of espionage, when she was a nervous ingenue and he a brusque passport control officer. And conflicted, as he later confided, that he was inducting a naïve young actress into peril she could scarcely comprehend. Since then she had visited numerous times with Erich, who would always head for the Gross Raubtiere Haus, eager to see the elegantly pacing lions and tigers, to marvel at the sleek jaguars and panthers. That was until he announced that he couldn't bear to see such magnificent animals caged and would never go again.

She bought a ticket and made her way along the meticulously planted beds of begonias and roses towards the animal enclosures. The zoo was a haven of peace in the city's heart, and just now it was at its most beautiful. The traffic fumes were replaced by a sweet mingled aroma of straw and dung. Two boys in lederhosen flashed past on scooters, threatening to scrape the shins of anyone foolish enough to get too close. A dog in a little overcoat waddled importantly along. A pair of excitable matrons were being hoisted onto an elephant, idly coiling his trunk as he waited to give his hourly ride. Clara threaded through the crowds wondering what would happen to these animals if bombing came. Were shelters being built for them, too?

He will find you.

Clara hadn't questioned Steffi's suggestion at the time, but now it seemed absurdly ambitious. Even on a weekday at lunchtime, the zoo was busy, and the visitor numbers were further swelled by the arrival of a gargantuan sea lion named Roland, whose appearance on the Ufa Tonwoche newsreel had granted him celebrity status. How could she begin to find a complete stranger here, especially if he was purposefully anonymous?

Her first thought was to head for one of the more distant animal houses. Surely the elephant house on the farthest edge, or the elegant ostrich enclosure, styled like an Egyptian temple, would be better suited to an assignation. And yet, if he had been seeking privacy, why had the man she was to meet chosen such a public place? Was it, perhaps, precisely because of the crowds? After a moment's deliberation she gravitated towards the milling throng that had gathered to watch the sea lion being fed.

It was a spectacle of high entertainment. Every time the keeper, armed with a bucket of sprats, dangled a tiny, silvery shimmer above the water, the sleek gray mass would rise abruptly, water sheeting from his sides, to a volley of delighted shrieks. The sea lion would then heave his three-ton bulk onto a rock and open his mouth. Predictably he had already been nicknamed Goering.

As Clara focused on the feeding ritual, wondering what to do, a flicker of movement wrenched her eyes upwards. A man leaning with his elbows on the far side of the rail, dressed in wide-legged trousers and a nondescript checked jacket, had glanced in her direction and adjusted his hat. He had a sharp-edged face, but the trilby's deep brim shaded his eyes as he stared, apparently absorbed, into the enclosure below.

At the back of her mind a memory stirred. There was something about that half-shaded profile she had seen before, but where? The image remained frustratingly unknown, floating free, without context, evoking only an uncomfortable frisson of unease.

Then she looked again, and recognition electrified her.

When she was a child she had adored puzzle books. Each Christmas her parents would give her a story album that was interspersed with games, crosswords, and picture puzzles. As she grew, she progressed to entire books of them, and one of her favorites was called
Spot the Difference
. It featured pairs of scenes with tiny changes that forced the eye to focus on fine detail. “A Sunny Day,” “On the Beach,” “At the Fair.” Two versions of Trafalgar Square but in one a man was carrying an umbrella and in the other he was empty-handed. Two identical jungles with a missing monkey in one of them. You knew if you looked closely, really closely, you would uncover aspects that had not at first revealed themselves. Comparing the man at the railing over and over with the image in her mind, Clara realized, with a jolt of horror, what was bothering her. That lean face, the eyes that deliberately avoided hers. It was the man she had found standing in the lobby of her apartment in Winterfeldtstrasse. The man who, she was convinced, was not sheltering from the rain.

Hovering at the back of the crowd, she fought the urge to walk away as fast as possible. Was this the man she was supposed to meet? If so, either the Gestapo had somehow discovered their plans and replaced Steffi's accomplice with their own person or the figure before her was genuine, and her assumption about him was wrong.

Even as she hesitated the man threw his cigarette stub down on the ground and peeled languidly away, as if motivated by nothing more than a casual desire for lunch. As he moved slowly towards the gate, Clara made up her mind to follow him.

Immediately outside, he headed towards a dark green bicycle leaned against the railing, mounted it, and proceeded slowly eastwards, along Budapester Strasse and across the Landwehrkanal, turning right towards Lützowplatz. Almost immediately he turned right again into Keithstrasse. Although the bicycle was proceeding slowly, Clara was forced to walk as fast as she could to keep up, and by the time he stopped outside a tall, brick-faced residential block, she was gasping for breath.

She lingered on a porch on the opposite side of the road, assessing the situation. The building was the type of multiuse block that could be found all over Berlin. An office on the ground floor, apartments above. A location with a floating population that afforded a certain amount of privacy from prying eyes, and where unfamiliar visitors would raise no eyebrows. The man dismounted and disappeared inside.

Clara glanced around her. The street was empty and there were no parked cars close by. A burst of laughter spattered out of an upper window; a radio buzzed farther off. Eventually, she knocked twice, preparing to ask for Herr Vogel if any other face answered the door. But it was the same man.

“You took your time. I was beginning to give up on you.”

He was young, now she saw him close up, and spoke with a rough accent, but his demeanor was shrewd and intelligent.

“It's hard following a cyclist.”

“It's safer than buses or trams. No one looking you up and down. You'd better come in.”

He led her down a dim tiled corridor through a door to a back room, containing only a couple of cheap wooden chairs and a table.

Clara looked around her.

“You know what I'm here for?” she asked.

“A
Kennkarte
and an
Ariernachweis
.”

“My documents fell into the Seine in Paris.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Use that as an excuse and it might get you points for originality.”

“It's true, as it happens.”

“It's of no concern to me, Fräulein, where you lost them. I'm here to replace them. I've already got the cards ready. All I need are photographs of you.”

She fished in her bag for the contact sheet shots that had been taken for the publicity for
Love Strictly Forbidden
. He surveyed them critically.

“Ideally we'd want one with no smile.”

“It's the best I can do.”

“They're not too bad.”

She recalled Leni's words.
Your face has a useful quality. It's a blank canvas. It's like I can project anything I want on it
.

The young man switched on the desk lamp and bent over a piece of card: an
Ariernachweis,
on which Clara's details had already been filled in. He took the photograph and placed it in the corner of the card, then fixed it to the pass with brass eyelets.

“It took ages to get these looking right. Eventually I found a cobbler who supplied me with the tool he uses to fix eyelets for bootlaces. It was perfect.”

He reached for a fine brush and a jar of purple dye and began painting on a separate piece of card.

“There are twelve long and twenty-four short feathers on the German imperial eagle, did you know that? The hardest thing is to get the correct color and shape.”

He continued working intently. His movements were as tender and delicate as if he were creating a Renaissance Madonna and Child, rather than an eagle and swastika. His face was closed, intent, inscrutable in the dim light. When he had copied the eagle, he took a piece of newspaper, dampened it with spittle, and pressed it down on the newly painted symbol, creating a mirror image on the newspaper. He then took the paper and pressed it onto the photograph of Clara.

“The stamp needs to project across the photograph. Now we'll have to give it a few minutes to dry.”

He sat motionless, as if expecting that she, too, would sit in silence beside him. But Clara had too many questions.

“Where do you get the passes to copy?”

“One of our supporters is a church pastor. Some of his congregation drop their expired ID passes into the collection box instead of money. They know how valuable they'll be. I've had all kinds, even Wehrmacht passes. The equipment I get from work. There's no shortage of brushes or paint there.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“That's only the beginning. Once we've given someone a new identity, we advise them to join a lending library and get a card with their new name on it. As many extra pieces of ID as possible.”

“So you can make anyone into anything?”

“Not at all. You need to match the face with the occupation. If I have a card which gives the occupation as kitchen cleaner, I can't hand that out to some smart lady whose husband owns a department store.”

“Are you busy?”

“It's constant. But time's running out. People are going to need more than ID documents. Jews here are trapped in a net. They need places to hide.”

“Or they need to leave Berlin.”

“No.” He said it adamantly. “Berlin's the best place to hide. Did you know almost half of the city is underground? There are a thousand bunkers in Berlin. Speer has built a tunnel running all the way from Mitte to Tempelhof so Goering can ride the whole four miles in his car. The customers of the Adlon hotel have their own shelter under Pariser Platz. Not so grand for the rest, of course. We'll mostly be using the U-Bahns. They've just finished a new shelter at Alexanderplatz.”

“I was there only the other day. I didn't see anything.”

“You wouldn't. It's entirely inconspicuous. You walk along the tunnel to the U5 line and you pass a green steel door. You'd miss it if you didn't know it was there.”

So that was where they would huddle. Waiting for the bombs to drop. Listening to the muffled explosions and imagining the lick of flames.

The young man stabbed out his half-smoked cigarette and tucked the stump in his pocket.

“The Nazis may be driving people underground now, but one day soon they'll be driven underground themselves.”

He jumped up and checked the card. “There. You're no longer a Jew. But don't go dropping it into any French rivers again. And don't allow it to get wet at all. Even a drop of rain might dissolve the watercolor.”

She placed the identity in her bag, then looked at him soberly.

“Thank you. I'm sorry. I don't even know your name.”

“I'd be a fool to tell you. If anyone thought this was a forgery, they'd ask where it came from and who forged it. There aren't many people who can resist answering when they're having a chat with the Gestapo.”

“Passport forgery is punishable by death, isn't it?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Fräulein. Most of my clients are too frightened to do anything but sit in silence.”

“Just because I ask questions, doesn't mean I'm not frightened too…I do have another question, though. When I first saw you, I knew I'd seen you before. In the lobby of my apartment in Winterfeldtstrasse. You remember, don't you?”

“You're an observant lady.”

“What were you doing there?”

He smiled, a quick smile that utterly transformed his features. “As a matter of fact I had just posted a flyer on the wall opposite. I had my leaflets and the paste bottle in a suitcase. But a policeman appeared and I needed to hide in a hurry.”

CLARA LEFT THE APARTMENT
as swiftly as she could and got on the first bus she found. As she traveled, the bus rocking under her, she thought how her whole life was like the young man's painstaking work. The least inconsistency, the tiniest slip, and her entire, carefully fabricated existence would unravel, like the silk spooling from a beautiful gown. Yet in a few days the existence that she had crafted for herself over the past six years was facing its greatest test. And whatever happened, she would not be the same person afterwards.