The Pursuit of Pearls (31 page)

T
he Barminstrasse women's prison in Friedrichshain was generally crammed to the rafters, but following an amnesty to celebrate the Führer's birthday a large number of prisoners had been released in a spirit of joyful reconciliation, with the result that the place was emptier than usual and Clara had a cell to herself. The single bulb was kept on at all times, presumably for the purpose of sleep deprivation, but the light was failing miserably at its job, stuttering and blinking fitfully and casting only a purgatorial gloom around the narrow space. The window looked out onto a courtyard ten feet below. Previous prisoners had left their marks on the brickwork, a selection of clumsily scratched initials all that remained of their individual identities. Attached to one wall was a single wooden bench worn smooth. How many women had sat there before her, wondering what came next?

If the prison guards were surprised at the sight of a woman wearing a couture evening gown and diamond swastika arriving in their cells, they did not betray it. Nor had the men who arrested her been rough, but instead icily polite. There was no shoving or wrenching of hair, yet her wrists had been cuffed, making it impossible to remove the code paper from her pocket, and as soon as she arrived both jacket and bag had been taken away.

Clara was desperately tired. Her eyes were gritty, and exhaustion seeped upwards in her limbs, like a draft of sedative. Although she did everything she could to keep her mind alert, it was hard. From time to time she drifted into a light sleep, but she was jarred awake when her head hit the wall or by shouts and crying from the other cells. Most of the time she was shivering with cold. The window had no glass in it, only bars, and the flimsy silk evening gown was no protection against the freezing night air. A deep, unflagging terror settled in her guts, yet still she tried to focus through the fog of shock that engulfed her. She dropped her head to her knees, hoping that the blood coursing round her brain would help her to concentrate. It was as though she was solving some dreadful cryptic crossword puzzle, whose clues and half-formed suppositions spun around, split apart, and refused to come together in her brain.

How long had she been followed?

She knew now that the young man in the lobby of Winterfeldtstrasse was not a police tail but an illegal flyer poster, who also forged documents for Steffi's resistance group. Yet the instinct that she was under surveillance had continued for weeks, even on the day she had spent walking through the city. Had the Gestapo been shadowing her all this time? Had they followed her to Paris? And if so, what exactly did they suspect?

Somebody has been saying some very unkind things about you.

Leni Riefenstahl had told her Himmler had suspicions about Clara's Aryan status. That meant right now they would be scrutinizing her identity documents. Despite the forger's skill, who was to say that the fake
Ariernachweis
would not be just as easily spotted as the one Conrad Adler had so expertly deconstructed? After all, the Gestapo had a string of fine arts specialists on their books, precisely for the task of examining documents. And yet…

Being apprehended for false identity was so much less grave than being arrested as a spy. The penalty for false identity was imprisonment, a camp perhaps. Please God that they suspected her only of being a Jew. Because to be convicted as a spy was far worse. But nothing so bad as if they suspected her of an attempt to kill the Führer. There was only one penalty for that.

She turned the problem over and over in her head, examining it like a jewel of many facets. Questions revolved in a dizzy, sickening whir. Would they have found the tiny scrap of paper that she had so carefully concealed deep in her jacket pocket? She remembered Steffi telling her that the Gestapo had become adept at ripping the linings of coats and jackets, running their fingers along the seams in the hunt for hidden valuables. If they found the paper, what importance might they place on it? Would they suspect Benno Kurtz? She was glad she had not actually had the chance to contact him before they took her away; if he was anything like as resourceful as he sounded, he would be able to bluff his way out. But what would it mean for Erich, and his hopes of SS leadership school, if his godmother was arrested as a spy? Tears stung her eyes. How betrayed he would feel!

Eventually, she gave up and ran through the store of images that, like a series of glittering stones, lit the path back to her own childhood. Her early theatrical career, the films she had acted in, coming to Berlin and meeting Helga Schmidt and Erich. Loving Leo. In her head she played the adagio of Mozart's Clarinet Concerto, the one that Leo so cherished. He said it was the closest that music came to prayer. She teased out each note in her memory, forcing her limbs to relax into its yearning. She thought of the first time she had seen Erich, on an outing to the amusement park at Luna Park, and the following years, his voice breaking, his shoulders broadening, his life opening out before him.

Everything hung in the balance now. Her whole existence might soon be unstrung, like a necklace snipped and its pearls sent spiraling over the ground.

THE TABLE IN THE
interrogation room was pocked with burns, sending the ominous message that the interrogators were far from cautious about where they stubbed out their cigarettes. A low cloud of tobacco smoke, acrid in the mouth like gasoline, hung in the air, barely troubled by the draft from an open window. The officer slouched in a chair with his legs crossed had an unhealthy, jaundiced look, as though he spent his life in the artificial glare of a Gestapo spotlight. His face might have been plucked straight from one of the cabinets at Himmler's Ahnenerbe, with skin stretched taut over the cadaverous cheekbones, pale scalp beneath his freshly shaved skull, and a yellowish tint of ivory to the eyes.

He rocked back in the chair when he saw her, and twisted his cigarette to join the others in the ashtray on his desk.

“Sit down, Fräulein Vine.”

She wondered how senior he was. Not very, or he would have been at home asleep, rather than doing an interrogation night shift. The look of brute malice in his eyes seemed to confirm that.

“My name is Kriminalsekretär Riesbach.”

Her guess was correct. He was relatively low-ranking, which made it all the more important that she gauge her responses carefully. There had been a rash of Ufa performers arrested recently, hauled in for questioning about activities detrimental to National Socialism. Their brash, actorly manner, their name dropping and threats, had only served to irritate the rank-and-file policemen, who treated them more harshly as a result.

“Perhaps you can explain why I'm here,” she said quietly.

“I was rather hoping that you would explain that to me, Fraülein. But maybe you will need some encouragement.”

“Could you tell me why I was arrested?”

Riesbach made a clumsy play of reasonableness, as though he had decided that because she was an actress, a degree of playacting was appropriate. He spread his hands. “Why not? A loyal patriot advised us that we should keep a watch on you, Fräulein Vine. From your file I see it's not the first time you have come to the attention of the authorities.”

“That was a mistake. I was released immediately and without charge.”

A frown descended on Riesbach's brutish features. He was pretending puzzlement. “Have you ever heard of the saying ‘No smoke without fire'?”

“Yes. It's a common cliché.”

“So what are we to make of this? Another arrest. Another patriot who believes you are engaged in actions against the well-being of the Reich.”

“Actions?”

“Espionage, woman!” His face flushed, and his voice rose to an angry bark. “This patriot believes you may not be loyal to the Reich. That you may in fact be an English spy.”

Stay calm. Don't react instinctively
.

“That's an outrageous accusation.”

Indignation and fear was the only correct response. The response of the innocent.

“I'm glad you see it like that. I feel the same. But then we found this.”

With a flourish, he reached beneath the desk and pulled out a book, which Clara recognized as her copy of
The Thirty-Nine Steps
. She bit her lips to keep the color in them, in case they should have blanched with fear.

Riesbach opened the book carefully at the frontispiece, as though examining some precious, ancient manuscript.

“You can imagine my colleagues' excitement when they found an English novel which appears to belong to the library of the foreign minister. Unfortunately, when they telephoned the Herr Minister's home, only Frau von Ribbentrop could be found, and she was not pleased to be contacted in the middle of the night.”

The figure of Frau von Ribbentrop in a dressing gown, summoned to the telephone to explain why an actress should be carrying one of her husband's books, would indeed be formidable. Clara could only imagine her response.

“My men decided to postpone their questions, for the time being at least.”

So she had been saved. Saved by the foul temper of Annelies von Ribbentrop.

“But please don't think that our inquiries have ended there.”

A twist of pure pleasure spread across Riesbach's face as, like an amateur magician, he produced an envelope and tipped it out on the table. It was Clara's tiny matchstick of paper, carefully unrolled to reveal the line of numbers. How foolish she had been even to hope it might escape them, or ever to underestimate their efficiency.

He poked at the paper with an extended finger. “I wonder what this might be?”

“I have no idea.”

“Strange, when it was found in the pocket of your own jacket.”

“I'm sorry. I'm very tired. I can't remember.”

This was inadequate, but it was the only answer Clara could summon while her brain moved at lightning speed to explain away the code.

“A list of numbers. What should we deduce from that?”

“It's probably a telephone number. Fans pass me their numbers all the time. They push notes into my pockets.”

“Good try, Fräulein. We called it already. Or tried to. That doesn't work.”

“Then, I'm afraid…”

“Perhaps you need to take a closer look?”

As Clara bent to examine it, Riesbach moved abruptly forward, reached over, and swatted her upwards, across the face. The impact of the ring on his knuckle sliced the skin on her cheek. The blow took her by surprise, and she reeled backwards.

“Perhaps that will refresh your memory.”

She straightened, her hand to her cheek, and replied curtly, “It hasn't.”

“You're an actress, Fräulein. You're supposed to remember things. Another one might help.”

A second blow, this time against her temple, making her ear ring and forcing her to clench her teeth.

“What innocent person walks around with a list of numbers in their pocket?” Riesbach demanded.

Clara decided to keep her head very still, as though facing an aggressive dog, in an attempt to forestall another attack. They had taken away her watch, but the clock on the wall opposite told her it was nearly 5:00 a.m.

“As I said, Inspector, people put things in my pockets all the time.”

The door clanged, and another man entered the room. Although Clara did not turn, she could tell that he was senior by the way that Riesbach half rose, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the newcomer jerk his head abruptly and lean against the wall, arms folded.

“Carry on, Dieter.”

Riesbach's tone modified, marginally, and took on an air of aggrieved bureaucracy. “I was asking the prisoner the significance of a list of numbers found on a piece of paper in her jacket. I felt—” The newcomer interrupted.

“The charges before you are extremely serious, Fräulein.”

From what she could see the senior man had a hard face and a toothbrush mustache. His voice was more educated than Riesbach's, exuding the deep tedium of the early hours.

“Charges?”

“Allegations, precisely. The charges will come later. You need to talk to us. One way or another, we are going to require some answers.”

Clara continued staring rigidly at the clock. In her sleeveless evening dress her flesh rose in goosebumps, but shivering would look like fear. She wrapped her arms round her in an attempt to keep warm.

“Not cooperating is not going to help you, Fräulein Vine.” The senior man's tone said he was bored, his civility in short supply.

“Playing dumb might work at the Ufa studios, but it won't work here.”

“I have cooperated in every way.”

“Fine.” He scraped a chair by its legs across the room and brought it right next to her, his face so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. He smelled of tobacco and good aftershave.

“Perhaps you think I'm a little stupid.”

“Not at all.”

“Only, as Kriminalsekretär Riesbach says, we are puzzled by this piece of paper that was found in the pocket of your evening jacket. Dieter, can you fetch the jacket?”

“No need. The paper's right there.”

“I said fetch the Fräulein's jacket.”

Sullenly, Riesbach got to his feet and left the room. As he did, the tall officer rose swiftly and moved to the door. He pulled it shut, brought a chair up to Clara, and put his face even closer to hers. Forcing herself to look at him, she saw two different eyes. One brown, one blue.

Such a distinguishing feature would make undercover work impossible.

That was what she had thought when she passed a man in the corridor of Section D in London. Could it be that the same man, with his narrow, tawny mustache and mismatched eyes, was standing right in front of her? Could a man trained in the depths of British intelligence have been transplanted to the Gestapo in Berlin?

As if to confirm it, he spoke in English, very quietly.