The Pursuit of Pearls (33 page)

In one portrait she recognized something. A pose from her film
The Pilot's Wife
. The girl in the picture was Clara, but as she had never seen herself, caught in a few deft strokes, a figure whose stark lines and angular intensity reminded her of Egon Schiele.

“Why keep these pictures secret?”

“Isn't it obvious? Mine's a dangerous art. It's what those barbarians would call Degenerate. Hitler fears us, and I understand why. Modernists are angry and self-loathing. We paint our own crisis of spirit. Our work emits the scent of our unconscious. The Nazis want art that's full of sunlight and pure maidens, whereas we see man the way he is—flawed, miserable, ignoble, compromised.”

“You didn't tell me you were an artist.”

“I was at the Berlin School of Arts when the Gestapo moved in in 'thirty-three. I remember staring out of an upper window when they took all the Modernist work down to the courtyard and destroyed it. I knew then I had a choice—I could be like Emil Nolde; change my style, stick to insipid watercolors and pastorals. I could be like Otto Dix and agree to paint family portraits of the von Ribbentrops and their fat children. Or I could hide in plain sight. I think that's what they call it. I could wear their colors, like that little hare I told you about in the fields back home. I would focus on the old masters and allow everyone to believe I had abandoned my own work.”

“There was another alternative.”

He frowned. “And what would that be?”

“You didn't have to become involved with these barbarians. Nobody forced you to advise them on which masterpieces to steal.”

“I told you: I'm not political.”

“You didn't have to work with them. To stand by while they ride roughshod over every law and civil right. While they arrest and murder thousands of their own citizens. You could have left the country.”

“You think I should have run away?”

“You're already running away. You're hiding from everything the Nazis represent. You shut yourself in here and pretend the world outside doesn't exist. That you don't bear some responsibility for it.”

“But my dear Clara, it was my responsibilities that kept me here. There was the estate to look after. That's my patrimony, you understand. The von Adlers have lived in Weimar for generations. It was unthinkable. No, I knew my passion must be concealed. You see”—he gave a quick, sharp glance at Clara, brimming with meaning—“concealed passions are nothing new for me.”

He moved towards her, easing his fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her head so that it kindled against the light and revealing the side of her neck.

“I love the place where the skin is translucent and you see the blood beneath,” he murmured. “It's like seeing through you.”

She felt desire quicken in him, his breath hot on her skin. She said: “You don't want me, Conrad.”

He drew back, his perfect face clouded with incomprehension.“Why not? That would be particularly irrational, and whatever else you know about me, you know I am a rational man. Besides, I like you.”

“You said human emotions were entirely untrustworthy.”

“Perhaps I'm coming round to them.”

There was barely any room to move in the contained space. Running his hands down her shoulders, he eased the straps of the evening dress from her shoulders, so that it fell from her and lay in a puddle of silk at her feet. Then he drew her towards him and kissed her.

Just for a moment she gave in to him, then she pulled herself free. He laughed and spread his hands. “Very well then. First things first. I also want to paint you.”

SHE SAT FOR HIM
in the drawing room beside a wall of Delft tiles, bathed in the pure light coming in from the lake. As his hands moved across the paper, Clara felt his eyes sweep over her, taking in every detail of her coloring and complexion, right down to the dusting of freckles on her nose and the flecks of darker blue in the irises of her eyes. It was the type of close attention that would serve a policeman well, but in Adler the appraisal seemed entirely nonjudgmental, as though he was simply evaluating her living flesh, assessing her proportions.

“I still want to know. Why were you in Paris, if you were not following me?”

A distracted shrug. “I told you. I was advising on a collection.”

“For Goering or for Hitler?”

“Clara Vine, this persistent line of questioning does not suit you. Especially when you should be grateful to me.”

“Grateful to
you
? Why?”

He sighed, and threw down his pencil. “All right. I'll tell you.”

Reaching behind him he found an old shirt, daubed with paint, which he tossed towards her. Instantly, she covered herself up.

“It's true, Goering and Hitler are engaged in a race. Their intention is to carry off every piece of art they desire to the Reich. But my business in Paris was something quite different. You see, when I first met you I recognized your name.”

“That's not entirely unusual for me, though it might be hard for you to understand.”

“Be patient, woman. Let me explain. When you asked me what I was doing in Paris, I told you I was advising on a collection. I have allowed you to think that collection was one of paintings. But it wasn't. It was names. And when I first met you, it wasn't your Christian name I recognized.”

“You'd heard of my father? That's no surprise.”

“Perhaps I should explain what I was advising on and why. Shortly after I returned from England, Reinhard Heydrich contacted me. To say it was a surprise is an understatement. A call from Heydrich is not the kind of invitation you put on the mantelpiece. But I went along to his office in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and saw to my dismay that he had my file open before him on the desk. Always a bad sign.”

What had Leni Riefenstahl said?
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.

“But contrary to my expectations, he began to compliment me on my memory.”

“Do you have a good memory?”

“Exceptional, actually. I'm a freak of Nature. When I was a child it was called an eidetic memory because I could recall images and objects with high precision. Even the minutest details. It's declined a little with age, but it is a talent all the same, and it was that talent Heydrich wanted. He knew I'd spent two years mingling with British society, reading British newspapers, meeting British aristocrats, politicians, and writers. He pointed out that my enthusiasm for that country was flagged in my file as a warning. There had been fears that I intended to make London my home. Suggestions I preferred the British way to life in the Reich.” A gruff chuckle. “I was able to reassure him on that score.”

He glanced out of the window at the splendor of the gardens beyond. “Who would forsake somewhere like this in a hurry?”

“So what did Heydrich want?” Clara prompted.

“He told me something in deep confidence. It wasn't a confidence I wanted, but once I had it, I was bound by it. Heydrich knew he had me captive simply by telling me his plans. Isn't that how it works with secrets? Once you know them, you're trapped.

“Heydrich is creating what he calls his Black Book. A collection of all the most significant enemies of National Socialism in Great Britain.”

“You mean, in case of invasion?”

“Should his plans go ahead. Ultimately his deputy, Walter Schellenberg, will be in charge of this operation. Schellenberg is chief of Amt VI—that's the foreign intelligence branch of the SD, but in the meantime Heydrich wanted my advice. I'd spent two years immersed in British society, so I was perfectly placed.”

His gaze was distant, as though he was seeing far beyond the boundaries of the Reich to England, and all the people and parties and places he had once enjoyed.

“Take your film about the Ahnenerbe, Clara. Germans traveling the globe, studying different societies. Well, what Heydrich wanted from me wasn't so different. He has compiled a picture of British society, made up of not old bones and skulls but names. On that day in his office he gave me his Black Book. He asked me to provide notes on which of the names inside it were friendly to the National Socialist government and who might prove hostile.”

“How many names?”

“Two thousand, eight hundred, to be precise. Both British subjects and European exiles, who are to be arrested or taken into protective custody in the event of a successful German invasion. The people deemed enemies will be arrested immediately. Churchill. Eden. Duff Cooper. They'll be seized within days. Churchill will be placed in the hands of Foreign Intelligence. The rest will be turned over to the Gestapo for imprisonment. The others, lower down, will merely be put on trial.”

“Who are they?”

“I recognized most of them immediately. H. G. Wells, Virginia Woolf, Noël Coward, E. M. Forster, Aldous Huxley, Stephen Spender, Sigmund Freud, Rebecca West. And when I heard your name, I recognized it too.”

“But…my father has been a fervent supporter of the National Socialists for years. It's well known. He was a Nazi sympathizer right from the beginning. It would be absurd to arrest my father!”

“I'm not talking about your father.”

Adler walked across to the rolltop desk and felt in the top drawer. He retrieved a photograph of a woman, cut from the pages of a magazine—
The Tatler
it looked like. She was in evening clothes with a mink stole around her shoulders. Her hair was neatly pinned in a chignon, her eyebrows lifting slightly, as if in surprise.

“This is your sister, I believe.”

Angela.

“I
heard your sister was in Paris, so I made a quick visit. That was why I was there that night at the Dingo Bar. I was eager to see if what I had been told about her was true.”

Clara gave a sharp laugh of disgust.

“If Heydrich has my sister's name in his Black Book, then that's proof he has absolutely no idea about English society. My sister was a founding member of the Anglo-German Fellowship. She and my father held the earliest meetings at our family home. Her entire life is devoted to fundraising in support of closer ties between Germany and Britain. You couldn't find a more devoted admirer of the Nazi cause than Angela.”

“Or a more deceptive one.”

She stared at him. Tiny fragments of thought were glinting in her mind, like diamonds in rubble. The image of the maid at the door of Elizabeth Street.
She's visiting her sister.
Dolly Capel in Dingo's bar.
I thought you were with her.
What reason could her sister have for visiting Paris? Unless it was true that Angela concealed as great a secret as Clara herself.

Turning to the rolltop desk again, Adler took a piece of paper from a sheaf and read aloud.

“My inquiries in London, and later, confirm my view that Angela Vine is an agent of the British intelligence service, working undercover to infiltrate German-sympathizing factions within the British establishment.”

“That's impossible.”

He continued reading. “She has held these views from the early days of the Reich. She reports on the activities of Nazi sympathizers to the British government. More recently she has been liaising with agents in Paris to assist resistance in the event of a German invasion.”

“But I…”

“You what? You never suspected that your sister had a talent to deceive?”

“If it's true, why did I never guess?”

“Presumably that's the idea.”

“I should have, though. I've known her all my life.”

“That's probably the point. You were too close. You could never get perspective.”

“I can't believe you would give my sister's name to the Gestapo.”

“I didn't produce these names. I was merely asked for my opinion. What these men and women stand for. Who they are and what they believe in.”

“Your opinion will be their death warrant.”

“They are known opponents of the Reich, and in the event of invasion their fate is unavoidable.”

“So you'd happily line them up for a firing squad!”

“Not happily.”

He walked over to the window and surveyed the patterned box hedges dividing the flower garden and the crystalline purity of the lake beyond. A man was raking the lawn, and Clara saw that it was Karl, the groom from the Reitclub Grunewald.

“Happiness is not something I expect, Clara. I never have. I always assumed that one needs to learn happiness early, like a foreign language. If it comes too late, you can never properly be fluent. You'll never understand its inflections. I don't think I'll ever know what it is to be happy.”

He turned round. “Does he make you happy? This unmarried man who is so intriguingly absent from your life?”

“Yes.”

“Is he coming back to you?”

“I choose to believe so.”

“So Love gives you faith, does it? Faith's a pretty poor substitute for real life, Clara. Look at that picture there.” He pointed to a portrait of Venus being pursued by Adonis, prettily depicted in glinting oils. “They're imprisoned like that forever. They never fade, but they never kiss. They exist in an eternity of yearning. Is that what you want?”

“Who cares what I want? What does it matter?”

“You're right, of course. But it matters to me because I have a proposition for you.”

“I already said…”

“Hush.” He put his fingers to her lips, then smoothed the hair from her temples and rubbed a strand of it between his fingers, as though it was silk. The way he was looking at her had changed now. He was no longer the painter, examining his subject, but a man savoring something precious, like a jewel.

“War is coming soon between our two countries. Hitler has already breached the terms of the Munich treaty. I've read documents demonstrating the enormous superiority of Germany's air force over those of Britain and France. I've played a small part in the preparations myself, so I can scarcely claim innocence. But you, Clara, will be in a difficult position. A woman who is half English, and hiding her Jewish identity. You've just spent the night in a prison cell. What could be safer than marriage to a senior member of the Party?”

“Marriage?”

“You'd have to go through the selection procedure, of course, for marrying into the SS. There's a questionnaire, with preposterous queries about whether you like cosmetics and perfume. Whether you smoke.”

“As you've already noticed, I would hardly pass the Aryanization tests.”

“I'm sure that can be arranged. You have blue eyes, which is good, even if they're flawed with something darker. And besides, we Nazis are not the only ones who are good at faking our identity. If we can invent a cultural heritage, why shouldn't you?”

Still, she was staring at him in astonishment.

“Don't look at me like that. It's as though no one has ever asked you to marry them before.”

“And you look like no one's ever refused you. I don't love you, Conrad. That must be obvious.”

“I'm not asking you to love me. I wouldn't presume to think that affection was involved. On your side at least. I merely suggest it as a strategy you might find useful. An alliance if you like, between interested parties.”

“You deserve more.”

“I'll be the judge of what I deserve.”

He turned his attention to a Dutch interior on the wall. It was of a young girl sewing, with a dreamy look on her face and light from a window filtering through the glossy web of her hair.

“Vermeer's wife was Catholic, did you know? That was illegal in seventeenth-century Holland. So by marrying her Vermeer was making a secretive alliance. I like the idea of that. Making our own alliance. You would be safe under my protection, and I wouldn't deny you your freedom. You could come and go as you choose, but I would suggest that, at least for a while, we move to my estate at Weimar. It is, my darling, one of the loveliest parts of Germany. Not only the home of Goethe and Schiller, but it also boasts the most beautiful woodland, the lovely forest of Ettersberg.”

The way he was discussing it, it was as though she had already agreed. For a moment, the exhaustion of a night without sleep overcame her and Clara allowed herself to contemplate his proposal. Would it be so bad, this loveless marriage? Reporting for her
Rasse Merkmale,
her racial characteristics assessment, where she would be examined, weighed, and have her upper lip measured? It would need only be a temporary measure. It would mean she could stay in Germany with a safe cover for her work. More important, she could stay close to Erich.

Adler watched these thoughts travel across her face, and his voice dipped.

“Don't you ever get lonely, in that house out at Griebnitzsee, eating your solitary dinner? Don't you ever long for some intellectual companionship as barbarity descends?”

“Are you seriously suggesting that you would marry me just to keep me from arrest?”

“That wouldn't be my only motivation, but it might be yours.”

“So a short-term marriage of convenience?”

“I think that's the phrase. That's one thing I've always admired the French for—their approach to affairs of the heart. They have none of the dull Protestant rigidity that afflicts us Germans, and the British too. The French understand that human passions come in many forms.”

She shook her head. “It would be living a lie.”

“Aren't we all living a lie? You have, I assume, sworn an oath to the Führer as a condition of your employment at Ufa?”

He was right. Whatever Goebbels said about big lies being needed to convince people, life in Nazi Germany was full of little, everyday lies. What would one more matter?

Adler smiled down at her, a rare trace of tenderness softening the perfect lines of his face as if he were a statue momentarily blurred by rain. “Besides, there would be honesty between us. Sometimes the most unlikely partners come together for mutually beneficial reasons. That's an idea being actively propounded in my old Foreign Office workplace just now.”

She was instantly alert. “You're talking about the Soviet Union.”

“An alliance between Germany and Russia is coming any day.”

“How do you know?”

“You'd shown such an interest that I took the opportunity to catch up with Frau von Ribbentrop. She loves to confide in me. Perhaps she thinks, because I share her interest in old masters, I must share her other views. I raised the subject with her.”

“And she told you?”

“Something she shouldn't have. But she couldn't resist. She knew I would understand why. It's a personal triumph for her, you see, although the world will never realize it. All those years of hostility, that long-nurtured hatred of the English, has finally born fruit. What is that saying?
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The way they laughed at her in London. Mocked her pretensions. Ridiculed her husband's infatuations. It hurts, being laughed at. It leaves a lasting legacy. Now Britain will reap the consequences. Annelies showed me something actually. Perhaps you'd like to take a look.”

He picked out a piece of paper and handed it to her casually. At the top it bore the eagle and swastika, the official stamp of the Foreign Ministry, and beneath it von Ribbentrop's personal seal, featuring his family coat of arms. Clara scanned it, trying to accustom her eyes to the dense Gothic script.

R
eich Ministry for Foreign Affairs: Top Secret

OPERATION WHITE

OPERATIONAL ORDERS FOR THE INVASION OF POLAND

Issued by German Military High Command

“Von Ribbentrop is shortly to fly to Moscow to negotiate a nonaggression pact,” said Adler. “The Soviet Union and Germany will join arms and carve up Poland between them.”

Clara's eyes raced to the final paragraph of the directive.

P
REPARATIONS MUST BE MADE IN SUCH A WAY THAT THE OPERATION CAN BE CARRIED OUT AT ANY TIME FROM 1ST SEPTEMBER 1939 ONWARDS.

BY COMMAND OF THE FÜHRER.

Heil Hitler!

Adler watched as she absorbed it. Musingly he said, “Curious, isn't it, how important a scrap of paper can be? We Germans place such childish faith in what is written. We surround ourselves with minutes, directives, cultural audits, requisition orders. Invasion plans. We document everything. It's as though, once something is committed to paper, everything that follows is legitimate.”

“September first? So they've set a date.”

“And now you're wondering when you can alert your sister.” He plucked the paper from her hands. “But you mustn't. If they find out that I've shown you this, they'll take a very dim view of me. Showing top secret ministry documents to actresses is probably worse than showing them my portraits.”

Clara looked up at him soberly. “If I married you, would you take Angela's name off your list?”

“Yes.”

“How can I trust you?”

He was entirely unmoving, his face tense and still, his eyes shining with some unexpressed emotion.

“You can't. None of us can trust each other. That's the message of this murderous brigade. They show us the true face of humanity. They may try to stamp out reality by destroying paintings, but who needs paintings when we have ourselves to look at? Besides, if you want to understand human nature, we still have the old masters. Brueghel's a good start. I recommend him.”

He drew her towards him, and she felt the fight go out of her. His body felt hard and solid, like a pillar, and she was so tired.

“I need time to think…”

“Time, I'm afraid, is one thing we don't have. Let me explain. While I was in Paris, I met an American. That's not unusual; Paris right now is crammed with Americans trawling for any booty on offer, but this man was different. He offered me a job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It would be a dream of a job. I would be an expert by day and a painter by night. You mentioned the idea of running away, and I admit I am coming round to it. I'm forty-four, Clara. I'm the last of my line. I have no parents, no wife, no children. Nothing to lose. In a couple of weeks the doors will slam shut and my chances of leaving will be gone. So I need your answer quite soon.”

He wrenched her face up by the chin and kissed her, a thick, greedy kiss.

“Accept me, Clara. You'd be insane not to.”

Still that arrogance, that patrician confidence, the disbelief that he might be refused.

She almost loved him for it.