The Winter Garden (2014) (12 page)

‘What’s wrong with Wally anyhow?’ objected Mary.

‘She’s divorced.’

‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with that. I think it’s just that you Brits can’t stand the thought of an American on your throne.’

The
Berliner Illustrierte
had gone to town. There was a six-page spread with a series of photographs. The Duchess in evening gown, on a yacht, at her wedding. Then two impeccably trim
figures making their way along a red carpet at Friedrichstrasse station, dwarfed by a posse of Nazis. The Duchess, in a black coat and fur tippet, gripping a bouquet of white roses and the Duke
with a sour expression on his monkey face. They did not look a picture of nuptial bliss. For a moment Clara almost felt sorry for the Duke. What must it be like to give up the throne for a woman?
To sacrifice your entire life’s work for love? Clara had only sacrificed love for her work, so how would she know?

‘It says here that Dr Goebbels personally composed a song to be performed on the royal couple’s arrival at the Kaiserhof. That’s over the road from his ministry. No doubt he
booked them in there to keep a close eye on them.’

‘Very romantic.’

‘What’s the betting the Gestapo has installed a microphone in the bedroom?’

‘Let’s hope they have and then Goebbels will get to hear what they really think of his song.’

The two women finished their coffee and made their way slowly back in the direction of Nollendorfplatz. At the centre of Olivaerplatz they passed through a little park where, between stone
colonnades garlanded with late-flowering honeysuckle, sparrows hopped and bobbed. A man played his accordion for pfennigs. It was a tranquil morning, with only a couple of clouds scudding in the
bright blue sky. Mary and Clara continued arm in arm, until Clara noticed with a twist of disquiet that a knot of people had gathered.

Instinctively, she avoided crowds now. There were benign crowds certainly, queuing at shops where a consignment of butter had arrived, or outside the theatre to see the stars arriving, but more
often crowds presaged something far less pleasant. The chance was you would find yourself witnessing some violence being perpetrated, or at the very least be asked for your papers. That suspicion
was confirmed as they approached. At the centre of the throng were the distinctive grey service uniforms of a pair of SS men. Even from behind Clara could sense the cruelty coming off them. Before
them were a young couple engaged in the apparently futile task of rubbing down one of the park benches with their handkerchiefs.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ said Mary.

To Clara, the situation was all too clear. The jeers of the guards explained precisely the situation.

‘Filthy swine! Contaminating the benches for decent people!’

‘I want to see it spotless. Get all that dirt off. You’re lucky we don’t arrest you right here.’

The young man, in his coat and hat, was visibly sweating as he scrubbed frantically at the wooden struts of the bench. His girlfriend, who might have been a secretary in her white blouse and
neat tweed suit, was kneeling on the path, running a scrap of lacy material along the wrought-iron legs, silent tears sliding down her face. Painted onto the bench were the words
‘Nur
für Arier
’.

‘Those benches are barred for Jews,’ said Clara quietly.

‘Where are Jews supposed to sit then?’

‘There,’ said Clara simply, pointing to a bench at the far end of the park, closest to the road. It was painted a dirty yellow colour and the people who had been occupying it were
moving hastily away. Above it was a sign explaining, ‘
Die gelben Banke sind für Juden
.’

‘The Jews are only allowed on the yellow benches.’

Some of the onlookers appeared embarrassed at the display and winced in distaste, but plenty of them were smiling and there was even a mother, Clara noticed, pointing out the fun for the benefit
of her young daughter. To her horror, Mary seized her notebook and made to push through to the centre of the crowd. Clara grabbed her sleeve.

‘Mary. Stop it. Be careful!’

‘Why? I’m a journalist, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be reporting on what’s happening here. This is exactly the kind of thing my readers need to know about.’

How was it, thought Clara in exasperation, that the one friend whose company she most enjoyed should be a journalist. Clara’s job was to be inconspicuous, Mary’s to find trouble and
then wade into the centre of it. Clara avoided attention. Mary attracted it. Clara hung back as Mary approached the guards.

‘What are you doing?’

One of the guards had just delivered a spiteful kick to the young man, causing him to topple sideways onto the ground. The guard looked up in astonishment as Mary addressed him.

‘My name is Mary Harker,’ she flourished her press card. ‘And I intend to report this in my newspaper, the
New York Evening Post
.’

For a moment the two SS men exchanged glances, bemused. Clara held her breath. But their inventive taunting of the Jewish couple had put them in a good humour, so they linked arms, smiling.

‘Sure. You can take our picture too, if you like!’

‘Too bad I don’t have a camera,’ grumbled Mary, turning on her heel. Clara gripped her arm and walked quickly away.

She led the way through the park tight-lipped, crossed the road and hailed a taxi. How could she explain to Mary that while she had been away, it wasn’t just Berlin’s buildings that
were being demolished and rebuilt? It was as though the whole of Germany had been turned inside out and the darker things which had once been hidden were now on full display.

Just then, she decided not to bother explaining.

‘You’ve only just arrived here, Mary, and if you carry on like this you’re going to get thrown out again so fast, you won’t need to bother unpacking your
suitcase.’

She had not the slightest confidence, however, that Mary would take her advice.

The windows of Ernst Udet’s apartment in Wilmersdorf looked out onto the sedate plane trees of Preussenpark. It was a leafy, upmarket neighbourhood, close enough to the
shops and theatres of the Ku’damm to be fashionable, yet far enough away that the streets fell almost silent after dark, save for the odd dog walker ambling home to his handsome,
nineteenth-century villa. Currently, however, this area’s reputation for bourgeois respectability was in the process of being comprehensively demolished by its most celebrated resident,
Generaloberst Udet himself.

The blast of jazz could be heard halfway down the street and as soon as she stepped through the door Clara realized that nothing she had heard about Udet’s private life had been an
exaggeration. The dimly lit room was filled to bursting with grey-blue Luftwaffe uniforms and a scattering of young women in skimpy dresses with plunging necklines. It brought to mind the kind of
clubs that were common just a few years ago in Berlin. Small, squalid places rammed to the walls with people, where smoke filled the lungs and music throbbed through the blood. You would find
couples there in any combination. Men with women, men with men, women with women. Most of those clubs were closed now, or at least harder to find, but Udet’s parties were a credible
alternative. In the corner he had installed a cocktail bar, a modern curve of smooth wood with chrome fittings and a generous cluster of bottles, behind which a Luftwaffe general, in a
barman’s black waistcoat with a napkin slung over his shoulder, was concocting a Brandy Alexander. At the other end of the room a piano with a glass of beer resting on it was being played by
an officer in a monocle and comically tilted Luftwaffe cap. Beside him, Udet’s pet dog, Bulli, was petted by a statuesque blonde with hair rolled tightly away from her face and a bosom like
the window display in a jewellery store.

In the four years since she had been in Berlin, Clara had never got used to entering a room filled with National Socialist officers. Close proximity to a Nazi uniform made genuine relaxation an
impossibility. They were almost all Luftwaffe here, with a sprinkling of Wehrmacht officers in field grey. As she threaded her way through the men in their tightly belted tunics, studded with
aluminium buttons and decorations, she felt the lascivious flicker of eyes upon her and guessed that many of these men had recently returned from active service. Like all men starved of female
company, they were hyper-alert to the approach of an unknown woman. Especially one in a halter-necked, backless evening dress.

‘Isn’t that what’s called a cocktail dress? Surely you need a cocktail to go with it?’ Ernst Udet surfaced from the crowd and kissed Clara’s hand. His own hands,
she noticed, were rather small and exquisitely manicured, as he waved over a man carrying a tray of margaritas.

‘It takes the Luftwaffe to really appreciate a beautiful woman. You want to know why? It’s a requirement of the job that pilots have perfect vision, so it follows that we need
something perfect to look at too.’

His tanned face beamed with boyish pleasure at this aperçu and Clara couldn’t help laughing too. ‘Herr Generaloberst—’

‘Ernst, please.’

‘Ernst. Thank you for inviting me. I’m so pleased you were able to spare time to make the film. You must be terribly busy.’

‘I jumped at the chance! I miss the old days, you know. There was none of this office work. Just flying all day. Now I haven’t practised a good stunt for weeks. The last real stunt I
performed was flying my Focke-Wulf Stieglitz under the Hindenburg and hooking onto its undercarriage . . .’ he gave a deprecating smile. ‘Ach, but girls aren’t interested in
aeroplanes.’

‘No, I am. It’s fascinating.’

‘You’re lying, my dear. However, even if you think I’m an old bore, your lad Erich would like to hear about it, I’ll bet. You must get me to tell you about how the famous
Ju 87 Stuka dive bomber was born. But first, we should find our producer. Herr Lindemann was here, somewhere.’

Clara looked around for Albert. Plenty about this party would appeal to him. One young man was sprawled on a sofa, legs splayed, his arm flung around an older officer. There was another, whose
full formal evening dress included mascara and lipstick. For a man like Albert, everything had changed since the death of Ernst Röhm, the monstrous commander of the SA, the storm
troopers’ unit, whose downfall had been preceded by a welter of homosexual scandal. Being homosexual was an anti-social offence now, warranting direct removal to a concentration camp. Indeed
it had become a useful method of dispatch for anyone who caused offence. Neighbours with a grievance would frequently entrust their suspicions to the Gestapo with a quiet note: ‘
I regard
it as my duty as a German to bring this to your attention
’. When a friend was arrested for homosexuality, no one even needed to mention the word. They would simply murmur
‘Hundertfünfundsiebzig’
, signifying the 175th paragraph of the German criminal code. That was enough. Bars and meeting places once popular with homosexual men were
monitored closely by the secret police and the result was that private parties became prime meeting places. Albert, however, was taking no chances.

‘There he is.’

Standing in the midst of a group of Luftwaffe officers, Albert had the regulation blonde clamped to his arm. Clara had not seen this one before. She had a hard, calculating face with high arched
eyebrows, which gave her an expression of permanent surprise. Or perhaps she was genuinely surprised at being the date of a man like Albert, Clara thought. He was holding forth, slightly drunkenly,
on the subject of film production.

‘We’re a nation of engineers. Germans are the best engineers in the world. You people are making aeroplanes, we are making films.’

Another officer, with shaved flaxen hair, guffawed. ‘Forgive me, Herr Lindemann, but with Goebbels in charge you’re not exactly producing Junkers.’

Udet gave Clara a complicit wink. ‘Clara, meet Oberst Heinrich von Kleist, Oberst Horst Schilling and Oberst Leutnants Rudolf Fleischer and Hans Schwarzkopf. Heinrich and Horst are test
pilots and Hans and Rudolf work for me in the technical division. We often have a refreshing exchange of opinions. Take no notice. It’s nothing serious. Just men’s talk.’

The four officers acknowledged her with a nod. They towered over Albert with an air of confidence and authority that was enhanced by their Luftwaffe uniforms.

‘Say what you like, but Goebbels is an emotional engineer,’ continued Albert. ‘Films produce emotions and Goebbels believes in engineering the right films to produce the right
emotions.’

‘Poisonous little propaganda runt,’ said von Kleist, but under his breath.

‘In terms of understanding the value of propaganda, Doktor Goebbels stands head and shoulders above the others,’ asserted Albert, his voice slightly slurred.

‘Goebbels couldn’t stand head and shoulders above my dick!’ announced Horst Schilling to general laughter.

‘Wait, gentlemen. I will advance one defence of Doktor Goebbels,’ volunteered Fleischer. ‘He’s made some attempt to sort out the art from the trash. I was down in Munich
the other day and I decided to take a look at that revolting Degenerate Art exhibition. All the rubbish they confiscated from museums.’

‘I heard about that,’ said Schilling languidly, toting a cigar. ‘Jew art, isn’t it? You can see that kind of thing on the walls of any public lavatory. I don’t see
why it needs a museum.’

‘The interest was phenomenal. There were queues stretching down the street.’

‘There you are then! The genius of Goebbels!’ interceded Udet. ‘It must be a great exhibition!’

Fleischer eyed him coldly. The way the skin stretched over Fleischer’s bullet head made Clara think about the skulls at the Berlin Natural History Museum, lined up in rows according to
their ethnicity. His eyes were as pale and flat as highly polished steel.

‘Goebbels was right to collect it up, but he should have made a bonfire of it, just like he did with the books. Those paintings are really disgusting. They’re rotten, depraved works
by human effluent. The message is always the same: Man is bestial, Berlin is a sink of depravity. Germany is poisoned. Everyone is for sale. All that Bolshevik crap.’