The Winter Garden (2014) (16 page)

His face glazed over again with the absent, thin-lipped expression that she had seen before.

‘It was too early for me to die. Especially with you on board.’

She laughed, as though he was joking, though he gave no appearance of it.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s a poem I like. It’s Irish. You might know it.’

‘Try me.’

‘I know that I shall meet my death

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate

Those that I guard I do not love.’

‘That’s Yeats.
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
.’

There was a spark of interest in his eyes. ‘You do know it?’

‘I love it.’

‘Me too. That idea has roots in our German mythology too. The old Teutonic heroes would go on a journey from which they would never return. It was called the Totenritt, the death
ride.’

‘Well thank God we avoided one of those.’

‘We studied Yeats at school. That same teacher, the one who taught us our mythology, he loved poetry. Most German schoolchildren concentrate on Schiller, Heine, Goethe and so on. Or at
least they used to. But our teacher focused on other poets too. Foreigners. Though he did point out that the Irish were Germany’s allies, of course.’

As they neared the terminal they talked a little about the forthcoming film. Strauss never bothered watching Ernst’s movies. Those film people always got the technical details wrong, and
besides, he preferred Ernst when he wasn’t pretending to be some po-faced Nazi hero humming the Horst Wessel Song. Ernst didn’t need to pretend to be anything other than what he was. He
already had a chestful of decorations and you could make a whole aeroplane out of the medals he’d won in real life. As they talked, the vibration resounding in Clara’s bones gradually
left her and she felt entirely calm.

When they reached the main hall Strauss said, ‘I shall be meeting some compatriots of yours soon, as it happens. I’ve had an invitation to meet your former king. The Reich
Minister’s holding a reception for him at Carinhall.’

‘That will be fascinating,’ said Clara neutrally.

‘Do you think so? For an actress perhaps. As a pilot I can’t think of anything worse. I’m not suited to standing around making polite conversation with duchesses.’ He
looked at her thoughtfully then gave a stiff, ironic bow.

‘Now, Fräulein, I must go and fill out my test report.’

She felt a surge of regret that he was leaving so soon, but shrugged off his jacket and held it out to him.

‘I hope you got what you needed. For your film, that is.’

‘More than enough.’

‘Then I’m glad to have helped.’

Strauss tipped his cap and strode away into the airport building.

When Mary Harker first arrived back in Berlin she had looked forward to revisiting all her old haunts. The Verona Lounge, on Kleiststrasse near Nollendorfplatz, which after
hours turned from a chic evening club to an outrageously bohemian bar. Le Garconne on Kalckreuth Strasse, owned by Susi Wanowski, the former wife of a Berlin police chief who in a drastic life
change had become the lover of the erotic dancer Anita Berber. Mali and Ingel’s in Lutherstrasse, where if you ignored the sign reading ‘Closed for Private Party’ you would find
all types of artists, intellectuals, singers and actresses. Even in the first days of the Reich, there had been lingering traces of Weimar decadence. Every night you could pass a cellar door and
look down to see a dancer adjusting her bustier or a man with a saxophone in a sweaty bar. Now all these places were gone. The sly, smoky rhythms of jazz that leaked out of nightclub cellars had
been replaced with light operetta, marching music and brass bands. Instructions had gone out from the Reich Chamber of Culture that saxophones should be replaced where possible with the viola,
improvization was banned and any song’s lyrics must be light-hearted rather than the ‘gloomy, Jewish’ kind. In particular, the Reich liked drums, to keep German hearts banging in
rhythm. Strident music in a major key.

The nightlife wasn’t the only thing that had changed. All the journalists in the world had converged on Berlin. It was competitive as hell. The crisis in Europe attracted foreign
correspondents like bees to a honeypot, except there was nothing sweet about the content of the twice-daily press briefings handed out at the Ministry of Propaganda. The Nazis kept things as
controlled as they could. Every morning and afternoon the journalists sat and imbibed whatever lies the Government chose, delivered either by the press chief Otto Dietrich or by Goebbels himself.
At the moment it was all to do with the perfidious Bolsheviks and the need for Germany to arm itself to protect the world from Communism.

The only good thing Goebbels had done was to build a fancy new press centre on Leipzigerplatz where many of the foreign correspondents had moved en masse from the Adlon bar. It had newspapers
and plush leather armchairs and mahogany desks, as well as telegraph facilities for sending copy, if anyone was mad enough to trust their copy to the in-house censors. It was, of course, staffed by
Nazi informers, and there was a rumour that the seats were wired for sound, but the correspondents had evolved a complex method of semaphore if they had anything important to convey. That was where
Mary sat in the dining room on the first floor, thinking about Clara.

Clara had revealed, in their long talk the other night, that she missed the presence of a man in her life. There had been a couple of men, yet sometimes she feared she had lost the chance of a
serious relationship altogether. As ever she was full of lively gossip but now there was a sombre tone beneath it, and a suspicion of private heartache. She was estranged from her family and had
ended the relationship which seemed most likely to lead to marriage.

But then, Mary had written the book on heartache. The man she had wanted didn’t want her and the only person who had ever proposed to her was a lawyer back in New Jersey called Dirk
Phillips, who had put his case in such desiccated tones, he might as well have been cribbing from the marriage service itself. That dreary bit about marriage being ordained for the procreation of
children and as a remedy against sin. As Mary didn’t want any children and she didn’t mind sin, she had no problem in turning Dirk’s proposal down.

The arrival of a waiter bearing two Martinis and a bowl of olives returned Mary’s thoughts to Clara. The truth was, whatever the state of her love life, Clara’s life seemed enviable.
She had that adorable apartment in Winterfeldstrasse – thanks to Mary – a car, even if it was on loan from a friend at the studio, and a wardrobe full of stylish clothes. Her career was
blossoming. She looked, if anything, prettier than she had four years ago, her cheekbones more sharply defined and her beauty modulated by the grave shadows behind her eyes. Mary had always admired
Clara’s deep brown hair, with its hints of chestnut and honey. Mary’s hair, by contrast, seemed defined by what it was not, neither brunette nor blonde, but a washed-out shade that only
seemed to take on colour in the sun. She had nice eyes, but if she wanted a man to see them properly she had to take off her glasses, which meant conversely, that she could not see him. And whereas
Mary had a constant battle with the bulge, the food shortages in Germany had left Clara lean and willowy, but not so slender that men did not look at her, just like they were doing now, as she made
her way through the club to the table. Mary sprang up and kissed her.

‘Thanks for putting me on to the Bride School. What a story! Let’s hope no one at home gets any ideas. There are men in New Jersey who want nothing more than a woman who knows how to
stuff a herring.’

Clara gave a wry smile.

‘Frank Nussbaum loves the whole concept. When I told him they have lessons on how to obey a husband he was practically ready to move here.’

Clara guessed, though she had never asked, that Mary had given up the idea of marriage some years ago. Presumably she thought it was incompatible with her work. But then, she told herself, Mary
probably assumed the same thing of her, and how accurate was that?

‘How can those girls stand it?’

‘You mean the prospect of marriage, or the pig-trotter stew they serve? God! Even I couldn’t face the lunch.’

‘So did you find out what happened?’

‘A little. There was a girl called Ilse Henning who filled me in. To start with they were blaming it on the gardener. According to Ilse he was soft in the head. But when I called up the
department of Criminal Police they said he had been released without charge. Rock-solid alibi, apparently. So they’re combing through all the violent criminals on their books . . .’

‘Which is a pretty long list in Berlin right now . . .’

‘Exactly. And they still haven’t found their man.’

‘And Anna Hansen?’

‘Looks like you were right. She was a dancer. Originally from Munich. Engaged to an SS Obersturmführer Johann Peters.’

‘It must be the same Anna Hansen then. The girl Bruno knew came from Munich and had been a dancer. But she was the last person I’d have expected to find at a Bride School.’

Clara remembered what she could about the day she had come to Bruno’s studio and found Anna Hansen there, a girl with a ready smile and a calculating look. When Clara arrived Anna had sat
up, taken a paint-spattered sheet like it was an evening dress, and pulled it lazily over her neat, tightly muscled body. Clara had been cool towards her, thinking Anna was a romantic replacement
for Helga, assuming that Bruno had forgotten Helga already, despite everything he said about being heartbroken. As a result the two women had exchanged barely a few words. And now she was dead.

‘I suppose knowing that it’s the same girl doesn’t make much difference now.’

‘Except . . . I almost forgot,’ said Mary. ‘There’s this. It was hers. I said you might be able to give it to her family.’

She hauled out the burgundy leather case and passed it over. Curiously Clara fingered the neat tooling and the locked brass fastening. It was heavier than it looked.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a lap desk,’ Mary explained. ‘A kind of portable stationery case. Anna used to keep it hidden in the dormitory for the sake of privacy. Ilse said she used it for
writing letters to the beloved Johann. She seemed to think that the letters are still in there, and Anna’s family might like to have them back.’

‘But why on earth did you say I’d give it to her family? I don’t know them. They live in Munich presumably.’

‘
Obviously
I didn’t mean it! But I had to say something. No one else knows it exists. Ilse was upset that Anna’s death seemed to have been brushed under the carpet and
she wanted to believe that someone, somewhere, might care. I thought, if it makes her happy, why not?’

At that moment Mary was distracted by a greeting from the other end of the bar.
If that’s not Mary Harker? Great to see you back! Are you planning on staying a little longer this
time?
A gnarled American in a rumpled raincoat was waving a rolled-up newspaper in her direction and Mary disappeared for a chat. When she returned, Clara was looking at the case with
concentration.

‘You know . . . I think I will take it.’

‘To Munich? That’s the other end of the country! Nearly four hundred miles away. Don’t be crazy, Clara. It’s not even as if you know where the family lives.’

‘We could find out.’

‘How? As you said, Hansen is a common name. There’s probably a hundred of them in the telephone book.’

‘Why don’t we look inside?’ Clara tapped the case.

‘That’s more like it,’ grinned Mary. ‘You read my mind.’

‘It may help us find an address. You said she kept all her letters. They may be private, but Anna isn’t here to mind, is she? It doesn’t count as snooping if someone’s
dead.’

‘Girl after my own heart.’

‘There’s no key, I suppose?’

‘Pass it here.’ Mary had wrenched a kirby grip out of her hair and was applying it to the lock with intense concentration. Within a minute, the lock sprang open with a satisfying
click.

‘Ha! Little trick I learned as a kid. And much easier than I thought.’

The doors of the case opened out to reveal a miniature desk lined in worn purple plush, with a leather insert on the base for writing. Piled inside was a thick bundle of envelopes and papers,
and at the back were small cubicles for pencils, pens and space for an ink bottle, which was missing. Above were two drawers with ribbon ties, one containing stamps, the other a stash of fresh
envelopes. Mary took the bundle of papers, handed half of them to Clara and began to thumb through the rest.

The cache of letters had been hastily ripped from their envelopes and carelessly refolded. Most of them bore the address of the Bride School.

‘Love letters,’ said Mary.

They were written in a regular, unsophisticated schoolboyish hand, and from one of them dropped a small, black and white photograph of a group of SS officers, arms linked, standing outside a
tavern. None of the men could have been older than twenty-five. There was no indication which was Johann Peters, but Clara could imagine him bending over the letter, the tip of his tongue
protruding with concentration, as he tried to communicate with his glamorous new fiancée.

‘And she kept her old programmes.’

Mary was flourishing a sheaf of theatre programmes, bundled together with a rubber band. The Friedrichspalast, the Wintergarten and the Metropol in Berlin.
Happy Journey
,
Strauss’s
Die Fledermaus
. A production of
The Merry Widow
at the Gärtnerplatz theatre in Munich for which Anna Hansen’s name appeared in tiny print in the cast
list of the chorus. Mary handed one over to Clara who peered at it, unable to make out any individual figure from the group of scantily clad women posing in a forest of peacock feathers.

‘This isn’t much help.’

‘But this one could be.’

There was another letter, with a stamp on it, which was sealed but had not been posted. It was addressed to