The Winter Garden (2014) (19 page)

In the end she selected a dress of soft moss green, with a sweetheart neckline and puffed sleeves. A single strand of pearls round her neck and diamond clips in her ears. Her nails were freshly
lacquered, but covered by soft leather gloves. Attractive anonymity was the best she could hope for.

The prospect of a drink with Ralph Sommers unsettled her on several levels. She felt the predictable twists in her stomach, which always accompanied anxiety. She couldn’t make him out. Had
he followed her all that way through Berlin? If not, how had he known where she lived? What was his motive in asking her for a drink? Could it be purely the spark that had passed between them at
the Goebbels’ home? That teasing smile, as though they had shared some private joke. As she relived that moment she felt a jolt of sexual energy pass through her, but instantly reproved
herself. Sommers was an attractive man, but not only was he a good ten years older than her, more importantly she could never have the slightest romantic interest in any fellow traveller of Oswald
Mosley. This evening would most certainly be business, not pleasure.

Once dressed, she drew on her warm, fur-collared coat and looked for a hat. She had several to choose between: a purple velvet cloche with a white band, her soft and flattering brown cloche or
her new, tip-tilted pillbox hat, draped with a fashionable few inches of veil. Veils were increasing popular just then. That was the genius of fashion, the way it suited itself to the times.
Nothing could be more frivolous than the little scrap of netting that made a hat’s veil, yet nothing could be more profoundly useful at a time when keeping one’s eyes covered was a
significant part of daily existence.

The Einstein Café on Kurfürstenstrasse, just a few blocks south of the Tiergarten, was a Berlin institution. Since the nineteenth century it had been the favoured
spot for writers and artists, its walls hung with photographs of the great and celebrated, lit by great globe lights hanging from a ceiling of gilt and pistachio green. The villa itself belonged to
the actress Henny Porten, a star of the silent era, whose career had taken a sharp downwards curve when she refused to divorce her Jewish husband. Clara had seen her around the studios a few times,
in the early days, a mournful figure with silver-white skin and inky hair, but since Goebbels had banished her from the screen she spent the days upstairs, haunting the villa like a beautiful,
brooding ghost.

Eyes swivelled towards Clara as she made her way through the marble-topped tables to where Ralph Sommers was sitting on a leather banquette with his back to the wall and a good view of the room.
He wore a tweed jacket with a crimson silk handkerchief tucked in the top pocket. He stood up and smiled playfully.

‘I was half wondering if you would turn up after that little dance you led me last night.’

‘Well, I’m here.’

‘I’m not used to beautiful women evading me with quite such ease.’

‘Do beautiful women often try to evade you?’

He laughed. ‘It’s not a frequent occurrence, no. But I think you could tell I was following you. Where did you learn that?’

‘I might ask you the same thing.’

‘I asked you first.’

‘I didn’t learn anything. Maybe you’re just more obtrusive than you think.’

‘In that case, why didn’t you stop and ask me what I wanted?’

‘Perhaps I wondered how you knew where I lived.’

‘Ah. That’s simple. Our hostess, Magda, kindly gave me your address.’

Furnished by Goebbels himself, no doubt.

‘I took the liberty of ordering some wine.’

As he thanked the waiter in flawless German, Clara stared into the mirrored walls behind him. The mirrors here were angled so that an infinitely receding image was reflected, folding in on
itself, offering a thousand versions of herself and Ralph Sommers. Yet she still had no idea which image was the right one. Who was he? Had he been sent by Goebbels to keep an eye on her? She
remembered what he had said about Magda showing him hospitality. He must be close to the Goebbels then. He may even know her father.

‘So tell me about your career. What brought you to Berlin? Why isn’t a girl like you living it up in London, the toast of Drury Lane?’

She laughed. ‘I was only the toast of the Eastbourne Pavilion until I came to Berlin. I came here on the off chance, in 1933, because someone had said there might be a job for a bilingual
actress at Ufa. And they were right. Since then I’ve been working non-stop.’

The wine he ordered was a Burgundy, rich and musty. He swilled it round his glass.

‘And now you’re filming with Ernst Udet? That’s quite impressive. I know him a little. I should think he would be quite a card to work with.’

‘I hope so. It’s going to be fun. The other day I went up in a plane in preparation.’

‘Ernst took you in a plane?’

‘It was a friend of his. Oberst Strauss. He had a test flight to carry out at Tempelhof and offered to take me along.’

‘A test flight? What was he testing?’

‘Oh, I’m hopeless with names. All planes look the same to me. But it was one of the most exciting experiences of my life. Terrifying too. Though I suppose
you
don’t
find flying terrifying at all, given your job?’

‘My job can get a little nerve-wracking at times. But I’m sure you were in good hands with Oberst Strauss.’

‘I suspect he was breaking all sorts of rules taking me with him.’

‘Perhaps he’s a fan.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. He says he rarely goes to the cinema. And he never watches Udet’s stunts on film because he says he is always thinking of technical details and it
distracts him from the story.’

‘He won’t know what he’s missing then, when your film is made,’ said Sommers with a gallant little flourish of his glass.

‘Thank you.’

‘And are you planning on staying in Berlin?’

That question again. Why did people keep asking?

‘The thing is, Captain Sommers, I’ve made my life here. I have a good apartment, I’ve made friends and I adore acting. Besides, my mother was German, so the language was never
a problem. And as you know,’ she said carefully, ‘there’s so much going on.’

All true.

‘Exciting things,’ he agreed.

‘Yes. Germany is certainly changing very rapidly.’

True again.

‘The new Germany,’ he said. ‘Germania, isn’t that what the Führer calls it?’

He took a languid sip.

‘Do you see much of the Goebbels?’

‘Not recently, no. I’ve been so busy.’

‘Of course.’ Another sip. ‘Joseph seems very impressed by you.’ He gave his dazzling smile. The phrase ‘matinée idol smile’ popped into her head, with
its connotations of a smile meant for a wider audience. ‘I’m not sure, however, if impressing the Herr Doktor is such an advantage for an attractive actress.’

She shrugged, lightly. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘I’ve no doubt of that.’

‘Excuse me, mein Herr.’

The waiter appeared and stood between them, replenishing their glasses. Ralph Sommers bent his head away from her to exhale a plume of smoke and when the waiter had gone the matinée idol
smile had vanished. He stared at his drink for a second and then looked up and said quietly, ‘So tell me, what’s in it for you then?’

‘What do you mean?’

She was confused at the change in his demeanour. The seductive expression had disappeared and instead he was observing her with forensic interest. He looked at her with his hooded eyes and
dabbed his mouth meticulously with his napkin.

‘You cosy up to them. You let them think you’re a friend. And actually, you’re watching them all the time, aren’t you? Watching them with those sharp eyes behind that
pretty veil. You’re cleverer than them. You have them fooled, I suspect. But you don’t fool me.’

‘Really, Captain Sommers. I can’t begin to know what you’re talking about. Are you drunk?’

‘Sober as a judge, actually. Though I may not stay that way.’ He reached over and drained his glass, then poured himself another.

‘You’re an observer, aren’t you? It was your remark about the ambassador that interested me. Where would a lovely German actress know a thing like that? How would she be
intimately acquainted with the movements of a British ambassador? Unless, of course, she’s more English than German. Unless she had access to some information that others
don’t.’

‘This is madness. I’m going to leave now.’

Clara rose from the table, and attempted to brush past him, but he grasped her wrist tightly and pulled her down again.

‘Don’t make a spectacle of yourself. It’s all right. You’re not in danger.’

His eyes were intent on her as, with one hand, he extracted some bills from his wallet and folded them under the silver saucer on the table. With the other, he kept hold of Clara’s hand
and, pulling her gently to her feet, led her out of the café. He adopted a deprecating expression for the benefit of any interested customers, which suggested they were in the midst of a
lovers’ tiff.

Quietly he said, ‘Shall we take a walk? I could do with some fresh air.’

He was still holding her hand tightly. The skin on his palm was hard and dry. The feel of it made her wonder what things he had done, and what things he might be capable of. He didn’t let
go until they had turned onto Einemstrasse.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, releasing her. ‘But it’s not a good idea to talk seriously in a place like that. And I do, very much, want a talk with you.’

Her heart was hammering in her chest. ‘About what?’

‘About you. I was interested in you from the moment I saw you. Looking like a little Geisha at the Goebbels’ party. Giving nothing away. I watched you talking to Goebbels and I
thought if a girl like that can keep her nerve among a crowd of Nazi thugs with more decorations than a Christmas tree, she might just work in intelligence.’

‘You’re making a mistake.’

‘I never mistake a woman taking risks.’

‘You know a lot about risk, do you?’

‘I know everything about risk.’

They rounded the corner of the street and turned left again. This was an exclusive area, on the fringes of the Tiergarten, a diplomatic quarter with grand houses whose lush, mature gardens
pressed up against high railings. Against the felty darkness, the lamps glowed mistily in the almost empty street.

‘I’m afraid, Captain Sommers, you’re imagining things.’

‘Don’t worry, my dear. I’m like an art dealer. I’m trained to spot fakes. I’m quite sure your observation went unremarked by the others.’

The image of herself, like a piece of fine art in his hands, being turned over and closely examined, sent a curious shiver through her.

‘So after I met you,’ he added lightly, ‘I made some enquiries.’

‘Enquiries? With whom?’

‘With my contacts in the Air Ministry. The British Air Ministry. That confirmed it.’

She said nothing.

‘Though if you don’t mind me saying, that remark about the ambassador was a damn fool mistake to make.’

Clara was mortified. But still she kept silent. Sommers paused until a man with a dog had passed, then said, ‘It’s getting more dangerous here by the day. It’s no time for
making silly slip-ups.’

He gave her a sidelong look and continued.

‘On the other hand, I can see that it might be the first time you’ve put a foot wrong.’

Clara’s mind was racing. She still had no idea who he was, but it was obvious that he knew far more about her than she did about him.

‘Never attempt anything that wouldn’t come naturally. Build on what you know. Didn’t they tell you that in training?’

‘The only training I’ve ever had was theatrical.’

She remembered Leo Quinn asking her how she portrayed a character on stage. Use the same technique, he told her. Imagine you are playing a role and then become that person.

Sommers craned a quizzical eye at her.

‘My God. No training at all? What are they thinking of? In that case you’ve done remarkably well.’

‘In what way?’

He gave a tight laugh. ‘You’re still not sure of me, are you? That’s to your credit. I’m going to have to persuade you to trust me.’

Clara didn’t reply. What did he know? How much could she deny?

‘And I’m going to trust you too.’

Clara walked on, too angry with herself to be afraid. What had possessed her to meet a relative stranger, with no form of protection? She wondered if Sommers was leading her somewhere, or if
they were going to carry on walking like this, through the night. She began calculating how and where she would be able to give him the slip.

He said, ‘I can see I’m going to have to go first. The fact is, I’m not without a little cover story of my own.’

‘So you don’t really run an aviation business?’

‘Oh no. That part’s true. In a manner of speaking. I’ve always been keen on aircraft, since I was a boy.’

The streetlights threw their shadows ahead of them and she watched them, his tall and broad, her own slender and shorter, leaning into his and merging with it, as though the shadows, unlike
their owners, were lovers out on a stroll. He spoke softly and intently, staring straight ahead.

‘I was born into an ordinary family. We lived in a village in Surrey. Chintz sofas, roses in the garden, tea at four, that was our life. What you might call an archetypal Englishness. I
wasn’t especially bookish but I did like planes. Model ones, of course, to start with. When the war broke out I ditched school and enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps, much against my
mother’s wishes, because I wanted to fly. I’m a Group Captain, as it happens. Unfortunately my plane was shot down by Goering’s chaps and I was taken prisoner in 1917. I spent a
year in a prison camp, down in the southwest of Germany. You can’t imagine the tedium of that, stuck in a camp, playing endless games of chess. For a long time the family thought I was
dead.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘Yes. Great wails and gnashing of teeth all round,’ he chuckled. ‘I never knew what a fine fellow I was until afterwards when I read the obituary they’d printed of me in
the local newspaper.’

She couldn’t see his face well. Between the street lamps the darkness was thick and impenetrable, the texture of soot or oil. A harsh wind cursed in the trees. His tone turned serious
again.