The Winter Garden (2014) (21 page)

‘But if you could help us, Fräulein, we would like a few details of what happened when this journalist visited. Just for the record.’

So that was when Ilse had told them. She had to, really, and besides, they had commented on her honesty with the lighter, so she explained that she had passed on Anna’s case to the lady
because she said she was a friend of the family.

‘What friend of the family?’

‘I’m not sure. In fact, Fräulein Harker said she
knew
a friend of the family. So you’d have to ask her.’

Inspector Georg knitted his brows and brushed some crumbs off his trousers.

‘This case. What did it look like?’

‘It was just a little stationery case. It wasn’t important or valuable. Anna used to keep her letters in it. That’s all.’

After that Inspector Kuckhoff made a few notes in his book and slapped his thighs in a satisfied manner, and Inspector Georg commented on how lucky Fräulein Henning’s fiancé
was to have such a pretty young bride, and the two men left.

That might have been the end of it, apart from one curious thing. It was late afternoon and Ilse was in sewing class, where she was embroidering a pair of knitted gloves for Otto, with Heil on
the back of one hand and Hitler on the back of the other. They were to be his Christmas present. She pictured Otto standing guard in some freezing outpost, his breath in clouds, clapping his hands
together and thanking God for his fiancée and her thoughtful gift. That thought led to an extended reverie of the married life that awaited them, and how she would welcome Otto when he
returned, cold and tired from service, with the stove lit and a fragrant stew bubbling, after which he would fold her into his arms and . . .

This daydream was interrupted by the crunch of gravel outside and the weighted thud of a car door slamming. Casting a glance down from the window she saw the strangest thing. She was absolutely
certain of it. The sleek black Mercedes Benz 540K exiting the gates was one that no one could mistake. Not just because it was the size of a small tank, with bulletproof glass and armour plating.
But also because it had a personalized number plate which identified it as the property of Joseph Goebbels, the Reich Minister for Propaganda and Enlightenment.

Since the extraordinary episode of Thursday night, Clara had been thinking continuously about Ralph Sommers. She couldn’t get his face out of her mind. The smile,
slightly mocking, and the patrician voice with its perfect command of German. The faint crinkling of skin around his eyes. And those eyes themselves, at once sensual and serious, with splinters of
darker green around the edges. Why should she trust him? She had met him in the thick of the Nazi élite, after all. He had followed her with the skill of a professional, though just what
sort of professional, she couldn’t judge. He had described himself ambiguously as a ‘freelance’, whatever that meant, yet he had asked for her help. She didn’t imagine that
she could be any help to him. If his approach was a trap, then it was a most elaborate one. Surely, by confiding in her, he was taking as great a risk as she was. Yet altogether, she decided, it
was essential that she remain on her guard.

Duisburger Strasse in Wilmersdorf was a row of solid, nineteeth-century, high-ceilinged houses with filigree wrought-iron balconies protruding like lace on a heavy bosom. The street door was
open, so Clara entered and knocked several times on the door of apartment two but there was no answer. She would have left, but the faint strain of music coming from behind the dense oak door told
her that someone was at home. Eventually it opened and Sommers stood there, unshaven and wearing a dark blue silk dressing gown, which gaped at the neck to reveal a line of tawny hair leading down
the chest. She wondered if she had disturbed him with a woman. He stood aside.

‘You’d better come in.’

He seemed entirely unsurprised to see her. And unembarrassed at being only partly dressed. He led the way into a drawing room and gestured at a sofa.

‘Sit there for a moment, will you? I’ll get some clothes on.’

While he went into the bedroom across the hall she looked quickly around for anything the drawing room might reveal about him. Nothing about the place, no glass ringed with lipstick, no flowers
on the mantelpiece, suggested the presence of a woman. The only female to be seen, clipping roses in a wooden-framed photograph, was the age to be a mother or an aunt. There was a blue flask with
the label ‘Extract of Limes, Geo.F. Trumper, Curzon Street, Mayfair’. A pair of gold cufflinks on the desk, engraved with the initials R.G. S. A globe-shaped, cut-glass lighter, a heavy
brass ashtray and an open bottle of Johnny Walker whisky on the table. A pair of brogues stowed neatly beside the armchair with the inscription ‘Church’s of Turl Street, Oxford’
on the inside sole. A tweed jacket hung on the back of the door. The furniture of the room suggested a long-term tenancy, rather than a man living out of a suitcase. There was a desk, with a lamp
and a leather-backed chair and an open copy of an Edgar Wallace thriller. It was almost as though someone was attempting to project an idea of utter Englishness.

There was a Bach sonata on the gramophone. The music hung in the air, the notes twisting up, delicately rippling and declining, like something infinitely sad. Sommers returned, lifted off the
needle, then walked across the room and detached the telephone from the wall.

‘I hoped you’d come.’

He tilted the whisky bottle towards her in enquiry, and when she shook her head he poured a finger for himself.

‘The telephone’s just a precaution. Don’t worry. It’s quite safe.’

She took the armchair closest to the door and Sommers sat opposite. Leaning back, his glance travelled involuntarily to her stockinged legs in a way that surprised her. An agent should know to
keep their gaze steady. Not to give their thoughts away with telltale glances. The eyes were the first thing to betray you.

‘I assume, given that you’re here, you feel you might be able to help?’

‘You’ll need to explain a bit more,’ said Clara, neutrally.

‘Of course.’ He stroked an eyebrow thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps a bit of background might help. Earlier today two Panzer tank regiments were dispatched from Neuruppin, about an hour
north of here, to Spain. Nothing unusual about that, but it’s a sign that the German involvement in the Spanish war is not letting up. There are men and machines being sent out there
constantly.’

‘Go on.’

‘Everyone should be asking themselves what the involvement in Spain actually means. And the answer is, it’s a preparation. The Luftwaffe was mobilized at the start of this year and
since then they’ve undergone a vast expansion. They have seventy military airfields around the country. They’ve increased aircraft production to unprecedented rates. The Germans possess
the fastest bomber in the world – the Do 17. They’ve a production line at Heinkel’s factory on the Baltic coast turning out dive bombers in enormous numbers. To date they’ve
amassed thirty bomber squadrons, six dive-bomber squadrons and twelve fighter squadrons. Two thousand three hundred and forty aircraft in all. Your Ernst Udet’s technical division is coming
up with new ideas all the time. The only thing that’s holding them back from producing ever more machines is the shortage of steel and aluminium. This matters because everyone accepts that
air numbers are going to be vital in the coming conflict . . .’

‘The coming conflict? Then you
have
made your mind up.’

‘Clara, it’s right in front of your eyes. They’re preparing for war on a major scale. The German army is growing stronger by the month. All the munitions factories are working
overtime and they won’t stop until they’ve turned every saucepan in Germany into a dive bomber. Even before Hitler got involved in Spain, the rest of the high command assumed war was
coming, though not before 1941. Now it seems we’re looking at some time sooner. Maybe even as early as next year. Britain badly needs to get up to speed.’

‘Is Britain not, then?’

‘Sadly we’ve spent too long listening to the pacifists who are determined to prevent rearmament. Those people who say that there’s no point defending ourselves because the next
war will wipe out mankind. Or the others who say let Hitler have his way with Europe, as long as he leaves Britain alone. They’re fools, the lot of them, if they think Hitler can be trusted.
We need to match Germany’s achievements right now. In heavy bombers for a start. Just think of what a five-hundred-pound bomb or even a thousand pounder could do if it was dropped on
London.’

‘No one in their wildest dreams is talking about bombing London.’

‘There’s no telling with the wild dreams of some people.’

She shifted in her seat. His sense of quiet alarm was contagious.

‘When I met you the other day, you mentioned that many British people agreed on an alliance. Surely Hitler hasn’t ruled that out?’

‘You’re right. And for what it’s worth, I think that’s still what Hitler would prefer. In the past he’s favoured a grand alliance, with Britain being superior on
the sea, Germany on land, and equals in the air. It makes a lot of sense. If he achieved that, he would be able to concentrate all his force eastwards, towards Russia, in search of that living
space he talks about. He would absorb Poland and White Russia. In the meantime the regime has decided that a German–Italian alliance will be important, so for Mussolini’s visit the
other week they put on a huge display of military power. But Hitler is still listening to powerful British voices who would like to see Britain and Germany as brothers in arms.’

There was no doubt to whom he was referring. Her father, Sir Ronald Vine. The image of her father, with his craggy figure and penetrating blue eyes, tirelessly giving dinners and making speeches
to serve fascism in Britain, rose up between them and Clara felt a faint, defensive stab of loyalty. She might hate everything he stood for, she might have devoted the past four years to
undermining the Nazi regime in every way she could, but it still pained her to hear her father spoken of with contempt. Family loyalty was deep and instinctive and one of the toughest ties to
sunder.

‘Why not just say it? You’re talking about my father, aren’t you? Well, he’s not the only one.’

‘That’s true, and it’s what I fear. Powerful men like your father ensure that the case for an alliance is heard at the highest levels. And – this is what concerns me
– any information from here which puts an alliance in doubt may get quietly suppressed by those factions in the Government who would prefer not to cross swords with Herr Hitler. People who
favour appeasement ahead of action.’

Clara looked away to hide the film of tears which had suddenly misted her vision. Was it the mention of her father, or the fact that she was speaking English in the room of an archetypal
Englishman, that brought a sudden, painful nostalgia for her homeland? Her home in Ponsonby Terrace, her friends, the theatre school, the parties and plays, even the BBC programmes on the wireless,
all seemed so far away. Another life. For a second, her mind travelled back up the railway line through Kent, past embankments blowing with wild flowers and horses gazing peaceably over the fences,
then slid into dingy, busy London, with its parks and squares and sooty spires.

‘I wonder . . . what an alliance would really mean?’

It was something she had often thought about, but she had never before allowed herself to wonder out loud.

‘If you want to know what Britain would look like, take a look around you. Don’t imagine that England’s Jews or her free press or her politicians would be safe for long in an
alliance with Hitler. How could they possibly defend themselves? Anyone who imagines that the English Channel is enough to secure their freedom is a fool. The Nazis would start straight away,
ensuring their placemen were in positions of power, and those men would be increasing the power of the police, banning demonstrations, unless they happened to be marches by our friend
Mosley’s people, curbing the trade unions, locking up the churchmen. Then it would be the turn of the social structures, schools and universities, the treatment of women. Books, plays, films,
nothing cultural would escape scrutiny. Before long, a thousand years of British parliamentary democracy would be undermined. Britain would be a shadow of itself. And all the ugly, divisive
passions that lie beneath the surface would be brought to the fore. That’s why it matters so much, Clara. The appeasers can’t know what Hitler has in store for them. It’s a deal
with the devil.’

He was no longer smooth and genial. The façade of bonhomie she had seen at the Goebbels’ party had entirely vanished, to be replaced by something deeper, more melancholic.

‘You seem to know an awful lot – about the aeroplane numbers and so on. Why do the Nazis give you so much detail?’

‘They want me to know. I told you, they regard me as a useful channel. Goering wants me to relay it to the people back home because he thinks knowing the strength of the Luftwaffe will
concentrate minds and make the British realize there’s no point in putting up any resistance. They give me an astonishing level of performance data, reports on each aeroplane’s engine,
manufacturing levels. We share information with them too. Their chaps were shown round some RAF stations this month, though they were only shown outdated aircraft, of course. Just the old crocks,
nothing important. But there’s pressure of time. We have a deadline approaching.’

‘A deadline?’

‘A crucial one. Next month Lord Halifax, the Government minister, is coming to visit. What do you know of Halifax?’

Clara racked her brain for details of the cadaverous Earl, with his homburg hat and icy, aristocratic manner. ‘I know he welcomed the reoccupation of the Rhineland. He said it was only
Germany’s backyard.’

‘Halifax has been deputed to open dialogue with the Germans. Officially he’s here as Master of the Middleton Hunt, to visit Goering and shoot foxes with him. Unofficially, he’s
sounding out German intentions. Goering is aiming to entertain him along with the new ambassador, Mr Henderson. As I said, Henderson is already predisposed to admire the Nazis. He’s claims to
admire all the regime leaders, even Goebbels. He’s wilfully blind. He swallows everything the Nazis tell him about wanting closer ties between our two great nations. Halifax, I’m less
sure about. But he has been heard to use the phrase “alterations in the European order” to refer to Hitler’s plans for Lebensraum.’