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Authors: Jane Thynne

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BOOK: The Winter Garden (2014)
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It had taken all her strength to walk away from Ralph the previous evening, and the ache that he instilled in her had lingered through a long night. Their contact was fleeting, but the
exhilarating shiver that his touch had stirred surprised her and left her longing to see him again.

The unexpected call from Goebbels’ office at seven o’clock that morning, however, had succeeded in banishing Ralph entirely from her mind. The Propaganda Minister was visiting
Babelsberg that day, a cool secretarial voice informed her, and he hoped Fräulein Vine would be able to see him at eleven o’clock. Hastily Clara went to her drawer and unearthed a
diamond swastika. Goebbels himself had given it to her, because he trusted her to supply him with the gossip she heard from Nazi women. She stabbed it into her lapel.

Dr Morell emerged from the door and Goebbels followed him, rubbing his hands vigorously, as though washing off invisible blood.

‘Morell was just telling me he’s up to his eyes in work. He was saying that most of our top men now require his services. My God, what an unhealthy bunch they are!’

Goebbels himself looked sleek, despite his deformity, and full of health. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dove-grey suit and bespoke patent-leather shoes. He moved with a malign vigour in
his trim frame, trailing a miasma of Scherk’s Tarr aftershave.

‘Come in, Fräulein Vine.’ He waved her to a chair and pointed to the smoking set of matching silver cigarette box and lighter on the desk. ‘The Führer sent me such a
lovely gift for my birthday, I’ve been hard put to think how I can repay him. But I’ve decided to give him a set of Mickey Mouse cartoons for Christmas. What do you think? I know he
loves Mickey Mouse.’

Was this a joke? Did Goebbels know that his nickname was Mickey Mouse? Clara decided that it was probably not. Goebbels’ jokes were rarely self-referential.

‘It’s an inspired idea.’

‘Thank you.’ He folded himself into a chair and crossed his legs in a way that concealed the deformed right foot. Goebbels enjoyed being at the studios. It enabled him to adopt the
persona of the cultured arbiter, the one he had longed for since he first began writing his interminable novels back in his home town of Rheydt, submitting them endlessly to publishing houses and
receiving repeated barbs of rejection. Invariably they had been Jewish publishing firms, who had since been made to pay for the error of their literary judgements.

Clara glanced around her. Amongst a number of framed posters for Ufa movies like
The Blue Light
,
Hitler Youth Quex
and
Black Roses
, was a poster for
Patriots
,
the latest big-budget film to star Lída Baarová. It was a thriller about a brave German soldier shot down by the French and befriended by a rebel French girl. The poster featured
Baarová in a clinch with the heroic soldier played by the handsome Mathias Wieman. What kind of masochism did it require, to spend all day looking at the girl you loved being kissed by
another man? But there was no accounting for the strange tastes of Nazi men. Alongside the posters were the usual selection of Reich-approved art – dull Teutonic nudes covered in
appropriately gauzy veils and robust peasants gathering in the corn. Goebbels could not possibly have chosen them himself. He had been a connoisseur of the Expressionist Emil Nolde until it was
decided that Nolde must qualify as degenerate.

Goebbels followed Clara’s gaze. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I should get Herr Speer to redesign this place, but he’s very busy right now. As a matter of fact I’ve
just commissioned him to make a film about the racial aspects of architecture. You probably didn’t realize architecture had a racial aspect, did you?’ He smiled to show that his
question was rhetorical. ‘Anyhow, Fräulein, I wanted to tell you, I’ve been asked to send a selection of films to Obersalzberg. The Führer enjoys seeing all the latest movies
in a relaxed setting and I’ve decided to include
Madame Bovary.

‘Thank you, Herr Reich Minister.’ Clara was surprised because rumours were already starting to surface about the film’s star, Pola Negri. She had only reluctantly returned from
America because she lost a fortune in the Wall Street Crash, but now there was gossip about her Jewish blood. It wouldn’t be long before she left again, people said.

‘I like
Madame Bovary.
It’s an interesting story, I think, and morally sound. Unfaithfulness in women is never attractive. I’m sure the Führer will enjoy it. He
has a weakness for love stories. Just look at all those operettas he sees.’

‘They’re a slightly different thing.’

Goebbels laughed, as though she had made a daring joke. ‘I share your distaste, Fräulein, of course. Operetta has never been an art form I enjoy. But the fact is, where you see naked
girls flaunting themselves at the Wintergarten as vulgar Jewish sensuality, I see it as healthy exuberance likely to stimulate the birth rate! It’s all a question of perspective.’

She knew Goebbels was deliberately entrusting her with this display of cynicism, getting her to relax her guard. To make comments which may tell against her at a later date.

‘Anyhow, it’s not the Führer’s taste in operettas that concerns me this morning. It was another matter.’

The main matter.

‘I wanted to ask you about our friends the Mitfords. Fräulein Mitford and Frau Mosley, I should say. Delightful girls, but I wonder . . .’ he waved a cigarette in the air, as if
contemplating how to frame his question, ‘I wonder myself if they really spring from the soul of the English people. What do you think?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

Clara knew the Mitford girls’ father was a cousin of Winston Churchill’s wife. Hitler must be aware of that connection too and no doubt assumed that the women had the power to sway
opinion in the upper echelons of the English establishment. Goebbels, however, was more astute.

‘Unity is unusual, isn’t she? She has sent me a copy of an English magazine,
The Tatler
, with circles round the photographs of people who might be sympathetic to our
cause.’

‘How efficient of her.’

‘Magda says she keeps a live rat in her handbag.’

‘The English are great animal lovers,’ said Clara blandly. ‘Unity used to take her pet sheep in the second-class carriage from Oxford to London. She has a snake too, I believe.
It’s called Enid.’

‘A snake?’ he winced. ‘I hope she keeps it locked up. We’ve known her for some years, of course, and my wife is much closer to her than I am, but she appears a most . . .
emotional . . . young woman. Her attachment to the Führer is as passionate as any German’s.’

‘More so, if possible. Unity said the greatest moment of her life was sitting at the Führer’s feet, having him stroke her hair.’

Goebbels seemed startled.

‘Did she really?’

There was a small triumph in being party to information that had escaped Goebbels’ all-encompassing net. But Clara knew she needed to tread carefully. Goebbels trusted her to supply gossip
that he might miss, but it had to be innocuous gossip. Nothing that really mattered.

‘She’s intensely enthusiastic. Back in England she gives the Hitler salute to shopkeepers.’

‘That shows an unusual degree of loyalty.’

‘The shopkeepers certainly think so. Unity says following the Führer is her destiny because she was conceived in Swastika, Ontario.’

Goebbels raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I must admit the Führer is much taken with her. He ferries her around all over the place, wherever she wants to go. He has provided her with a
personal driver in Berlin and he takes her to Munich on his own train. More importantly they discuss England frequently, he tells me. Fräulein Mitford has given him to understand that the
British are foursquare behind an alliance with Germany against the Bolshevik threat. She insists that Britain will never take up arms against Germany.’

Goebbels paused here, thoughtfully. Was he waiting for Clara to confirm Unity’s assessment, or was he asking her to point out the truth – that Germany had access to a huge range of
newspapers, Embassy staff and contacts and transcripts of political speeches, not to mention an intelligence agency, that could keep the Führer better informed of British attitudes than a
twenty-three-year-old girl with distinctly eccentric habits?

‘I think Unity’s opinions are as individual as her choice of pet.’

He smiled. ‘The Führer spends much time with Frau Mosley too. He confided in me that he finds Diana tremendously intelligent. She has told him there are only three anti-aircraft guns
in Britain. Does she know, do you think?’

‘You mean, does she know how many guns the British have, or does she know what an anti-aircraft gun actually is?’

His smile dropped like an iron shutter.

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Plainly Goebbels felt reassured in his own assessment of the Mitfords. They were eccentric young women whose opinions were no more serious than their party games. Yet still, he must be concerned
at their influence on Hitler. Hitler was more susceptible to the charms of the aristocracy than Goebbels, more prone to assuming that their opinions were representative.

‘Now, Fräulein Vine, I understand you are attending the reception for the Duke of Windsor at Reich Minister Goering’s lodge.’

‘Yes, Herr Minister.’

‘I unfortunately will be unable to attend. I have business elsewhere, but I shall be most interested to hear about it.’

‘Of course.’

‘In particular . . . I believe our friends the Mitfords will also be attending.’ He gave her a smile which didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I will be interested to hear more of
their views. I think we should have another chat when you return.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Herr Doktor.’

Clara couldn’t help reflecting on the irony of the situation. How extraordinary it was that having offered to observe the Mitfords for British Intelligence and been rebuffed, she should be
asked to perform the same service for Goebbels himself. He sprang up, signalling the meeting was over.

‘I myself am planning something a little more stimulating than a bunch of tipsy Luftwaffe officers to entertain the Duke, delightful though that sort of thing may be. I have a cultural
treat in store that I think he will appreciate. The Duke’s an intelligent man, I would go so far as to say a great man. He’s far-sighted, modern, clever. Perhaps he was too clever, too
sophisticated to remain in Britain.’ He limped swiftly across the room and opened the door. ‘I daresay you sympathize with him in that regard.’

Clara walked away, wondering how Goebbels had known that she would be attending the Goerings’ reception. The rivalry between the two men would ensure that the Goerings did not discuss
their guest lists with him. Then she realized an event like that was simply too important for Goebbels not to find out.

It was a relief to find Albert and throw herself into his leather chair. The news about Gisela Wessel and the network of Communists who had been arrested with her had made him unusually
concerned. He rose quickly when she came through the door and went to fetch a glass.

‘How was your visit to the Doktor?’ He would never ask what Goebbels wanted with her. Nor could she possibly confide in Albert that the Propaganda Minister had effectively asked her
to spy on her own compatriots.

‘Let’s just say I’m glad it’s over.’

‘You’ll need this,’ he said, passing her the gin and tonic that he had mixed in preparation.

She sighed. ‘This is the kind of medicine Dr Morell never provides.’

‘Unless it comes in one of his injections. Perhaps that’s his secret. A dose of neat gin straight into the vein. No wonder they come back for more.’

‘I’m looking forward to getting back to filming, Albert. Rehearsals start next week, don’t they? Thank God for work.’

‘We all need work,’ smiled Albert. ‘It takes our minds off life.’

Chapter Twenty-five

Anyone wanting to stage a Wagnerian opera could do no better than Goering’s vast hunting lodge, Carinhall, which emerged at the end of a long winding track in the deep
forest of Schorfheide, north of Berlin. The forest, bisected only by the occasional path, was oppressive. It was not the deciduous tumult of an English forest but a strict, regulated wall of
impenetrable gloom, the pines erect and uniform like ranks of soldiers. They made Clara think of the ranks of the Wehrmacht, expanding relentlessly into Spain and Europe, and perhaps eastwards too,
an indomitable forest of grey-green soldiers.

Carinhall, a white stone, baronial hall decorated with turrets and a steep, thatched roof, was named after Goering’s adored first wife Carin. Even though he now occupied it with his
second, Goering had ensured that the eponymous Carin would always be with them, and not just in spirit, by digging up her body from her native Sweden and reinterring it in an elaborate underground
mausoleum beneath the lodge itself. If that was not enough, the first thing visitors saw on entering was a solid gold bust of the first Frau Goering which had pride of place in the lobby.

That night the great hall was filled with the scent of pine and candlewax and the ceiling glittered with chandeliers. The walls were hung with antlers and the heads of numerous other creatures,
but that was nothing to the number of living animals kept in cages and stables in the grounds. As well as bears, wolves, lions and a species of bison specially bred in his attempt to recreate the
Germanic ice age, the Reich Minister had assembled an exotic collection of wild creatures in his private zoo. Goering loved keeping animals, almost as much as he loved shooting them.

Though he was Minister of Aviation, Chief of the Luftwaffe, head of the Four Year Plan, and second in command in the Third Reich, Goering was, for the purposes of this weekend,
Reichsjägermeister, Master of Hunting. That evening he was entering fully into the role and appeared like something out of a mediaeval fairy story in his leather breeches and Tyrolean hunting
hat, with buttons on his olive suede jacket made from silver-mounted deer’s teeth. His bloated fingers glinted with emerald, sapphire and ruby rings and his nails were varnished. The
Führer was absent that evening, but Rudolf Hess with his beetle-browed glower, Heinrich Himmler with his banal, bank clerk’s demeanour and the alcoholic Labour Front leader Robert Ley
were there in black SS dress uniform. Around them other Nazi men strutted like peacocks in full display, their sashes and decorations pinned to their chests and their hearty cries resounding round
the room.

BOOK: The Winter Garden (2014)
13.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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