The Winter Garden (2014) (32 page)

Turning left, she mounted another flight of oak carved stairs and wandered further along the corridors. The guest bedrooms had porcelain plaques on the doors, with cards attached, presumably for
the assistance of the servants. The first floor was devoted to the female guests. She glanced into one and saw a dressing table strewn with jars and perfumes like a sacrificial altar to some
cosmetic god. Another floor up she found the corridor for male guests, and when she came to the name of Ernst Udet she saw that the door next to it bore a card saying Oberst Arno Strauss. On
impulse she knocked, and when there was no reply, she slipped inside.

The room was draped in shadow. It was decorated in the same Bavarian hunting style as the rest of the house, with the ubiquitous stag’s head mounted ominously above the bed, the bone of
its skull gleaming in the moonlight. The room was empty, thankfully – she had half expected to find Strauss skulking here, or perhaps even asleep. As she looked around, she wondered what she
was even looking for. Her mission was to ‘cultivate’ Arno Strauss, because he was involved in testing an advanced aerial reconnaissance camera. Yet she could, at that moment, see no way
that she could be any use at all.

Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and she saw a desk, on which were a couple of papers. Her pulse quickened. No doubt he had brought some work with him, as an excuse to escape
the dinner early. Perhaps the papers related to the details of the aerial reconnaissance programme. If only she had a camera of her own, she would be able to photograph them right here. As it was,
she would have to read and memorize any significant details. She was making her way over to the desk when she heard a step behind her and froze.

‘What a delightful surprise to see you, Fräulein Vine. At this reception, I mean, just as much as in my bedroom.’

He stood with his back to the wedge of light from the landing. His face was in shadow, so it was hard to read Strauss’s expression, yet she sensed his habitual twisted grimace.

She could not suppress a nervous laugh. ‘I was exploring.’

‘That can be a dangerous business here. There’s a room across the corridor where the Reichsminister keeps his lion cubs. You wouldn’t want to step in there by
mistake.’

He closed the door behind him without switching on the light and crossed his arms.

‘Did you have other business here?’

‘No. I just . . .’

‘You just thought you would have a good look through my papers?’

There was nothing else for it. She smiled up at him.

‘I was looking for
you
, since you ask. Frau Goering said you were here but I couldn’t see you anywhere. I was longing for a friendly face.’

For a moment, he continued to scrutinize her stonily, then he gave a harsh laugh.

‘Of all the things people have said about my face, no one has ever called it friendly.’

His levity encouraged her. There was nothing for it now, but to continue with the flirtatious pretence that she had deliberately sought out an assignation.

‘Do you mind telling me how it happened?’

‘This?’ He brushed a hand over it. ‘Many women would think it was bad form to ask a pilot how he sustained an injury. It might imply he was not quite as excellent at his job as
he would like to think.’

‘I don’t care about that. I’ve flown with you after all, remember. I know you’re excellent at your job. So you can tell me. Was it an accident?’

‘I prefer to call it a lucky escape.’ He gave a wry smirk. ‘Like the lucky escape I made from that dinner. I was treated to an audience with your Duke. He was complaining about
how poor he is. He wants to buy a yacht but his stingy brother won’t give him the money. Not much brotherly love lost there.’

‘I can’t believe the former King of England has no money.’

‘He claims he’s penniless. The brother won’t hand over a thing. Even on this trip, the Reich’s paying for everything. All I can say is, they’re certainly getting
their money’s worth out of him. There’s a week of dinners and lunches and then they’ve lined up factory visits in Dresden, Stuttgart, Nuremberg and Munich.’

‘Royalty are used to touring. Someone said they believe everywhere smells of fresh paint because they spend their life making visits.’

‘I think a little more will be required of your Duke than shaking hands with a few factory workers.’

‘What do you mean?’

Even though they were alone, Strauss lowered his voice. ‘The talk is that the Duke has said, if necessary, he will serve as president of an English republic.’

‘If necessary?’

‘If circumstances came about. A war perhaps. They’re going to hold him to it. A document has been prepared promising a permanent alliance with Germany and pledging the return of
German colonies and the gift of northern Australia. Two copies of the document have been drawn up for the Duke to sign. They’ve been brought here, for Goering’s perusal.’

Could it be true? If the Nazis achieved that it would be an astonishing coup. At once a vision of England came to her, a republic ruled over by the Duke of Windsor and other Nazi placemen, even
perhaps her father. It would be the same England, but shabbier, robbed of its authority, under the Nazi thumb. Then she remembered what Ralph had told her. That certain people in the Foreign Office
deliberately suppressed fears about German militarism because they craved an alliance with Hitler. They ignored the warnings of men in the Air Service that Germany would turn on Britain. Might
Clara have been warned to lie low because of what she might find, rather than because she was under observation?

There was no going back now. She smiled at Strauss, keeping her eyes from straying to the damaged half of his face, trying not to look at the curve of the scar which sliced like a scimitar
through the soft flesh.

‘I enjoyed our flight the other day.’

‘Did you? You did a very good impression of being scared out of your wits. But then I suppose you are an actress.’

‘I wasn’t acting. It was exhilarating. In fact I felt a kind of euphoria.’

‘Euphoria, eh?’

‘I’d do it again in a flash.’

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, rubbing a hand along the line of his scar.

‘All right then. I’m going out to the countryside the day after tomorrow. I have another test to do. You could come, if you’ve developed a taste for it.’

She felt a little pulse of success. Testing an aeroplane. Could that mean he was trying out the new camera?

‘We could fly out to a field close to a little restaurant I know, eat and then fly back again.’

‘Sounds dreadfully illicit.’

‘It is. But a lot of us do it. It’s good to get a break and this place serves the best schnitzel you’ll find in the country. The only thing is, we’d not get back until
dusk. Does flying in the dark frighten you?’

‘Not being able to see how far up we are might be an advantage, I suppose.’

‘It would save you having to look at me.’

Startled by this comment, she said, ‘It’s very kind of you to do this for me, Oberst Leutnant Strauss.’

‘Not so much of the Oberst Leutnant. Call me Arno.’

‘Thank you, Arno. I appreciate it, when there’s nothing in it for you.’

‘And what would you imagine I want?’

He remained staring down at her intently, as if he was about to say more, and suddenly she couldn’t take it. It was as though he was seeing right through her. She edged towards the door
and, sensing her move, his relaxation evaporated and the stiff formality returned.

‘Good. Well unless you have any other business in my room, I’ll see you at Tempelhof. Friday at ten.’

The next morning, before the wild boar hunt, Strauss, like all the men, was obliged to attend an open-air breakfast in the woods, where coffee was heated over a wood fire and
taken with schnapps and hunter’s black bread. The guests were driven off in open-topped carriages, complete with bearskin rugs over their knees. Goering took the first carriage, attired in a
white silk blouse and yellow soft leather jerkin, his official uniform as Reichsforstmeister, topped off with leather thigh boots and a tuft of chamois tail sprouting from his hat. The Duke of
Windsor sat captive beside him, peering without enthusiasm at the gloomy forest around. Not far behind them came Udet and Strauss, who had secured a carriage to themselves and were conferring with
frequent laughter, no doubt inspired by the absurdity of their boss. Clara, who had been watching this parade from her window, had breakfast brought to her room. The tray was laid with orange juice
and coffee, crusty rolls, silver pine-cone jars filled with jam and scrolls of sweet butter. She tucked in hungrily. Plainly the idea of ‘Guns Not Butter’ had yet to reach
Carinhall.

In normal times, when a crime was committed, everyone had an opinion about it. Everyone wanted to say what they saw, to speculate on the perpetrators, the modus operandi, the
getaway and the likelihood that anyone would be caught. But these were not normal times, and it turned out nobody could remember anything much about the murder of Anna Hansen. No one saw it take
place, no one heard anything, no one recalled anything unusual and no one had any idea why the thing they had already forgotten could possibly have happened in the first place. That, at least, was
Mary Harker’s summation of the situation after a few minutes’ conversation with the inhabitants of the Schwanenwerder Bride School.

She could have broken into Alcatraz more easily. They had flatly refused her first request to return with a camera and photograph the brides. Mary had already been granted a morning at the Bride
School, and that was surely enough. Now she had finally persuaded the Press Office of the need for pictures to show off the happiness and healthiness of the Reich brides, she was struck by how
normal everything seemed. Fräulein Wolff glared at her from the office, but did not intervene. A few brides looked up incuriously from stitching tablecloths as she passed, the reek of herring
floated from the kitchen where a cookery lesson was in progress, and out in the gardens a bevy of brides with sun-burnished skin were engaging in energetic athletic kicks. Mary aimed her new Ikon
at them, and was rewarded with a symmetrical row of beaming smiles and a shot she knew Frank Nussbaum would adore.

As she stood there, watching the women exercise in the pines-cented breeze, a couple of puppies tussling in a play fight on the lawn, and beyond, the sailing boats bobbing on the lake, Mary
almost understood the appeal of the place. Who was to say this was not a good way of living, in this idyllic setting, with the friendly smiles and the vigorous bodies, glowing with health and
optimism? Who was Mary to criticize the idea of teaching women how to care for children, or to cook wholesome food? Yet no sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she shook herself. Life in
Germany was like those papier-mâché cakes they displayed in bakery windows now, since the food shortages hit. A wooden circle, plastered with fake icing. Take a bite and you were
likely to break your teeth.

The first sign that everything was not utterly normal came when Ilse Henning, who had been assigned to chaperone Mary’s photography session, hurried across the lawn. Only a few weeks ago
Ilse had been a plump, apple-cheeked girl with a shiny forehead and a generous bosom stuffed into a dirndl too small for her. Now she had visibly lost weight, her face was a hollow oval of anxiety
and her fingers clutched repetitively at her apron hem. She shook hands tentatively.

‘Fräulein Harker? So nice to see you again. Fräulein Frankl suggested I accompany you, as I had met you before. Is there anything I can help you with? A cup of coffee
perhaps?’

Mary noticed that she was trembling. She took her hand and patted it.

‘Ilse, it’s great to see you again. Don’t worry about the coffee. What I’d really like is to take some pictures of the garden.’

That was partly true. Mary wanted a picture of the place where Anna Hansen had been shot.

‘Could you carry this for me?’

She had no need of a tripod whatsoever, but had guessed, accurately, that it might prove a useful piece of equipment in other ways. It looked professional, and conveyed a certain artistic
seriousness. In this case, it provided Ilse with something to carry, making her look needed. Mary proceeded down the path to the end of the garden, intending to take a long shot of the house, and
Ilse followed, grappling awkwardly with the tripod legs.

‘Are you OK, Ilse?’ she said quietly. ‘You’re the only person in this place who looks like they’ve been losing any sleep.’

Ilse glanced at her uncertainly. She liked the American Fräulein. Though her German was execrable, she had a kind face and a motherly air which reminded Ilse just how badly she longed for
her own dear Mutti back in Wuppertal with her braids and her pancake-flat face and worried eyes. When her only daughter went away to Bride School Mutti missed her a lot, but she had tried to
understand that it was for the good of Germany that Ilse learned how to become a new German wife with the right attitudes and education. Ilse couldn’t tell Mutti about the murder – she
would be horrified – and having no one to confide in made Ilse feel all the more lonely. Fräulein Harker was the sole person who had enquired after her feelings since Anna’s death.
It hadn’t occurred to anyone else here that Ilse might be mourning her friend or that being interrogated both by the criminal police and by the Gestapo might have been horribly traumatic.

‘It has been very difficult. The pressure has been quite hard for me. First poor Anna, and then the Kripo came and wanted to talk to me.’

‘The Kripo?’

‘The criminal police. I gave them Anna’s lighter. I found it in the grass where she was killed, and then, after that, the G . . . the Gestapo.’

The word trembled on her lips.

Why would the investigation be turned over to the secret police, Mary wondered. The Gestapo was in charge of matters relating to security and crimes against the state. But this was just a murder
investigation, wasn’t it?

‘They were not nice men.’ Instinctively Ilse lowered her voice. ‘They said I didn’t deserve to be at the Bride School. I’m terrified they will drag Otto into this.
That it could somehow damage his career. I only have two weeks left here but if Otto’s superiors hear that his fiancée has been investigated by the Gestapo . . .’