The Winter Garden (2014) (36 page)

She shook her head, as though still amazed at the turn of events.

‘Why did Anna leave Munich?’ asked Clara.

‘She wanted to escape, probably. She’d got in with a pretty bad crowd at home. Not that we expected her to meet a better class of person in Berlin.’ Katia corrected herself:
‘Nothing personal, of course, Fräulein, but Anna wasn’t the sort who enjoyed drinking tea and knitting. Once I heard she’d joined the chorus at the Wintergarten, I guessed
she’d be hanging around with the same types she knew at home. At least our parents weren’t around anymore to be embarrassed.’

She crossed her arms protectively over her bump. ‘Probably good that they weren’t around to be embarrassed by me either. You know, I almost choked when she wrote and told me
she’d met a handsome blond SS officer called Johann. Anna being an SS wife! And good little Katia getting herself into trouble and then being dumped by a rat of an SA chauffeur.’

‘Do you know why anyone would want to kill your sister?’

A car passed them and Katia jerked like a startled deer. The girl was on edge, Clara thought. Terrified.

‘How should I know? I don’t know why anyone should kill anyone!’ She burst into a fit of sobbing and, to distract her, Clara hauled out the case.

‘Anna left this at the Bride School. There’s a letter for you inside. I’m sorry, but I opened it. I didn’t think I was ever going to find you.’

Katia blew her nose. ‘Don’t worry. I can guess what it says.’

She opened the letter and read it, taking far longer than anyone might need to scan its short, pleading message. Eventually she folded it away.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, anyway.’

‘What had you rowed about?’

‘Money, among other things. She was always on the scrounge.’ She glanced away with filmy eyes. ‘Whatever I’ve said, she was still my big sister. I did love her, and now
she’ll never know.’

‘Of course she knew.’ Clara put an arm round her. ‘Only Katia, there’s one thing that’s puzzling me. Why did you come here?’

‘I told you. It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t have much choice.’

‘I mean here. Klosterheide. It’s a long way from Munich.’

She ducked away from Clara’s arm. ‘I needed a break.’

Katia was hiding something. There was a Lebensborn home outside Munich, Clara knew. Why did she need to come so far, unless there was something she needed to escape? Was it the ‘other
people’ the old woman had complained about?

‘When I went to Munich, to your old apartment in Frauenstrasse, the landlady said that someone had come looking for you. Do you know who it could be?’

Katya’s cheeks were flushed and her lower lip stuck out in a pout. If she did know, she was not about to tell Clara.

‘Could have been anyone, couldn’t it? Thanks for the cigarette. I’d better be getting back now.’

She flicked the stub into the grass and climbed back in the car, giving Clara no option but to follow.

‘The thing is, Katia, the person who was following Anna might well have been following you. And now, I think they’re after me.’

From the corner of her eye Katia gave a swift startled glance.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Someone has made threats against my godson.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘That’s just the problem. I don’t know. I hoped you might.’

They drew up outside the home as the SS group were emerging, at their centre the new mother in the flowery hat, carrying Eva’s child in an awkward clutch, the way a farmer might carry a
pig. Katia’s face, already mottled with tears, flushed further at the sight. As she made to get out, Clara handed her the stationery case.

‘Don’t forget this.’

‘Keep it. I don’t want it. They don’t encourage personal possessions here.’

Katia leaned through the window and placed a hand on Clara’s arm. ‘It was decent of you to come all this way and tell me, and I’m sorry about your godson. I can’t really
help you. I don’t know what happened to Anna and I hope they catch the bastard who did it, but the way she lived, something bad was always going to happen. She attracted trouble.’ She
sniffed. ‘Though I suppose, if anyone’s able to help, it would be Heidi Kastner.’

‘Who’s Heidi Kastner?’

‘Anna’s best friend. As much as she had a best friend. Her companion in crime, more like. They were as thick as thieves. They’d known each other since they were ten and Heidi
was behind every problem Anna had. I blame Heidi for most of what happened to Anna.’

‘Where could I find her?’

‘The last I heard of her, she was dancing at the Wintergarten.’

Katia slammed the car door and disappeared inside.

It was an hour’s drive before Clara reached the outskirts of the Grunewald. She suddenly felt desperately tired. Every part of her body ached. The Opel’s heater had packed up and an
icy wind ran through the car. In her head she heard Mary’s voice saying,
Just come home and get warm. You’re no good to anyone if you exhaust yourself
. She wondered if Mary had
gone back to the Bride School and if she had found out any more about Anna’s death.

Alongside these thoughts, another concern arose. The sight of the babies at the Lebensborn home had revived that craving which came increasingly often now, a sensation that was visceral in its
intensity, tugging at something deep within her. The longing for a child. She recalled the unfocused eyes of the baby in its mother’s arms, the fragile skull with its feathering of hair, the
petal-soft flesh and the foot that stretched out of its blankets, flexing itself like a kitten. Clara wondered what it was like to feel the weight of a baby in your arms, to feel the curl of its
fist around your finger, or the fix of its eyes in yours. Would she ever know that feeling herself? Would she ever have a child of her own to cherish? And would that child grow up loving and
needing her, only later to push her away?

Clara allowed herself to dwell on this for only a few minutes before putting a firm mental lid on her thoughts. No time could be worse to have a baby and there was no place worse to have one
than the Third Reich. Added to which, there was the little matter of needing a man to have it with. None of the reasons convinced her, of course, but she found that repeating them often enough
really did succeed in drowning out deeper thoughts. Just like Goebbels said.

By the time she reached the outskirts of Berlin, she wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Her mind was running ahead of her, back through the streets, under the arches of Nollendorfplatz, to
Winterfeldstrasse, through the door, up the stairs, into the apartment and her bed. She drew up in the street, parked across from the door, and stepped out of the car. Out of the corner of her eye
she saw it, a fraction of a second before she felt the savage thud as the wall of shining steel hit her, swerved back into the road and she fell.

There was a blur of sky and a face, then the earth came up to meet her and she felt herself crumpling, the back of her head exploding in pain.

Clara had been dreaming about her parents. Long ago, when life was still normal. Briefly she woke, to find herself somewhere cool. The pain was beating against the inside of
her skull, crashing in waves against the bone. Dim memories crowded her mind. Lying in the street in Winterfeldstrasse, people around her, her head pounding. Being picked up and travelling in a
taxi. She shifted and a sharp ache shot through her ribs.

The threat to Erich. Bruno. Arno Strauss. The dead girl and the visit to Katia Hansen. She could not make sense of any of it. In the past few weeks her entire life seemed to have become unhinged
from its normal path. It was like the moment in a cinema when the film speeds up and slips from its projector, spooling crazily away with all its images, leaving only a flickering darkness. She
fell asleep again.

It must have been some hours later when she woke. Fatigue pressed down on her like a great weight, making it difficult even to stretch out. The bed she was in felt luxuriously deep and soft, the
sheets deliciously chill against her hot limbs. Gradually the room came into focus. The curtains were drawn but she could tell it was morning because the sun pressed urgently at the edges, lighting
up the damask roses of the fabric with a vivid blue flame. The light stung her eyes so she shut them again. Footsteps came towards her across the floor. Burnished black brogues from Church’s
of Turl Street, Oxford, fitted with a steel tip in the heel. The characteristically languid tread.

‘Hello.’ It was Ralph, stroking her head. His face was ashen. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and a bow tie hung, untied. His hand cupped her chin and lay soft against her flushed
cheek.

‘Your fingers are freezing, Ralph.’

He laughed. ‘You’re better than I thought. No harm done. Just a lump the size of an egg where you hit the back of your head and a few scratches.’

She noticed a porcelain bowl on a table to one side, and a wad of cotton wool beside it. A flower of blood bloomed up beneath the water’s surface.

‘Is that my blood?’

‘It’s just a graze on your temple. I patched you up as best I could. Tried to remember what I learned about first aid in the boy scouts. Here.’ He propped her up on the
pillows. ‘Not a conventional way to get an attractive woman into my bed, but . . .’ Seeing her look he laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry. I slept on the sofa. You’ve been
out for hours.’

He picked up another piece of cotton wool, wetted it with disinfectant, and dabbed her forehead tenderly.

Looking down, she realized she was wearing a man’s white cotton shirt. Ralph’s shirt, it must be, and beneath it, she was entirely naked. A blush rose to her face. He glanced
politely away.

‘How’s the head?’

‘It hurts.’

‘Wait a minute, I’ll fetch you some aspirin and a cup of tea.’

From her position propped up on the pillow she looked through to the drawing room, with its Persian carpet and the desk in the corner. She could hear him moving around the apartment, boiling the
kettle, making tea, and waiting for it to brew, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke away as he stared into the distance. She found her handbag at her side and reached down for her Max Factor
compact to reveal her face, milk white, and highlighted with a gash on the temple.

He returned with a tray, bearing aspirin, two tea glasses and toast.

‘Careful. It’s hot.’

The tea was sweet and malty. Assam.

‘What happened to me?’

‘Looks like some idiot ran into you. Car came out of nowhere and knocked you out cold, momentarily, without stopping. Lucky for you I was there. Otherwise you’d be mouldering in some
hospital this morning.’

He spoke as if she had been negligent in getting run down.

‘Why were you there?’

‘Pure chance.’

‘You can’t expect me to believe that.’

‘Good luck, then. By the way, I collected your bag, and you had this with you.’

He gestured to the case stowed at the side of the bed.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m afraid your clothes were a little dirty.’ He pointed to her stockings, bra and underclothes neatly folded across the back of a chair. ‘I’ve washed them as best
I can, but it’s not my forte.’

Clara wriggled down further in the bed and drew the sheet more tightly around her. The thought of Ralph undressing her like a sleepy child, then wrapping her in his own shirt and putting her to
bed caused a wave of conflicting emotions. Embarrassment first, then annoyance and, underlying that, excitement. What had he felt when he pulled her clothes off and saw her naked? Had he reacted
like a nursemaid, or a man?

‘Why can’t I remember anything? I remember coming here with you . . .’ The images were beginning to knit together again in her brain. The taxi, the firm arm beneath hers,
guiding her up the stone steps. ‘But I don’t remember a thing about being knocked down.’

‘It’s normal to be a little groggy after a concussion. Nothing to worry about. You can remember what you were doing yesterday, I take it?’

The visit to Katia Hansen.

‘Yes.’

‘And the day before?’

‘Arno Strauss took me for another test flight. We landed near a restaurant he knows and had lunch.’

The day with Strauss came back to her. The desolation in his eyes. The twist of vulnerability and contempt when she refused his kiss.

‘Very nice. Did you learn anything?’

‘A lot. He explained all about the camera.’

‘Do you think he suspects anything?’

‘Nothing I can’t cope with.’

‘Did you part on good terms?’

‘I suppose.’

‘That’s good. You should rest now because I’m going to need to know everything you can tell me about Strauss. Take those aspirin and drink your tea. I’ll be in the next
room if you need me.’

She drank, and felt the energy flooding back to her. The anxiety that she had felt since discovering Erich’s photograph on the car ebbed away here. The distant sounds of Ralph moving
around the drawing room, a muffled cough, the soft thump of books, imparted a sense of security she had not known in all her years in the city. It was as though nothing could penetrate the cocoon
of this apartment.

An hour later he put his head round the door to find her looking curiously around the room, running a hand through her disordered hair. He came and sat on a chair by the bed,
stretching out his long legs.

‘Do you feel up to talking?’

‘Just about.’

‘Good girl. Tell me about Strauss then. You saw him at Goering’s reception?’

‘Yes. And he told me what they’re proposing for the Duke of Windsor. The suggestion is that in the event of a Grand Alliance between Britain and Germany the Duke would return to the
English throne, with Lloyd George as Prime Minister. Alternatively, if a war was needed first, then Edward would serve as a president of an English republic. And they’re going to hold him to
it. A document has been prepared promising Germany the return of her former colonies and the gift of northern Australia. Two copies have been drawn up for the Duke to sign. They had just been
delivered for Goering’s approval.’