The Winter Garden (2014) (40 page)

She had felt safe there, in the circle of his arms. Whatever Ralph said about doubling the risk, the fact was, it was also shared, and it had been so long since she had someone to share it with.
Clara wasn’t cowardly. She had endured a long separation from her family and turned her face against feelings like this, but perhaps she had been wrong to think it was possible, or that she
should even try.

She stayed in the church for a long time as the rain slackened, until checking her watch she saw that it was time to go.

Heidi Kastner, a chorus girl at the Wintergarten Theatre, consoled herself that although her job was both tedious and repetitive, at least the setting was glamorous and the pay
regular. The show required her and twenty-four other girls to switch from geisha costumes to schoolgirls, from sombreros to tiaras in the space of two and a half hours. At one point they had to
arrive on stage on bicycles, and then, immediately after, dash back to change for the finale which involved wearing a cumbersome plume of ostrich feathers, that were a devil to fix on the hair, and
a frilly strip of gauze across the body which covered barely anything.

When she came offstage that night Hedwig, the old woman who looked after the girls and their costumes and managed to perform repairs of infinite skill with a cigarette perched permanently at the
corner of her mouth, signalled with a tilt of her head that a visitor awaited Heidi at the stage door.

‘A Fräulein wants to see you.’

‘What Fräulein?’

‘How should I know?’ Hedwig was stitching a froth of pink feathers to a bustier. ‘She’s been there a while.’

Outside in the corridor Heidi found a slender woman in a navy suit with soft brown hair and an anxious expression. Not the usual type of fan at all.

She offered her hand.

‘Heidi Kastner? I’m Clara Vine. I wondered if we could have a quick word about someone you used to know – Anna Hansen?’

Half an hour later they were sitting round the corner in a smoke-filled bar, where most conversation was drowned by a piano thumping out old dance tunes. A woman in a French maid’s outfit
was gyrating on a dance floor, her every move shadowed by pairs of eager male eyes. After a while an old, fat waiter came onto the floor, dressed in a dinner jacket and carrying a feather duster.
As the girl danced around he made a feint of whacking her short-skirted bottom to a chorus of encouraging shrieks.

‘Do you like the job?’ Clara asked.

Heidi tossed her frazzled blonde hair. ‘At least it’s varied. We have trapeze artists, acrobats, magicians, singers. There’s a performing horse on tomorrow night. A real one,
you know? It dances. Then it’s all change. We’re doing
The Merry Widow
. Again.’ She narrowed her eyes and helped herself to another of Clara’s cigarettes. ‘So
you want to know about Anna?’

‘She used to work here with you at the Wintergarten? And before that in Munich?’

‘We were dancers together in Munich. We worked the chorus in the Theater am Gärtnerplatz. Everyone worked there. There were up to two hundred girls in some productions. You could get
ten costume changes in a performance. There was always loads of work.’

‘So why did you come to Berlin?’

‘Ach. There was no money in Munich. You could get better money cleaning houses, and you were risking your neck on those props. The place was always freezing too. Several of the girls died
of pneumonia while I was there. I mean it! I’ve been here more than ten years now. Though it’s just as cold.’

‘But it’s better money in Berlin?’

Heidi gave an instinctive glance around the bar, then crossed her arms and stared at Clara meaningfully.

‘As I say, money matters.’

‘Of course.’ Clara took the hint. ‘Here’s something for your expenses.’

She slid some folded notes across the table, and Heidi swiftly placed them in her purse.

‘So tell me about Anna.’

‘What can I say? I’ve known Anna since I was ten. We grew up together. We used to talk at school about being dancers, even though her old man was dead against it. For a while she
fooled around doing some dull secretarial job in a laboratory, but when I got my first job she was so jealous, she joined me in the theatre. We had a wild time.’

Heidi inhaled deeply and regarded Clara out of the corner of her eye.

‘That was until Hitler appeared.’

From across the room there was a roar of approval as the waiter seized the French maid by the hips and pressed himself against her with repeated lascivious thrusts. The dancer feigned outrage as
the audience egged the man on. Clara glanced away then leaned closer.

‘He was always there. He loved variety shows and operetta. He liked something a bit daring, you know? A chance to let his hair down. The theatre manager was all over him. Everything for
Herr Hitler. Nothing could be good enough. He wasn’t even the Führer then, but we had a routine where we danced the can-can and ended with a Heil Hitler salute using our legs instead of
our arms. He loved that. Anyhow, after the show we would all climb into chartered buses and stay in costume for the after-party at the Künstlerhaus. Everyone went there. They had this special
room. The Astrological Hall, they call it, because the ceiling is covered in gold astrology signs, and there are rugs and cushions on the floor. You would be asked to do another performance in
there which had to be even more risqué than the one you’d already done. There was an American girl, a dancer called Dorothy van Bruck – that was her stage name anyway – who
the men adored. She used to dance naked and when things started to droop she got herself plastic surgery. Sometimes she’d wear these transparent butterfly wings but mostly gentlemen
didn’t need their opera glasses, if you know what I mean.’

‘Sounds pretty wild.’

‘You have no idea. The Nazi Artists’ Guild had files on all the girls with their statistics and personal details. And it wasn’t just the ladies. There were plenty of young men
there for those who liked that sort of thing. This is going back some time now, you understand.’

She sighed, and unconsciously stroked her neck in an upwards direction, as if smoothing out a decade of wrinkles.

‘You were saying Anna met Hitler there.’

‘Oh yes. She was all over Herr Hitler. As soon as they were introduced she flirted like mad with him. And he liked her. He must have done, because he gave her presents and flowers. But at
the same time I could tell there was nothing in it. Hitler was never alone with her. He always had a group of people around him. That photographer, you know, Hoffmann. And his adjutant. Hoffmann
was always taking pictures. It used to get on my nerves. And Hitler would bring along his old pal Ernst Röhm. The one who got himself executed a few years ago for sleeping with the choicer
young lads of the SA.’

‘So he and Anna weren’t. . .?’

‘Lovers? Not at all. Besides, Anna wouldn’t have dared. She had a boyfriend already.’

‘A boyfriend? Who was he?’

‘Just a local lad. But he was the jealous type. No, I’m sure there was nothing in it.’

‘In that case, what difference did it make? Anna meeting Hitler?’

‘It’s hard to explain, but quite soon after they were introduced, Anna changed. She got above herself, like she was something special, you know? I couldn’t understand it
myself. I mean, it wasn’t like he was giving her money, or anything. He wasn’t even that famous then, the way he is now. After a while I couldn’t stand it. Even though I was her
best friend, I wanted to get away from her. That was when I started thinking about coming here.’

‘Where eventually she followed you?’

Heidi gave a throaty chuckle.

‘That was just like Anna. She turned up one day years later at the Wintergarten as if nothing had happened, all kisses and best friends again, so I thought, why not let bygones be bygones?
It was good to see a friendly face and besides, I was on the lookout for someone to share the rent. I sorted her out with a job, then Anna got herself an SS boyfriend and, well, you know the
rest.’

Some of the other dancers had arrived at the bar, caught sight of them and were approaching the table. Hastily Heidi pulled her purse towards her.

‘I’m sorry Fräulein, I don’t know anything else. I need to go now.’

She rose and paused, casting a quizzical glance at Clara.

‘Just asking, but you don’t know that old boyfriend of Anna’s, do you?’

She nodded at the gash on Clara’s temple, which she had tried to conceal with Max Factor foundation.

‘Of course not. Why?’

‘Because that bruise you’ve got there looks like just the kind of artwork he specialized in.’

Joseph Goebbels’ Propaganda Ministry was probably the only place in the Reich not lying about its food supplies. Which was ironic, considering the way it lied about
everything else. On a trestle table in the conference room, a veritable feast had been ferried over from the Hotel Kaiserhof. Mountains of spicy marzipan Streuselkuchen, Apfeltorte glistening with
apricot jam, Windbeutel cream puffs and Viennese Sachertorte were displayed on a magnificent silver cake stand. There may have been chronic shortages everywhere else in Germany but here was a
spectacular array of fine white bread, not the gritty, black variety that the rest of the population ate, and a bulging heap of cheeses. Waiters with tea towels folded over their arms darted
forward to ensure that everyone’s glass was filled with sparkling wine. Nazi officials and journalists alike fell on the feast with alacrity, as though, like everything that proceeded from
Goebbels’ department, it might turn out to be an illusion. Mary, who had not had such a good meal for months, was not stinting.

The party was in honour of the film that had just been screened in the viewing theatre to mark Joseph Goebbels’ birthday. There was not much of a story in it, but Mary was discovering that
if you wanted to keep in with the Nazi authorities, it was a good idea to turn up when they asked. Despite an onerous workload as the head of Propaganda and Culture for the entire Reich, Goebbels
had made time to oversee every aspect of this production, simply titled
Papi’s Birthday
. It was a work of exquisite, almost Expressionist simplicity. There was no plot as such,
merely a tableau of the Minister’s life, or at least the life he wanted people to see, with pictures of his family at Schwanenwerder, Magda on the garden swing, little Helmut leading his pony
across the lawn, Helga with the toy sewing machine Hitler had given her, and Goebbels himself cruising up the drive in his new Maybach sports car, arm resting on the door, and a wide grin on his
face. It was to be screened in all cinemas, after the newsreel and before the main feature.

‘Isn’t the film absolutely killing? The family look adorable of course, but the Doktor’s risking an awful lot with all those shots of his new sports car, don’t you think?
The Führer has bet me that people will throw things at the screen.’

‘Anyone who does that had better watch out. I dread to think what the Doktor would do if he caught them.’

The sing-song cadences of upper-class English rising above the civilized clink of glasses caused Mary to turn round. Not far away were two women with gleaming blonde hair, tweed suits and silk
scarves round their necks. They wore Peter Pan collars and pearls and the taller of the two had a prestigious gold Nazi Party badge on her bosom. They were unmistakeably the Mitford sisters.

Unity paused from demolishing a large piece of chocolate cake and laughed. ‘Did you hear, Lord Rothermere has offered Goebbels a job at ten times his current salary? I bet he’ll have
second thoughts when he sees this.’

‘Poor Doktor. Perhaps he’s worried there’ll be competition for first family of the Reich when Goering minor comes along. But the Goerings have got an awful lot of catching up
to do.’

‘Exactly. I can’t see Frau Goering managing four little Hermanns.’

Mary was astonished. The lobby was heaving with senior aides, press liaison officers and officials from Ufa and some of them, presumably, could understand English. Not even the top Nazi brass
dared make open mockery of the Herr Doktor. He might have a taste for vicious sarcasm, but Goebbels’ sense of humour ran out where his own life was concerned. Yet the Mitfords, Mary suddenly
realized, could say what they chose, even in the Minister’s own domain. These young women had the protection of the Führer himself. It occurred to her that this was an incredible story.
Had anyone properly considered the influence of the Mitford sisters? Did Americans even have a clue who they were? Europe could be on the brink of war, and the only people who had Hitler’s
ear were a pair of eccentric English girls. Mary moved nearer, eavesdropping shamelessly.

‘Now, Bobo,’ Diana was saying, ‘I want you to come across to the Kaiserhof and see the Reichswehr uniforms that the darling Führer sent for my boys. It will be wonderful
to see their little faces when they wear them. And a hoot to see everyone else’s faces too. It’s the only way I can bear the thought of going back to England. Lucky you staying here
with him.’

‘Isn’t he marvellous? He’s taking me to
The Merry Widow
later this week and right after that he’s giving me a lift down to Munich on his train. I can’t
wait to get back there. I’m missing my dog awfully. And my rats.’

Did she really say rats? Mary almost choked on her cream puff.

‘I’m frightfully jealous,’ pouted Diana. ‘Everyone’s so gloomy in Berlin. I can literally think of nothing nicer than sitting in the Hofgarten and forgetting all
this beastly talk about war.’

‘Actually,’ said Unity, ‘the Führer told me Lord Halifax is coming out to meet him at the Berghof next month. I think it could be good news. I’m going to keep
badgering him to make a deal with England. I’ve decided it’s my mission.’

Mary was transfixed. Her first thought was that she was longing to tell Clara about this. Her second thought was to remember that she had something else to tell Clara – something that had
been at the forefront of her mind for several days. Something Clara would badly want to know.