The Winter Garden (2014) (44 page)

Wengen tried a fresh tack. His voice took on a conciliatory tone.

‘We cannot always be aware of the secrets of our associates. Sometimes we mingle with undesirable people without knowing it.’

She felt his gaze raking her face, looking for the spark of desperation that said she was ready to break in exchange for handing over some information. That suggested she might implicate others
in the hope of going free herself.

‘The activities of those people stain our good name and land us in all kinds of trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble am I in then, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

The conciliatory tone evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared.

‘A lot of trouble if you don’t start answering my questions. I want the names of everyone you associate with, Fräulein Vine. You must have some special friends in that crew of
Jews and Communists up at Babelsberg. A pretty woman like you.’

She forced herself to stare unflinchingly into the black pits of his eyes.

‘The German woman finds her truest friends within the Party. Isn’t that what Gertrud Scholtz-Klink says?’

Wengen laughed, a jagged laugh that cut through the air like a saw. And that was the first time he hit her.

That was yesterday. Now, at dawn, the clanking boots were coming for her again. She could feel the pressure rising in her skull. She tried to summon again the energy for the
great effort of dissembling but she began to tremble, involuntarily, and felt her bowels clench within her. This was her second interview, when they would go over the ground they had already
covered. Whom did she associate with? Who might she be passing information to? Which of her friends were secret Communists or Jews? And with each question there would be fresh blows, until she gave
them some different answers. How long would she be able to hold out? Hours, or even days? There was no lawyer to help her, and no one knew where she might be. She had left Ralph’s apartment
despite her promise to him and, angry though he would be, he must assume she was staying safe somewhere, far away from her own home. No one in Berlin was worrying about Clara, or checking their
watch for when she got back, or calling the police to report her missing. She wished it was over already, that time had jumped forward and she was in a truck on her way to a camp. That way she
might still have her secrets safe with her.

The guard unlocked the door, and handed her the case and her bag.

‘You are free to go, Fräulein.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Unless you choose to avail yourself of our hospitality a little longer.’

Clara stumbled out into the cool Berlin air and looked around her. Everywhere she saw people walking to their jobs, to the station on Stresemannstrasse, to meet friends, to catch trains, as
though they were on a different planet, as if the grotesquerie of the building behind her simply didn’t exist. She gathered herself up and headed away as fast as she could. She felt a giddy
mixture of excitement and fear. Like the sensation she had when Strauss’s plane had pulled out of its dive. Relief at disaster averted. Euphoria at still being alive.

But the euphoria only lasted a moment, before it was replaced by bewilderment. If Albert had informed on her, then he would have entrusted his suspicions to the head of the studios. The man
responsible for all cultural activity in the Third Reich. Joseph Goebbels. Goebbels must be the reason she had been tailed and arrested. He had decided that if Albert was right, and Clara was
hiding anything, the political police would find it out. But if Goebbels was the reason she was arrested, what, or who, was the reason she had been released?

At the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden, which had once been the top gathering spot for the city’s prostitutes, a model torpedo rocket with glinting silver
fins had been erected. It was positioned as though poised to smash into the very pavement beneath it, and alongside was displayed a colourful map of Europe showing all the countries which bordered
Germany with cartoon bomber squadrons pointing ominously at the Fatherland. Above the map was the slogan:
Air Defence For Every German.
Two sentries in steel helmets bearing collecting
tins shuffled their massive boots alongside. Mary noticed that most people ignored the map and quickened their step as they passed. No one wanted to take geography lessons from the National
Socialists.

Mary had been looking forward to seeing Charles Lindbergh again. As far as she knew, she was the only journalist to be invited to the reception, which had to mean Lindbergh himself had requested
her name be included. The very idea of it sent a ripple of pleasure through her. Lindbergh had asked for her! Not only would anything the great aviator said be a scoop, but more than that, she
would get an opportunity to thank him personally for fixing her return to Berlin. Camera at the ready, she had arrived at the Adlon with high hopes.

The Adlon was, as ever, a warm oasis of luxury, where chandeliers glinted above a marble floor. It seemed to exist in another universe from the real Berlin, with tantalizing smells wafting from
the grill room and bowls of freshly cut hothouse roses on every table. Mary spotted Lindbergh at once, towering above a sea of Nazi officialdom. Flashbulbs exploded around him as he pumped hands
with men in uniform. At the age of thirty-five, with rumpled fair hair and a keen blue gaze, he cut a striking figure. Already that day he had toured Tempelhof and piloted a bomber, visited a
couple of airfields and lunched at the Berlin Air Club. Now he was surrounded by an impermeable wall of Lufthansa executives and military attachés, all anxious to hear his views on the
build-up of the German air force.

Mary, it went without saying, could not tell one end of a plane from another, and after half an hour she realized if she had to listen to one more Nazi talking about the performance
characteristics of the ME 109 or the superiority of the Junkers Ju 88, she was going to scream. It took a while to elbow her way through the uniformed scrum, but eventually she managed to battle
her way through to Lindbergh’s side, just as he was off to be presented with a ceremonial sword as an honoured guest of Germany.

He seemed delighted to see her and shook her hand vigorously. ‘Miss Harker! I’ve gotta run, but I’m glad to find you here.’

‘Well it’s down to you, Colonel, that I am here. I wanted to thank you for your help with the visa.’

‘Quite all right. I’m pleased you made it. I think it’s important we get as many good American journalists as possible here. We need to tell the world about the true strength
of Germany.’

‘So from what you’ve seen today, what do you think?’

‘It’s very impressive,’ he said warmly. ‘In fact, from what I’ve seen of the air forces, I’d say Germany now has the means of destroying London, Paris and
Prague if she wishes to do so. And you can quote me on that.’

Mary was taken aback. It may be that Lindbergh was speaking for the benefit of his Nazi hosts, who were beaming and nodding all around him, yet he gave no impression of dissembling. He was all
smiles. Lindbergh seemed entirely sanguine about the idea that the Nazi regime had amassed enough air power to achieve supremacy in Europe. How could he talk of London, Paris and Prague being
destroyed? Hitler had just announced that he would not allow the Sudeten Germans to become ‘defenceless and deserted’ like the Arabs in Palestine. Could Lindbergh, the all-American
hero, not understand what the Germans had in store for Czechoslovakia? Or did he simply not care?

‘Colonel, surely you don’t think . . .?’

‘What I think, Miss Harker,’ said Lindbergh with the zeal of the convert, ‘is that we Americans have a valuable role to play in spreading the word about the new Germany.
That’s why I was so certain that it was right for you to come back.’

‘You thought that I . . .?’

He bent towards her, radiating sincerity. ‘I thought that you would be able to give a fair and accurate picture of the kind of society that Herr Hitler is producing. And I told them
so.’

Well that much was true. Mary was increasingly determined to give a fair and accurate picture of the society around her. But not in the way that Lindbergh seemed to expect. He was the second
high-profile American visitor to Berlin right now, after Wallis Simpson, and both of them seemed to have something in common. A wilful refusal to see what was right in front of their eyes. How was
it they could see the window displays and the construction works, but not the posters on the walls, or the opponents in camps, or the refugees flooding the borders?

Mary left the hotel in a daze. She had a vision of German planes in mass formation, the drone of bombers and the whine of fighters, blackening the sky. Anti-aircraft guns on the roof of the
Adlon and armies mobilizing for the front. Lindbergh had confirmed what she already feared, that Hitler had the ability to do as he pleased and no one, especially not America, was going to stand in
his way.

She was yards down the street when she felt a touch on her arm.

‘Excuse me. Mary Harker? I wonder if I might have a word?’

It was a well-dressed Englishman, with tawny hair and a suave, cultivated accent. She had caught sight of him across the room at the Adlon, downing vodka Martinis like they were going out of
fashion.

‘I hope you don’t mind my mentioning, but I read your reports from Guernica. I found them tremendously affecting. Would you mind if I asked you a little about them?’

He seemed entirely in earnest. Mary looked at him curiously.

‘Not at all. Do you have a special interest in Spain?’

‘You could say that. It’s about a friend of mine.’

‘Would I know him?’

‘I’m not sure. But I wonder if we could talk somewhere, out of the cold?’

One of the sentries approached, rattling his collecting box meaningfully in their direction and the man turned fractionally away.

‘And I rather think, now that Colonel Lindbergh has assured us of the formidable strength of the Luftwaffe, that one is perfectly justified in devoting one’s funds to buying dinner
instead.’

Horcher’s restaurant on Lutherstrasse was the chosen place in the city for the Luftwaffe top brass. The owner, Otto Horcher, had known Goering in the war, and always made
a huge fuss of his honoured guest, cooking him his favourite game and providing other special customers with their own set of monogrammed wine glasses. With the same punctilious attention to
detail, Herr Horcher had also ensured that carefully concealed microphones were built into the fabric of each table, with the help of which the waiters were able to compile their reports to the
authorities. The interior was lined with dark oak panelling and plush leather banquettes, where officers lolled, bowls of scarlet tulips at each table. That lunchtime there was a sprinkling of
Wehrmacht in field grey and the rest were mainly Luftwaffe. As Clara arrived Arno Strauss approached and kissed hands, his manner, as ever, deadpan.

‘I’m glad you could make it. I know you’ve been busy.’

Suddenly she understood. ‘It was you who rescued me.’

‘The Blockwart at your apartment informed me that you had moved to less desirable premises and I didn’t want you to miss this luncheon. You agreed, on our little outing, that it
would be valuable for your research to see General Sperrle, and I had, of course, been looking forward to seeing you. I mentioned your circumstances to Ernst and he pursued it with Goering. At
least, he approached Frau Goering and she took it up with her husband.’

Clara was staggered. So Hermann Goering himself had authorized her release.

‘As I mentioned, there’s been a little difference of opinion going on. Air Intelligence is concerned about a leak. The Gestapo were very keen to investigate but Air Intelligence said
they were perfectly able to mount their own investigation. These inter-departmental squabbles go on all the time. Just turf wars, really, but it means that the Air Ministry are especially keen to
pursue their own ends, as they see it.’

Strauss’s eyes flicked over the bruise running down Clara’s arm, a trace of consternation in his face. ‘I hope you’re feeling well. You received the flowers, I take
it?’

The flowers had been waiting for her when she returned to Winterfeldstrasse. A tight bunch of creamy roses, bright against the black tissue paper like starbursts against a night sky. Pinned on
the side of the bouquet was a note from Strauss, with the time and venue for the lunch.

‘They were lovely, thank you.’

He studied her a moment, his look impenetrable, then he took her arm.

‘You must be hungry. Come and eat.’

The lunch was lavish. Meat was piled upon the table, rabbit, hare, venison, pork and beef, as though there was no end to the animals which had died to feed the Luftwaffe’s guests. The
creatures’ flesh and their internal organs, liver, kidneys and tripe, were offered up in an unending range of dishes, served by waiters in black knee breeches, white stockings and red
waistcoats. But the events of the past twenty-four hours had left Clara unable to swallow a thing. It was incredible to her that just a short time earlier she had been sitting in a cell at Prinz
Albrecht Strasse, awaiting a beating or worse, as investigators tried to determine if she was an informer. Yet now she sat in the midst of the Nazi élite, plied with food, celebrating the
achievements of their bombers in Spain. Though she had not eaten for a day, it was impossible that she would be able to consume anything now. She sat, watching the maroon hunk of meat on the plate
in front of her pool in its own blood.

As the officers ate and drank, their celebrations became louder but Ernst Udet and Arno Strauss sat on either side of her, forming a protective cordon.

‘How’s that boy of yours?’ asked Udet.

‘Fine. At least, we had a bit of a tiff when we last met. He thinks I don’t Heil Hitler enough. He gets all these ideas from the HJ about correcting his elders.’

‘That’s the HJ for you,’ smiled Udet. ‘Here. Let me have his address. I’ve got something that will win him over.’