The Winter Garden (2014) (49 page)

‘In belated thanks for the photograph you sent me, my dear Clara. Here are some in return.’

There was another envelope within. She pulled out a sheaf of prints. They weren’t publicity pictures at all, in fact they looked like nothing she had ever seen. Bewildered, she shuffled
through them, trying to make sense of the grey and white blotches until she realized that they were pictures of terrain from above, crisscrossed fields, dull masses of buildings and soft blocks of
forest. She sifted the pictures through her hands, squinting at one and then another, as aerial views of ports, factories, railway lines and bridges came into view. There were coastlines and hills,
all rendered with astonishing attention to detail. They seemed at once alien and familiar. It took her several minutes until she realized: the photographs were not of Germany but of England. She
was seeing the land of her birth.

Gradually the images came to life and she saw Essex, Kent, Surrey, Sussex, and further west, Devon, Cornwall and Somerset. Hills, valleys, oil refineries, churches and power stations. Aerial
shots of factories, railways, reservoirs and ports. There was London, with St Paul’s and Big Ben and the Tate Gallery, and further out the woods and fields, villages and market towns. The
docks at Plymouth and Portishead, Croydon airport, the Firth of Forth. Sissinghurst in Kent and Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club leapt out at her. They seemed so real to Clara it was as though she could
touch the grass in the fields, see the drifting fog over the Thames, and smell the tang of petrol in the London streets.

She let the pictures fall to her lap while she worked out what they meant. Together, these photographs made a meticulous map of the whole of Britain, but what had Britain been mapped for? Was it
destruction or invasion? Or simply accommodation, when the Duke of Windsor returned as President with Hitler’s blessing?

Jumping to her feet, she looked down the corridor for any sign of the delivery boy but he had vanished. She shut the door and leaned against it, the pictures pressed to her chest. Arno Strauss
had not put his name to these photographs, but he might as well have done.

Strauss knew that Clara was deceiving him, yet in a way he had collaborated. Perhaps deception, like love, needed to have two willing partners. He had been assigned a part, and he had agreed to
play it. So where was he now? She remembered his face as she left Horcher’s restaurant. A test flight, wasn’t that what he had said?

Realization dawned in a rush of dread.
I know that I shall meet my death
. She thought about him circling in the sky. Diving to the earth without a passenger to think of. She thought of
him dead, his name pasted on the long list of those who had died in the glorious service of the Fatherland. His eyes glazed over, matching the blankness of the clouds. His body in the earth, with
nothing above it but the patter of deers’ hooves.

Strauss had never said goodbye, but this, she suspected, was a farewell of sorts.

Like Roman emperors displaying their foreign captives, the march past to showcase the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who were taking the train down south to meet the Führer,
was subject to the full pomp of the Reich. So far the Duke had attended Wagner’s
Lohengrin
performed by the Berlin Labour Front, visited the training school of the Death’s Head
division of the SS and a luxury hotel development on the Baltic for the Nazi Youth. The Duchess, meanwhile, had been shopping. Now they were approaching the finale of their visit, tea with Hitler,
and their car was swallowed up in a sea of swastika flags, jackboots, and the proud, bobbing caps of the Hitler Youth.

Clara and Ralph were walking through the trees towards the Avenue of the Dolls, the wide boulevard that ran north to south through the Tiergarten. It got its nickname from the thirty-two marble
statues commemorating Hohenzollern princes that were lined pompously to each side. When they were installed, the statues had been designed for posterity, but no one in Berlin cared about the
Hohenzollerns now that a new kind of aristocracy held sway.

It was a sparkling morning, as though, just for a while, winter was holding its breath. The grass was seeded with glittering frost and the linden trees throbbed with vivid autumnal red. In the
distance a tumult of church bells challenged the tramping feet of the Nazi parade.

As the centrepiece of the march passed them, Clara caught a glimpse of the Duke and Duchess, performing that peculiar English royal wave which gave the unfortunate impression of brushing an
annoying insect away. Wallis was wearing a tailored suit in teal wool with a matching cape, clutching a bouquet of orchids and white lilac. Around her neck was a mink stole, its sharp claws
glinting in the sun. Her husband was in a light grey double-breasted suit, with a red carnation.

‘If Hitler gets his way, they’ll be travelling down the Mall before long,’ said Ralph.

Clara tried to imagine the royal pair driving down the Mall before a subdued crowd, the Duke of York and his wife relegated to a latter horse-drawn carriage, perhaps followed by some of
Edward’s German associates, their black SS dress uniform towering over the eighteenth-century leather seats.

‘That document you told me about. The one they’ve drawn up for the Duke to sign,’ said Ralph quietly. ‘We’ve been given a copy of it.’

‘So it’s true?’

‘Yes, and we have Strauss to thank for it.’

She stared at him.

‘Strauss gave you the document?

‘So it seems.’

‘As well as the photographs.’ She bit her lip. ‘That was brave of him. He said he had to be careful. There was a leak in Luftwaffe intelligence.’

‘Did he say that?’ Ralph gave a dry laugh. ‘That leak was himself.’

‘But?’

‘Strauss had been passing small pieces of information for some time. The Air Ministry had their suspicions but they hadn’t yet pinned him down. Nothing he gave us, though, was as
valuable as his gift to you. Those reconnaissance maps are intended for a new Luftwaffe intelligence operation under Oberst Beppo Schmidt. It’s been formed to monitor the capabilities of
foreign air forces and to select targets in case of war. The photographs you received show all England’s key factories, railway stations and power stations. Anything strategic has been marked
out for bombing.’

‘So they would bomb London.’

‘Apparently Hitler was heard to say he was pleased that there are so few baroque buildings in Britain. Baroque is his favourite style and he hates having to destroy it. Those maps are an
open rebuke to anyone who says the Germans have no thought of warfare.’

Above them a plane passed and its vapour cut the sky like a knife. The image of Strauss’s face came forcefully back to Clara and she tried to block out the thought of
that final sortie, which had ended in a forest south of Berlin in a heap of fused metal and twisted limbs, a plume of black smoke rising into the sky. Whatever she suspected, it was still a shock
when she passed the newspaper stand at Nollendorfplatz on her way home from the studio and saw a grainy photograph of Strauss on the lower section of the evening paper. She had taken it home and
wept so hard she could barely read the platitudes which accompanied the cursory report
. An unavoidable mistake at high altitude. A tragic loss for the Fatherland.
She had stared at the
photograph until it grew damp with tears, trying to read some motive in his ruined demeanour. What had Arno Strauss thought before he embarked on that final flight? Had he looked the future in the
face and found it overwhelming?

‘How exactly was Rudolf Fleischer involved?’

‘Ah, Fleischer.’ Ralph’s mouth narrowed at the thought of the man who had so nearly managed to take Clara’s life. ‘Fleischer had all the qualifications to work in
the new operation. He was not only an ardent Nazi, but he had an extraordinary technical ability with cameras. Hoffmann had recognized it years ago back in Munich, where he first employed the man
in his laboratory. When the Technical Division was looking for experts to develop a camera that could function at high altitude, Hoffmann recommended Fleischer to Udet and . . . you know the
rest.’

‘What do you think will happen to him now?’

‘He’s already been arrested. Goebbels is no doubt delighted to have one of Goering’s boys behind bars.’

They had reached the road, and threaded through the crowd to watch the march trundle on. A battalion of cyclists passed, swastika pennants fluttering, followed by a cadre of Hitler Youth.
Periodically a forest of right arms would rise, as though hoisted by an invisible magnet. Suddenly, through the mêlée of marching boys, Clara caught sight of Erich, carrying his bomb
collecting box, his face shining with pride and concentration. She jolted Ralph’s arm.

‘There he is! Erich!’

She waved, and was gratified to see Erich, still facing rigidly ahead, give her a sideways grin. She had met him from school the day before and taken him for a meal, answering his shame-faced
apology with the promise of a chance to meet Ernst Udet. If she seemed unusually sombre, he didn’t detect it. His enthusiasm was infectious. He launched into a disquisition on which planes he
intended to fly when he was a pilot, all memories of the unfortunate birthday outing forgotten. Clara had a sudden craving to introduce Erich to Ralph – to join together the two halves of her
life – but she realized immediately how impossible that would be. Would it be years or even decades before she could live her life without secrets? Would it ever happen?

Once Erich had passed, Ralph drew her away again to walk across the frozen grass.

‘I’m leaving for London this afternoon. The sooner these pictures are seen by the men who matter, the better. I’m taking them personally, in my own briefcase. I suppose
there’s no chance of you coming over with me?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t. We’ve already started filming
The Pilot’s Bride
. Udet came to Babelsberg yesterday and we have a day out at Tempelhof
tomorrow.’

Udet had stopped her in the studio corridor and started to talk about Arno Strauss, but almost immediately he had turned away, his face contorted with grief, and for the rest of the day, as if
by mutual consent, they had not spoken of Strauss at all. Udet seemed hunched with sorrow, and the smell of schnapps on him was stronger than ever. Clara wondered how much he suspected about
Strauss’s motives, or what he knew.

‘Udet can’t devote more than a couple of days to filming. And after this one, I get the impression I’ll be busy. Goebbels has already sent down some other scripts for me to
consider.’

They were walking closely, hands brushing lightly, deliberately projecting the impression of casual acquaintances, out for a stroll. But the feeling of his skin against hers made her nerves
tingle and suddenly she couldn’t keep the urgency from her voice.

‘Promise me you’re coming back.’

‘How can you doubt it?’ He gripped her hand briefly, then drew away. ‘But it might not be soon. I’m going to return through Spain.’

‘Spain?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you. I met that American friend of yours, Mary Harker, at the reception for Colonel Lindbergh. Jolly girl,
isn’t she? She told me all about her time in Spain and she mentioned that she’d come across an Englishman by the name of Pericles. I was immediately interested.’

‘Pericles?’

‘Did I say Tom was a classicist? Pericles was his great hero. That would be just like him.’

‘So Tom Roberts might be alive? That’s great news, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Only . . .’ Ralph’s jaw tightened. ‘There’s more I need to find out. It was something Mary said. This chap Pericles had information about German movements.
He was aware of all the details of the impending attack on Guernica before it took place.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘One of the pieces of information Strauss gave us was that the Germans believe their high command in Spain was compromised. They think they were infiltrated by spies working for the
People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. Better known as the NKVD.’

‘NKVD. You mean Stalin’s people?’

‘That’s right. Stalin’s people. Though not always Russians.’

‘Are you saying . . . Ralph, are you suggesting Tom Roberts is an NKVD spy? I thought you said he lost interest in politics.’

His face was solemn. He avoided her eye.

‘Tom was always a passionate man. He saw things in black and white. I thought I knew him well, but how well do we know anyone? Communism is a faith, Clara. It can be a kind of fanaticism
that blinds you to injustice or cruelty. Tom always feared that our ruling class would find common cause with Fascism, so he must have concluded there was only one way to fight them.’

‘All those victims in Guernica, though. Those innocent people.’

‘The Russians wanted the world to know the extent of German involvement in Spain. Guernica did that job.’

‘So it wasn’t just the Germans who knew the civilians would be there. The Russians knew too.’

‘If I’m right, yes.’

‘But if Tom knew the German planes were coming, he could still have warned people. The women and children.’

‘Some people believe that death is relative. A few deaths are worthwhile, if it means the right ideology prevails. I don’t happen to agree with them. Indeed I’ve devoted my
life to proving them wrong.’

He stiffened his shoulders as though bracing himself for what might lie ahead and Clara had an urge to hurry back to Duisberger Strasse, up the steps to his apartment and close the door behind
them. She wanted to make the most of what time there was left; to lie, just for a short while, in the safety of his bed, with nothing between them but their own warm flesh. To bury her face in his
shoulder and feel his hands running down the curves of her body, pulling her towards him, the roughness of his chest against her own, stretching her body along his, face-to-face, her toes pressing
down on his feet. To feel his arms enclose her, his mouth on her mouth and her legs wrapped around him.

They came to a small rose garden where a fountain splashed, its iridescence shimmering in the sunlit air. A gardener moved among the bushes, culling the dead, brown heads of flowers, tossing the
withered offcuts into an ever-growing heap, yet even this late in the year a few roses remained, pushing palely out of the dark leaves. Something Arno Strauss had said went through her head.
Have you ever had that feeling of seeing your life from above?
And for a transitory moment she understood what he meant. In that moment life seemed to bloom in intensity, the colours and
sounds around her sharpened, the fragrance of the grass and the earth rose up and the foliage flamed against the sky. All thoughts of the past and the future fell away and for a while it was just
the two of them, walking beneath the trees, as behind them the music of the parade diminished and the surging crowds moved on.