The Winter Garden (2014) (5 page)

She moved over to the mantelpiece and examined a small photograph. It was of a boy, aged around six, gap-toothed, with a broad grin; Erich, the son of Helga Schmidt. As Helga lay dying on the
pavement Clara had promised she would look after Erich and she had been true to her word. Every month she sent part of her wages to the grandmother he lived with. When he won a place at a top
Gymnasium in Berlin, Erich and his grandmother had moved to a cramped apartment next to a brewery in Neukölln. Erich was almost fourteen now, and the broad grin had vanished. Though he had his
mother’s dark eyes, he lacked her sunny disposition and had grown into a serious, intelligent child, who concealed his anxiety with acts of bravado. Clara had seen him a lot over the last
summer. They had driven out to the beach to sunbathe, and they had taken boats onto the lake. Clara had surprised herself by learning how to row. She had indulged his passion for aerobatic displays
and he had tolerated her enthusiasm for the theatre.

Erich’s birthday was coming up soon and he had asked for a Hitler Jugend knife. He had even given Clara a picture of the one he wanted, torn from a magazine, with
Blut und Ehre!
etched on the blade and an idl swastika on the black checkered grip plates. He was very precise about these things. Clara sighed. She would much rather give Erich a book than a knife. Children
were like that, she supposed. Always wanting unsuitable presents.

She finished her sandwich and cleared away. How unpredictable life could be. Five years ago, as a jobbing actress living in London with her father and sister in a tall Georgian house close to
the Thames, she could never have imagined that at the age of thirty she would have made a life in Berlin, with an apartment and a contract at the Ufa studios, and a teenage boy to look after. The
more conventional path for her life, the path her late mother had passionately hoped for, lay in marriage and motherhood. A safe alliance with the son of one of her father’s political friends
and a home in one of the creamy, stucco terraces which fanned out like chunks of wedding cake into Kensington and Chelsea. Her children would no sooner grow up than be sent away to school. Her life
would be a round of cocktail parties, dinners, theatre and Conservative Party fundraising events. Deference to a husband who had invested in a set of opinions at boarding school and saw no reason
to equip himself with new ones. Respectability, convention, tedium.

Clara gave an involuntary shudder. It bored her just to think of it.

But nor could she have imagined either that she would discover her own grandmother, Hellene Neumann, was Jewish, a fact that had been concealed throughout her childhood until she contacted her
German cousin. Or that her father had received funding from the Nazi regime to finance his own pro-Nazi group in England, a cause her sister Angela had enthusiastically joined.

Angela’s envelope lay on the desk unopened. Whenever they exchanged letters, Clara stuck to sketchy accounts of her time at Ufa, the parties, the nightlife and the apartment.

‘Last week there was a premiere for
Love Whispers
and afterwards we all went out to Gustav Fröhlich’s house – he’s just about the most famous star in
Germany!’

Clara never gave a hint of the horrors she saw every day. The ugliness on the streets, the arrests of colleagues, the terror that laced the air. Angela reciprocated with fulsome details of her
social life, seemingly unaware that Clara was not transfixed by the doings of the Belgravia cocktail party set and the Kensington Ladies’ Tennis Club. Right now, Clara decided, Angela’s
letter could wait.

It had been a tiring day. She had been called for filming at nine tomorrow morning which meant she would need to catch the S-Bahn out to the Babelsberg studios by seven. She was longing for a
bath. She ran the water and as the scented steam rose about her she unbuttoned her blouse and stepped out of her skirt. Slipping off her underclothes, she stood naked at the heavy porcelain basin,
smoothing her hands over her hair. She took out a tin of Nivea cream and began removing her make-up with rhythmic, automatic strokes. With its high, arched brows, strong cheekbones and straight
nose, her face had a neat symmetry that made her photogenic. She examined the fine tracery of lines at the side of her eyes, the blueish tinge beneath them and the faint brackets of smile lines.
She pursed her mouth, with its pronounced cupid’s bow, and ran her hands down her body with a secret regret that no one else did. Her body was still as slender and smooth as it had been at
eighteen. Not that being an actress in Berlin meant starving yourself any more. Marlene Dietrich-style slenderness had disappeared about the time that Dietrich herself left for Hollywood and all
the top actresses now boasted voluptuous curves. But every actress worried how long their screen career could last and Clara was no exception. She tilted her face left and right, lips slightly
apart, the way you did for press photographers, staring critically. Then she leaned forward and spoke.

‘I am a thirty-year-old woman who has no lover or husband, and only another woman’s child. I pose as a friend to the National Socialists, while informing on them for British
Intelligence. My father admires the Nazis, though my own grandmother was Jewish. No wonder I like going to the studio. Being an actress is the only time that I’m not acting.’

These thoughts she uttered very quietly. All truths in Berlin nowadays were expressed beneath the breath. It was only the lies that were broadcast at maximum volume.

Ilse Henning had known something was wrong from early on. She had been woken before dawn by the shadows of car headlights swooping over the ceiling of the dormitory and the
crunch of hard-soled boots on the gravel drive. Then, at five o’clock, when it was still dark and Fräulein Wolff paraded the length of the corridor with an old cattle bell, Ilse reached
across to prod the familiar hump of Anna beneath the bedclothes, only to discover empty sheets. Normally Anna was the last to get up and Ilse often had to cover for her when Fräulein Wolff was
on the rampage. It was unknown for Anna to be up and about early. Once Ilse had given her face a perfunctory scrub in the freezing basin, squeezed her plump form into the sweaty serge dress the
brides had to wear, tied on her white apron and braided her hair, there were signs that Anna’s disappearance was not the only unusual thing at the Reich Bride School that day.

In the dining room, where the brides not on kitchen training awaited their bread and muesli, there was a strict rule of silence. Yet today, along the long benches, the women whispered among
themselves. Frieda Müller, collecting the eggs from the chicken roost, had seen men at the bottom of the garden, and they weren’t gardeners. What could that mean? Further signs that
things weren’t right came directly after breakfast when the brides were abruptly informed that the fresh-air bath had been cancelled. They proceeded to lessons unwashed, agog with
speculation. During Cookery that morning there was a talk on thrift and the economic situation, and how to pad out sausage-meat with breadcrumbs, but Ilse was too worried to concentrate. After a
swift break for coffee came Childcare in which they were to learn a prayer for mothers to say with their children each night. It was based on the old-fashioned ‘Our Father’, only it
began ‘Mein Führer’.
Ich kenn dich wohl und habe dich lieb wie Vater und Mutter
. ‘I know you well and I love you like my father and mother.’ Ilse sat at the
back, hoping to remain inconspicuous, but the gimlet eyes of Frau Messer fell upon her and she was asked to stand and recite it. Ilse opened her mouth obediently, but the words had gone straight
out of her head. She sat down again, the admonishments of Frau Messer ringing in her ears, her mind too full of foreboding to care.

What had Anna done now? Had she been caught smoking and got herself suspended? If so, she would never be able to get her marriage certificate and that meant she wouldn’t be able to marry
Johann. She would be devastated. Anna was always talking about the wonderful life she was going to have with Obersturmführer Peters after they were married, in a big house in the west of the
city, Zehlendorf she fancied, with a BMW 328 convertible and a wardrobe full of clothes. Ilse had no such grandiose hopes for her own married life with Otto, most likely starting off in his
parents’ three-room apartment in Kreuzberg. But Anna was a real dreamer. A surreptitious tear of sympathy fattened and rolled down Ilse’s pillowy cheek.

The worry continued past lunchtime. She was so distracted on her cleaning duties that Fräulein Horder lost her temper and made Ilse scour all the wash basins and bathroom floors a second
time. Coming down the back corridor with the buckets she was sure she caught a glimpse of a couple of unfamiliar men in overalls in the scullery, but when she dawdled past them a door was closed
firmly in her face.

By two o’clock, news that the police had been called to the premises spread like wildfire, but there was still no word of what had happened to Anna. At two thirty Household Budgeting, the
lesson Ilse detested most because it involved balancing all the Reichmarks she was going to spend with her husband’s income and allowing for emergencies, was moved from the ballroom, which
looked out on the back of the house, to the library whose windows gave onto the front. Staring unhappily into space, trying to work out how much sugar and flour a family of four would need to keep
them a week and what fraction of Otto’s monthly income that would cost, Ilse’s eye fell on the dolls’ house. It was a wonderful little thing, which had been made for visiting
children to play with, but had been moved to the library to stop them playing too much. The man who crafted it had lavished his work with loving detail. The walls were papered with specially made
National Socialist
Toile de Jouy
, featuring little Bund Deutscher Mädel girls skipping alongside Hitler Jugend boys, erecting tents and waving banners. The furniture was hand-carved
oak, and the dining table set with plaster ham and bread. In the bedrooms a girl played with miniature dolls and a boy with bomber aircraft. In the sitting room the father smoked his pipe and
listened to the wireless, a portrait of the Führer above the fireplace. In the kitchen, amid her pots and pans, a mother in a flowery apron rested from her ironing, with a microscopic cup of
Kenco coffee. Why couldn’t real life be like that? Ilse wondered, with a dear little house and a cupboard full of food and children playing tidily in their rooms? That was how it was meant to
be, wasn’t it?

It was as these thoughts were passing through her head that a commotion on the drive made everyone turn round. Ilse looked out to see a fast-moving huddle of men, in the midst of which was
Hartmann, the Bride School gardener, his bewildered face mouthing a cloud of words into the icy air. But no one was listening and as she watched, Hartmann’s head was rammed brutally down as
he was bundled by the policemen into a waiting car.

Unter den Linden, like so many things in Germany now – the sludgy coffee that was padded out with chicory, the butter that was half whale blubber and the bratwurst that
was full of bread – did not quite live up to its name. The Linden trees that had stood for hundreds of years had been cut down on Hitler’s orders so that his troops could march along
the main avenue twelve abreast and the spindly saplings that replaced them were dwarfed by lamp posts. The result was that Unter den Linden was now nicknamed Unter den Lanternen and Berliners
grumbled that it would take decades for their glorious greenery to grow up tall again.

Clara threaded her way through the Mitte district of central Berlin as the last light leaked from the sky. She was pleased to walk. She needed the exercise after a day in the studio and,
besides, it was a chance to think. Buttoned up in her trench coat, hair bundled beneath a felt hat, she walked all the way up to the Lustgarten, passed the gloomy, soot-stained Dom and crossed one
of the little bridges over the Spree. The Spree was not the prettiest stretch of water, always crowded with barges and tow boats carrying coal and bricks, its walls all streaked with ash, but
Berliners had a great affection for it. That evening the water’s gunmetal grey was lit by sulphurous yellow lights that shimmered on the surface while the wind whipped leaves in jittery
circles like Brown Shirts at a brawl. In winter, Clara thought, Berlin was a Braque painting; full of sharp lines and awkward perspectives coloured in an entire palette of greys and browns.

Making her way northwards, past the labyrinthine alleys of Hackescher Markt and up Orianenburger Strasse, she came to the Jewish quarter, where shops with spiky Hebrew lettering offered window
displays jumbled with jewellery, stockings and electrical devices. There was a hurried bustle in this area, among the pharmacies and the clothing workshops. The people here looked shabbier, smells
of frying food hung in the air. Narrow alleys, webbed with washing lines, led into dank courtyards where children played and old men in the long, black coats of the Ostjuden congregated. She passed
a cigarette-stub seller, with his goods laid out on a battered tin tray beside him and a card offering three stubs for a pfennig or two pfennigs for a half-smoked cigar. Through an opened window
she glimpsed a piano, on which a couple of girls in matching horn-rimmed glasses were performing a duet, but as she passed their mother hastened to draw the shutters, glancing anxiously at Clara as
if piano playing was the latest pleasure to be outlawed in this part of Berlin.

The echo of last month’s Party rally down in Nuremberg still resounded here in a rash of posters decorating the walls, warning that
‘Every crime begins with the Jew’
and
‘The Jews are our Misfortune.’
A hoarding attached to a shop front suggested in loud, red letters that all Germans should ‘
Unite against the Jewish Bolshevist
World Enemy
’. Despite herself, Clara shuddered. The previous year, during the Olympics, there had been a brief hiatus when the streets billowed with green garlands and red ribbons all
the way down from Brandenburg Gate to the Olympic stadium and loudspeakers everywhere dropped their regular propaganda broadcasts for updates of the sporting results. Goebbels had been obliged to
choke down his hatred of the Jews for a few months and ordered the removal of the brown cabins, plastered in swastikas, from where the most vicious anti-Semitic paper,
Der Stürmer
,
was sold on street corners. The posters with their crude caricatures of hooked-nosed Jews were torn down and authors like Marcel Proust and Heinrich Heine, whose books had been burned on the
Opernplatz, were allowed on public shelves again. But now, a year later, things were back to normal, or rather the new normal of the Third Reich. There was no longer any ambiguity about the plans
of the regime. Already the Nuremberg laws had stripped Jews of citizenship. No Jew might vote, hold office, practise medicine, teach Gentiles, marry or have sex with them. The fact that the
Führer decided to devote his speech at the Party rally to the theme of Jewish Bolshevism was a sign that a fresh round of trouble was in store.