The Winter Garden (2014) (9 page)

‘Heini Hoffmann,’ hissed a voice in Clara’s ear. ‘The Führer’s own photographer. We are honoured.’

Clara turned to see Annelies von Ribbentrop, wife of Germany’s Ambassador to the Court of St James. The Ribbentrops, it was said, were returning to Germany, with hopes that he would be
made Foreign Minister. Holding her cigarette to one side she proffered Clara her cheek for an air kiss.

‘Frau von Ribbentrop. You’re back from Britain!’

‘At last. Though I don’t know for how long.’

Annelies von Ribbentrop’s square face was framed by dark hair, severely disciplined in tight braids, and her formidable form was upholstered in a type of bottle-green woollen jacket which
suggested hunting, though without any of the fresh air or exercise that went with it.

She sniffed. ‘I do admire you British for coping with such dreadful weather. The damp affects me badly, I’m afraid. I’m sensitive to atmospheric depressions.’

It had to be the only sensitive thing about her, Clara thought.

‘But how are
you
?’

The force with which Frau von Ribbentrop enquired into Clara’s well-being was always in inverse proportion to her actual interest.

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Your father threw a delightful dinner for us in London.’ Clara had heard about this occasion. The Anglo-German Fellowship had booked the Grosvenor House Hotel ballroom for a dinner
to honour Hitler’s ambassador. ‘They had all the tables decorated with swastikas. So touching. You must thank him for us. He’s a wonderful man. Though I must say it’s a
relief to be back in Berlin.’ Her eyes flickered round the assembled company. ‘I’ve been catching up on all the goings-on. What unexpected joy for Frau Goering! I suppose you
heard the news?’

Everyone in Germany had heard the news. Emmy Goering, at the ripe age of forty-one, had become pregnant with her first child. The event was considered a near miracle. Many people believed the
baby could not possibly have been fathered by the Reich Minister who was said to be impotent, either from his morphine use or his war wounds or his enormous bulk. The whole country was gossiping.
Everyone had their own favourite joke about it and the nightclub artiste Werner Fincke had been arrested for telling his.

‘Such wonderful news,’ said Clara, neutrally.

Outside, there was the scatter of gravel on the drive and the purr of an engine. Clara looked out to see a figure jump out of a gleaming, low-slung Bugatti. Then the front door closed and a
minute later the late guest appeared. He was a tall, sandy-haired man in his forties wearing the expression of someone who has left a casino to attend a meeting of the parish council.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said in English.

‘Goodness, Ralph,’ said Diana, plucking imperiously at his sleeve. ‘That hat makes you look like a Jewish bookmaker. Do come in. It’s very naughty of you to keep us
waiting.’

As the maid took his hat and coat and Magda drew him aside, his gaze lingered fractionally on Clara, though no one thought to introduce them.

Clara was finding it hard to focus on the party. For the past two days Archie Dyson’s words had rung in her head.

‘We had a hint you might have aroused suspicions.’

His remark had affected her more deeply than she expected. She knew – she had known for years – that she would be under observation. Someone like her, who was half English, mixing
with the Nazi élite, couldn’t hope to go unremarked. She was ready for it. She had always been prepared to accept the consequences of what she did. Yet the absolute confirmation that
she was being watched produced a continuous, dull tension which knotted her stomach and dragged her mind relentlessly through the same questions. Again and again she had run through her
acquaintances, trying to work out which of them might have confided their suspicions about her to the occupants of Prinz Albrecht Strasse. But she could think of nothing she had done recently which
was out of the ordinary. No revealing conversations which might have been overheard, no meetings with anyone hostile to the regime.

At that moment, standing amid the crowd, she detected a scent that brought her attention sharply back to the present. An astringent citrus fragrance. Scherk’s Tarr aftershave.

‘Fräulein Vine. What a pleasant surprise.’

No matter how often she saw him from afar at the studios, hurrying along the studio corridors with his jerky crippled gait, an actual encounter with Joseph Goebbels, arch persecutor of the Jews
and the man charged by Hitler with responsibility for ‘the spiritual direction of the nation’, still made Clara shudder. His skin was stretched tightly over a pinched, clever face and
his shrunken frame dared you to look down at his deformed foot. His smile was as dazzling and intermittent as a prison searchlight and he crackled with nervous energy. Tonight he was dapper as
usual, wearing a well-cut light serge suit and navy tie. He dipped his head swiftly and kissed Clara’s hand, then took out a cigarette case and offered her one.

‘I saw you at Babelsberg the other day, I think. With Generaloberst Udet?’

‘He’s starring in our new film. He’s agreed to perform a stunt.’

‘Has he? I saw him in
The Miracle of Flight
. A miracle he was able to make the flight, was what I heard.’

It didn’t surprise Clara that Goebbels should be fully briefed on Udet’s love of alcohol. It was his job to know the weaknesses and peccadillos of all senior Nazis. No doubt the
Gestapo too had a stack of notes filed away in the great bank of files that they kept in Prinz Albrecht Strasse, ready to use against Udet should the moment arise.

Clara smiled politely. ‘Actually, I’m hoping he will let me fly with him.’

‘Then you’re a braver person than me. Perhaps you have a taste for danger, Fräulein Vine.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be perfectly safe.’

‘I suppose. So long as you make sure it’s before lunchtime!’

Out of the corner of her eye, Clara was aware of being scrutinized. It was the latecomer, the Englishman called Ralph, who was standing between Magda and the Mitford girls, or rather towering
over them, a good six foot two. He had a broad-featured face and a bump in his nose that suggested a break on some distant playing field. His hair receded over a high brow and he cupped one elbow
in his hand as he smoked. Clara noted the clean ovals of his fingernails and the gold signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. For a split second, as their eyes met, a spark of connection
flickered across the distance between then.

Diana called across to Goebbels.

‘We’re playing a game, Herr Doktor, and you must join in. We’re talking about the deadly sins. I think the old ones are all terribly passé. There should be new deadly
sins. Or perhaps we should have deadly virtues instead!’

‘How about chastity?’ suggested the Englishman.

‘A sin or a virtue?’

‘It’s pretty deadly either way.’

A burst of laughter filled the room. ‘Well if you can’t decide, Ralph, you’ll have to think of another,’ Diana persisted. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Secrecy.’

‘A sin or a virtue?’

‘A virtue, definitely.’

While Diana’s bright laugh glittered out, Goebbels was glowering. He was refusing to join in the joke. It might be that he detested this kind of English party game, but more likely he
suspected in his guests’ banter some humorous reference to his love affair with Lída Baarová. What had Albert said?

‘He’s really smitten this time. They say he’s contemplating divorce.’

His expression set, Goebbels turned his attention to the Englishman.

‘On the subject of virtue, Captain Sommers, I have a complaint to make about your English newspapers. They are constantly handing out lectures on our morality, like some dried-up old
governess scolding away at our young Reich. Tell me, are you happy for them to continue spouting their lies or are you going to put them right?’

‘I’m afraid you overestimate my influence on the denizens of Fleet Street, Herr Doktor,’ Sommers replied pleasantly. ‘Though I’m surprised you find them
uncongenial. Surely many British newspapers are supportive of the National Socialists? Wasn’t Lord Rothermere insisting the other day that Adolf the Great will soon be as popular in Britain
as Frederick the Great? And as far as I’m concerned, the faster Britain realizes her interests lie in a close association with the German Reich, the better.’

He nodded to Clara and extended a hand. A small silver swastika glinted in his lapel.

‘Ralph Sommers.’ At the touch of his hand a shiver ran through her.

Goebbels waved grandly in Clara’s direction. ‘Captain Sommers, this is Fräulein Clara Vine. She represents the perfect union of our two great nations. Her father, Sir Ronald
Vine, is English, and her mother was German. She may look a little English on the outside, but I think we have won the battle for her heart.’

Sommers’ eyes swept over her speculatively. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I only wish some of the people back home would follow her example. Stop talking about war and start
thinking more about what our two people have in common.’ He nodded at Clara. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Of course.’

‘We are two ancient Aryan races, who should be united in friendship. We stem from the same blood. Our royal family speaks German as a mother tongue. We have a common enemy in the
Bolshevik. There seems to me no reason why Britain and Germany should not form one of the great alliances of the modern world.’

Clara didn’t need to ask what a man like Captain Sommers was doing in Berlin. The city was full of people like him. English socialites enamoured of the new regime, infatuated with the
marches and the banners and the upstanding ranks of the Hitler Youth. Though his eyes were a little tired and his face shadowed with stubble, Ralph Sommers exuded the same, unmistakeable confidence
she recognized from the men her sister knew, men from the most privileged ranks of society, the sleek products of public schools who felt the world was at their feet. Given his mention of Lord
Rothermere, he was no doubt another of the press baron’s associates, determined to befriend Hitler and bent on an alliance with Germany. She wondered what Sommers assumed of her. That she was
one of those girls who hung around Nazis because they liked the uniform and the proximity to power? Clara reminded herself how important it was to be careful with other English people. They could
spot mistakes that the Germans ignored. They could sense falsity.

‘So what brings you here, Captain Sommers?’

‘I run a small aeronautical research and sales company. Offices in Conduit Street. Here . . .’ He reached into his pocket and drew out a gold business-card holder. ‘Take my
card. I’m over on business actually, but I took the opportunity to motor down to Nuremberg for the Parteitag and I have to agree, it was an absolutely tremendous show. It quite takes the
breath away. While I was there, the Frau Doktor very kindly invited me to this evening. She really does spoil me.’

Goebbels saw his empty glass. ‘It seems we’re not looking after you so well tonight, Sommers. You have no champagne.’

He gave his wide smile, the one that chilled Clara to the core, and signalled to a young woman holding a bottle of Henkell champagne wrapped in a white napkin. Clara recognized her as the girl
who had served tea the other day. The girl from the Bride School. Her cheeks were flushed and a drop of sweat trickled down the side of her brow. At the Minister’s summons she approached and
grappled with the bottle, managing to spill champagne down Ralph Sommers’ sleeve. Goebbels’ face twisted with anger.

‘Watch yourself, you clumsy woman!’

Sommers brushed the flecks of champagne from his sleeve with a smile.

‘No harm done,’ he said smoothly.

Goebbels glowered after the retreating bride.

‘I’m sorry. She’s not one of our usual maids. She’s from the Bride School.’

Diana Mosley pricked up her ears.

‘A Bride School, did you say? How awfully quaint! Perhaps I should attend one of those.’

‘You wouldn’t last long,’ said Unity belligerently. ‘Given you were expelled from every school you ever attended.’

Goebbels, however, was not joining in the joke. ‘God help the wretched Schutzstaffel who have to marry these women.’ With a visible effort he controlled himself. ‘Still. We
have quite another wedding in mind right now. We are expecting a visit from other of your countrymen. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor are to arrive on honeymoon tomorrow.’

For a split second, from across the room, Clara locked eyes with Frau von Ribbentrop. There were rumours that von Ribbentrop, in his time in London, had conducted an affair with the former
Wallis Simpson. After they were introduced by the society hostess Emerald Cunard, whose home in Grosvenor Square was the centre of pro-Nazi London, it was said Ribbentrop had sent seventeen red
roses to the Duchess’s London home every day. Annelies von Ribbentrop had handled this gossip with her habitual iron composure. At the mention of Wallis, she assumed an expression which could
set concrete.

‘The only shame for them is that they should be hounded from their own country for such a harmless misdemeanour,’ continued Goebbels, turning to the Mitford sisters. ‘I cannot
get over the disdain you English have for the idea of a divorced queen.’

‘Not
all
the English,’ corrected Diana, who was, Goebbels scarcely needed reminding, divorced herself.

‘Perhaps not. But the fact remains you were fortunate enough to have a happy young king with a most attractive wife and yet those dried-up prunes in the Government could not tolerate it.
And they were abetted by the repulsive hypocrites in the Church. I regret to say, to me that’s the mark of a nation on the decline.’

‘The Duke feels it most awfully,’ conceded Diana. ‘I think the idea of the tour is that Wallis should have a little taste of being queen. If they’re going to be so
beastly as to deny her the Royal Highness status, he says she should jolly well experience a royal tour with all the trimmings. Rolling out the red carpet and being greeted by the British
ambassador when they arrive.’