Woman in the Shadows (23 page)

“Unless it comes in one of his injections. Perhaps that's his secret. A dose of neat gin straight into the vein. No wonder they come back for more.”

“I'm looking forward to getting back to filming, Albert. Rehearsals start next week, don't they? Thank God for work.”

“We all need work,” Albert said with a smile. “It takes our minds off life.”

A
nyone wanting to stage a Wagnerian opera could do no better than Hermann Goering's vast hunting lodge, Carinhall, which emerged at the end of a long winding track in the deep forest of Schorfheide, north of Berlin. The forest, bisected only by the occasional path, was oppressive. It was not the deciduous tumult of an English forest but a strict, regulated wall of impenetrable gloom, the pines erect and uniform like ranks of soldiers. They made Clara think of the ranks of the Wehrmacht, expanding relentlessly into Spain and Europe, and perhaps eastwards, too, an indomitable forest of ruthless gray-green soldiers.

Carinhall, a white-stone baronial hall decorated with turrets and a steep, thatched roof, was named after Goering's adored first wife, Carin. Even though he now occupied it with his second, Goering had ensured that the eponymous Carin would always be with them, and not just in spirit, by digging up her body from her native Sweden and reinterring it in an elaborate mausoleum beneath the lodge itself. If that was not enough, the first thing visitors saw on entering was a solid gold bust of the first Frau Goering, which had pride of place in the lobby.

That night the great hall was filled with the scents of pine and candle wax, and the ceiling glittered with chandeliers. The walls were hung with antlers and the heads of numerous other creatures, but that was nothing to the number of living animals kept in cages and stables on the grounds. As well as bears, wolves, lions, and a species of bison specially bred in his attempt to re-create the Germanic ice age, the Reichsminister had assembled an exotic collection of wild creatures in his private zoo. Goering loved keeping animals, almost as much as he loved shooting them.

Though he was Minister of Aviation, Chief of the Luftwaffe, head of the Four-Year Plan, and second in command in the Third Reich, Goering was, for the purposes of this weekend, Reichsjaegermeister, Master of Hunting. That evening he was entering fully into the role and appeared like something out of a medieval fairy story in his leather breeches and Tyrolean hunting hat, with buttons on his olive suede jacket made from silver-mounted deer's teeth. His bloated fingers glinted with emerald, sapphire, and ruby rings, and his nails were varnished. The Führer was absent, but Rudolf Hess, with his beetle-browed glower; Heinrich Himmler, with his banal, bank clerk's demeanor; and the alcoholic Labor leader Robert Ley were there in black SS dress uniform. Around them other Nazi men strutted like peacocks on full display, their sashes and decorations pinned to their chests and their hearty cries resounding through the room.

The women, by contrast, were one heaving mass of fur—ocelot, ermine, silver fox, mink, and sable stoles above creamy shoulders, so closely packed that they resembled a single hybrid animal, moving and rippling through the hall. And it was as one, too, that they stared at the Queen of England manquée, the slender figure of Wallis Simpson.

Clara, with her own fox fur swathing her bare shoulders, stared, too. The photographs gave no real clue of how tiny Wallis was, in her crepe satin evening gown of grayish blue and jacket fastened by three mirror buttons. Her voice was a slow southern drawl, and her severe, classical clothes complemented the angular lines of her gaunt figure. A sapphire choker closely encircled her throat, and a white part ran dead center through the gleaming hair. She resembled some exquisitely engineered, streamlined machine, as hard and shining as the jewels she wore, as steely as an airplane. Her pencil thinness seemed to accentuate the flesh of the Nazi women around her, and though her wide-jawed face was an impassive expanse of ivory, her chest was rising and falling swiftly as a bird's as she was led through the throng. As Robert Ley introduced Wallis and kissed hands, his wet lips glistening, some women, flummoxed by her exact standing, even curtsied. Emmy Goering brought up the rear, shuffling her guests around, like pawns on a chessboard, to gain a better view of the almost queen. Clara recalled the ivory chess set given to the forthcoming Goering child and thought how appropriate it was. The incessant political maneuverings of the Nazi court were just as complex a game, and far more vicious.

As she watched, a familiar figure bore down on her. In comparison with the woman her husband admired, Annelies von Ribbentrop was the size of a tank, swagged in cream satin like a coffin lining. Heavy emeralds tugged at her lobes. Her face, with its slash of garish lipstick, had the predatory menace of a Venus flytrap.

“Fräulein Vine. What a surprise to see
you
here.”

She gave Clara a swift assessment, taking in the violet sheath dress she had been sent from House of Horn and the pearl drop earrings. With her strong nose and hawk eyes, Frau von Ribbentrop might have been a bird of prey poised to peck away the jewels of the other guests. She nodded over at Goering, who had approached the duchess and was giving her his peculiar, duck-like smile. Beside his towering bulk, Wallis looked even tinier. She could probably fit into his trouser leg.

“They're talking diets. The Reichsminister's on a new one. And he's just installed an exercise bicycle because Elizabeth Arden told him he was overweight. She's always nagging him about his size, but it won't make the slightest difference. He already has an entire gym here in the basement with weights and a massage machine and an electric exercise horse.”

“The Reichsminister has an electric horse?”

Frau von Ribbentrop smiled glassily at an acquaintance across the room and murmured, “It's probably the only kind of horse that doesn't groan when he sits on it.”

“I can't imagine the duchess needs a diet,” said Clara, watching Wallis's hands fluttering over Goering's sleeve like flirtatious white doves.

“Oh, the duke and duchess are
always
on diets. Didn't you know? Their diets are the talk of London. We had to make special arrangements when we entertained them at the embassy. They are both so particular. It all has to be American food. The duchess fired the duke's butler for refusing to put ice in drinks in the American manner. I saw it happen.”

Clara didn't doubt it. Frau von Ribbentrop had eyes like a sniper. She never missed a thing.

“But then we're all in favor of Americans right now. My husband tells me that they've finally shuffled off Ambassador Dodd to make way for a new man who is much more clear-sighted. He came to the
Parteitag
. Adored it.”

Clara had heard about that. Mary said the decent old American ambassador, William Dodd, had grown so aghast at the Nazi regime he refused to attend any more functions. He would be leaving next month, and his successor, Hugh Wilson, was said to take a far softer line.

The royal couple were coming closer. “We love the duke, of course,” continued Frau von Ribbentrop. “My husband thinks of him as a kind of English National Socialist. He is a man after the Führer's own heart. The duchess, on the other hand…” She left the assessment of her rival hanging, scrutinizing Wallis with the cold detachment of a snake watching a mouse.

A maid wearing peasant dress with pleated skirt and smocked blouse approached to refill their crystal goblets, enabling Clara to pivot away. The hall was full of well-fed Nazis, as if all the calories that the rest of the population were missing had ended up inside these SS uniforms. Clara threaded through the crowd listening to the talk, switching between German and English, tuning in and out of conversations. The conversations were of art, fashion, cinema, celebrities, and, as always in Nazi circles, the latest doings of the Führer. The Führer had been regaling everyone with Mussolini's faux pas on his recent visit. When the Duce was presented with the ceremonial sword, he drew it from the scabbard and waved it in the air, prompting Hitler's SS bodyguards to rush him in fear of an assassination attempt. The Führer, however, had kept his cool. He needed to, what with all these foreign guests, Mussolini and the ex-King of England, flocking to meet him.

Clara heard Heinrich Hoffmann's jovial Bavarian accent rising above the chatter, and from time to time the distinctive laughter of Diana Mosley rang on the air. Unity Mitford was holding forth animatedly to a group of officers, including Ernst Udet, who was regarding her with frank fascination. She was lecturing them in her heavily accented German on the state of the movie industry.

“All these war films now. The Führer doesn't really enjoy them, you know. He told me. He says Goebbels is far too heavy-handed. He thinks the public needs an escape from all that sort of thing.”

“Oh yes? So what does he prefer?” asked Udet, choosing not to point out that he was the star of innumerable war movies himself.

“Something light and pleasant. That's what he likes to watch. Preferably a love story. He adored
Black Roses
with Lilian Harvey. It was so romantic. He screened it for us at the Chancellery.”

“Well, we're all in favor of love,” said Emmy Goering, sinuously. “Indeed, we're hoping the sight of the duke so happy will encourage the Führer to take a wife. He has long thought that the king's search for love was like his own.”

Unity hesitated, uncertain whether this reference was intended for her, or was a direct dig at her infatuation. Clara remembered Emmy's remark.
Who has ever been able to fathom the Führer's taste in women?
Before Unity could respond, the royal progress was upon them, and Udet bowed deeply to kiss Wallis's tiny, starved hand.

“I've seen your stunts, General Major Udet. I was married to a pilot once,” came her languid American drawl. “He was called Win. He used to take a flask of Jack Daniel's with him when he went up, and by the time he came back he'd be blind drunk. He gave me a lifelong fear of flying.”

“Yet the duke is a qualified pilot, I think,” Udet countered.

“Yes, God help us! Perhaps I'm destined to marry only pilots. David loves airplanes. The king, his father, was terribly disapproving when he learned to fly. He said David had dangerous passions.” She laughed, a gravelly, worldly laugh. “Dangerous passions! You can say that again.”

The assembled company joined warily in the joke.

“I share the duke's passions in many ways then, Your Royal Highness,” said Udet gallantly.

Despite her joking, there was a vapor of anxiety around Wallis. Her dark eyes darted constantly to the duke in his parallel pilgrimage on the other side of the hall, but the phalanx of Nazis around her was too great for her to escape. The pair were being paraded like the latest additions to Goering's collection of exotic creatures. No wonder Hitler thought they could be molded to his will.

Clara looked around for Arno Strauss. He was the reason, after all, that she was here. Ralph's instructions had been to cultivate him. Exactly what that would involve she wasn't herself sure, but the first step, certainly, would be to strike up a conversation. And yet there was no sign of him. Emmy Goering, observant as ever, approached and murmured, “If you're looking for your Oberst Strauss, I saw him just a moment ago. He doesn't enjoy parties, I fear.”

But before Clara could look further, the gong had been sounded for dinner.

The food was characteristically extravagant, an entire roast boar revolving in the fireplace, nearly raw beef darkly oozing, mountains of trembling jellies, wine as red as arterial blood. Bowls of creamy roses were placed on the tables, and beside each dinner plate the cutlery branched out in pairs, dwindling in order of size like an extensive German family. What with the smell of the roasting flesh, the waiters in leggings and jerkins, the candlelight, and the gloom of the forest outside, they might have been back in medieval times.

Clara had often noticed this Germanic craving to escape to the past. As fast as the Nazis were rebuilding a new Germany, a yearning for the old Germany lay just below the surface. She had heard that the Brothers Grimm, compiling their tales at the birth of modern Germany, had pretended to have gathered their fables from old women in the woods, as though to create an oral history for Germany that had never really existed. An ancient, mythic country, with deep medieval roots. In terms of brutality, of course, the Nazis were finding no difficulty in returning the entire country to the Middle Ages.

Clara found herself seated in a clutch of Luftwaffe officers, opposite Diana Mosley, with Unity two places to her left. The convention of talking to one's neighbors in strict rotation didn't seem to occur to Unity, who leaned across the silent general between them and bellowed in English, “Hello, Clara! Are you having fun? I'm not. I didn't want to be here tonight at all. Diana made me. I'd much rather be with the darling Führer, but he absolutely refused to come.”

“Why?”

“It's because of the hunt tomorrow. He simply loathes blood sports. He detests cruelty to animals. He decided to spend the night at the Wintergarten.”

“Again?”

“The Führer adores opera. He can never see too much of it. He often sits up at night designing stage sets and lift mechanisms and lighting. If he hadn't been Führer, he would have been an opera designer, he tells me. And it's not all gloomy Wagner. He would never miss
Die Fledermaus
or
The Merry Widow
. He's seen
The Merry Widow
six times already this year!”

“He must love it.”

Unity seemed entirely unconcerned by the stares of the other guests. It was almost as if they didn't exist. She had the kind of loud, upper-class confidence that meant she said whatever came into her head.

“He does. I'll ask him to take you with us to the Wintergarten if you like.”

“Oh, I really don't think…”

“Honestly. You'll love it, Clara. As long as you don't go making eyes at him. Are you coming hunting tomorrow?”

“Afraid not. I have to leave before lunch.”

“Bad luck. I simply adore hunting. When we were children, our father used to have a child hunt. We were the foxes and he used to track us cross-country with bloodhounds. We'd run like merry hell. I learned an awful lot about being the prey. You've got to avoid sudden movement. That always draws the eye. You learn to blend in with the scenery. I was frightfully good at it, I never stuck out.”