Woman in the Shadows (24 page)

So unlike real life.
The same thought must have occurred to the rest of the guests, who by now had dropped all pretense of conversation and were eavesdropping shamelessly. Even the molting stag's head behind Unity was slack-jawed, as if with astonishment.

“Have you seen the Führer recently?” Clara asked.

“Last night actually. He had us over to the Chancellery for supper. It was nothing special, but the thing about Hitler is, his company is so thrilling, it always feels like a party, even when it's just a quiet evening in. Haven't you noticed how people simply adore being with him? We had cauliflower cheese, which is his absolute favorite, and then he had a screen put up in the music salon and we watched cartoons.”

Plainly Goebbels's gift would go down well.

“He loves cartoons. He has a terribly good sense of humor. But do you know what makes me sad?” Unity frowned, as though contemplating some insoluble puzzle. “The English always get the wrong idea about our dear Führer. I wanted Cousin Winston to come and meet him, but he's a dreadful stick-in-the-mud. He just said no, rather rudely.”

It was clear what Unity felt about Hitler—pure, unadulterated infatuation. But what did the Führer see in Unity? He was supposed to have summed up a woman's ideal occupations as Kinder, Küche, and Kirche. Yet Unity Mitford didn't look as if she would waste five minutes on any of those occupations. Clara realized that Goebbels must be preoccupied by the same question. Did the Führer see in Unity and Diana a true reflection of British opinion, or did he understand them for the eccentrics they were?

Clara looked around for the man who Emmy Goering had said was tailing Unity at Himmler's request, disguised as a photographer. In theory that was an inspired idea. If you needed a disguise, surely posing as a photographer was ideal. The only props necessary were a camera and an observant air. Despite that, she spotted him at once, a few places along, a giveaway with his ill-fitting evening wear and Leica at hand. He had a pasty face, a shock of dark hair, and eyes fixed obediently on his charge.

At the head of the table, Goering stood up and began delivering a speech about the need to safeguard the purity of the Nazi soul. The Duke of Windsor stifled a yawn. On his other side the duchess sat rapt, gazing up at her host, seemingly oblivious to the fact that all other eyes were trained on her. It seemed an ideal moment for Clara to excuse herself and escape.

She made her way up a flight of wooden stairs and through the winding corridors of Carinhall. Here, again, was the blend of Renaissance kitsch that Goering adored and Goebbels so disdained. The walls were decked with tapestries, paintings, and sculptures, the rooms stacked with treasures like a pharaoh's tomb. She peered into one room to see an enormous model railway extending across the floor, with splendidly decorated trains and tenders snaking through tunnels, past perfect Bavarian villages and towns with miniature S-Bahn elevations. A few doors later she came to the library, which boasted as many dead animals as there were books, the walls hung with the skulls of deer and the pelts of a couple of bears lying prostrate on the floor. A large map of the Reich was painted on one wall, illustrated with medieval-style pictures. When she looked closer, she noticed that Germany was colored in green, but curiously Austria seemed to be depicted as part of the Reich, with no sign of a border. Presumably, the “territorial readjustment” she had heard the Nazis talking about had already happened as far as Goering's mapmakers were concerned. How rapidly they were changing the world.

Turning, she mounted another flight of carved oak stairs and wandered farther along the corridors. The guest bedrooms had porcelain plaques on the doors, with cards attached, presumably for the assistance of the servants. This floor was devoted to the female guests. She glanced into one room and saw a dressing table strewn with jars and perfumes like a sacrificial altar to some cosmetic god. Another floor up she found the corridor for male guests, and when she came to the name Ernst Udet she saw that the door next to it bore a card saying Oberst Arno Strauss. On impulse she knocked, and when there was no reply, she slipped inside.

The room was draped in shadow. It was decorated in the same Bavarian hunting style as the rest of the house, with the ubiquitous stag's head mounted ominously above the bed, the bone of its skull gleaming in the moonlight. The room was empty, fortunately—she had half expected to find Strauss skulking here, perhaps even asleep. As she looked around, she wondered what she was even looking for. Her mission was to “cultivate” Arno Strauss. Yet she could, at that moment, see no way that she could be any use at all.

Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and she saw a desk, on which were a couple of papers. Her pulse quickened. No doubt Strauss had brought some work with him, as an excuse to escape the dinner early. Perhaps the papers related to the details of the aerial reconnaissance program. If only she had a camera of her own, she would be able to photograph them right here. As it was, she would have to read and memorize any significant details. She was making her way over to the desk when she heard a step behind her. She froze.

“What a delightful surprise to see you, Fräulein Vine. At this reception, I mean, just as much as in my bedroom.”

He stood with his back to the wedge of light from the landing. His face was in shadow, so it was impossible to read Strauss's expression, yet she sensed his habitual twisted grimace.

She could not suppress a nervous laugh. “I was exploring.”

“That can be a dangerous business here. There's a room across the corridor where the Reichsminister keeps his lion cubs. You wouldn't want to step in there by mistake.”

He closed the door behind him without switching on the light and crossed his arms. “Did you have other business here?”

“No. I just…”

“You just thought you would have a good look through my papers?”

There was nothing else to do. She smiled up at him.

“I was looking for
you,
since you ask. Frau Goering said you were here, but I couldn't see you anywhere. I was longing for a friendly face.”

For a moment, he continued to scrutinize her stonily, then he gave a harsh laugh.

“Of all the things people have said about my face, no one has ever called it
friendly
.”

His levity encouraged her. All she could do now was continue with the flirtatious pretense that she had deliberately sought out an assignation.

“Do you mind telling me how it happened?”

“This?” He brushed a hand over his mutilated cheek. “Most women would think it was bad form to ask a pilot how he sustained an injury. It might imply he was not quite as excellent at his job as he would like to think.”

“I don't care about that. I've flown with you after all, remember? I know you're excellent at your job. So you can tell me. Was it an accident?”

“I prefer to call it a lucky escape.” He gave a wry smirk. “Like the lucky escape I made from that dinner downstairs. I was treated to an audience with your duke. He was complaining about how poor he is. He wants to buy a yacht, but his stingy brother won't give him the money. Not much brotherly love lost there.”

“I can't believe the former King of England has no money, Oberstleutnant.”

“He claims he's penniless. The brother won't hand over a thing. Even on this trip, the Reich's paying for everything. All I can say is, they're certainly getting their money's worth out of Windsor. There's a week of dinners and lunches, and then they've lined up factory visits in Dresden, Stuttgart, Nuremberg, and Munich.”

“Royalty are used to touring. Someone said they believe everywhere smells of fresh paint because they spend their lives making visits.”

“I think a little more will be required of your duke than shaking hands with a few factory workers.”

“What do you mean?”

Even though they were alone, Strauss lowered his voice. “The talk is that the duke has said, if necessary, he will serve as president of an English republic.”

“If necessary?”

“If circumstances came about. A war perhaps. They're going to hold him to it. A document has been prepared promising a permanent alliance with Germany and pledging the return of German colonies and the gift of northern Australia. Two copies of the document have been drawn up for the duke to sign. They've been brought here, for Goering's perusal.”

Could that possibly be true? If the Nazis achieved that, it would be an astonishing coup. At once a vision of England came to her, a republic ruled over by the Duke of Windsor and other Nazi placemen, even perhaps her father. It would be the same England, but shabbier, robbed of its authority, under the Nazi thumb. Then she remembered what Ralph had told her. That certain people in the Foreign Office deliberately suppressed fears about German militarism because they craved an alliance with Hitler. They ignored the warnings of men in the Air Service that Germany would turn on Britain. Might Clara have been warned to lie low because of what she might find, rather than because she was under observation?

There was no going back now. She smiled at Strauss, keeping her eyes from straying to the damaged half of his face, trying not to look at the curve of the scar that sliced like a scimitar through the soft flesh.

“I enjoyed our flight the other day.”

“Did you? You did a very good impression of being scared out of your wits. But then I forgot you are an actress.”

“I wasn't acting. It was exhilarating. In fact, I felt a kind of euphoria.”

“Euphoria, eh?”

“I'd do it again in a flash.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, rubbing a hand along the line of his scar. Then he nodded.

“I'm going out to the countryside the day after tomorrow. I have another test to do. You could come, if you've developed a taste for it.”

She felt a little pulse of success. Testing an airplane. Could that mean he was trying out the new camera?

“We could fly out to a field close to a little restaurant I know, eat, and then fly back again.”

“Sounds dreadfully illicit.”

“It is. But a lot of us do it. It's good to get a break, and this place serves the best schnitzel you'll find in the country. The only thing is, we wouldn't get back until dusk. Does flying in the dark frighten you?”

“Not being able to see how far up we are might be an advantage, I suppose.”

“It would save you having to look at me.”

Startled by this comment, she said, “It's very kind of you to invite me, Oberstleutnant Strauss.”

“Not so much of the Oberstleutnant. Call me Arno.”

“Thank you, Arno. I appreciate it, when there's nothing in it for you.”

“And what would you imagine I want, Fräulein Vine?”

He remained staring down at her intently, as if he was about to say more, and suddenly she couldn't take it. It was as though he was seeing right through her. She edged towards the door, and sensing her move, his relaxation evaporated and the stiff formality returned.

“Good. Well, unless you have any other business in my bedroom, I'll see you at Tempelhof. Friday at ten.”

THE NEXT MORNING,
before the wild boar hunt, Strauss, like all the men, was obliged to attend a breakfast in the woods, where coffee was heated over a wood fire and drunk with schnapps and hunter's black bread. The guests were driven off in open-topped carriages, complete with bearskin rugs over their knees. Goering took the first carriage, attired in a white silk blouse and yellow soft leather jerkin, his official uniform as Reichsjaegermeister, topped off with leather thigh boots and a tuft of chamois tail sprouting from his hat. The Duke of Windsor sat captive beside him, peering without enthusiasm at the gloomy forest around. Not far behind them came Udet and Strauss, who had secured a carriage to themselves. They were conferring with frequent laughter, no doubt inspired by the absurdity of their boss. Clara, who had been watching this parade from her window, had breakfast brought to her room. The tray was laid with orange juice and coffee, crusty rolls, silver pine cone jars filled with jam, and scrolls of sweet butter. She ate hungrily. Plainly the idea of Guns Not Butter had yet to reach Carinhall.

I
n normal times, when a crime was committed, everyone had an opinion about it. Everyone wanted to say what they saw, to speculate on the perpetrators, the modus operandi, the getaway, and the likelihood that anyone would be caught. But these were not normal times, and it turned out nobody could remember anything much about the murder of Anna Hansen. No one saw it take place, no one heard anything, no one recalled anything unusual, and no one had any idea why the thing they had already forgotten could possibly have happened in the first place. That, at least, was Mary Harker's summation of the situation after a few minutes' conversation with the inhabitants of the Schwanenwerder Bride School.

She could have broken into Alcatraz more easily. They had flatly refused her first request to return with a camera and photograph the brides. Mary had already been granted a morning at the Bride School, and that was surely enough. Now that she had finally persuaded the Press Office of the need for pictures to show off the happiness and healthiness of the Reich brides, she was struck by how normal everything seemed. Fräulein Wolff glared at her from the office but did not intervene. A few brides looked up incuriously from stitching tablecloths as she passed, the reek of herring floated from the kitchen, where a cookery lesson was in progress, and out in the gardens a bevy of brides with sun-burnished skin were engaging in energetic athletic kicks. Mary aimed her new Ikon at them and was rewarded with a symmetrical row of beaming smiles and a shot she knew Frank Nussbaum would adore.

As she stood there, watching the women exercise in the pine-scented breeze, a couple of puppies tussling in a play fight on the lawn and beyond, the sailing boats bobbing on the lake, Mary almost understood the appeal of the place. Who was to say this was not a good way of living, in this idyllic setting, with the friendly smiles and the vigorous bodies, glowing with health and optimism? Who was Mary to criticize the idea of teaching women how to care for children, or to cook wholesome food? Yet no sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she shook herself. Life in Germany was like those papier-mâché cakes they displayed in bakery windows now, since the food shortages had hit. Wooden circles, plastered with fake icing. Take a bite and you were likely to break your teeth.

The first sign that everything was not utterly normal came when Ilse Henning, who had been assigned to chaperone Mary's photography session, hurried across the lawn. Only a few weeks ago Ilse had been a plump, apple-cheeked girl with a shiny forehead and a generous bosom stuffed into a dirndl too small for her. Now she had visibly lost weight, her face was a hollow oval of anxiety, and her fingers clutched repetitively at her apron hem. She shook hands tentatively.

“Fräulein Harker? So nice to see you again. Fräulein Frankl suggested I accompany you, as I had met you before. Is there anything I can help you with? A cup of coffee perhaps?”

Mary noticed that she was trembling. She took the girl's hand and patted it. “Ilse, it's great to see you again. Don't worry about the coffee. What I'd really like is to take some pictures of the garden.”

That was partly true. Mary wanted a picture of the place where Anna Hansen had been shot.

“Could you carry this for me?”

She had no need of a tripod whatsoever but had guessed, accurately, that it might prove useful in other ways. It looked professional, and conveyed a certain artistic seriousness. In this case, it provided Ilse with something to carry, making her appear to be needed. Mary proceeded down the path to the end of the garden, intending to take a long shot of the house, and Ilse followed, grappling awkwardly with the tripod legs.

“Are you okay, Ilse?” Mary asked quietly. “You're the only person in this place who looks like they've been losing any sleep.”

Ilse glanced at her uncertainly. She liked the American Fräulein. Though her German was execrable, she had a kind face and a motherly air, which reminded Ilse just how badly she longed for her own dear Mutti back in Wuppertal, with her braids and her pancake-flat face and worried eyes. When her only daughter went away to Bride School, Mutti had missed her a lot, but she had tried to understand that it was for the good of Germany that Ilse learn how to become a new German wife with the right attitudes and education. Ilse couldn't tell Mutti about the murder—she would be horrified—and having no one to confide in made Ilse feel all the more lonely. Fräulein Harker was the sole person who had inquired after her feelings since Anna's death. It hadn't occurred to anyone else here that Ilse might be mourning her friend or that being interrogated both by the criminal police and by the Gestapo might have been terrifying.

“It has been very difficult. The pressure has been quite hard for me. First poor Anna, and then the Kripo came and wanted to talk to me.”

“The Kripo?”

“The criminal police. I gave them Anna's lighter. I found it in the grass where she was killed, and then, after that, the G——the Gestapo.”

The word trembled on her lips.

Why would the investigation be turned over to the secret police? Mary wondered. The Gestapo was in charge of matters relating to security and crimes against the state. But this was just a murder investigation, wasn't it?

“They were not nice men.” Instinctively Ilse lowered her voice. “They said I didn't deserve to be at the Bride School. I'm scared they will drag Otto into this. That it could damage his career. I only have two weeks left here, but if Otto's superiors hear that his fiancée has been investigated by the Gestapo…”

She was biting her lip, trying valiantly not to cry.

“Hey, Ilse.” Mary took hold of her arm. “That's not going to happen. You were helping them, not being investigated. It's to your credit that they came and talked to you. They obviously saw you as trustworthy.”

Mary was making this up as she went along, but privately her brain was whirring. The Gestapo was never going to win any awards for courtesy, but why should they threaten a girl like Ilse, who was patently innocent of any involvement in the murder? Someone must want to solve this case very badly.

“I don't know, Fräulein. They seemed so angry. They made some nasty threats.”

It was hard for Ilse to explain the terror that those men had raised in her. That remark they made about her having to work in Friedrichstrasse. She knew what they meant by that. It was Anna who'd told her, in fact. Ilse had had a sheltered upbringing, just church and the Bund Deutscher Mädel and a few vague guidelines on married love from her mother, who was a devout Lutheran, but Anna had explained that in Berlin there were women who sold their bodies for money. And what was more, they signaled their sexual specialties by the color of their high-laced boots. Ilse had been so shocked she had not asked any more, so she never got to know what obscenity the green boots were supposed to promise.

Yet the more she thought about it, the more Ilse realized that there was something she could have told the Gestapo. There was one person whom the police had not considered. Someone who might well have been responsible for Anna's death. Impulsively, she decided to tell the kind Fräulein Harker about it. Perhaps
she
would be able to sort it out.

“There is something I would have told the policemen but I only thought of it later.” She corrected herself. “I mean, I
will
tell them. I promise.”

“Take your time.” Mary instinctively disliked the idea of the Gestapo knowing anything before she did. “There's no need to rush into anything. Perhaps I could give you an idea of whether or not it's important. I mean, policemen don't like to be disturbed with irrelevant details, do they?”

Ilse recalled Kriminal Inspektor Wiedemann's face when she had mentioned Anna's secret lipstick. His enraged question,
Are you trying to play me, girl?
spat out like a curse. She shuddered.

“No. You're right. I wouldn't want to waste their time.”

In truth, Ilse wouldn't want to speak to another policeman ever again. Not even a traffic policeman.

“So what is this thing that occurred to you?” prompted Mary, gently.

“They asked me if Anna had any secrets. Had I seen anything unusual. Well, I thought about it, and I realized, I had. I saw her speaking to a man.”

“Which man? Do you know who he was?”

“Yes, I do.”

Ilse looked in the direction of the model house, which was now almost completed. It was a pretty, Bavarian-style cottage with petunias in the window boxes and a picket fence.

“He's over there.”

Mary followed her gaze. The man was bearded and cadaverously thin. A row of ribs stuck from his skin, and biceps stood out on his sunburned arms. He was bent over, mixing a heap of concrete, blending the dry materials and the water with repeated scoops of the spade with artisanal precision. Over and over the spade churned the concrete with a satisfying slap, blending the grainy glop like the mixture for a giant gray cake. The builder's face was pearled with sweat as he worked, and he kept his eyes trained rigorously on the job at hand. But he could sense them watching him, Mary knew, because he looked up momentarily with black, piercing eyes, which, although he was a stranger, seemed to take in everything about her in a single glance.