Woman in the Shadows (30 page)

C
lara waited until Ralph had left and then another fifteen minutes before she slipped out of the apartment and walked swiftly along Duisburger Strasse. She could keep her promise about not using the telephone and not fraternizing with American journalists, but she couldn't stay with him. However much she liked the idea, it would compromise him. Ralph was right to be afraid, but for the wrong reason. If someone was pursuing her, it would draw the danger to him, too. But if the Gestapo really were watching her apartment, there was no sense in going straight home, either.

The day was dingy and overcast. She walked deep in thought, scarcely seeing what surrounded her. Berlin was a city of straight lines. The perspective was in every way rectilinear, from the flatness of its terrain to the long avenues, even ascending to the rigid right arms of its people. Yet beneath those lines, everything was devious and twisted. Berlin was like a crossword—an apparently straightforward grid filled with puzzles and enigmas.

Who was on her tail? The Gestapo, almost certainly, but an assassin, too? Was he a professional hit man, hired to kill? The idea seemed too ludicrous for words, and yet, Ralph told her, she had been deliberately knocked down. He had seen it himself. What did she know, that someone needed so badly to obliterate it? What danger could she possibly pose to anyone? All around her the familiar streets were coated in a sheen of invisible danger. Everything ordinary glinted with threat, like rain on the cobblestones.

Eventually the cold overtook her. Her fingers were freezing because her gloves were at home, her coat was a little torn from where she had fallen, and the clothes she was wearing were too flimsy to keep out the penetrating wind. She crossed Wittenbergplatz and entered KaDeWe.

From the moment Clara had arrived in Berlin, she had loved that department store. Beyond the brass doors, within the warm, glistening, scented interior, it was a world of its own. The store had thought of everything its customers could wish for, from the special room at the side of the entrance, where a uniformed assistant would look after your dog, to the racks where gentlemen could rest unfinished cigars while they perused the shop. Just stepping through the doors caused you to relax, as the wall-length mirrors reflected your image back to you, replete with a patina of glamour and luxury. You could happily pass half a day immersed in the book department, or sipping coffee among the potted palms in the sixth-floor café.

In the past Clara had always enjoyed lingering in the clothes department, or trying out the perfumes, but that day she found it impossible to distract herself with hats or cosmetics. She had intended to keep herself surrounded by people, yet she felt utterly alone. There was a competition in the lobby to guess the total of Winter Relief collected by the city of Berlin in the last six months. The winner could choose a vacuum cleaner or a portrait of the Führer, and these two cherished objects were displayed side by side. The portrait was one of Hoffmann's photographs that had been badly colorized, with Hitler's low, sloping forehead and prominent nose rose-tinted in a way that defied irony. Hitler was striking the commanding, hands-on-hips pose that he had developed over the years to look intimidating, and his famously piercing blue eyes seemed to follow the observer like the Mona Lisa. It was a frightful thing. All the same, Clara wondered if anyone would be brave enough to choose the vacuum cleaner.

In the afternoon she went to a cinema. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of damp clothes. The newsreel was full of the recent Party rally, and it moved on to images of the Duke of Windsor meeting workers. The former king was touring a factory, with a rictus smile on his face, shaking hands mechanically. The workers returned his salute and shouted “Heil Windsor!” The duchess was emptying her entire purse into the hands of an SA man for the Strength Through Joy fund. Clara dropped off to sleep, an uneasy, momentary doze, from which she jerked and looked around her. Never relax, she told herself.
Never relax.
The place on her temple ached where she had hit the road, and her head was throbbing again.

She reached into the pocket of her coat and found a handkerchief. It was a large, white, man's handkerchief, stained brown with blood. The blood was hers, she knew, but the initials on the corner belonged to Ralph. He must have stuffed it into her pocket when he lifted her from the road. She pressed it against her face, inhaling a faint trace of him. It was consoling to carry a little piece of him around with her.

After the film she walked farther down the Ku'damm and sat in the companionable fug of Kranzler's, oily steam pressing against the misted windows, the ceiling stained nicotine yellow by decades of cigarettes, and a man beside her with a newspaper full of the victories in Spain. She glanced at the headlines and thought of the way Ralph had talked about the imminence of war. How similar his language was to the way Arno Strauss talked. Mapping the terrain. Noticing every little change in the environment. Watching which way the wind was blowing. Studying the lay of the land. But Strauss was talking about flying, and Ralph was talking about war. She imagined German bombers like a great flock of migrating birds darkening the European lands beneath them, and Strauss in the cockpit, losing the last traces of his fear.

Since Ralph had warned her about the Gestapo shadow outside her apartment, every person she passed looked as though he might be the one. Was there anything about the man beside her that could mark him as a tail? He was middle-aged with callused hands suggesting some form of manual work, and worn heels on his shoes, which meant either that he did a lot of walking or that he was short of cash, or both. He had a rash of spots on his neck and the faintest whiff of wurst about him. The man sensed her scrutiny and glanced indifferently in her direction before returning to his paper. Was he looking at her without interest because she was just one of a thousand suspects to be watched and followed, dehumanized? Or was he merely bored? She had lost all powers of discrimination.

Then, Clara thought, there was the other one. The man who had tried to kill her. Perhaps he was watching her even now, as she sat here finishing a cup of hot chocolate, gazing out of the café window. Maybe he was waiting for his second chance. What did he want from her? What did she know that was so important he would kill to keep it quiet?

She left Kranzler's and continued on. As the rain intensified, she slipped into a Catholic church and sat in the flickering light, noting how the shrine to Our Lady now had a picture of Hitler above it, sharing the same lighted candle. The Virgin gazed frigidly into the distance, as if offended by this forced proximity. Clara had a sense of sanctuary in the church, and perversely, in that dim, holy place, infused with the scents of incense and damp stone, her mind began to brim with the memory of sensual pleasure. She relived every moment she and Ralph had spent in bed together. Ralph's hands caressing her, and his face, as his desire overcame the jealousy of Strauss and the mental barriers he had erected. His tousled hair and the fuzz of golden stubble rasping against her skin. His innate military posture, shoulders back, head straight, chin up.
If we were at war, then this would be an order.
Then the way he bent to take her in his arms, ceding to the insubordination of desire. She yearned to be back in bed with him. She had not felt this way about a man since Leo.

She had felt safe there, in the circle of his arms. Whatever Ralph said about doubling the risk, the fact was, it was also shared, and it had been so long since she had someone to share it with. Clara wasn't cowardly. She had endured a long separation from her family and turned her face against any kind of lasting relationship out of an attempt to stay true to something bigger and more important. She had tried to protect herself against feelings like this, but had she been wrong to think it was possible, or that she should even try?

She stayed in the church for a long time as the rain slackened, until, checking her watch, she saw that it was time to go.

H
eidi Kastner, a chorus girl at the Wintergarten theater, consoled herself that although her job was both tedious and repetitive, at least the setting was glamorous and the pay regular. The show required her and twenty-four other girls to switch from geisha costumes to schoolgirl uniforms, from sombreros to tiaras in the space of two and a half hours. At one point they had to arrive onstage on bicycles, then, immediately after, dash back to change for the finale, which involved wearing a cumbersome plume of ostrich feathers that were a devil to fix on the hair, and a frilly strip of gauze across the body that covered scarcely anything.

When she came offstage that night, Hedwig, the old woman who looked after the girls and their costumes and somehow managed to perform repairs of infinite skill with a cigarette perched permanently at the corner of her mouth, signaled with a tilt of her head that a visitor awaited Heidi at the stage door.

“A Fräulein wants to see you.”

“What Fräulein?”

“How should I know?” Hedwig was stitching a froth of pink feathers to a bustier. “She's been there awhile.”

In the corridor Heidi found a slender woman in a navy suit with soft brown hair and an anxious expression. Not the usual type of fan at all.

She offered her hand.

“Heidi Kastner? I'm Clara Vine. I wondered if we could have a quick word about someone you used to know? Anna Hansen?”

Half an hour later they were sitting around the corner in a smoke-filled bar, where most conversation was drowned out by a piano thumping out old dance tunes. A woman in a French maid's outfit gyrated on the dance floor, her every move shadowed by pairs of eager male eyes. After a while an old, fat waiter came onto the floor, dressed in a dinner jacket and carrying a feather duster. As the girl danced around, he made a pretense of whacking her short-skirted bottom to a chorus of encouraging shrieks.

“Do you like your job?” Clara asked.

Heidi tossed her frizzled blond hair. “At least it's varied. We have trapeze artists, acrobats, magicians, singers. There's a performing horse on tomorrow night. A real one, you know? It dances. Then we're doing
The Merry Widow
. Again.” She narrowed her eyes and helped herself to another of Clara's cigarettes. “So you want to know about Anna?”

“She used to work here with you at the Wintergarten? And before that in Munich?”

“We were dancers together in Munich. We worked the chorus in the Theater am Gärtnerplatz. Everyone worked there. There were up to two hundred girls in some productions. You could get ten costume changes in a performance. There was always loads of work.”

“So why did you come to Berlin?”

“Ach. There was no money in Munich. You could get better money cleaning houses, and you were risking your neck on those props. The place was always freezing too. Three of the girls died of pneumonia while I was there. I mean it! I've been here more than ten years now. Though it's just as cold.”

“But it's better money in Berlin?”

Heidi gave an instinctive glance around the bar, then crossed her arms and stared at Clara meaningfully. “As I say, money matters.”

“Of course.” Clara took the hint. “Here's something for your expenses.”

She slid some folded notes across the table, and Heidi swiftly tucked them in her purse.

“So tell me about Anna.”

“What can I say? I've known Anna since I was ten. We grew up together. We used to talk at school about being dancers, even though her old man was dead against it. For a while she fooled around doing some dull secretarial job in a laboratory, but when I got my first job she was so jealous, she joined me in the theater. We had a wild time.”

Heidi inhaled deeply and regarded Clara out of the corner of her eye. “That was until Hitler appeared.”

From across the room there was a roar of approval as the waiter seized the French maid by the hips and pressed himself against her with repeated lascivious thrusts. The dancer feigned outrage as the audience egged the man on. Heidi glanced away, then leaned closer to Clara.

“He was always there. He loved variety shows and operettas. He liked something a bit daring, you know? A chance to let his hair down. The theater manager was all over him. Everything for Herr Hitler. Nothing could be good enough. He wasn't even the Führer then, but we had a routine where we danced the cancan and ended with a Heil Hitler salute using our legs instead of our arms. He loved that. Anyhow, after the show we would all climb into chartered buses and stay in costume for the after-party at the Künstlerhaus. Everyone went. They had this special room. The Astrological Hall they call it, because the ceiling is covered in gold astrology signs, and there are rugs and cushions on the floor. You would be asked to do another performance in there, which had to be even more risqué than the one you'd already done. There was an American girl—a dancer named Dorothy van Bruck—that was her stage name anyway, the men adored. She used to dance naked, and when things started to droop she got herself plastic surgery. Sometimes she'd wear these transparent butterfly wings, but mostly gentlemen didn't need their opera glasses, if you know what I mean.”

“Sounds pretty wild.”

“You have no idea. The Nazi Artists' Guild had files on all the girls, with their statistics and personal details. And it wasn't just the ladies. There were plenty of young men there for those who liked that sort of thing. This is going back some time now, you understand.”

She sighed, and unconsciously stroked her neck in an upwards direction, as if smoothing out a decade of wrinkles.

“You were saying Anna met Hitler there,” Clara prodded.

“Oh yes. She was all over Herr Hitler. As soon as they were introduced, Anna flirted like mad with him. And he liked her. He must have, because he gave her presents and flowers. But I could tell there was nothing in it. Hitler was never alone with her. He always had a group of people around him. That photographer, you know, Hoffmann. And his adjutant. Hoffmann was always taking pictures. It used to get on my nerves. And Hitler would bring along his old pal Ernst Röhm. The one who got himself shot a few years ago for sleeping with the choicer young lads of the SA.”

“So he and Anna weren't…?”

“Lovers? Not at all. Besides, Anna wouldn't have dared. She had a boyfriend already.”

“A boyfriend? Who was he?”

“Just a local guy. But he was the jealous type. No, I'm sure there was nothing in it.”

“In that case, what difference did it make? Anna meeting Hitler?”

Heidi frowned and touched her neck again. “It's hard to explain, but quite soon after they were introduced, Anna changed. She got above herself, like she was something special, you know? I couldn't understand it myself. I mean, it wasn't like he was giving her money or anything. He wasn't even that famous then, the way he is now. After a while I couldn't stand it. Even though I was her best friend, I wanted to get away from her. That was when I started thinking about coming here.”

“Where eventually she followed you?”

Heidi gave a throaty chuckle. “That was just like Anna. She turned up one day years later at the Wintergarten as if nothing had happened, all kisses and best friends again, so I thought, Why not let bygones be bygones? It was good to see a friendly face, and besides, I was on the lookout for someone to share the rent. I helped her get a job, then Anna got herself an SS boyfriend and, well, you know the rest.”

Some of the other dancers had arrived at the bar, caught sight of them, and were approaching the table. Hastily, Heidi pulled her purse towards her.

“I'm sorry, Fräulein, I don't know anything else. I need to go now.”

She rose, and then she paused, casting a quizzical glance at Clara. “Just asking, but you don't know that old boyfriend of Anna's, do you?”

She nodded at the gash on Clara's temple, which Clara had tried to conceal with Max Factor foundation.

“Of course not. Why?”

“Because that bruise you've got there looks like just the kind of artwork that creep specialized in.”