Faith and Beauty (11 page)

Goebbels’ eyes narrowed to check for insubordination, then he said, ‘I take it you’ve heard of the Ahnenerbe?’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘Herr Reichsführer Himmler’s hobby.’

The mention of the sinister, moon-faced SS chief was like an ice cube down the spine. Himmler had that effect on most people. Generally his hobbies involved building new concentration camps and expanding the Gestapo’s state-of-the-art surveillance system, but no one, as yet, had suggested making a film about them.

Goebbels crossed his skinny legs and sighed.

‘I can see I’m going to have to explain. You must have seen newsreels about the trip to Tibet?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said quickly. ‘That.’

The weekly newsreel was shown before every feature film. Clara had dozed through one just the other evening when she visited the Ufa Palast with Erich. Vaguely she recalled footage of scientists disembarking from a plane at Tempelhof airport. From what she could recall, the expedition had been dedicated to proving one of Himmler’s most cherished notions – that the Aryan race was pre-eminent on earth. They had been examining Tibetan natives for evidence.

‘Himmler’s full of these obsessions,’ grunted Goebbels. ‘If it’s not the Ahnenerbe, it’s that place down in Wewelsburg.’

Sensing that he had imparted a little too much information, he drew himself together, rose and clasped his hands behind his back.

‘Anyway. The Ahnenerbe is a scientific institute established to research the cultural history of the German race and whatever our private thoughts about the SS-Reichsführer’s –
enthusiasms
– its work will be the centrepiece of this film. It’s got foreign locations, history, adventure.’ A little, dismissive wave. ‘Everything people love.’

‘It sounds very ambitious.’ Clara made a mental note to grill Erich about the Ahnenerbe as soon as possible. As an ardent member of the Hitler Youth he always knew about these things.

‘It is. As the Führer sees it, the Ahnenerbe is at the very heart of our work as National Socialists. It seeks to propagate the eternal values of the Germanic races. Etcetera, etcetera,’ Goebbels waved his hand to signify the kind of officialese beloved of his own newsreels and newspapers.

‘I’m giving you the broad-brush details here, but you’re going to need to familiarize yourself fairly swiftly because from what I hear Himmler is taking a close interest in this film and he’s perfectly liable to turn up on the set without warning.’

Goebbels’ face twisted with distaste at the thought. The prospect of another senior Nazi intruding on his own department was plainly a huge irritant. He strode over to the window to look out on a small square of lawn in the style of a mediaeval cloister, where actresses and secretaries liked to relax between takes, gossiping and catching the sun and, all too often, the minister’s eye. Although his gaze travelled automatically over the tanned legs and golden figures on display, his mind was plainly elsewhere.

‘I would have thought, Fräulein Vine, you would be flattered to be involved.’

‘I am. Very. Who’s the director?’

He swung round, his expression, if possible, even more dyspeptic.

‘I was coming to that.
Germania
is to be directed by Fräulein Riefenstahl.’

Leni Riefenstahl.

Leni Riefenstahl was, without doubt, the most famous female director alive. Her film about the 1934 Nazi Party rally,
The Triumph of The Will
, had seduced not just Germany, but many around the world. Her documentary about the 1936 Berlin Olympic Games had just won Best Film at the Venice Film Festival. If
Germania
was anything like Leni Riefenstahl’s previous epics, it would make all Clara’s previous films look like home movies.

‘I’m honoured, Herr Doktor. I really am. But . . .’ For a moment Clara’s habitual composure had deserted her. ‘I don’t understand why I should have been given the privilege of presenting something quite so . . . high profile.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Goebbels gracelessly. He rubbed a hand over a cheek silvered with stubble. His complexion was dull with fatigue.

‘It’s the obvious question, and the first thing I asked too, but Fräulein Riefenstahl has not deigned to honour me with an explanation. She just said the Führer had given her a free hand and you were what she wanted. She’s irrational like that.’

He drummed his beautifully manicured fingernails on the desk and regarded Clara with disdain.

‘You seem very cool, considering the honour that’s being handed to you. You’re invited to star in a movie made by the world’s most famous female film director about the most powerful country on earth. I can’t imagine you’ve received many more significant propositions recently. Or perhaps you’re too busy? Possibly you have too much on your plate?’

‘Of course not. It’s a huge honour. And I’m very grateful.’

If he was mollified, he didn’t show it.

‘Good. Well there’s a tight deadline so you’ll need to start straight away. I’ll have Fräulein Riefenstahl get in touch. Where are you living now? Winterfeldtstrasse, wasn’t it?’

‘Not any more. I’m very near here actually. At the Artists’ Colony by the Griebnitzsee.’

‘Griebnitzsee?’

She had surprised him. No doubt he assumed he knew everything about her movements, so his surprise provided a crucial piece of information.

Whoever had ordered surveillance on her apartment, it wasn’t Joseph Goebbels
.

‘Strange choice. I’ve never seen you as the country type.’

He was more accurate than he knew. Already Clara wished she was back in Winterfeldtstrasse, watchers or not. She’d never realized how much she loved the comforting racket of the city around her, the clank of the trams and trains on Nollendorfplatz a few blocks away, which started early in the morning and didn’t end until late at night, the rattle of shopkeepers rolling up their blinds, the shouts of the newspaper men and the crash of bottles from the local bars. She even missed her unglamorous view, the walls with pipes snaking down them, the uneven rooftops and unsought access to other people’s windows. Some things you never knew you loved until they were gone.

There was a knock on the door and a secretary’s head craned around.

‘Your sitting, Herr Reichsminister.’

‘Already? Show him in then!’

His face brightened and he sprang to his feet.

‘Another official portrait, I’m afraid. I’m not a vain man. I don’t like the idea of ministers flaunting themselves, but the Ministry will insist. It has to do with official prestige.’

A shock-headed figure with an easel had edged into the room and was standing uncomfortably by the door.

‘Herr Messel! Come in! You have precisely twenty minutes of my time.’

He moved to the window, so that the light sliced onto his cadaverous cheekbones, fixed his gaze on the sunbathing girls outside and assumed a philosophical air.

‘At least Herr Messel is a decent German artist. My fellow ministers have not been so scrupulous. Von Ribbentrop actually asked André Derain to come from France and the chap turned him down. Extraordinary, don’t you think?’

Clara was saved from replying by a clatter and a soft exclamation of dismay. Beneath nervously fumbling fingers, Herr Messel’s easel had collapsed.

‘For God’s sake, man!’

Goebbels gave Clara a brusque wave and she realized that if she didn’t act now, she might not have another chance.

‘As it happens, Herr Doktor, I have a request. It’s another kind of cultural expansion really.
Vogue
magazine in France have asked to photograph me. In Paris.’

She might as well have proposed flying to the moon.

‘
Vogue?
You? Why?’

‘They first suggested it when I was there last year,’ she lied.

‘Why not Brigitte Horney or Marika Rökk?’ Goebbels protested, cruelly citing two better-known actresses. ‘Or Lilian Harvey?’

Clara shrugged. ‘It’s a feature called Cinema and Fashion. Apparently the article’s a tribute to German cinema. Under the aegis of the Reich Chamber of Film,’ she added politely.

The idea prompted an explosion of vicious laughter from Goebbels, long, hacking guffaws culminating in a spluttering cough, like a chainsaw refusing to start. He bent his heaving shoulders over to recover.

‘I shouldn’t laugh. I can see how desperate they are to curry favour. But it’ll take more than that.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing. Just thinking ahead.’

‘I was hoping you would give your permission for a few days’ travel.’

He was certain to refuse. Why, after all, should he grant permission for such an insignificant jaunt? Nazi Germany had never been interested in accommodating the French – precisely the opposite. Many more powerful artists had had requests for foreign travel turned down. Since Marlene Dietrich’s defection to Hollywood, Goebbels lived in eternal suspicion that his stars were about to jump ship and thumb their noses at the Nazis from the safety of America or Britain.

She tried valiantly to remain unruffled beneath his sceptical gaze until Goebbels spread his hands in mock surrender and said, ‘Go, if you want to. But I can’t spare you for more than forty-eight hours. I’m all for the cultural conquest of Europe but this film is far too pressing to be held up for some trifling magazine piece. Particularly if it’s French.’

Chapter Nine

If there was one occupation that offered true job security in the Third Reich, it was manufacturing uniforms. From the field grey of the Wehrmacht to SS black, from the attractive slate blue of the Luftwaffe right down to the dark brown overalls of the Reich Labour Service, uniforms were the only product that was never in short supply. And amidst the plethora of uniforms lay numerous fine degrees of difference. A universe of trimming, braid, buttons, silver oak leaves, daggers, insignia and gleaming death’s heads existed, all of it signifying specific titles and ranks and requiring meticulous attention to detail. Contracts to dress the armed forces sparked fierce competition among tailors, and those who were lucky enough to win business were keen to advertise their skills. To this end, twin lifesize mannequins in black SS Death’s Head uniform had been erected in the window of Fromm’s tailor shop, in a small street just off the Königsallee, scaring late-night drunks and terrifying children on their way to school.

Clara averted her gaze from the mannequins and checked the address again. It was hard to imagine a less appropriate workplace for a Jewish seamstress, but this was where she had been led to find her old friend, Steffi Schaeffer.

The bell clanged behind her as she entered the shop and looked around. It was a hushed, deep-carpeted space, perfumed by a tangy mixture of polish, leather and expensive pomade. Bolts of cloth were stacked at every level, dull grey, blue, pinstripe and herringbone, rolled up and reverently folded like vellum manuscripts in a mediaeval library. Against one wall a dresser of gleaming mahogany with ivory-handled drawers was stacked with containers of braids and buttons, tortoiseshell, horn and bone, visible through the glass compartments.

On the opposite wall was a gallery of Fromm’s more famous clientele. First came the ordinary stars, the actors Gustav Fröhlich, Hans Albers and the boxer Max Schmeling sporting immaculately cut dinner suits, and above them, at eye-level, hung the true celebrities of modern Germany: Heinrich Himmler, with his trademark wide grey breeches and clinical grimace, mad-eyed Rudolf Hess, and Reinhard Heydrich, head of the SD security service, as skeletal and expressionless as any catwalk model.

From the interior gloom a stooped figure emerged with a measuring tape around his neck, peering at Clara through a pair of pince nez. She guessed this must be Herr Fromm. He nodded towards Himmler’s photograph.

‘We are honoured to have the SS-Reichsführer as a regular customer.’

‘So I see.’

‘And Herr Reichsminister Goering is also a most rewarding client,’ he added unctuously, plaiting his fingers.

‘I can imagine.’

Anyone who loved dressing up as much as Goering did would keep a team of tailors in full-time occupation. Clara peered at a picture of Hitler’s second-in-command cavorting in the bejewelled guise of a Roman emperor, in toga and fur-trimmed slippers, with hair freshly permed and ruby rings on his pudgy fingers. He was clearly wearing full eye shadow and lipstick. German women might be constantly informed that make-up was degenerate but different standards applied to German men, it seemed. Senior ones, at least.

‘We turn our hand to all varieties of costumes,’ continued Herr Fromm smoothly, as Clara examined another shot of Goering looking absurd in an orange suede jerkin and green Tyrolean hat with an animal tail sticking out of it.

‘That’s his uniform as Reichsjägermeister. It required the most exquisite stitching, but here at Fromm’s we pride ourselves on attention to detail. Hugo Boss, of course makes uniforms for everyone – the Sturmabteilung, Hitler Youth, National Socialist Motor Corps . . .’ He waved his hand in a faint gesture of deprecation. ‘But his are made in factories. Discriminating gentlemen prefer bespoke uniforms and ours, of course, are entirely handmade.’

He halted the advertisement enquiringly.

‘But may I ask how I can help? Is it concerning a uniform for your husband, perhaps? Or something for yourself?’

Although there was no one else in the shop, Clara lowered her voice.

‘I’m looking for Steffi Schaeffer.’

The poker-straight demeanour did not change, but there was a flicker of scrutiny behind Herr Fromm’s shuttered eyes.

‘We’re old friends,’ she added.

‘Please,’ he gestured towards the back of the shop and ushered Clara through a velvet drape into an even gloomier room where volumes of swatches were distributed like open books and a slender blonde woman was measuring out lengths of field-grey serge.

Steffi Schaeffer.

The other woman jumped up and embraced Clara, then, keeping hold of her hands, she stood back and looked her up and down.

‘How on earth did you find me?’

It was hard to equate the figure before her with the poised and beautiful woman Clara had first met in the Ufa costume department six years before. Steffi Schaeffer still had an air of elegance, but her caramel-blonde hair was now liberally threaded with grey and hollows of worry shadowed her face. The lines bracketing her mouth might have been carved there with a knife. The hand that held Clara’s was still soft enough to accomplish the most delicate stitching, but her eyes had hardened. Steffi Schaeffer was no longer a costume designer, nor a seamstress with her own premises and a list of private clients. She was not even a German. All Steffi Schaeffer could call herself now was a Jew, and like all the other Jews who made up ninety-five per cent of Germany’s textile trade, she relied on people like Herr Fromm to make use of her skills. She was lucky, probably, that Herr Fromm had been prepared to take her on.