Faith and Beauty (37 page)

‘She deserved to die?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘But why?’

Mary frowned. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. For some reason the investigation is changing course. Did I mention that they have a suspect now?’

Clara clattered her cup back into the saucer. ‘Mary! You left it until now to tell me?’

‘When I was leaving the Propaganda Ministry this afternoon I ran into one of the few sane press deputies and he told me they’ve arrested a man. They’re announcing it tomorrow.’

‘That changes everything.’

‘No it doesn’t. Because it’s a Pole. If you believe the police department – which of course I don’t – Poles have been responsible for most of the crimes in the Reich for the past three months. Whoever this man is, he didn’t do it. But it shows that they’re tired of the story now. The police are no longer trying to solve the murder. If they can’t tar Lotti as a promiscuous eccentric, then they’ll pin her murder on a Pole. I’m afraid, Clara, it means they can no longer be bothered to find the right man.’

‘Or they don’t want to.’

She felt again that intuition that had dawned at the Faith and Beauty home, that Lotti’s murder was not the act of a lone madman. That it had roots in something far beyond the opportunistic sexual murder of a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it was impossible to explain, and besides, Mary was rushing impatiently on.

‘Also Clara, I wanted to say goodbye. I’m leaving town for a while.’

‘Just because you were expelled from a press conference?’

‘Much better reason than that.’ Mary grinned. ‘I’m making a trip to England because I’ve had the strangest request. Jack Kennedy, the son of the American ambassador in London, wants to meet me. He thinks I might be able to give his father a better idea of what the Nazis are like up close.’

Clara smiled. ‘I met Jack Kennedy when I was in Paris. But I never thought he’d ask you to lecture his father.’

Mary reached over and gripped her arm. ‘I might have guessed it was you. Thank you, Clara. It’s an incredible opportunity. And believe me, I won’t hold back. I owe you.’

Clara hesitated. ‘In that case, there is something you can do, something for me. There’s a little girl, Esther Goldblatt. She’s fourteen. Jewish. She reminds me of myself at that age and she’s in a bit of trouble. She desperately needs to get out of Germany and she has a visa for America, but it will take years before her number comes up. She could get an exit visa to travel to England, but only if she has a sponsor there who is prepared to adopt her.’

‘That’s quite a hurdle.’

‘I think I know the right person.’

Clara reached for her notebook.

‘Here’s her address and telephone number.’

Mary looked down at the paper.

‘Angela Mortimer? Are you serious? I would have thought your sister was the last person on earth to contemplate adopting a little Jewish girl.’

‘That was my first instinct, but there’s more to Angela than you think. Her views may be reprehensible, but she’s a decent person at heart. She was very motherly to me when I was a truculent teenager. And she has no children to mother, so it’s perfect. Tell her I’ll write and explain but she needs to register as a sponsor as soon as possible. She must contact Bloomsbury House in Great Russell Street. It’s the headquarters of the Jewish refugee committee. Oh, and something else.’ Clara reached up to her neck and unclasped Steffi’s pearls, then handed them to Mary.

‘Take these, sell them for the best price you can, and give Angela the money. Tell her it’s for Esther.’

She watched as Mary stowed the pearls carefully in her bag.

‘And good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

But Clara knew if anyone was going to need luck, it would be her.

Chapter Thirty-one

The Kaiserhof Hotel was a dingy building the colour of bad teeth. It stood out in the Wilhelmstrasse because all the other buildings in the government area had undergone a makeover of impressive expense. The new Reich Chancellery, directly opposite, had been finally completed that January, a quarter of a mile of yellow stucco and grey stone stretching down Voss Strasse, its monumental proportions designed to quash any lingering concessions to the human scale. Goebbels’ Propaganda Ministry, originally housed in an old, Empire-style palace opposite, had been given a total revamp, with an extension that was architecturally severe and modern, in line with Goebbels’ modernist taste. The Kaiserhof, however, Hitler’s first home in Berlin, lingered on like a widow in dowdy lace, steadfastly resisting cosmetic enhancement.

Clara had arrived early and installed herself in the bar of the hotel. What the Kaiserhof’s proprietors had saved on exterior renovation they put towards securing the best of the city’s available food, making it one of the finest places to eat, but Clara had no interest in food. She had brought her copy of
The Thirty-Nine Steps
to distract herself and sat with it open in front of her, the sour, gritty taste of fear washing round her mouth like grains of Ersatz coffee. Occasionally she stole glances across the road to where security police known as Schupos, in their green uniforms and black leather hats, manned the Chancellery gates.

If the opportunity arose, we would not want you, Miss Vine, to be hindered by fears of ‘unsportsmanlike’ behaviour
.

All day she had questioned herself. Would she ever have the courage to do it? Could she shoot Hitler? Sitting in the garden at Griebnitzsee, with her eyes closed and the sun flaring scarlet against her eyelids, she felt so intensely alive. Her limbs tingled with vitality, every fibre of her body wanting to live, even if her lover was missing and her family estranged.

Never before had she come so close to Hitler, yet it would also be the closest she had come to death herself. Shooting Hitler would, almost certainly, mean death, but without him Germany would be free. There would be no fighting and thousands of young men would no longer be required to go to war. Erich would be safe.

Yet all the time, seductive counter-arguments whispered sweetly. What if war didn’t have to happen? If there could be a way to negotiate? Might the Third Reich continue as barbarously without Hitler at the helm? What if the Derringer failed to fire? And besides, what right did she have to kill another human being? Even when the questions receded, the hideous images remained. What special tortures would be reserved for the assassin of the Führer?

When Clara looked back on her life, so much of what she had done had been impulsive, actions taken on the spur of the moment. Her decision to become an actress had been spurred by the disapproval of her parents. She moved to Berlin to escape an unwanted fiancé. She began spying at the request of Leo Quinn. She had put herself at the service of others – people whose motives she strongly believed in – but never at her own instigation. This time it was different. This audacious, deadly plan was hers alone. Its planning and execution owed nothing to anyone except herself. It required her to summon every ounce of moral courage and to quash every doubt. She remembered what a Luftwaffe officer had once told her – that to be a truly successful pilot meant losing the last shred of fear. Then she thought of all the people she had known in her six years in Berlin, the brave men and women who had tried to resist the Nazis. They had all made their own choices, but this decision, so hard and difficult, was hers alone.

Eventually, the murmuring arguments died down and she felt the fear inside her harden into resolve.

In the afternoon she had returned to Winterfeldtstrasse to go through the belongings in her old apartment. Rudi, the Blockwart, who carried out his duties from a chair in the corner of the hall, seemed almost pleased to see her. Despite his advanced age and crooked spine, he sprang up to block her path. He had always been a staunch Nazi and it surprised Clara that it had taken him so many years to cultivate the little postage stamp moustache that he now sported proudly in emulation of his hero.

‘Heil Hitler, Fräulein Vine! Are you back for good?’

It was almost as though he was missing her, though the old fraud had never shown an iota of fond feeling in his life. More likely, he was calculating how the landlord might raise the rent if she chose to end her lease.

‘Not sure yet, Rudi. How’s everything?’

‘Busy. We’re converting the cellar into a shelter. We have directives from the Air Protection League.

‘Of course.’

She tried to scurry away up the stairs but Rudi was well practised in forestalling escapes. Edging forward, he barricaded her way as effectively as a squad of riot police. His breath smelt of the kind of alcohol not found in high-end Berlin clubs. He signalled a confidence.

‘A gentleman was calling for you yesterday.’

‘What kind of gentleman?’

‘Ah, that’s not for me to say, Fräulein. I’m a simple man. I can’t judge. Perhaps it was a fan.’

‘I doubt it.’

It was almost certainly a collector. Barely an hour went by some days without a charity official knocking on the door and rattling their tin, demanding funds for the Hitler Youth or the BDM. For the orphans or the poor or the Luftwaffe or the rebuilding of Berlin.

Rudi gave a smile of greasy complicity.

‘I told him I had no idea where you were. That was right, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Thank you, Rudi.’

‘I know you actresses need protection. That’s what I’m here for.’

Sidestepping him, Clara fled up the stairs and shut the door securely behind her. Then she made a rapid inventory of her apartment. If she was arrested she needed to ensure that there was no trace of Erich. No books with his name in, no photographs or school reports, none of the birthday cards he had given her and she had kept. God forbid that his name should be linked with hers. She dreaded the thought of the Gestapo raiding the tenement in Neukölln, shaking the bewildered old Frau Schmidt out of her bed and hustling Erich to some frightening basement where he would be questioned about the woman he had known since he was ten until his tired mind made a mistake and somehow incriminated him too.

She wandered round the apartment, touching her possessions. She pulled the fox fur coat that her mother had left her out of the wardrobe and buried her face in it, inhaling the ghost of violets that she once wore. The fur was chill in her hands, but when she pulled the coat on its warmth enveloped her. Finally, she picked up a book of Latin verse Leo had given her and kissed it, the way Italians might kiss a prayer book; the way she wanted to kiss him. She thought of that sensation she had in the Paris hotel room and tried to bring it back, but she felt nothing.

Towards evening, the adrenaline began to exhaust her. She had dressed methodically, assessing every item with careful scrutiny. Around the top of her thigh she fastened the calfskin holder with the stocking gun inside. It fitted snugly against her leg and, wearing her most sturdy evening shoes – black leather T-bars, she marched up and down the room to ensure it did not slip as she walked. When she donned the Madame Grès dress, it was exactly as she had guessed, the flowing Grecian folds giving no hint of the metallic bulge beneath. The dress also went perfectly with her new Schiaparelli jacket. She brushed her hair until it gleamed and fastened a diamanté clip in it, rejecting her Elizabeth Arden Velvet Red in favour of a lipstick that was almost nude. The Führer had been known to confront lipstick-wearing women and subject them to a rant on how cosmetics were made of human waste and poisoning the entire health of German womanhood.

Her leather jewellery box was battered now, its oval mirror spotted and cloudy, like a blurred portal into the past. She touched the silver locket her mother had given to her at the age of sixteen, with pictures of them both inside, but after a moment’s reflection, picked a diamond brooch in the shape of a swastika. It came from Jaeger’s in Unter den Linden and had been given to her six years previously by Joseph Goebbels himself. She remembered him pinning it to her dress at a fashion show in full view of the press – a deliberate act to mark her out and compromise her in everyone’s eyes. Back then Goebbels had trusted her as his go-between – a secret weapon in the ongoing war with his wife – but now, who knew what he thought?

Her hand hovered over her perfume bottles until she chose one called
Scent of Secrets
. It was sweet and floral – bergamot, jasmine, Turkish rose and violet iris, with a powdery base of vanilla. The scent reminded her of her childhood garden in England and her mother’s favourite rose, the amnesia rose, with its unusual blooms that looked almost grey at first, before shading into lilac. She inhaled the scent deeply, as if for strength. If the evening was to end as she feared, she wanted the memory of her mother to accompany her.

The Führer’s film evening at the Reich Chancellery was the hottest ticket in town. It was the invitation everyone wanted and no one expected to enjoy. Each night when he was in Berlin, Hitler would invite a select group of high-ranking Nazis and actors for a private screening in the Chancellery Music Room. The advantage was that visitors got to see films denied to ordinary Germans. Goebbels’ latest blacklist of sixty American actors did not extend to the Führer’s private parties and all the latest Hollywood releases, from
Tarzan
,
Tip-Off Girls
,
The Lives of a Bengal Lancer
, to
Captain Courageous
with Spencer Tracy, were firm favourites. Walt Disney was held in special esteem, thanks to his public reception of Leni Riefenstahl the previous year when other Hollywood producers had pointedly turned her down. The disadvantages of the evening were self-evident. Everyone was on their best behaviour, no one could smoke and it was impossible to relax. Relaxation, like coffee, eggs and chocolate, was now a luxury that not even VIPs could afford.

The reception hall of the Reich Chancellery was done out in contrasting coloured marble like an ugly cathedral. The walls were black slabs splintered with quartz, interset with veined, bloody red Saalburger stone, with yet more marble underfoot. As she followed an SS orderly dressed in the short white jacket that all Hitler’s domestic staff wore, Clara was overwhelmingly conscious of the gun against her thigh. She had guessed that no one on Hitler’s guest list would be subjected to the indignity of a body search, yet she was intensely aware that she must not slip on the highly polished surface and send the gun skittering beneath her. Even in her sturdy T-bars, the floor beneath her was as treacherous as a skating rink, deliberately waxed to a dazzling shine. It was a private joke for Hitler, who refused all requests to lay a carpet because diplomats needed practice moving on a slippery surface.