A War of Flowers (2014) (19 page)

Clara recalled her discovery of the previous year. An early negative of Hitler which might have dashed forever the image of the Führer, had circumstances not intervened. She wondered if Eva
had ever seen pictures like that, and if so what she must have thought of them.

‘One day I was serving behind the counter, terribly bored, and I looked up to see him standing right in front of me. I was so flustered; I mean he wasn’t the Führer then, but he
was still famous, and he asked me to the opera. It was so romantic. And after that he started taking me regularly and sending flowers. He sent so many flowers to Hoffmann’s the place smelt
like a cemetery.’

She wrinkled her nose.

‘A shame it had to be opera he loves. I’m always nagging him to go to the ballet but he absolutely refuses. He hates it. He thinks men in tights are disgusting and he has to look
away. He says it’s a cultural disgrace to see people hopping about and even ballroom dancing is a stupid waste of time and effeminate. He told me Viennese dancing is the reason for the
decline of the Austrian empire.’

Eva rolled her eyes in time-honoured exasperation at the waywardness of men and Clara gave a sympathetic smile. Even though she was acting on instructions from Guy Hamilton, there was something
endearing about Eva Braun’s girlish demeanour and the way the chatter tumbled out of her as though she was starved of social life. She had that in common with other Nazi women Clara had met.
All of them lived closeted existences, circumscribed by the dictates of their men and the suspicions of a paranoid regime.

‘He’s very stubborn when it comes to taking any interest in my hobbies. Like perfume, for example. There’s a shop in Theatinerstrasse which sells the most delicious French
perfumes; Worth’s
Je Reviens
, that’s my favourite – awful that my favourite perfume should be French, isn’t it? Anyhow, I used to love going in and trying one, then
waiting until it had worn off before going in again and trying some more, but I could never persuade him to come into the shop. He’d just stand outside or wait for me in the car. That was
ages ago, of course – he never comes shopping with me now and you can’t get French perfumes either. But it doesn’t matter because I’ve started making my own.’

‘Your own perfume? What an ingenious solution.’

‘Sounds awfully eccentric, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I like creating my own concoctions. Taking two completely different scents and mingling them and making something unique.
Don’t you think that’s how incredible things happen? You pick the most unlikely ingredients and put them together and somehow they make an impact?’

She laughed lightly, wiping a little cream off her mouth, and Clara thought there was nothing more unlikely than the match between this gauche young woman in front of her and the monstrous
German dictator. She must be careful not to stem this headlong rush of confidences, which tumbled out of Eva as though they had been far too long suppressed.

‘There was an industrialist at the Berghof the other day who was trying to explain it to me,’ added Eva. ‘He said they had discovered molecules that could also be used in
perfume to make them last – aldehydes, I think they’re called. When you put them in perfumes the particles collide and reform into something quite different. You’d never think
perfume would contain strange, synthetic molecules, would you?’

‘It’s amazing what chemistry can do.’

‘It is, but to tell the truth, I don’t really like the idea of all these chemicals. I like things to be natural. Did you know Chanel No. 5 contains a thousand jasmine blooms and
twelve roses in every bottle? It’s true. I know someone who works at a perfume company and they told me all about it. I decided I wanted to create a cologne for Wolf so I needed some samples.
I thought the first thing to do would be to find out all about the ingredients of the famous perfumes; myrrh, jasmine, iris, violet, narcissus and so on, and how they fit together. Which ones
clash, which ones suit each other. I love the idea of observing someone’s personality and creating a scent for them.’

Perfect.

Clara lit two cigarettes and passed one to Eva.

‘You know, I can’t think of anything nicer than having a bespoke perfume. I’ve always secretly wanted a scent made especially for me.’

She waited as Eva pursed her lips and tilted her head to one side, scrutinizing her before coming to the obvious conclusion.

‘In that case, why don’t I make one for you?’

‘Make me a perfume? Would you really? What would that involve?’

‘We’d need to meet again.’

‘Of course.’

‘Preferably somewhere private.’

Eva’s eyes lingered on Clara’s Velvet Red lipstick. ‘I’m glad you don’t refuse to wear make-up like some of those wives. Most of them have faces as wrinkled as
custard skin. More lines than the Berlin U-Bahn. I couldn’t bear to let myself go like that. When I was a girl I was never really considered pretty but I learnt to make the best of
myself.’ Her smile drooped. ‘Don’t know why I bother though, now. No one’s allowed to take any pictures of me. Wolf has banned Hoffmann from ever having a photograph of me
on the market.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He says no one must know what I look like. The Russians might want to kidnap me.’

‘Are you scared?’

‘Not a bit. How’s any Russian going to get to me, surrounded by all this?’ She waved her arm and Clara followed her gaze, noting the way the other customers hastily averted
their eyes, pretending to devote their attention to the coffee cups in front of them.

‘Does it ever bother you? The attention?’

‘A little. But I have my ways of keeping my own confidences.’ Her eyes sparkled secretively. ‘And besides, if I’m ever going to be an actress, I’ll have to get used
to people looking at me, won’t I?’

Clara sipped her tea and tried to take stock. Everything the man from London Films asked of her had happened, and so much faster than expected. Within a day of arriving in Munich she was
actually taking tea with Eva Braun, who seemed quite happy to entrust her with personal confidences. And yet what confidences was Clara able to pass on? That the Führer hated ballet? That his
girlfriend liked make-up and French perfume? Such information was no use to anyone. Clara needed to get onto the subject of the Führer’s intentions for war.

‘It must be hard for you, having to listen to him talking about politics, night after night.’

‘It is.’ She made a sulky pout at the thought of it. ‘He never stops. Especially now. In the early days he used to be so much more romantic – I’d slip little
letters into his coat pocket, and he’d reply, but now it’s all politics, politics, politics. The Czechs, the French, the English. In fact, you’ll never guess what he told me the
other evening . . .’

She stopped suddenly as a man entered the restaurant and seated himself at one of the tables sideways on to theirs. He proceeded to open a copy of
Das Schwarze Korps
– the SS
newspaper – and bury his face in it.

‘Actually, shall we go? I don’t like this place any more.’

Outside the café Eva made for the road and signalled for a taxi.

‘Sorry to leave so abruptly, Clara, but I can’t stand all those people spying on me and trying to overhear what I’m talking about. Besides, I’m awfully tired. We were up
late last night, and there’s another dinner at the Carlton Hotel tonight so I’ll need to get my hair done.’

‘Of course. That’s fine. I’d like to take a walk around.’

‘I suppose you want to see the Bürgerbräukeller. Everyone wants to see the Bürgerbräukeller. It’s where the Putsch started in 1923. They should do one of those
historic tours. The Führer’s favourite beer hall, the Führer’s office, the Führer’s apartment block. In fact I could lead it myself. I could reveal a thing or two.
That red sofa in his office, for example. That could tell a tale.’

She gave a sardonic little laugh and pressed a card into Clara’s hand. It read Wasserburgstrasse 12, telephone 480844.

‘This is one place no one gets to see, though. If I’m going to create that perfume for you, you’ll need to come to my home because it’s where I keep all my ingredients.
If you’re free, we could continue our conversation tomorrow, without everyone listening. Might you be available at tea time?’

‘I’m sure I am.’

‘Tomorrow then.’

Clara had been telling the truth when she said she wanted a walk. She needed to process everything that had happened. She could hardly believe that she had managed to achieve
so quickly and easily what Guy Hamilton asked of her. She had made contact with the Führer’s girlfriend and had even secured an invitation to her home all in the space of an afternoon,
yet she was increasingly doubtful about what it would yield. Eva Braun might well impart snippets about the Führer’s intentions, and it might even turn out that he was in the habit of
confiding his military plans to her, but would she have paid attention? Did she even know where the Sudetenland was? The men back in Whitehall would need something far more concrete to prove the
extent of Hitler’s territorial ambitions.

Compared with Berlin’s churning hurry and its oppressive Prussian architecture, Munich’s elegantly proportioned streets and stately neoclassical façades of cream and gold
stone were stunning. The city seemed entirely untroubled by the air of crisis which gripped the capital. The scarlet swastika banners draping every building gave off a festive air and every
hoarding was decked with travel advertisements:
Visit the Rhine! The Perfect Holiday for German Families
and
Spring in the Spreewald!
One billboard bore a gigantic picture of a cruise
ship, with flaxen-haired children waving from the deck as their parents pointed joyously at a fluorescent blue sky.
Kraft durch Freude. Freude durch Reisen!
Strength through joy and joy
through travel.

It was impossible to insulate oneself from the admonitions of the Party. There were slogans and exhortations everywhere you turned. As in Berlin, most public buildings seemed to have a
loudspeaker lashed to them, alternating between speeches and music, and as Clara passed the State Opera House, the Führer’s voice emerged staccato from a ten-foot pediment.

‘
There is no greater honour for a woman than to be the mother of German sons or daughters. That is the highest honour she can attain.
’

It was appropriate that Hitler enjoyed Wagner, because what his utterances lacked in lyricism, they made up for in thundering, operatic volume.

As she crossed the Odeonsplatz, trying to ignore the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree bellowing of the Führer, Clara experienced a distinct, subliminal disquiet. It was an instinct she had
developed, a prickling between her shoulders that told her she was under surveillance. Accompanying it was the acid twist of fear.

When she had first become an informer for British Intelligence she had been highly self-conscious. The glances of other people were as sharp as sandpaper on her skin, but now that
self-consciousness had mutated into something more useful – a kind of heightened perception that told her when those around her were paying her more attention than they should. Peering over
her shoulder she scanned passing pedestrians for anyone who might be out of place or have no valid reason to be there. Though a shadow would always aim to blend in, it was useful to look for a
solitary figure who was not going purposefully about their business. Her glance snagged on a man crossing the square towards her, the collar of his coat turned up, obscuring the half of his face
that was not overshadowed by his hat, but he turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Even while examining every face she passed, she rationalized the feeling she had. It would be entirely
logical to be followed after a meeting with Eva Braun. The Führer’s girlfriend was a heartbeat away from the Führer himself and there was every reason to assume that Hitler kept
tabs on the people who surrounded her. Surveillance would be utterly reasonable. Yet still Clara needed to know if her instinct was correct.

It was Leo who had given her the only lessons she ever had in evading surveillance. There were the elementary things to look out for – pedestrians you had seen before, anyone who
leapfrogged you in the street or avoided eye contact, cars which idled by the kerb with the engine running. Agents might wear a heavy coat which could be removed or a hat which could be changed, so
it was vital to focus on those elements of appearance that were harder to change in a hurry – the shoes, for example, or the hair. She had forgotten all the technical terms for surveillance
manoeuvres – piggybacking, switching, blocking – but she knew that if you turned a corner the tail would often cross the street to keep you in view and sometimes two or more agents
would form a team, with one dropping back while another moved ahead. Yet while she had listened diligently to Leo’s instructions, Clara had gradually evolved her own ways of throwing off
potential tails. And now, as her focus tightened and a jittery tension entered her limbs, she decided to make a circuit of the city centre to see if her suspicions were right.

At an unhurried pace she crossed Odeonsplatz towards the Feldherrnhalle, the city’s military memorial, where the lavish monument to the Putsch was flanked day and night by an SS guard of
honour. The site had been co-opted by the Nazis as a memorial to the holiest day in their calendar, when marchers staged an unsuccessful clash with police resulting in sixteen Nazi deaths, and on
solemn days the site resembled a Greek temple, complete with flaming urns. Even on ordinary days two enormous laurel wreaths were guarded round the clock by steel-helmeted sentries, requiring
everyone who passed to make a right-armed salute. Noticing that some pedestrians skirted round through an alley on the far side of the monument to avoid having to give the Hitlergruss, Clara
followed suit.

As she walked, she took in every detail around her. A mother dragging two children behind her, a third in a pram. A flower seller, women gossiping in a café, cakes glistening in the
window of a bakery, a sweet doughy aroma issuing from the opened door – all the time Clara committed key details about her surroundings to memory. She watched for shapes as much as faces.
Postures too. Slouching, lingering, any sense of not being in a hurry. Then there were the signals. Gestapo agents communicated with a rapidly evolving system of signs, like the tying of shoelaces
– a single knot or a double, laces crossed or straight – or the way they wore their hats or carried their newspapers. Nothing she saw stood out, though, so Clara decided to employ the
ultimate anti-surveillance technique, and the one most perfectly suited to the female agent – shopping.