A War of Flowers (2014) (22 page)

‘What do they talk about at lunch? Is it all politics?’

Eva Braun burst out laughing. ‘As if they’d try! Himmler has some idea about establishing a Women’s Academy for Wisdom and Culture where high-class women would learn the social
graces and how to talk about art and politics, but I could tell him right off, that’s never going to work. Wolf hates women talking about politics.’

Clara’s heart sank. The chances of Eva Braun having any political insights were dwindling by the second.

‘What does he like then?’

‘What he really likes is a woman who will sit with him and listen to him talk. He wants companionship, I suppose. But we never seem to get the chance to be alone. It’s even worse in
Berlin. I have my own apartment at the Chancellery, it used to be Hindenburg’s bedroom, but I have to have all my meals there and I never get to see anyone. The only place I ever visit is my
dressmaker and I have to go in and out through a private entrance, in case anyone sees me.’

Whatever she may have felt about a woman who was prepared to love a man like Hitler, Clara felt a pang of sympathy for the girl, shunned, isolated, treated as an embarrassing confidence, to be
kept at all costs out of the public eye.

‘Do you travel much with him?’

‘The Anschluss was lovely. It was my first foreign trip with him. People were so pleased to see him, they threw flowers in front of the cars. We stayed at the Imperial Hotel and the people
stood outside all night, singing.’

Clara glanced around her. If things went Hitler’s way, Eva would soon be having more opportunities for foreign travel.

‘But I get so lonely here. He thinks I have everything I could want – my own Mercedes and a chauffeur and Negus and Stasi – but I don’t have him. I don’t understand
why he never wants to come here.’

Hearing their names, the terriers abandoned their fight and raced across the grass, clamouring for attention with incessant barks and jumping up at Clara’s legs with their sharp little
claws. Even for a man who loved dogs, it was hard to imagine Hitler tolerating these two without the help of the bullwhip he carried at all times.

A chill wind fluttered the leaves of the apple trees, stippling their skin with goose pimples, and Eva jumped up.

‘Let’s go inside.’

Following her upstairs, Clara caught a glimpse of a blue-tiled bathroom then they entered a frilly bedroom, hung with the obligatory photograph of the Führer and an oil painting of Eva
alongside it. On the dressing table a silver-backed vanity set engraved with the initials EB, stylized like a butterfly, lay alongside a jumble of bottles and creams. A pile of ribboned underwear
lay on the bed and on the table beside it a bottle of Vanodorm sleeping tablets.

‘Excuse the mess.’

Eva folded her arms and tipped her chin resolutely.

‘Now, Clara. You’ll need to be honest. I need to know the truth about you.’

For a split second, Clara hesitated. For all she knew the house was fitted top to bottom with listening devices, even here in the bedroom. Perhaps especially here.

‘What do you mean, the truth?’

‘If I’m to make a perfume for you, of course!’

‘Of course! I forgot.’

‘Well, I didn’t. I have all my equipment.’

She gestured across to a mahogany dresser crowded with tiny, stoppered glass bottles. Even with their stoppers in, the fragrances sent a pungent, intermingled aroma into the air – floral,
citrus, woody and smoky, jasmine, tuberose, violet and pine. Each flask had a label inked in a neat hand and Clara was surprised to see Eva’s writing so small and precise. It suggested a
meticulous streak behind her girlish frivolity, a sense of discipline and control. Perhaps an ambition to achieve what everyone around her assumed was impossible.

Eva reached forward to a larger bottle and took out the cork.

‘I’ve prepared a few things based on what I think you’re like,’ she glanced shyly upwards – ‘Sophisticated of course, but with a soft heart. At first I came
up with this.’ She waved the vial under Clara’s nose. The fragrance was light and floral on top but undercut with a deep, sweet ghost of vanilla and violets.

‘But then I thought, no. Perhaps too sugary.’ She picked up a second bottle. ‘What about something more like this?’

The second scent had the freshness of clean linen and windows opening to green orchards, with a trail of vetiver in the background. Eva Braun put it down again.

‘That seems more like you, but it’s not perfect. I think I need to know more about you. Like one of those quizzes they have in
Stern
. Are you a city or a country
girl?’

‘City, definitely.’

‘Do you prefer a film, or a night at the opera? No, don’t answer that. I’m sure you’re the same as me there. Do you like loud colours, or subtlety?’

‘Subtlety, I suppose.’

‘Do you wear your heart on your sleeve?’

‘I try not to.’

‘Roses or gardenia?’

‘Roses, probably.’

‘Then what about this one?’

She picked up a crystal decanter with a gold top and Clara saw that it was engraved again with her initials – EB, made into the shape of a butterfly.

‘That’s pretty.’

‘Do you like it? It’s my personal monogram. I designed it myself, with a little help from Speer. At first I thought of it as a four-leaf clover, which would make sense because
I’m lucky, but then I decided it looked more like a butterfly. And I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a butterfly! Now see what you think of this.’

The third perfume had voluptuous notes of rose and jasmine, but with a darker heart that seemed to evade definition, a haunting blend of musk and woodsmoke and leather. It hung in the air like
strange and evanescent music.

‘Oh, I like that. It’s mysterious.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes. I’ll wear it.’

Clara dabbed a little behind her ears.

‘I’m so pleased! I’ll make up a proper bottle for you. I’m going to name it
Black Roses
in your honour.’

She took out an empty bottle, carefully inscribed a fresh label with the words
Black Roses
in her tiny, meticulous handwriting, and stuck it on. But her pleasure did not last long. The
mercurial weather of her moods swiftly swung back to melancholy again and her expression grew clouded and brooding.

‘Is anything wrong?’

She flung herself down into an armchair, pouted and gave a shrug.

‘Just about everything.’

‘I’m sorry. Would it help to discuss it?’

Eva Braun glanced up at Clara. A thin sheen of tears glittered in her eyes, but she summoned a smile.

‘Would you mind? It’s so hard to talk, you see. Most people I’m not supposed to confide in, and my sisters get very impatient with hearing the same old problems, and I know I
shouldn’t speak to the wives of the senior men. But you’re not anyone’s wife or girlfriend, are you? I mean, not anyone important.’

For a moment Clara wondered how Eva knew this, until she remembered the stack of film magazines in the sitting room. The celebrity movie magazines of which Eva was such a devoted reader never
featured photographs of Clara out with Nazi officials, or even her leading men. She was no Zarah Leander or Kristina Söderbaum to be found in the daily gossip columns. Unlike Ursula Schilling,
there had never been a story about Clara’s dalliance with a co-star, or any shots of her staggering out of a National Socialist fundraiser the worse for wear.

‘No. I’m not.’

‘But there must be someone. Come on, Clara. I can keep a secret.’

It would help, Clara reckoned, to have a secret of her own to exchange. Even if the secret was not strictly accurate.

‘There’s a Sturmbannführer I know. Sturmbannführer Steinbrecher. But I haven’t seen him in a while. His work takes him away.’

‘Poor you.’ Eva pursed her lips. ‘I know how that feels. Anyway, it means I can talk to you without worrying that you’re going to tell all the senior men.
Promise?’

‘I can absolutely promise you that.’

‘I really don’t want Himmler to know anything about me.’

‘Why should he?’

‘Oh, Himmler likes to know everything about everyone. He’s definitely keeping tabs on me. When my sister Ilse had an affair with an Italian officer, Himmler photocopied all her
letters and then produced them for blackmail.’

‘I would never tell Himmler your secrets.’

‘Thank you, Clara. I didn’t think you would.’

She relaxed visibly, and drew another cigarette from a silver box and perched it in her mouth to light. Taking a deep coil of smoke into her lungs, she exhaled and examined her fingernails. Then
she turned over her hand and showed Clara the palm.

‘When I was young, I went to a fortune teller who told me that one day I would become world famous. I used to believe it, but I don’t suppose that will ever happen now,’ she
said tonelessly. ‘You see, I just don’t know where I stand. Sometimes, at public dinners, he doesn’t utter a word to me all evening, then he simply hands me an envelope of money
at the end. It’s so humiliating. When I ask him about the future he says he has responsibilities to the nation and I must be patient. But it’s more than that. He says he’ll
severely punish anyone who mentions my name in connection with his, for the sake of my honour. His job is like a priesthood and he’s like the Pope – only in a good way – and
he’s taken holy orders for service to the Fatherland. At least I think that’s what he said.’

She flicked a stray blonde curl from her face and pouted.

‘I know I’m lucky. There are millions of women who would envy me, and I shouldn’t complain, but I just can’t bear this pretence. I see all those wives laughing, thinking
their Führer isn’t serious about me, but he is. When I tell him he just smiles and says I’m the most important woman in Germany. The most important woman in Germany? That’s a
joke. He says when he has achieved all that we need for the Reich, he’ll marry me and we’ll live in a house he has planned in Linz, where he was born, and he’ll write books and I
can do whatever I want but until that time no one should know about me. I have to remain a secret. That’s what you’re looking at, Clara.’ She spat out the words. ‘A great
big, embarrassing secret.’

‘Surely not,’ said Clara, perching on the bed and crossing her legs.

‘Yes! And it’s all Goebbels’ fault.’ Her face darkened. ‘Goebbels says the Führer should have no private life. No one’s even allowed to know if the
Führer has stomach troubles in case it affects his image, so imagine what it would do to him if people knew he had a lady friend.
Consider the effect on the German people.
’ She
mimicked Goebbels’ bark with cruel accuracy
.
‘He censors all radio reports, and any journalist who dared to mention my existence would end up in a camp
. The Führer of
Germany should have no private life.
That’s what Goebbels says. But I’m tired of being Miss No Private Life. If anything happens to Wolf or me, I want them to know that he loved me
and was planning to marry me. I’m tired of being a secret. Secrecy is exhausting. You wouldn’t know. I mean, you probably don’t have many secrets, do you, Clara?’

‘Some.’

‘Not like mine. Anyway, I’m going to tell you the biggest secret of all. When these international affairs are over, I’ve arranged to go to Hollywood.’

‘As an actress?’

‘That’s right. I want to make a film about our story. How we met. I’ve already chosen the theme tune. It’s
Blutrote Rosen
– you know, by Max Mensing’s
orchestra.
Blood-red roses speak of happiness to you.
’

As she spoke of her dreams, her eyes lit up with happy anticipation and Clara realized that the mere act of articulating them was making them real.

‘And would you be in this film yourself?’

‘Of course. I’d play me. Eva Braun. Little Miss Nobody who fell in love with the Führer of all Germany. It’s a wonderful story, isn’t it? I’m sure people would
be interested. I’ve told Wolf to hurry up and decide who should play him, or I’ll choose. I’m thinking of Clark Gable.’

Clara was astonished at the extent of her self-delusion. Of course Eva Braun would never be an actress. Hitler was the actor in their relationship. Everything he did was stage-managed and
Goebbels controlled every single picture of him.

‘My parents don’t like Wolf – they say he’s old enough to be my father and ask when he’s going to do the decent thing, and even my own friends I can’t trust
now.’ She took a disconsolate drag of her cigarette. ‘But you don’t want to hear all my problems.’

Her face brightened. ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea! Frau Goering’s giving a party on Thursday to celebrate the birth of her baby. It’s at the Bayerischer Hof hotel in the
Tiki Bar.’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Fun? Do you think so? It will be absolutely dreadful. Everyone will be there. Well, not Wolf of course, he’s far too busy with the political situation, and Goering is otherwise
detained and Himmler and Goebbels are away too, thankfully. But everyone else – all the wives – will be there. I suppose I’ll have to show up, but I can’t think of anything
worse. I’ve been dreading it, to tell the truth, but now you can come as my guest. I’d much rather talk to you than those old crows! Will you?’

Clara shuddered to think of it. She had been to enough Nazi receptions to know that they demanded an unusual level of alertness. They weren’t anyone’s idea of a party, unless a party
implied mingling with people you detested, who probably wanted you dead. All the same, befriending Eva Braun was the entire reason for her presence here, and if she was to find anything to tell the
man from London Films, apart from Eva Braun’s tastes in perfumery, then she would need to persevere.

A late afternoon sun was slanting down as Clara made her way back through the streets of Munich. She passed a pretzel seller, his wares threaded on a long stick, who smiled at
her in a way that his Berlin equivalent would never permit himself, and nodded as a Wurst merchant came up beside him, holding boiled sausages in a hot, metal container round his neck.

‘It’s Führerwetter,’ said the pretzel seller, cocking his head at the sky.