A War of Flowers (2014) (37 page)

August Gerlach spread himself out, elbows on the table and, as anticipated, began talking about himself. The company he worked for was being Aryanized and the Jewish owners were leaving, meaning
that there were plenty of job opportunities coming up.

‘It’s all about being in the right place at the right time, but I’m sure you know all about that,’ he said, favouring Rosa with a broad smile. ‘You’re a
clever girl, getting yourself a job in the Frauenschaft. You’re obviously going places.’

She smiled, awkwardly.

He leaned over, encouragingly, towards her.

‘You’ve really got under my skin, you know, Fräulein Winter. Rosa. As soon as I saw you at the cinema I thought you looked very . . .’ He searched for the correct phrase.
‘Intelligent.’

‘Thank you.’ Being called intelligent was not exactly a compliment in the Reich, not for a woman, but Rosa took it as one and she liked the fact that he seemed to think so too.

‘You’re quite a looker as well. That’s a lovely suntan you have. Been somewhere nice recently?’

‘I went on a cruise on the
Wilhelm Gustloff
. To Madeira and Portugal.’

He blew out his cheeks in an impressed sigh.

‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’

‘I suppose so.’ In an instant Rosa was transported back to the spray-lashed deck, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the bracing feeling of the water needling her face. Then, through
the rain-drenched air, the sight of the girl’s body pulled from the sea, her sundress clinging to her icy flesh.

‘Bet you enjoyed yourself. I’ve heard those cruises are for the special ones. The VIPS.’

Stung by this suggestion, she frowned.

‘Not exactly. There were all sorts on board.’

‘Not the likes of me, I’ll bet. More the teachers’ pets.’

‘No really, that’s the thing about the KdF cruises. They’re for everyone.’

‘If you say so, sweetheart. Wish I could have been there with you. It sounds fabulous.’

‘It was. I would have enjoyed it more, only . . .’

‘Only what?’

‘There was an accident on the ship. It rather spoiled the trip for me.’

He was scouring the drinks menu.

‘Say, that’s a shame. What happened?’

Rosa hadn’t really wanted to tell Herr Gerlach what she’d seen. It was bad enough to be sitting there in the company of a man with whom, she swiftly realized, she had absolutely
nothing in common, let alone to sully it further with talk of dead bodies and the terrible sight that had haunted her for weeks. Yet, she reasoned to herself, she had already decided that she was
going to tell somebody, and she didn’t have much else to talk about. Besides, Gerlach was paying for her drink.

‘All right, I’ll tell you, if you really want to know. It was an awful accident. A girl died. She fell into the sea.’

‘My God. That’s hard.’ Gerlach gave a shrug which conveyed his absolute disregard for dead girls. ‘Accidents can happen anywhere, though. Even on cruise
liners.’

‘I know. But the thing is . . .’ Rosa leant forward across the table, even though no one was listening. ‘The more I think about it, the more I believe . . .’ The
girl’s white face came back to her, the bloody mess on the back of the head. ‘The more I believe that she didn’t just fall.’

He looked up.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I think someone pushed her.’

‘Pushed her?’ Gerlach exhaled a stream of smoke, a little smile dancing on his lips. ‘You sound like a girl with a vivid imagination.’

A vivid imagination
. That was what her father always said. But when her father said it, he meant it as a compliment. Gerlach made it sound like a crime.

‘I’m not imagining it. I’m absolutely sure of it.’

‘This isn’t some fantasy that’s got into your pretty little head? Not been watching too many movies?’

‘Not at all,’ she retorted. ‘I saw the body with my own eyes.’

That made him sit up. He ground out his cigarette and steepled his fingers.

‘You saw it?’

‘Yes. When she was taken out of the water.’

‘And you saw her being pushed in too?’

She allowed a little shrug.

‘Not exactly.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I think she
was
pushed. Or worse. But . . .’

‘But what?’

She was beginning to regret ever mentioning it.

‘I probably shouldn’t tell you any more. In fact, the Captain came to see me and advised me not to talk at all about what I’d seen.’

Gerlach raised his eyebrows.

‘Exactly,’ said Rosa. ‘But . . . why would he do that, if he wasn’t trying to cover something up?’

‘Wait a minute, let’s get this straight.’

Gerlach lit himself another cigarette and flicked the match over the railings to immediate extinction in the Spree.

‘You saw a dead body and you think this girl was murdered? And you think the Captain of the
Wilhelm Gustloff
was involved in a conspiracy to cover it up?’

Rosa was bitterly wishing she had never brought the subject up with August Gerlach, who obviously thought she was some kind of fantasist. When he put it like that, it did sound melodramatic and
she felt compelled to convince him that she was not crazy.

‘I’m not making this up. It’s a feeling I have. Anyway, I’m trying to decide if I should tell anyone.’

‘How many people have you told so far?’

‘None.’

‘Well, that’s not true, is it? You told me quite happily. And we’ve only met twice.’

‘I said, I’ve told no one.’ She looked sideways, towards the sluggish waters of the canal, and couldn’t help thinking of the bodies that they said were found floating
there too, mushrooming up from the gloomy depths. Miserable relicts of humanity reduced to puffy white flesh, pulled up by the bargemen at dawn.

‘You don’t seem that bothered about what the Captain said.’

A spark of alarm flickered through her.

‘What are you? A policeman or something? Obviously the Captain had a reason for asking me not to discuss it, and it might have been simply that he didn’t want to alarm the other
passengers. But it could have been something else.’

‘Which is why you’re going to discuss it with all your friends.’ Rosa was not going to mention that she had very few friends. The women at work tended to avoid her, wrongly
believing that she would repeat their gossip back to the Führerin.

‘I would never do that.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He was cool, now, rolling his cigarette between his fingers, scrutinizing her with his head on one side. ‘But how about your parents?’

‘It would scare them.’

‘The rest of the family?’

‘We don’t really have that kind of conversation.’

‘You told me, though. Despite the fact that the Captain specifically asked you to keep it confidential.’

Rosa felt a hot rush of indignation rising within her. Who was August Gerlach to lecture her?

‘Well, I’m sorry. You seemed like the kind of person I could confide in.’ He didn’t of course, but she could hardly say that.

This remark made him smile. He looked out across the canal, as though contemplating her conundrum, and exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl up into the air.

‘Want to know what I think, Rosa? I think you’re a nice girl. Perhaps you watch too many detective movies, but you’re a bright lady and you have good prospects. You should keep
your nose out of this business.’

The waitress interrupted, bringing their drinks, and Rosa took a huge gulp of her beer, in the interests of finishing it quickly. Gerlach’s eyes followed the tight skirt and shapely legs
of the waitress as she retreated, then turned back to Rosa.

‘So are you going to follow my advice?’

She nodded. She was desperate to let the subject drop. She had no idea how long she would have to sit here before she could get away. When a man invited you for a drink, did it actually mean
just a single drink?

Gerlach reached across to her hand and patted it.

‘Don’t look so worried, sweetheart. I’m just looking out for you. Let’s not spoil any more of our evening talking about dead bodies. Not when there are movies to talk
about. On the subject of which, I took the liberty of getting tickets for
The Divine Jetta.
It stars Grethe Weiser as a cabaret singer wooed by a Tyrolean count. Tuesday evening at the Kino
Sportpalast. How about it?’

It would be a relief, in a way, to see Erich.

He had called the day before and although Clara always did her best to keep any telephone conversations from her apartment to a minimum, nothing that Erich ever said could possibly arouse the
suspicion of the hidden army of listeners at the telephone exchange who eavesdropped on the calls of every foreigner, or even half-foreigner, in Berlin. Erich wanted to give her something,
apparently. Perhaps a gift from his holiday that he had forgotten. They arranged to take advantage of the last vestiges of warm weather and go to the Strandbad at Wannsee.

The beach at the Wannsee was an old favourite of Erich’s. A short walk from Nikolassee Station on the S-Bahn, down a sandy, pine-fringed lane, the beach, lapped by the shallow fresh waters
of the lake, was a welcome relief from the dusty heat of the city. Jetties protruded into the Wannsee and yachts could usually be seen tacking their way in the distance, framed against the gloomy
pine fringes of the eastern shore. Bathers could hire deckchairs or hooded seats in white wicker called Liegestühle, from which to survey the view. With its sausage and beer stalls, the
Strandbad offered an entirely egalitarian experience for Berliners, unless of course they happened to be Jewish. As Clara and Erich made their way down the steps to the beach they passed a sign
announcing
Badeverbot für Juden am Strandbad Wannsee
. Jews should not even think about using the beach. Clara, of course, thought about that sign every time she passed it, but on this
day she had more on her mind than the possibility that her Jewish self should be discovered defiling Aryan sand.

Erich, as he always did, plunged straight into the water and swam a strong circuit, while Clara queued for a couple of bottles of lemonade. As this was likely to be the last
opportunity before the approach of a Berlin winter made such diversions impossible, the beach was well populated with groups of Hitler Youth and Bund Deutscher Mädel flirting and showing off,
families commandeering rings of deckchairs and lovers admiring the caramel smoothness of each other’s bodies. Loudspeakers, lashed to the lampposts, broadcast a medley of light and military
music, interspersed with the odd homily from Joseph Goebbels. As she queued, out of the corner of her eye Clara noticed a man buying a copy of the
Völkischer Beobachter
at the kiosk,
and thought he was looking at her, before glancing down and realizing that his gaze might just have more to do with her tanned legs in their bathing costume.

She returned to her spot on the beach and sat staring out at the sparkling lake and the dark fringe of the Grunewald beyond. How incredible it was that she should be sitting in this lovely
place, surrounded by the carefree laughter of Berliners relaxing, while back in the city a group of plotters were preparing to mount a coup on the Reich Chancellery. Clara was glad she was wearing
sunglasses or her face would surely betray the anxiety that was thrumming through her mind and Erich would ask her what was wrong. She wished, more than ever, that she could share her thoughts with
him, the person in Berlin who cared the most for her, yet she knew it was impossible. Some secrets were too heavy for a boy his age to bear, and besides, Erich’s sense of duty and patriotism
were bolstered daily by his sessions with the Hitler Youth.

That was just how it was for boys now. The speeches and slogans and marching songs they learned at the age of ten in the Pimpf were repeated for all their formative years in the HJ, followed by
the service year and then the armed forces beyond. Everyone knew Hitler’s motto: ‘The weak must be chiselled away. A young German must be as swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather
and as hard as Krupp’s steel.’ Children were no different from cars or aeroplanes on the Führer’s production line and if it came to a conflict between his beloved godmother
and his adored Hitler Jugend, who knew what Erich would say or do?

He came and flung himself on the sand beside her, scattering icy drops of water like a dog.

‘Nothing’s as good as swimming in the Wannsee.’

‘Not even the Atlantic Ocean?’

‘No. There were pools on the cruise ship, but I prefer our lakes.’ Erich rolled over, propped himself up on his elbows and squinted up at her with Helga’s dark, quizzical
eyes.

‘I wanted to ask you, Clara . . . Did you find anything out about that woman? Ada Freitag. Like you said you would?’

Clara wondered how to tell him that her enquiries about Ada Freitag had reached a dead end. What had Rupert said?
Someone seemed very keen to keep her death a secret.
Keen enough to alter
the ship’s log to suggest that the woman had left the
Wilhelm Gustloff
, rather than falling overboard. Keen enough that the Kripo’s own Missing Persons file on her had been
disposed of. Was that merely an instance of traditional Reich paranoia, mounting a cover-up to conceal an official mistake? To avoid any stain on the glamorous reputation of Strength Through Joy,
which was right up there with the Luftwaffe as a source of Nazi pride? Or was it something more?

‘I did ask a few questions, Erich. I got a journalist contact of mine to make some enquiries at the police station, and I saw him the other day to follow it up. But so far there’s
not much . . .’ She decided in the circumstances a lie couldn’t hurt. ‘Obviously they’re investigating the situation.’

‘Good. Because I was meaning to tell you, she left some things.’

He sat up and felt for the satchel at his side.

‘Remember I said Ada was a fan of yours? And she had a complete collection of the Ufa stars series? Well, the last time I saw her, when she said she had to go off for a few minutes, she
asked me to look after her belongings.’