The Pursuit of Pearls (21 page)

Adler bowed and gave Clara a swift hand kiss, leaving her only with the rough brush of his cheek against her skin and a sense of utter desolation as he turned abruptly and climbed into the car.

H
edwig loved the library at the Ahnenerbe. It was her secret domain. Other people assumed she enjoyed her workplace because it was in an upmarket part of the city, amid leafy, pine-scented streets where expensive cars stood in the driveways, but it wasn't anything to do with that. When she was in here, outside life dissolved away, and she was alone in an exotic realm, smelling of floor wax and the concentrated must of ancient wisdom. She loved the idea of History, that things had been going on for thousands of years and would continue long after they were all gone. Everyone kept telling her they were living in historic times, by which they meant the Führer's birthday and the expansion of the Reich, but that wasn't the kind of history Hedwig liked. For her, History was about an ancient world, and most of all it was about books. At home they hardly had any books—only a couple of children's fairy stories and Goebbels's autobiography,
From the Kaiserhof to the Reich Chancellery.
And a big picture book called
The Growth, Struggle, and Victory of the NSDAP,
which came in the form of a family album, for which her parents had collected coupons in their cigarette packets and exchanged for real snapshots of the Führer. But the books here were different.

The books at the Ahnenerbe were fragile manuscripts with strange scents of spice and leather. Some were so old their pages furled up like tobacco leaves and their ink was clotted and dark, as if they had been written in blood. She imagined them preserved on their shelves like fossils, their wisdom gradually solidifying, compressed between the pages like dirt transforming into diamonds. Some books contained photographs of natives looking into the camera with alien, thousand-yard stares. When Lottie used to come and visit—no one ever minded Lottie visiting—Hedwig would guide her friend proudly around the library and Herr Doktor Kraus would join in, explaining how the Tibetans and Mongolians, with their exotic faces like crinkled autumn leaves, were really part of the Aryan tribe. “Why do they want to be Aryans?” Lottie demanded. “Why couldn't they stay being themselves?” Secretly, Hedwig agreed. It was hard to believe that all those flat-faced tribesmen could possibly come from the same Aryan family as she did. Then again, it was often hard to believe that her own parents came from the same family as she did.

HER MOTHER HAD STARTED
again last night.

“I hope you haven't been seeing that boy.”

They were in the kitchen, preparing dinner on the scarred oak table. The kitchen, with its dark brown papered walls, was the warmest room in the apartment, courtesy of the coke stove, from which clouds of steam were uncoiling. The damp, urinous smell of boiling laundry mingled with a bone broth on the stove. Kurt was perched in a high chair for Hedwig to feed him, looking around with a bright excitement as if everything they did was a splendid game.

Trussed in an apron, chopping potatoes, Mutti looked hot and fat. Six babies may have earned her a silver Mother's Cross, made of blue enamel with the motto
DER
DEUTSCHEN
MUTTER
displayed proudly in a frame on the parlor wall, but six pregnancies had left layers of flesh around her middle like the rings around a tree.

“Jochen's not a boy. He's twenty-one,” Hedwig protested, not actually denying their meeting. She offered a spoonful of porridge to Kurt, but he turned his head just before it reached his mouth, so the spoon collided with his cheek and he laughed.

Mutti tossed the potatoes into her stew and gave it a savage poke.

“He looks like a Bolshevik.” Then she began decapitating the green fronds from the carrots.

Hedwig knew for a fact that Mutti didn't know what a Bolshevik looked like. Reiner and Wolfgang came in and started wrestling on the floor, tumbling like puppies until their mother smacked them on the backs of their heads. Kurt observed the proceedings with a lordly air.

“How could he possibly be a Bolshevik when he spends all day painting the Führer? You liked that painting he gave you.”

Mutti allowed the truth of this with a grudging tilt of her head. She began peeling carrots, and Kurt reached out for the festive ribbons that curled onto the tabletop.

“He wasn't in the HJ though.”

“So what? He'll still be called up if there's a war.”

“There's something about him I don't trust.”

“There's nothing wrong with him!”

Mutti turned and nodded savagely towards Kurt. “So if he's going to be called up, why throw yourself away, Hedwig? You want to be a widow before the age of twenty-two stuck with some screaming brat in an apartment in the bad end of Pankow?”

Oblivious to the bad press he was getting, Kurt slapped his hands into the bowl, spattering porridge everywhere, then wiped them on his hair. Hedwig often wondered if Kurt owed his existence to the enticing prospect of the silver Mother's Cross, which qualified her mother for all sorts of privileges and better treatment on public transport. No one with a silver Mother's Cross would ever find herself standing on a tram or at the back of the bread queue. Then she chided herself. Mutti loved children, even if it didn't seem like it most of the time, and perhaps Kurt's difficult birth, or his playfulness, accounted for the fact that she never seemed to show him much affection. Secretly Hedwig had vowed to make up for that. As she took a cloth to his chubby face, Kurt chuckled and reached his sticky fingers out to catch her braids.

“You met Vati when you were eighteen.”

Mentioning that was a mistake. It was no doubt her own experience that led Frau Holz to warn her daughter against hasty decisions. That was why Hedwig was at the Faith and Beauty school, trying to be something her mother was not.

“Vati's not a Communist.”

“Nor is Jochen.”

“What is he then?”

“He's an artist.”

Mutti started on a turnip, slicing off its sprout with surgical precision and reducing it to dice.

“You'll waste everything, Hedwig. Everything your parents have given you. All your heritage.”

Heritage.
That word again. The word that seemed to obsess everyone. The word that she heard every day at the Ahnenerbe.
Your Aryan Heritage.
As though everything in life was about pretending you were a certain kind of person—pure and uncomplicated—when in fact everyone, not just Hedwig, was a glorious mixture of contradictions. Who cared who her grandparents were, that Jochen's mother was Polish or that Jochen's grandfather had been a farm laborer?

“Did you meet him through Lottie?”

Hedwig glared at her mother. Lottie might have been responsible for many things, but Jochen was not one of them.

“No.”

Why couldn't Mutti see Jochen for what he really was? She knew in her heart that her mother's true disappointment was in her own life and her chief hope was that her only daughter would do better for herself. Valiantly, Hedwig tried a rapprochement. “Irna Wolter's wedding is this Saturday.”

Irna Wolter was the Faith and Beauty group's big success story. Not only was she marrying an SS officer but her future husband was being trained for high office in the SS leadership school.

“It's going to be a classy affair,” she added, laying out the details like a peace offering, to allay the focus on her own, unsatisfactory romance. “It's at a castle that belongs to the SS.”

“That sounds lovely.”

The glow in her mother's eyes was almost enough to make up for her previous disappointment. But not quite.

“So where were you then, yesterday evening? If not seeing that boy?”

“I was visiting Frau Franke.”

It was true. Udo Franke was still drowning his sorrows at the
kneipe
bar down the street, so Marlene was all alone in the stuffy apartment. Hedwig had forced herself to stay an hour, trying to breathe through her mouth so as not to inhale the stink of fried onions and enduring, repeated, sweaty hugs from Marlene, who clutched Hedwig to her pillowy bosom as though for a few moments she was able to retrieve her own child. Marlene was so different from her elegant daughter. Lottie had been cool as ice cream, but Marlene was blowsy and bulging out of her apron, her face a blotchy mess. She wanted to talk endlessly about the girls' childhood, their first day at school, their holidays in the little cottage by the lake, and Hedwig didn't mind that—she wanted to talk about Lottie, too—but it was hard when there was so much that Frau Franke must not know.

“Poor soul,” said Mutti, wiping her hands on her apron and coming over to scoop Hedwig into her arms. “You were good to go.”

Her eyes were bright with tears. Her only daughter might be involved with a Bolshevik, but at least she wasn't dead.

Hedwig's visit had not, however, been one of sheer compassion. She might have made a promise to Lottie, but Lottie was dead now and past caring, so after enduring Marlene's odorous hugs, she had asked to visit Lottie's bedroom.
Just to be alone with her.

The bedroom had been preserved exactly as Lottie left it. Utterly tidy, unlike the rest of the apartment, and decorated with the kinds of quirky personal touches that gave it style. Her collection of antique perfume bottles on the mantelpiece. A gemstone necklace hanging from the mirror. Five peacock feathers they had found on Pfaueninsel in a jar. In some ways, the room was like a shrine to Lottie, with her notebook laid out on the desk at the page of her last completed sketch. Hedwig ran her hand along the bookshelf, rummaged in a stack of fashion magazines, then felt beneath the mattress and behind the headboard. She leafed through Lottie's notebook and investigated the drawers of the desk. But it was useless. She found nothing.

NOW, STANDING IN THE
Ahnenerbe library, she came to a decision.

If you remember anything else, just call me.

She didn't need to remember anything because there was not a second when the matter was not running through her mind like some dreadful newsreel devoted to a single subject. Several times she had taken out the page from Clara Vine's leather notebook and looked at the autograph—a tendril of black ink with loops like the petals of a flower—before folding it carefully up again.

She had made Lottie a solemn promise. But Lottie was dead now, so what did it matter? Clara Vine was the only person who had ever shown the slightest interest in her feelings about Lottie's death, so perhaps she deserved to know. Hedwig decided to call her.

F
or a second, as Clara awoke and stretched out luxuriously on Ursula's white linen sheets, the day ahead lay sunlit and full of possibilities. Outside, it was an exquisite morning. Wild birds were calling, pale columns of birch trees shimmered around the languorous expanse of the Griebnitzsee, and clumps of reeds rose like slender green blades from its depths. Then she remembered. She was a Jew, in Nazi Germany, without an ID.

THE TRAIN JOURNEY BACK
from the Gare du Nord had been fraught with anxiety. The possibility of being caught without her documents, not to mention the gun in her suitcase, almost paralyzed her with fear, but she had needed to maintain a careful synchronicity of movement between carriages to avoid the scrutiny of the guards. Shortly after the train left Paris, she'd informed the other passengers that she had a bad headache, necessitating several trips to the corridor for “fresh air.” It had worked well, until they crossed the border into Germany, when she had been obliged to lock herself in the lavatory as a pair of guards came through. But she had underestimated their thoroughness and emerged only to run right into the second of the guards, who was systematically checking the passengers in the final compartment. He was young, not much more than nineteen she reckoned, with a complexion that didn't need shaving and fair hair cut savagely short. Yet his youth was an advantage, Clara realized at once. He was flustered by their unintended physical contact, and he flushed.

“Documents,” he snapped, automatically, then looked up with a flash of awed recognition in his eyes. Perhaps he had sat through romantic comedies under pressure from a girlfriend, or maybe he had seen Clara's war film,
The Pilot's Wife,
in which she had been married to a lost Luftwaffe pilot, played by the real-life air ace Ernst Udet. Whichever it was, finding himself face-to-face with an actress from the big screen was overwhelming for the young man. For the first time in her career, Clara was relieved to be recognized.

“My apologies, F-F-Fräulein.” He had a stammer. “Is it…?”

“Clara Vine, yes.”

“So sorry. Your identity documents, please?”

She smiled sweetly, glad that she had just reapplied her lipstick in the train's narrow mirror and was wearing Steffi's pearls.

“I'm afraid I've left them in my compartment. And it's all the way back down the corridor.”

“I'll need to see them,” he insisted, in a starstruck mumble.

She tilted her head, coquettishly. “Do you? Really? Even if I promise I am who I say I am?”

The guard gave a nervous laugh, which turned into a cough. Far ahead in the corridor, his colleague shouted at him to hurry up.

“You could come back with me to my compartment. It's quite a way”—

The young man cast an anxious glance at his companion, who was making impatient gestures in the distance. God forbid the older man should return to help his colleague out. Clara moved fractionally closer. Lowering her voice to a seductive whisper, she suggested, “Perhaps you want to search me instead? Is that what you'd prefer?”

The boy leapt away as if electrified, a puce blush suffusing his entire complexion. “Fräulein, forgive me! Not at all. It's just we have to…”

“How about I give you an autograph instead? That should prove my identity. Do you have a pen?”

Hastily the guard reached for his top pocket and brought out a pen and notebook.

“I've seen your movies,” he stammered, confirming her suspicions.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“The Pilot's Wife.”

“I guessed you'd say that!”

“With Ernst Udet.”

Everyone loved Ernst Udet. The fact that Clara had starred alongside him was as good as a golden Party badge in most people's eyes.

“Well, it's lovely to meet you, Herr…”

“Herr Wolmann. Ludwig Wolmann.”

“To Ludwig…”

Clara scrawled her name, hoping that he would not notice the tremble in her hand, gave him her most dazzling smile, and tucked the book back in his top pocket. Then she strolled down the corridor as slowly as her legs could manage and tried to quell the wave of terror that threatened to engulf her.

It had taken hours for the shock of the encounter to wear off, and she had sat staring out of the window, barely able to focus on the countryside as it passed. Rooks sat like musical notes on the power lines, and in between the fields gun emplacements had sprung up on city borders. But there were no more requests to inspect her papers, and as the train entered the Anhalter Bahnhof, she had felt the tension that had been holding her body rigid suddenly ease, her shoulders slumping like a puppet whose strings have been released.

While she may have escaped inspection of her papers, however, Clara's inspection of herself was merciless. As she lay in bed, the questions came at her like gunshots. How could she have been so careless with Conrad Adler in Paris? Why had she relaxed her guard? What impulse had made her try to snatch the documents from his hand, with the result that they ended up in the Seine? The answer, she knew, was that she had allowed Paris to get under her skin. The atmosphere, the food, the alcohol, and the sheer foreign beauty of the place had intoxicated her. And perhaps the jousting conversation and bitter, ironic humor of Conrad Adler, too.

Yet the questions about Adler, the ones she needed to answer, remained. Why was he watching her in the Dingo Bar? And what did he want with her? Above all, how had he known she was not all she seemed?

Climbing out of bed, she pulled a wrap around her, entered the bathroom, looked into the lightbulb-fringed mirror, and switched on the wireless to drown out the fears crowding her head.

The smooth voice of the announcer came on. “And now, it is with great pleasure that we bring you the Hamburg City Orchestra with Franz Schubert's
Winter Journey
song cycle.”

The Hamburg City Orchestra
. Where her mother had once played as a concert pianist. If life had been different—if the dashing Ronald Vine had not sat in that audience and fallen in love with the young Helene Neumann as she played a Brahms concerto, and she had not followed him back to England—then it might have been her mother on the radio that day. Except, of course, it wouldn't, because, as the daughter of a Jew, Helene would have been banned from any orchestra in the Reich. She would have been excluded from the Reich Chamber of Culture because she could not show an
Ariernachweis
. And now her daughter was facing precisely the same terrifying predicament.

After applying a light coat of Elizabeth Arden foundation, Clara finished her makeup with a dusting of powder, sprinkled a little salt on her toothbrush in lieu of tooth powder, and pondered her options.

Archie Dyson, her contact at the British embassy, had been relocated to Rome, a plum promotion that must have thrilled his ambitious wife, but left Clara without any direct contact with British intelligence in Berlin. Even if she got a message to Major Grand through Benno Kurtz of the Ritze bar, and he was able to organize another ID for her, how long would that take? For a second she considered asking Mary Harker if she had any contacts, but such a request could compromise Mary, too, and that was a risk Clara refused to contemplate.

A memory flickered. Something Steffi Schaeffer had said.

We have a young man who produces passports and identity papers for us. He turns his hand to anything…His work is superb.

She felt a rush of pure relief, like sun streaking across the lake, and her heart lightened. She made a quick cup of coffee, pulled on a jacket, and took up her bag. She needed to find Steffi without delay.

WITHIN AN HOUR SHE
was on a bus, heading down the Königsallee. Fortunately, Berlin's big cream buses, like London's scarlet Routemasters, had open platforms at the back, making it easy to get on and off in a hurry. Clara sat, as always, at the back, which meant that she could observe whoever got on from behind. The bus reeked of stale clothes and unwashed bodies. The windows were mottled with condensation. Beside her, at eye level, the standard notice had been fixed:
THE
FARE
DODGER
'
S
PROFIT
IS
THE
BERLINERS
'
LOSS
. Underneath was a line instructing readers to report anyone not paying the twenty-pfennig fare to the authorities.

The bus was held up periodically by workmen installing the new air-raid shelters. A vast honeycomb of tunnels and shelters was being created beneath Berlin, a dark mirror to the new city rising above it. A rabbit warren of tunnels, cellars, and giant concrete vaults with soundproof walls several meters thick as though, if bombing happened, there was the faintest chance people would be able to sleep through it.

CLARA FOUND STEFFI SITTING
in the back room of Herr Fromm's shop with pince-nez perched on her nose, almost buried behind a length of field-gray serge.

“Hold on a moment. I'm just finishing the buttonhole,” Steffi said in greeting. She unwound a length of thread expertly from the spool and matched it to the material, then continued sewing, her fingers slipping, dipping, tucking, and weaving, marrying needle and cloth in a balletic rhythm that was soothing to watch.

“The Wehrmacht is extremely particular about its buttonholes. They insist they're hand-stitched a certain way, and they always check. The stitches need to be a certain length and made from the correct thread. There are very precise regulations. Herr Fromm says no one knows as much about the details of a Wehrmacht uniform as I do.”

“So you're as particular with your Wehrmacht uniforms as you are with your Chanel frocks?” Clara smiled.

Steffi would run up exquisite copies of designer outfits at prices even actresses could afford. Chanel, Worth, Lanvin, Patou; there was nothing she would not turn her hand to. She studied the originals and reproduced them down to the finest details so that it was impossible to tell the difference between Steffi's creations and the real things.

Now she frowned and bit off a length of thread. “More, if possible. I've done so many now, it's become my new specialty.”

“Some specialty.”

Steffi looked up at Clara over her pince-nez. Her face was alive with suppressed meaning.

“Oh, but it is, Clara,” she said softly. “Did you know there are more than thirty SS cuff bands and sleeve diamonds? Could you tell me what color stitching to use for a death's-head collar tab and how that differs from the silver flat wire on the SS Gruppenführer's collar tab? How the diamond insignia on an SS Obersturmbannführer's collar tab should line up relative to the tresse? There may come a day when that kind of knowledge proves very useful.”

She returned to her stitching.

“Fortunately for me, most officers have their uniforms tailor-made, so I've had plenty of time to learn.”

Clara felt in her bag for the bars of Menier chocolate. “I brought these for Esther. How is she?”

“Not here, I'm afraid.”

Catching Clara's alarm, Steffi took off her spectacles and lowered her voice. “We had to move her.”

“Where?”

“There's a
Konditorei
—the Konditorei Herschel, do you know it?”

“Of course. It's in Winterfeldtplatz. At the end of my street. I've been there with my godson several times.”

It was a typical Berlin place with a finely scrolled ceiling and delicately tiled floor filled with a fluctuating population of women chatting and men looking for a quiet moment of relaxation with a newspaper. Its cakes, displayed proudly beneath a glass counter at the front of the shop, were true works of art. Turks' heads; sweet, flaky pigs' ears; towering piles of profiteroles,
Spritzkuchen,
and
Nusstörtchen
. Soft sponge that melted in the mouth and pastries oozing cream and cherries. Even if the flour was low-grade and the butter was whale blubber, the nation's sweet tooth demanded cakes.

“That explains something.”

Clara had noticed that certain visitors would enter the café and linger at the glass case, chatting to Frau Herschel, glancing around at the clientele happily consuming their coffee, and then leaving without buying anything. For a close observer like Clara, it wasn't hard to deduce that Frau Herschel's
Konditorei
had a second, more secretive, line of business.

Steffi stood up and stretched, rubbing the ache in her lower back. “The proprietor there, Frau Herschel, has helped us in the past. She's a good woman, but we can't rely on her for long. We still need to get Esther to England.”

Clara glanced behind to check the door was closed and said: “As a matter of fact, I didn't just come to bring the chocolate. There's something I need to ask you. You mentioned you knew someone who could do documents.”

A wary glance. “Who is this for?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“I need a new
Kennkarte.
And an
Ariernachweis
. Mine have been destroyed and…I don't think it would be possible to get new ones.”

“Why's that?”

“The genealogy records would be lacking. Do you think your man could help me?”

Clara was used to Steffi's sharp scrutiny. The dispassionate look that came over her face whenever Clara tried on a new dress, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes raking ruthlessly up and down, taking in all her defects and not sparing honest comment if a line didn't flatter or a style made her hips look too large. But this was one aspect of Clara that Steffi had never seen or suspected. Jewish blood.

Nonetheless, she absorbed it swiftly.

“Go to the zoo. Next Thursday lunchtime. Bring two photographs of yourself.”

“Thursday! That's six days away. I have no identity documents at all. What if I'm stopped before then?”