Woman in the Shadows (14 page)

What would happen by the time Erich was seventeen? It might not be just gliding that awaited him. It might be war.

AFTER DINNER THEY WENT
to the Ufa cinema in the basement of the building. The first feature was a documentary about Mussolini's recent visit to Germany. There were shots of SS guards crouching on rooftops as Hitler and Mussolini rolled past side by side in an open-topped Mercedes, the Duce's darting black eyes surveying the massed storm troopers. Fountains of colored water had been installed in the Pariser Platz, in the red and green of the Italian flag, and white stands held aloft golden eagles on Unter den Linden. The newsreel was followed by a war film. As Erich relaxed beside her, Clara allowed herself a quick glimpse at his face. She adored this boy. Love had seized her with unexpected force, and Erich was not even her son. What must it be like to have a child of your own?

The film, however, was dreadful. It was one of the worst kinds of war films, full of horror and violence. Yet again Clara wondered how Erich could enjoy things like this. Was it just a stage, like making model airplanes, that all boys went through? Perhaps even sensitive boys needed to find cruelty in themselves, to harden themselves like young African tribesmen, for what life had in store. To watch violence and death so they would know how to face it when it came for real.

I
n one way, deciding what to wear on an evening out should have been no problem for Clara. When Hitler established the Reich Fashion Bureau—which had originally been headed by Magda Goebbels—he decreed that German actresses were allowed to wear only clothes that had been made by German designers, of Aryan race, and made of pure German fabric. The result of this stricture was that German designers fell over themselves to persuade the top actresses to wear their creations. And even though Clara was far from a major star, she received occasional dresses and jackets, and had been given a stunning violet evening gown from the House of Horn to wear at a recent premiere.

The problem was that the other part of her work—the secret role—involved attracting as little attention as possible. Distinctive clothes and perfume made a woman stand out. Her favorite scent, Bourjois's Evening in Paris, had been reluctantly consigned to the back of a drawer. Her looks made her the kind of woman people noticed, yet she needed to be the kind people stopped noticing.

In the end she selected a dress of soft moss green, with a sweetheart neckline and puffed sleeves. A single strand of pearls around her neck and diamond clips in her ears. Her nails were freshly lacquered, but covered by soft leather gloves. Attractive anonymity was the best she could hope for tonight.

The prospect of a drink with Ralph Sommers unsettled her on several levels. She couldn't figure him out. Had he followed her all that way through Berlin? If not, how had he known where she lived? What was his motive in asking her for a drink? Could it be purely the spark that had passed between them at the Goebbelses' home? That teasing smile, as though they had shared some private joke. As she relived that moment she felt her heart accelerate, but instantly reproved herself. Sommers was an attractive man. But not only was he a good ten years older than she was, more importantly, she could never have the slightest romantic interest in any fellow traveler of Oswald Mosley's. This evening would most certainly be business, not pleasure.

Once dressed, she drew on her warm, fur-collared coat and looked for a hat. She had several to choose from: a purple velvet cloche with a white band, her soft and flattering brown cloche, or her new, tip-tilted pillbox hat, draped with a fashionable few inches of veil. Veils were becoming popular just then. That was the genius of fashion, the way it accommodated itself to the times. Nothing could be more frivolous than the little scrap of netting that made a hat's veil, yet nothing could be more profoundly useful at a time when keeping one's eyes covered was a significant part of daily existence.

The Café Einstein on Kurfürstenstrasse, just a few blocks south of the Tiergarten, was a Berlin institution. Since the nineteenth century the café had been the favored spot for writers and artists, its walls hung with photographs of the great and celebrated, illuminated by great globe lights hanging from a ceiling of gilt and pistachio green. The villa itself belonged to the actress Henny Porten, a star of the silent era, whose career had taken a sharp downward curve when she refused to divorce her Jewish husband. Clara had seen Henny around the studios a few times, in the early days, a mournful figure with silver-white skin and inky hair, but since Goebbels had banished her from the screen, she spent the days upstairs from the café, haunting the villa like a beautiful, brooding ghost.

Eyes swiveled towards Clara as she made her way through the marble-topped tables to where Ralph Sommers was sitting on a leather banquette with its back to the wall and a good view of the room. He wore a tweed jacket with a crimson silk handkerchief tucked in the top pocket. He stood up, smiling playfully.

“I was half wondering if you would turn up, after that little dance you led me in the other evening.”

“Well, I'm here.”

“I'm not used to beautiful women evading me with quite such ease.”

“Do beautiful women often try to evade you then?”

He laughed. “It's not a frequent occurrence, no. But I think you could tell I was following you. Where did you learn that?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“I asked you first.”

“I didn't
learn
anything. Maybe you're just more obtrusive than you think.”

“In that case, why didn't you stop and ask me what I wanted?”

“Perhaps I wondered how you knew where I lived.”

“Ah. That's simple. Our hostess, Magda, kindly gave me your address.”

Furnished by Goebbels himself, no doubt.

“I took the liberty of ordering some wine,” he said.

As he thanked the waiter in flawless German, Clara stared into the mirrored walls behind him. The mirrors here were angled so that an infinitely receding image was reflected, folding in on itself, offering a thousand versions of herself and Ralph Sommers. Yet she still had no idea which image was the right one. Who was he? Had he been sent by Goebbels to keep an eye on her? She remembered what he had said about Magda showing him hospitality. He must be close to the Goebbelses then. He might even know her father.

“So tell me about your career. What brought you to Berlin? Why isn't a girl like you living it up in London, the toast of Drury Lane?”

She laughed. “I was only the toast of the Eastbourne Pavilion until I came to Berlin. I came here on the off chance, in 'thirty-three, because someone had said there might be a job for a bilingual actress at Ufa. And they were right. Since then I've been working nonstop.”

The wine he ordered was a Burgundy, rich and musty. He swirled it around his glass.

“And now you're filming with Ernst Udet? That's quite impressive. I know him a little. I should think he would be quite a card to work with.”

“I hope so. It's going to be fun. The other day I went up in a plane in preparation.”

“Ernst took you in a plane?”

“It was a friend of his. Oberst Strauss. He had a test flight to carry out at Tempelhof and offered to take me along.”

“A test flight? What was he testing?”

“Oh, I'm hopeless with names. All planes look the same to me. But it was one of the most exciting experiences of my life. Terrifying too. Though I suppose
you
don't find flying terrifying at all, given your job?”

“My job can get a little nerve-racking at times. But I'm sure you were in good hands with Oberst Strauss.”

“I suspect he was breaking all sorts of rules taking me with him.”

“Perhaps he's a fan.”

“I shouldn't think so. He says he rarely goes to the cinema. And he never watches Udet's stunts on film because he says he is always thinking of technical details and it distracts him from the story.”

“He won't know what he's missing then, when your film is made,” remarked Sommers with a gallant little flourish of his glass.

“Thank you.”

“And are you planning on staying in Berlin?”

That question again. Why did people keep asking?

“The thing is, Captain Sommers, I've made my life here. I have a good apartment, I've made friends, and I adore acting. Besides, my mother was German, so the language was never a problem. And as you know,” she said carefully, “there's so much going on.”

All true.

“Exciting things,” he agreed.

“Yes. Germany is certainly changing very rapidly.”

True again.

“The new Germany,” he corrected. “Germania, isn't that what the Führer calls it?” He took a languid sip. “Do you see much of the Goebbelses?”

“Not recently, no. I've been so busy…”

“Of course.” Another sip. “Joseph seems very impressed by you.” He flashed his dazzling smile. The phrase “matinee idol smile” popped into her head, with its connotations of a smile meant for a wider audience. “I'm not sure, however, if impressing the Herr Doktor is such an advantage for an attractive actress.”

She shrugged, lightly. “I can look after myself.”

“I've no doubt of that.”

“Excuse me, mein Herr.”

The waiter appeared and stood between them, replenishing their glasses. Sommers bent his head away from her and when the waiter had gone the matinee idol smile had vanished. Sommers stared at his drink for a second and then looked up and said quietly, “So tell me, what's in it for you then?”

“What do you mean?”

She was confused at the change in his demeanor. The seductive expression had disappeared. Instead, he was observing her with forensic interest. He studied her with his hooded eyes, then dabbed his mouth meticulously with his napkin.

“You cozy up to them. You let them think you're a friend. And actually, you're watching them all the time, aren't you, Clara? Watching them with those sharp eyes behind that pretty veil. You're cleverer than they are. You have them fooled, I suspect. But you don't fool me.”

“Really, Captain Sommers. I can't begin to know what you're talking about. Are you drunk?” She forced herself to sound teasing.

“Sober as a judge, actually. Though I may not stay that way.” He reached over and drained his glass, then poured himself another.

“You're an observer, aren't you? Your remark about the ambassador intrigued me. How would a lovely German actress know a thing like that? How would she be intimately acquainted with the movements of a British ambassador? Unless, of course, she's more English than German. Unless she had access to some information that others don't.”

“This is madness. I'm going to leave now.”

Clara rose from the table and attempted to brush past him, but he grasped her wrist tightly and pulled her down again.

“Don't make a spectacle of yourself. It's all right. You're not in danger.”

His eyes were intent on her as, with one hand, he extracted some bills from his wallet and folded them under the silver saucer on the table. With the other, he kept hold of Clara's hand and, pulling her gently to her feet, led her out of the café. He adopted a deprecating expression for the benefit of any interested customers, which suggested they were in the midst of a lovers' tiff.

Quietly he said, “Shall we take a walk? I could do with some fresh air.”

He was still gripping her hand tightly. The skin on his palm was hard and dry. The feel of it made her wonder what things he had done, and what things he might be capable of. He didn't let go until they had turned onto Einemstrasse.

“Sorry,” he murmured, releasing her. “But it's not a good idea to talk seriously in a place like that. And I do, very much, want a talk with you.”

Her heart was hammering in her chest. “About what?”

“About you. I was interested in you from the moment I saw you. Looking like a little geisha at the Goebbelses' party. Giving nothing away. I watched you talking to Goebbels and I thought, If a girl like that can keep her nerve among a crowd of Nazi thugs with more decorations than a Christmas tree, she might just work in intelligence.”

“You're making a mistake.”

“I never mistake a woman taking risks.”

“You know a lot about risk, do you?”

“I know everything about risk.”

They rounded the edge of the street and turned left again. This was an exclusive area, on the fringes of the Tiergarten, a diplomatic quarter with grand houses whose lush, mature gardens pressed up against high railings. Against the felty darkness, the lamps glowed mistily in the almost empty street.

“I'm afraid, Captain Sommers, you're imagining things.”

“Don't worry, my dear. I'm like an art dealer. I'm trained to spot fakes. I'm quite sure your observation went unremarked by the others.”

The image of herself, like a piece of fine art in his hands, being turned over and closely examined, sent a curious shiver through her.

“So after I met you,” he added lightly, “I made some inquiries.”

“Inquiries? With whom?”

“With my contacts in the Air Ministry. The British Air Ministry. That confirmed it.”

She said nothing.

“Though if you don't mind me saying, that remark about the ambassador was a damn-fool mistake to make.”

Clara was mortified. But still she kept silent. Sommers paused until a man with a dog had passed, then said, “It's getting more dangerous here by the day. It's no time for making silly slipups.”

He gave her a sidelong look and continued. “On the other hand, I can see that it might be the first time you've put a foot wrong.”

Clara's mind was racing. She still had no idea who this man was, but it was obvious that he knew far more about her than she did about him.

“Never attempt anything that wouldn't come naturally. Build on what you know. Didn't they tell you that in training?”

“The only training I've ever had was theatrical.”

She remembered Leo Quinn asking her how she portrayed a character onstage. Use the same technique, he told her. Imagine you are playing a role, then become that person.

Sommers craned a quizzical eye at her.

“My God. No training at all? What are they thinking of? In that case you've done remarkably well.”

“In what way?”

He gave a tight laugh. “You're still not sure of me, are you? That's to your credit. I'm going to have to persuade you to trust me.”

Clara didn't reply. What did he know? How much could she deny?

“And I'm going to trust you too,” he added.

Clara walked on, too angry with herself to be afraid. What had possessed her to meet with a relative stranger, with no form of protection? Was Sommers leading her somewhere, or were they going to keep on walking like this, through the night? She began calculating how and where she would be able to give him the slip.

He said, “I can see I'm going to have to go first. The fact is, I'm not without a little cover story of my own.”

“So you don't really run an aviation business?”