Woman in the Shadows (17 page)

“I barely know him at all. What do
you
know about him?”

He chuckled. “Arno Strauss. Born Berlin 1896, son of Hans and Eva Strauss. Twin brother now deceased. Wealthy background. Trained as a pilot and flew Fokkers in the war. Became an expert in aerial combat, was highly regarded and awarded the Cross of Merit. Shot down forty-five British planes. Among Ernst Udet's closest friends, if not the closest, and now working alongside him in the Technical Division of the Luftwaffe.”

“You clearly know far more about him than I do. So, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to get close to him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“To cultivate him.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

His mouth twisted into a smile. “I think you underrate your charm.”

“Strauss doesn't look like a man who is susceptible to charm.”

“All men are susceptible to charm, Clara, believe me.”

“And why on earth should I do this?”

“In case an opportunity presents itself.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“I can't tell you that right now.”

She stared at Ralph in amazement.

“I'm sorry, Captain Sommers—Ralph. I hope you don't think me obtuse. But if you can't tell me what you want of me, then why in God's name should I agree to it?”

He continued to look at her steadily, then gave a slight shrug. “Because everything's at stake. Everything.”

The word hung between them, glittering and lethal.

She said: “Okay. My turn to ask then. You said you were working freelance. What exactly does that mean?”

“It means this isn't school, or the army, or any of those places where one has to keep in line and wait for others to do the thinking. As I said, there's far too much at stake. It's a time for action, and utilizing every possible asset that we have. Individuals who are in a position to help have to act now.”

“Yet you mentioned the Air Service. You said you're working for them.”

He stubbed out his cigarette thoughtfully and crossed his long legs.

“That's true. I am. But they allow me a certain amount of freedom of operation. How can I explain it? Let me think.” His eyes lingered on her while he considered. “When I was a boy I loved my biology lessons. I adored studying creatures under a microscope, analyzing the way they work. And I remember looking at a butterfly's eyes close up. Have you ever seen them? They have an infinite number of parts, and they all add their perspective to create one compound eye. Well, intelligence works the same way as a butterfly's eye. Lots of insights, wider perspective.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” said Clara crisply. “To whom exactly will my insights be going?”

“To the right people. People in the Secret Intelligence Service.”

“Does Archie Dyson know you've approached me?”

“Nobody knows. Just you and me.”

“Then I'll think about it.”

He frowned slightly at this hesitation.

“Of course. You're right to think it over. We can meet tomorrow and you can tell me your decision then. It's really rather pressing.”

“I'm busy tomorrow. And then I'm going to Munich.”

“Munich?”

“There's someone I need to see there.”

There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, as if he was unused to people thwarting his plans.

“I see. Well, as soon as you get back then. If you would.”

His eyes seemed to be stripping her as she sat there. She sensed the fumes of whiskey coming from him and suddenly realized he was slightly drunk. He made no move to show her out.

“I still can't get over how clever they are. Having an agent in place who is absolutely part of the furniture. Totally one of them, moving in all the right circles. Living here for the long term with every good reason. And a woman, what's more.”

Clara flashed him a look. “Perhaps you should have paid more attention in those biology lessons of yours. You might have discovered that a woman is every bit as capable and intelligent as a man. More so, probably.”

He shook his head and shrugged. “But of course.”

There was something infuriating about Ralph Sommers. As though age and experience gave him the right to issue her orders and assume that his commands would be instantly obeyed. Was it his remark about women, or his maddening assumption that Clara would drop everything to fall in unquestioningly with his plans that made her bridle beneath his gaze?

“So what about you, Ralph?” she rejoined coolly. “Are you in Berlin long term? Is there a wife at home worrying about you?”

He raised his eyebrows and flicked her a glance that was entirely unambiguous in its meaning. “Too busy for that.”

He got up and stood at the mantelpiece with his hands thrust in his pockets, staring at the photographs there. “You ask me why I am prepared to run risks myself. I have some personal knowledge of the situation in Spain. My oldest friend signed up to fight with the partisans last year. But there's been no word of him for nine months now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sure.”

He still had his back to her. He was rubbing the edge of his jaw thoughtfully.

“His name is Tom Roberts. I've known Tom all my life. We were at school together, and then Cambridge too. He was last heard of with a band of fighters outside Madrid, holed up in one of the university buildings with the windows blocked with books of nineteenth-century German philosophy and ancient literature. That should suit him, anyway.”

“I'm sure he's all right.”

“Yet again, your optimism does you credit.”

Clara refused to be deflected by this brusque response. “Had you considered going out there perhaps? Looking for him?”

He shrugged. “Spain's a big place.”

“But you have intelligence contacts. How hard would it be to find an Englishman answering his description? You could ask around.”

“Do you have any idea what it's like out there?” He gave her a sharp look.

“I have a friend who was in Spain. She's an American journalist. Mary Harker of the
New York Evening Post
. She was with the International Brigades for some of the time. Would it be worth me asking her if she had run into him?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Forgive me for burdening you with my personal concerns. It was rude of me. If there's one thing I know about Tom, it's that he can look after himself.”

Finally, he turned and faced her, the charming smile back in place.

“Now then. If you're busy tomorrow, you'll need your beauty sleep. Think about what I've said, won't you? I'll be in touch in a few days.”

Clara went to the door. Then she hesitated.

“There is something you need to know. Just so you understand…You mentioned Archie Dyson. The fact is, I saw him very recently and he told me that I had been talked about at Gestapo headquarters. He advised me to lie low.”

“I see.”

“Actually, he advised me to go back to Britain.”

“And are you lying low?”

“If I was going to, I wouldn't be here, would I?”

He approached and stood disconcertingly close. She smelled the faint trace of whiskey and soap and the starched cotton of his shirt.

“In that case, Clara,” he said softly, “I hope you'll be careful.”

“I'm always careful.”

His eyes lingered on her thoughtfully.

“You know, you bristled when I talked of you being a woman, but I happen to think the British are behind in using women for espionage work. The French are way ahead of us. They have what they call their
femmes galantes
. Yet we Brits waste our women. You're our best assets and we're afraid to use you.”

“Why's that?”

He shrugged. “Old-fashioned ideas. The people back in London claim women can't keep a secret. They're concerned that a woman will get emotionally involved.”

He was watching her quizzically. For a moment, she wondered if he might reach out and touch her. She had to force herself not to flinch beneath the intensity of his gaze. Once again she felt the current of attraction that had flickered between them when they first met, at the Goebbelses' party. An unspoken sexual connection that made the heat rise to the surface of her skin and her mind churn with possibilities.

“You needn't worry, Ralph. That's not going to be a problem with me.”

She turned quickly and walked out the door.

T
here were more than six months to go before the baby was to be born, and the gifts had already started arriving. Standing at the door of Reichsminister Goering's turreted, palatial state residence in Leipziger Platz, clutching a Steiff bear, Clara wondered if she would appear madly presumptuous in bringing her own present for the forthcoming child. In Britain it was considered bad luck to bring a gift before a baby was born, but here in Berlin ambition was always going to come before superstition, and a gift for Goering's child was likely to be one of the wisest investments anyone could make for the future. Besides, it was surely perfectly proper, given Emmy Goering's insistence on inviting Clara to several parties on the basis of a tangential acquaintance over several years and the fact that they were both actresses. All the same, Clara was half hoping that Emmy was not at home.

She was out of luck.

The butler led Clara through a high-ceilinged hall into a drawing room. Here were none of the doily-draped side tables or dried flower arrangements of the traditional Berlin home, but a spectacular room whose walls were hung with Old Masters and windows crowned with swags of burgundy draping. An enormous mosaic swastika was worked into the marble floor. Emmy was sitting in a red plush throne more suited to a pope, with gilded pineapples at the corners. She didn't yet look as pregnant as her husband, whose vast bulk ballooned at the seams of his ministerial uniform, but she was visibly puffing up, like a zeppelin being slowly inflated. She wore a wedding cake of a dress, with voluminous cream flounces and a rivulet of frills, and her hair was coiffed girlishly around her face. She was smoking Turkish cigarettes and had a plate of cakes by her side.

“It's you, Clara? What a relief! I thought it might be another messenger from the Italian embassy. Herr Mussolini has been so attentive since his visit last month. Have you seen what he sent me?”

She gestured at a pair of diamond-encrusted gold antlers, poking out in absurd extravagance from a side table.

“Extraordinary, aren't they? Italian taste has changed a bit since the Renaissance, hasn't it? I must say the Duce was terrifyingly tactile. I was afraid to be in the room alone with him. And in my condition!”

Emmy Goering had been a provincial stage actress in Weimar, but once she had caught the eye of Hermann Goering, her career had blossomed. Their wedding, a couple of years ago, made the Duke of Windsor's ceremony look like a vicar's tea party. Thirty thousand soldiers had lined the route to the cathedral, and the Luftwaffe had performed a fly-past. Now, although acting would not be commensurate with her status as a Reichsminister's wife, Emmy liked to keep abreast of the film world. She had taken to sending little notes to Clara, commenting on her performances.

“Everyone has been exhaustingly generous. Can you believe it?” She pointed to a stack of gifts ranged across two trestle tables. It included crystal vases, Meissen tea sets, and a variety of other household luxuries entirely unsuited to the wants of a newborn infant. There was an ivory chess set studded with jewels—emeralds for pawns, rubies for bishops, and diamonds for the king and queen. The city of Cologne had sent a painting by Lucas Cranach.
The Madonna and Child.
Clara peered at the gift message and wondered if it was supposed to be some form of flattery. The Madonna, beneath her velvet canopy, did indeed possess corn-colored coils of hair uncannily similar to Emmy's, but that was where the resemblance ended. Emmy's thickened girth and pudgy face couldn't be further from the girlish virgin overwhelmed by the joys of nativity. Looking at the display, Clara felt her bear becoming smaller and less consequential by the second. Emmy took it, smiled politely, then plumped it on top of a Dresden cake stand.

“Presents are difficult, aren't they?” She sighed, fingering an especially hideous glass nude. “The Führer has the right idea. He only gives three things—a photograph frame, a smoking set, or a portrait of himself. Usually an oil painting.” She paused to chuckle. “Wouldn't you just love to see the looks on people's faces when they unwrap that?”

Clara risked a smile. “I'm glad to find you here. I thought you might still be in Bavaria.”

“We're just back. We've bought a house at Obersalzberg now, but it's a mistake, really. It means we're at everyone's beck and call.”

“Was it terribly busy?”

“Madly. Fräulein Eva Braun has a new hobby. You'll never guess what.”

Clara couldn't.

“Perfume! The Führer bought her a whole range of fragrances, and she experiments, choosing a different scent for each person. She blends violet and lilac and jasmine and what have you. Or she chooses a perfume you've heard of. You'll never guess what she chose for me…Schiaparelli's Shocking.” Emmy raised her eyebrows. “I can't imagine what that's supposed to imply.”

“She sounds happier, then.” There were rumors that a few years previously, Eva Braun had attempted suicide.

“Oh, one never gets the impression little Eva's really happy. When we were there she was moaning because Hitler won't let her ride horses. He says it's unladylike. And she was nagging him endlessly about the way he dresses. She says, ‘Mussolini looks so dashing in his uniform, and you sit beside him in your little cap looking like a postman!' The senior men can hardly keep from laughing.”

“Who else was there?”

“Let me think. The Himmlers, of course. I can't really get on with her. Lina Heydrich calls Marga Himmler Size 50.”

“Size 50?”

“That's the size of her undergarments. Marga does love her cream cakes.” Emmy suppressed a giggle.

“And did you see the Mitfords?” Clara asked. “I met Unity and her sister the other day. They mentioned they were just back from the Berghof.”

“Unity Mitford!” Emmy Goering grimaced. “That girl with her staring saucer eyes and the Party badge on her heaving bosom. The men call her
Mitfahrt
—the traveling companion—because she's always there. She absolutely dogged Hitler's heels at the rally. She spends every lunchtime at the Osteria Bavaria in the hope of catching his eye. She's dreadfully jealous of Eva Braun, of course, terrified that Eva comes first in Hitler's affections. I've told her, it's a bit late to worry about that. Eva has her own room in the Reich Chancellery, doesn't she?”

“So Unity's not popular?”

“No one can understand why the Führer likes her. Apparently he loves the fact that her middle name is Valkyrie. Eva says she looks the part, especially the legs. Himmler hates Unity too. He thinks she might be a spy. He has a tame SS man follow her around, posing as a photographer. But I said to Heinrich, spies don't go around dressed in a homemade storm trooper's uniform, do they? They'd wear something a little more subtle. Mind you, this SS chap did catch Unity with a gun. Though when he asked her what it was for, she said she was practicing killing Jews.”

Clara's eyes widened. “Do you think the Führer will marry Fräulein Braun?”

“Ach, who has ever been able to fathom the Führer's taste in women?” Emmy lowered her voice. “Hermann says the only way he will marry Fräulein Braun is if someone puts a gun to his head. And besides, he gets twelve thousand love letters a year, so he's not short of choice. Though they say”—she lowered her voice—“he never recovered from the death of Geli. His niece, you know, who shot herself in his apartment. Hermann says Hitler used to treat Geli like a gardener with an exotic bloom.”

“So why did she shoot herself?”

“If we knew that, my dear…” Emmy Goering gave her a significant look but fell silent.

“What about Diana Mitford? Does the Führer like her too?”

“I think he's really fond of her. He took a whole day off when she married in the Goebbelses' place, and for him, that's quite unheard of. And he agreed to ban the von Ribbentrops from the wedding because Diana loathes them. Annelies was furious when she heard because they'd already invited themselves, but frankly, Diana's right. The Führer should never have made von Ribbentrop ambassador. He told Hermann that von Ribbentrop would be good because he knew absolutely everyone in England, but Hermann said the problem was, everyone in England knew von Ribbentrop.” For a moment, Emmy's husband's wit caused a fond chuckle. “Still, it's no good trying to fathom what you English think. You keep us all guessing.”

There was a knock on the door, and the butler showed in the immaculate figure of the photographer Heinrich Hoffmann. As he greeted them, his gaze flickered over Clara curiously. He had seen her with the Goebbelses only recently, and now she was here in the Goerings' home. He was wondering what brought her here, Clara realized, and attempting to assess her social standing.

It transpired that Hoffmann had been sent to photograph the presents. While he busied himself with unfolding the legs of his tripod and positioning lights, Emmy carried off the golden antlers imperiously.

“I'm hiding these. They might lead to awkward questions. Hitler censors anything he doesn't like, so why shouldn't we?”

Hoffmann laughed. “Of course, Frau Reichsminister.” Beneath his air of unctuous jollity ran a steeliness common to professional photographers who are obliged to perform their job in a social setting.

“What does Hitler censor?” asked Clara casually as they walked to the other side of the room.

“Oh, everything, darling! He won't have any photograph of himself in spectacles, for a start. They suggest he might have the same human frailties as the rest of us. He will never swim in public, in case anyone photographs him in a bathing suit, and he can't ever be seen in lederhosen. I don't know why: Hermann finds them perfectly manly.”

Emmy regarded Hoffmann with a beady eye as he snapped and repositioned, and snapped again.

“I'm surprised Hoffmann still needs the work, he's so rich now,” she murmured. “I mean, his pictures have sold around the world, haven't they? Stamps, postcards, a book every week, it seems like. He keeps all the royalties. But then the Führer trusts Hoffmann with his life.”

“He does?”

“They go back ages, positively aeons. They've been together since the beginning, since the Munich Putsch. When Hitler went to prison in 1924, Hoffmann smuggled his camera in and took some lovely shots. Then he gave Hitler his Munich studio on Schellingstrasse for the first Party headquarters. Now Hoffmann has offices all around Europe. They call him Hitler's shadow. I say the Führer has been his golden goose. Heini,” Emmy called across the room, “where will these pictures be appearing?”

“We shall circulate them to the news magazines,” replied the photographer. “The whole country shares the excitement about your news, Frau Goering.”

“Hmm. Let's wait and see,” said Emmy, then, more softly, “I'll be surprised. Goebbels can't stand any good news about us getting out. When we had a ball last January at the Opera House, we had the entire place redecorated in white satin, and it looked stunning, but Goebbels refused to allow a single picture to be published. Not one.”

The rivalry between the Goerings and the Goebbelses was long-standing. Both couples vied for closeness to the Führer. The main beneficiaries were the Nazi elite, who were invited to spectacular parties, each man striving to outdo the other in lavish and inventive entertaining. Goebbels's Olympics party for two thousand guests at Peacock Island last year was a failed attempt to outdo Goering's evening, as everyone present agreed.

The minister's wife shrugged. “But then I suppose Joseph is a past master at censoring things. Remember all the antics with the film actresses who got drunk at his party last year? No one got to hear about that, did they? He's absurdly prickly about public opinion. Quite the opposite of my husband. Hermann really has a sense of humor. Do you know he pays people three marks if they'll tell him a joke about himself, and he writes down the best ones in his leather book? He has hundreds!”

Emmy lowered her voice further. “While we're on the subject of Goebbels. His wife…”

Clara had long realized that Emmy Goering, like Magda Goebbels, needed to keep abreast of the gossip, the squabbles, and the divisions that existed among the Nazi elite. Understanding the private tensions that lay beneath the surfaces of men's lives was the first rule of politics. Clara knew that she was a valuable conduit between the two women. Emmy and Magda were fierce rivals, after all, for the status of First Lady of the Reich, and each was avid for details of the other's progress.

“…you've just seen her. How is she?”

So Emmy knew that Clara had attended the Goebbelses' reception. How?

“Magda seems well.”

“That poor woman. She's thoroughly fed up apparently. She's compiled a list of thirty women who've been intimate with her husband. He's always had a weakness for actresses. As far as he's concerned, the sluttier the better. But now it's just that little Slav Lida Baarová. You'll have heard all about it, I suppose? I imagine it's the talk of the studios.”

“I've heard it mentioned.”

It was never good to give an impression of being loose-tongued.

Emmy Goering sighed, shifted her pregnant belly, and rubbed the small of her back.

“He's out every evening, I hear. He can't bear to go home to Schwanenwerder and sit with Magda. He's become so secretive about his movements, he even keeps his officials at the ministry in the dark. He doesn't want her to find out where he's going. They say Magda tunes in to Radio Moscow to hear what he's up to.”

Clara laughed, as she was meant to.

“Joseph's getting very sensitive about it. Yet he's the one who just proposed a ten-year sentence for adultery if the wronged husband demands it. Honestly! It's the women I feel sorry for.”