Woman in the Shadows (27 page)

“Of course she knew!” Clara put an arm round her. “But, Katia, there's one thing that's puzzling me. Why did you come here?”

“I told you. It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn't have much choice.”

“I mean
here.
Klosterheide. It's a long way from Munich.”

The girl ducked away from Clara's arm, avoiding her eyes. “I needed a break.”

Katia was hiding something. There was a Lebensborn home outside Munich, Clara knew. Why did she need to come halfway across the country, unless there was something she had to escape? Was it the “other people” the old woman had complained about?

“When I went to Munich, to your old apartment in Frauenstrasse, the landlady said that someone had come looking for you. Do you know who it could be?”

“Could have been anyone, couldn't it?” Katia's cheeks were flushed and her lower lip stuck out in a pout. If she did know, she was not about to tell Clara. “Thanks for the cigarette. I'd better be getting back now.”

She flicked the stub into the grass and climbed back in the car, giving Clara no option but to follow.

“The thing is, Katia, the person who was following Anna might well have been following you. And now, I think they're after me.”

Katia gave her a swift, startled glance. “Why do you say that?”

“Someone has made threats against my godson.”

“Why would they do that?”

“That's just the problem. I don't know. I hoped you might.”

They drew up outside the home as the SS group were emerging, at their center the new mother in the flowery hat, carrying Eva's child in an awkward clutch, the way a farmer might carry a pig. Katia's face, already mottled with tears, flushed further at the sight. As she turned to get out, Clara handed her the stationery case.

“Don't forget this.”

“Keep it. I don't want it. They don't encourage personal possessions here. It was decent of you to come all this way and tell me, and I'm sorry about your godson. I can't really help you. I don't know what happened to Anna, and I hope they catch the bastard who did it, but the way she lived, something bad was always going to happen. Anna attracted trouble.” She sniffed. “Though I suppose, if anyone's able to help, it would be Heidi Kastner.”

“Who's Heidi Kastner?”

“Anna's best friend. As much as she had a best friend. Her companion in crime, more like. They were as thick as thieves. They'd known each other since they were ten, and Heidi was behind every problem Anna had. I blame Heidi for most of what happened to Anna.”

“Where could I find Heidi?”

“The last I heard of her, she was dancing at the Wintergarten.”

Katia got out, slammed the car door and disappeared inside.

It was an hour's drive before Clara reached the outskirts of the Grunewald. She suddenly felt desperately tired. Every part of her body ached. The Opel's heater had broken down, and an icy wind ran through the car. In her head she heard Mary's voice saying,
Just come home and get warm. You're no good to anyone if you exhaust yourself.
Had Mary gone back to the Bride School? Had she found out any more about Anna's murder?

Alongside these thoughts, another concern arose. The sight of the babies at the Lebensborn home had revived that craving that came to Clara increasingly often now, a sensation that was stunningly visceral in its intensity, tugging at something deep within her. The longing for a child. She recalled the unfocused eyes of the newborn in its mother's arms, the fragile skull with its feathering of hair, the petal-soft flesh, and the foot that stretched out of its blankets, flexing itself like a kitten. What was it like to feel the weight of a baby in your arms, to feel the curl of its fist around your finger, or the fix of its eyes on yours? Would she ever know that feeling herself? Would she ever have a child of her own to cherish? And would that child grow up loving and needing her, only to later push her away?

No. No time could be worse to have a baby than right now, and there was no place worse to have one than the Third Reich. Added to which, there was the little matter of needing a man to have it with. None of the reasons convinced her, of course, but Clara found that repeating them often enough really did succeed in drowning out deeper thoughts. Just like Goebbels said. She laughed bitterly.

By the time she reached the outskirts of Berlin, she wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Her thoughts were running ahead of her, back through the streets, under the arches of Nollendorfplatz, to Winterfeldtstrasse, through the door, up the stairs, into the apartment and her bed. She pulled up in the street, parked across from the door, and stepped out of the car. From the corner of her eye she saw it, a fraction of a second before she felt the savage thud as the wall of shining steel hit her, swerved back into the road, and she fell.

There was a blur of sky and a face, then the earth came up to meet her and she felt herself crumpling, the back of her head exploding in pain.

C
lara had been dreaming about her parents. Long ago, when life was still normal. Briefly she woke, to find herself somewhere cool. The pain was beating against the inside of her skull, crashing in waves against the bone. Dim memories crowded her mind. Lying in the street in Winterfeldtstrasse, people around her, her head pounding. Being picked up, and traveling in a taxi. She moved, and an agonizing ache knifed through her ribs.

The threat to Erich. Bruno. Arno Strauss. The dead girl and the visit to Katia Hansen. She could not make sense of any of it. In the past few weeks her entire life seemed to have become unhinged from its normal path. It was like that moment in the cinema when the film speeds up and slips from its projector, spooling crazily away with all its images, leaving only a flickering darkness. She fell asleep again.

It must have been some hours later when she woke. Fatigue pressed down on her like a crushing weight, making it difficult even to stretch out. The bed she was in felt luxuriously deep and soft, the sheets deliciously chill against her hot limbs. Gradually the room came into focus. The curtains were drawn, but she could tell it was morning because the sun licked urgently at the edges, lighting up the damask roses of the fabric with a vivid blue flame. The light stung her eyes, so she shut them again. Footsteps came towards her across the floor. Burnished black brogues from Church's of Turl Street, Oxford, fitted with steel tips in the heels. The characteristically languid tread.

“Hello.” It was Ralph, stroking her forehead. His face was ashen. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and a bow tie hung, untied. His hand cupped her chin and lay soft against her flushed cheek.

“Your fingers are freezing, Ralph.”

He laughed. “You're better than I thought. No harm done. Just a lump the size of an egg where you hit the back of your head and a few scratches.”

She noticed a porcelain bowl on a table to one side, and a wad of cotton wool beside it. A flower of blood bloomed up beneath the water's surface.

“Is that my blood?”

“It's just a graze on your temple. I patched you up as best I could. Tried to remember what I learned about first aid in the Boy Scouts. Here.” He propped her up on the pillows. “Not a conventional way to get an attractive woman into my bed, but…” Seeing her look, he laughed again. “Don't worry. I slept on the sofa. You've been out for hours.”

He picked up another piece of cotton wool, wet it with antiseptic, and dabbed her forehead tenderly.

Looking down, she realized she was wearing a man's white cotton shirt. Ralph's shirt, it must be, and beneath it, she was entirely naked. A blush rose to her face. He glanced politely away.

“How's the head?”

“It hurts.”

“Wait a minute, I'll fetch you some aspirin and a cup of tea.”

Propped up on the pillow, she looked through to the drawing room, with its Persian carpet and the desk in the corner. She could hear him moving around the apartment, putting on the kettle, making tea and waiting for it to brew, and she imagined him lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke away as he stared into the distance. She found her handbag at her side and reached down for her Max Factor compact to reveal her face, milk white and highlighted with a gash on the temple.

He returned with a tray, bearing aspirin, two tea glasses, and toast.

“Careful. It's hot.”

The tea was sweet and malty. Assam.

“What happened to me?”

“Looks like some idiot ran into you. Car came out of nowhere and knocked you out cold, without stopping. Lucky for you I was there. Otherwise you'd be moldering in some hospital this morning.”

He spoke as if she had been negligent in getting run down.

“Why were you there?”

“Pure chance.”

“You can't expect me to believe that.”

“Good luck, then. By the way, I collected your bag, and you had this with you.”

He gestured to the case stowed at the side of the bed.

“Thank you.”

“I'm afraid your clothes were a little dirty.” He pointed to her stockings, bra, and underclothes, neatly folded across the back of a chair. “I've washed them as best I can, but it's not my forte.”

Clara wriggled down further in the bed and drew the sheet more tightly around her. The thought of Ralph undressing her like a sleepy child, then wrapping her in his own shirt and putting her to bed caused a wave of conflicting emotions. Embarrassment first, then annoyance, and underlying that, excitement. What had he felt when he pulled her clothes off and saw her naked? Had he reacted like a nursemaid, or a man?

“Why can't I remember anything? I remember coming here with you…” The images were beginning to knit together again in her brain. The taxi, the firm arm beneath hers, guiding her up the stone steps. “But I don't remember a thing about being knocked down.”

“It's normal to be a little groggy after a concussion. Nothing to worry about. You can remember what you were doing yesterday, I take it?”

The visit to Katia Hansen.

“Yes.”

“And the day before?”

“Arno Strauss took me for another test flight. We landed near a restaurant he knows and had lunch.”

The day with Strauss came back to her. The desolation in his eyes. The twist of vulnerability and contempt when she refused his kiss.

“Very nice. Did you learn anything?”

“A lot. He explained all about the camera.”

“Do you think he suspects anything?”

“Nothing I can't cope with.”

“Did you part on good terms?”

“I suppose.”

“That's good. You should rest now because I'm going to need to know everything you can tell me about Strauss. Take those aspirin and drink your tea. I'll be in the next room if you need me.”

She drank, and felt the warmth of the tea flooding back through her. The anxiety that she had felt since discovering Erich's photograph on the car ebbed away here. The distant sounds of Ralph moving around the drawing room, a muffled cough, the soft thump of books, imparted a sense of security she had not known in all her years in the city. It was as though nothing could penetrate the cocoon of this apartment.

An hour later he put his head in the door to find her looking curiously around the room, running a hand through her tangled hair. He sat on a chair by the bed, stretching out his long legs.

“Do you feel up to talking?”

“Just about.”

“Good girl. Tell me about Strauss then. You saw him at Goering's reception?”

“Yes. And he told me what they're proposing for the Duke of Windsor. The suggestion is that in the event of a Grand Alliance between Britain and Germany, the duke would return to the English throne, with Lloyd George as prime minister. Alternatively, if a war was needed first, then Edward would serve as president of an English republic. And they're going to hold him to it. A document has been prepared promising Germany the return of her former colonies and the gift of northern Australia. Two copies have been drawn up for the duke to sign. They had just been delivered for Goering's approval.”

Ralph's eyes widened. “I'd give a lot to see that document. Presumably the deal will be done when the duke visits Hitler at Berchtesgaden.”

“If it happened…I mean if war came and then an alliance was formed, what would happen to the new king and his family?”

Clara thought of shy King George, who had taken over from his older brother, with his pretty, plump bride, Elizabeth. They had two little girls—eleven-year-old Princess Elizabeth and her younger sister, Margaret Rose. Elizabeth, or Lilibet as she was called, was the serious, dutiful one, and Margaret was lively and spirited. Already, the British public seemed to love them.

“Who knows? Either they'd fade into the background again, or they might emigrate, to Canada say, along with all those politicians who backed Edward's abdication. Baldwin and Churchill.”

Or they might be killed,
she thought, but she didn't say it.

“And do you think the duke would sign such a document?”

He reached for a cigarette. “I couldn't say, but I'm certain of this: The only way the British public would have Edward back would be if they lost a war. Which is exactly why we need to cultivate our friend Strauss. He took you to lunch and you had a glimpse of the camera. What else did you learn?”

“He talked about what aerial photographs can reveal. I memorized what he told me about the camera. It uses special thirty-five-millimeter film with a perforated edge, which allows motors to turn the film automatically behind the lens and get a precise exposure. It has infrared capacity, so it can be used at night, too.”

“You obviously got on well with him. Sounds like he was quite forthcoming.”

She grimaced.

“What is it?”

“He was…very talkative. Over lunch he told me all about his childhood.” She paused. “Oh, I don't know, Ralph! I wanted him to be more savage; then it would have been easy. But there's something so sad about him. Desolate almost.”

“Desolate?” Beneath the genial demeanor, a flash of anger rose in Ralph's eyes. “Who cares what happens in that cold Nazi heart of his? Perhaps next time you start feeling sorry for Strauss, you should remember all those civilians mown down by his bombs in Spain.”

Almost as quickly as it had erupted, his anger was suppressed. He became brisk and businesslike.

“Anyway, I'm glad you found him approachable. It makes our next step easier.”

“Next step?”

“We need to encourage him to come over to us. Everyone's getting their intelligence ducks in a row, and there's no time to lose. We had a report earlier this month that Udet had advised a friend to get the hell out of Germany and added that he would be doing the same were it not for his position. Udet believes it won't be long before he falls out of favor with the regime, and I'd wager Strauss feels the same. And seeing as he has already bent the rules by taking an attractive actress on an unauthorized joyride, our job might be a little easier.”

Despite herself, she was aghast. “You're not going to blackmail him!”

“Don't be foolish, Clara. You know that's what this is about. There's a lot riding on Strauss. Given his closeness to Udet, we think he might be open to persuasion anyhow. But if he isn't, there are other ways.”

Sinking back against the pillow, she felt a lurch of despair. She knew, of course, that Strauss's information was valuable, but she had not thought he would learn so soon of her deception. The thought of Strauss's ravaged face when he learned of her betrayal made her shudder. She was glad that he had been horrified at the idea of kissing a Jew.

“Strauss is going to be very valuable to us,” said Ralph, with satisfaction.

“Don't talk about him like that!”

He looked at her strangely.

“I thought I'd made this clear.” His voice acquired an edge of steel. “This isn't about making friends. It's not about having charming little lunches and getting pally with the chaps in the Luftwaffe. I see these people every night of the week, and I never doubt that they would put me up in front of a firing squad, or that I'd do the same to them, if need be.”

Clara stared at the ceiling, her hands clenched beneath the sheets. “I understand that.”

“If you're not capable of basic emotional discipline…”

“Emotional discipline!” A wave of pain and weariness flooded over her. “Isn't that what they taught you at that damn boarding school of yours? Never feel anything. Never get involved. Damp down any remotely human emotions because they're going to get in the way? Forget anything like friendship, or basic human decency. ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country.' Build an invisible armor around you that nothing can penetrate? Well, I'm sorry, but I can't be like that. I get affected by the people I associate with.”

There was a moment of silence. Then he said, “Have you finished?”

She looked away.

“It's part of the job, Clara, I thought you understood that. You led me to believe it wasn't going to be a problem for you. You said there was no chance you would get emotionally involved. But if you're going to start falling for every Oberstleutnant who makes friendly overtures…”

“I haven't fallen for him,” she protested, through gritted teeth.

“Feeling sorry for him.”

“I don't feel sorry for him.”

“I'm afraid I don't see the problem then.”

Clara's head was throbbing. She wanted to stop thinking about Arno Strauss, to stop imagining the moment when he was confronted with the evidence of her double-dealing. That look, both aggressive and vulnerable, in his hard gray eyes.

Ralph got up. “You're probably still affected by the accident. Perhaps we should talk later. When you're feeling more yourself.”

She turned her head away so he would not see the tears pricking at her eyes. This time he shut the door behind him.

Sometime later he returned with two glasses of schnapps and a determined smile.

“Let's talk about something else.” His voice was gentle.

She gave a faint shrug.

“Tell me about you, Clara.”

“What do you want to know?”

“When I first met you, I tried to find out as much as possible about you. It wasn't prying. I was just being professional. I was told there had been a chap who was madly in love with you, but that it hadn't worked out.”

“His name was Leo Quinn, and he worked at Passport Control. He was busy getting visas for Jews who wanted to escape Germany.”

“Sounds like a brave man. The Foreign Office disapproved of that, I hear. They refused to give Passport Control officials diplomatic status. So he was risking a lot. Where is he now?”

“He went back to England in 'thirty-three.” She met his eyes frankly. “He's probably married to someone else by now. There's been no one serious since.”