Woman in the Shadows (34 page)

But the euphoria lasted only a moment before it was replaced by bewilderment. If Albert had informed on her, then he would have entrusted his suspicions to the head of the studios. The man responsible for all cultural activity in the Third Reich. Joseph Goebbels. Goebbels must be the reason she had been tailed and arrested. Goebbels had decided that if Albert was right, and Clara was hiding something, the political police would find it out. But if Goebbels was the reason she was arrested, what, or who, was the reason she had been released?

A
t the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden, which had once been the top gathering spot for the city's prostitutes, a model torpedo rocket with glinting silver fins had been erected. It was positioned as though poised to smash into the very pavement beneath it, and alongside was displayed a colorful map of Europe showing all the countries that bordered Germany with cartoon bomber squadrons pointing ominously at the Fatherland. Above the map was the slogan
AIR DEFENSE FOR EVERY GERMAN
.
Two sentries in steel helmets shuffled their massive boots alongside, holding collection tins. Mary noticed that most people ignored the map and quickened their steps as they passed. No one wanted to take geography lessons from the National Socialists.

Mary had been looking forward to seeing Charles Lindbergh again. As far as she knew, she was the only journalist to be invited to the reception, which had to mean Lindbergh himself had requested her name be included. The very idea of it sent a ripple of pleasure through her. Lindbergh had asked for her! Not only would anything the great aviator said be a scoop, but even better, she would get an opportunity to thank him personally for arranging her return to Berlin. Camera at the ready, she had arrived at the Adlon with high hopes.

The Adlon was, as ever, a warm oasis of luxury, where brilliant chandeliers glinted above a glossy marble floor. It seemed to exist in another universe from the real Berlin, with tantalizing smells wafting from the grill room and bowls of freshly cut hothouse roses on every table. Mary spotted Lindbergh immediately, towering above a sea of Nazi officialdom. Flashbulbs exploded around him as he pumped hands with men in uniform. At the age of thirty-five, with rumpled fair hair and a keen blue gaze, Lindbergh cut a striking figure. Already that day he had toured Tempelhof and piloted a bomber, visited a couple of airfields, and lunched at the Berlin Air Club. Now he was surrounded by an impermeable wall of Lufthansa executives and military attachés, all anxious to hear his views on the buildup of the German air force.

Mary, it went without saying, could not tell one end of a plane from the other, and after half an hour she realized if she had to listen to one more Nazi bragging about the performance characteristics of the Bf 109 or the superiority of the Ju 88, she was going to scream. It took a while to elbow her way through the uniformed throng, but eventually she managed to battle through to Lindbergh's side, just as he was off to be presented with a ceremonial sword as an honored guest of Germany.

He seemed delighted to see her and shook her hand vigorously. “Miss Harker! I've gotta run, but I'm glad to find you here.”

“Well, it's because of you, Colonel, that I'm here. I wanted to thank you for your help with my visa.”

“Quite all right. I'm pleased you made it. I think it's important we get as many good American journalists here as possible. We need to tell the world about the true strength of Germany.”

“So from what you've seen today, what do you think?”

“It's very impressive,” he replied warmly. “In fact, from what I've seen of the air forces, I'd say Germany now has the means of destroying London, Paris, and Prague if she wishes to do so. And you can quote me on that.”

Mary was startled. It may have been that Lindbergh was speaking for the benefit of his Nazi hosts, who were beaming and nodding all around him, yet he gave no impression of dissembling. He was all smiles. Lindbergh seemed entirely sanguine about the idea that the Nazi regime had amassed enough airpower to achieve supremacy in Europe. How could he talk of London, Paris, and Prague being destroyed? Hitler had just announced that he would not allow the Sudeten Germans to become “defenseless and deserted” like the Arabs in Palestine. Could Lindbergh, that all-American hero, not understand what the Germans had in store for Czechoslovakia? Or did he simply not care?

“Colonel, surely you don't think—”

“What I think, Miss Harker,” interrupted Lindbergh with the zeal of the convert, “is that we Americans have a valuable role to play in spreading the word about the new Germany. That's why I was so certain that it was right for you to come back.”

“You thought that I…?”

The lanky American bent towards her, radiating sincerity. “I thought that you would be able to give a fair and accurate picture of the kind of society that Herr Hitler is building. And I told them so.”

Well, that much was true. Mary was increasingly determined to give a fair and accurate picture of the society around her. But not in the way that Lindbergh seemed to expect. He was the second high-profile American visitor to Berlin, after Wallis Simpson, and the two of them seemed to have something in common. A willful refusal to see what was right in front of their eyes. How was it they could see the window displays and the construction works but not the posters on the walls, or the opponents in camps, or the desperate refugees flooding the borders?

Mary left the hotel in a daze. She had a vision of German planes in mass formation, the drone of bombers and the whine of fighters, blackening the sky. Antiaircraft guns on the roof of the Adlon and armies mobilizing for the front. Lindbergh had confirmed what she already feared: that Hitler had the ability to do as he pleased, and no one, especially America, was going to stand in his way.

She nearly gasped when she felt a touch on her arm.

“Excuse me. Mary Harker? I wonder if I might have a word?”

The stranger was a well-dressed Englishman, with tawny hair and a suave, cultivated accent. She had caught sight of him across the room, downing vodka martinis like they were going out of fashion.

“I hope you don't mind my mentioning, but I read your reports from Guernica. I found them tremendously moving. Would you mind if I asked you a little about them?”

He seemed entirely in earnest. Mary looked at him curiously.

“Not at all. Do you have a special interest in Spain?”

“You could say that. It's about a friend of mine.”

“Someone I know?”

“I'm not sure. But I wonder if we could talk somewhere, out of the cold?”

One of the sentries approached, rattling his collecting box meaningfully in their direction, and the Englishman turned fractionally away.

“And I rather think, now that Colonel Lindbergh has assured us of the formidable strength of the Luftwaffe, that one is perfectly justified in devoting one's funds to buying dinner instead, don't you?”

H
orcher's restaurant on Lutherstrasse was the chosen place in Berlin for the Luftwaffe top brass. The owner, Otto Horcher, had known Goering in the war and always made a huge fuss over his honored guest, cooking him his favorite game and providing other special customers with their own sets of monogrammed wineglasses. With the same punctilious attention to detail, Herr Horcher had ensured that carefully concealed microphones were built into the fabric of each table, with the help of which the waiters were able to compile their reports to the authorities. The interior was lined with dark oak paneling and plush leather banquettes, where officers lolled, bowls of scarlet tulips at each table. That lunchtime there was a sprinkling of Wehrmacht in field gray, and the rest were mainly Luftwaffe. As Clara arrived, Arno Strauss approached. He kissed hands, his manner, as ever, deadpan.

“I'm glad you could make it. I know you've been busy.”

Suddenly she understood. “It was you who rescued me.”

“The block warden at your apartment informed me that you had moved to less desirable premises, and I didn't want you to miss this luncheon. You agreed, on our little outing, that it would be valuable for your research to see General Sperrle, and I had, of course, been looking forward to seeing you. I mentioned your circumstances to Ernst, and he pursued the topic with Goering. Or rather, he approached Frau Goering. And she took it up with her husband.”

Clara was astonished. So Hermann Goering himself had authorized her release!

“As I mentioned, there's been a little difference of opinion going on. Air Intelligence is extremely concerned about a leak. The Gestapo was very eager to investigate, but Air Intelligence said they were perfectly able to mount their own investigation. These interdepartmental squabbles go on all the time. Just turf wars, really, but it means that the Air Ministry is especially eager to pursue their own ends, as they see it.”

Strauss's gaze passed over the bruise running down Clara's arm, a trace of consternation flickering in his eyes. “I hope you're feeling well. You received the flowers, I take it?”

The flowers had been waiting for her when she returned to Winterfeldtstrasse. A tight bunch of creamy roses, bright against the black tissue paper like starbursts in a night sky. Pinned on the side of the bouquet was a note from Strauss, with the time and venue for the lunch.

“They were lovely, thank you.”

He studied her a moment, his look impenetrable, then he took her arm. “You must be hungry. Come and eat.”

The lunch was lavish. Meat—rabbit, hare, venison, pork, and beef—was piled upon the table as though there was no end to the animals that had died to feed the Luftwaffe's guests. The creatures' flesh and their internal organs—liver, kidneys, and tripe—were offered up in an unending range of dishes, served by waiters in black knee breeches, white stockings, and red waistcoats. But the events of the past twenty-four hours had left Clara unable to swallow a thing. It was incomprehensible to her that just a short time earlier she had been sitting in a cell at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, awaiting a beating or worse, as investigators tried to determine if she was a spy. Yet now she sat in the midst of the Nazi elite, plied with food, celebrating the bloody achievements of their bombers in Spain. She sat, watching the maroon hunk of meat on the plate in front of her pool in its own blood.

As the officers ate and drank, their celebrations became louder, but Ernst Udet and Arno Strauss sat on either side of her, forming a protective cordon.

“How's that boy of yours?” asked Udet.

“Erich is fine. Although, we had a bit of a tiff when we last met. He thinks I don't Heil Hitler enough. He gets all these ideas from the HJ about correcting his elders.”

“That's the HJ for you.” Udet smiled. “Here. Let me have his address. I've got something that will win him over.”

Instinctively Clara hesitated, reluctant to give away any snippet of information that might endanger Erich, but one glance at Udet's good-natured face and she scribbled the address in Neukölln and passed it to him.

“Whatever it is, Ernst, he'll be thrilled.”

Udet must have sensed her preoccupation, because he spent the rest of the meal in a one-sided conversation about his plans to perform a death-defying stunt at a forthcoming rally in the Lustgarten, taking a small plane all the way along Unter den Linden and flying right through the Brandenburg Gate. Strauss, on her other side, ate in silence, drinking heavily and glancing up occasionally with a dangerous glitter in his eyes. After the luncheon, General Sperrle rose and made a lengthy speech about the Legion Condor, paying lavish tribute to its work and its future. His voice was a harsh baritone, the kind of voice that was used to being obeyed, and his address entirely bypassed Clara, who registered only an occasional word or phrase—
technical excellence, victory, domination
. As the general concluded, amid a spatter of applause, Strauss nodded towards the guest of honor.

“What do you think of Sperrle?” he asked, conversationally. “Did you know the Führer called him one of his two most brutal generals? Whenever I look at him I am reminded of Hitler's comment in
Mein Kampf.
He said his generals should be like butchers' dogs who need to be restrained by their collars from attacking their enemies. General Sperrle has a look of the butcher's dog about him, don't you think?”

“I think this is the wrong place to be making that kind of comment,” answered Clara quietly.

“You're right, of course. You actresses are experts in saying the right thing.”

He stood and offered her his hand. “Shall we dance?”

A band had struck up, and they walked onto the tiny dance floor, where several officers were already circling with their women. As they began to move together, Clara felt dizzy. It wasn't just the fact that she had not eaten, it was that Strauss was holding her so close she could hardly breathe. When she struggled to move away from him, his grip tightened like iron. He leaned down, and she felt his breath, hot against her cheek.

“Do you know, my dear Clara, if I didn't know better I would say you are not what you seem.”

“What on earth can you mean by that?”

“Not everyone's flaws are written on their face. It would suit a girl, wouldn't it, to befriend a senior Luftwaffe officer? If she were a spy.”

“That's a ridiculous thing to say.”

Her heart racing, she tried to turn her head, or even look him in the eye, but he had her clamped to his chest and refused to release her. His voice in her ear was soft.

“You
are
a spy, aren't you? Don't deny it.”

She squirmed against the tight wall of muscle that imprisoned her.

“That's why they were entertaining you at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, I guess. And, my dear, I don't trust you an inch. All those questions about the plane, the photographs…my childhood. My brother.”

Clara shook her head. Strauss's hands were still gripping her, but he continued pleasantly, conversationally, as if they were discussing the excellence of the restaurant's orchestra, or a weekend trip to the Grunewald.

“I should have guessed it from the first.”

They were playing “Küss Mich Jetzt,” a cheerful, romantic tune that could be heard on every dance floor in Berlin just then. Clara couldn't help casting a quick glance around the restaurant. This conversation was suicidally dangerous. Despite the music, everyone knew the place was bugged, and on top of that there had to be listening ears everywhere. Yet Strauss seemed unconcerned. His body swayed slowly and rhythmically, keeping her folded tightly in his arms.

“To tell the truth, I hope you are a spy. I despise all those English women like your Miss Mitfords who seem so ready to forsake their own country. Can't they see what Germany will do to them? Have they no idea what is planned? Someone ought to warn them.”

Clara wrenched herself free and turned to leave the floor, but deftly Strauss stopped her and pressed her lips in a quick kiss before letting her go with a grimace. His eyes were bloodshot. He smiled at her, a savage smile contorted with self-loathing.

“Forgive me, Fräulein, it's this drink. It keeps me from feeling anything. It's like that for a lot of us. Look at Ernst. He's the same. Every night, drink till you drop.”

He was beginning to attract glances. Wildly, Clara wondered how she might silence him. She pulled him over to a quieter part of the room, but there seemed no way to make him stop.

“I almost killed you in that plane, you know,” he said.

“You mean when you lost control?”

“I wanted to die. In fact, I was planning to die. I think I took you up with me to prevent it. I thought, if I had you there, I would stop myself. But it was close. There's a saying we pilots have. Wet or dry? Do you want to die wet in a crash, or dry in a fire? I can never answer that one.”

Clara leaned towards him and murmured, “Arno. You've got to stop talking like this.”

He held her at arm's length for a moment, studied her face, then gave a dreadful, bright smile.

“You're right again. Fine. Let's talk about other things. Why don't we talk about art, yes?”

She nodded cautiously.

“Have you seen the latest one by Picasso? The one that's all gray, with the bull and the horse?”

“
Guernica
?”

“That's the one.” He spoke with a kind of musing menace. “You know, with due respect to Herr Picasso, it wasn't a bit like that actually. I don't know why he chose to paint it gray. The gray of newsprint perhaps. But I tell you, it was nothing like the newspapers said. There was nothing gray about Guernica. It was red with blood and fire against a white sky. The only gray I saw was the smoke of burned flesh.”

“You were there?”

He continued as though she had not spoken. “From what we were told, the idea was not to destroy the town. We were told it was the roads and the bridge to be targeted because loyalist reinforcements were arriving. The Basque front was on the point of collapse, so the plan was to demolish the bridge and prevent the Republican troops from escaping. Besides, they had informed us, the inhabitants were away. It was a holiday that day. Only troops were left in the town. Unfortunately, that was a lie.

“When we came over the mountains there was smoke everywhere. You couldn't see what was road, or bridge, or housing, so you just dropped everything in the center. It's called bombing blind. Once you've destroyed the buildings, it makes it easier for the incendiaries to spread. The way they build their houses there—wooden porches, tiled roofs, a lot of timber, well, that just makes it burn all the better. The idea was, the Messerschmitts would maintain cover and we would come in close, strafing and bombing the target. We'd fly in waves, wingtip to wingtip, with fragmentation bombs. Behind us, they had orders to machine-gun everything that moved.

“The thing was, Monday was market day in Guernica. And once the bridges and the roads were destroyed, all the people in the town fled to the center, to the marketplace, because they couldn't get out. There were women and children who had come in from the surrounding villages. They probably thought they were safe there. They must have assumed that was the best place to be.”

“So you targeted the marketplace.”

“Indeed, as it turned out, it was the ideal spot for our new tactics. We've been experimenting with carpet bombing. That means dropping bombs from every available aircraft all at once. Teaching young pilots to destroy whole towns from the air. Sperrle was especially interested to observe the effect of burning buildings in cities. He wanted to see how it affected the civilian population.”

Strauss rocked back on his heels and passed a hand over his eyes. “Personally, I think I have seen too much.”

“But you said you were bombing blind. Presumably you didn't see anything.”

“You can always see if you look hard enough. You can get low in those planes, you know. After the first wave, people started to come back out of the shelters. They probably thought it was over. We were flying so low we could hear the bells ringing and see the people scattering like rats. I swept over something, it looked like a flock of pigeons, until I realized it was nuns. They had children with them and they were running towards the church. Can you imagine that pathetic group of boys, crying and cowering from us? There was one nun among them who stopped right where she was, to pray with the people in the square. As I came down very close, she stood there, quite still, knowing it was the day she was going to die. I will never forget the look in her eyes. She had two boys holding her hands and they looked identical. They must have been twins, I think.”

“You couldn't have known that there were going to be civilians in the square.”

“I didn't, Clara, but that's just the thing. Our superiors knew. They knew the market square was full of children.”

“Who knew?” Clara was so heartsick, she could barely speak.

“General Sperrle over there, he knew.”

“How could he possibly know?”

“On the morning of the raid, a series of aerial photographs were taken. They had sent the reconnaissance planes over Guernica. I told you, the pictures tell you everything. Pictures don't lie. Pictures mean that you can never act without knowledge or accountability. They knew it wasn't a holiday. They knew the marketplace would be full of women and children. And that was fine. Because those people were going to be guinea pigs for a new kind of war. Our commanders wanted to see if we could destroy an entire town from the air. Well, they got their answer.”

Speechless with misery, she looked up at his face. It was contorted with something more ugly than his scar. Self-hatred. He lurched closer, his voice a raw, urgent whisper.

“But I haven't told you the worst thing. The thing that really bothers me. Do you know, Clara, I
enjoyed
it! It gave me a buzz. Flying in, seeing a woman with a baby carriage, darting for cover, I felt myself
wanting
to hit her. I wanted the feeling of flying past her and machine-gunning. When I saw that nun, I was excited because she was wearing black and white, like a perfect target. She made me want to score a bull's-eye.”