A War of Flowers (2014) (17 page)

‘Mahatma Gandhi was on frenetic form today, I thought. Determined to avoid all mention of the international situation. Incredible that he should be talking about an exhibition of German
culture at a time like this.’

‘Sure. If you want an exhibition of German culture, just take a walk down the Jewish quarter when a marching band’s been through.’

‘Heard about this reception he’s holding?’ Melcher asked. ‘A showcase for Hollywood? A night of the stars to flatter the executives of the big American
studios?’

‘Can he be serious? They’re never going to turn up at a time like this.’

‘Don’t you believe it. The invitations have gone out already and I’ll bet they’ve all been accepted, too. What Hollywood mogul would miss a chance to drink
Goebbels’ champagne and eyeball his actresses? Germany’s an important market for them and they’ll do a lot to keep in the Reich’s good books.’

‘So no movies about aggressive nations marching to war.’

‘Precisely. Stick to candy-floss romance. Take the public’s mind off their troubles.’

‘Are the press invited to this extravaganza?’

‘The society columns will be for certain.’

The newspaper gossip columns were full of actresses sleeping with sports stars and countesses having affairs with gigolos at the Adlon and Goebbels always encouraged them, chiefly because they
never dared mention the spiciest society gossip, concerning himself.

Melcher moved closer and brought his soft felt hat up to his face. ‘Here’s something you won’t find in the social columns, though. You know about Goebbels’ Czech
girlfriend?’

‘Who doesn’t? The porter here told me he’s had a suite installed behind his office. It has a system of bells so that no one disturbs them.’

‘Might prove unnecessary. From what I’ve heard, the girlfriend’s about to be banished from the Reich on the Führer’s orders. The Minister’s beside himself. He
asked Hitler to make him ambassador to Japan instead, and let him leave with the girl, but Adolf said no. Went crazy apparently. Ordered Goebbels to focus on promoting the role of the family in the
Reich.’

‘Ah,’ said Rupert. ‘Hence this morning’s new ordinances.’

In the twice-daily Propaganda Ministry briefings, the domestic press was issued with straightforward directives – everything from which story to carry to what line to take on each
newsworthy incident and which minister to be mentioned – but it was trickier with the foreign press. Foreigners couldn’t be told what to do, so they were told what not to do instead.
That morning’s prohibitions included a new ordinance against any negative media, film, theatre or literature comment about large families. Gross offences would result in the loss of the
licence to practise journalism.

‘You filing that?’

Melcher stroked his chin.

‘I’m a bit busy at the moment. As if things weren’t frantic enough, Chuck Lewis, you know, the chap from the
Chicago Herald
, has gone absent without leave so I’m
being asked to cover.’

Rupert knew Chuck Lewis. A louche, handsome devil, with a deadly mixture of intelligence, amorality and southern charm.

‘Lewis’s gone AWOL?’

‘Nothing serious. Woman troubles. Seems they’re not confined to government ministers. Talk of the devil . . .’ A bustle of uniforms burst through a set of doors across the
hall. ‘Here comes the poison dwarf now.’

Goebbels was barrelling towards them, a huddle of minders around him. The minders, all senior officers of the Ministry, were an ill-assorted crew, full of bluster and menace but lacking real
conviction. If you were casting a movie, Rupert thought, these would be the ones who never made the recall. Melcher melted away.

‘Ah, Herr Allingham. Another member of the press intent on whipping up hatred against me,’ rasped Goebbels.

‘Not at all, Herr Reich Minister.’

After the lengthy monologue Goebbels delivered each morning, there was a brief interval for questions. These took the form of craven queries from the domestic press and slightly bolder ones from
the foreigners. Following Clara’s request, Rupert had stood up and asked about the possibility of a woman falling overboard on a KdF cruise. His question had been met with incredulity,
bewilderment, then anger.

‘I assure you there has been no such tragedy on any of our KdF holidays. The Labour Front’s commitment to health and safety is second to none. The Kraft durch Freude programme is
unparalleled in the world and the pride of the Reich.’

That seemed to cover it, so why had Goebbels come after him now? Rupert guessed he was about to find out.

‘I’ve had a thought, Herr Allingham, given your interest – might I say
unexpected
interest – in female affairs.’ Goebbels paused to let this witticism
reverberate amongst his minions, who chuckled nastily. In a flash, Rupert realized precisely their assumptions about his private life.

‘I have decided to grant you an interview with Frau Scholtz-Klink. The Führerin will be pleased to meet at your convenience.’

The Führerin. Hadn’t Clara mentioned something about her and a documentary Goebbels was making about the Deutsche Frauenschaft?

‘Can I ask what exactly . . .?’

‘I shall leave it to Frau Scholtz-Klink to elaborate, but I can tell you it’s a very interesting initiative designed to honour German womanhood,’ said Goebbels.
‘I’m offering you a scoop, in fact. And a rather more inspiring one than some fictitious tittle-tattle about the KdF.’

The alacrity of Goebbels meant something, but Rupert couldn’t tell exactly what. At a time when the whole world was holding its breath, when every news desk in Europe wanted articles on
peace talks and ultimatums and conventions, and when ambassadors could not leave their front doors without being dazzled by the flashbulbs of the international press, the idea of wasting a morning
talking about German womanhood was a crazy diversion. But refusing a direct request from Goebbels was equally crazy right now, and the Minister knew it. The best thing Rupert could do was to get
this business over with as fast as possible.

‘Sounds fascinating, Herr Doktor. I shall make an appointment immediately.’

‘Do that.’

The Propaganda Minister limped swiftly away. If the Nazi sterilization laws had any logic to them, Rupert thought, they’d have started with Joseph Goebbels.

The Artists’ House in Munich had a new car park. Until a few months ago, the site just off Lenbachplatz had been occupied by the centuries-old Munich synagogue, but on
Hitler’s orders the synagogue had been razed to the ground to create more parking spots for the patrons of his favourite club. In the past, when the Party had risen to power in Munich, the
Führer had loved relaxing at the Artists’ House, hosting parties there and inviting actresses from whichever show he had seen to reprise their dances or singing in a more intimate
capacity. Even though international events now precluded such harmless diversions, Hitler, like Goering and Goebbels, still liked to think of himself as a tasteful sophisticate with a special
regard for art. All the senior party leaders portrayed themselves as men of culture who understood that art had a role, and it wasn’t just about enjoying yourself. Art was a sacred thing and
the Artists’ House, with its marbled halls and gilded ceilings, echoed that idea. On the outside, caryatids supported ornate gables, Neptune and Bacchus adorned the walls and the gateway was
crowned by the statue of a centaur wielding a club. Inside, the ornate ceiling was spattered with gilded stars. To the casual visitor the place was like some exotic, pagan temple, and one which had
witnessed equally exotic goings-on. That afternoon, however, the rather more routine business of auditions was taking place.

Standing in the gleaming marble hallway, Clara waited uncertainly. Despite the fact that
Good King George
was merely a cover for another more serious assignment, she still felt the
familiar nerves which came with any audition – even now, when she was well established in her career.

When she had first come to Germany, and applied for work at the Ufa film studios, she had needed to learn her craft all over again. Until that point she had been a stage actress, but she quickly
discovered that acting for the movies was an altogether subtler affair. It required intense control over the tiniest nuance of gesture and facial expression. A raised eyebrow could contain an ocean
of expression. A glance was enough to convey a heart full of love or hate. You needed rigid self-discipline to portray emotion in a camera close-up, and the effort Clara put into her acting
provided useful respite from her secret life. It might seem perverse that being in front of the camera should be the place she felt most relaxed, but the spotlight was a refuge from the task she
had willingly taken on. It also provided her with an authentic cover. Clara Vine was exactly what she said she was, an actress who devoted herself diligently to each role. Except that now, in Eva
Braun’s home town, her other role suddenly felt more real and more impossible.

Having consulted the receptionist and been told to wait, she went over to a chair at the foot of the stairs, took out a silver enamel compact from her bag and applied another coat of her rapidly
dwindling Elizabeth Arden Velvet Red. Then she found her copy of
Rebecca
and tried to lose herself in the landscape of the faraway south coast of Cornwall where she had spent so many of her
childhood holidays, tramping through damp rhododendrons and picking the sand out of sandwiches beside the icy sea.

‘Clara Vine! Thank God. At least there’s someone I’ve heard of here.’

A statuesque blonde swept through the door as though pursued by a phantom horde of pressmen touting flashbulb cameras and notebooks. She was dressed as for a first night, complete with a hat
featuring a little bird picked out in diamanté, a taut silk dress against which her breasts strained, and perfume which trailed luxuriously after her like a mink wrap. Her face was a
flawless expanse of creamy foundation and her bleached hair shone like a pale flame in the dim light of the hall. Perching on the chair beside Clara, she extracted a cigarette from her bag, lit it,
took a disdainful drag and peered loftily about the hall.

Clara tried to contain her astonishment. Ursula Schilling was an A-list star, one of the country’s favourites. For years her face had stared seductively out from billboards and film
hoardings, and the gossip columns of innumerable newspapers and glossy magazines. It was a face simply made for the screen. Ursula Schilling could drown a man in the depths of her violet eyes and
unleash a tide of contempt with a twitch of her high arched brows. She possessed a kind of sulky grandeur which made men want to kiss her or slap her, usually both. Yet here she was auditioning for
a potboiler which would barely get screened at the local Munich fleapit, never mind the Ufa Palast am Zoo.

‘Ursula! What a surprise to see you!’

‘You can say that again, darling.’

Ursula gave Clara a sidelong look and exhaled a stream of smoke sideways out of her mouth. On previous occasions, when they had passed in the corridors of the Ufa studios, or rubbed shoulders at
parties, Ursula barely deigned to speak to Clara, but now, it seemed, things had changed.

‘God knows why I came. It’s not my kind of film and to top it all I’m being asked to play the wife’s friend. A role with about three lines! Fritz Gutmann told me she was
the girl-next-door type and I had to tell him, “Fritz, I’m a movie star. That’s why people come to see me. If people wanted the girl-next-door look, they could just go next
door.”’

‘But you accepted?’

A faint shrug.

‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘Herr Gutmann must have been thrilled to get you.’

‘He didn’t show much sign of it.’ Ursula flicked her hair impatiently and out of sheer habit looked around for the crowd she would usually draw.

‘What about you? Which part are you up for?’

‘Well, actually . . .’

Clara was saved from an immediate answer by a shout of greeting. A flamboyant man with a sweep of brown hair and a generous mouth was clipping down the stairs towards them. Though his SS uniform
was personally tailored by Hugo Boss, he wore it like an evening dress accessorized with an invisible feather boa.

‘Ladies! What a relief. At last we can expect some quality in this production.’

Hitler had often opined that if he had not been singled out by fate for the role of Führer and saviour of his nation, he would have chosen to be a theatrical set designer, but as it was he
would have to settle for patronizing the genius of Benno von Arent instead. The pair of them would linger late into the night, poring over the Führer’s own designs for sets and revolving
stages and lighting techniques. As well as designing blockbusters like
Viktor und Viktoria, Hitler Youth Quex
and Clara’s most recent film,
Es leuchten die Sterne,
the Reich
stage designer also had the job of transforming
Die Meistersinger
every year at the rally into a Nazi extravaganza, complete with massed crowds, flags and banners.

He glanced curiously at Clara’s book.

‘I always forget you’re English.’

‘Half, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

‘You play the German half so well. Why don’t we ever see you in the Künstlerklub?’

The Künstlerklub in Berlin was one of Goebbels’ recent business enterprises, a private members’ club with dancing, restaurant and bar. It was full of actresses with plunging
necklines and strutting Nazi officials, most notably Goebbels himself, who liked to take actresses there to discuss their work as a prelude to other matters. When he first had the idea of creating
his own nightclub Goebbels had seized on von Arent, as the Führer’s favourite, and put him in charge and the choice had paid off handsomely.

Von Arent wagged a finger. ‘No excuses. I insist you come. In fact we’re holding a reception for the Propaganda Ministry to honour the American/German artistic friendship. I think
that’s what they called it. Anyhow, everyone will be there. I’ll send you two ladies invitations when we’re back in Berlin.’