A War of Flowers (2014) (18 page)

‘Which can’t come soon enough,’ added Ursula.

‘Come, come, sweetheart, it’s not that bad. This may not be Babelsberg but I shall be making you the most magnificent costumes. Get the clothes right and the rest will follow,
that’s what I always say. They tell me the script is an absolute disaster, but if there is any way of saving us all from total humiliation . . .’ He whirled round. ‘And
here’s our director now.’

If it was true that Fritz Gutmann was preparing to flee to England, he was giving no sign of it, other than a complexion as grey and mottled as the ash from his own cigarettes and a frame as
starved as a Giacometti sculpture. His green-shaded director’s cap with tufts of hair sticking out reminded Clara of the ostriches at Berlin Zoo. He was not Jewish – or he would have
been barred from working as a director by the Reich Chamber of Culture – but his films were hardly noted for their ideological fidelity to the Reich and were routinely branded as turkeys in
the press conferences of the Reich Chamber of Film. This latest production would, no doubt, suffer the same fate. When he shook hands Clara noticed that his nails were bitten to the quick.

‘Thank you so much for coming, everyone. Fräulein Vine, perhaps if we could talk first. Would you follow me?’

He led the way into a hall, shut the door firmly behind them, glanced around and lowered his voice.

‘I appreciate you coming. It’s not always easy to tempt actresses to Geiselgasteig any more.’

The Geiselgasteig studios, which occupied a leafy plot of land a short train ride south of Munich, had an illustrious history. During the silent era they had attracted prestigious foreign
directors including Alfred Hitchcock, and people began to refer to the studios as ‘Los Angeles on the Isar’. But all that had changed since the Reich Chamber of Culture took over the
film industry and any movies that were daring, experimental, or strayed outside Goebbels’ rigid parameters were destined to be cast-iron flops.

‘Have you found pleasant accommodation?’

Clara had booked a room just a few minutes’ walk away in a small pension in Maximiliansplatz. It was a gloomy place with all the atmosphere of a funeral parlour. Her bedroom had a bed of
heavy, Bavarian fretted wood and a tiny desk covered with an embroidered cloth, but the furniture was polished, the sheets clean and the window overlooked a leafy square decorated with terraces and
stone urns and a large bronze statue of Goethe.

‘Thank you. Yes.’

‘You come highly recommended from London Films. I met them first when they were scouting for locations in Munich. Are you familiar with their work?’

So there was to be no overt mention of Guy Hamilton’s elaborate plan. Alexander Korda’s film studios may have been engaged in a high-stakes espionage scheme, but Fritz Gutmann was
not going to risk discussing it and however impatient Clara was to broach the real purpose of her presence in Munich, she knew he was right.

‘I am.’

He tilted his head curiously on one side.

‘Do you miss England?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I hope to see it myself someday.’

A flicker of understanding passed between them,

‘Soon, I hope.’

His face relaxed into a smile. ‘I hope so too. I should tell you, Fräulein Vine, that I have followed your career with some interest. I remember your first film for Ufa,
Schwarze
Rosen
, wasn’t it? That glance you gave when you said goodbye to Hans Albers – I’ve never forgotten it. It was only fleeting, but you managed to express so much. That’s
what I always tell my cast: a good actor should be able to compress a thousand words into a momentary glance. Anyone brought up with silent films understands that, but our modern actors,
unfortunately, seem to believe that a bellowing voice or clever script will do the job for them.’ Snapping out of this reverie, he continued, ‘Anyhow, about this part . . . ’

Ushering her to the back of the hall, he continued with a rapid rundown of the film and the part of Sophia of Celle, George 1st’s unfaithful wife.

‘It’s a wonderful story. A tale of unrequited love. You’ve done a few of those.’

‘My speciality.’

‘Indeed. Sophia spent decades in love with a Swedish count, even though she was thrown in prison by her husband on account of it. That’s my only concern actually.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s the issue of portraying an unfaithful wife. You know how it is. The last thing we want is the Minister ordering a last minute rewrite of history.’

‘He didn’t seem to mind when I mentioned it to him.’

Gutmann paled visibly. ‘You mentioned my film to Goebbels?’

The director could not have looked more terrified if Clara had been wearing a Gestapo leather coat instead of a Jaeger jacket and carrying a search warrant in place of her crocodile clutch
bag.

‘Have I caused a problem?’ she said anxiously.

‘No, of course not. You probably had no choice. And the script has been approved. We submitted it to the Ministry for all the usual moral, political and racial purity checks. We’ve
ensured there’s no Jewish music in the score and of course we had to observe the ban on images of political unrest, which will rule out our crowd scenes.’ Gutmann was ticking off the
regulations on his fingers, as though terrified to have forgotten a rule. ‘But I didn’t expect to attract the attention of Doktor Goebbels. Generally it’s only the lowly officials
who handle pre-censorship, unless something specifically catches the Minister’s eye.’

‘He seemed to think it was fine, as long as she dies at the end.’

‘Ha! It would probably help if she could turn out to be Jewish too. No matter. With my films . . .’ Gutmann shrugged. ‘Let’s just say, the Herr Doktor does not view my
output with especial enthusiasm. But I thought I’d be safe with a historical theme.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be a success.’

‘And I’m grateful for your confidence. But Goebbels is always a worry to me, to be honest. Film matters so much to him and he notices everything. The only time I had the experience
of meeting him, he told me that the entire Third Reich could be seen as a cinematic event . . .’

He halted mid flow and straightened up. ‘Excuse me, but I think there’s someone who’d like to meet you.’

The slam of a door behind them caused him to halt mid-flow and Clara turned to see that another person had entered the room. It was a young woman in her mid-twenties, with a stiff raffia hat set
jauntily to one side of her head and soft curls that reached her shoulders. She wore a green dress with a sweetheart neckline and carried a calfskin bag with a shiny enamelled swastika for a clasp.
Though she had never seen the woman before, Clara recognized her at once.

Eva Braun.

The woman paused a moment, before stepping forward confidently and extending a hand.

‘Fräulein Vine, I’m so pleased you agreed to see me.’

Clara allowed no inkling of surprise to cross her face. This was the person she had come to see. The object of her mission. The woman who, if Guy Hamilton was to be believed, was the only person
on earth privy to the Führer’s true plans, motivations and intentions. The girl who might hold the fate of the world in her white lace gloves.

Gutmann sprang forward as though propelled by an electric charge.

‘May I introduce Fräulein Braun?’

‘I hope you didn’t mind me writing to you last year.’ Eva Braun’s voice was softer than the senior Nazi wives, gentle and hesitant compared to the confident rasp of Frau
von Ribbentrop, or the husky tones of Magda Goebbels.

‘I expect you get a lot of bother from fans.’

‘Not at all. I was flattered to receive your letter.’

Despite the girlish façade, a single glance at Eva Braun’s face told Clara there was a core of steel behind the shy exterior. Everything about her appearance was in direct
contradiction of Hitler’s cherished notions of feminine beauty. Her carefully styled hair was peroxided, despite his hatred of artificial colours, and her liberal use of foundation and
lipstick made mockery of the Führer’s famous ban on cosmetics. Clara was reminded suddenly of a character she had once played in Noël Coward’s
Hay Fever –
Sorel
Bliss – charming, brittle and outwardly girlish, with a glimmer of steel beneath the surface.

‘
Black Roses
is one of my favourite films. Wolf and I have seen it several times at the Berghof.’

The reference to Hitler’s mountain-top fortress was deliberate. As was the use of her nickname for him – Wolf. It ensured that Clara knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the topic of
the Führer need not be taboo with Eva Braun. Indeed, it might be practically compulsory.

‘We watch a movie every night at the Berghof. Sometimes two. He loves movies. He says a great film has the power of a great speech.’

At last Eva Braun seemed to notice Gutmann, quivering beside her.

‘I do hope I’m not interrupting, Herr Gutmann?’

‘Not at all, gnädiges Fräulein,’ he stammered.

Clara’s mind was calculating rapidly. She may be exchanging pleasantries with the Führer’s girlfriend, but there was no chance of forming any deeper acquaintance so long as
Gutmann was quaking like a leaf alongside them. She needed to get Eva on her own.

‘I wonder . . . Fräulein Braun. I’m longing for some tea. Would you like to join me?’

‘That would be lovely. Herr Gutmann, are you coming too?’

Gutmann recoiled as though he had been asked to take tea with a rattlesnake. A shudder of horror ran through him, which he failed to disguise.

‘So busy right now, gnädiges Fräulein, so many people to see . . .’ he muttered. ‘In fact,’ he turned to Clara, ‘why don’t we dispense with the
audition? I know you’d be perfect for the part. Filming begins in two days’ time. May I assume you are interested in the role?’

‘I’m interested, yes.’

‘Very good then. Costume fittings start on Friday. Could you talk to my production manager about timings and so on?’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

He started as Clara pointed at the script in his hand.

‘Oh.’ Almost as an afterthought he held out the wedge of paper. ‘Of course.’

Before he could hand the script to her the tremor in his hand caused him to drop it and the papers fluttered to the ground like the petals of a blown rose. Gutmann scrabbled to pick them up,
losing his spectacles in the process, and Eva Braun regarded him impassively, as if he were a waiter who had dropped his tray.

‘I’ve an idea,’ she said brightly. ‘As we’re having tea, why don’t we go to my favourite café? If you’ve finished business for the day, of
course, Fräulein Vine?’

‘Please call me Clara.’

Clara picked up her bag and took the pages, wishing fervently that there was a script for the encounter to come.

The taxi delivered them to the Hofgarten, Munich’s beautiful central square, and they crossed the sun-dappled cloister to the Café Heck. The fine weather had
brought out the crowds and around the gravelled paths men in typical Bavarian costume – short leather trousers and knee socks, and small green hats planted on their shaven heads –
strolled, accompanied by stout matrons in ankle-length dirndls and with frothy lace at their bosoms. In the centre of the square a brass band had set up base, thumping out a medley of uplifting
Bavarian songs.

As they entered the café, heads swivelled and the man opposite them blatantly lowered his newspaper to stare. Eva planted herself at a window table, fully aware that all eyes were on her.
Indeed she seemed to bask in the attention, pursing up her crimson lips and blowing a long stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

‘Don’t mind them gawping. You’re lucky we’re not with him,’ she quipped. ‘Then everyone stands and applauds.’

Clara wondered how much knowledge of Eva Braun’s position she might presume. Her existence, after all, was unknown to most loyal, Führer-abiding Germans. She was a state secret, and
no newspaper stories about her or pictures of her could be published. When they travelled together, Hitler ensured that she remained in a separate car, well behind his own, and even on Alpine walks
she was obliged to linger behind, lest any passers-by jump to conclusions. Yet Eva had brought her here, to Hitler’s favourite café, and openly referred to her trips to the
Obersalzberg.

Now, she leant confidentially across the table.

‘It’s lovely to meet you in person, Clara. I adore the movies and I’ve seen all of yours. I keep loads of film stills and photographs, I collect everything. It’s silly I
know, but I adore it. I met Herr Gutmann at a function and I mentioned you, and I was so thrilled when he offered to introduce me.’

They ordered glasses of Orange Pekoe tea, and Eva Braun’s eyes roved over a glass cabinet of cream cakes, Black Forest gateaux and puff pastries, before she settled on Kaiserschmarrn, a
mess of cream and cherry sauce enveloped in a pancake.

‘I don’t know why I eat this. It’s terribly sickly but it’s Wolf’s favourite. I suppose I order it out of habit. Bad habit!’

She gave a little laugh, and gestured at her waist.

‘I’ll need to keep my figure if I’m ever going to act myself.’

Clara almost choked on her cinnamon cake. ‘I didn’t realize . . . are you planning on an acting career?’

Eva fixed her with wide blue eyes.

‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

‘And are you, I mean, do you have any plans?’

‘I act already.’ She gave a modest smile. ‘Just putting on plays with friends. I know that sounds a bit amateurish to you, but at the moment it’s all he’ll allow me
to do. I love making my own little films and getting my schoolfriends to act in them. Wolf – the Führer – gave me a cine camera for my nineteenth birthday and I never go anywhere
without it. Since then I’ve got lots more equipment too; an Agfa and a Leica and a Siemens movie camera. So you see I’m as much at home behind the camera as in front of it.’

‘How did you first meet the Führer?’

Eva shrugged dismissively, as though she didn’t want to dwell on the less glamorous parts of her career.

‘I worked for his photographer, Heinrich Hoffmann, not far from here, in Schellingstrasse. I took the orders and supervised the framing and so on. I had a lot of time on my hands so I used
to spend time looking through Hoffmann’s drawers at all the photographs of Wolf. Not very flattering, most of them!’