A War of Flowers (2014) (36 page)

‘What can they do?’

‘That I don’t know, but I get the impression that something is planned. Unless, of course, your Chamberlain stands up to Hitler.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on that. You’ve heard the joke. “Chamberlain takes his weekends in the country. Hitler takes a country at the weekend.”’

‘That’s the problem with you British. You’re always making jokes. No one can tell when you’re being serious. A sense of humour is a dangerous thing.’

‘On the contrary, Dieter. A sense of humour is a valuable defence. No country with a sense of humour could have elected Hitler as Chancellor.’

Adler finished his length and hauled himself from the pool.

‘Whatever you say, Rupert, this is no joking matter. I think very soon it will be decided – one way or the other.’

These ruminations were interrupted by Clara, coming through the revolving brass doors of the club wearing a fetching cream jacket and skirt. Though the suit fitted her like a
glove, she was thinner than usual and looked, even to Rupert’s jaded eye, worn and tired. She had brushed rouge into her cheeks, but there was no mistaking the dark rings round her eyes.

‘I’ve never been to this place before.’ She took a swift, automatic look around the dimly lit room. ‘Isn’t it full of army officers?’

‘And some of my best contacts.’ He slid another vodka and tonic across the table to her and was gratified to see her drink it down without demur.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Actually, Rupert, I had a little request to make.’

‘I suspected you wanted something more than the sheer enjoyment of seeing me.’

‘I need to place an advertisement in the
Chronicle.
’

‘For a friend, I take it?’

‘That’s right.’

Rupert wasn’t surprised. The Situations Wanted columns of the
Daily Chronicle
were full of requests from German Jews for any work, in exchange for the guarantee of fifty pounds
sponsorship to cover the passage to England. ‘
German couple need position, preferably together, all housekeeping and gardening possible.
’ ‘
Hanover family seek work,
anything considered.
’ ‘
Young lady, modest, hard worker, urgently looks for position with English family.
’

‘It’s to go in next week. Thursday’s edition.’

‘I could get it in sooner.’

‘No. That’s the day they want. There’s a lot of readers for the Thursday edition, apparently.’

Rupert extracted his notebook.

‘Do you have the wording?’

‘
Berlin lady seeks London employer. German and Latin tuition possible
.
Tel: Berlin 1845.
’

‘Latin? Really? Is she an intellectual, this friend of yours?’

‘She’s a keen learner.’

‘And no name?’

‘She prefers it that way.’

‘Probably wise. I wish her luck. They’re all trying to make it to England now. It’s hard enough even to get to the coast. The stations in Paris are crammed. It’s
impossible to get a ticket on the boat train.’

‘It’s going to be worse for those who stay.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I heard that von Helldorf, the Berlin police chief, wants to construct a ghetto for wealthy Jews in Berlin, charging the Jews themselves to construct
it.’

‘What do you think will happen, Rupert?’

The revolving doors ushered in a blast of cold air and a detachment of Wehrmacht officers, which, Rupert observed, seemed to make Clara uneasy. He folded some bills beneath the ashtray and they
walked out up Bendlerstrasse, past army headquarters and round the corner along the Landswehr Canal, a swollen channel of khaki with a rainbow of oil shimmering on its surface.

‘You asked me what I think will happen. I’d say Hitler is nervous beneath that swagger. He must be worried – he’s had two flak wagons attached to his special train and
arms stationed on the carriage roof. And Goebbels is planning a major rally at the Sportpalast to prepare the Party faithful for war.’

He turned towards her.

‘It’s looking rather grim, Clara. In London the schoolchildren are being evacuated. They’ve mobilized the Fleet. They’ve given out gas masks. My mother had to stop her
cook from testing her mask by putting her head in the oven.’

Clara gave a brief smile at the idea of the formidable Lady Allingham in a gas mask.

‘I know, it sounds funny. But it’s serious. All the parks are being dug up. Hyde Park is bristling with anti-aircraft guns. The hospitals are being emptied so they can accept war
casualties and the Archbishop of Canterbury has called the nation to prayer.’

‘I’ve heard nothing about that here.’

‘Are you surprised? Goebbels is doing a miraculous job of keeping it out of the press. Unfortunately my editor has the same idea.’

‘Is Winstanley still spiking your pieces?’

‘He’s convinced that Hitler has no aggressive intentions beyond the Sudetenland. He won’t listen to anyone saying that Hitler has designs on the whole of Czechoslovakia. He
asks me where is the proof? No one has ever managed to find a document with Hitler’s signature on it that suggests he has any aggressive plans at all. Until you find that, there’s no
persuading them. If I were you I’d be thinking about leaving.’

Clara longed to confide in him about the plot, but she would never have chanced it. It pained her that this man to whom she felt so close, the person who had first suggested she come and try a
career in Berlin, knew barely anything of her private life, nor she of his. They shared so much, after all – an English childhood, mutual friends, and Leo Quinn. Leo most of all. His shadow
seemed to walk between them – never mentioned, always there.

‘Nothing’s going to happen, I feel sure of it.’

How bright and optimistic her voice sounded. She looked at the windows they passed and wondered how long before they were covered with Herr Feinmann’s blackout cardboard.

Rupert seemed to accept this. He’d probably guessed already that Clara would stay put.

‘And there was me thinking you wanted to check my progress on the cruise ship girl.’

‘Oh, I did. I’m seeing Erich tomorrow and he’s sure to ask me.’

‘Turns out Erich was right. A woman did disappear off that ship. Ada Freitag, aged twenty-three. Her parents reported her missing, according to my friend in the Kripo. He found her Missing
Persons file.’

‘So they are looking for her?’

‘Apparently not. When my man went back for the file, it had disappeared. If this girl is dead, it seems someone’s very keen to keep it a secret.’

‘Because it’s bad publicity for the KdF?’

‘Perhaps. But I can’t help suspecting something more. When I asked a question about your Ada Freitag in a press conference at the Promi, Goebbels sought me out straight afterwards
and offered me an exclusive on his Mother’s Cross. That’s not like him. I know he was trying to distract me. And when I told my man at the Kripo that I’d raised it with Goebbels
he nearly had a heart attack. He advised me to stick to questions on international affairs. But why should it be more dangerous to ask questions about a girl on a cruise than the advance on the
Sudetenland? It makes no sense at all.’

Rosa was finding it impossible to concentrate on her work. Every time she started a letter, her thoughts would return to the telephone call she had received earlier that day.
She recognized the voice at once, and had almost dropped the phone in shock.

‘Is that my favourite Zarah Leander lookalike?’

It was Herr August Gerlach, the man from the cinema, and he wondered if Rosa would like to meet up.

She wondered how he had managed to track her down. She must have told him she worked at the Führerin’s office, though she didn’t recall it, but in all other respects he was
exactly as she remembered. The brash, confident voice. The jocular tone underlined with an edge of aggression. His request took her so much by surprise that she didn’t know what to say. She
didn’t really want to meet him, but nor was she quick enough to refuse. Stepping into the silence, Gerlach suggested a wine restaurant called the Ganymed on the banks of the Spree near
Friedrichstrasse and gave her the address. He would be there at seven o’clock that evening if she was free.

At the end of the afternoon she escaped to the lavatory and stared at the peeling poster on the wall.

Though women are armed only with the soup ladle and the broom, our impact must be as great as other weapons.

No opportunity for propaganda must be lost. Even in the lavatory.

Regarding herself quickly in the tiny mirror, she twisted her hair savagely back into its braid. When she was young her father had called her a stork, because she was tall and skinny, and
although she still practised the gymnastic exercises she had learned in the Bund Deutscher Mädel, she remained as stork-like as ever, only now she had thick glasses too, which concealed her
lively, expressive eyes. There was a gap between her teeth and her clothes felt dull and frumpy. Freckles were scattered liverishly across her pale face. Yet this man had seemed keen to meet up, so
there must be something about her that he liked. She checked her stockings for runs, feeling glad that she had worn her best pair that morning, then mortified at what such thoughts implied. She
drew out of her bag a tin of Khasana cheek colour and lipstick and applied them surreptitiously, praying that she would not encounter the Führerin on the way out. If the Führerin ever saw
a staff member wearing cosmetics she would stop them on the spot, whip out a handkerchief and wipe it off there and then.

In truth Rosa had simply no idea how this encounter would turn out because it was her first proper date in ages. There had been occasional outings when she was much younger with the cousin of a
friend, but they had always been in a group, and Adam was a nervy, religious boy, far too inhibited to seek intimacy. Since then Rosa rarely met any men, unless they were Party functionaries
visiting the Frauenschaft on business, or friends of her father’s who were ancient and only interested in chess. Although the BDM was nicknamed the League of German Mattresses for the
frequency with which girls found themselves pregnant after social outings with the HJ, Rosa’s experience had been one of excessive athletics and blameless chastity. Her Arbeit Service had
been spent with a gaggle of other girls on a potato farm north of Berlin, and now she found herself at the Frauenschaft, in a world run for women by women, and despite everything the Führerin
said about raising the birth rate, Rosa could think of no way that she was ever going to meet a man. Sometimes in Germany it was as though politicians wanted to keep men and women in entirely
separate compartments, like sugar and flour, or dynamite and matches, not to be mixed.

As she hurried down Derfflingerstrasse towards the Kurfürstenstrasse U-Bahn she wondered what Herr Gerlach would talk about. Susi had led her to understand that men mostly wanted to talk
about themselves, which was fine by her, but she worried that she might need a few conversational topics just in case. Not politics, obviously, and not work either. Gerlach didn’t look like a
man who was too keen on literature, and she didn’t want to risk discussing an author who might turn out to be degenerate. It would have to be movies. That, or dogs.

With a shudder she remembered the motto of the Love and Marriage talk.
Keep your body pure! Do not remain single! Choose a spouse of similar blood! Hope for as many children as possible!
They didn’t seem to be very specific guidelines for a dating situation. She wished she had taken some tips from Susi, but her sister said Rosa was immature – that she saw the world in
terms of fairy tales and lived a kind of fantasy life which prevented her from seeing the world as it really was – ‘one long disappointment’. Rosa needed to grow up, Susi said, or
she’d never find a man.

In the U-Bahn a wave of nausea engulfed her. The smell of sweat, old cooking oil and worse reeked pungently from the crowds on the platform. That was the worst thing about the shortage of soap.
Straphanging on the train, up close to your fellow citizens, it was almost impossible to forget that Berliners were now forced to wash their clothes in plain water, if they bothered at all, that
was. Rosa wanted to press a handkerchief to her nose but she was far too polite, so she took out a copy of
NS-Frauen-Warte
magazine and tried to focus on an article about Marlene Dietrich in
a velvet trouser suit in Hollywood. Rosa wondered what America was like. Everything she knew about America came from the movies and Karl May’s Westerns, mostly involving deserts, Red Indians
and bears. Karl May’s cowboy adventures were the Führer’s favourites; he had spoken about them on the wireless. The stories gave him courage and he recommended them to all his top
men.

Gerlach was leaning against a lamppost outside the restaurant. When he recognized Rosa, he straightened up and flicked away the butt of his cigarette, a slow smile spreading across his thin
mouth.

‘I hoped you’d come.’

Almost immediately she wondered why she was there. She felt no excitement or pleasure at all at seeing August Gerlach, more a vague feeling of disappointment. He looked older than he had at the
cinema, at least thirty-five she guessed, and the film star glamour he had possessed beneath the cinema’s neon lights had faded to a scrappy moustache and wolfishly prominent canines. He wore
a sharp grey suit, a slightly grubby fedora, and his sleek, oiled hair glistened beneath the lamplight. She fortified herself by thinking how pleased her mother would be if she said she had had a
drink with a man. Perhaps it was normal to want to walk away again as fast as possible.

Gerlach took her elbow and she tried to stop herself flinching at the unexpected touch as he led her to one of the outside tables which lined the Spree, facing Friedrichstrasse. Dusk was falling
and the bright, arterial pulses of neon rippled like diamonds on the water. Above the S-Bahn arch opposite, a train tore through the air, heading out into the suburbs, and Rosa looked up at the
faces in the lighted windows, wishing she were among them.