Faith and Beauty (32 page)

‘Yes. I think so.’

He caught her horse’s reins and slung them across a branch, then came down to squat beside her.

‘Rest a minute. Lean against my arm. You need a moment to recover.’

He was right. The shock of the fall had momentarily dazed her. She leant back against him and when he touched a tentative hand to her forehead, she did not resist.

He had lean hands, the hands of a pianist or an artist or a surgeon. Hardly the hands of a member of Himmler’s élite. But then, what were the hands of an Obersturmbannführer supposed to look like? Once the blood had returned to Clara’s head, she sprang up, brushed herself down, and patted her hair back into place.

Adler helped her back into the saddle, the old, sardonic smile back in place.

‘You should think about it, Clara. After all, I’m not a ghost. I do have the great advantage of being flesh and blood.’

Chapter Twenty-six

She had lived all her life in Berlin, yet Hedwig had never set foot in the Admiralspalast, even though it was everything she loved. With its scrolly, Expressionist façade, it was the biggest and brashest of the fantasy palaces which lit up Friedrichstrasse’s theatre land. The Admiralspalast was a great, baroque barn of a place seating twenty thousand people for a repertoire that included dance acts, operetta, magicians, and every aspect of light entertainment. It was probably the last place on earth that Jochen would want to visit, so it was with a mixture of astonishment and delight that she heard he had tickets for the Saturday evening show.

That night an eager queue wound along the street. Theatre audiences were up this summer. Everyone was trying to escape the worries of the present – the continual daily niggles of what the next meal might resemble, and after they’d eaten it, how to look presentable enough to go out. And once they’d got there, whether the gaudy signs and blinking neon billboards of the theatre might be plunged into darkness when war arrived in a few months’ time. Just then, all anyone wanted was to lose themselves in a few hours of romantic nonsense and that evening’s variety performance perfectly fitted the bill.

Standing beneath the pillared entrance, her face dappled emerald and ruby in the flashing light, Hedwig shuffled her feet and hoped Jochen would not be much longer. Her legs ached. All day they had been practising waltzes for Minister Goering’s ball. Their own ball dresses – white taffeta and silk with blue sashes – were not yet finished, so they were wearing gym kit, which only seemed to make the waltz practice more ridiculous, and the routine was being supervised by Fräulein von Essen, whose hefty form was more at home on an alpine hike than pirouetting around a dance floor.

Waltzes were what the Führer loved best, due to his Austrian heritage, and not only would the Führer actually be present, there was a chance that one of the Faith and Beauty girls would be asked to dance with him. Even the thought of that made Hedwig rigid with horror. If the Führer’s gaze fell on her, would she have the courage to go through with it, or would her legs simply give way beneath her? She consoled herself with the knowledge that Fräulein von Essen would regard the partnering of Hedwig and Hitler with precisely the same horror, and would ensure that if there was any line of female partners for the Führer, Hedwig would be at the back of it.

Especially after that morning’s practice. Hedwig had been partnering Hilde, one of the prettiest and most graceful of the Faith and Beauty girls, with a doll’s delicate, creamy complexion and a glossy crown of braids. It was bad enough that Hedwig had two left feet, but Hilde’s skill made everything worse. A couple of Kripo detectives, part of the investigation team for Lotti’s murder, loitered at the doorway, ogling and making ribald remarks, and the sensation of the policemen’s eyes on her made Hedwig trip on Hilde’s feet and even from the other side of the room she could hear their snorts of laughter.

She gazed anxiously up the street. Friedrichstrasse was thronged with people. The crowds flowed seamlessly between those returning from work and others setting out for an evening’s entertainment. Trams screeched, people jostled and neon dazzled all around them. The show was due to start in less than five minutes and Jochen was nowhere to be seen.

I was going to ask you something
.

Every night since he had said that, she had lain awake, puzzling over it, cherishing it like some delicious secret, wondering what it might be. Or, more precisely, what her decision would be, because she had guessed already what Jochen was going to ask.

He was planning for them to elope. The idea sent a thrill through her, even as she mentally shied away from the daring it would entail. How would she pluck up the courage to leave the home she had known all her life? There would be more work for her mother without help in the kitchen, let alone with all the boys. Yet also there would be one less mouth to feed, and with the apartment so crowded, they could use the extra space. But how could she leave the children? How would darling Kurt, with his sleepy smile and milky breath, cope without her? Kurt was more like her own child than her brother. What would it do to him if she suddenly disappeared?

Despite these dilemmas, Jochen’s proposition had come as a welcome distraction. It was the only thing diverting her from endless brooding about Lotti’s death.

‘Sorry I’m late, Hedy. Work.’

He broke into her dreams with a gust of cold air and a rough kiss on the cheek. He had his briefcase in one hand, and with the other he took hers and tugged her through the throng. ‘We have precisely two minutes.’

They edged their way in through the crowds and settled in a row at the front of the stalls, waiting for the luxurious swags of purple velvet to rise and reveal the stage.

‘What have you been doing?’ he whispered.

‘Practising for Reichsminister Goering’s ball.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

He was being polite. That was another change. Jochen had been in a difficult mood lately and much as she tended to attribute all problems to her own deficiencies, she knew it was more likely down to the stress of work. His company had been working overtime making anniversary editions of
Mein Kampf
and Jochen was an important part of that, crafting the elaborate, mediaeval-style frontispiece for each edition in Gothic writing, replete with swirls of black ink, oak leaf swags and fat little cherubs at the margins.

‘It’s not just dancing. We’re having to practise conversation. They say it’s important that the Prince of Yugoslavia gets a good impression of Germany.’

Most girls could barely lift their thoughts above their families and their favourite movies, but Faith and Beauty girls needed to understand the currents that motivated world affairs.

‘Apparently Russia holds a Bolshevik dagger at Germany’s throat but Prince Paul can help the Führer restore balance to Europe.’

‘And how exactly will he manage that?’

‘I can’t remember.’

Hedwig was sketchy on the details because she had lost all ability to concentrate. Every visit to the Faith and Beauty home these days filled her with apprehension. Everything had changed. The place was buzzing with policemen, shouldering their way through the corridors, building a picture of Lotti’s last hours. A pair of detectives had even come into the art class and hauled Herr Fritzl out for questioning. Hedwig couldn’t help thinking that his face, chalky with fright, had resembled one of the pieces of Degenerate Art he was so keen to condemn.

‘They read out an address from Reichsführer Himmler. He says he wants us to be Hohe Frauen, Sublime Women. We’re going to be trained in several languages, as well as debating and chess.’

‘So I’m taking out a sublime woman, eh? I don’t need Heini Himmler to tell me that.’

She could feel the undercurrent of laughter in Jochen’s voice. Not derisive mockery, like the Kripo men, but affectionate amusement.

The lights darkened and she shuffled down in her seat as the chorus line came on. A variety show always started with the chorus, before the individual acts got going. The orchestra struck up
Dein ist mein ganzes Herz
, the song that Richard Tauber had sung to Marlene Dietrich in
The Land of Smiles
. You Are My Heart’s Delight. It could hardly be more perfect. She reached across to Jochen and felt his warm fingers stroke the back of her hand.

Even though they were dressed in feathers and tulle, the girls performed with as much military discipline as any stormtrooper on the Führer’s birthday parade. When they goose-stepped, turned, bent and regarded the audience through their parted legs, Hedwig expected to feel Jochen stiffen with distaste, but instead he was transfixed. It was a revelation to her that he might like dancing. She hoped he never wanted to dance with her.

The girls changed costumes and returned dressed as Red Indians with strategically placed feathers preserving what little modesty they possessed. Watching Jochen more closely out of the corner of her eye, Hedwig realized that despite their shapely legs and high kicks, it was not the dancers that had captured his attention but the orchestra. And in particular, one member of the orchestra. Following his gaze, she saw a stunningly lovely brunette playing lead violin, her instrument clenched beneath her chin and her bow sawing the air with febrile energy. She must have been in her early twenties, her thick chestnut hair bundled up like ballerina’s from a face that acted as a mirror to the passions of the music, by turns grave and joyful. Jochen seemed entirely captivated by her, as though all the dancers, musicians, the theatre audience and even Hedwig herself simply did not exist.

A blind surge of jealousy rose in her. Early in their relationship she had coaxed out of Jochen the dismaying news that he preferred brunettes to blondes, except in her case. Now, she guessed, he was reverting to type.

It had rained again during the show and when they emerged from the theatre two hours later Friedrichstrasse was glinting with a thin sheen of water, the puddles rippling with speckled light. People jostled for cabs and flung up their umbrellas. Others huddled into their fur collars and turned down the brim of their hats. To her surprise Jochen seized her hand and ushered her around the corner down the dank alley to the theatre’s stage door.

‘I just need to see someone for a moment. Don’t mind, do you? It’s work.’

‘Work?’

His face shuttered in the way that brooked no argument.

‘I’ll be out in a moment.’

Hedwig stood mutely beneath the misty light of the stage door, trying to keep out of the rain and to prevent herself being engulfed in a wave of misery and outrage. How could Jochen bring her to the theatre if his true interest was a brunette who played the violin? Did he imagine she wouldn’t notice, or did he think she was the kind of doormat to tolerate some amorous adventure when he was supposed to be on a date with her? She heard her mother’s voice again, with its knowing, cynical ring.

That boy is not to be trusted.

Less than two minutes later Jochen was back, briefcase under one arm.

Hedwig walked stiffly, trying to transmit her unhappiness through silence, but Jochen actually preferred walking without conversation, so eventually she said, ‘What was all that about?’

‘All what?’

His mouth was a tight line and his jaw was set like rock. As they dodged the crowds pouring out of theatres and cinemas, he increased his stride.

‘The girl in the orchestra. I saw you watching her. Then you went to meet her, didn’t you?’

He gave a little humourless laugh.

‘You’re not jealous, surely.’

He was walking fast. Hedwig had to do a little skip to keep up.

‘Why did you see her?’

There was an even longer silence so that she feared he was furious, and part of her longed to abandon the matter entirely, though another part insisted that she discover everything. After a while he said, fiercely, ‘You don’t want to ask these questions. You won’t like the answers.’

‘Just tell me!’

They had proceeded as far as the Gendarmenmarkt, where the grey stone Concert House was flanked by two matching cathedrals, the French and the German. The plinth where the bust of Schiller, Germany’s Shakespeare, had stood for generations was still empty, having been removed a few years previously on account of his new-found degenerate status.

Still Jochen stared ahead, saying nothing. Something intense and dangerous loomed between them. Hedwig didn’t care any more about the rain that blurred her spectacles and mingled with her tears. She didn’t know where they were heading, or why the man she loved was behaving in this cruel and unfamiliar fashion. Her voice choked in her throat.

‘Jochen?’

Eventually he replied.

‘Are you sure you want to hear?’

She nodded weakly. She didn’t trust herself to talk.

‘All right. I’ll tell you. Her name is Sofie. We meet every Tuesday.’

‘Do you love her?’ she said, in a small, stricken voice.

‘Sofie has nothing to do with you and me.’

‘I asked if you loved her.’

‘I admire her, certainly.’

‘How long have you known her?’

‘Some time.’

‘And where do you meet?’

‘Her father has a villa in Dahlem.’

It was everything Hedwig feared. Her beloved Jochen was in love with a clever, rich, beautiful woman. A woman whose family lived in Dahlem, which was so far from Moabit in its social status, it might as well have been Timbuktu. No social graces Hedwig could ever learn at the Faith and Beauty Society – no amount of ballroom dancing, or flower arranging or chess – could match the social status of a girl called Sofie who lived in a villa in Dahlem.

‘And does she take you there?’

‘Yes. For dinner. Her family know all kinds of artists, politicians and priests. Important people. They talk about literature; Brecht, Schiller. Other people I’ve not heard of.’

A conflict of emotions warred in his face.

‘A lot of them are aristocrats, bohemians. Not my sort. But their hearts are in the right place. And the main thing is . . .’

He stopped, turned to her and moved his face very close.