Read Online A War of Flowers (2014) by Jane Thynne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Thynne
Tags: Historical/Fiction
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beneath. But there was no listening device inside.
Nothing suspicious at all. Just roses.
Chapter Five
Berlin
‘He fixes the horoscopes, you know.’
Steffi Schaeffer nodded towards Clara’s copy of the
Berliner Tageblatt
and gave a sniff more robust than seemed possible for a woman of such refined appearance, in her pale grey
linen skirt and jacket, with a silk flower in her lapel.
‘Who does?’ asked Clara.
‘Goebbels,’ said Steffi, scornfully. ‘He tailors them. He likes people to think that everything’s going well. He orders them to print lines like
A successful and happy
day. Germany is a land of smiles!
Ha! Has he looked at the faces in the streets recently? You don’t notice many smiles there.’
Clara glanced out of the window at the street below. She was back in Berlin all right, and just as Steffi said, a single glance at the citizens was better than any horoscope at predicting the
general mood. The sultry heat had not broken and worry whipped the streets like a dry summer wind. Most people darted along in a hurried way, as if on urgent business, heads down, trying not to
attract attention. Most likely the people in the street below were heading home because they were Jews served with a curfew and must perform all necessary tasks within daylight hours or risk
arrest.
The two women were in a small studio with a scruffy, pockmarked façade, north of the Hackescher Markt in the Scheunenviertel. This quarter had been the centre of Jewish life in Berlin for
centuries. Its narrow streets were the first port of call for Ostjuden refugees fleeing from the east and it was now the hub of Berlin’s textile trade. Shafts of light from the high windows
illuminated a room dominated by a large wooden table, crowded with rolled bolts of vivid cloth, scissors, pins and kaleidoscopic spools of cotton. Tailors’ dummies stood around like ghostly
guests in half-finished finery, and hat stands bore toques, turbans, pillboxes and tip-brimmed hats in felt, flowers, feathers and pastel braided straw. It was a place of disguise and concealment,
which was fitting considering that Steffi Schaeffer’s other role was as part of a resistance network helping Jews to leave Germany. Clara had never discussed this aspect of Steffi’s
secret life with her, but her friend Bruno Weiss, the painter, had secured a false passport and travel documents to Switzerland courtesy of this elegant and popular woman.
Outside, a passage led off from the street to a dingy courtyard containing a patchwork of workspaces and storage areas occupied by tailors and cloth sellers. Stalls on the pavement sold ribbons
and buttons and the shops were largely selling clothing, stockings and shoes. On the street side many of the shop fronts were painted with a white J, as well as obscene cartoons, six-pointed stars
and pictures of Jews being hanged, a decoration for which they had roving bands of stormtroopers to thank, or sometimes brigades of Hitler Youth sent out on Saturday mornings with paint pots and
brushes.
Clara turned back to Steffi, who was at that moment darting around her dress with a mouthful of pins, adjusting the hem.
‘I thought Goebbels took horoscopes really seriously,’ she said. ‘He and Hitler often consult the horoscope of the Third Reich when they’re planning policy.’
‘He does,’ said Steffi. ‘He even loves Nostradamus. He says that Nostradamus predicted German troops would march to the Rhine and occupy Vienna and now he’s saying that
Nostradamus predicts Hitler will triumph in the Sudetenland too. The destiny of the Third Reich is written in the stars, though that doesn’t stop Goebbels from giving it a helping
hand.’
She pursed her mouth and jabbed the pins into the cushion on the table. ‘But then I suppose none of us knows what’s coming so it may as well be Goebbels as anyone else.’
A tough life and the loss of her husband five years ago, not to mention nights of sleepless anxiety
Nothing suspicious at all. Just roses.
Chapter Five
Berlin
‘He fixes the horoscopes, you know.’
Steffi Schaeffer nodded towards Clara’s copy of the
Berliner Tageblatt
and gave a sniff more robust than seemed possible for a woman of such refined appearance, in her pale grey
linen skirt and jacket, with a silk flower in her lapel.
‘Who does?’ asked Clara.
‘Goebbels,’ said Steffi, scornfully. ‘He tailors them. He likes people to think that everything’s going well. He orders them to print lines like
A successful and happy
day. Germany is a land of smiles!
Ha! Has he looked at the faces in the streets recently? You don’t notice many smiles there.’
Clara glanced out of the window at the street below. She was back in Berlin all right, and just as Steffi said, a single glance at the citizens was better than any horoscope at predicting the
general mood. The sultry heat had not broken and worry whipped the streets like a dry summer wind. Most people darted along in a hurried way, as if on urgent business, heads down, trying not to
attract attention. Most likely the people in the street below were heading home because they were Jews served with a curfew and must perform all necessary tasks within daylight hours or risk
arrest.
The two women were in a small studio with a scruffy, pockmarked façade, north of the Hackescher Markt in the Scheunenviertel. This quarter had been the centre of Jewish life in Berlin for
centuries. Its narrow streets were the first port of call for Ostjuden refugees fleeing from the east and it was now the hub of Berlin’s textile trade. Shafts of light from the high windows
illuminated a room dominated by a large wooden table, crowded with rolled bolts of vivid cloth, scissors, pins and kaleidoscopic spools of cotton. Tailors’ dummies stood around like ghostly
guests in half-finished finery, and hat stands bore toques, turbans, pillboxes and tip-brimmed hats in felt, flowers, feathers and pastel braided straw. It was a place of disguise and concealment,
which was fitting considering that Steffi Schaeffer’s other role was as part of a resistance network helping Jews to leave Germany. Clara had never discussed this aspect of Steffi’s
secret life with her, but her friend Bruno Weiss, the painter, had secured a false passport and travel documents to Switzerland courtesy of this elegant and popular woman.
Outside, a passage led off from the street to a dingy courtyard containing a patchwork of workspaces and storage areas occupied by tailors and cloth sellers. Stalls on the pavement sold ribbons
and buttons and the shops were largely selling clothing, stockings and shoes. On the street side many of the shop fronts were painted with a white J, as well as obscene cartoons, six-pointed stars
and pictures of Jews being hanged, a decoration for which they had roving bands of stormtroopers to thank, or sometimes brigades of Hitler Youth sent out on Saturday mornings with paint pots and
brushes.
Clara turned back to Steffi, who was at that moment darting around her dress with a mouthful of pins, adjusting the hem.
‘I thought Goebbels took horoscopes really seriously,’ she said. ‘He and Hitler often consult the horoscope of the Third Reich when they’re planning policy.’
‘He does,’ said Steffi. ‘He even loves Nostradamus. He says that Nostradamus predicted German troops would march to the Rhine and occupy Vienna and now he’s saying that
Nostradamus predicts Hitler will triumph in the Sudetenland too. The destiny of the Third Reich is written in the stars, though that doesn’t stop Goebbels from giving it a helping
hand.’
She pursed her mouth and jabbed the pins into the cushion on the table. ‘But then I suppose none of us knows what’s coming so it may as well be Goebbels as anyone else.’
A tough life and the loss of her husband five years ago, not to mention nights of sleepless anxiety
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