arrived.’
‘But you have favourable impressions so far?’
What were her impressions so far? There was the mood of nervous uncertainty at Babelsberg, the graffiti she had seen spattered on walls and shops threatening death to the Jews, the brown-shirted storm troopers bullying people into parting with money for their collecting tins, and the marching band that had stamped past her as though they hoped to grind the very soil of Germany beneath their boots. Which of those would Müller consider a true account of National Socialism?
‘I’m surprised to see so many men wearing uniform. I mean it’s not as if anyone’s at war.’
‘A uniform is a mark of pride.’
‘Is it? I think uniforms give people airs. It’s like an actor wearing a costume. It makes people forget what they are underneath.’
For a moment Müller’s eyes widened and a shadow crossed his features. No one, she realized, generally answered him back.
‘I believe, Fräulein, you’ll find people here like a uniform. It gives them a sense of solidarity. It gives them the opportunity to feel that they belong to the group.’
Clara took a sip of her champagne. ‘I’d say it gives them the opportunity to intimidate people when they’re filling up their collecting boxes.’
Suddenly Müller rose to his feet. Craning behind her, Clara was aware of a tall woman approaching them, her heels clicking on the black and white marble floor. She wore a Schiaparelli evening gown in ivory, which flattered her creamy skin, and pearls the size of little birds’ eggs hung round her neck. Her platinum hair was waved tightly around her face and a gust of perfume attended her. The flesh of her arms had the dense solidity of a Greek statue, and her eyes had a statue’s veiled, impenetrable stare.
‘Herr Doktor Müller! Just who I wanted to see!’
Müller clicked his heels. ‘Frau Doktor Goebbels. How are you?’
She had a deep, fluting voice, a little clipped. ‘Good, thank you, though a little tired with the move.’
‘I heard. Is the new house to your liking?’
She sighed. ‘The apartment was becoming too cramped. I liked it, but Joseph wanted something that fit better with his official duties.’
Müller gestured towards Clara. ‘This is Clara Vine. She’s the daughter of Sir Ronald Vine, the English politician.’
The woman seemed to notice Clara for the first time and looked at her curiously.
‘Is that so? I have some English friends. They have promised to come and visit us.’
‘Miss Vine is acting at Babelsberg.’ Müller gave a stiff little gesture towards their companions. ‘Helga Schmidt perhaps you know.’
Frau Goebbels glanced at Helga and something in her expression hardened momentarily.
Müller turned to Clara. ‘Frau Doktor Goebbels is the wife of the Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.’
Clara nodded politely, thinking what a dreadful mouthful that title was to be saddled with.
‘But we prefer to call her the First Lady of the Third Reich,’ he added, with a gallant bow.
The sigh was replaced with a bright smile.
‘Well, it’s good luck I ran into you. I’m planning a cocktail party tomorrow night at our new home. Won’t you come? And bring Fräulein Vine with you?’ She glanced briefly at Bauer. ‘And your young lady too, Herr Bauer.’
Clara looked around her to see Helga open-mouthed.
Chapter Seven
‘Filthy tea, I’m afraid. I’ll ask Miss Jenkins to bring fresh, if you like. You’d think in the British Embassy tea would be the one thing we could get right.’
Sir Horace Rumbold poured a watery stream from the silver teapot, pushed a cup towards Leo, then leant on the stiff-backed sofa with a sigh. The British ambassador was a lofty man, whose benign, mild-mannered face and flaring nostrils gave him the look of a friendly camel. His neat moustache and horn-rimmed spectacles imparted a myopic expression, quite at odds with his keen wit and sharp sense of humour. He had asked Leo to see
‘But you have favourable impressions so far?’
What were her impressions so far? There was the mood of nervous uncertainty at Babelsberg, the graffiti she had seen spattered on walls and shops threatening death to the Jews, the brown-shirted storm troopers bullying people into parting with money for their collecting tins, and the marching band that had stamped past her as though they hoped to grind the very soil of Germany beneath their boots. Which of those would Müller consider a true account of National Socialism?
‘I’m surprised to see so many men wearing uniform. I mean it’s not as if anyone’s at war.’
‘A uniform is a mark of pride.’
‘Is it? I think uniforms give people airs. It’s like an actor wearing a costume. It makes people forget what they are underneath.’
For a moment Müller’s eyes widened and a shadow crossed his features. No one, she realized, generally answered him back.
‘I believe, Fräulein, you’ll find people here like a uniform. It gives them a sense of solidarity. It gives them the opportunity to feel that they belong to the group.’
Clara took a sip of her champagne. ‘I’d say it gives them the opportunity to intimidate people when they’re filling up their collecting boxes.’
Suddenly Müller rose to his feet. Craning behind her, Clara was aware of a tall woman approaching them, her heels clicking on the black and white marble floor. She wore a Schiaparelli evening gown in ivory, which flattered her creamy skin, and pearls the size of little birds’ eggs hung round her neck. Her platinum hair was waved tightly around her face and a gust of perfume attended her. The flesh of her arms had the dense solidity of a Greek statue, and her eyes had a statue’s veiled, impenetrable stare.
‘Herr Doktor Müller! Just who I wanted to see!’
Müller clicked his heels. ‘Frau Doktor Goebbels. How are you?’
She had a deep, fluting voice, a little clipped. ‘Good, thank you, though a little tired with the move.’
‘I heard. Is the new house to your liking?’
She sighed. ‘The apartment was becoming too cramped. I liked it, but Joseph wanted something that fit better with his official duties.’
Müller gestured towards Clara. ‘This is Clara Vine. She’s the daughter of Sir Ronald Vine, the English politician.’
The woman seemed to notice Clara for the first time and looked at her curiously.
‘Is that so? I have some English friends. They have promised to come and visit us.’
‘Miss Vine is acting at Babelsberg.’ Müller gave a stiff little gesture towards their companions. ‘Helga Schmidt perhaps you know.’
Frau Goebbels glanced at Helga and something in her expression hardened momentarily.
Müller turned to Clara. ‘Frau Doktor Goebbels is the wife of the Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda.’
Clara nodded politely, thinking what a dreadful mouthful that title was to be saddled with.
‘But we prefer to call her the First Lady of the Third Reich,’ he added, with a gallant bow.
The sigh was replaced with a bright smile.
‘Well, it’s good luck I ran into you. I’m planning a cocktail party tomorrow night at our new home. Won’t you come? And bring Fräulein Vine with you?’ She glanced briefly at Bauer. ‘And your young lady too, Herr Bauer.’
Clara looked around her to see Helga open-mouthed.
Chapter Seven
‘Filthy tea, I’m afraid. I’ll ask Miss Jenkins to bring fresh, if you like. You’d think in the British Embassy tea would be the one thing we could get right.’
Sir Horace Rumbold poured a watery stream from the silver teapot, pushed a cup towards Leo, then leant on the stiff-backed sofa with a sigh. The British ambassador was a lofty man, whose benign, mild-mannered face and flaring nostrils gave him the look of a friendly camel. His neat moustache and horn-rimmed spectacles imparted a myopic expression, quite at odds with his keen wit and sharp sense of humour. He had asked Leo to see
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