A bus trundled past and as it did, Clara took the opportunity to step into a narrow, unlit passageway, smelling of urine and litter. A few steps along was a doorway and she wedged herself in, her heart jolting with fear, until she saw the man following her pass on the other side of the street. He proceeded with a firm tread, looking neither left nor right, as though he was a private citizen, entirely lost in thought. But he would soon realize that he had lost her and retrace his steps.
Clara saw that the passageway was in fact an alley, a narrow space between the brick walls of the houses, barely wide enough for a single person to pass. The stench of garbage was overpowering. Squeezing along, she emerged at the other end into a residential street, cursing herself for being so complacent before. For assuming that, because the man in the café had been a well-intentioned stranger, it meant no one else was on her tail.
According to the map she had memorized, she was getting near to Brucknerstrasse. She readjusted her directions and turned down a street full of prosperous-looking villas set back from the road. At a crossroads, she turned left into a street of undistinguished blocks with scrubby front gardens. The perfect place to sink into anonymity. She counted the numbers and checking the road quickly right and left, crossed to a tall, red-brick mansion house, went up the steps and knocked five times. When the door opened, she said, ‘I am an old friend of Lisa’s,’ and he let her in.
Victor Arlosoroff was a tall, densely-packed man with tight curly hair the texture of wire wool, round horn-rimmed glasses, and a belligerent air. He had a hard, knuckly brow, bulbous nose, and a protruding lower jaw. His forehead was heavily scored with lines and his face was bunched as a fist. Not even his mother could call him good-looking. As she followed him through a shadowy hall into a cluttered front room where thick curtains were drawn, Clara was amazed yet again at why Magda should be attracted to men who were so physically unprepossessing. He was smoking a pipe with short, savage puffs, and looked at Clara searchingly. His eyes, through the thick glasses, were tiny.
He waved her to a chair, and sat down. There was a piano, with a Beethoven score open, and dusty glass cabinets stacked with books. Many of them, she noticed, had titles in Hebrew, just like Magda’s letter. A quick scan of the photographs on the shelves suggested that this house did not belong to Arlosoroff and the clatter of dishes in the distance confirmed that other people were in residence.
She handed him the envelope and he read the letter through, then leant back and surveyed her.
‘So you are a friend of Magda’s.’
‘Yes. My name is Clara Vine.’
He chuckled. ‘She doesn’t like me sending letters to her mother’s house. It’s come to something when old friends can’t communicate, eh?’
‘She is quite frightened.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Do you know, I wasn’t even aware until a few weeks ago that she’d married that club-footed loudmouth. How could she be taken in by him? And the gall of him, holding the wedding at the country estate of her first husband! I suppose she told you there was a time she was going to emigrate to Palestine with me?’
‘She did.’
He tipped up the envelope she had given him and Clara caught the flash of something gold. A necklace.
‘Do you know what this is?’
‘A Star of David?’
‘I gave it to her as a present. She loved this necklace. She wore it all the time. She has sent it as proof that this letter could have come from nobody but her. A Nazi minister’s wife using the Star of David to vouch for her identity. You have to admit that’s original!’
‘So what went wrong?’
For the first time the anger seeped out of his face and his stubby features drooped. He tapped his pipe, which was issuing gouts of smoke like a badly laid fire, got up and hunted round the musty, brown room for a book of matches, then sat down again.
‘I wish I knew. Our friendship goes back a long time. She was a friend of my sister Lisa. Her own family seemed pretty remote, so she was always around our place, for dinner or playing music. Then, in 1920 I left for Palestine for the first time and whenever I came back to see my family, it meant I saw Magda too. And she’d grown so lovely, I don’t mind telling you. A beautiful woman and so . . . so feminine. We grew very close, and I shared all my dreams and plans with her. My ambitions for a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Proper co-operation between Jews and Arabs. We discussed everything. Anyhow, it stayed like that, on and off, until three years ago. At that time she had split up from her first husband and had another lover, a young man called Ernst who was crazy about her. He fired a revolver at her when she refused to go with him and it only just missed. She simply laughed at him. She’s got guts, you see. She’s very strong-minded.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘Can I offer you something? A drink?’
He waved a bottle at her and she nodded, accepting the glass of rough brandy he proffered and taking a tiny, fiery sip.
‘This time, when I came back, a good friend, Robert Weltsch, the editor of
Jüdische Rundschau
, met me at the station and he had some news for me. “Remember that pretty woman you used to see?” he said. “Well she’s married to the Minister of Propaganda now.” Magda was married to Joseph Goebbels! I almost passed out. Magda Friedlander! My beautiful girlfriend. The woman who once discussed coming to Palestine with me to establish a proper homeland for the Jews!’
He stood up and crossed the room to correct a chink in the curtains.
‘But then it crossed my mind that this could also be a blessing in disguise. It fitted with my plan.’ He fixed Clara with a shrewd look, as if still uncertain of her motivation. ‘You see, it’s my view that the Jews in Germany should be helped to come to Palestine. We already have Jewish organizations here training people in the practical skills they need for our homeland. They’re learning everything under the sun! Cooking and baking, sewing and tailoring courses, typing, shorthand, bookkeeping, photography, and language classes. Agriculture, nursing, all these things. And the National Socialists say they want as many Jews as possible to emigrate, so why should they not help fund the transit of people who want to leave? Perhaps, I thought, Magda could help me with that.’
Was he brave, Clara thought, or foolhardy? It was dreadful to imagine him making this proposition to some sadist of a Sturmhauptführer, his features contorting with incredulous contempt. Even Klaus Müller would laugh in his face, before having him arrested for audacity. The Nazis may have convoluted morals, but the idea of them using the coffers of the Reich to assist their declared enemies was simply unimaginable.
‘I assume it didn’t work?’
‘No. In fact it has been made clear to me that not only do the Nazis have no interest in helping us out, but I may myself be in serious danger.’
‘Herr Arlosoroff Victor. I think everything you’re doing, training Jews to start a new life, helping people to leave Germany, is invaluable. It was brave of you to come back. But if the Nazis won’t co-operate, and they’ve already threatened you, I would advise you to leave straight away.’
He smiled, acknowledging her concern with a tilt of his head. ‘That’s what I’m telling everyone I know. There’s no way a Jew can stay in Germany much longer. The Germans won’t rest until they have locked every one of us up. I’m well aware that Berlin is not safe for me.’ He took his pipe out and gazed searchingly at her. ‘Yet there is something I need to do before I leave. A proposal I have for my dear Magda. I am wondering, my friend, how far I can trust you.’
‘You know Magda sent me.’
‘Plainly. But, forgive me, you are not the type of woman Magda normally calls a friend. Far too pretty, for one. She must be terrified her husband will make a play for you, if he hasn’t already. Indeed, I’d be surprised if she has many friends. She never used to. You’re younger than her, too. I’m having difficulty seeing where you fit in her life. For all I know, you could be one of her husband’s spies. What’s in it for you? Why are you taking this risk?’
She thought of telling him about Grandmother Hannah. How since she had arrived in Berlin her own life had become far more closely intertwined with events than she could ever have imagined. But she had determined that her Jewishness would be a secret to be carried close. Just like her mother, though for different reasons.
‘I’m doing this because they murdered Helga Schmidt.’
It was the first time the words had come out of her mouth, though she had played the scene over and over in her head. The moment Helga fell, the dreadful moment of realization, as she plummeted towards the paving, that her life was finished, broken off mid-sentence. And how scared she must have been. Because Helga was not brave. She was foolish, friendly, and life-affirming. But not brave. Her death was so unnecessary, so callous and wasteful. Merely thinking of it brought the tears back to Clara’s eyes. Angrily she blinked them away.
‘Helga was an actress, like me. She made the mistake of joking about Hitler and they pushed her out of a fifth-floor window. You might read about her in the next few days and it will probably say she committed suicide because she was depressed, or a fantasist, but that wasn’t the case. Her only crime was laughing at them. I would do anything I could to avenge her.’
He put an awkward hand out to her. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. There’s an old Jewish saying, “All things grow with time, except grief.” I hope it will prove so with you.’
He shuffled closer in his chair. ‘But what you say convinces me. The sooner Magda gets away from those thugs, the better. I hope you will agree to take a message back to her.’
‘A letter?’
‘No. She has specifically asked me not to give you a letter. It’s more of a risk. You will just have to memorize what I tell you. This is my plan. I need to leave Berlin. There’s no way I can stay much longer here before I find myself involved in the same kind of accident as your unfortunate friend. After tonight I am going to move each day from house to house so I cannot be traced. But what I most want is for Magda to come away with me. To make a fresh start. Will you tell her, that if she comes to the Anhalter Bahnhof at six o’clock next Friday evening I will be waiting for her? Just inside, beneath the clock. She can bring her child too, if she likes. I will have tickets for Vienna and we will travel from there to Switzerland. All she needs to do is turn up.’
‘And if she doesn’t want to?’
He shook his head, as if refusing to admit the possibility. ‘I’m sure she will. Once she has thought about it.’
‘It would be difficult for her.’
‘Not as difficult as her life will be if she stays. This is her chance to escape.’
‘You seem very confident.’
‘Why should I not be? Magda writes to say she still loves me. She has always been a woman of strong passions. She will follow her heart.’
He stood up and led the way to the darkened hall, but as they reached the glass-fronted door he hesitated. He seemed unwilling, Clara felt, to let her go. As if with her he lost his last link to Magda.
‘I envy you seeing her, Clara. Take my blessing with you. Do you think she’ll come?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
Outside a car backfired, startling them both, then Arlosoroff moved closer to her so that she could smell his breath, slightly rank, and see the open pores in his skin.
‘She couldn’t ever be happy with that man, could she?’
‘I doubt it.’
He put a hand on her shoulder. The sudden intimacy unnerved her, but he was holding out the Star of David.
‘Take it back to her. If she comes with me, she’ll need it.’
Clara pocketed the necklace, walked out into the cool, evening air and checked her watch. It had been only thirty minutes, but while she was with Arlosoroff she had lost all sense of time. It felt like hours had passed.
She went down the steps, her mind racing. She had done what Magda had asked of her. She had passed the letter on. And she was glad of it. But Arlosoroff’s proposition astounded her. Would Magda really go with him? She was desperately unhappy with Goebbels, that was certain, but could she really give up the luxury, the clothes, the society evenings, the newspaper features, to scrape a new life in the relentless heat of the Palestinian desert? From everything she knew, Clara doubted it. And then, a second consideration came to her. If Magda did elope with Arlosoroff, what would that mean for Clara? What access would she have? How could she continue what she had started?
She made a decision and crossed the street.
It was properly dark now, and the trees made bars of shadow across the road. She took a different, more convoluted route back up the street towards the station, but she was convinced that she had lost the tail before she even arrived on Brucknerstrasse. Leo would be pleased with her. She knew for certain she had been followed that evening, and, though the confirmation terrified her, she felt giddily excited at having given Goebbels’ man the slip.
She walked quickly, too absorbed by the events of the evening to notice the figure in the trench coat who crossed the street from under the elm trees opposite and followed at a languid pace behind.
The garden of the Press Club in the Tiergarten reminded Mary of sunlit afternoons at her grandparents’ home in New Jersey. Grandpa was rich – he had his own business manufacturing luxury boats – and they owned a colonial-style mansion near Salem with eighteen acres and a swimming pool. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine herself back there, a jug of iced tea beside her, and the regular thwack of journalists’ racquets on the Club’s grass tennis court reminded her of the insanely competitive sporting contests that took place regularly between her brother, father and grandfather. No one in the Harker family liked to lose.
Berlin in 1933, however, was nothing like New Jersey. For one thing, as far as Mary was concerned, summers in New Jersey were a somnolent, unexciting space of time strung between the school semesters of spring and autumn, whereas this city was gripped by a kind of frenetic tension that rippled through the air like an electric current. For another thing, in Grandpa’s garden you saw a relaxing vista of horses snorting in a distant paddock, but when you opened your eyes here you could see right across to the windows of the Reichswehr Ministry which cast their chilly glance on Bendlerstrasse. That wasn’t the kind of place to make anyone feel relaxed. It was behind the vast façade of the Bendlerblock last month that Hitler had apparently told senior generals he planned to exterminate Marxism and conquer more living space in the east.