cautiously as an unexploded bomb.
‘Fräulein Vine?’
She recognized his commanding, jocular tone immediately.
‘I’m so glad to reach you.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Even as she said it, she realized it was a foolish question.
He gave a brief laugh. ‘I had my driver ask.’
‘Of course. Thank you for the roses.’
‘That is my pleasure. And I have a request for you.’
Clara braced herself. She was going to have to tell the aide to the Minister of Propaganda she had no intention of seeing him again.
‘It has been passed to me by the wife of the Minister. She wonders if you might call on her.’
‘Frau Goebbels wants me to call on her?’ Surprise made her raise her voice so that Frau Lehmann who was hovering at the end of the hall, pretending to adjust the clock, had no trouble catching every word.
‘She has something to ask you. It seems you made quite an impression the other evening. She asks if you could visit her at two o’clock, if you are free. I’ve arranged to send my car.’
Clara rang the bell and heard the quick clip of heels on the marble floor before a maid dressed in black and white uniform opened the door.
‘Please come in.’
As the maid led her down the corridor and into the drawing room there were the distant sounds of an animated discussion in progress, but when a few moments later her hostess entered, wearing a soft cream jacket and pearls, she appeared entirely controlled, apart from a spot of high colour on her cheeks. It was the only hint of warmth in an otherwise glacial demeanour.
‘Forgive me, Fräulein Vine. We are having the whole house remodelled, but my decorator’s taste in wallpaper does not always accord with my own.’
She pressed a small buzzer and a second maid appeared instantly with a tea trolley. A silver pot suspended over a small flame sat in the centre, surrounded by cups of delicate bone china, and a platter of sandwiches. On a separate plate was butter cake, speckled with cinnamon, and slices of fruit cake with a yellow marzipan rind.
Clara looked around her. In daylight the Goebbels’ home appeared no less impressive. Everything about it was sumptuous. One might have been in a small art gallery, rather than a private home. The parquet was covered with rich Turkish rugs, the furniture was antique and gleaming. Fat armchairs were clustered round a low marquetry table and French Louis XIV chairs stood by. The walls were hung with oils, all in exquisite taste – gorgeous Italian hunting scenes and pink-fleshed cherubs fluttering round a Madonna. Pride of place above the fireplace however, was given to a photograph of Hitler. His face was bathed in light as if from some divine revelation and his eyes were fixed mystically on the middle distance, yet no amount of soft focus could disguise the undistinguished profile and jutting, stumpy nose. Clara wondered how an Old Master would have tackled Herr Hitler. But even Michelangelo had to paint the odd Borgia, she supposed.
‘You have a lovely home, Frau Goebbels.’
She gave a tight, formal laugh. ‘Thank you.’ She poked at the open fire, which felt like the only warm thing in the room. ‘We’ve only just moved in but Joseph already dislikes it, I’m afraid. It’s not the house, it’s the city really. He’s never liked Berlin. He calls it “asphalt culture”. He thinks it will be much healthier if we move further out. He has an eye on a place up by Wannsee.’
‘And would you like to move?’
Magda Goebbels shrugged. ‘I lived in the country for years. My former husband had an estate in Mecklenburg. If I’m honest, the country bores me to tears. I love the city, don’t you? Berlin is the loveliest city on earth. The Führer always says Paris is the most beautiful city and I suppose I know nothing about architecture, but I was born here, in Bülowstrasse, and I’d die here too, given the choice.’
Just then the maid returned with a pile of post, which Magda waved impatiently
‘Fräulein Vine?’
She recognized his commanding, jocular tone immediately.
‘I’m so glad to reach you.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Even as she said it, she realized it was a foolish question.
He gave a brief laugh. ‘I had my driver ask.’
‘Of course. Thank you for the roses.’
‘That is my pleasure. And I have a request for you.’
Clara braced herself. She was going to have to tell the aide to the Minister of Propaganda she had no intention of seeing him again.
‘It has been passed to me by the wife of the Minister. She wonders if you might call on her.’
‘Frau Goebbels wants me to call on her?’ Surprise made her raise her voice so that Frau Lehmann who was hovering at the end of the hall, pretending to adjust the clock, had no trouble catching every word.
‘She has something to ask you. It seems you made quite an impression the other evening. She asks if you could visit her at two o’clock, if you are free. I’ve arranged to send my car.’
Clara rang the bell and heard the quick clip of heels on the marble floor before a maid dressed in black and white uniform opened the door.
‘Please come in.’
As the maid led her down the corridor and into the drawing room there were the distant sounds of an animated discussion in progress, but when a few moments later her hostess entered, wearing a soft cream jacket and pearls, she appeared entirely controlled, apart from a spot of high colour on her cheeks. It was the only hint of warmth in an otherwise glacial demeanour.
‘Forgive me, Fräulein Vine. We are having the whole house remodelled, but my decorator’s taste in wallpaper does not always accord with my own.’
She pressed a small buzzer and a second maid appeared instantly with a tea trolley. A silver pot suspended over a small flame sat in the centre, surrounded by cups of delicate bone china, and a platter of sandwiches. On a separate plate was butter cake, speckled with cinnamon, and slices of fruit cake with a yellow marzipan rind.
Clara looked around her. In daylight the Goebbels’ home appeared no less impressive. Everything about it was sumptuous. One might have been in a small art gallery, rather than a private home. The parquet was covered with rich Turkish rugs, the furniture was antique and gleaming. Fat armchairs were clustered round a low marquetry table and French Louis XIV chairs stood by. The walls were hung with oils, all in exquisite taste – gorgeous Italian hunting scenes and pink-fleshed cherubs fluttering round a Madonna. Pride of place above the fireplace however, was given to a photograph of Hitler. His face was bathed in light as if from some divine revelation and his eyes were fixed mystically on the middle distance, yet no amount of soft focus could disguise the undistinguished profile and jutting, stumpy nose. Clara wondered how an Old Master would have tackled Herr Hitler. But even Michelangelo had to paint the odd Borgia, she supposed.
‘You have a lovely home, Frau Goebbels.’
She gave a tight, formal laugh. ‘Thank you.’ She poked at the open fire, which felt like the only warm thing in the room. ‘We’ve only just moved in but Joseph already dislikes it, I’m afraid. It’s not the house, it’s the city really. He’s never liked Berlin. He calls it “asphalt culture”. He thinks it will be much healthier if we move further out. He has an eye on a place up by Wannsee.’
‘And would you like to move?’
Magda Goebbels shrugged. ‘I lived in the country for years. My former husband had an estate in Mecklenburg. If I’m honest, the country bores me to tears. I love the city, don’t you? Berlin is the loveliest city on earth. The Führer always says Paris is the most beautiful city and I suppose I know nothing about architecture, but I was born here, in Bülowstrasse, and I’d die here too, given the choice.’
Just then the maid returned with a pile of post, which Magda waved impatiently
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