The Pursuit of Pearls Page 10

  Esther’s eyes dropped, as if acknowledging for the first time the gravity of her predicament.

  “I hate it here,” she burst out. “There’s nothing to do. I can’t even wash because there’s no soap.”

  “Have you seen your mother?”

  “She came yesterday, just for an hour. The worst thing is, I miss my cat. What’s going to happen to him? Who will look after him while we’re gone?”

  It might have seemed strange that the girl should expend her anxiety on a cat, rather than her mother and sister, or her father, imprisoned in a camp, but Clara was not so easily fooled. Esther was focusing all her anxieties on one, easily identified treasure. It had been the same for Clara when her mother died. She recalled the obsession she had with her horse Inkerman and his lame leg. She remembered burying her face in his glossy pelt, and inhaling leather and straw and sweat.

  “He’ll be fine,” she told the girl.

  “He’s only a kitten.”

  “Cats are good at looking after themselves.”

  “My mother kept saying nothing would happen. My father won the Iron Cross in the war. He didn’t believe in running away. My uncle came back from Palestine because it was too dirty, and then in the Olympics he said no city on earth could compare with Berlin. Father said Jews always thrive under pressure. He said pressure turns coal dust into diamonds.”

  Suddenly the vulnerability of Esther Goldblatt, with her narrow shoulders and solemn, mistrustful eyes, touched something deep within Clara—a protective urge that was both mysterious and utterly familiar.

  “How old are you, Esther?”

  “Fifteen in July.”

  “Fourteen!” She turned to Steffi. “She’s a child still. How can they be looking for a child?”

  “She’s a young woman in their eyes and she has disseminated subversive material,” said Steffi.

  “It’s not material!” Esther jerked her chin proudly. “It’s Art!”

  “If your drawings were passed around they could influence other people,” snapped Steffi. There was a harshness about her that had not existed in the early days of Clara’s friendship with her. It was born of exhaustion and worry, no doubt, but Clara felt for the girl on the receiving end.

  “Now get on with that hem, Esther, while I have a word with Fräulein Vine.”

  Steffi descended the flight of steps and stared out of the window to the street below.

  “Poor kid,” said Clara.

  Steffi shrugged. “She doesn’t make it easy. Perhaps it’s harder for her than for others because she came from a wealthy background and the family sheltered her from what was going on. They had a large apartment in Charlottenburg, and the father was a boutique owner with a smart shop on the Ku’damm. But she tries my nerves, Clara. I’m at my wit’s end, and she complains constantly about being shut up in an attic and not having enough to eat. What does she think this is? The Hotel Adlon?”

  She gripped the banisters with clenched hands.

  “Esther’s situation is not hopeless. Her father may be in Sachsenhausen, but her mother and sister are safe and they have an uncle in America who has given them an affidavit to move there. The problem is, Esther’s quota number is very far down the list and it will take years before it comes up. The only country that gives transit visas to people with American quota numbers is England, but Esther needs someone in England to guarantee for her because she’s too young to earn a living there. She would have to be adopted by a British citizen.”

  “Officially adopted?”

  “Only until the age of eighteen. But that’s not all. The person in England must deposit a large sum of money to sponsor a refugee.”

  The complexity of the situation dimmed Steffi’s countenance, and her face creased again into a lattice of lines.

  “We can supply most things. We have a doctor who brings medicine and a young man who produces passports and identity papers for us. He turns his hand to anything. Work permits, release papers, travel permits. Tickets for buses and trains. His work is superb, but he can’t conjure up an English sponsor. And on top of that, Esther can’t stay here for long. Herr Fromm has been very good, but he generally only takes Jews in for one night at a time. The other day Heydrich came in and Herr Fromm said measuring the inside leg of the top man in the SS with Esther one floor above was enough to give him a heart attack. His nerves are in shreds.”

  “What will you do?”

  “If we could just find some way to get her to England…”

  “You’re asking me to help.”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t have to get involved in this. You can’t have expected this when you came today. I wouldn’t blame you if—”

  “No, of course. I’ll do everything I can.”

  A clatter on the street below caused them to turn, but when they looked down they saw only several large rolls of black cloth being unloaded from a van and carried inside.

  “Herr Fromm got his orders in early,” said Steffi quietly. “There’s going to be a boom in black. Black crepe, black cotton. Black serge to cover windows in a blackout. Black felt to conceal the car headlights. Black voile.”

  “Why voile?”

  “War means widows. And there’ll be clothing cards, too, so materials will be rationed. Herr Fromm is wise to stockpile early.”

  She reached out a hand. “I forgot. I have something for you, Clara.”

  She went over to her bag and brought out a velvet pouch, from which she withdrew a box containing a three-stranded string of pearls. The pearls were old, Clara could see, and of the highest quality, with an intricate gold clasp and a soft gleam that seemed to hover around them as they nestled on their bed of crimson velvet. She looked on in astonishment as Steffi fastened them around her neck.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s not a gift, I’m afraid. More a loan. I’ve sewed hundreds of necklaces and rings into the linings of women’s dresses, but the Gestapo are getting wise to our scheme now, and they routinely rip up people’s clothes, so I thought of a better hiding place. These pearls are valuable. They belonged to my grandmother, and you know the thing about pearls—they come from the sea and they need moisture to keep their luster. They must be worn, and I can think of no one better to wear them for me.”

  Clara touched the necklace and smiled. “I’d be honored. But only until you need them again.”

  “I don’t need them. In fact, I want you to sell them.”

  “Sell them! Are you sure?”

  “Next time you go to England, sell them and keep the money there. That way, if Esther manages to leave, we can have something to pay her sponsor.”

  Steffi stood back and studied the necklace with an approving smile. “In the meantime, pearls suit your skin. They have a way of lighting up the face, don’t you think? But my necklace does show up that dress you’re wearing. Look at this rent in the sleeve. Let me darn it while you wait.”

  Clara felt ashamed at the original purpose of her visit.

  “For heaven’s sake, Steffi. You have more important things to do than darn dresses.”

  A hint of the seamstress’s old self returned as she examined the sleeve critically, assessing its texture and precise shade.

  “Allow me. It’s relaxing. And besides, you are, almost certainly, the only customer I have left, Clara.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Albert Speer looked more like a man touring the stations of the cross than someone inspecting his own, recently completed refurbishment of the Foreign Ministry in Wilhelmstrasse. The Führer’s favorite architect was a good decade younger than most of the Nazi elite, and it showed; his chestnut hair was lustrous, his muscular frame filled a finely cut suit, and Hitler’s fondness for him was said to border on the homoerotic. True, by the standards of the Nazi elite—obese Goering, mad Hess, and crippled Goebbels—Speer was practically an Adonis, but as he toured the room on the queenly arm of Annelies von Ribbentrop, the architect’s handsome face was not a happy one. Indeed,
behind the bland, professional composure it was possible to detect outright dismay at the sight of the journalists, celebrities, and actresses gathered to toast the new décor at 73 Wilhelmstrasse.

  Perhaps because the end result was far from what he had planned. Speer, whose own style was cool, severe, and neoclassical, favoring shimmering colonnades of pristine marble, must have winced at the grandiose swags of cerise velvet that now gussied up each window, the silk wallpaper and mounds of soft furnishings. Opulent chandeliers had been fitted, and the walls were plastered with old masters in handsome gilded frames—Rembrandts and Goyas hanging in tiers three and four high, displayed in order of expense. Every pillared hall, every marbled vista, every polished wall now bore the flamboyant personal stamp of Joachim von Ribbentrop. Or to be more accurate, his wife.

  Clara stood amid a group of journalists at the far side of the room, Major Grand’s request resounding in her head. From what we’ve heard, Frau von Ribbentrop frequently formulates political policy, which is later passed off as her husband’s. It was true, the foreign minister’s wife was very different from those of other senior men. Magda Goebbels was too depressed to care about politics, and Eva Braun, the Führer’s girlfriend, probably couldn’t spell Czechoslovakia. Annelies von Ribbentrop, by contrast, was highly educated and politically motivated. She knew more, and would impart far less. How could Clara possibly find a way into her mind?

  That day the châtelaine of the new Foreign Ministry was wearing a suit of hairy mauve, a pussy bow blouse, emerald earrings, and a welter of pearls at her throat. Powder settled into the lines round her eyes like wrinkles in old paint, and her hair was set like concrete. Frau von Ribbentrop’s delight at parading Albert Speer was all the greater because of the hot competition for his services. He had already redecorated Goebbels’s Propaganda Ministry with lacquered walnut fittings and installed a home cinema in the minister’s townhouse. He had renovated 11 Leipziger Platz, the grandiose, turreted monstrosity that was home to the Goerings, and in January he had signed off on the brand-new Reich Chancellery, on which eight thousand workers toiled night and day. Now he was starting his most ambitious commission to date—rebuilding Berlin as the capital of a continental empire. Speer would be the man responsible for turning the Führer’s dreams into stone. No wonder he seemed anxious to get away from the von Ribbentrops’ soft furnishings.

  “Poor Speer,” remarked Hugh Lindsey, who was standing at Clara’s side. “He’s the only one who seems remotely modest, and he has the least to be modest about. Some of his buildings are genuinely exciting.”

  “Not so exciting for the Jews whose homes are being razed to make way for them,” commented Mary.

  “You’ve heard about his next commission?” asked Hugh, helping himself to a canapé proffered by a waiter in silk stockings. “Hitler wants Speer to build a Führermuseum in Linz. His hometown. It’s going to house his collection.”

  “What collection is that?”

  “Clara, you must be the only person in Germany who hasn’t heard. The Führer’s planning to create the greatest art gallery ever seen.”

  “The only problem is,” added Mary conspiratorially, “so is Goering. When I had my interview with him the other day, I thought it was going to be about the Luftwaffe, but it was all about art. Goering is boasting that his country villa, Carinhall, will house the biggest private collection in the world.”

  “Makes sense,” said Hugh. “Nothing about Goering would be small.”

  “Goering told me his collection will be far more important than Hitler’s. He wants to track down all the valuable art of Germanic origin, whatever that might be, and return it to the Reich. It’s quite a spat. Apparently, Speer’s calling it the picture war.”

  “Thank heavens I’ve found you, Clara.”

  The voice that broke into their conversation was the kind of theatrical whisper designed to reach the back row of the upper circle.

  “What do you make of it? Not exactly cozy, is it?”

  Emmy Goering, the wife of Hitler’s second in command, sailed unopposed through the goggling throng. Frau Goering had been an actress herself before fate decreed that Hermann Goering, on a rare outing to Weimar, should catch sight of her and fall in love on the spot. Now her fortunes were transformed—she was married with a child, and universally known as the first lady of the Reich. Yet despite having accumulated more wealth than she could have dreamed of, Emmy Goering had also accumulated enemies, and none more potent or bitter than Annelies von Ribbentrop. As Mary and Hugh melted discreetly into the background, Clara recalled Major Grand’s motto.

  My enemy’s enemy is my friend.

  “Poor Annelies,” continued Emmy, watching acidly as the foreign minister’s wife shepherded Speer around the room. “All that money and no taste whatsoever. You know she’s announced that all German embassies should be redecorated as precise replicas of the Reich Chancellery? Can you imagine the expense? Now she has a whole ministry to play with, her extravagance knows no bounds. The woman doesn’t understand restraint.”

  It was hard to know how to respond to this. The Goerings’ own palatial villa would make a Borgia feel at home. Besides the gem-encrusted gold chairs and mosaic floors inlaid with lapis lazuli swastikas, it was a temple to taxidermy. You could scarcely move for stags’ antlers protruding from the walls, and cases containing pheasants, vultures, and eagles. The first artifact to greet visitors in the hall was a stuffed giant panda, a gift from the King and Queen of England.

  Frau Goering steered Clara into an alcove, away from the throng.

  “Thank God the Winter Relief drive is over. We had to spend an entire morning with the von Ribbentrops rattling collecting boxes in Wittenbergplatz.”

  The annual Winter Relief charity, the Winterhilfswerk, was always crowned with the appearance of party VIPs on street corners jovially touting lapel pins and coin boxes.

  “It took everything Hermann had to keep smiling, but now everything’s much worse. Something terrible has happened. You’ll never guess.”

  She paused dramatically, and Clara tilted her head, awaiting the bombshell.

  “The Italians have gone and awarded von Ribbentrop the Collar of the Annunziata!”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “You mean you’ve never heard of it? I wish I hadn’t. It’s Italy’s greatest chivalric order. It’s a gorgeous piece, solid gold, and studded with diamonds. The holder becomes the honorary cousin of the Italian king. Hermann has wanted it for so long. When he heard that von Ribbentrop was to have it, he was almost physically sick. You know he adores jewels.”

  Clara recalled the photograph of Goering in Herr Fromm’s shop, adorned with gold dagger and blue diamonds in the persona of a Roman emperor.

  “That’s why he admired your Duke of Windsor and his American duchess. All their jewelry! Hermann couldn’t stop talking about the duke’s Art Deco cuff links and the duchess’s Cartier diamonds. He says you can tell a lot about a person from their taste in jewels.”

  “I bet you can,” said Clara, recalling Wallis Simpson, studded all over with pearls the size of pigeon eggs.

  “Jewels are an absolute obsession with Hermann. I fret about him. It’s an addiction.”

  There was every reason why Frau Goering should worry about her husband’s predilection. His addiction to morphine tablets—originally prescribed for war wounds—was part of the reason for his monstrous size, which led to his nickname Der Dicke—Fatso.

  As if on cue, a waiter materialized with a tray of smoked salmon sandwiches, and Emmy popped a couple in her mouth.

  “You should try not to worry,” Clara told her.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” said Emmy through a mouth of crumbs. She sighed and patted the corn-colored hair wound round her ears in thick braids. “It’s driving him crazy. But it’s not just that. It’s something else.” She frowned in genuine perplexity. “We’re just back from a rest cure in San Remo—in fact I wish we were still there—but all the time he’
s been in the most terrible mood. He’s preoccupied with something, but he won’t tell me what it is.”

  Clara wondered if she should point out the obvious. “Could it be the international situation?”

  “That? Oh no. Don’t be silly. Hermann assures me there will be no war. We need another three or four years of peace. The English—with respect—are terrible warmongers, but the future of Danzig can hardly concern them. And besides, the Führer won’t want to see all his new buildings bombed. No.” She paused, as though trying to solve some incomprehensible puzzle. “All I know is, it’s definitely to do with a jewel.”

  “This golden collar, you mean?”

  “No. Another jewel. Hermann’s been cheated out of it. That’s all I can get out of him. He said it again at breakfast this morning. He’s been cheated out of a jewel. He’s looking for it high and low, and God help anyone who gets in his way.”

  “It’s hard to imagine anyone cheating your husband.”

  This remark prompted a peal of laughter from Emmy. “Don’t you believe it! Von Ribbentrop spends his life trying to cheat him.” Belatedly realizing the consequences of being overheard, she lowered her voice. “Only yesterday Hermann told me von Ribbentrop is cozying up to the Russians.”

  The Russians? Suddenly all Clara’s nerves were on alert. Could it be possible that her questions were to be answered this easily?

  “Well, one Russian in particular. I think you know her. Frau Olga Chekhova. Annelies’s new best friend.”

  The letdown was instant. Clara had acted with Olga Chekhova many times over the years. Although she was Russian by birth and a niece by marriage of the great Anton Chekhov, Olga had lived in Berlin for decades and had even been given the honorary title of Staatsschauspieler, state actor. However skillful the acting talents of the kindly Olga Chekhova, one role she was surely not playing was that of spy. She was a motherly woman behind the silk and pearls, and the last person one could imagine meddling in the murky waters of Stalin’s henchmen.