Black Roses by Jane Thynne Page B

glancing around her restlessly as her crimson-lacquered nails fiddled with a lighter, her head swivelling to and fro as she checked out the guests, as though she, rather than Clara, was the tourist.
    ‘Hitler has his flat here,’ she hissed in a loud whisper. ‘But he doesn’t eat here anymore because the Communists in the kitchen tried to poison his food.’
    Clara looked sceptically at the waiters, ferrying silver trays laden with drinks and small bowls of nuts between the potted palms. The idea that potential poisoners were abroad seemed outlandish. With its red plush chairs and bowls of orchids, the Kaiserhof felt like the height of propriety.
    ‘I still can’t believe we’re having a drink with Sturmhauptführer Klaus Müller!’ Helga lit her cigarette and smiled broadly. ‘He’s the coming man. It’s just a shame that he has to bring his fat friend.’
    Clara was already realizing that her new friend was dangerously indiscreet. ‘Shh! Remember how Sturmbannführer Bauer said your voice was clear as a bell. Well, it is. They can hear you from across the lobby.’
    After the bustle of the street outside, the lobby was an oasis of calm, with National Socialists seated in comfortable seats throughout, drinking beer, or strutting around in their boots and breeches. Beyond them, up a flight of white marble steps, a cocktail party was in full swing. Clara could see a stately reception room, where light from the crystal chandeliers sparkled on the jewels of the women among the black and brown uniforms and a string quartet sawed away in the corner.
    ‘Albert tells me both Bauer and Müller have just been appointed aides to Dr Goebbels,’ said Helga in a theatrical whisper. ‘They’re going to help him run the Culture Department at the Ministry. Which includes film!’
    ‘Is that good?’
    ‘Are you crazy, Clara? It could be wonderful. A girl needs to keep on top in this business. It’s all about having the right friends in the right places.’
    At that moment the brown kepi of Bauer could be seen bobbing towards them, and seconds later his portly frame was visible, bustling importantly to their table. His tunic was ringed with underarm sweat and his face was gleaming. He took off his cap and wiped his brow. Without the hat his head looked too small for his body and the back of his neck bulged over his collar like soft cheese.
    Müller, by contrast, was in evening dress, with a little silver swastika pinned to his lapel. He had a look of forceful energy only just contained by the stiff winged collar and white tie. Clara imagined he must be around forty. When he bent to kiss hands, his hair gleamed like patent leather. He slid into the seat next to her, and clicked his fingers.
    ‘Herr Ober. Champagne.’
    The waiter hurried off with more than usual alacrity.
    Clara gestured at the party in the neighbouring room. ‘What’s going on there?’
    ‘It’s a political soirée.’ Müller had a smile hovering on his lips. ‘I assume you follow politics, Miss Vine, with a family like yours?’
    Clara guessed a political discussion right then would be unwise.
    ‘I’m afraid I’m not political. I’m just an actress.’
    He laughed again. ‘I think you’ll find everything is political in Germany right now. Even actresses.’
    They were interrupted by a shriek from Helga, a reaction to something Bauer had said in her ear.
    ‘And I thought you were a gentleman!’
    Bauer’s face had deepened to shade of puce, which crept across his cheeks and extended to the bristles of his scalp. He clamped a meaty hand on Helga’s shoulder and treated her to an unambiguous leer.
    Müller turned to Clara with an almost imperceptible shudder, as though to provide a physical barrier from Bauer, and addressed her in English.
    ‘It’s good to have visitors from England. I hope you’ll be able to give a true account of National Socialism when you return.’
    ‘I’m not planning to go back quite yet. I’ve only just