Angela’s code. Yet surely the quick, intelligent sister she knew was still there – buried beneath the visits to Harrods and bridge nights and society teas. Angela’s letters tended to focus on the interminable round of charity events that she conducted, the death of relations and the relentless progress of her husband’s political career.
Gerald is in line for a big promotion. Chamberlain is so impressed with him.
Clara responded with a dutiful list of parties, premieres and work reports. Nothing intimate. Nothing political. Nothing real.
Right then she resolved that she would write to Angela very soon, and attempt something they had not managed for ten years. Communication.
Clara passed a loudspeaker lashed to the side of a building, blaring out ‘Deutschland über Alles’ and obliging everyone to give a perfunctory right-armed salute. She generally avoided giving the Führergruss by ensuring she was carrying something in both hands, but that day, distracted by thoughts of Lotti, she failed to comply.
A hand on her shoulder made her jump like a coiled spring. A man was standing in her path.
‘Documents please.’
He had a complexion the colour of concrete and an expression that epitomized the
Berliner Schnauze
, the direct, graceless, sceptical manner so many of the city’s inhabitants had perfected. He flicked the lapel of his jacket to reveal the aluminium disc marking him out as Gestapo.
Clara handed over her ID and watched the stupidity and aggression warring in his face as he scrutinized it. Although the small piece of card was beginning to fray at the edges, she never had any doubts about the quality of her identity documents; such was the skill of their forgery. All the same, even if papers were in order, a policeman or Gestapo official could still confiscate them if he didn’t like you. Clara wondered what this man saw in her. The usual Berliner, cowed in the face of authority and determined to keep a low profile? How much did her face give away? Into her head floated the remark of Conrad Adler.
Like fire behind ice.
‘Alles in Ordnung.’
Gracelessly, the man returned her identity card and she stuffed it back in her bag.
She carried on, remembering Mary Harker’s warning.
They’re intensifying their surveillance. Goebbels has assigned a minder to each of us.
Might that apply not only to foreign journalists but actresses too? She thought again of the man in the lobby of her apartment block; the lean, expressionless face, the trench coat belted loosely, the way he avoided her eye.
In the fortnight before he had disappeared, Leo had talked a lot about the techniques of espionage. One afternoon he had told her about a list that all agents were being trained to memorize, if they believed they were being followed.
Number One: look out for the unobtrusive
. A shadow could be anyone. The young woman who clicked her painted fingernails on the counter beside you in a shop. The newspaper seller who slipped you a friendly remark each day with your change. The runner at the studio, or the car park attendant who joked about how he would always save the best space for you. Or a headscarfed Frau, like the one a few steps behind, grey-skinned and footsore, weighed down by a kilo of potatoes in her shopping basket.
Number Two: watch for anyone walking at a steady pace
. A shadow would neither be nonchalant, nor too purposeful, though as far as vehicles went, the opposite applied.
Number Three: listen for a car that moves either too fast or too slow
.
If surveillance was suspected, there was
Number Four: change your appearance.
Find a fresh coat, ditch your jacket, remove a hat. The slightest change could help to evade detection.
But whereas it was easy to put on a headscarf or abandon a briefcase, it was far harder to shave off a moustache or disguise hair colour in the course of pursuit.
Thus Number Five: check for distinguishing features
. A shadow rarely had time to change their shoes. There was
Gerald is in line for a big promotion. Chamberlain is so impressed with him.
Clara responded with a dutiful list of parties, premieres and work reports. Nothing intimate. Nothing political. Nothing real.
Right then she resolved that she would write to Angela very soon, and attempt something they had not managed for ten years. Communication.
Clara passed a loudspeaker lashed to the side of a building, blaring out ‘Deutschland über Alles’ and obliging everyone to give a perfunctory right-armed salute. She generally avoided giving the Führergruss by ensuring she was carrying something in both hands, but that day, distracted by thoughts of Lotti, she failed to comply.
A hand on her shoulder made her jump like a coiled spring. A man was standing in her path.
‘Documents please.’
He had a complexion the colour of concrete and an expression that epitomized the
Berliner Schnauze
, the direct, graceless, sceptical manner so many of the city’s inhabitants had perfected. He flicked the lapel of his jacket to reveal the aluminium disc marking him out as Gestapo.
Clara handed over her ID and watched the stupidity and aggression warring in his face as he scrutinized it. Although the small piece of card was beginning to fray at the edges, she never had any doubts about the quality of her identity documents; such was the skill of their forgery. All the same, even if papers were in order, a policeman or Gestapo official could still confiscate them if he didn’t like you. Clara wondered what this man saw in her. The usual Berliner, cowed in the face of authority and determined to keep a low profile? How much did her face give away? Into her head floated the remark of Conrad Adler.
Like fire behind ice.
‘Alles in Ordnung.’
Gracelessly, the man returned her identity card and she stuffed it back in her bag.
She carried on, remembering Mary Harker’s warning.
They’re intensifying their surveillance. Goebbels has assigned a minder to each of us.
Might that apply not only to foreign journalists but actresses too? She thought again of the man in the lobby of her apartment block; the lean, expressionless face, the trench coat belted loosely, the way he avoided her eye.
In the fortnight before he had disappeared, Leo had talked a lot about the techniques of espionage. One afternoon he had told her about a list that all agents were being trained to memorize, if they believed they were being followed.
Number One: look out for the unobtrusive
. A shadow could be anyone. The young woman who clicked her painted fingernails on the counter beside you in a shop. The newspaper seller who slipped you a friendly remark each day with your change. The runner at the studio, or the car park attendant who joked about how he would always save the best space for you. Or a headscarfed Frau, like the one a few steps behind, grey-skinned and footsore, weighed down by a kilo of potatoes in her shopping basket.
Number Two: watch for anyone walking at a steady pace
. A shadow would neither be nonchalant, nor too purposeful, though as far as vehicles went, the opposite applied.
Number Three: listen for a car that moves either too fast or too slow
.
If surveillance was suspected, there was
Number Four: change your appearance.
Find a fresh coat, ditch your jacket, remove a hat. The slightest change could help to evade detection.
But whereas it was easy to put on a headscarf or abandon a briefcase, it was far harder to shave off a moustache or disguise hair colour in the course of pursuit.
Thus Number Five: check for distinguishing features
. A shadow rarely had time to change their shoes. There was
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