Black Roses by Jane Thynne

airless. Clara had expected to be fascinated by her first sighting of Herr Hitler, but instead she had an intense compulsion to escape. Perhaps she could slip away without anyone noticing. She could take a tram home and explain to Helga the next day. She would be perfectly inconspicuous. Klaus Müller’s eyes, like everyone else’s, were trained on the group at the centre of the room. No one wanted to chat to some unknown actress any more. Moving to the door, she turned to look back at the corner of the room where Helga was, to signal her intent, and found her gaze snagged in the direct stare of Goebbels himself. His eyes were curious, calculating.
    She slipped along the corridor to the front hall. Out on the drive a number of Brown Shirts lounged, keeping guard over the entrance and an eye on the cars, taking the opportunity for a quick cigarette. But no sooner had she wandered through the door than a black Mercedes limousine, with long curving fenders, tubular exhausts and polished chrome headlights, glided towards her and the driver leapt out to open the door. Behind her she heard the crunch of gravel and Müller appeared at her shoulder.
    ‘Fräulein Vine, you’re not leaving already, surely? Were you not enjoying yourself?’ His voice was heavy with irony. ‘Let my driver take you home.’ He gestured to the car. ‘Please.’ It was not a question, but a command.
    She had no choice. Embarrassed that she had so obviously been leaving without telling him, she nodded, and climbed into the car as he held the door open, and then her heart sank as he climbed in alongside her.
    The car smelt of tobacco and expensive new leather, and the mottled walnut dashboard gleamed. As they swept west through the dark streets, the shadowy mass of the Tiergarten to each side, she saw the driver’s eyes flick towards her in the mirror. His neck was pink and raw, a thick, shaven sausage. She could feel Müller regarding her with jocularity, as though he saw something ridiculous in her clumsy attempt to escape.
    ‘The Herr Doktor certainly knows how to throw a party, don’t you think?’
    ‘The house is very impressive,’ she said noncommittally.
    ‘Ach, the man is a genius. He has such an eye for colour. It was he who chose the red for our banners, when everyone else wanted a dull black. He understands aesthetics, you see. That’s why he’s so interested in film. Unfortunately,’ his eyes slid towards her knowingly, ‘he is also very interested in film actresses.’
    ‘I hope Helga’s all right.’
    ‘To me it looked like she was getting on just fine.’
    ‘His wife seemed a little unhappy.’
    ‘I doubt it. The Frau Doktor adores cultural conversation.’
    ‘Was tonight what passes for cultural conversation? Discussing how there are too many Jews in the cinema?’
    He smiled tightly. ‘You are rather hasty in your judgements, Fräulein. This is politics, you understand.’
    ‘Are you a politician, Doktor Müller?’
    He exhaled thoughtfully, as though she had posed an interesting philosophical question.
    ‘I suppose I am really. I qualified in law originally. But I didn’t practise for long. My uncle wanted me to take over his business.’
    ‘What was his business?’
    ‘He produced magazines and newspapers. It was very profitable, though he published nothing you’d have heard of. Trade papers, mostly. Hardly the
Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung
.’ He leant towards her, mock confidentially, ‘though not
Der Stunner
either.’
    ‘Yet you’re in uniform tonight,’ she said, looking at his buttoned brown jacket and tie, and his cap, on which a silver eagle spread its wings.
    ‘I’m proud to be.’ He ran a hand down his breeches. ‘Until recently this uniform was banned, if you can believe it.’
    ‘But if you’re not a soldier, why would you want to look like one?’
    He folded his arms and looked at her quizzically. ‘You dislike the military, don’t you, Fräulein Vine? Let me tell you, if Hitler had not