The Winter Garden (2014) by Jane Thynne

the evils of Bolshevism!’
    Magda laughed uneasily at this joke at her husband’s expense, but any further embarrassment was prevented by the entrance of three tiny Goebbels children, five-year-old Helga,
three-year-old Hilde and two-year-old Helmut, who were ushered in to dance to a tinkling piece of Strauss on a music box. The girls, in white pin-tucked party dresses and ankle socks, shepherded
the toddler Helmut between them around the floor. The adults gazed on their performance in silence, then broke into a ripple of applause as the children ended with tiny Heil Hitler salutes and
posed obediently for Hoffmann to take photographs. The solemnity was broken when Hilde kicked up her leg and said, ‘Look! I have new shoes!’ prompting a ripple of benevolent
laughter.
    ‘Heini Hoffmann,’ hissed a voice in Clara’s ear. ‘The Führer’s own photographer. We are honoured.’
    Clara turned to see Annelies von Ribbentrop, wife of Germany’s Ambassador to the Court of St James. The Ribbentrops, it was said, were returning to Germany, with hopes that he would be
made Foreign Minister. Holding her cigarette to one side she proffered Clara her cheek for an air kiss.
    ‘Frau von Ribbentrop. You’re back from Britain!’
    ‘At last. Though I don’t know for how long.’
    Annelies von Ribbentrop’s square face was framed by dark hair, severely disciplined in tight braids, and her formidable form was upholstered in a type of bottle-green woollen jacket which
suggested hunting, though without any of the fresh air or exercise that went with it.
    She sniffed. ‘I do admire you British for coping with such dreadful weather. The damp affects me badly, I’m afraid. I’m sensitive to atmospheric depressions.’
    It had to be the only sensitive thing about her, Clara thought.
    ‘But how are
you
?’
    The force with which Frau von Ribbentrop enquired into Clara’s well-being was always in inverse proportion to her actual interest.
    ‘Very well, thank you.’
    ‘Your father threw a delightful dinner for us in London.’ Clara had heard about this occasion. The Anglo-German Fellowship had booked the Grosvenor House Hotel ballroom for a dinner
to honour Hitler’s ambassador. ‘They had all the tables decorated with swastikas. So touching. You must thank him for us. He’s a wonderful man. Though I must say it’s a
relief to be back in Berlin.’ Her eyes flickered round the assembled company. ‘I’ve been catching up on all the goings-on. What unexpected joy for Frau Goering! I suppose you
heard the news?’
    Everyone in Germany had heard the news. Emmy Goering, at the ripe age of forty-one, had become pregnant with her first child. The event was considered a near miracle. Many people believed the
baby could not possibly have been fathered by the Reich Minister who was said to be impotent, either from his morphine use or his war wounds or his enormous bulk. The whole country was gossiping.
Everyone had their own favourite joke about it and the nightclub artiste Werner Fincke had been arrested for telling his.
    ‘Such wonderful news,’ said Clara, neutrally.
    Outside, there was the scatter of gravel on the drive and the purr of an engine. Clara looked out to see a figure jump out of a gleaming, low-slung Bugatti. Then the front door closed and a
minute later the late guest appeared. He was a tall, sandy-haired man in his forties wearing the expression of someone who has left a casino to attend a meeting of the parish council.
    ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said in English.
    ‘Goodness, Ralph,’ said Diana, plucking imperiously at his sleeve. ‘That hat makes you look like a Jewish bookmaker. Do come in. It’s very naughty of you to keep us
waiting.’
    As the maid took his hat and coat and Magda drew him aside, his gaze lingered fractionally on Clara, though no one thought to introduce them.
    Clara was finding it hard to focus on the party. For the past two days Archie Dyson’s words had rung in her