Free Black Roses by Jane Thynne Page B

films that reflect the true aspirations of the German people. They’re not interested in the decadent tastes of the international market.’
    ‘But Doktor Goebbels is a great admirer of Fritz Lang. He enjoyed
Metropolis,
didn’t he? And
Die Nibelungen
?’ Clara tried to remember the comments she had overheard in the Babelsberg foyer.
    ‘Oh, Fritz Lang,’ Richter’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘Herr Lang, I think, is overrated.’
    ‘Another one who needs his horoscope read to him,’ laughed the fat man.
    Clara looked around for Helga. How could she possibly have wanted to come here? Helga was on the other side of the room, her shingled hair rippling in the light of the chandelier, her ice-blue satin dress provocatively skimming her curves. Perhaps it was that which had already secured her the top spot of the party, talking to her host, Doktor Goebbels, crooking one leg so as not to tower over him. Bauer, even though he was a bull of a man, was hanging back, allowing Goebbels to pull rank. The Propaganda Minister’s thin lips were stretched in a smile as wide as his face was narrow, his eyes fixed on Helga like a lizard waiting to devour an especially plump fly. Surveying his unnaturally skinny arms and strange, misshapen body, Clara wondered what on earth a woman like his wife saw in him.
    Frau Goebbels was watching them too. Her face was a tense, thoughtful mask and the set of her mouth gave her an air of private pain, rigorously suppressed. As their gazes locked, she came across the room with a stiff smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
    ‘So, Fräulein Vine, how are you enjoying your work at Babelsberg? I hear you’re to be in a film called . . .
Schwarze Rosen,
was it?’
    ‘I hope so. The producer seems to have disappeared, though, so I haven’t started yet. I’m at a bit of a loose end.’
    ‘Let’s hope he comes back soon. We simply couldn’t live without the cinema! We’re having a cinema installed here, so we can see all the latest films.’
    ‘The Führer is a great fan of the movies too, is he not?’ enquired one of the men, deferentially.
    ‘Of course. We watch together. The Führer watches one every evening, sometimes two.’
    ‘And what kind of films does he like?’ asked Clara politely.
    ‘Oh, nothing dreary or tragic. Happy films.
Grand Hotel
is his favourite, and we hear good things of
King Kong
.’
    ‘Let’s hope that under the Doktor’s new Film Chamber the industry can at last begin to fulfil its true purpose,’ intervened Richter, pompously.
    Clara was about to ask what the true purpose of the industry was, if it wasn’t simple things like entertaining people and giving them a good time, but before she could speak a frisson ran through the air. It was a kind of electric ripple that travelled through the room with no apparent cause. Black uniforms were moving through the throng, taking up positions in the crowd, and eyes were turning towards the central doors. Conversation dropped to a hush. Next to Clara a woman clutched at the arm of her companion, trembling visibly. Frau Goebbels sped away.
    The next minute the doors were flung open and a bodyguard, with a distinct resemblance to Al Capone, entered, followed by a small man in a dinner suit. Everyone raised their right arm in salute. Clara didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. His face was pale and indeterminate, strangely unplaceable, like a ghost’s face or one you might see in a dream. There was something opaque in his countenance. Dark hair flopped over his forehead, which he swiped away with a nervous hand. Only his eyes were startling, slightly protuberant and hypnotic, like blue ice cubes, as they swivelled around the room seeking out people and familiar faces. Instinctively Clara looked away. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want that blue gaze to fall on her. She saw him go towards Magda, heard the kissing of her hand and the “
Gnädige Frau
”.
    The room felt stifled and