Onkel Toms Hütte was located in Zehlendorf at the end of the U3 line. When it was developed, the area had been envisaged as a revolution in communal living, a Utopian society at one with nature and a way for children to escape the squalid inner-city tenements and thrive in the fresh forest air. The eccentric name was the legacy of a nineteenth-century tavern and the buildings were just as unusual: modernist constructions inspired by Mondrian and Kandinsky, interspersed with paths and parks. Woodpeckers chirped away in the trees, deer skittered in the brushwood and geese flocked to the rush-fringed lakes. On that early August day however, the bucolic tranquillity was rent with the clatter and drill of construction workers. A very different development, commissioned by Heinrich Himmler, was underway on adjacent ground: a precisely symmetrical estate of traditional rustic cottages with neat wooden shutters and gabled windows, perfect for SS families. Utopia was no longer to be the preserve of the poor, with their wretched pallor and sun-starved faces. From now on the air and beauty of the area would be devoted to the cream of Nazi children. Already a competition had been held in Berlin’s schools to select suitable names for the streets and so far the winning entries included Führerstrasse, Victory Street and Duty Way. Originality was not an option.
Not far away, Clara and Katerina sat at a café beside Krumme Lanke under a candy-striped awning. Katerina was taking small sips from a bottle of Coca-Cola with a straw, rationing herself strictly to make the unexpected luxury last. Close by a heron, like an untidy grey umbrella, unfolded its limbs and lifted off from the crystal lake, transforming the drops into glittering prisms.
Only two hours earlier Clara had entered the NSV home in Lichterfelde for an interview with the most senior of the Brown Sisters. After listening to Clara’s speech in silence, Frau Schneider had delivered her verdict with a deference that only thinly veneered her disdain.
‘Normally, Fräulein Vine, the adoption of children would be unacceptable unless by families, and preferably those of the SS. In addition, there is something I must in all conscience tell you. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I failed to alert you and besides, it’s on her files. The girl you have selected suffers from a congenital impairment. A leg problem.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘I thought I should point it out. In fact, she is what we call a category four child. Technically she is not eligible for adoption. It is most irregular. But in this case, we are prepared to make an exception, especially,’ she stopped and scrutinized again the paper in front of her with a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance, ‘for someone recommended by Frau Reich Marshal Goering herself.’
‘I hoped that would help. My position on the NSV orphan committee encouraged me to think about taking in a child myself.’
‘Of course. But it is important that you know the implications of the disability. As it happens, arrangements were in place for her to be transferred to a special hospital. The paperwork is all complete . . .’
‘That won’t be necessary. I’d like the adoption to take place immediately, Frau Schneider. I have filming commitments, you understand, and I would love to spend some time with Katerina before that happens.’
Within half an hour she had completed the formalities while Katerina’s small case was packed and then the iron gates clanged shut behind them. With almost indecent haste Clara hurried them onto the U-Bahn, as though the supervisor might have second thoughts and reel them back in, and rode as far as possible, right to the outskirts of the city, so that Katerina would feel safe.
It was a perfect afternoon. High clouds floated like dandelion clocks and linden blossom spiralled in the scintillating air. On a weekend the lakeside would have been packed with Berliners fleeing the city to sunbathe in the sandy reaches at the water’s edge, picnicking and playing cards and relaxing from the stress of city life, but that day they were the only customers at the café.
Katerina sat with her peculiar stillness, watching a flock of black geese lift off the blank dazzle of the lake like letters unsticking from a page.
‘You don’t have any children yourself, do you?’
‘I have a godson. Erich. Perhaps you can meet him.’
That morning Clara had received a call from Erich. His voice had that high pitch of excitement that told her in a second that her wish had been granted.
‘Clara! You’ll never guess what. I’ve been conscripted. To the Luftwaffe! I’m to report to the Air Ministry next week. I don’t even have to complete my school year. I was marked out, they said.’
‘Erich, that’s wonderful! Will you be flying planes?’
‘Not at first. There’s a lot of learning to do, technical stuff.’
He skated over the detail, anxious to play down the disappointment of being office-bound.
‘But Clara,’ a note of sweetness entered his voice, the sweetness that had been there from the very first time she met him, an awkward ten-year-old, brimming with affection, ‘it’s near your apartment so I’ll still be able to see you.’
Katerina knitted her brows and a slight breeze plucked at the snow-blonde hair.
‘Does Erich live with you?’
‘No. But I don’t expect you’ll be living with me for long either.’
‘Oh.’ The girl’s eyes dipped again.
‘Don’t look like that. I wanted to wait until we were here before I told you.’
‘Am I to be sent somewhere else?’
The way she said it, she might have been a parcel to be packaged, posted and dispatched to the distant reaches of the Reich. A piece of luggage to be delivered into the hands of people who would not care for her.
‘Your sister’s coming back.’
‘Sonja!’
‘She’ll be home very soon.’
The child turned towards her rapt, her face splintered by sun and shadow. Her look was everything Clara might have imagined and more. She thought of all the tendernesses she had seen, of Wallis Simpson and her exiled king, stroking his cheek in Estoril. The radiance of Hans Reuber when he talked of his wife, Cici. Of Erich, remembering his mother and how he had knocked a boy out for her. Of Ned, his quiet intensity, his hand feeling for hers, their bodies moving together in a dance they had yet to learn. And she held that tenderness close and cherished it, as though it might protect her from everything time and future had to bring.