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the picture she had seen in the shop window as she walked up Friedrichstrasse.
    ‘That’s Dr Goebbels,’ Helga whispered. ‘Officially he’s the new Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. Unofficially they call him the Tadpole.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Can’t you see it?’ she laughed. ‘That big head and little body?’
    ‘They also call him the Babelsberg Buck,’ murmured Albert, who had come up behind them. ‘He has a real eye for the ladies. You two had better be careful!’
    ‘Who’s he talking to?’
    ‘Ludwig Klitzsch, the chief of the studio. And Alfred Hugenberg. Technically he’s the chairman of Ufa, but he’s been told to hand the whole place over to Goebbels, lock, stock and barrel.’
    A glance at the assembled studio executives said it all. The men had dark, anxious eyes and smiles that looked like they were held up by piano wires. Goebbels spoke with a declamatory air, as though he was addressing a large public meeting, which meant the conversation carried clearly across the lobby.
    ‘I assure you the government has no desire to control any films being made. Art is free and should remain so. I have always said that.’
    The men around him nodded at these snippets, as though they proceeded from the mouth of Socrates. He was a devoted admirer of the power of film, Goebbels continued. There were certain films that had made an indelible impression on him. Fritz Lang’s
Die Nibelungen
, for example, and
Battleship Potemkin.
    ‘The famously Bolshevik
Potemkin,’
muttered Albert. ‘Can he be serious?’
    ‘You wouldn’t think politicians would bother much with movies,’ said Clara, ‘I’m sure they don’t in England.’ It was hard to imagine Mr Baldwin, with his pipe and his poker face, getting excited about
Love Me Tonight
or Ramsay MacDonald attending
Shanghai Express.
    ‘Oh, but Ufa is so important,’ said Albert. ‘If Ufa plays its cards right it can control film making all over Europe.’
    ‘And I hear Dr Goebbels is planning to choose every chorus girl himself, just to ensure that they’re a perfect representation of German womanhood,’ sniggered Helga.
    ‘In which case, Fräulein, you would be the ideal choice.’
    Helga widened her eyes and turned round. The speaker was a short, thickset figure, his beer-barrel body encased in the brown shirt and breeches of the SA. The leer on his face had a message as plain as his swastika armband. Within a split second Helga assessed the situation, and realized she wasn’t going to have to apologize.
    ‘Well, I didn’t know I was being overheard.’ Her eyelids fluttered flirtatiously.
    ‘That’s because your voice is as clear as a bell, Fräulein. You’re an actress, I can tell.’
    Helga’s whole body gave a reflexive wriggle. ‘But of course.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Helga Schmidt.’
    ‘Walter Bauer.’ He cocked his head at the posters on the walls. ‘I’ve probably seen your face in one of these masterworks. Only it’s not usually the faces I’m looking at.’ He issued a loud guffaw and turned, as if for confirmation, to his companion.
    The other man was wearing a double-breasted suit, with a crest of white handkerchief protruding from the pocket, and a smile of humorous disdain. He had a dense, muscular build and his abundant dark hair was trained with brilliantine into a style of military precision. He raised his eyebrows momentarily at Bauer’s remark but held out a hand to Helga, simultaneously clicking his heels. Clara had never before seen anyone click their heels.
    ‘Klaus Müller.’
    Helga allowed her hand to be kissed, and simpered. As she listed the films she had been in for the Brown Shirt’s benefit, Clara was conscious of Müller’s eyes appraising her.
    ‘And what about you, Fräulein? Have we seen any of your work?’
    ‘I very much doubt it.’
    ‘This is Clara Vine. She’s a big star in England,’ cut in Helga quickly. ‘And she’s in line for a major part in
Schwarze