away, then turning to Clara, she sighed, ‘We receive so many letters. Of course it is lovely that ordinary people write to Joseph and myself all the time, but to answer them . . . you have no idea of the work. Please, eat something.’
She had a way of issuing invitations so that they emerged as commands. Clara, who was always hungry, decided it would be polite to obey. As she selected a liverwurst sandwich, Magda leant forward in her chair, crossed tan stockinged legs and fixed on her an unnervingly intense gaze.
‘Tell me, do you know much about fashion?’
‘Fashion?’ Clara was mystified.
‘Yes, I noticed you were wearing a lovely gown the other night – by Jean Patou, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so. Yes. But I can’t pretend to know much about clothes and so on. It was my sister’s dress, actually. Angela’s terribly interested in all that.’
‘No matter. I still think you’d be perfect.’
‘Perfect for what?’
Magda got up and went over to the mirror. Absently she adjusted her hair, then walked to the window and sighed, crossing her arms in front of her and cupping her elbows. It was almost as if she had forgotten Clara was there. Clara remembered what had struck her at the party: the sense that some private misery preoccupied this woman, some secret unhappiness hovered just beneath her steely surface. Outside, gardeners were raking the gravel and tending to flowerbeds packed with tulips that were, by accident or design, National Socialist red. But Clara felt sure that gardening was not uppermost on Magda Goebbels’ mind. She turned.
‘This is a rather confidential thing I have to say. I hope I can trust you to keep it to yourself for a while. Until it’s made public.’
Clara nodded.
‘I have had a rather special request from the Führer. He wants me to establish the Deutsches Modeamt. A Reich fashion bureau.’
‘A fashion bureau?’
‘Yes. I am to be honorary president.’ Magda came over and clasped her hands, her vivid grey-blue eyes taking on a look of intense urgency.
‘You see, he has very strong feelings on this. You might not expect a man to take such an interest in women’s things, but the Führer is exceptional. He doesn’t think like an ordinary man. He understands how all parts of our culture affect the German people. Even something that a lot of other people might think trivial, he has opinions about, and ideas for change.’
‘And what sort of opinion does he have about fashion?’
‘For a start, he believes French couture is absolute poison. It has been wreaking havoc on German women.’
‘Poison?’ Clara said, mystified.
‘Yes, and it’s not just clothes. The Führer has strong feelings about cosmetics too.’
‘He doesn’t like them?’ hazarded Clara. She couldn’t help recognizing Frau Goebbels’ perfume – Elizabeth Arden’s Night and Day. Angela wore it all the time.
‘He hates artificial hair colours and cosmetics. He says they’re all about feigning health and youth.’
Clara wondered if the Führer’s dislike of adornment stretched to jewellery. A row of chunky pearls nestled on the Frau Doktor’s neck, a diamond and emerald clasp was fixed in her hair and twin diamond teardrops dangled from her ears.
‘Then there’s this cult of unnatural slimness. It makes it so much harder for women to . . . procreate. Did you know that?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘It’s true.’
It had to be said, Frau Goebbels was not herself an obvious advertisement for German fashion. She was wearing a black lacquer Chanel bracelet and her jacket was by Vionnet. Her own make-up had been freshly and immaculately applied. But on hair dye at least she was in line. Her wheat-blonde locks clearly owed nothing to the bottle.
‘So you see, Fräulein Vine, I have been given the task – well, the honour I suppose – of calling together designers and creating an entire new look for the German woman using German materials, German workers and German
She had a way of issuing invitations so that they emerged as commands. Clara, who was always hungry, decided it would be polite to obey. As she selected a liverwurst sandwich, Magda leant forward in her chair, crossed tan stockinged legs and fixed on her an unnervingly intense gaze.
‘Tell me, do you know much about fashion?’
‘Fashion?’ Clara was mystified.
‘Yes, I noticed you were wearing a lovely gown the other night – by Jean Patou, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so. Yes. But I can’t pretend to know much about clothes and so on. It was my sister’s dress, actually. Angela’s terribly interested in all that.’
‘No matter. I still think you’d be perfect.’
‘Perfect for what?’
Magda got up and went over to the mirror. Absently she adjusted her hair, then walked to the window and sighed, crossing her arms in front of her and cupping her elbows. It was almost as if she had forgotten Clara was there. Clara remembered what had struck her at the party: the sense that some private misery preoccupied this woman, some secret unhappiness hovered just beneath her steely surface. Outside, gardeners were raking the gravel and tending to flowerbeds packed with tulips that were, by accident or design, National Socialist red. But Clara felt sure that gardening was not uppermost on Magda Goebbels’ mind. She turned.
‘This is a rather confidential thing I have to say. I hope I can trust you to keep it to yourself for a while. Until it’s made public.’
Clara nodded.
‘I have had a rather special request from the Führer. He wants me to establish the Deutsches Modeamt. A Reich fashion bureau.’
‘A fashion bureau?’
‘Yes. I am to be honorary president.’ Magda came over and clasped her hands, her vivid grey-blue eyes taking on a look of intense urgency.
‘You see, he has very strong feelings on this. You might not expect a man to take such an interest in women’s things, but the Führer is exceptional. He doesn’t think like an ordinary man. He understands how all parts of our culture affect the German people. Even something that a lot of other people might think trivial, he has opinions about, and ideas for change.’
‘And what sort of opinion does he have about fashion?’
‘For a start, he believes French couture is absolute poison. It has been wreaking havoc on German women.’
‘Poison?’ Clara said, mystified.
‘Yes, and it’s not just clothes. The Führer has strong feelings about cosmetics too.’
‘He doesn’t like them?’ hazarded Clara. She couldn’t help recognizing Frau Goebbels’ perfume – Elizabeth Arden’s Night and Day. Angela wore it all the time.
‘He hates artificial hair colours and cosmetics. He says they’re all about feigning health and youth.’
Clara wondered if the Führer’s dislike of adornment stretched to jewellery. A row of chunky pearls nestled on the Frau Doktor’s neck, a diamond and emerald clasp was fixed in her hair and twin diamond teardrops dangled from her ears.
‘Then there’s this cult of unnatural slimness. It makes it so much harder for women to . . . procreate. Did you know that?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘It’s true.’
It had to be said, Frau Goebbels was not herself an obvious advertisement for German fashion. She was wearing a black lacquer Chanel bracelet and her jacket was by Vionnet. Her own make-up had been freshly and immaculately applied. But on hair dye at least she was in line. Her wheat-blonde locks clearly owed nothing to the bottle.
‘So you see, Fräulein Vine, I have been given the task – well, the honour I suppose – of calling together designers and creating an entire new look for the German woman using German materials, German workers and German
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