by Sally Koslow
“Isn’t it a magnificent spectacle?” Unity asked, breathless.
“Yes, a spectacle,” I said and made a show of looking at the glockenspiel on the square. “But we don’t want to miss the tea dance.” I was eager to escape whatever this garish banner represented.
“ Macht schnell,” Unity said, gaily.
As we walked toward our hotel, I stopped and gasped as I took in a sign with a caricature of a man clearly meant to be a Jew—hooked nose, leering eyes, money grasped in a claw-like hand. Beneath the drawing: Deutschland Erwache!
“Whatever does that mean?” I asked.
“Germany, awaken!” Tom roared like a Prussian general.
“Awake to . . . ?” I feared that I knew the answer.
He might have been a schoolmaster speaking to a child who should know that B follows A. “To the Jews,” he said.
Willkommen, Lily Shiel . Bile crawled to my throat. “Please don’t tell me you believe this,” I said in disbelief.
“I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you, but you don’t have to be a don to see it’s the Jews who’ve been ruining Germany since the Great War. They’re interested in only their bloated bank accounts, and are eating away at the country like a maggot on a rotting body.”
Rarely had I felt more stunned, even more by Tom’s assertion than by the vile poster. I adored my friend for his humor and kindness, and though I knew he was, intellectually, no Randolph Churchill, when had he become an outright nutter?
As we made our way back, I walked ahead, alone and ill at ease. At the hotel, a palm court orchestra was playing Tea for Two and the room was filled with the burble of German, English, French, and Italian. I spotted dozens of girls near Unity’s age accompanied by older women, as well as a spate of young, athletic-looking men, most of whom were in uniform. Tom claimed a table and went to the buffet for biscuits and fruit cups while waiters circulated silver trays of Champagne. I turned to take a glass, and in that time, von Pfeffel arrived, he of the practiced politeness and persistent appeal. He greeted us with an abbreviated bow and handed Unity a nosegay of white roses.
“Would you be so kind as to allow Fraulein Mitford to accept the next dance?” he asked, looking at me.
It was hard not to return his smile. “ Ja, Officer von Pfeffel,” I said, unable to recall the exact wording of his German rank.
Unity walked away on his arm and Tom turned to ask, “May I have this dance?”
I accepted his hand and said, “With pleasure.” During this visit, that commodity had been, like eggs, in short supply.
“You seemed upset earlier.”
“Everything here is just so . . .” I fumbled. Startling? Horrifying?
“Electrifying? We’re witnessing a country in change. They call Munich Hauptstadt der Bewegung, the capital of the movement. But I promise to restrain myself from yammering on. As I’m often reminded, I’m a bore.” I was glad that for the next hour, Deutschland, Erwache meant merely dance your heart out.
During the following few days we hiked the mountains, stopping for cocoa and lebkuchen at tiny cafés. Each evening, we found ourselves sufficiently tired to fall into bed after an early dinner. I tried to erase the memory of phony Reichsmarks I’d seen engraved with caricatures of Jews. I wanted to stay in nature, far from Nazi filth. But soon Unity said she’d had enough stamping about in thick socks and heavy boots. So it was back to assessing the city’s architecture. Twice, on the street, my eyes stopped at signs that translated to “No Jews Allowed.” I hurried past these barriers as if they were armed and alive.
I was no stranger to anti-Semitism, though I thought I had put it behind me when I’d moved to the West End and severed ties to my family. I’d grown up believing Jews were to be reviled, despite a few exceptions: esteemed physicians up and down Harley Street, Jewish governesses for highborn families—as I might have become, had I not been forced out of school—and the former viceroy of India, Rufus Isaacs himself, Lord Chief Justice of England, the first Jew to be raised to a marquisate. Last year I failed to wince when Judith complained that a shop owner had “Jewed me.” When Randolph described a car with metallic trim as being “Jewish racing gold,” I joined the titters. All my life I’d heard slurs flung as easily as bats at a cricket match—kikes, Jew-boys, Christ killers, shylocks, sheeny bastards. I was also aware of restrictions—Nigel’s beloved Pop, for instance, surely had no Jewish members. Britain was not exactly a place of enlightened tolerance, but as snide as the insults were, or as insidious the prohibitions, prejudice was never writ large on placards.
Only later did I understand that the Tom Mitfords of the world were hiding in plain sight, more the rule than the exception, and that a mere six kilometers northwest of Munich the Dachau concentration camp was under construction. But this was 1932, when Nazi evil was still a mutating cell, not a full-blown cancer. All I knew was that Germany was no place for me.
I was thinking of this when Unity asked, “May I have your permission to go to a concert this evening with Otto?”
Her tone was petulant. I wondered if Tom would upbraid his sister for the insolence embedded in her question, but he said, merely, “If Mrs. Gillam agrees . . .” I did. Let her have her Nazi.
Tom and I had a leisurely dinner, and I returned to my bed to read The Conqueror. I was riveted by the story of William, a bastard son who nonetheless made himself the king. At nearly eleven o’clock, I heard Unity, threw on my wrapper, and knocked on her door.
“It’s open,” she said. “Do come in.”
“Did you have a wonderful time?” I asked.
“Dreamy,” she said, looking the same. “Otto took me dancing and he gave me a book—in English.”
“That was thoughtful,” I managed to say. “Now, Gute Nacht und süße Träume, and remember, a car is fetching us downstairs at nine.” We were spending the day with Baroness von Someone, a distant cousin of Mrs. Mitford.
The next morning, at half past nine, there was still no sign of Unity. As I entered her room a flowery scent wafted through the air. I knocked on her bathroom door. “I’m in the tub,” she sang out.
“Could you hurry, please?” I said. “The car is waiting.” As I turned to leave I noticed the book von Pfeffel had given her. I glanced at the inscription: To lovely Unity, with affection, Heil Hitler! Otto .
I closed its cover. Mein Kampf .
I quickly turned the book’s pages. First, I laughed. “No politician should ever let himself be photographed in a bathing suit,” Herr Hitler observed. But I continued . . .
Was there any form of filth without at least one Jew involved in it? If you cut even cautiously into such an abscess, you found . . . a kike!
The personification of the devil as the symbol of all evil assumes the shape of the Jew.
I closed the book, tiptoed quickly to my room, locked my door, and vomited.
Minutes later, I left a message for Tom to leave without me. Then I wrote a letter explaining that John needed me back in London—I hinted at bronchitis—and I must cut my trip short. I thanked him profusely, and apologized for any inconvenience. Hastily, I packed my bags. An hour later, I was traveling north. The semmelknödel would have to wait.
Chapter 17
1932
The first train I could catch stopped in Frankfurt, where I planned to connect to Brussels and travel home to England. I did not mind the inefficiency of zigzagging around Europe as long as Munich was increasingly farther behind me. In Frankfurt, I waited on a bench and counted Nazi uniforms— eins, zwei, drei—while listening carefully to announcements. I was at fünfzehn when the stationmaster rang out . . . Berlin. He called it, again and again.
Berlin was in the direction of Poland, not England. But I felt as if my Tatte was commanding me to change my plans. Ja , Frau Gillam, an agent said, a seat is available. Hours later, I stepped off the train into an enormous station and bought a map of the city. There it was, marked on Herbert-Baum-Straße.
Weißensee Cemetery had a gate fit for Oxfor
d College. It was eerily calm. I passed a mourning hall and a flower bed as big as a pond. Finally, I found an office and approached a clerk wearing peyes. Consulting my dictionary, I asked in halting German, “ Können Sie mir helfen, ein Grab finden Sie, bitte?”
“ Welcher Name, bitte?” he asked.
I had not said my father’s name in almost fifteen years. “Louis Shiel.” My voice was barely audible.
“ Könntest du das bitte wiederholen?”
My confusion must have showed.
“ Lauter, bitte.”
This time I understood. “Louis Shiel.” I let the name ring like a bell.
The gentleman disappeared and returned with a younger man who, to my relief, said, “I speak a little English. May I be of assistance?”
“Can you help me find my father’s grave, please? He died in 1910 while visiting Berlin. His name is Louis Shiel. S.H.I.E.L.”
“I will check, Madame,” the man said, “but with more than one hundred thousand souls here, I cannot promise I will find him.” He disappeared but soon returned and instructed me to follow him. The sun was low in the sky, and I felt a drizzle. My guide unfurled a large, black umbrella and offered his arm as we steadied ourselves on a stone path.
I noticed a field of honor for Jewish soldiers who had fallen in the Great War, their sea of graves ringing a monument that resembled an altar. These Germans gave their lives for their country—some had even received the Iron Cross—yet Hitler despises them and their descendants, I thought, maddened by the injustice. Beyond these plots were rows of kingly mausoleums, many of elaborate art nouveau design, where the wealthy would live for eternity. I also saw headstones and obelisks that were simpler, though still elegant. Some were ancient: 1801, 1832, 1877.
Mosse. Plotke, Dorfman, Berger, Teutsch. Jews. Jews. More dead Jews. The cemetery was the size of a village. My companion opened a low gate and we crossed over into a section dense with foliage. He motioned for me to turn, all but bushwhacking until we were forced to travel single file. He stopped in front of a small stone that read 1910.
“I will leave you to your prayers,” he said, letting me take the umbrella. “The sixth grave in this row.”
I had found my father in the Stepney Green of Weißensee Cemetery. I felt a stab of jubilation soured by grief. Perhaps in Deutsch there is a name for this emotion.
“Danke, mein Herr,” I said.
Why had I come? To bear witness? To grant my father respect? I knew only that I felt compelled to be here. As the rain picked up and wind wailed through the trees, I felt as if I heard a descant. My father, I was sure, was telling me not to be afraid. It was the voice that asked me to sit next to his rocking chair every night in our crowded flat. When he returned from the tailor shop, after my mother had become exhausted by her geshreying, he listened to Brahms—a discarded Victrola and one record were his prized possessions. As the scratchy music played he would ruffle my hair each time the chair creaked forward. His touch was soft. I could feel it now and a chill ran down my back. “ Meine schöne Lily,” he would say, love nesting in his whisper.
After a father died, a good son would have said Kaddish for a month in shul. Had my brothers? Words I was sure I had forgotten began to fall from my lips. Yis’gadal v’yits’kadash sh’mei raba . . . I could picture my father, a simple man but admirable.
“Tatte,” I broke into Yiddish. “This is your Lily, a daughter who is bringing you shame. I have disappointed you. I no longer keep the Shabbos. I failed to respect Mama. I married a good man but he isn’t Jewish, and I have committed adultery”—I took a wheezing breath—“more than once. And worst of all, I . . .” Tatte would consider what I would say the most unforgivable sin of all, “I pretend to be a shiksa.”
My shoulders heaved. “I tell nothing but lies. My life is false and hollow, and I live in constant fear that I will be exposed. I’ve made mistakes, too many to count, but I’m not sure I can undo them or how else to live.” I shrank into myself, disgraced. “I want so much to be loved and accepted. I do not want to be alone in this world like I felt at the orphanage.”
I heard footsteps, then the clearing of a throat. The man who’d brought me to this spot had returned. “Madame, the cemetery is soon closing. We must leave.”
I found a pebble and placed it on the small marker, as was the custom. “Goodbye, Tatte,” I said. “Please know how much I love you.”
In the fading light, we walked until we entered the building where he worked. I thanked the man for his kindness, placed some marks in the tzedakah box, and headed toward the grand gate. I was trying to determine in which direction to turn when something hit me in the back. A rock twice the size of the stone I’d left on Tatte’s grave fell at my feet. Another hit my leg, and then one more pelted my arm.
Across the street two young boys were pointing at me. “ Jude, Jude,” they hooted. “ Dreckiger, Jude” came the shouts, ugly and loud. “ Jude, Jude.”
I started to run, thinking, I have been running all my life.
Chapter 18
1933
Back in England, Tom Mitford invited me to a rally held by Sir Oswald Mosley, the secret lover of Diana, his sister. I found it titillating that in addition to being linked to Diana, Mosley was rumored to have had liaisons with both his wife’s younger sister and their stepmother. Nonetheless, I declined; Mosley was the moon to Hitler’s Black Sun, the leader of a new party called the British Union of Fascists.
I explained to Tom that at night I was exhausted, since I’d started to play squash with the eagerness of an Olympic hopeful—had squash been an Olympic sport. Every hour I wasn’t with Johnny or writing a piece to submit to one of the Fleet Street tabloids, I was banging a small, hard squash ball.
“Why ever do you play so hard,” my neighbor Judith asked. Once again she was in London for the winter season. “It’s a daft game, not bloody war.”
I shrugged off the answer with, “I don’t know how else to play.” I didn’t tell my friend that the squash court was the only place where I had no need for pretense and my mind was free of worry, which, since my trip, would not cease. Never when I played did I feel on the verge of being revealed as a sham. Racquet in hand, I saw myself as confident, even superior, and I forgot that I’d boxed myself into a sexless marriage that would bring neither children nor satisfaction.
I found all this on the squash court and, lately, more: the captain of the men’s squash team, whom I noticed whenever I practiced. The Marquess and Earl of Donegall belonged to one of the most revered peerages in the country and had a string of vaulted, inscrutable titles: Earl of Belfast, Viscount Chichester of Ireland, Baron Fisherwick of Fisherwick, Hereditary Lord High Admiral of Lough Neagh among them—and those were merely the noble designations cited by Burke’s. This esteemed reference failed to add that he wrote the society column I never missed in the Sunday Dispatch—or that he was damned attractive, boyish, narrowly built with brown eyes that called to mind comparisons to beloved pets. The tastiest part was that I’d noticed those eyes notice me. This invited a challenge.
One day I contrived to finish a match at precisely the same time I knew the marquess would be completing one as well. I had also won. He approached me with congratulations, and asked, “Why haven’t we met before?” Are you a part of my world?
I knew I looked my best flushed with victory, when my competitive instincts were as much on high alert as my powers of flirtation. I might have been a spider trapping a fly.
“I’ve been traveling,” I said, beaming, “with my friends Tom and Unity.”
“Mitford? He’s a cagey one, keeping you all for himself.”
The marquess treated me to a celebratory cocktail, and another. This led to country drives, to dinners, to jazz clubs, to boating on the Thames, and to my first visit to Ascot, for which I wore a tasteful saucer hat and carried a matching parasol. After two months he persuaded me to fly in his Gypsy Moth, which resembled an enormous grasshopper. He wore goggles, a white silk scarf, a lea
ther helmet, and a jacket. I wore fear.
Johnny knew about Don, which I started to call him, but thought the friendship was innocent. In the beginning, it was. But it did not take long to become Don’s partner in bed, or to feel deep affection. He was better company than Randolph because, not being burdened with surplus brilliance and a haughty temperament, the marquess never made me feel untaught, and I enjoyed him more than Tom, simply because he looked at me with desire.
I never had illusions that our fling would become something more. Don was from a family that protected its bloodlines behind ramparts erected centuries earlier, and I adored him only as deeply as you can care for someone to whom you rarely tell the truth . We kissed and we made love and we chattered about skiing in Switzerland and shooting in Northumberland. Never did we mention Adolf Hitler or Sir Oswald Mosley. Our relationship was a Christmas candy cane, all sweet, shiny surface.
I hadn’t bargained on Don falling in love.
“I want to marry you, Sheilah,” he said one night at dinner. “I love you with all my heart.”
I cast down my eyes and passed the breadbasket.
“Mrs. Gillam,” he said. “Did you not hear me? I want to make you my wife.”
“And what about Mr. Gillam?” I buttered a roll with slow, sensuous strokes.
“Blast,” he said. “He is a hindrance. I guess you’ll have to un-marry the chap. Have you heard of divorce? It’s quite the rage.”
Lily Shiel, daughter of Louis and Rivkah, late of Stepney Green and the Jews’ Orphan Asylum, Her Grace, Marchioness of Donegall. I could carry off a romance, but I had my limits. Like squash, Don was sport, and I had assumed he saw me the same way.