House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  Albert became aware that the great General himself was seated at a table and eyeing him with interest, while listening to a civvie chap wearing small round glasses and a matching series of circular double-chins. The man caught Albert’s eye and nodded. General Haig beckoned him over. Albert waited, knowing that three months of regimental training had not been enough to instil in him either soldierly bearing or compliance.

  ‘This is Simon Grenville, from the War Office. Wants a quick word.’

  Albert held out his hand, but did not move to join them.

  ‘Sit,’ commanded the General, getting up and leaving the two men alone.

  Albert sat.

  Grenville coughed and cleaned his glasses with a small silken cloth, even though they were not dirty.

  ‘We were hoping, Captain Goldbaum, that you would speak to your father.’

  Albert frowned. ‘If this is business, Mr Grenville, you’d do better calling in at the office in London.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Albert waited, but Mr Grenville made no move to dismiss him or to leave. Instead he licked dry lips with a darting pink tongue.

  ‘Without giving precise figures, the war is expensive,’ he said at last.

  ‘Five and a half million pounds every day, without precise figures,’ said Albert.

  Grenville glanced at him in surprise.

  ‘It’s my business to know what things cost, Mr Grenville. England is nearly out of money. You want the Goldbaum Bank to make the government further loans, despite the fact my father has told you we have reached the absolute limit of our credit.’

  Grenville sighed and nodded, reached into his pocket for his spectacle cloth and then lost heart.

  ‘I can only echo what I’m sure Lord Goldbaum has already told you,’ said Albert. ‘The House of Goldbaum cannot lend the war fund any more money. If we do, we risk bankruptcy. If banks start to fail, that will not help the war effort.’

  ‘I know. But I was sent to ask,’ said Grenville, with an air of gloom.

  ‘You must borrow from the Americans. They are the only ones with any money,’ said Albert with resolve.

  ‘We are. Our chap on Wall Street is raising money through the American banks. Nearly two million dollars a day.’

  At the size of the figure, even Albert was taken aback for a moment.

  ‘It isn’t enough,’ said Grenville with a sigh. ‘And the terms are crippling. The Yanks won’t lend unless the money is guaranteed against British securities or gold. Shipment after shipment of gold is sailing across the Atlantic.’

  Albert looked at him closely. ‘How low are the Bank of England’s gold reserves?’

  Grenville hesitated. ‘I can’t say. It’s classified.’ He signalled to a waiter. ‘Another glass of brandy.’

  After it was brought to him, Grenville swirled his glass, the contents a spinning gold in the gaslight. He took a sip. ‘This glass wasn’t as full as it ought to have been in 1914. We didn’t think there would be such demand, and we let our stocks run low. And then we drank an awful lot of brandy in 1915, 1916.’

  ‘It was a popular drink in America,’ said Albert, eyeing the glass.

  ‘Quite.’ Grenville took a large gulp and then another and put it down on the table, the merest drop left in the bottom, just enough to colour the glass. ‘By March or April it will be empty.’

  ‘You can’t get any more from the Russians or the French?’

  ‘We try. They prevaricate, delay; send some, but a fraction of what we asked for and need.’

  ‘Meanwhile the value of the British pound is pegged to gold.’

  They both glanced at the almost-empty brandy glass.

  ‘There is nothing to be done but turn to the Americans. They must lend us more,’ said Albert, aware of a shrill desperation in his voice.

  ‘And when we run out of gold to pay them?’ Grenville was silent for a moment and then leaned in a little closer. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather worse than that. President Wilson has firmed his position. The American Federal Reserve Board has issued a decree warning banks against making loans to belligerent governments.’

  Albert snorted. ‘Wilson’s way of exerting pressure to force us into peace negotiations, I suppose. Because he is a moral man, whose Christian conscience dictates that he try everything he can to end the wanton slaughter of men? I believe that is what he said in his re-election campaign.’

  Grenville gazed at him steadily, his eyes magnified through his spectacles. ‘I think the President may indeed be a moral man, tormented by the prospect of war. But there are others in America who have noticed that they have done magnificently out of it. While we scrabble in the dirt, money falls on them like rain. We all want their cotton, guns and grain, and we borrow their money on horrible terms to buy it from them. They have won the jackpot, and they want to cash in before the casino goes out of business.’

  Albert felt a gloom suffuse his being like a cold draught. ‘I suppose, whether their motives are moral or avarice, it doesn’t matter. The Americans are using their formidable financial influence to end the war and the effect will be just the same. We lose.’

  Grenville nodded miserably. ‘The British government is in an invidious position – if the loan embargo is maintained, the collapse of the Allies will come in a matter of months.’

  Albert gestured towards where General Haig held court amongst lesser generals in the corner. ‘The next battle is irrelevant. The real war is away from the trenches and in the counting houses. The great push needs to be not against the Germans, but to push the Americans into the war. That is the only solution I can see. If they fight with us, it is against their interests for us to crash out, defeated and bankrupt.’

  The man from the War Office nodded unhappily. ‘The Prime Minister has been suavely trying to nudge them out of neutrality.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘None.’

  There was nothing Albert could say. No sympathy he could offer; the flow of money was drying up and, like the slowing of blood rushing from a wound as the pressure drops and the heart ceases to beat, the British economy had nearly bled to death. He waved to a servant and ordered more brandy and cigars. They drank and smoked in silence. There was nothing useful to be said, and both men were too preoccupied to engage in small talk. Neither noticed when General Haig rejoined them, and he stood for half a minute before Albert hurried to his feet and saluted. The General grunted in displeasure.

  ‘I thought you were stuck to that chair, Goldbaum.’

  ‘My profound apologies, sir.’

  ‘Business satisfactorily concluded, I take it?’

  ‘Indeed, General,’ said Grenville quickly.

  Albert understood. The great architect of war should not be distracted with trivialities such as cost. In this instance the General was like a lady diner in a restaurant, presented with a menu without prices.

  A Second Lieutenant appeared at their table, with two telegrams on a polished silver tray. Haig took one and read it, a tiny twitch of his moustache betraying his satisfaction at the contents. He glanced at Albert.

  ‘That’s addressed to you, Goldbaum. I can’t fathom precisely how your family manages to make use of the GHQ urgent messaging system as if it were their own private postal service.’

  Albert read his message with almost as much satisfaction as the General had read his. He looked up and smiled. He thought that perhaps he ought not to feel such happiness, considering the world into which his son had just been born; but, he reasoned, joy cannot be contained by logic.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the General.

  ‘I have a son,’ said Albert. ‘And your telegram, sir? Good news, I hope?’

  ‘The King has sent me a New Year’s gift from the nation. I am promoted to Field Marshal.’

  There were general shouts for champagne. As it was liberally distributed throughout the company, Albert accepted the congratulations of staff officers, colonels and the odd brigadier, all the time feeling the watchful eye of
Field Marshal Haig on his back, as if even now the effect of Haig’s great promotion had been outshone: there was more than one Field Marshal in Britain, but there was only one son and heir to the British Goldbaums.

  VILLA GOLD, LAKE GENEVA, 1ST JANUARY

  One Minute Past Midnight

  Clement lay fast asleep in bed with Irena, their small daughter Lara tucked between them, fingers curled in her mother’s long hair. The nursemaids and housekeeper murmured their disapproval – who had ever heard of such a thing? Only peasants slept together in one bed, and that was out of necessity. But Clement and Irena couldn’t have cared less what the servants or neighbours whispered, and each evening they dismissed the nurse at six and put Lara to bed themselves, reading her stories in Russian and English and every now and again, in deference to Cousin Otto, in German.

  Clement knew his happiness was gauche and entirely out of place during such a time, but he couldn’t help himself. He lived quietly beside the lake with two women who adored him, beyond the sting of his father’s disappointment. The house was too big for them – they did not need the ballroom to entertain, but Lara liked to be pushed on her tricycle from one end to the other, shrieking with joy. The house was known as Villa Gold both in deference to its owners and to the battalions of dahlias planted along the villa’s drive, ten thousand orbs in shades of gold and yellow and saffron. In summer, the villa windows looked past striped lawns and urns of yet more nodding dahlias to the blue waters of the lake, and in winter the vista stretched beyond the starched white of the gardens to the frozen waters and the snow-capped Alps. Clement wrote his parents brief letters assuring them of his scrupulous caretaking of the villa.

  The cuckoo clock in the unused night-nursery woke him briefly as it cooed midnight, and Clement climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. The moon was bright and the snow glowed all around like phosphorus. Despite the beauty of the place, and the tender affections of Irena and Lara, Clement missed Albert. He wished his daughter could meet her cousins, but he accepted the impossibility of such a desire. He felt a little uneasy. Tomorrow he would drive away such feelings with a game of chess, and perhaps take Lara skating on the lake. He clambered back into bed, where it was warm and soft. A minute later, he was asleep.

  ESTHER CHTEAU, PARIS, 1ST JANUARY

  One Minute Past Midnight

  Henri read his papers with itching frustration, unaware of the old year passing into the new. The government desired the House of Goldbaum in Paris to issue another showing of war bonds, but they wanted the interest rate to be fixed and, with inflation rising like damp, Henri had been forced to warn the Finance Minister that there would be few investors. He wished that he were in America. While Europe bled flesh and money, American profits from exports in grain and arms grew like Jack’s beanstalk. The merchants there must have thought they had discovered the golden goose, Henri decided. He was tired of shitting golden eggs and putting them in a ship and sending them to America.

  There was a knock at the door and a footman appeared, hesitating on the threshold. His wig was neither clean nor straight, and he had a slight limp. All the best servants had been swallowed up by the army, minnows into Jonah’s whale.

  ‘There’s a man and a woman here to see you. They say the Professor sent them.’

  Henri pushed aside his papers. ‘Well, show them in.’

  The footman stood back and an older man in a brown suit and a young woman in a none-too-clean blue dress entered. Their faces were etched with exhaustion. The woman swayed, appearing on the edge of fainting.

  ‘Bring a supper tray and some brandy,’ ordered Henri, rising.

  The footman remained on the spot. ‘There’s none left in the pantry,’ he said softly.

  ‘Then you must go to the cellar,’ snapped Henri, irritated.

  The footman swallowed and nodded, clearly terrified at the thought of searching the vast and cavernous cellars of the château by candlelight.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ said Henri, helping the woman to a seat on the sofa.

  ‘I am Voska,’ said the man. ‘This is my daughter. We have been travelling for some time.’

  Henri studied his guests with interest. These occasional furtive visits from the Czech nationalists intrigued and troubled him.

  ‘Where have you travelled from?’ asked Henri, out of conversational politeness, and quite forgetting that he was not supposed to ask.

  The man paused and licked his lips, a little nervous. ‘First Vienna. Then Berlin. Many, many trains.’

  The footman reappeared with a tray of bread, fruit and cheese and the brandy. Henri dismissed him and served his guests himself. They ate with indecent haste.

  ‘May I be of any assistance, other than refreshments?’

  ‘We have documents for you to pass to the British. You have a connection, yes?’

  Henri nodded. ‘My cousin.’

  ‘You cannot send it through your courier network; you must take this to Beaurepaire and place it in Monsieur Goldbaum’s hands yourself.’

  Henri smiled and helped himself to a grape. ‘Monsieur Voska, I’m afraid I’m rather tied up in Paris. I don’t get involved in these,’ he searched for the right word, ‘clandestine matters myself.’

  Henri was dubious about the effectiveness of the Bohemian Alliance. They were Austro-Hungarians who had been born as citizens of the Empire, but who considered themselves Czech patriots. They wanted the Allies to win the war and the great Austro-Hungarian Empire to shatter, so that a new Czech nation could be born. Their ardent nationalism and hatred of the Austrian Empire unnerved Henri. The Goldbaum dynasty might have begun in Prussia, but Henri knew himself to be a Frenchman and could as soon imagine betraying his family as his country. In fact he daren’t imagine Otto’s hurt at his perfidy: this odd couple presently seated on his sofa were citizens of Otto’s beloved Austria and they were busily plotting its downfall, while he, Henri – Otto’s favourite cousin and childhood companion – was assisting them.

  ‘It is a document of importance,’ said Voska softly.

  ‘Regarding?’ asked Henri, vexed at the position in which he had been placed. He would not be some dupe, passing on information that did not help the cause of France.

  Voska looked sheepish and, before he could speak, the girl from the sofa rose to her feet.

  ‘My father and I have travelled for five days through Europe without stopping to eat or change our clothes, always risking discovery to bring you this paper. It is a telegram in code. We do not know what it says, but we know it is written in the German diplomatic code. The British can read it.’

  ‘They can?’ asked Henri.

  ‘We believe so,’ said Voska grimly.

  ‘How did you get it?’ asked Henri. ‘I’m sorry, but I must ask. Else how am I to persuade Albert, or his acquaintance at Naval Intelligence, that the document is genuine?’

  Again, the girl spoke. ‘It was sent at night from Berlin to Mexico. We have a telegraph operator in the Alliance who made a copy. But if the British reveal this, they are sentencing him to death.’

  Henri studied her for a moment, considering. ‘Yes. Very well. I shall do it. You may give me the document.’

  The girl smiled, revealing a tiny gap between her front teeth. ‘You must allow me somewhere to change. The telegram is rolled and hidden in the bones of my corset.’

  Henri rang the bell and instructed the footman to wake one of the maids to assist the young Czech girl. He was surprised that the commotion had not woken his father, but then Jacques was becoming deaf. Henri remained with Voska. Neither man spoke. Henri hoped they would not meet again. When he glanced once more at the clock, he saw that it was nearly one.

  HAMPSHIRE, JANUARY

  ‘I can’t see why you’re so put out,’ said Greta, admiring the sleeping form of baby Benjamin parked amongst the cabbages. ‘After all, he’s in the perambulator, not a wheelbarrow.’

  Lady Goldbaum sighed and coughed. Greta had refused to lie-in for more than a week, declaring her
self bored and too busy to laze in bed. She did not admit to her mother-in-law that, in the stillness of her bedroom, she was tormented by the memory of Benjamin’s birth. While it was true that she couldn’t physically recall the actual pain, the terror remained, vivid and acute. She could not bear to think about the black stitches in her flesh, and was relieved when the doctor put up a discreet little screen when he removed them at the end of a fortnight.

  She instructed Nanny to wrap the baby up in furs and take him out into the garden, as she didn’t wish to return to the house to nurse him. She had declined a wet-nurse and scoffed at the idea of feeding Benjamin with one of the new bottles. Instead, she wrapped him in a shawl and plucked out a nipple and fed him while seated amongst the flowerpots and compost.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t, dearest,’ said Lady Goldbaum, limiting her remarks with a struggle.

  Greta smiled and adjusted the blanket around Benjamin’s head.

  ‘I know, Adelheid, but no one is in the least bit interested.’

  Greta rarely ventured up to town any more; technically, as a friendly enemy alien, she was supposed to notify the police in Fontmell town – even though Albert assured her they would overlook such a formality for the wife of a Member of Parliament. But Greta found herself acutely aware of her foreignness in a way that she had not been before, even as a new bride fresh from the continent. She tried not to speak – whether it was to the ticket clerk at the railway station or the waiter at a charitable luncheon. The ladies at the luncheons already knew her shame before she opened her mouth, and they eyed her with pert interest, whispering to one another behind their auction cards. They either avoided speaking to her at all or offered vicious consolation on the vast German losses – never quite remembering that her family was Austrian. She minded less for herself than for her children. A friend of Celia, the nice little daughter of the vicar of Fontmell, was suddenly indisposed when she had been supposed to come to a dolls’ tea party. Celia had wept with disappointment, while Greta knew in her heart that the real sickness wasn’t German measles, but a German mother. She understood that she wore the stain of her motherland like a crimson birthmark, but it was too much to have it inflicted upon the children. Celia couldn’t even find Austria in the atlas.