Rothermere was not concerned about the foreign minister’s unpopularity. “We need a vote to push Chamberlain toward a negotiated agreement.”
“What would I have to do?” Exner asked.
Rothermere arched an eyebrow, having expected more resistance to his plans. “You join the members calling for a no confidence vote. We will need your signature on the petition challenging Chamberlain. You have influence with some members and we require your aid in convincing another four or five of them to also sign.”
Updegrove imagined at least five Tory backbenchers who might agree; he could list another dozen, most from established families, who were tired of the fake war and would listen to reason. He breathed deeply. “It is possible,” he said. “But are you certain Chamberlain will bend. What if he resigns or is defeated?”
“I have already.” Rothermere looked annoyed by having to repeat himself.
Updegrove was not convinced. “There is a large Churchill following, at least several dozen members.” Updegrove had paid little attention to the blustering Churchill who had switched parties in the past all in the name of political power. “I am concerned we will replace a weak leader with one who sent our troops on a suicide mission in Gallipoli.” It was all Updegrove knew of Churchill’s sole strategic blunder as Navy Secretary. He had listened as his father denounced the “old drunkard” and his 1915 attempt to knock the Ottomans from the war. The constant drumbeat had left Updegrove with a permanent contempt for Churchill.
Rothermere was sanguine about their prospects for the election. “Churchill could never win election in the Tory Party; there are too many who worry he will thrust us into a continental war and that Winston would be willing to invade France simply to get to the Germans.” He dabbed his cigarette in the Russian royal crystal. “Once Neville realizes he is losing support he will bend. Halifax is already talking to the Italian and French ambassadors in joining their Mediterranean alliance.”
Updegrove’s mouth curled up one end. “Mussolini an ally of the British empire.” Aristocratic distaste for the strutting, imperialistic blowhard colored his face and tone. “How far we have come.”
Rothermere nodded. “He is a buffoon, but he sees Hitler taking over Eastern Europe and the Balkans and does not want to be swallowed up with the rest.”
“You know much.”
“I have sources,” Rothermere said vaguely. He lowered his head and eyed Updegrove. “Then I have your agreement.”
“You have my word.” It was a blood oath without the pricked finger. A gentleman did not retreat from his word when given to another gentleman.
He looked past Rothermere toward the doorway and the telltale sounds of Maria arriving from her morning ride. She strode into the breakfast room, riding boots clicking on the stone floor. Viscount Rothermere struggled to his feet, sitting a long time in a chair always caused his knee to stiffen. He extended his hand to the former princess in waiting; then took hers and kissed it in his finest aristocratic style. Maria tilted her head, and doffed her hat, caused her blond hair to tumble across her shoulders.
“Viscount Rothermere,” she hissed. “You are here to see me?”
Her husband shook his head. “He came to see me.”
“I like to see him,” she declared in her not quite grammatical English. She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You were at Viscount Barrington’s party.”
Rothermere nodded. “You made a wonderful speech. You have convinced many people of the dangers represented by the Bolsheviks. Too many people do not understand it.”
Maria sniffed. “Too many refuse to see the truth.”
“If I could borrow a portion of your morning,” Viscount Rothermere asked.
Maria tilted her head, a sign for him to follow her and the pair left the future Viscount Braxtonshire to fondle the family book. Rothermere followed a few steps behind the once and future Russian princess, offering her the respect of royalty. She led him into her boudoir, a paean to the Romanovs, and slid into the raised chair, back topped by the Russian double eagle. Propping her feet on the velvet and gold inlaid ottoman, she gripped the carved hand rests as her fingers rubbed along the length of the ridges.
“Vyacheslav is confident,” she said. “His last letter from Manchuria says the Bolsheviks have not long for this world. The Nazis will attack them, they will fall.”
Rothermere nodded. “My sources are in agreement. They say the Wehrmacht is massing in the east.” He pulled out his cigarette case, offering one to Maria who waved it away and then frowned as he pulled out one for his enjoyment. Noting her displeasure the Viscount returned the cigarette to the case and the case to his jacket pocket. “England will not aid the Bolsheviks, their destruction will be our policy.”
“England does not matter,” she said, ignoring Rothermere’s frown at the insult. “Vyacheslav has contacts within the German government; the war is coming, and we must be prepared.”
“You are prepared?” Rothermere eyed Maria and her “throne,” looking much like a future Romanov preparing to rule over all the Russias.
Maria sniffed. “The Russian people will rise against the invaders, against the Bolsheviks who have destroyed our traditions and the Nazis who would enslave us. I will act for the Russian people.”
Rothermere nodded as he eyed the boudoir, the heavy velvet curtains, the gold tinged mirrors, and the half dozen or so orthodox icons. There were portraits of Nicholas II, Alexander II and Alexander III. Persian carpets comforted his step while a chandelier above offered some light. It was St. Petersburg transferred to England.
“Exner will agree to this?” Rothermere asked.
Maria’s lips peeled back, wolf like. “The husband of a Russian princess does not ask of such things. He has no authority over me.”
Rothermere thought Exner might think differently but knew better than to contradict Maria. “I must not remain any longer,” he said, offering a bow. “When I know more about German intentions, you shall be the first to hear of them.”
Maria took no notice of the viscount’s departure, summoning her lady’s maid to help with undressing. She could not wait for the day when she had five such maids, all of them following the commands of the newest Romanov on the throne.
II
December 19, 1939
A journey to Iasi was the highlight of every month for Ianu, and the annual trek for Hanukah was especially exciting. His father closed the store and bundled the entire family into the family wagon for the twenty kilometer trek along the ragged road leading to Iasi. The six hour ride to Uncle Liviu’s was the most difficult part of the journey; Ianu, Manu and Joni bouncing along on the wagon’s wooden planks, cushioned only by straw dug from the stables. There was the occasional passing wagon, mostly supplied with barrels and crates. The peasantry remained tied to the land, a remnant of a feudal system which dated back to Roman times.
Father held the reins tighter than necessary; the old draft horses unlikely to bolt, too creaky and deaf to react to any distraction. Ianu was tasked with watching over his siblings. Joni was eight, the only daughter, the youngest of four children and spoiled ruthlessly by her father. She resembled Saloman: the small mouth and thin lips, the round black eyes, dark skin highlighted by her lighter hair, much different than the dark mops sported by her brothers. Since her birth, Ianu’s father had grand plans for Joni. It began with her living with Uncle Liviu in Iasi and pursuing her education in the large city. From there Joni would know no limits, heading off to England, Oxford or Cambridge; she would be the next Queen Marie, an Englishwoman who was also the grandmother of the current Rumanian king.
The plans kept Saloman saving and dreaming, eyes glistening when he spotted Joni, her mistakes treated with delicacy, her brothers receiving the worst punishment. Ianu did not mind, as education was not for him. He preferred remaining at home though tending the shop at times became tedious. Bouncing along in the wagon, Ianu studied his sister, her arm over the single plank that prevented them from
tumbling from the wagon. Her round eyes stared out at the countryside; Ianu suspected her thoughts swept beyond the countryside all the way across the English Channel. For an eight year old she was imaginative, writing stories, mainly taking old Rumanian legends and adding a modern twist. Ianu had become the designated editor; he enjoyed tales of dragons and knights, of creatures that prowled the night and preyed on Rumanian peasants who took extreme means to protect themselves from death or worse yet, eternal life.
During their trips, Joni tested her knowledge of the countryside, pointing out the trees, bushes and flowers from the picture books Uncle Liviu. He purchased the books at the urging of his older brother for Hanukkah. Ianu had received some warm socks, darned by his uncle’s servants, and much needed for the unheated shop in the dead of winter. Ianu listened to her, learning a little about the world but quickly forgetting, his interest waning once Joni stopped talking.
Joni was focused on the small animals, a book on the creatures of Rumania sparking her interest. Her favorite were the ground squirrels, rampant in the countryside, even though they were a delicacy for the poorer of the peasants. Joni stood when she spotted a particularly attractive creature, a discolored reddish squirrel that would have sent the local peasants to a gypsy medium to learn what it meant to their lives. “That is a Sciurus vulgaris,” she declared, finger wriggling beneath the long sleeved dress – another Uncle Liviu gift. “They are the most numerous squirrels in Europe. They don’t usually travel this far east. “
Ianu nodded. Another creature dashed behind wagon and into a shroud of weeds, but even the speed of the animal could not save it from Joni’s discerning eyes. “There,” she cried, jabbing her finger at the weeds as the wagon trundled forward. “Lepus europaeus.” She beamed at Ianu’s confusion. “The common jack rabbit. They are the fastest breeding animals on earth.”
Joni’s knowledge of fauna and florae had become a sideshow during family gatherings asJoni recited the Latin names of animals all over Europe, much to the delight of their father and uncle, who saw their investment in books paying dividends. Ianu survived the boredom, preferring Joni’s company when they were alone. Older brother and younger sister shared one interest, watching the rats and mice be chased by the cats inhabiting their barn. A younger Joni had been dismayed when the cats caught the smaller animals and presented them to her, but by age eight she was examining their corpses, using their mother’s carving knife to satisfy her anatomical curiosity. Ianu was unable to watch but carefully cleaned the knife so no one discovered its unauthorized use. Their giggling during family meals when their father carved a goose or turkey irritated the others, who were not in on the joke.
Across the wagon from Ianu and Joni was Manu, twelve and on the verge of manhood. Within a year they would be returning to Iasi for Manu’s Bar Mitzvah, an exciting time for any young boy though Manu seemed disinterested. Trapped between two elder brothers who had responsibility and a younger sister who enjoyed lavish attention, Manu faced two choices: withdraw into a sullen silence over the curse of birth order or rebellion. He had chosen the latter; the rebellious part first appearing in his personal war against the gypsies. By age ten he had daily fights with the gypsy boys who traveled through town and sometimes briefly settled on the communal fields a kilometer away. Undistressed by a challenge he would take on three or four older boys, always bloodied for his efforts but proclaiming himself the victor. Few disagreed. Manu had earned the reputation for dirty fighting but also a toughness that meant he would never surrender, regardless of the odds.
Manu’s rebellion stopped with his brother. Ianu was a buffer against his father and an ally if he met a gypsy who could not be cowed. Manu, though, fought with the oldest of the clan, their brother Nelu. The twenty-four year old moved to Iasi when eighteen, an apprentice with in Uncle Liviu’s shipping business. Iasi sprawled along the Prut River, the gateway to the Black sea for the Carpathian region and eastern Rumania, as farm products floated downriver and shipped all over Europe. Liviu’s barges had made him prosperous, yet he produced only girls from his marriage. As the last male in his line the traditionalist Liviu sought a man to inherit his business, and his daughters receive a proper husband to take care of them. Nelu was to be that man.
Once they arrived in Iasi they stayed at Liviu’s house, an extensive affair made even larger by his wife’s death three years earlier and his daughters’ marriages, both at the age of sixteen. The house, the largest for several blocks, was a marvel to Ianu. The brick streets in front were far better than the muddy ruts they confronted in Letcani. The running water meant no gathering of drinking water nor a nighttime run to the cold and distant Baie or outhouse. Ianu remembered Manu’s first tangle with a toilet, uncertain about its uses much less how it was emptied, he requested a pail when finished.
Iasi was a bustling city in comparison to rural Rumania, the frequent automobiles, rarely seen outside the cities, clogged the brick streets. Uncle Liviu did not own one, believing they were a dangerous diversion from financial success. Liviu’s stubbornness reminded Ianu of his father. During each visit to Iasi he eyed the photograph of his grandfather sitting outside a clapboard house in Russia looking grim and gimlet eyed, the father of two inflexible sons.
Cold and hungry by the time they reached Liviu’s house, they were greeted warmly by their uncle. Bearded and sporting ever more gray hair each visit, Liviu welcomed his niece and nephews with sparkling eyes and eager hands. His mood could change quickly, though, when unpleasant topics such as the Rumanian Iron Guard were raised. This day his greeting was peremptory, a quick hug of each child then a shunting off to his female servant, Stela, who gathered them for a warming meal of soup and fresh bread.
Ianu lingered as his father and uncle spoke in quiet tones, but a scowl from Saloman, still angry with Ianu for giving the beetroot to Milosh, convinced the younger man to follow his brother and sister into the house. Stela had prepared Ciorba, sour meatball soup; her recipe included cabbage mixed with garlic and another spice she kept secret. After an entire day of traveling with only a few dry crackers to keep his stomach from grumbling, Ianu dove into the soup, carving up the meatballs, which had become a point of contention among the Cohnescu brothers.
After one particularly tasty meal, Ianu’s father settling back after two healthy bowls, Uncle Liviu, a man not known for dedication to his family’s religious beliefs, declared the meatballs were pork rather than beef. A near brawl erupted; Saloman threatening never to darken the doorstep of his brother’s home again for such a breach of tradition, his anger building until he noticed Liviu smiling at his fury. Ianu had not minded, traditions confusing him especially after Joni revealed the dietary restrictions were imposed in ancient times to prevent disease. Whether pork or beef, Ianu was hungry and finished his bowl before Manu or Joni, much to Stela’s delight as she poured him another.
The kitchen was a small affair, dominated by a table usually reserved for two, but forced to seat six when the family arrived. It was the warmest house in the room, heat billowing from the wood stove that left a smoky aroma, Ianu’s eyes watering from the combination of smoke and the cabbage juice in the Ciorba. The room was dark, lit only by oil lamps, as his uncle refused to install electric lights. Oil lights had worked in the family home in Berdichev, they were just as useful in Iasi. His refusal made the largest house on the block also the darkest.
As Ianu was completing his second bowl, drawing more pleased looks from his uncle’s housekeeper, the brothers entered their conversation complete. Uncle Liviu took his usual place at the end of the table, Saloman squeezing in beside Ianu’s mother and Joni. The moment he sat, Liviu forgot his troubles and focused on the youngest Cohnescu’s achievements.
“Ianu,” Liviu called down to his nephew, who looked hopefully at Stela for another meatball to fill his stomach. “You should remain in Iasi and work with your brother. He requires help, business is going well.”
Iasi. It was part of Ianu’s dream, not so much the work, but t
he opportunity to enjoy a large city. Ianu hesitated when he spotted his father, head low over the Ciorba. His father had given him the responsibility rejected by Nelu when he left for Iasi. Ianu was to teach Manu and Joni how to manage the store.
“Perhaps next year.”
His father glanced up briefly from the Ciorba. “Remain with Liviu, I can operate the store.”
Ianu could not miss the weariness in Saloman’s voice. Once again Liviu was splitting his family. “No,” Ianu said, nodding as Stela slid two meatballs into his bowl. “I will remain in Letcani. I need more time to learn how to run the store and help Manu learn.” He glanced at his brother who had been poking at a soggy piece of cabbage with his spoon.
“Do not be foolish,” Liviu snapped. “There is much in Iasi, much to learn, much to enjoy.”
Saloman’s eyes caught his son’s, silently pleading for him not to go. It was at this moment Ianu felt the tension between the two brothers. Liviu was the successful younger brother in the large city, while Saloman adopted the role of the typical village shopkeeper and farmer, struggling to keep pace but never able to match his brother. It was a decade’s long competition with the same winner each year.
“No,” Ianu was firm. “I will remain. Nelu can handle his work and Manu has much to learn.”
Liviu sputtered, face darkening around his beard and Ianu realized he had made a mistake. The offer had not been a request, and by refusing Ianu had placed himself firmly on the side of his father in the brotherly competition.
The remainder of dinner was eaten in silence. When Liviu finished he waved away his housekeeper then rushed from the warm kitchen and into the cold December air for a smoke. Ianu waited for his father to finish, then he followed him to a small parlor looking out on the paved street and gaslights. His father stared out into a world he would never know, while Ianu allowed his hand to brush Saloman’s arm.
“Uncle Liviu disapproves.”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 16
