Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  Robert St Clair was on edge with no one mentioning the war in England. Bruno thought it was likely deliberate. The morning papers in New York had talked about U-boats stalking the shipping lanes between America and Europe. In packs. The British were going to give their merchant ships Royal Navy protection and send them to and from America in convoys to stop the U-boat packs attacking them. Bruno presumed Robert St Clair had read the morning papers. His wife had, by the look of her. Poor Freya was smiling with difficulty. Bruno wondered if the poor woman would ever see her famous husband again after the boat sailed in the morning. Wisely, Bruno avoided the subject, trying, like the rest of them, to behave as though nothing untoward was happening in the skies over Britain. The twinge of worry about his parents in London was now constant at the back of his mind, like a toothache, only with a toothache he could go to the dentist and have the pain taken away.

  They had not said a word to each other, Gillian going into one of her sulks the moment the dress was unobtainable. All her tricks were back. The flash of thigh and breast that usually made him capitulate to every one of her whims. This time it had left Bruno cold, the spoilt brat in his wife dominating his wife’s sexuality, drowning it out, turning him off, making him wonder if the power she held over him from the day they met had gone. Out the window. Each new flash having no sign of an effect.

  Then Petronella smiled at him, the smile that every man and woman understood, and the game of sex was on again, making his wife look from one to the other before she understood. For Bruno, it was his day of liberation. In a room of people he preferred another woman to his wife. And all over a stupid dress not worth a tenth of its price, the tag from a Fifth Avenue shop worth far more than the dress itself, the snob value, the show-off value that Bruno had never been able to understand.

  There she was. A shorthand typist in a short black dress. Pouting. Petulant. Concerned with herself. A woman he had thought himself in love with. Bruno began to laugh.

  “What are you laughing at?” snapped Gillian.

  “You, Gillian.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You blew it,” he said, leaning close to her ear. “You blew it, darling.”

  Even Bruno knew the ‘darling’ sounded sarcastic. Maybe it was meant to. Moving into the dining room Bruno found his place and sat down. He was his own man again. In control of his life. The jealous lust that had controlled his life was gone.

  “Tell me about your next movie,” Bruno said across the table to Gerry Hollingsworth, sitting opposite next to Petronella. “Is Genevieve in the film? What’s happened to Gregory? Reading the movie magazines you’d think both of them had disappeared off the map. The RAF must have done something to him. Amazing how stars rise so quickly. And fall just as quickly. One minute they are all the news and next you never hear of them.”

  “They are both at my house in Long Beach. Genevieve only talks about England. Her mother and father. The mother has a flat in Chelsea. She’s worried stiff. Our David and Ephraim are in the army. Both joined up after the evacuation at Dunkirk. When are you joining the British Army, Bruno? I’m too old, thank goodness. We’ll all have to face up to it in the end, even America, Max. No, they don’t want parts in a film. At the moment Genevieve wants to be left on her own. Wouldn’t surprise me if she went back to England. It sort of gets you, being so far away when your friends and family are taking the brunt. Instead of running away I should be doing something for the war effort.”

  “It’s with me all day long, Mr Hollingsworth.”

  “You’re not going to England?” said Gillian.

  “There’s a point where it doesn’t have to be thought about. I’ll just do it. Apart from your films, I know nothing about going to war. I suppose it’s like anything else in life. We soon find out when we have to.”

  Looking round the dinner table, Bruno saw they had all put down their knives and forks. For the first time in the evening no one was saying a word. Not even Gillian.

  “I’m sorry,” he said and went back to eating his food, ignoring the ‘come on’ look from Petronella as she found his foot under the table, rubbing the inside of his ankle with what felt like her stockinged toe.

  Finally, the war in Europe had walked into the room in New York. A big, ugly threat understood by every one of them and bigger than all.

  3

  Sir Jacob Rosenzweig, watching them all from the top of the table, had his own worries. The phone call had come through to his office late in the afternoon, Jacob taking the call without asking his secretary the name of the caller, a practice he found rude; if someone wished to talk to him they had their own reason, not for him to censor the call before he knew what it was going to be about. The voice at the other end was far away, right out of his past, a voice he had never expected to hear again.

  “It’s Hannah, Jacob. How are you?”

  “Hannah?”

  “Your wife, Jacob. I’ve changed my mind. I want to come and live in New York.”

  “Hannah, it’s been years. I have my own life in America.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Well, you can’t live at Abercrombie Place.”

  “Why not? London’s dangerous. In case you haven’t heard over there, there’s a war going on right over our heads. Any minute a bomb’s coming through the roof. Remember, I gave you your children.”

  Jacob, silent, contemplated what he considered a lie. Only one was his: Rebecca. The legality was different, all five being born to Hannah while they were legally married.

  “Have you heard from Rebecca?”

  “I paid them a visit. It’s criminal with all your money, Rebecca’s husband someone’s employee. They should farm their own land if they want to be farmers. All beats me.”

  “Did you see the grandchildren?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Boys and girls. I’d live with them in Rhodesia if they had their own farm. Mrs Brigandshaw was anything but polite to me. Said the farm manager’s job went with one house. We don’t like each other. Who does she think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do? I think she had spoken to Ralph. Why did you let that man marry our daughter, Jacob?”

  “I didn’t, if you remember. Rebecca ran off with him.”

  “You’ll just have to kick her out as I can’t stay in London. We have blackouts every night. All the windows have to be covered with black curtains, as if the Germans don’t know what’s below.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Vida, I think she calls herself. You’re old enough to be her grandfather for heaven’s sake. Haven’t you any idea of decorum, Jacob? She’s only after what she can get out of you. If we weren’t at war with Germany I’d have had her properly checked out. Gold-digger. There’s no fool like an old fool. I will bring decorum back into your life when I arrive in New York on Wednesday. If she’s still there when I arrive all hell will come down on your head, along with the best lawyers in America. Have you forgotten I’m your wife?”

  “As a matter of fact, Hannah, I had forgotten.”

  Looking at Petronella looking at young Bruno Kannberg made Jacob realise the world had indeed been turned on its head. Gerry Hollingsworth did not seem to mind. Gerry Hollingsworth, who had once been a Jew named Louis Casimir until he changed his name by deed poll to escape the tribe of Israel. Watching Gerry the way he seemed not to mind Petronella flirting with Bruno gave Jacob an idea. He would put Vida in another flat and see her just the same. Hannah never said she was going to do something and changed her mind. They had lived in the same house separately for years so nothing would have to change. It might even be cheaper if the Germans bombed his house in Golders Green. They wouldn't have to talk to each other except on social occasions, when other people were around. With luck Jacob could find Mabel and give her back her job as the cook.

  Then his mind slipped off thinking about Rebecca. How much he had missed his daughter. How the two of them had first foun
d the apartment in Abercrombie Place together. Somehow tears came into his eyes. Vida was still having her contest with Gillian Kannberg, twice leaning so close to the younger girl the drop diamond almost swung into Gillian’s face. Maybe Hannah was right. All Vida wanted was money. It was all about money. It always was about money. It probably always would be.

  “Are you all right, Sir Jacob?” asked Robert St Clair.

  “Bad news this afternoon, Robert.”

  “One of your children killed in the war?”

  “No, none of the boys are fighting. Aaron runs the bank in London. He’s forty-five. Just bad news. Well, you haven’t got long to go now. I’m coming to the boat to see you off. With Vida. She insists we are there to wave you off.”

  “Freya is coming.”

  “You have a lovely wife,” said Jacob feeling sad, knowing he had missed something important in his life, the love of a good woman.

  “I know, and it gets better the older we become.”

  “The children?”

  “Staying in Denver.”

  “Wise. Very wise. Many of the English children are being sent to Canada. Can I pour you another glass of wine?”

  It just could not get better, thought Vida the next day on their way to see off Robert St Clair and his wife. The ‘old goat’ had told her over breakfast, giving Vida what she hoped was her best theatre yet as she played out her part to perfection.

  “You can’t send me away, Jacob. What will I do? I want to live with you, not in a flat all on my own. New York is so big and strange for a German. If it wasn’t for your protection I don’t know what I’d do. A woman in the shop yesterday told me to go back to Hitler. I’d just asked for a pound of tomatoes for the salad last night when she demanded to know where I was from. I told her, after she was nasty to me, that I’m Jewish. Only then did she calm down. Heard my German accent and flew at me. As if the war was all my fault. You said you were divorced from your wife. That you hadn’t seen her for years. I’ll be so miserable on my own I’ll want to cut my wrists. Just when my life was so wonderful, Jacob. Oh, what am I going to do?”

  “I’ll visit you whenever I can.”

  “You say that now. She won’t let you.”

  “I said we were separated.”

  “What’s the difference? She wasn’t in your life when I agreed to live with you. Oh, Jacob, I want to die.”

  She had looked up from her despair to see if he was swallowing the lies in her words. The ‘old goat’ was actually crying tears, his eyes soft and so understanding she wanted to laugh in his face.

  “I’m going to end up all on my very little own, Jacob. I’ll just have to be brave. Chin up, as you British say. Well, if she’s coming next Wednesday I’d better move into a hotel. She’s legally your wife, now I hear, so what can Vida do? A small hotel. I couldn’t live alone in an apartment. Well, we’d better go. They’ll be waiting for us at the boat. What a lovely dinner party last night. I love all your friends. Well, that’ll all be over. Would you like me to ask Mabel to come back? Most rich wives can’t cook. One minute my cup was spilling over, now it’s empty. The taxi is waiting downstairs. We’ll hold hands all the way. Cheer up, my darling. Life could be worse.”

  “You don’t know Hannah.”

  “We could be living in England and have a bomb dropped on our heads.”

  “You’ll still have money, Vida. Your trust fund won’t change.”

  “It’s not the money that counts. It’s you, Jacob.”

  By the time they arrived at the side of the dock Vida was convinced she had missed her vocation in life. She should have been an actress.

  They were all there from last night. The men not going off into danger were joshing with Robert St Clair, telling Vida she was not the only hypocrite in New York. Gerry Hollingsworth said twice he would soon be over, having no intention, the moment the ship sailed, to leave America, whatever his sons were doing in the war. Max Pearl slapped Robert on the back, wishing him luck. The American journalist shook hands silently; apparently, Vida understood, they had met during the last war before Robert lost his foot. For some reason Bruno and Gillian were not talking directly to each other. There was a look of relief on Bruno’s face, knowing he was not going on the boat. Gillian glared at her, as if Vida had what she wanted. If only the fool knew life was always better with a young man.

  “The ship can outrun the U-boats,” Robert was saying, his wife not looking so convinced.

  “God speed,” said Jacob, shaking Robert’s hand.

  Vida, bubbling inside at the thought of her freedom, wanted to dance a jig. Then it was over, the guests from the previous night going their separate ways as the ship sailed out of the harbour. None of the men left behind said a word. All, Vida knew, were thinking the same thought: thank heaven it wasn’t them on the boat.

  Silently wishing the U-boat captains good hunting, Vida went home to Abercrombie Place for the last time, having told Jacob she could not prolong her pain of pending separation any longer. By the time the ‘old goat’ came looking for her in the hotel behind his wife’s back she would be in California, waiting for the Germans to win the war. Then she would go home. Oh yes, she thought, thinking of Kurt. Never again would she be forced to prostitute herself for money. Like any successful man she would be independent. A woman of means. A woman in control of her life. No longer dependent on the whim of a man for her happiness, a man who underneath all the blather was only thinking of himself. Anyway, she thought, what would old Jacob have done with the money otherwise?

  4

  While Vida was rationalising with herself, three hundred and seventy miles south of where the squadron of RAF bombers had dropped their bombs on Berlin, Bergit von Lieberman was contemplating the behaviour of her daughter Melina. Were it not for Erwin being her brother she would have said the girl was in love with the boy, all the fuss that was going on. Gabby, her younger daughter, seemed indifferent to the arrival of the prodigal son.

  Klaus von Lieberman, looking out of the window of the old family house, had his back to his wife, his hands clasped together, not moving. For a moment Bergit thought of going up behind her husband, wrapping her arms round his waist and whispering everything would turn out all right, that seeing his only son, named after General Erwin Rommel in deference to a lifelong friend, would be an occasion of joy and happiness after all the pain the boy had deliberately caused his father.

  “I don’t understand all the long faces,” said Melina in German. “Were it not for Erwin, father would still be in jail.”

  “Don’t be rude, Melina.”

  “You don’t know Erwin like I do. He would only do what was right for the Fatherland. What’s the matter, Papa? We’re winning the war. Erwin said in his last letter it will all be over before Christmas. We’ve smashed the RAF. Our men can invade England if England fails to surrender. Then Germany will control the whole of Western Europe and the Americans won’t raise a finger. The Russians have been given half of Poland. The Jews no longer have money or power. The Third Reich will last a thousand years.”

  “You are a seventeen-year-old girl and don’t know what you are talking about,” snapped her father without turning round or unclasping the hands behind his back.

  “Erwin does.”

  “Erwin thinks he does. They all think they do at that age.”

  “What are you so worried about?” wheedled Melina. “Erwin says every victor in a war is right. No one argues with the winner. How can they? Everything will go back to normal. The von Lieberman estate here in Bavaria will last as long as the Third Reich. Uncle Werner says without the Nazi Party you would have lost the family estate.”

  “What do you know about that?” said Klaus, turning round to look at his daughter.

  “That we won’t have to pay back the mortgage to the Rosenzweig Bank when we win the war.”

  “Rubbish. Of course I will pay my debts. When I have the money.”

  “After the war, the estate will be rich again. The tenants pa
ying their rent in full. If you want to pay it back I’m sure they’ll let you.”

  “Now that is big of them. You can’t renege on a debt, however many wars. The fundamental concept of capitalism would collapse. Let alone the law. The world would be in perpetual turmoil.”

  “Not with Germany in control. And again I quote Erwin, he says we will police the world so well, no one will be allowed to misbehave themselves. That war and riots will be a thing of the past. Everyone will be forced to live in peace and harmony. Troublemakers. Activists. These people will be put in jail and never let out to stir up the common people again. Erwin says there has to be discipline, without discipline the human race will cease to exist. The world needs a master race to look after them. We Germans are the master race. Just look at the British Empire. That little firebrand Gandhi is stirring up revolution. Hitler would hang him from a tree. No one would ever mention his name again. Erwin says that little man will have Muslims and Hindus at each other’s throats the moment Gandhi kicks the British out of India, throwing the world into religious wars for centuries. The British have gone soft. We’ll take over their colonies next year and toughen them up. The world will prosper with peace and order without those few individuals making trouble for the rest of us.”

  “How often does Erwin write to you? We never see the letters.”

  “Every week. He doesn’t send them through the post. I have to burn them after they are read. Of course the Party don’t mind. It’s Erwin. Thinks everyone is a spy. That many Germans are against Hitler. That some people make money out of turmoil.”