She heard a key in the front door. Who was this? The maids were away, Thomas never came home during the day. Nervous, she went into the passage. But it was Thomas, sweating, his face strained. He held a newspaper, which he waved at her. ‘France is mobilising, it seems likely she will declare war on Germany. If you are going, you must go now, while there are still trains. I passed the British Embassy, to see what was going on. It is closed, there was an unfriendly crowd, the police think there will be anti-English demonstrations. . .’
‘I have not packed.’ This was a ridiculous remark, she realised.
‘Packing is not important.’
‘My reservation is only valid tomorrow, I will not be allowed on a train today.’
‘I will come with you. If there is no direct train to London, you can take a train to Hamburg, and then a boat to Copenhagen, where Mark will help you. . .’ He turned away from her and put his hands over his face. He seemed to be shrugging. But no, he was crying. He had been so commanding a week ago. When they had talked about her departure, he had said she should stay in Berlin, had refused to listen when she said there was little danger of war, that she must see her parents. He had gone away and brooded, she supposed, and then come back into her studio where she was drawing a house set in a garden, as though drawing might calm her. He had shouted at her, something he’d never done, and for a moment she’d detested him, and all through this she’d worried (how could one care about such a thing?) that the servants might hear.
He was not at all commanding now. He stood silently, his shoulders heaving, his back to her, more like a child than a man. And yet like a man, for why should a man not show his feelings?
He said, softly but repeatedly, ‘Irene, mein Schatz, ich liebe dich.’
What could she say to that? She consulted her jury on the dressing table, the English on the right, the Germans on the left. Unanimously, they agreed that her duty was clear. And there was something about Thomas – pleading, affectionate; it was as though her heart were moving within her breast.
‘Ich gehe nicht weg,’ she said. ‘Thomas, ich bleibe hier bei dir. Ich bin deine Frau.’ She stretched out her arms. ‘Jetzt bin ich eine Deutsche.’
44
‘It’s a telegram, my lady.’
‘Ah. Miss Irene, she is not coming home. Oh, poor darling, but of course she’s right, we told her. When will I ever see her again? And now she is our enemy, I suppose.’
‘And Mr Freddy, my lady, what is to happen to him?’
‘Mr Frederick is leaving today, he has to go to an address the German Embassy has given him.’
‘Poor young man, he has been with us so long. And I understand there’s a young lady in London very sweet on him, poor thing.’
‘Would you help him pack his bags?’
‘I tried, my lady, but he says he wants to pack his bags himself. I never saw anything like it. Such odds and ends, I don’t know how he will fit everything in, even his dance cards he wants to keep, says they’ll remind him of all the girls he’s danced with. England’s his second home, he says. But we can keep some of his things, I suppose, until this is over. . . I understand Mr Edward is enlisting.’
‘Yes, he wants to be sure he has a chance to enjoy the fighting.’ Lady Benson shuddered.
‘There there, my lady, I’m sure he’ll be all right. Very likely they won’t send him into battle, they say it is just the single men who will have to fight. Very distressing for Mrs Edward, and particularly when she is expecting again.’
‘He says it is his duty, Wilson.’
‘Yes, my lady. But if you don’t mind me saying so, when you actually know someone like Mr Freddy, it’s hard to think of him as an enemy.’
‘I know you are particularly fond of Mr Frederick, and so am I, but for the moment we must put these feelings aside.’
Sir William burst through the front door, untidy as though he had been running, clutching an evening paper.
‘It’s definitely war, they expect Britain to declare war on Germany tonight. Elizabeth, it is a catastrophe. They speak of being in Berlin by Christmas, but how is that possible when we have no proper army? What will become of us, Elizabeth? What will become of our young people?’
45
A VOICE FROM BERLIN – HERR STEINBAUM WRITES:
It is holiday time in Berlin, and the finest summer we can remember, but now is no time for holidays. At the Schloß, crowds throw their hats in the air as the Kaiser, the father to his nation, emerges to shouts of loyalty. The wranglings of generations are abandoned as every party loyally proclaims its support for Germany. And if war is declared, all will be proud to offer themselves and their dear ones for the Fatherland.
In such days, petty worries and fears no longer matter. Financial problems, social ambitions, professional ambitions, love affairs become insignificant when the nation is united in the fight. The Catholic, the Protestant, the Jew, the atheist – Prussian, Saxon, Bavarian, Rhinelander – lay aside their differences, and join in love for the Fatherland. These are days of glory!
His flat was stiflingly hot, whether you opened the windows to the clamour of trams and crowds, or closed them and drew the curtains. As he typed, Alexander felt oppressed by Nietzsche and Hegel and the others whose busts lined up above his head.
In the distance he heard a military band. He’d always joked about bands in the past, but now he felt a spine-tingling pride and tearfulness.
He seized his newspaper copy, already overdue, pulled on his hat. He must witness his country at this moment of greatness.
Alexander, do you sincerely feel this enthusiasm you think you feel? a voice within him asked. Is this a valid emotion?
‘Yes, I do,’ he answered aloud, startling himself. Truly, he did.
As he ran down the dark stairs with their greasy brown walls, he thought, All I had hoped for – the chance to show I am a true German. A wonderful moment. He ran into the street, forgetting his errand, and turned, gasping, tearful, in the direction of the band.
PART TWO
1
‘Should I draw the curtains, Mum?’
‘Leave them, won’t you? I love seeing the dusk. Darling, I had a letter from the Tate Gallery. They want to organise an exhibition about Granny, probably a small documentary exhibition. She’d have hated the idea of a documentary exhibition. . . They want to know whether we have any paintings.’ They both laugh. ‘And documents, letters, that kind of thing.’
‘And?’
‘I haven’t answered. Daddy says we should be very careful.’
‘He would. I think we should be very uncareful. How many paintings will they show, did they say?’
‘The letter was rather vague. She said she’d like to come and see me, a woman called Alice Johnstone. Should I say yes?’
‘I know her, she was at the Central with me. Can I be here when she comes?’
Dorothea looks non-committal, opens another photograph album. ‘This is Aunt Sophia when she was young. Pretty. She looks angry, don’t you think? Poor Sophia, she never could make up her mind, not till she made her big decision. Rather like you, only there’s no sign of a big decision for you, is there darling?’
Pandora tries not to look irritated. ‘I think it’s best to see how one develops.’ They both frown. ‘Granny always seems to have known what she wanted to do. Oh I did love visiting her in her studio.’
‘More fun than staying at home with your mother.’ Dorothea takes more photographs out of the envelope. ‘So here we are, Irene in Berlin in 1914.’
Pandora looks at her mother. ‘Have you been through all these boxes already?’
‘Possibly. After all, they are my boxes.’
2
She sat in the Wohnzimmer, her hands folded.
He stood beside the window, regarding her. He could not concentrate on what he needed to say, faced with her grave gentleness. He felt protective towards his English bride, captive in an enemy country.
The maids were out enjoying their
free Sunday afternoon. Very likely they had gone off to the local barracks to watch the soldiers leaving for the front, a favourite activity of theirs. They were carried away by the romance of the war, the shouting crowds, the soldiers marching away to fight for the Fatherland, the garlands. Waving at the young men was delightful. The girls did not doubt the soldiers would be back soon, their bayonets wreathed in laurels.
‘Irene, I think we should go to the parents’. If we don’t go today, it will be much harder in the future.’ She turned her head towards him. ‘Mamma would be so sad not to see you. She asked specially, she telephoned me at work though she hates using the telephone.’ He hesitated. ‘Nothing will be said, I’m sure, that you’d find difficult.’
When the war began, two weeks earlier, the Sunday lunches in the Schloßstraße were suspended. Instead, the family was invited to tea at three o’clock; early, to save fuel.
‘You will want to talk about German victories in Belgium, won’t you?’ They were speaking English, as they did when they were alone; it was a compact they’d made when war began. ‘No, that’s not fair of me.’
‘Of course, the more victories are won, the sooner the war will be over.’
‘The more German victories.’
‘Well, I am a German. I want Germany to win this war. I don’t approve of the war, as you know, but if we have to fight, I must want my country to win.’
‘And me? Am I supposed to want Germany to win? Germany, which is responsible for this war, whatever the newspapers say.’
‘It is the responsibility of both sides, it is the fault of the outmoded system of government. We want humanity to win.’
She frowned. ‘Thomas, you make these statements, but what do they mean? Humanity is not a combatant, only a victim.’
He held out her coat. ‘Please come, you’ll feel much worse if you stay here alone.’
‘Will Elise be there? Will she speak to me?’
‘Elise is a lady, and a Christian. Of course she will speak to you.’
The streets were deathly quiet.
‘Is Alexander all right?’ she asked as they walked along. ‘Why haven’t we seen him?’
Thomas looked embarrassed. ‘He asked me to tell you his news. He has volunteered. He didn’t want to tell you himself, he thought you might be angry. He is still in Berlin – it will be a while before they need a man of his age, if they ever do.’
‘Alexander! In the army! Why on earth?’
‘He feels it is his duty. He thinks that by fighting hard in this war Jews will prove their loyalty to the Fatherland.’
At the Curtius house, the atmosphere was subdued though the room was quite full. The round table in the Salon was covered in a lacy white tablecloth, with the cups and plates from the Berlin service arranged round a silver heater, and plates of sandwiches, and a cake, and fruit in porcelain dishes, and bonbons. Frau Mamma embraced Irene and Thomas. ‘An English five o’clock tea,’ she said comfortably, ‘only at three.’ It was like her to say such a thing, at a moment when theatres were refusing to play Shakespeare. It was like her to draw Irene into the place beside her.
It struck Irene that the atmosphere had been highly animated until she arrived. The conquest of Belgium, the march towards Paris – how could they not want to discuss the triumphs of German arms?
‘Lotte cannot come, the children are not well,’ said Frau Mamma. ‘She is lucky to have a doctor to hand.’
‘And Freddy? And Paul?’ Irene asked.
‘They are saying goodbye to their friends, they will be back. They are living in the barracks with their regiments.’
There was a silence.
‘When do Paul and Freddy leave?’ asked Elise briskly. ‘So many men are needed for a rapid victory, after the logistical success of our mobilisation.’
Frau Mamma showed no emotion. ‘Next week, we think.’
Mathilde came solemnly in with the teapot, Bettina following with the coffeepot. At least now they could all fuss over offering one another plates and sandwiches. Irene wanted to say, ‘You mustn’t mind me, pretend I don’t exist.’
After a while Freddy and Paul arrived, in uniform, looking exuberant. They were greeted with applause. Paul in particular appeared proud of his uniform. It transformed him.
They separated into groups. The noise level rose. Irene avoided Elise: she could not bring herself to ask about Heinz. She only knew that on the first day of war Elise had gone to the station with her husband, in a black and white dress with a red scarf at her neck, carrying his heavy bags. She had watched the train steaming out of the station, the men leaning out of the windows, shouting, ‘See you for Christmas.’ Then she had returned home and raised the black, white and red flag of Germany outside her window.
Freddy was not enthusiastic. ‘Such a nuisance, this war,’ he said to Irene in English, drawing her away from the others. ‘My fellow officers think this is a necessary conflict. In three months, they say, we’ll bring France and Russia to their knees. They like to discuss the philosophical and ethical implications of war. Even Paul says the decadence and self-indulgence of Germany will be purged by combat. But for me. . . I was so happy in London, I loved your family. And now I have to go and shoot Englishmen. Or let them shoot me.’ He touched her arm lightly. ‘For you it must be so difficult, Irene. Frau Mamma and I were talking, for us you are our dear daughter and sister.’
‘You are very kind, Freddy, indeed you are.’
‘I have something for you, a letter from your mother, she gave it to me just before I left, that awful afternoon. She said I must hand it to you in person, and of course I am obeying, mothers must always be obeyed. She was like a mother to me.’ He gave her a crumpled envelope. ‘I’m supposing you will be able to receive letters from. . . from them?’
‘I suppose so.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Of course, if I find you are communicating with the enemy, then I shall be obliged to report you.’ He looked round the room. ‘I understand why Frau Mamma wants to bring us together, but it will be painful to remember those who are absent. Let us pray this war will end soon. With a German victory, but without a British defeat, if that’s possible.’
Paul came over to them. ‘What is my brother saying to you?’ He spoke German. ‘I hope he is preaching the certainty of a great victory.’ Irene smiled wanly. ‘These are glorious days. Now at last Germans can speak with one voice. Even those rats the Social Democrats have declared their loyalty to the common good.’
‘Rats?’
‘Mice, then. You cannot imagine how it was at Heidelberg when war was declared, it was transfiguring. I was not sad to abandon my doctorate, this war is much more important. Scholarship can wait, at Heidelberg only the women and the physically unsound will stay. The whole of my Burschenschaft has gone to the army.’ He looked at Irene speculatively. ‘We have a professor at Heidelberg, he hates England, he has been lecturing for years about English hostility to the Fatherland. Now he can speak of nothing but revenge. “Gott strafe England!” is written in huge letters in his lecture hall.’
‘And do you agree?’ she asked.
‘I do not hate England, except as our enemy, and if I do it’s because I love Germany. At Heidelberg, I would walk in the mountains, so mysterious, spiritual, and everything around me spoke of the greatness of the German nation and the German people. I am bound to hate my country’s enemy.’ He looked as though he were addressing a seminar.
‘And if we reject the principle of war and fighting, what are we to do then?’
‘Do we have a right to a private life, even a private intellectual life, when our country is threatened? I think not. It is hard, but also fine, that we should give up our own ambitions for this greater cause. At such times, we are moved by forces larger than ourselves.’ He looked at Irene coldly. ‘For you of course it is difficult, but it is clear where your loyalties must lie. Whatever you were before you married, now you are the wife of a German, and soon you will be the mother of Germans. When you ma
rried a German, you married Germany.’
She thought, what right has he to speak like this?
‘And what is your brother doing? Mark, your clever brother. Will he go to war?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t communicate with my family.’ Actually she knew there would soon be a way to write to England, through a Danish friend of Mark’s. ‘As far as I know, he will not be released for military service.’
‘I’m sure that will suit him. I cannot imagine Mark being eager to throw himself into combat.’
On the way home Thomas said, ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I was glad to see your mother.’
‘We don’t need to go again for a while. We have a good excuse – Salitz. That must be our private world.’
‘Thomas, you won’t have to go into the army? I couldn’t bear life here on my own.’
‘I have to have a medical inspection, but since I’m thirty-five, and haven’t trained as an officer, I would not be much use. It’s most unlikely I’d be called up, there are many more men than are needed.’ He put his arm round her. ‘It would be terrible, fighting against people I admire so much. But we shall have to live carefully. Our practice may not have much work, it’s already greatly reduced.’ They walked past the windows of the shops, cruelly brilliant in the late afternoon sunshine. ‘One thing, I would warn you,’ Thomas went on, ‘do not let yourself be heard speaking English in public places. People suspect spies everywhere. Be careful, my dearest, always be careful.’
3
‘Sophia, you’re late for breakfast, again. The eggs are cold. The coffee’s cold. There is a war on, you know, we must be disciplined like the soldiers. Punctuality is the least we can offer.’ Lady Benson ate her last piece of toast, efficiently crunching each mouthful, and opened her notebook that listed things to be done, a wartime initiative. She’d contemplated a further initiative – accommodating Belgian refugees – but decided it would exhaust the servants.
The Iron Necklace Page 12
