Sophia sat down crossly at the table. ‘I don’t want breakfast.’ Really, her mother was the end.
Her father looked over the top of The Times and said, ‘Good morning, Sophia.’
‘What does it matter if I’m late for breakfast, when I don’t have anything to do, except knit scarves for soldiers?’
‘It was your decision not to go up to Cambridge this term,’ said her father mildly.
‘But I can’t, don’t you see? I can’t sit in lectures while all the young men I know are going off to the war.’
‘We understand, you’ve explained often enough. But we wish you’d find something else. No doubt there’ll be a great demand for women, in all sorts of occupations, if the war goes on. At the club, we have waitresses now that almost all the younger men have gone. Not that I’m suggesting you become a waitress.’ Her father gestured at the front page of The Times, with its lists of casualties. ‘It’s been a bad week, but at least we’re told we scored military successes.’ He sighed deeply.
Her mother was clashing plates. ‘Don’t just sit there, Sophia, eat your breakfast. The toast is cold, I can’t ask Cook to make any more.’
‘I don’t want any bloody toast,’ said Sophia.
‘Sophia, never use that word!’ from her mother; and from her father, ‘Sophia, swearing shows a limited, vulgar mind.’
It was him she addressed. ‘Here we are with thousands being killed, and all she worries about is cold toast and bad language.’ She poured out some dregs of coffee.
‘That’s all there is,’ said her mother with satisfaction. ‘And please don’t speak about me as though I weren’t in the room. I need to get on, I am going to the canteen for my shift.’ Lady Benson sat on committees to support the war effort, and worked at Lady Belfield’s canteen providing cheap nutritious meals for working women. She’d suggested Sophia should help there, but her daughter said that ladies being gracious to the workers was more than she could stand. ‘It’s a pity you won’t come to the canteen, the atmosphere is uplifting, people from all classes work together in cheerful co-operation.’
Sophia banged down her cup. ‘I want to work in a hospital, and I want to go to France.’
‘Oh Sophia,’ her mother cried. ‘To work in a hospital, why ever? And France, why France?’
‘I want to serve as a VAD in an army hospital.’ She fixed her eyes on her father. ‘I’ve volunteered already. I went to the Voluntary Aid Detachment headquarters at Devonshire House last week.’ She stood up. She was very nervous.
‘I forbid it,’ said her mother. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘But I must do something.’
‘Well, if you’re really serious. . .’ said her father.
‘I am really serious. In any case,’ and she clenched her fists, ‘if you are worried about the “young lady” aspect, lots of “ladies” go out there.’
‘Married ladies, yes.’
‘What difference does that make? D’you mean I’d need a chaperone? Chaperones are finished, Mother.’
‘You’d be exposed to danger.’
‘Why not? Our men are exposed to much more danger. Look at cousin Peter, and Andrew Beaumont. . . Why not women?’
‘You might get ill, there’d be such germs around. And all those men. . .’
In spite of herself, Sophia laughed. ‘Men are better than germs, I suppose.’
‘The war will soon end, and a woman’s reputation will always be important.’
‘I don’t care about bloody reputation.’
‘Sophia!’
‘I’m sorry. Anyway, in the hospitals the men would be wounded or dead. Or doctors or chaplains, who don’t interest me.’
Sir William intervened. ‘Sophia, if you can find out what you need to do. . .’
‘I told you, I have. I’ve been accepted, I’m waiting to hear when they want me. But I don’t want to quarrel with you, I want. . . I want your blessing, I suppose. I’ve been waiting for days for the right moment to tell you.’
There was a knock. It was Wilson. ‘May I clear, my lady?’
‘Would you mind waiting just a minute, Wilson?’ said Lady Benson. Wilson looked exasperated.
‘Do clear, dear Wilson,’ said Sophia. ‘I’ve no secrets from you. The thing is, I’ve volunteered to be a VAD in France.’
‘Have you indeed, Miss Sophia? Well, if I may venture an opinion. . .’ The family steeled themselves for one of Wilson’s bracing remarks. ‘All of us need to do our bit.’
Lady Benson looked annoyed. ‘Thank you, Wilson. Will you clear the table? Anyway, my darling, I want you here. What am I to do without you?’
‘One thing must be clear,’ said Sophia, and she stood up. ‘If you think I am devoting my life to staying at home and looking after Mother, I won’t do it. I tell you, I will not do it!’ She looked extremely firm, and her father regarded her with affectionate interest.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘I think that’s quite clear.’
4
Early in November 1914 Major von Steinaeck of the Garde-Infanterie-Regiment Nr. 4 was killed leading his men into combat at the first battle of Ypres.
The funeral took place at the Garnisonkirche in Berlin, where he was to be buried. His mother and widow spent many hours discussing the children’s future. The son would be sent to the officer cadets’ school, where he would receive a free education. He was a quiet, thoughtful child, but that was not considered: a military life was his duty, and in any case the major had left very little money. The daughter would remain with her mother.
For Irene these were painful days. At the funeral, her heavy black veil had given her some sense of privacy. Afterwards at the Schloßstraße she took Elise’s hand and said the usual words. Elise merely nodded. She looked dignified in mourning, her hair cut short, her face pale, her black dress full and sadly becoming.
Some days later, Irene visited her mother-in-law. She went on foot. In these months she spent much of her time walking alone up and down the long, monotonous streets and through the squares, hardly pausing, speaking to no one, as though existing in the city but not part of it. When she first came to Berlin, Thomas had warned her against going around the city alone, unaccompanied women were often thought to be prostitutes. Now she didn’t care. There was little else to do. She could not bring herself to contribute to the war effort or do good works. However fluent her German was, her accent was still recognisably English, people would be suspicious. Her commissions for illustrations had almost dried up. Thomas said there was less work available, but she thought editors avoided employing a British artist. In any case she had no appetite for drawing. Only occasionally did she execute a drawing, but she did not like the savage little sketches that emerged, dwarves and idiotic animals, things better left unexplored.
At home, she read, not English books but the books by Goethe, Lessing and Heine that Thomas had piled on her table when she’d arrived in Berlin. In this hate-ridden country, it was reassuring to read about other Germanys. She read and re-read Effi Briest, finding its picture of Berlin not so far from the city she’d known before the war. She asked herself what would happen in modern Berlin to a woman who betrayed her husband.
Sometimes letters came from England via Copenhagen through the Danish diplomatic bag. Irene would call at the Danish Embassy and be given a buff envelope. She wondered whether anyone monitored her visits; no doubt the comings and goings there were surveyed, but nothing seemed to be censored. She’d often leave the envelope unopened for a day or two, unwilling to hear voices from home. Her mother would write about her war work, and family news: Edward had ‘left the country’, as she put it; Victoria was pregnant again and little George was the loveliest child imaginable; Irene’s cousin Peter had finished his training and was also about to ‘leave the country’; Peter’s younger brother was leaving school so he could ‘join in’. Sophia wrote about poetry, primarily; she hated living at home, then she’d left home and was working as a nursing assistant at the
Charing Cross Hospital in preparation for being sent to France. Mark did not write, presumably it was not good form for a diplomat. Irene wrote back about her window box and the garden at Salitz, never mentioning conditions in Germany. One never knew who might read one’s letters.
Often, she simply stared out of the window. During the relentless November and December afternoons, the Mommsenstraße was grey and then white, as rain gave way to snow. On some days she could not bring herself to go outside, and by late afternoon was impatiently awaiting Thomas’s return; though he had little to do, he insisted on spending a full day in the office. At the piano she played German music. She remembered how she had first discovered Wagner, aeons ago it seemed, and been transported to a new world. Sometimes she went to concerts on her own: she couldn’t bear to chatter with acquaintances at such events, she hated the little complaining group of foreign wives. At the Philharmonie’s afternoon concerts, she would sit surrounded by mutilated soldiers in grey and women in black, and try to lose herself in the music.
The cemeteries suited her mood. Among the reticent memorials of old Berlin and the grandiose temples of yesterday, surrounded by the whispering and rustling of the departed and their mourners, she would consider this Prussia where she was immured. She favoured the Garnisonfriedhof, the old garrison cemetery, concealed by trees and a high brick wall in the middle of the poorest Jewish quarter. She would walk up and down the neat paths, contemplating the graves of Prussian officers and officials, their wives and daughters: some plainly geometrical, others sporting angels, or pillars, or feathered helmets surrounded by wreaths. The graves were lined up like soldiers: even the neighbouring Linienstraße was named after regiments of the line. The railings round the tombs and the crosses were made of pierced iron, the stones incised with proud, reticent wording in Gothic script. She would wonder about the people lying under this mass of stone and iron – always iron, the material of Berlin – and try to imagine the living presences of Major-General Johann Herwarth von Bittenfeld or General von Tippelskirch, Commander of Berlin. No doubt they had embodied the Prussian tradition: service to the state, sober faith, probity, stoicism, duty.
Now the empty plots were being filled again. Once, seeing Elise kneeling at her husband’s grave, she hurried away.
If she told Thomas she had been to a cemetery, he would look anxious, and suggest that the Tiergarten or the Charlottenburg park might be less melancholy. She’d reassure him that there was nothing morbid in these walks.
‘Don’t you want to see our friends?’ he would ask. But no, she had not even visited Frau Mamma since the funeral; she was not sure how she would be received.
At the Schloßstraße apartment the blinds were pulled down. The street door was unlocked and she entered between the iron animal-head gargoyles which guarded the corners of the entrance arch. She’d always liked these gargoyles, playful fantasies in this solid city. She touched the one on the right, as she often did, for reassurance.
It was a cloudy day. The hall and staircase were unlit and uninviting.
As she turned the curve of the stairs, she saw the figure of a woman, veiled in black, coming down towards her. She knew too well who it was, from the cross that hung round her neck. Irene stopped. Should she wait for Elise to say something? Should she speak? Should she try to kiss her? She could hardly see Elise’s face, only that it was pale, paler even than at the funeral. As Elise moved down the stairs, Irene attempted a smile.
The smile was not returned. Elise paused on the same step as Irene, and stared at her, expressionless. Then she said, quietly but in a tone Irene hoped never to hear again, ‘Verdammte Engländerin. Du hast meinen Mann ermordet.’ And her erect black figure passed down the stairs.
Part of Irene thought, angrily, I did not kill your husband. My people did not start this war, yours did. I have been living in this hateful city when I could have gone home, because I am loyal to your brother. Why am I to blame? But her anger gave way to sobs, and she fell onto the stairs, grasping the great iron baluster as though it might comfort her.
The door of the apartment opened. She heard murmuring voices, and someone coming down the stairs then bending over her. This person put a hand on Irene’s head, and stroked her hair. She was drawn to her feet, her waist was supported, and tenderly she was led indoors.
5
Mark did not particularly enjoy being back in London, particularly one day when he was walking across the concourse at Victoria Station on his way home from work. It was Saturday lunchtime, the afternoon was free. He was wondering how to spend it, London was so quiet these days.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a woman, standing, apparently with no purpose. She was large, wore a hat with a feather and a brown overcoat, carried a capacious handbag under her arm.
As he was passing her, she swung round to face him, blocked his way. A little crowd mysteriously collected around them. She reached out towards him, hissed something, sneered at him. Someone laughed. The faces were not friendly.
He looked down at himself. There was a white feather in his buttonhole.
A man in front of him looked him in the eyes, nodded. ‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘Get into uniform, lad.’
Mark hurried away from the spectators, pushed the white feather into his pocket, fled into the Underground. He felt that everyone around him on the train was aware of what had happened, blamed him for being in civilian dress when the country was fighting for its life. Victoria Station must be avoided, he thought, but he could hardly avoid every public place.
He felt soiled, he felt he deserved to be soiled when his cousin Peter was at the front and Charles had left school early to join up, in spite of the certainty of becoming Captain of Cricket if he stayed. There was no explaining to an angry woman giving out white feathers that one was in a protected occupation; she would have no ears nor would the crowd that supported her.
The house was empty. A cold lunch had been left for him. He could not eat. He felt astonishingly dismal.
6
‘So, Benson, you feel you should enlist?’
Mark was sitting in front of a panel of three senior officials. They all looked similar – silver-haired and aloof and piercing, as though stamped by their careers. He supposed he too might look like that one day.
‘Yes. It seems the right thing to do.’
‘White feather?’ said the chairman.
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘Have you been given a white feather?’
He gulped. ‘No. Well, yes.’
‘We really must put a stop to that.’
Mark was aware of being inspected, politely but probingly. He stared at the table.
‘Well,’ the chairman continued, ‘let’s consider. There are fewer than two hundred of us in the first class of the Diplomatic Service. It’s true our resources have been strengthened by men from Berlin and Vienna, but the volume of work has increased remarkably, one almost feels one is useful.’ His colleagues smiled mildly. ‘A great deal of effort goes into recruiting and training our young men, and we are not anxious to relinquish them. One or two have left, of course – how many is it, Elliot?’ He turned to the man on his left.
‘Three, I think.’
‘Three, when it was felt that the battlefield would be a more appropriate form of expression than the equally vicious but physically less strenuous battles we fight. The same does not apply to you.’
‘Were you in the Officers’ Training Corps at school?’ asked the man on the right.
‘No.’
‘Or at university?’
‘No.’
‘You harboured no youthful passion for the military life?’
‘No, but things are different now.’
‘Indeed. And have you joined our voluntary corps in the Foreign Office?’
‘No, but. . . I’ve not known how long I was going to be in London.’
‘Quite so,’ said the chairman. ‘Actually, I’m told it’s rather congenial: parades on Hampstead H
eath, good for the liver, the only danger is being attacked by your own side. I believe the members are particularly incompetent at drilling and shooting – what is that term the drill sergeant applied to them, Murray?’
‘“Bloody Fairies”, I believe.’
‘Yes. So why this sudden desire for the colours?’
‘I feel it’s my duty.’
‘That’s wholly understandable. We all have a duty to our country, the question is how we fulfil it. Wars are not won by bullets and cavalry charges alone, you know. We in the Diplomatic Service have a part to play too, more so than Lord Kitchener might concede. Relations with our allies and with non-combatant countries are peculiarly sensitive. I would say diplomacy is crucial to the nation’s war effort, notably in the United States. Difficult as it may be, one needs to retain a sense of one’s own value, and not be swept into the prevailing chaos.’ He looked closely at Mark. ‘You know Germany well?’
‘Yes, I lived in Dresden for a year when I was learning German.’ He felt sad, remembering the peaceful household he’d stayed in. It was presided over by a Lutheran pastor, vague about everyday things but encyclopaedically informed on many subjects, and strongly Anglophile on the basis of a youthful visit to study English cathedrals. His mind drifted off, wondering whether the family now hated the English, in spite of having taught and entertained so many young Englishmen.
The chairman was regarding him, eyebrows raised. ‘So did we all. Beautiful city, Dresden.’
‘My sister is married to a German.’ Mark realised he sounded miserable. He must be more positive, not show his emotions.
‘I think we knew that. It must be distressing for you. I suppose you write to her through Holland, the usual thing? My wife is Bavarian,’ the chairman went on. ‘We try not to speak about the war, though we play German music together. Her nephews are fighting in the Bavarian Army, one of them has been killed. Our son is in the Grenadier Guards. The cousins were all great friends, they spent the summer holidays together in Scotland or in the Bavarian Alps, from their early boyhood. Well. . .’ And he took his glasses off and polished them, blinking. ‘It is all inexpressibly painful.’
The Iron Necklace Page 13
