The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  Mark grunted. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘It is sad,’ Alexander went on, ‘people hate Rathenau. At that reception, I mentioned his name to those officials, they closed their faces. . .’

  ‘Do you think we are ready for Rathenau as Chancellor?’ asked Thomas. ‘I would like to think so, but. . . More potato salad, Mark, do you eat enough?’

  ‘I eat much too much.’

  His conversation with his sister was running through his head, but he never told her any more, that evening or any other evening. Nor would he ever take Karl to dinner with his sister, much as Karl would have liked it. The two worlds had to stay apart.

  24

  They did not find David’s grave, only the place marked in the guide to the battlefields where an attack had been made on 6 November 1917, the day he had fallen. Grass was growing over the crazy maze of trenches that stretched for miles to each side of the little ridge. They did not care to look too closely into the rough ground between the trenches. It was a freezing day, and they hid themselves in their long cloaks.

  ‘I suppose you will want to write to his parents,’ said Laura.

  ‘I met his mother, did I tell you? Coming here, I realise that for David the fighting might have had its appeal, however terrible it was. Even when he was with me, something was urging him to return to battle, like a true knight. He’d have been proud to die for his country. . .’ She cast her eyes over the vast, massacred landscape.

  They found Toby’s grave the next day. He had been badly wounded, and had died a few hours later: his batman had written to Laura describing the courage he had shown while being carried out of the trenches, and his death. There among two hundred or so rough little crosses was inscribed: ‘Captain Toby Slater, Durham Light Infantry, died 24 July 1916’.

  They looked at the grave for a long time, in silence.

  ‘We would have been happy together,’ said Laura, ‘I know we would.’

  ‘I’m sorry I never met him,’ said Sophia.

  ‘You would have liked him. He was such a funny one. Quite radical, he was: he’d say to me, “Women have the same rights as men, you know. I want you to be more than just a wife, I want you to be a person in your own right.” I suppose that’s why I do what I do – even though selling clothes to rich ladies is a funny way of being a person in one’s own right.’

  The following day they went in search of Freddy’s grave. ‘I had a letter from Puppi, Freddy’s sister, after the war,’ said Sophia. ‘She said how much they’d all appreciated my writing about Freddy, that a friendly voice from the other side had meant a great deal to them. I’ll write to her if we find the grave.’

  They found the château where she had worked. The building was boarded up, desolate, the land around it hardly recognisable as a garden, the sheds that had sprouted over the park were collapsing. ‘That was where I mostly worked,’ and Sophia pointed to a long, crumbling wing. ‘Nobody wanted to look after the prisoners.’

  At one end of the village lay the local cemetery with the graves of patients from the hospital. They wandered along the serried resting places of men forced to be as uniform in death as they’d been in life.

  ‘Hauptmann Friedrich Curtius. . . Here he is! Oh, Laura, here he is.’ And she gulped. ‘I can’t think of him as Hauptmann Curtius, to me he was our Freddy.’

  ‘Were you. . . do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He was like a brother.’

  ‘I suppose none of the German relations can visit these graves yet, I see no flowers.’

  ‘Thank goodness I brought some for Freddy.’

  A burst of rain struck them, and they clung together, grateful to feel a warm body among so many cold ones.

  ‘Shall we go back to the beastly hotel and get warm?’ said Laura. ‘I think we need. . .’ She did not finish her sentence.

  ‘You mean we need a drink,’ and Sophia laughed. ‘I’ve stopped, for ever, but I want you to have several. You can mention drink in my hearing quite safely now, without me starting to pant with longing.’

  As they were driven back to the hotel in their rickety taxi, Sophia said, ‘It has been very strange, coming here, and seeing this awful landscape again, awful but silent. . . I feel purged.’

  That night, in her mean bed with the scratchy sheets, she dreamt again. She saw faces crowding in on her, faces she recognised but could not name, faces of young men in uniform, some wounded, some merely pale, impassive but staring, raising their hands towards her as though saying goodbye. When she woke, in the narrow room where the thin curtains hardly excluded the gaslight, she did not know where she was, she only knew she felt relieved, as though the faces had drifted soundlessly away.

  At breakfast, Laura announced she was going on to Paris. Sophia should come with her, and they would visit all the fashion houses. But no, said Sophia, she must go home soon. Laura, ever efficient, sent a telegram booking Sophia’s passage, and one other telegram, over which she spent a fair amount of time.

  Three days later on the boat, Sophia bumped into the American man she had met at Laura’s shop. She was delighted to see him. He too had been in France and had found his brother’s grave. Ignoring the spray and the rolling of the ship, they had a long talk on deck. He gestured once or twice towards the saloon, but she shook her head and they stayed outside amid the wind and rain, but sheltered. When they disembarked, her cheeks were very pink and her eyes were very bright and her hair was all in a tangle, the result of the wind and the rain.

  25

  Mommsenstraße, 10 June 1923

  Dear Mother,

  I am so happy to be here in Berlin. Irene is so kind, and seeing her and Mark and Thomas is the greatest treat. I’m so glad I decided to come.

  The flat is quite changed since we were here with Father. Thomas has made it all very white and modern and sees it as a showplace for his design work. Irene has the loveliest studio. In fact the whole city has changed, it is not at all the big gay confident city it was when we were here before, it is very shabby now and the buildings even in the best quarters look neglected. We saw a huge statue from a building near here lying in the street, he’d broken his nose, the poor old god, it was a sad sight. People look rather pinched and white and dress as though they’ve not had new clothes for years. Here and there you do see very rich people – we went to an elegant restaurant the other day and the wealth of the diners was rather awful.

  We had tea with the old Curtiuses, and they were very dear, and send you their very best wishes. You know that as well as Freddy they more or less lost Paul, who was so badly wounded in the head that he cannot speak and lives in a home in the country. His mother goes to see him every month but when I asked if I could go with her she said it would make me too sad and that the place is filled with war victims, a quite dreadful place. I said I was used to such things, but she shook her head – it was one thing, she said, to witness such things in wartime but to see men condemned to a lifetime of imprisonment within their own bodies was terrible. I don’t believe the other members of the family go very much, if at all, except Elise, who visits out of a sense of duty. Mark was Paul’s friend, you’ll remember, but he never visits. I think he’d find it too upsetting.

  Puppi came to visit the other day. She is a schoolteacher in Dresden, and sweetly earnest, and dedicated to her teaching, and committed to politics – she belongs to one of the liberal parties and campaigns for them. She says Dresden is more genuine, less harsh, than Berlin.

  And Alexander we see often. He is doing very well, his book on the future of Germany has been published and is much admired by many, though hated in right-wing circles. He tries to flirt with me but I tell him I have an admirer in London. Actually, I think he has a young lady.

  Irene is becoming famous. When I tell people I’m her sister they open their eyes wide, and ask about her when she was a young girl. I try to think of something interesting like she won the art prize at Queen’s College.

  Being here for such a long time has given
me the chance to think about myself with a little more detachment than usual. Dearest Mother, I want to say sorry for being so difficult and impatient, which I know I am. You must find me a trial, I do understand that, I hope you will forgive me. Whatever happens to me, I want you to know I love you very much. You have always been a loving mother to me, and have wanted the best for me. Don’t ever forget how much I love you.

  Yours, ever and ever,

  Fia

  26

  While Sophia was away, Edward invited himself to tea with his mother. He said he’d bring a friend he wanted her to meet. She was delighted. The friend was called Mr White, and apparently knew a great deal about money.

  Wilson served tea. She did not like the look of Mr White, and was doubtful about what he and Edward were discussing with her mistress. She made a number of incursions into the sitting room with fresh hot water, until she was asked not to return. Instead she listened at the door.

  What she heard alarmed her. Mr White – not a gentleman, in her view, an over-fed young man who did not strike her as honest – outlined a scheme for making a great deal of money from a new type of bicycle, with lots of explanations about why this bicycle was so special. He and Mr Edward would be partners in a new company which was bound to succeed, it offered something unique and of the moment. Mr Edward was putting in some money, as was Mr White (Wilson doubted this), and many other people were interested in investing. They were offering her the opportunity to invest as well, an opportunity that would bring her great financial reward as well as the chance to collaborate with her beloved Mr Edward. There was a rustling of papers at this point, Mr White’s voice becoming increasingly urgent. Behind the door, Wilson seethed.

  Quite soon, she heard Mr White saying, ‘Sign here, would you? And here?’

  The gentlemen left rapidly, looking cheerful. Bit by bit, Lady Benson revealed to Wilson what had happened, though in simple terms, assuming Wilson would be incapable of understanding anything about money. But Wilson was not stupid, and what became clear to her was that her mistress had handed over to Mr Edward and Mr White every penny she had.

  27

  Mark and Irene saw Sophia off at the station.

  ‘You’ve been such an easy guest,’ said Irene, ‘and such fun. I do hope. . .’

  ‘I’ve had a divine time.’ Sophia hesitated, then she said, ‘I am so sorry to say goodbye to you, dearest Irene, dearest Mark.’ And she burst into tears, holding onto Irene as though she never wanted to let her go.

  ‘But you will see us soon in London, or here.’

  ‘Dearest Fia, you don’t need to cry so,’ said Mark. ‘Here, take my handkerchief.’

  Still she clung to them. But whistles were blowing, doors were slamming, and at last she hurried onto the train. She waved and waved as the train set off. Mark and Irene walked slowly along the platform. They stopped, looked at one another in puzzlement.

  ‘That was rather extreme,’ said Mark. ‘It’s not as though she were going to the New World. Does she hate going home so much? She did seem rather distracted, didn’t you think?’ He took her arm and they hurried through the station.

  28

  Lady Benson went to Victoria Station to meet Sophia’s train, excited, there was so much to tell her. But she was not on the train. Lady Benson could not believe it, she waited on the platform for half an hour in case Sophia had fallen asleep in her carriage, she questioned the guards at length, but no, this was the Berlin–Cologne–Ostend train. Sophia was not on it.

  She ran to the post office, sent a telegram to Mark in Berlin, went back to the station. There was no possibility of her being on any other train that day. Mark telegraphed back to confirm that he and Irene had seen Sophia off.

  Lady Benson gave way to the most horrid fantasies, could not sleep, talked endlessly to Wilson about what might have happened, visited the German Embassy, the offices of the German Railways, rang up anyone she knew who was well connected. No information.

  Mark sent another telegram, saying they had sent out messages to all the shipping companies asking whether a Sophia Benson had embarked in the past two days. After some delay, a message was received from Norddeutscher Lloyd to say that a passenger bearing that name had embarked on a ship to New York. Was she to be detained on arrival?

  She must have been kidnapped, thought her mother. Back in Berlin, Irene and Mark laughed, in spite of themselves. They did not think she had been kidnapped.

  Two telegrams arrived from the ship, for Lady Benson and for Mark: ‘ALL IS WELL STOP DO NOT PURSUE ME IT WOULD BE COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE STOP WILL WRITE SHORTLY STOP FONDEST LOVE SOPHIA’.

  Lady Benson wanted her to be detained. Mark sent a telegram to the shipping company to say that the passenger was not to be stopped.

  They did not hear anything for a while. Then on the same day letters arrived, with American stamps, in Berlin and in London.

  29

  10 October

  Dearest Irene,

  I’m married! I was married yesterday to Professor John Clark. It was a civil ceremony, the witnesses were John’s son – he’s much older than I am, you see – and the housekeeper. We had the wedding breakfast at his house.

  Victoria and Laura will have told you about John by now. He is the dearest man, I am sure you’ll like him. He is a professor of history at Boston University, he is fifty, his first wife died several years ago and he has been unhappy and lonely, especially since his brother was killed. I don’t think he is unhappy now.

  Laura introduced us, she planned it all. She met John when he was visiting London, she thought, aha, he will do perfectly for Sophia. She brought us together at the shop, and apparently he liked me, and then when we’d visited the graves she arranged for us to meet on the boat coming back to England. He asked me to marry him, then and there, on the deck, can you imagine? It was so romantic, and I liked him very much, and I said I’d have to think about it, and he kept writing and we met in London, and I thought he was better than nice. The person who finally persuaded me was Victoria. She said, go, you must go, clearly he is the right person, and sometimes one must take risks.

  Then John wrote and said he was going back to the States and he’d be on a particular ship leaving Rotterdam and he’d booked a passage for me. . . So I came to see you and Markie in Berlin, and said a major goodbye though you didn’t know it, and I arrived at the embarkation hall with my passport and my luggage, and there was John looking anxious and lonely in that huge hall amid all the bustle and I went up behind him quietly and I pinched his neck and he turned round and said, I knew you would come, I knew you would come. And off we sailed, and as the lights of Europe faded, I thought, goodbye Europe, and goodbye to so much unhappiness.

  I want you to meet John soon. I love him a great deal even though I don’t know him very well, but when someone is so keen on you it’s rather persuasive. He keeps saying, what a lucky man I am, I can’t believe how lucky I am.

  Irene dearest, you must forgive me for not telling you sooner. I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. If I’d said anything, you’d have felt so uncomfortable, you’d have worried about Mamma, you might have told her, I’d have felt guilty and perhaps not gone. Victoria and Laura, they both said, just go, tell them afterwards.

  I’m writing to Mamma today. I do feel guilty, a bit, but this was the right thing to do, I know. I’m so happy, you can’t imagine, or then probably you can.

  Your very loving sister,

  Sophia Clark

  30

  Mathilde opened the door, as usual. She looked surprised to see them, and nervous.

  ‘These are for you.’ Irene gave Mathilde two envelopes. ‘For your wages, dear Mathilde, in sterling – it is so heavy carrying millions of Reichsmarks around. This other envelope is for the household expenses. £1, for the next two months.’

  Mathilde seemed agitated. ‘Thank you, Frau Irene. Frau Elise is here. And Frau Curtius has a visitor.’

  Voices were approaching down the corridor. Frau Mamma appe
ared with Elise and a man they did not know. Herr Papa followed, looking mildly agitated, as he generally did these days.

  ‘Ah, my dears. . . Herr Rippert has been advising me.’ Frau Curtius did not introduce him further. Herr Rippert scrutinised them with an inquisitive half-smile, promised to be in touch, left.

  ‘Who is Herr Rippert?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Oh, a man of my acquaintance. Mathilde, what can I offer Herr Thomas and Frau Irene? Mathilde has found a grocer who gives us credit, so now we have real food again, real coffee. How we will pay it off, I don’t know, but let us enjoy his kindness while we may. Won’t you come into the music room? The Salon is still so cold.’

  ‘How fortunate you are, Frau Mamma,’ Elise remarked, pinning on her hat, ‘to have a visit from our English relations. They are used to comfort, it must be strange for them to come to an ordinary German home.’

  ‘Elise, that’s enough.’

  ‘And Irene is very busy painting her strange pictures, she must be uneasy in a house where the old conventions of decency and nature are observed.’

  ‘Elise, you know that’s not true,’ said her brother. But Elise had gone.

  Coffee appeared, and proper cakes, like cakes from before the war.

  ‘Poor darling, her life is so hard. I gave her a drinkable cup of coffee, and she suspected I’d been buying on the black market.’ Frau Mamma looked at them blandly. ‘If Mathilde is so clever, who am I to complain? At least it seems Elise has met a gentleman who is interested in helping her. No, he is only a friend, he is pleased to meet a real German lady. Elise says he comes from quite a different background, but she is teaching him elegant manners. He takes her out to dinner and to the opera, and brings presents for the children and helps her find dresses. I cannot disapprove, she had to sell everything, even Heinz’s medals.’