Your ever-loving sister,
Sophia
47
There was so much to do. The Tiergartenstraße flat to clear. Furniture, lamps, bowls to give away. Hundreds of books to pack. Paintings by Irene – a faintly menacing view of forest surrounding a meadow, a study of an empty beach – to be sent to London. A farewell dinner at the embassy. A party with the Graf set in a club on Unter den Linden. A final Sunday morning walk through the Tiergarten to matins – he would be happy never to see St George’s again. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. It was enough to make any man happy, particularly a man in his late-thirties, with brilliant prospects, surrounded by friends, and about to be married to the woman he loved.
It was interesting how people had changed since he’d announced his engagement. The Graf set had become subtly cooler; he realised some of them might have had designs on him. His colleagues were perceptibly warmer, he felt he was rising smoothly into the higher reaches of the Diplomatic family.
Outside, it was extremely cold, the snow was thick. He would not miss the cruel German winters. But he could hardly stay indoors during this final evening in Berlin: what should he do? There was nothing more to plan: the two weeks in London, formal visits to the Foreign Office, the search for a London house – it was all settled.
The family were following him across the Atlantic. Irene and Thomas were bursting with excitement at the thought of seeing New York, his mother was agog to visit the Salts’ house and estate. Yes, everything was sorted out; including, it seemed, his career. At a private farewell lunch H. E. had indicated that Mark might expect promotion soon.
He looked round the flat, wondering what else needed doing. On the corner of his desk was a pile of letters he’d not bothered to open, no doubt notices of exhibitions he’d never see, invitations to buy things he’d never need. Most of the envelopes were tossed into the wastepaper basket. Only one stopped him. It was typewritten, to ‘Mr Mark Benson Esq.’ He smiled: Germans could never grasp ‘Esq.’
Dear Mark,
I know, that you are leaving Berlin soon. I hope, that in your new life you will be happy. It will be different in many ways. Though I do not see you any more, I have been glad to know, that you are living in the same city. Though sad, too.
He put the letter down as though to throw it away. Then he thought, I owe Karl the courtesy. . .
Now I have a new position at the Hotel Esplanade, as a deputy manager. It is of course near to where you live, and I have seen you there once or twice, though I made sure, you would not see me. It is a fine hotel, I enjoy my position. I will soon be promoted.
I have a new friend, he is a nice man though he does not like swimming in the lakes, he is too fat.
I hope, that you will remember our days by the Schlachtensee, and think they were happy days, and that we loved each other in our way. I certainly loved you. Can love ever be bad? I don’t think so, if it is real love that springs from the heart.
You will think me sentimental, but I am sending you a dried flower, it is the Vergißmichnicht. I think it is the same in English, the forget-me-not.
Dein Karl
Mark turned out the light and sat for a moment in darkness. Then the light came on again, the letter was folded and put away, at least for the moment.
There was nothing more to do. He must say goodbye to Berlin. He set out on a final walk, past the Tiergarten and the embassies, down the Potsdamerstraße to the Potsdamer Platz. This evening, just for once, he was ready to let life lead him where it willed. He sat in the Café Josty, at a table where he’d often sat before. He and the waiter had once been on ‘du und du’ terms, hardly to be avoided when one was lying on top of the other.
‘Wie geht es dem Herrn?’ asked the waiter, with a tinge of friendly irony.
‘Ich werde Berlin morgen verlassen, meine Zeit hier ist zu Ende.’
‘Schade. Ich hoffe, daß Sie Berlin nicht vergessen werden.’
‘Wie kann man Berlin je vergessen?’
Mark gave him a particularly large tip. Then he set off home, to the flat that now seemed like a makeshift shelter. No more makeshift for him: their house in London would be their home when they were not abroad. No doubt, ironically, in one of the fashionable districts his mother had yearned to move to. They could afford almost anything, after all.
He walked home through the Tiergarten, distantly recalling the strolls he had often taken there on summer nights. It amused him, at a point where a path plunged into the trees, to see a figure standing by the bushes. What a night to be hunting, the poor fellow must be desperate. In the gaslight he glimpsed the face of a boy, vulnerable, hopeful, looking in Mark’s direction. Mark swerved onto the grass, threw a glance behind him as he’d done so often, walked into the sheltering trees. The boy followed him.
Mark took hold of him, kissed him bruisingly, tore open his clothing. He felt disgusted with himself, and approved of his disgust, it was healthy. He thrust the boy onto the ground, dropped two dollar bills onto his body lying on the icy ground, kicked him.
Another last.
48
Grand Central Station, late afternoon, crowds and crowds and crowds of people, hurtling, hurrying, hastening through the great hall fit for Belshazzar’s Feast, the clock urging the people on to catch their trains to distant suburban locations, time pressing ever onwards.
Thomas and Irene gaped at the magnificent uplifting space.
For one moment only they glimpsed her. Hurrying by, in a light coat and a headscarf, purposeful, as though catching a train.
Only a moment, and she – but was it her, how could they know, they could hardly see her, only the walk was so familiar – had gone.
They looked at each other, they had the same thought, they mouthed the same name, cried it aloud, set off after her though hardly knowing which direction to take, the crowd had grown thicker, the light coat had disappeared among so many, they pushed, they entreated, people looked at them in surprise and amusement. ‘There’ll be another train,’ they said. She’d gone.
They went back to the station the next day at the same time, they thought she might be there again, perhaps she had a daily timetable, but no. They asked the station master to make an announcement, but no. They waited, but no.
Perhaps it had not been her.
49
‘You can’t imagine the excitement of going to New York. America was wonderful – the size of everything, the skyscrapers, the chewing gum, the drugstores, and at Atholl the ease and comfort and the lawns and the hounds, and all those children. I fell in love with one of Margaret’s nephews, he must have been twelve, he seemed unutterably dashing, he taught me how to ride. This is the wedding album that Mark gave to his mother. There they are lined up in front of the big house – just like the album of my parents’ wedding, but here everyone’s laughing.’
‘Yes, they’re all in stitches. Except for the bride and groom, who look deadly serious.’
‘That’s me as a bridesmaid, very cheerful, I thought I was the prettiest girl in the whole world. Shall I turn over?’
‘Yes, turn over,’ says Pandora. ‘Ah, just the two of them.’ They consider a photograph of the bridal pair, caught as though unawares. ‘It’s an interesting picture, neither is smiling here either. They’re not even looking at each other.’
‘They’re holding hands.’
Pandora peers at the photograph. ‘His right hand is closed over her left hand, and her right hand is lying on his. As though. . .’
‘As though they’re making a pact?’
‘Just what I was thinking. You know, when I stayed with them in Paris, I saw this photograph on her dressing table, it was the only photo she had apart from her children’s.’
PART FOUR
1
Nervous, tired after the flight, hugely excited, Pandora gazes at the New York streets. ‘Central Park’ grunts the taxi-driver, jerking his head to the left. Central Park! In England they’re always saying how dangerous New York is, she’s sure she�
��s going to be attacked, muggers on every corner. . .
‘Wanna be careful, walking round here on your own,’ says the driver.
‘Oh yes, I will be. Is it dangerous everywhere in New York?’
He laughs. ‘You’ll be OK on Park Avenue. And up here on West End Avenue, shouldn’t be a problem.’
He races down a cross street, turns to the left, pulls up at an enormous building. ‘118 Riverside Drive, ma’am. You have a good time. A pretty girl like you, no knowing what may happen to you in New York City.’ He picks up her bags and carries them to the door. It’s nice of him, she thinks. She gives him a large tip.
The doorman smiles at her. ‘To see Mrs Clark?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘Mrs Clark’s been calling every ten minutes or so. She will be so pleased to see you. I’ll put your bags in the elevator. You’ll like the view.’
The hall is very grand. The elevator is even grander, all chrome and glass. Up she goes. She looks with dismay at her luggage, she wishes she’d not brought that bag with plastic sunflowers and travel labels all over it.
On the seventeenth floor she piles into a hallway lined with discreetly anonymous doors, but 1703 is open. Pandora sees a tall old lady, very upright, with sharp blue eyes, white hair in a bun, wearing a loose blue dress. She holds out her arms. ‘Come in, come in.’ Her voice is quite English, overlaid with the softest American tone. ‘Let me look at you. You are very welcome, indeed you are. You are a darling, to come and see your great-aunt.’
2
On their way from Moscow to London to spend some leave in the summer of 1930, Mark and Margaret stopped off to visit Thomas and Irene. Their little boy, William Penn, had been taken straight to his grandmother in London.
The two couples edged round one another. Mark was yet more confident, was evidently becoming used to telling people what to do. He had also grown in weight, was indeed quite corpulent. Margaret talked about the Soviet Union and its merits and demerits. She was severely well dressed, wearing only greys and blacks, not showing her pregnancy. Irene wondered what it would be like, to be their child.
The Bensons thought Irene was braving her mid-forties with aplomb. Vivacious, self-confident, efficiently bohemian – she and Thomas did not even change for dinner – she was just back from a successful exhibition in New York. Yet she still insisted on going to her studio every morning because of a forthcoming exhibition in Cologne.
‘Why do you never show in London, Irene?’ Mark asked her.
‘Oh, they are so conservative. Really, no one there is interested in my work. . .’
Thomas looked older and rather depressed. With the economic situation deteriorating again, his prospects were not promising. The daughter was awkward and quiet, though perhaps that was typical of a fourteen-year-old. Margaret spent a good deal of time talking to her, and Dodo unbent.
They went out to dinner, and visited the museums, and Irene’s studio. They met Alexander, who talked and talked, was enchanted to see Mark and Margaret, asked at length about Moscow. He did not mention his own success as a newspaper columnist.
‘If we ever have a National Socialist government,’ said Irene, ‘which happily seems unlikely even now, then life might become difficult for our dear Alexander.’ She spoke playfully, yet a little anxiously.
‘Yes,’ said Alexander, ‘if those pigs get into power, I suppose I shall have to leave the country.’
Thomas seemed annoyed. ‘It is only a few members of the National Socialist Party, uneducated men, who can be described in such a way. I see no reason why Alexander should have to leave the country, he might just have to restrain his satirical flights.’
‘I don’t share your opinion, Thomas. You should look at their disgusting literature, not to speak of their disgusting members.’
Thomas did not reply.
Mark grew animated as they went round the city, recalling places he’d known. They inspected his apartment building on the Tiergartenstraße, and he showed Margaret the window where he had read her letter inviting him to join her in Munich.
‘That letter made a great difference in your life, didn’t it, Mark?’ asked his sister. ‘As I recall, at that moment you were all set to leave the Diplomatic Service and become a journalist. And it was Margaret who made you change your mind.’
Mark blushed. Margaret turned towards him. ‘You never told me that.’ The others regarded him.
Eventually, ‘Yes, I was thinking of taking a job with a London newspaper, but it was nothing really.’
Irene was irritated by this. ‘That’s not what I remember, you talked about it endlessly. You were going to write for The Observer and earn much more money, weren’t you? And write books, which I’m sure would have been very interesting. Instead of diplomatic papers which no one ever reads.’
Thomas laid his hand on her arm. She shrugged it off.
‘Well. . .’ said Mark, agitated, ‘it’s all in the past now. I am quite committed to the Service.’
Irene was not to be silenced. ‘Won’t you ever resign, Mark? Are you determined to be an ambassador? It’s such a confining life. Margaret, do you want to be an ambassadress?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘I never knew about this, Mark. You do write so well, it seems a shame. . . After all, in the few years we have, we may as well develop our talents, particularly if one can afford to do as one chooses. Forgive me, I’m preaching, Mark says I’m given to preaching.’
Mark looked furious. He walked away from them down the street. When he came back, he looked like a boy caught out in some trivial offence. They changed the subject.
There was another awkward moment on the last evening. They were having dinner at the Mommsenstraße, en famille.
Mark asked Thomas about his building project. Thomas seemed nervous, cast a look at Irene. She merely looked back as though curious about what he would say.
‘There will be no project. The fact is, my position in the city architecture department has not been renewed. They said that in the present climate they had to economise, imaginative schemes are not feasible. I have only one more month’s employment there. I wasn’t going to tell you, but since you ask. . .’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Margaret. ‘You are too good for them, too creative.’
There was a silence. They embarked on the next course.
Mark tried to be cheerful. ‘I suppose, Thomas, you will get another job soon, even in these difficult times.’
‘The times are very difficult.’
‘Do you insist on staying in Berlin? Would you think of working somewhere else? During the war you were in Cologne designing military installations, weren’t you? Would you think of going back there, for example?’
Only Margaret’s knife and fork on her plate interrupted the startled stillness.
Mark realised abruptly what he had said and coloured violently. He and Thomas had never spoken about what they’d done in the war, it was better not discussed, even twelve years after the Armistice. Mark tried to retrieve the situation.
‘Didn’t you tell me you’d been stationed in Cologne, when we were talking about the city, or is that my imagination?’ He hurried on. ‘It’s so long ago, isn’t it, perhaps I imagined it all.’
‘I never realised these facts were common knowledge,’ said Thomas. ‘I must have spoken in my sleep.’
Irene did not look up. They finished dinner rapidly. The two women, trained from childhood to make conversation, did not have the heart for it. Coffee was refused. Margaret announced that she was tired and would go to bed. She looked at Mark enquiringly. He hesitated.
‘I might go and have a smoke out of doors.’
Irene smiled. ‘You can smoke indoors if you want.’
Margaret was already standing, gathering her things. ‘Mark wants to take a walk in the streets, they remind him of his past.’
They all three looked at Mark.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have so many memories. Margaret, my dear, won�
�t you come?’
Margaret did not want to wander the streets. Mark slid out of the apartment.
Thomas disappeared. The women lingered. ‘Do stay and talk to me, Margaret,’ Irene urged. ‘We’ve hardly had a moment together.’ Margaret laid down her shawl. She was wearing a dark grey dress, beautifully cut, her shoulders bare.
‘Would you like to see my little home studio? I have a few drawings and things there. I’m working on a war memorial for Salitz – even there they lost eleven men. I offered to design a memorial, and we have a sculptor friend who’ll carve it. It’s my tribute to the village, for looking after me during the war. Thomas’s aunt and uncle were so pleased. . . I decided against a Dance of Death, my original idea, it seemed too harsh. You see, it’s a simple composition, just a boy seated on a mound, holding a sickle, a bale of wheat beside him. The sickle is for death of course, the wheat for life.’
‘It’s very strong,’ said Margaret. ‘In Moscow we never meet artists, only diplomats and official Russians. It’s an isolated life but not at all private, what with the servants listening to everything we say. If we’re friendly with Russians, it’s dangerous for them. But you could hardly find a more interesting place to be.’
‘Berlin, perhaps.’
‘Yes, Berlin.’
A question hovered between them. Irene spoke.
‘I hope you are happy.’
‘Yes, I’m happy. You see. . . well, you love Mark too, don’t you? You understand, though of course a sister is different. . . Sometimes I feel there’s an unseen person always present between us. . . The thing is, I just love him. I don’t think he’s perfect, but that doesn’t matter. And I feel he needs me, professionally of course. . .’
‘Don’t speak like that.’
‘It’s true. But he’s vulnerable in his way, he depends on me, I think. His job requires so much of him, he is always having to be polite and correct. With me he can be quiet, he knows I won’t mind.’
The Iron Necklace Page 32
