He wanted to attend the funeral, believing in proper conduct and having fond memories of Lady Benson. But he had business in Berlin, an interview for a job which could not be postponed.
When she returned to Berlin – after a rapid visit to Paris, to discuss an exhibition – she found him in high good humour. He had been offered the position and had accepted. It was a successful practice, he said, which was flourishing even in these difficult times. He was to design housing and other social projects: even if they could not be built immediately, the principals were convinced that the projects would be realised as soon as the political and financial situation stabilised. And an immediate commission for a large private house on the Wannsee had been entrusted to him. When she asked who it was for, he said only that it was for a leading financier and confidential.
She was delighted to have a cheerful husband again, he was much pleasanter to live with. She thought, if only the political situation could resolve itself, how happy they might be.
9
Pandora has learnt to balance her time. Tom wants to spend all day, and every day together. But no, she has appointments with magazine editors, and above all she needs to talk to Sophia. I could just sit in the background, he says, not speak. Yes, you would say lots of things, you wouldn’t be able to restrain yourself – on which he gives her a kiss, for no very good reason. It has to be a private dialogue, she says.
At a certain point every evening Sophia indicates it’s time for Tom to go home. But on the seventh evening over dinner she talks about the First World War, and David. I’ve never told anyone about him, she says, only Irene and Victoria and Laura. She tells the story in detail because they ask her to, and so they hear about the dance of death with the young officers, and the Ritz, and Charles Street, and seeing him off at Victoria and the lady in the cloakroom. Then she retires into the kitchen, and they sit holding hands and she comes back. ‘So you see, I know what it’s like to fall in love. But I don’t know whether we would have been happy. I met his mother later – an engagement ring had been ordered for me and she traced me and gave me the ring, and though she was very correct and kind, I thought I wouldn’t have fitted into that family. But he was divine.’ And abruptly she goes to bed, and there is no word about Tom leaving.
Once or twice Pandora feels she is being tested. Sophia encourages her to talk, nods as Pandora recalls her visits to Irene, is glad to hear she’s moving into the studio. What a pity it is, Sophia says again, that she has so little material about Irene. She promises to show Pandora what she has before she leaves. And she arranges treats.
‘I have some people coming to dinner. We’ll be five, you and me and Tom and two guests, I won’t tell you who they are. They’re rather old, I’ve invited them for six. Dinner at six, honestly, it’s one of the things I’ve never got used to.’
They sit in the living room. Six o’clock passes, six thirty, seven. ‘He’s always late,’ says Sophia.
The house phone rings. Sophia opens the door, kisses her guests, raises her arm towards the living room, indicates the young woman standing there. The two guests halt, as though bewildered. For a moment they say nothing, and then, simultaneously, ‘Irene?’
Sophia comes forward. ‘My little conjuring trick. This is Irene’s granddaughter, Pandora. Pandora, these are friends from my girlhood. This is Alexander Steinbaum, who knew your grandparents in Berlin in the 1920s. And Beate Steinbaum. Alexander and Beate, this is Pandora Tempest, Irene’s granddaughter.’
‘The 1920s, that makes me sound so old.’ Alexander takes Pandora’s hand.
‘You are old, my darling,’ says Beate. ‘We are both antique.’ Actually she is rather rounded and cherubic.
‘You mustn’t mind my staring at you. I loved Irene with a passion, even though she was married to my closest friend. That is, until I met Beate, and realised that love did not have to mean disappointment. Allow me to kiss you, will you?’ He holds her face between his hands for a moment. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Sophia?’
They sit down and drink champagne. ‘Here we are,’ says Alexander, ‘exiles in a land that has treated us well. Look at dear Sophia – why, she is almost American, she is a New England lady. And my Beate, she is so Americanised I sometimes forget she can speak German.’ (‘What nonsense you talk,’ from Beate.) ‘I remain a curiosity, one of those Jews who flooded this country in the thirties. But I survived.’
‘He did more than survive, you know,’ says Beate. ‘He is a famous professor, he has published many books.’
‘I am writing my memoirs. When a man has nothing left to say, he writes his memoirs.’ There is a pause. They all look, for some reason, at Pandora. She blushes.
‘I am thinking,’ she says, ‘of writing a book about my grandmother. I like to think I am a writer, you know. I’ve not written anything substantial yet, but. . .’
‘In that case,’ says Alexander, ‘I will make sure I don’t say too much about Irene in my book. But I will tell you what I remember, if you like. Sophia, of course, she is the person who can help you.’
‘Do you think,’ asks Sophia of nobody in particular, ‘that Irene would have liked to have a book written about her? She was very private.’
‘No, no, no,’ cries Alexander. ‘Someone will write a book about her one day, and it may be full of lies. But to have a book written by a young woman, her grandchild, who knew her and understands her work, that would be a great thing. Sophia, you must help this beautiful young woman, who makes me think of my youth in Berlin, and the memory of the lilacs blooming in the Tiergarten, and of my dear Irene, so calm on the surface, so determined underneath.’
Tom has been silent through all this. When he speaks, his manner is professorial.
‘You all talk of Irene this and Irene that. But what I don’t understand is why you never speak about Thomas. They were married for years and years, after all, and even when Irene went back to England, they stayed married, is that right? But he’s never mentioned.’
They sit in silence.
‘Thomas was an idealist,’ says Alexander. ‘He was a fine man, in many ways. He and Irene were happy for a long time.’
‘I was very fond of him. But I never saw him after 1923,’ says Sophia, as though it pains her.
Alexander continues. ‘It hurt him to stay in Germany in the 1930s and through the war. After 1933 I never saw him either, but he wrote to me after the war, a sad letter, I would say. And he died quite early, in 1950, I think. There was no place for him in the new Germany.’ His voice wavers. ‘My dear friend Thomas. My foolish friend. But we must face the past, it’s no good hiding it.’
10
It was eleven in the evening when the telephone rang. Thomas and Irene were in the sitting room. It was lit only by his lamp in one corner, hers in another. She was reading, he was sketching plans and elevations as he liked to do. It was March, very cold outside, a slither of snow.
That evening they had talked about Edward Jenkinson, who had slid gradually into death. Neither of them pretended to miss him much, though Irene would be going to England for the funeral. But it was politics that engrossed them. Irene had watched the stormtroopers’ torch-lit march through the Brandenburg Gate to celebrate Hitler’s appointment as Chancellor, and had come home shaken. She was sure the National Socialists would not approve of her art. Thomas had tried to be reassuring. He had talked of the high ideals of the best of National Socialism, of their desire to create an equal society, to provide decent housing for all citizens, to seize the possibilities of technological progress and lead Germany into a strong future. ‘All these marches and so forth,’ he said, ‘these are only theatre for the simple people. But Hitler will go, the true socialists will be able to get rid of him, he is merely a means to an end. The real people, the people at the highest levels of the party, will replace him, and they will enact the measures that Germany needs, I am sure of it.’
It was Alexander on the telephone. He needed to see them immediately, he could not speak
freely over the phone, when could they meet?
‘Calm down, calm down,’ said Thomas. ‘Not tonight. We could have dinner tomorrow.’ Alexander said tomorrow would be good but no later, and in a restaurant – Dodo must not hear anything. Thomas suggested a restaurant on the Kurfürstendamm where they often went. Yes, that would be ideal. At eight.
11
The restaurant was a bustling brasserie. Thomas and Irene were well known there and the head waiter offered them one of the best tables even though the place was bursting with people, caught up in the strange mood of exhilaration and foreboding that characterised Berlin in those days. They preferred a quiet booth by the wall, red banquettes surrounding a smallish table, where they could see their faces in the mirrors. Irene was unwillingly reminded of that tea room in Copenhagen.
‘Herr Goldstein thinks he will have to close his gallery,’ she said.
Thomas poured himself a second glass of wine, to the brim. ‘I don’t think he needs to worry. He has a good reputation, many connections.’
‘He is not so confident. He also thinks that my work may not be approved of, there have been rumours about the undesirability of any art that is not strictly representational.’
‘Again, if you are discreet, that should not be a problem.’
She looked at him and said nothing. The head waiter advanced towards them, leading Alexander and Beate. He seemed rather cooler in his manner now, stopped some way from the table and pointed, then glided away.
As they approached, Irene exclaimed. Alexander’s right eye was half-closed, as though he had been hit in the face. There was a bruise on his cheek. Beate looked as though she had not slept. Standing up in his most correct manner, Thomas invited them to sit down.
Irene leant forward, touched his forehead. ‘What’s happened to you, dear Alexander? Have you had an accident?’
A waiter appeared. Cognac, they ordered. The waiter gave a shadow of a smile and went.
‘I need your advice. You are my closest friends. Urgently. . .’
‘Don’t get over-excited, my dearest,’ said his wife, ‘it’s not good for you.’
‘No, no, I’ll tell you my story, tell me what you think. Yesterday evening I was in a bar, a bar I often go to. I was alone, waiting for a colleague. In this bar were two men in the uniform of the Sturmabteilung. They were quite drunk. As they were leaving, the waitress – she was only a young girl – told them they had not paid enough. They were rude to her, obscenely rude. I stood up, I said they should not speak to a woman in such language.’ The brandy arrived. He drank it in one gulp.
‘Yes?’ said Irene. ‘What happened then?’
‘They beat me up. As you see. Not as severely as they could have done. The waitress and the other customers vanished, but it was still a public place. . . When they’d finished they said I had insulted the SA and was answerable for my behaviour. They demanded my identity card, took down my details. A letter was delivered this morning, telling me to report to the SA headquarters tomorrow at 0700 hours.’
Beate broke out. ‘What should he do? What should we do? What does this mean?’
They all looked towards Thomas. He remained silent for a moment.
‘This is very unfortunate, you should not have said anything. You should not go to the headquarters. By the time you arrive, the SA will have done some research. Your name will be well known to them.’
‘And if I don’t go, they will come and find me. What can I do?’
‘You must leave Berlin this evening, on the late train for Paris. Your passport is in order, I assume? Take very little luggage, the barest essentials, as though you were leaving for a few days. Beate should join you later, you should not be seen to be leaving together. Take some money but not an enormous amount – you can make arrangements in due course. Take nothing that could arouse any suspicion.’
The others looked at him as though stunned. He seemed so authoritative; nervous, yet confident.
‘How do you know all this, why are you so definite, Thomas?’ asked his wife.
Thomas raised his eyebrows. From his jacket pocket he removed a small black wallet. He placed it on the table, facing upwards.
The others gasped.
‘Alexander, it is not advisable to stay a moment longer than you must. I recommend Beate does not accompany you even to the station, there must be no scene of parting grief on the platform. If you are questioned, say that you have a work assignment in Paris. Do you understand?’
‘Thomas, I can’t believe it of you, my dear friend Thomas.’
‘You have two and a half hours before the train leaves.’
Alexander kissed Irene, did not look at Thomas. With Beate behind him he tumbled out of the restaurant.
The waiter reappeared. ‘Will the lady and gentleman be dining?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Irene.
‘Oh yes,’ said Thomas. ‘Please bring us the menu.’
12
On her last full day in New York, Pandora finds Sophia looking particularly alert. ‘Eat your breakfast as fast as you can, I have something to show you.’
Pandora follows Sophia into her bedroom, which is lined with paintings and watercolours. ‘All mine,’ she says, ‘except for that portrait of a child, that is to say, Dodo. I keep my own work private. Now, in this little room through here, I have something that might interest you.’
The room is full. Books, sketchpads, a set of files on a table.
‘This is my Irene archive. It’s partly drawings and sketchbooks, but above all letters. Every time she came to New York she’d bring a bundle or two. She said your mother didn’t understand her, apparently she asked once or twice about the financial value of an artist’s relics. Of course I kept all her letters to me. Mark gave me his correspondence. So there’s lots of material.’
‘I’m astonished. . .’
‘Yes, I wanted to know you better. . . You may look at anything you like.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘I’ve written to your mother, telling her that I think you should be permitted – encouraged – to write Irene’s life. I don’t know if she’ll listen, but she may – we were good friends all those years ago. It means you’ll have to come and visit New York again, can you do that?’
‘Oh, I think so. One of the editors I met was very encouraging. . .’
‘I’ll pay your fare, gladly. But you must stay with me, that’s the condition. Tom will be pleased, too.’
‘Yes.’ And a smile breaks out over Pandora’s face. ‘Oh, Sophia, I am so lucky. Just for once everything seems to be going right.’
‘I hope so, but it won’t be easy. It’s a sad story, your grandmother’s, in some ways, a story of lives blighted by warfare, politics, hatreds. . .’
13
He drank another glass of wine. She stared at the table.
‘How can you tell your closest friend to leave the country and then stuff yourself with food? You may never see him again.’
‘I need to eat something, I’m hungry, I’ve been visiting sites all day.’
‘Thomas, how can you have joined the National Socialist Party? How is it possible? When did you join?’
‘I joined in September 1930. Just after the elections, when many people joined.’ He chewed aggressively on a piece of bread. ‘Just after I had found out about your spying activities, as it happens.’ The waiter reappeared. Thomas pointed at something on the menu. The waiter bowed, looked enquiringly at Irene, who shook her head.
‘Are you suggesting that you joined the party because fifteen years ago I looked at your papers?’
‘When I learnt what you’d done, I had to ask myself, what is more important to us: our country and our national duty, or our loved ones, our spouse, our children, our friends? Obviously for you, it is your country of birth that is important, more important than personal loyalties. That persuaded me that I must do the same, I must sacrifice my personal wishes for my country and my fellow countrymen. For me, a party tha
t can restore the pride and the prosperity of my homeland is the party I must follow.’
‘Have you read Mein Kampf? Do you know what it threatens?’
‘The party is not perfect. There are wild ideas there, I know that. But it is a new party, young and vigorous. It is a party opposed to capitalism, the system that has failed us all, and also to Bolshevism. Essentially it is a party that upholds the socialist ideas I have always believed in. It puts the people, the working man, above the élite.’
‘It is a party that hates Jews.’
The waiter came back with a bowl of soup. Thomas ordered another bottle of wine. The waiter looked at them with curiosity.
‘This party can fight the hopelessness that we see all around us. Do you remember, twenty years ago, visiting Wedding with Alexander, and seeing those miserable Wohnhäuser? Those houses still exist but people are even poorer, living in even worse conditions than under the Emperor. The system has failed. We cannot afford the luxury of an impotent democracy, we must have strong leadership, leadership that will deliver to all the German people the way of life that they demand and deserve. And that is what we are doing, already – that is what I am working on at my architectural practice, designing fine apartment buildings, buildings that men and women and children can be proud to live in. I am not betraying myself—’
‘Thomas, keep your voice down, we are being listened to.’
‘Won’t you have some wine? It is very good, now I can afford what I want.’
The waiter brought a plate of food. Thomas had ordered sausages and cabbage, though he never normally ate such food. Looking up, he saw his face in the mirror, flushed and furious. He put his hand over his eyes.
‘I will catch the train for London, the day after tomorrow, for the funeral. I will take the children, they need to be there.’
‘And when will you return?’
The Iron Necklace Page 34
