Fall of Giants
Page 58
They talked for an hour, then Gus walked her downstairs and hailed a cab to take her home.
Early next morning Gus got the California result by cable. Wilson had won by 3,777 votes. He had been reelected president.
Gus was elated. Four more years to try to achieve all they aimed for. They could change the world in four years.
While he was still staring at the telegram, his phone rang.
He picked it up and heard the switchboard operator say: “A call from Shadow Lawn. The president wants to speak to you, Mr. Dewar.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later he heard Wilson’s familiar voice. “Good morning, Gus.”
“Congratulations, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. Pack a bag. I want you to go to Berlin.”
{ III }
When Walter von Ulrich came home on leave, his mother gave a party.
There were not many parties in Berlin. It was difficult to buy food, even for a wealthy woman with an influential husband. Suzanne von Ulrich was not well: she was thin, and had a permanent cough. However, she badly wanted to do something for Walter.
Otto had a cellar full of good wine he had bought before the war. Suzanne decided to have an afternoon reception, so that she would not have to provide a full dinner. She served little snacks of smoked fish and cheese on triangles of toast, and made up for the poor food with unlimited magnums of champagne.
Walter was grateful for the thought, but he did not really want a party. He had two weeks away from the battlefield, and he just wanted a soft bed, dry clothes, and the chance to lounge all day in the elegant salon of his parents’ town house, looking out of the window and thinking about Maud, or sitting at the Steinway grand piano and playing Schubert’s “Frühlingsglaube”: “Now everything, everything must change.”
How glibly he and Maud had said, back in August 1914, that they would be reunited by Christmas! It was now more than two years since he had looked at her lovely face. And it was probably going to take Germany another two years to win the war. Walter’s best hope was that Russia would collapse, allowing the Germans to concentrate their forces on a massive final westward sweep.
Meanwhile Walter sometimes had trouble visualizing Maud, and had to look at the worn and fading magazine photograph he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. He did not relish a party without her. As he got ready he wished his mother had not troubled.
The house looked drab. There were not enough servants to keep the place spick-and-span. The men were in the army, the women had become streetcar conductors and mail deliverers, and the elderly staff who remained were struggling to maintain Mother’s standards of cleanliness and polish. And the house was cold as well as grubby. The coal allowance was not enough to run the central heating, so mother had put freestanding stoves in the hall, the dining room, and the drawing room, but they were inadequate against the chill of November in Berlin.
However, Walter cheered up when the cold rooms filled with young people and a small band began to play in the hall. His younger sister, Greta, had invited all her friends. He realized how much he missed social life. He liked seeing girls in beautiful gowns and men in immaculate suits. He enjoyed the joking and flirting and gossip. He had loved being a diplomat—the life suited him. It was easy for him to be charming and make small talk.
The von Ulrich house had no ballroom, but people began to dance on the tiled floor of the hall. Walter danced several times with Greta’s best friend, Monika von der Helbard, a tall, willowy redhead with long hair who reminded him of pictures by the English artists who called themselves pre-Raphaelites.
He got her a glass of champagne and sat down with her. She asked him what it was like in the trenches, as they all did. He usually said it was a hard life but the men were in good spirits and they would win in the end. For some reason he told Monika the truth. “The worst thing about it is that it’s pointless,” he said. “We’ve been in the same positions, give or take a few yards, for two years, and I can’t see how that will be changed by anything the high command is doing—or even by anything they might do. We’re cold, hungry, sick with coughs and trench foot and stomachache, and bored to tears—all for nothing.”
“That’s not what we read in the newspapers,” she said. “How very sad.” She squeezed his arm sympathetically. The touch affected him like a mild electric shock. No woman outside his family had touched him for two years. He suddenly thought how wonderful it would be to take Monika in his arms, press her warm body to his, and kiss her lips. Her amber eyes looked back at him with a candid gaze, and after a moment he realized she had read his mind. Women often did know what men were thinking, he had found. He felt embarrassed, but clearly she did not care, and that thought made him more aroused.
Someone approached them, and Walter looked up irritably, guessing the man wanted to ask Monika to dance. Then he recognized a familiar face. “My God!” he said. The name came back to him: he had an excellent memory for people, like all good diplomats. He said in English: “Is it Gus Dewar?”
Gus replied in German. “It is, but we can speak German. How are you?”
Walter stood up and shook hands. “May I present Freiin Monika von der Helbard? This is Gus Dewar, an adviser to President Woodrow Wilson.”
“How delightful to meet you, Mr. Dewar,” she said. “I shall leave you gentlemen to talk.”
Walter watched her go with regret and mingled guilt. For a moment he had forgotten that he was a married man.
He looked at Gus. He had immediately liked the American when they met at Tŷ Gwyn. Gus was odd-looking, with a big head on a long thin body, but he was as sharp as a tack. Just out of Harvard then, Gus had had a charming shyness, but two years working in the White House had given him a degree of self-assurance. The shapeless style of lounge suit that Americans wore actually looked smart on him. Walter said: “I’m glad to see you. Not many people come here on holiday nowadays.”
“It’s not really a holiday,” Gus said.
Walter waited for Gus to say more and, when he did not, prompted him. “What, then?”
“More like putting my toe in the water to see whether it’s warm enough for the president to swim.”
So this was official business. “I understand.”
“To come to the point.” Gus hesitated again, and Walter waited patiently. At last Gus spoke in a lowered voice. “President Wilson wants the Germans and the Allies to hold peace talks.”
Walter’s heart beat fast, but he raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He sent you to say this to me?”
“You know how it is. The president can’t risk a public rebuff—it makes him look weak. Of course, he could tell our ambassador here in Berlin to speak to your foreign minister. But then the whole thing would become official, and sooner or later it would get out. So he asked his most junior adviser—me—to come to Berlin and use some of the contacts I made back in 1914.”
Walter nodded. A lot was done in this fashion in the diplomatic world. “If we turn you down, no one needs to know.”
“And even if the news gets out, it’s just some low-ranking young men acting on their own initiative.”
This made sense, and Walter began to feel excited. “What exactly does Mr. Wilson want?”
Gus took a deep breath. “If the kaiser were to write to the Allies suggesting a peace conference, then President Wilson would publicly support the proposal.”
Walter suppressed a feeling of elation. This unexpected private conversation could have world-shaking consequences. Was it really possible that the nightmare of the trenches could be brought to an end? And that he might see Maud again in months rather than years? He told himself not to get carried away. Unofficial diplomatic feelers like this usually came to nothing. But he could not help being enthusiastic. “This is big, Gus,” he said. “Are you sure Wilson means it?”
“Absolutely. It was the first thing he said to me after he won the election.”
“What’s his motivation?”
“I’ll vote for that,” said Walter. “What do you want me to do?”
“Speak to your father.”
“He may not like this proposal.”
“Use your powers of persuasion.”
“I’ll do my best. Can I reach you at the American embassy?”
“No. This is a private visit. I’m staying at the Hotel Adlon.”
“Of course you are, Gus,” said Walter with a grin. The Adlon was the best hotel in the city and had once been called the most luxurious in the world. He felt nostalgic for those last years of peace. “Will we ever again be two young men with nothing on our minds except catching the waiter’s eye to order another bottle of champagne?”
Gus took the question seriously. “No, I don’t believe those days will ever come back, at least not in our lifetime.”
Walter’s sister, Greta, appeared. She had curly blond hair that shook fetchingly when she tossed her head. “What are you men looking so miserable about?” she said gaily. “Mr. Dewar, come and dance with me!”
Gus brightened. “Gladly!” he said.
She whisked him off.
Walter returned to the party but as he chatted to friends and relations, half his mind was on Gus’s proposal and how best to promote it. When he spoke to his father, he would try not to seem too keen. Father could be contrary. Walter would play the role of neutral messenger.
When the guests had gone, his mother cornered him in the salon. The room was decorated in the Rococo style that was still the choice of old-fashioned Germans: ornate mirrors, tables with spindly curved legs, a big chandelier. “What a nice girl that Monika von der Helbard is,” she said.
“Very charming,” Walter agreed.
His mother wore no jewelry. She was chair of the gold-collection committee, and had given her baubles to be sold. All she had left was her wedding ring. “I must invite her again, with her parents next time. Her father is the Markgraf von der Helbard.”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s a very good family. They belong to the Uradel, the ancient nobility.”
Walter moved to the door. “At what time do you expect Father to return home?”
“Soon. Walter, sit down and talk to me for a moment.”
Walter had made it obvious he wanted to get away. The reason was that he needed to spend a quiet hour thinking about Gus Dewar’s message. But he had been discourteous to his mother, whom he loved, and now he set about making amends. “With pleasure, Mother.” He drew up a chair for her. “I imagined you might want to rest but, if not, I’d love to talk.” He sat opposite her. “That was a super party. Thank you very much for organizing it.”
She nodded acknowledgment, but changed the subject. “Your cousin Robert is missing,” she said. “He was lost during the Brusilov Offensive.”
“I know. He may have been taken prisoner by the Russians.”
“And he may be dead. And your father is sixty years old. You could soon be the Graf von Ulrich.”
Walter was not seduced by this possibility. Aristocratic titles mattered less and less nowadays. Perhaps he might be proud to be a count, but it might turn out to be a disadvantage in the postwar world.
Anyway, he did not have the title yet. “There has been no confirmation of Robert’s death.”
“Of course. But you must prepare yourself.”
“In what way?”
“You should get married.”
“Oh!” Walter was surprised. I should have seen that coming, he thought.
“You must have an heir, to assume the title when you die. And you may die soon, though I pray—” Her voice caught in her throat, and she stopped. She closed her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. “Though I pray to heaven every day to protect you. It would be best if you were to father a son as soon as possible.”
She was afraid of losing him, but he was just as fearful of losing her. He looked fondly at her. She was blond and pretty like Greta, and perhaps she had once been equally vivacious. Indeed, right now her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed from the excitement of the party and the champagne. However, just climbing the stairs made her breathless these days. She needed a holiday, and plenty of good food, and freedom from worry. Because of the war, she could have none of those things. It was not only soldiers who died, Walter thought worriedly.
“Please consider Monika,” his mother said.
He longed to tell her about Maud. “Monika is a delightful girl, Mother, but I don’t love her. I hardly know her.”
“There isn’t time for that! In war the proprieties may be overlooked. See her again. You’ve got ten more days of leave. See her every day. You could propose on your last day.”
“What about her feelings? She may not want to marry me.”
“She likes you.” Mother looked away. “And she will do as her parents tell her.”
Walter did not know whether to be annoyed or amused. “You two mothers have fixed this up, haven’t you?”
“These are desperate times. You could get married three months from now. Your father will make sure you get special leave for the wedding and the honeymoon.”
“He said that?” Normally, Father was angrily hostile to special privileges for well-connected soldiers.
“He understands the need for an heir to the title.”
Father had been talked around. How long had that taken? He did not give in easily.
Walter tried not to squirm in his seat. He was in an impossible position. Married to Maud, he could not even pretend to be interested in marrying Monika—but he was not able to explain why. “Mother, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am not going to propose to Monika von der Helbard.”
“But why not?” she cried.
He felt bad. “All I can say is that I wish I could make you happy.”
She gave him a hard look. “Your cousin Robert never married. None of us were surprised, in his case. I hope there isn’t a problem of that nature . . . ”
Walter felt embarrassed by this reference to Robert’s homosexuality. “Oh, Mother, please! I know exactly what you mean about Robert, and I’m not like him in that respect, so set your mind at rest.”
She looked away. “I’m sorry to have mentioned it. But what is it? You’re thirty years old!”
“It’s hard to find the right girl.”
“Not that hard.”
“I’m looking for someone just like you.”
“Now you’re teasing me,” she said crossly.
Walter heard a male voice outside the room. A moment later his father entered, in uniform, rubbing cold hands together. “It will snow,” he said. He kissed his wife and nodded to Walter. “I trust the party was a success? I could not possibly attend—a whole afternoon of meetings.”
“It was splendid,” Walter said. “Mother conjured up tasty snacks out of nothing at all, and the Perrier-Jouët was superb.”
“What vintage did you have?”
“The eighteen ninety-nine.”
“You should have had the ninety-two.”
“There’s not much of it left.”
“Ah.”
“I had an intriguing conversation with Gus Dewar.”
“I remember him—the American whose father is close to President Wilson.”
“The son is even closer, now. Gus is working at the White House.”
“What did he have to say?”
Mother stood up. “I’ll leave you men to talk,” she said.
They stood up.
“Please think about what I said, Walter darling,” she said as she went out.
A moment later the butler came in with a tray bearing a goblet with a stiff measure of golden-brown brandy. Otto took the glass. “One for you?” he said to Walter.
“No, thank you. I’m full of champagn
e.”
Otto drank the brandy and stretched his legs toward the fire. “So, young Dewar appeared—with some kind of message?”
“In strictest confidence.”
“Of course.”
Walter could not feel much affection for his father. Their disagreements were too passionate, and Father was too flintily intransigent. He was narrow-minded, outdated, and deaf to reason, and he persisted in these faults with a kind of gleeful obstinacy that Walter found repellent. The consequence of his foolishness, and the foolishness of his generation in all European countries, was the slaughter of the Somme. Walter could not forgive that.
All the same, he spoke to his father with a soft voice and a friendly manner. He wanted this conversation to be as amiable and reasonable as possible. “The American president doesn’t want to be drawn into the war,” he began.
“Good.”
“In fact, he would like us to make peace.”
“Ha!” It was a shout of derision. “The cheap way to defeat us! What a nerve the man has.”
Walter was dismayed by such immediate scorn, but he persisted, choosing his words with care. “Our enemies claim that German militarism and aggression caused this war, but of course that is not so.”
“Indeed not,” said Otto. “We were threatened by Russian mobilization on our eastern border and French mobilization to the west. The Schlieffen Plan was the only possible solution.” As usual, Otto was speaking as if Walter were still twelve years old.
Walter answered patiently. “Exactly. I recall you saying that for us this was a defensive war, a response to an intolerable threat. We had to protect ourselves.”
If Otto was surprised to hear Walter repeating the clichés of war justification he did not show it. “Correct,” he said.
“And we have done so,” Walter said, playing his ace. “We have now achieved our aims.”
His father was startled. “What do you mean?”
“The threat has been dealt with. The Russian army is destroyed, and the tsar’s regime teeters on the brink of collapse. We have conquered Belgium, invaded France, and fought the French and their British allies to a standstill. We have done what we set out to do. We have protected Germany.”