by Ken Follett
‘In the press office, I imagine,’ said Gus. ‘The two men he’s with are reporters, the one in the brown suit for the Chicago Tribune and the pipe smoker for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.’
Woody saw that Greg was talking to the journalists as if they were old friends, taking the arm of one as he leaned forward to say something in a low voice, patting the other on the back in mock congratulation. They seemed to like him, Woody thought, as they laughed loudly at something he said. Woody envied that talent. It was useful to politicians – though perhaps not essential: his father did not have that hail-fellow-well-met quality, and he was one of the most senior statesmen in America.
Woody said: ‘I wonder how his half-sister Daisy feels about the threat of war. She’s over there in London. She married some English lord.’
‘To be exact, she married the elder son of Earl Fitzherbert, whom I used to know quite well.’
‘She’s the envy of every girl in Buffalo. The King went to her wedding.’
‘I also knew Fitzherbert’s sister, Maud – a wonderful woman. She married Walter von Ulrich, a German. I would have married her myself if Walter hadn’t got to her first.’
Woody raised his eyebrows. It was not like Papa to talk this way.
‘That was before I fell in love with your mother, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Woody smothered a grin.
‘Walter and Maud dropped out of sight after Hitler banned the Social Democrats. I hope they’re all right. If there’s a war . . .’
Woody saw that talk of war had put his father in a reminiscent mood. ‘At least America isn’t involved.’
‘That’s what we thought last time.’ Gus changed the subject. ‘What do you hear from your kid brother?’
Woody sighed. ‘He’s not going to change his mind, Papa. He won’t go to Harvard, or any other university.’
This was a family crisis. Chuck had announced that as soon as he was eighteen he was going to join the navy. Without a college degree he would be an enlisted man, with no prospect of ever becoming an officer. This horrified his high-achieving parents.
‘He’s bright enough for college, damn it,’ said Gus.
‘He beats me at chess.’
‘He beats me, too. So what’s his problem?’
‘He hates to study. And he loves boats. Sailing is the only thing he cares about.’ Woody looked at his wristwatch.
‘You’ve got a party to go to,’ his father said.
‘There’s no hurry—’
‘Sure there is. She’s a very attractive girl. Get the hell out of here.’
Woody grinned. His father could be surprisingly smart. ‘Thanks, Papa.’ He got up.
Greg Peshkov was leaving at the same time, and they went out together. ‘Hello, Woody, how are things?’ Greg said amiably, turning in the same direction.
There had been a time when Woody wanted to punch Greg for his part in what had been done to Dave Rouzrokh. His feelings had cooled over the years, and in truth it was Lev Peshkov who had been responsible, not his son, who had then been only fifteen. All the same, Woody was no more than polite. ‘I’m enjoying Washington,’ he said, walking along one of the city’s wide Parisian boulevards. ‘How about you?’
‘I like it. They soon get over their surprise at my name.’ Seeing Woody’s enquiring look, Greg explained: ‘The State Department is all Smiths, Fabers, Jensens and McAllisters. No one called Kozinsky or Cohen or Papadopoulos.’
Woody realized it was true. Government was carried on by a rather exclusive little ethnic group. Why had he not noticed that before? Perhaps because it had been the same in school, in church, and at Harvard.
Greg went on: ‘But they’re not narrow-minded. They’ll make an exception for someone who speaks fluent Russian and comes from a wealthy family.’
Greg was being flippant, but there was an undertone of real resentment, and Woody saw that the guy had a serious chip on his shoulder.
‘They think my father is a gangster,’ Greg said. ‘But they don’t really mind. Most rich people have a gangster somewhere in their ancestry.’
‘You sound as if you hate Washington.’
‘On the contrary! I wouldn’t be anywhere else. The power is here.’
Woody felt he was more high-minded. ‘I’m here because there are things I want to do, changes I want to make.’
Greg grinned. ‘Same thing, I guess – power.’
‘Hmm.’ Woody had not thought of it that way.
Greg said: ‘Do you think there will be war in Europe?’
‘You should know, you’re in the State Department!’
‘Yeah, but I’m in the press office. All I know is the fairy tales we tell reporters. I have no idea what the truth is.’
‘Heck, I don’t know, either. I’ve just been with the President and I don’t think even he knows.’
‘My sister, Daisy, is over there.’
Greg’s tone had changed. His worry was evidently genuine, and Woody warmed to him. ‘I know.’
‘If there’s bombing, even women and children won’t be safe. Do you think the Germans will bomb London?’
There was only one honest answer. ‘I guess they will.’
‘I wish she’d come home.’
‘Maybe there won’t be a war. Chamberlain, the British premier, made a last-minute deal with Hitler over Czechoslovakia last year—’
‘A last-minute sell-out.’
‘Right. So perhaps he’ll do the same over Poland – although time is running out.’
Greg nodded glumly and changed the subject. ‘Where are you headed?’
‘To Joanne Rouzrokh’s apartment. She’s giving a party.’
‘I heard about it. I know one of her room-mates. But I’m not invited, as you could probably guess. Her building is— good God!’ Greg stopped in mid-sentence.
Woody stopped, too. Greg was staring ahead. Following his gaze, Woody saw that he was looking at an attractive black woman walking towards them on E Street. She was about their age, and pretty, with wide pinky-brown lips that made Woody think about kissing. She had on a plain black dress that might have been part of a waitress uniform, but she wore it with a cute hat and fashionable shoes that gave her a stylish look.
She saw the two of them, caught Greg’s eye, and looked away.
Greg said: ‘Jacky? Jacky Jakes?’
The girl ignored him and kept walking, but Woody thought she looked troubled.
Greg said: ‘Jacky, it’s me, Greg Peshkov.’
Jacky – if it were she – did not respond, but she looked as if she might be about to burst into tears.
‘Jacky – real name Mabel. You know me!’ Greg stood in the middle of the sidewalk with his arms spread in a gesture of appeal.
She deliberately went around him, not speaking or meeting his eye, and walked on.
Greg turned. ‘Wait a minute!’ he called after her. ‘You ran out on me, four years ago – you owe me an explanation!’
This was uncharacteristic of Greg, Woody thought. He had always been such a smooth operator with girls, at school and at Harvard. Now he seemed genuinely upset: bewildered, hurt, almost desperate.
Four years ago, Woody reflected. Could this be the girl in the scandal? It had taken place here in Washington. No doubt she lived here.
Greg ran after her. A cab had stopped at the corner and the passenger, a man in a tuxedo, was standing at the kerb paying the driver. Jacky jumped in, slamming the door.
Greg went to the window and shouted through it: ‘Talk to me, please!’
The man in the tuxedo said: ‘Keep the change,’ and walked away.
The cab moved off, leaving Greg staring after it.
He slowly returned to where Woody stood waiting, intrigued. ‘I don’t understand it,’ Greg said.
Woody said: ‘She looked frightened.’
‘What of? I never did her any harm. I was crazy about her.’
‘Well, she was scared of something.’
Greg seemed
to shake himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not your problem, anyway. My apologies.’
‘Not at all.’
Greg pointed to an apartment block a few steps away. ‘That’s Joanne’s building,’ he said. ‘Have a good time.’ Then he walked away.
Somewhat bemused, Woody went to the entrance. But he soon forgot about Greg’s romantic life and started to think about his own. Did Joanne really like him? She might not kiss him this evening, but maybe he could ask her for a date.
This was a modest apartment house, with no doorman or hall porter. A list in the lobby revealed that Rouzrokh shared her place with Stewart and Fisher, presumably two other girls. Woody went up in the elevator. He realized he was empty-handed: he should have brought candy or flowers. He thought about going back to buy something, then decided that would be taking good manners too far. He rang the bell.
A girl in her early twenties opened the door.
Woody said: ‘Hello, I’m—’
‘Come on in,’ she said, not waiting to hear his name. ‘The drinks are in the kitchen, and there’s food on the table in the living room, if there’s any left.’ She turned away, clearly thinking she had given him sufficient welcome.
The small apartment was packed with people drinking, smoking, and shouting at one another over the noise of the phonograph. Joanne had said ‘a few friends’ and Woody had imagined eight or ten young people sitting around a coffee table discussing the crisis in Europe. He was disappointed: this overcrowded bash would give him little opportunity to demonstrate to Joanne how much he had grown up.
He looked around for her. He was taller than most people and could see over their heads. She was not in sight. He pushed through the crowd, searching for her. A girl with plump breasts and nice brown eyes looked up at him as he squeezed past and said: ‘Hello, big guy. I’m Diana Taverner. What’s your name?’
‘I’m looking for Joanne,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Good luck with that.’ She turned away.
He made his way into the kitchen. The noise level dropped a fraction. Joanne was nowhere to be seen, but he decided to get a drink while he was there. A broad-shouldered man of about thirty was rattling a cocktail shaker. Well dressed in a tan suit, pale-blue shirt and dark-blue tie, he clearly was not a barman, but was acting like a host. ‘Scotch is over there,’ he said to another guest. ‘Help yourself. I’m making martinis, for anyone who’s interested.’
Woody said: ‘Got any bourbon?’
‘Right here.’ The man passed him a bottle. ‘I’m Bexforth Ross.’
‘Woody Dewar.’ Woody found a glass and poured bourbon.
‘Ice in that bucket,’ said Bexforth. ‘Where are you from, Woody?’
‘I’m an intern in the Senate. You?’
‘I work in the State Department. I’m in charge of the Italy desk.’ He started passing martinis around.
Clearly a rising star, Woody thought. The man had so much self-confidence it was irritating. ‘I was looking for Joanne.’
‘She’s somewhere around. How do you know her?’
Here Woody felt he could show clear superiority. ‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ he said airily. ‘In fact, I’ve known her all my life. We were kids together in Buffalo. How about you?’
Bexforth took a long sip of martini and gave a satisfied sigh. Then he looked speculatively at Woody. ‘I haven’t known Joanne as long as you have,’ he said. ‘But I guess I know her better.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m planning to marry her.’
Woody felt as if he had been slapped. ‘Marry her?’
‘Yes. Isn’t that great?’
Woody could not hide his dismay. ‘Does she know about this?’
Bexforth laughed, and patted Woody’s shoulder condescendingly. ‘She sure does, and she’s all for it. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’
Clearly Bexforth had divined that Woody was attracted to Joanne. Woody felt a fool. ‘Congratulations,’ he said dispiritedly.
‘Thank you. And now I must circulate. Good talking to you, Woody.’
‘My pleasure.’
Bexforth moved away.
Woody put his drink down untasted. ‘Fuck it,’ he said quietly. Then he left.
(iv)
The first day of September was sultry in Berlin. Carla von Ulrich woke up sweaty and uncomfortable, her bedsheets thrown off during the warm night. She looked out of her bedroom window to see low grey clouds hanging over the city, keeping heat in like a saucepan lid.
Today was a big day for her. In fact, it would determine the course of her life.
She stood in front of the mirror. She had her mother’s colouring, the dark hair and green eyes of the Fitzherberts. She was prettier than Maud, who had an angular face, striking rather than beautiful. Yet there was a bigger difference. Her mother attracted just about every man she met. Carla, by contrast, could not flirt. She watched other girls her age doing it: simpering, pulling their sweaters tight over their breasts, tossing their hair, and batting their eyelashes, and she just felt embarrassed. Her mother was more subtle, of course, so that men hardly knew they were being enchanted, but it was essentially the same game.
Today, however, Carla did not want to appear sexy. On the contrary, she needed to look practical, sensible, and capable. She put on a plain stone-coloured cotton dress that came to mid-calf, stepped into her flat, unglamorous school sandals, and wove her hair into two plaits in the approved German-maiden fashion. The mirror showed her an ideal girl student: conservative, dull, sexless.
She was up and dressed before the rest of the family. The maid, Ada, was in the kitchen, and Carla helped her set out the breakfast things.
Her brother appeared next. Erik, nineteen and sporting a clipped black moustache, supported the Nazis, infuriating the rest of his family. He was a student at the Charité, the medical school of the University of Berlin, as was his best friend and fellow-Nazi, Hermann Braun. The von Ulrichs could not afford tuition fees, of course, but Erik had won a scholarship.
Carla had applied for the same scholarship to study at the same institution. Her interview was today. If she was successful, she would study and become a doctor. If not . . .
She had no idea what else she would do.
The coming to power of the Nazis had ruined her parents’ lives. Her father was no longer a deputy in the Reichstag, having lost his job when the Social-Democratic Party became illegal, along with all other parties except for the Nazis. There was no work her father could do that would use his expertise as a politician and a diplomat. He scraped a living translating German newspaper articles for the British Embassy, where he still had a few friends. Mother had once been a famous left-wing journalist, but newspapers were no longer allowed to publish her articles.
Carla found it heartbreaking. She was deeply devoted to her family, which included Ada. She was saddened by the decline in her father, who in her childhood had been a hard-working and politically powerful man, and was now simply defeated. Even worse was the brave face put on by her mother, a famous suffragette leader in England before the war, now scraping a few marks by giving piano lessons.
But they said they could bear anything as long as their children grew up to lead happy and fulfilled lives.
Carla had always taken it for granted that she would spend her life making the world a better place, as her parents had. She did not know whether she would have followed her father into politics or her mother into journalism, but both were out of the question now.
What else was she to do, under a government that prized ruthlessness and brutality above all else? Her brother had given her the clue. Doctors made the world a better place regardless of the government. So she had made it her ambition to go to medical school. She had studied harder than any other girl in her class, and she had passed every exam with top marks, especially the sciences. She was better qualified than her brother to win a scholarship.
‘There are no girls at all in my year,’ Erik said. He sounded grumpy. C
arla thought he disliked the idea of her following in his footsteps. Their parents were proud of his achievements, despite his repellent politics. Perhaps he was afraid of being outshone.
Carla said: ‘All my grades are better than yours: biology, chemistry, maths—’
‘All right, all right.’
‘And the scholarship is available to female students, in principle – I checked.’
Their mother came in at the end of this exchange, dressed in a grey watered-silk bathrobe with the cord doubled around her narrow waist. ‘They should follow their own rules,’ she said. ‘This is Germany, after all.’ Mother said she loved her adopted country, and perhaps she did, but since the coming of the Nazis she had taken to making wearily ironic remarks.
Carla dipped bread into milky coffee. ‘How will you feel, Mother, if England attacks Germany?’
‘Miserably unhappy, as I felt last time,’ she replied. ‘I was married to your father throughout the Great War, and every day for more than four years I was terrified that he would be killed.’
Erik said in a challenging tone: ‘But whose side will you take?’
‘I’m German,’ she said. ‘I married for better or worse. Of course, we never foresaw anything as wicked and oppressive as this Nazi regime. No one did.’ Erik grunted in protest and she ignored him. ‘But a vow is a vow, and, anyway, I love your father.’
Carla said: ‘We’re not at war yet.’
‘Not quite,’ said Mother. ‘If the Poles have any sense, they will back down and give Hitler what he asks for.’
‘They should,’ said Erik. ‘Germany is strong now. We can take what we want, whether they like it or not.’
Mother rolled her eyes. ‘God spare us.’
A car horn sounded outside. Carla smiled. A minute later her friend Frieda Franck entered the kitchen. She was going to accompany Carla to the interview, just to give moral support. She, too, was dressed in sober-schoolgirl fashion, though she, unlike Carla, had a wardrobe full of stylish clothes.
