by Ken Follett
She was followed in by her older brother. Carla thought Werner Franck was wonderful. Unlike so many handsome boys he was kind and thoughtful and funny. He had once been very left wing, but all that seemed to have faded away, and he was non-political now. He had had a string of beautiful and stylish girlfriends. If Carla had known how to flirt she would have started with him.
Mother said: ‘I’d offer you coffee, Werner, but ours is ersatz, and I know you have the real thing at home.’
‘Shall I steal some from our kitchen for you, Frau von Ulrich?’ he said. ‘I think you deserve it.’
Mother blushed slightly, and Carla realized, with a twinge of disapproval, that even at forty-eight Mother was susceptible to Werner’s charm.
Werner glanced at a gold wristwatch. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Life is completely frantic at the Air Ministry these days.’
Frieda said: ‘Thank you for the lift.’
Carla said to Frieda: ‘Wait a minute – if you came in Werner’s car, where’s your bike?’
‘Outside. We strapped it to the back of the car.’
The two girls belonged to the Mercury Cycling Club and went everywhere by bike.
Werner said: ‘Best wishes for the interview, Carla. Bye, everyone.’
Carla swallowed the last of her bread. As she was about to leave, her father came down. He had not shaved or put on a tie. He had been quite plump, when Carla was a girl, but now he was thin. He kissed Carla affectionately.
Mother said: ‘We haven’t listened to the news!’ She turned on the radio that stood on the shelf.
While the set was warming up, Carla and Frieda left the house, so they did not hear the news.
The University Hospital was in Mitte, the central area of Berlin where the von Ulrichs lived, so Carla and Frieda had a short bicycle ride. Carla began to feel nervous. The fumes from car exhausts nauseated her, and she wished she had not eaten breakfast. They reached the hospital, a new building put up in the twenties, and found their way to the room of Professor Bayer, who had the job of recommending a student for the scholarship. A haughty secretary said they were early and told them to wait.
Carla wished she had worn a hat and gloves. That would have made her look older and more authoritative, like someone sick people would trust. The secretary might have been polite to a girl in a hat.
The wait was long, but Carla was sorry when it came to an end and the secretary said the professor was ready to see her.
Frieda whispered: ‘Good luck!’
Carla went in.
Bayer was a thin man in his forties with a small grey moustache. He sat behind a desk, wearing a tan linen jacket over the waistcoat of a grey business suit. On the wall was a photograph of him shaking hands with Hitler.
He did not greet Carla, but barked: ‘What is an imaginary number?’
She was taken aback by his abruptness, but at least it was an easy question. ‘The square root of a negative real number; for example, the square root of minus one,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘It cannot be assigned a real numerical value but can, nevertheless, be used in calculations.’
He seemed a bit surprised. Perhaps he had expected to floor her completely. ‘Correct,’ he said after a momentary hesitation.
She looked around. There was no chair for her. Was she to be interviewed standing up?
He asked her some questions on chemistry and biology, all of which she answered easily. She began to feel a bit less nervous. Then he suddenly said: ‘Do you faint at the sight of blood?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Aha!’ he said triumphantly. ‘How do you know?’
‘I delivered a baby when I was eleven years old,’ she said. ‘That was quite bloody.’
‘You should have sent for a doctor!’
‘I did,’ she said indignantly. ‘But babies don’t wait for doctors.’
‘Hmm.’ Bayer stood up. ‘Wait there.’ He left the room.
Carla stayed where she was. She was being subjected to a harsh test, but so far she thought she was doing all right. Fortunately, she was used to give-and-take arguments with men and women of all ages: combative discussions were commonplace in the von Ulrich house, and she had been holding her own with her parents and brother for as long as she could remember.
Bayer was gone for several minutes. What was he doing? Had he gone to fetch a colleague to meet this unprecedentedly brilliant girl applicant? That seemed too much to hope for.
She was tempted to pick up one of the books on his shelf and read, but she was scared of offending him, so she stood still and did nothing.
He came back after ten minutes with a pack of cigarettes. Surely he had not kept her standing in the middle of the room all this time while he went to the tobacconist’s shop? Or was that another test? She began to feel angry.
He took his time lighting up, as if he needed to collect his thoughts. He blew out smoke and said: ‘How would you, as a woman, deal with a man who had an infection of the penis?’
She was embarrassed, and felt herself blush. She had never discussed the penis with a man. But she knew she had to be robust about such things if she wanted to be a doctor. ‘In the same way that you, as a man, would deal with a vaginal infection,’ she said. He looked horrified, and she feared she had been insolent. Hastily she went on: ‘I would examine the infected area carefully, try to establish the nature of the infection, and probably treat it with sulphonamide, although I have to admit we did not cover this in my school biology course.’
He said sceptically: ‘Have you ever seen a naked man?’
‘Yes.’
He affected to be outraged. ‘But you are a single girl!’
‘When my grandfather was dying he was bedridden and incontinent. I helped my mother keep him clean – she could not manage on her own, he was too heavy.’ She tried a smile. ‘Women do these things all the time, Professor, for the very young and the very old, the sick and the helpless. We’re used to it. It’s only men who find such tasks embarrassing.’
He was looking more and more cross, even though she was answering well. What was going wrong? It was almost as if he would have been happier for her to be intimidated by his manner and to give stupid replies.
He put out his cigarette thoughtfully in the ashtray on his desk. ‘I’m afraid you are not suitable as a candidate for this scholarship,’ he said.
She was astonished. How had she failed? She had answered every question! ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘My qualifications are irreproachable.’
‘You are unwomanly. You talk freely of the vagina and the penis.’
‘It was you who started that! I merely answered your question.’
‘You have clearly been brought up in a coarse environment where you saw the nakedness of your male relatives.’
‘Do you think old people’s diapers should be changed by men? I’d like to see you do it!’
‘Worst of all, you are disrespectful and insolent.’
‘You asked me challenging questions. If I had given you timid replies you would have said I wasn’t tough enough to be a doctor – wouldn’t you?’
He was momentarily speechless, and she realized that was exactly what he would have done.
‘You’ve wasted my time,’ she said, and she went to the door.
‘Get married,’ he said. ‘Produce children for the Führer. That’s your role in life. Do your duty!’
She went out and slammed the door.
Frieda looked up in alarm. ‘What happened?’
Carla headed for the exit without replying. She caught the eye of the secretary, who looked pleased, clearly knowing what had happened. Carla said to her: ‘You can wipe that smirk off your face, you dried-up old bitch.’ She had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s shock and horror.
Outside the building she said to Frieda: ‘He had no intention of recommending me for the scholarship, because I’m a woman. My qualifications were irrelevant. I did all that work for nothing.’ Then she burst into tears.
> Frieda put her arms around her.
After a minute she felt better. ‘I’m not going to raise children for the damned Führer,’ she muttered.
‘What?’
‘Let’s go home. I’ll tell you when we get there.’ They climbed on to their bikes.
There was a strange air in the streets, but Carla was too full of her own woes to wonder what was going on. People were gathering around the loudspeakers that sometimes broadcast Hitler’s speeches from the Kroll Opera, the building that was being used instead of the burned-out Reichstag. Presumably he was about to speak.
When they got back to the von Ulrich town house, Mother and Father were still in the kitchen, Father sitting next to the radio with a frown of concentration.
‘They turned me down,’ Carla said. ‘Regardless of what their rules say, they don’t want to give a scholarship to a girl.’
‘Oh, Carla, I’m so sorry,’ said Mother.
‘What’s on the radio?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Mother. ‘We invaded Poland this morning. We’re at war.’
(v)
The London season was over, but most people were still in town because of the crisis. Parliament, normally in recess at this time of year, had been specially recalled. But there were no parties, no royal receptions, no balls. It was like being at a seaside resort in February, Daisy thought. Today was Saturday, and she was getting ready to go to dinner at the home of her father-in-law, Earl Fitzherbert. What could be more dull?
She sat at her dressing table wearing an evening gown in eau-de-nil silk with a V-neck and a pleated skirt. She had silk flowers in her hair and a fortune in diamonds round her neck.
Her husband, Boy, was getting ready in his dressing room. She was pleased he was here. He spent many nights elsewhere. Although they lived in the same Mayfair house, sometimes several days would go by without their meeting. But he was at home tonight.
She held in her hand a letter from her mother in Buffalo. Olga had divined that Daisy was discontented in her marriage. There must have been hints in Daisy’s letters home. Mother had good intuition. ‘I only want you to be happy,’ she wrote. ‘So listen when I tell you not to give up too soon. You’re going to be Countess Fitzherbert one day, and your son, if you have one, will be the earl. You might regret throwing all that away just because your husband didn’t pay you enough attention.’
She might be right. People had been addressing Daisy as ‘My lady’ for almost three years, yet it still gave her a little jolt of pleasure every time, like a puff on a cigarette.
But Boy seemed to think that marriage need make no great difference to his life. He spent evenings with his men friends, travelled all over the country to go horse racing, and rarely told his wife what his plans were. Daisy found it embarrassing to go to a party and be surprised to meet her husband there. But if she wanted to know where he was going, she had to ask his valet, and that was too demeaning.
Would he gradually grow up, and start to behave as a husband should, or would he always be like this?
He put his head around her door. ‘Come on, Daisy, we’re late.’
She put Mother’s letter in a drawer, locked it, and went out. Boy was waiting in the hall, wearing a tuxedo. Fitz had at last succumbed to fashion and permitted informal short dinner jackets for family dinners at home.
They could have walked to Fitz’s house, but it was raining, so Boy had had the car brought round. It was a Bentley Airline saloon, cream-coloured with whitewall tyres. Boy shared his father’s love of beautiful cars.
Boy drove. Daisy hoped he would let her drive back. She enjoyed it, and, anyway, he was not safe after dinner, especially on wet roads.
London was preparing for war. Barrage balloons floated over the city at a height of two thousand feet, to impede bombers. In case that failed, sandbags were stacked outside important buildings. Alternate kerbstones had been painted white, for the benefit of drivers in the blackout, which had begun yesterday. There were white stripes on large trees, street statues, and other obstacles that might cause accidents.
Princess Bea welcomed Boy and Daisy. In her fifties she was quite fat, but she still dressed like a girl. Tonight she wore a pink gown embroidered with beads and sequins. She never spoke about the story Daisy’s father had told at the wedding, but she had stopped hinting that Daisy was socially inferior, and now always spoke to Daisy with courtesy, if not warmth. Daisy was cautiously friendly, and treated Bea like a slightly dotty aunt.
Boy’s younger brother, Andy, was there. He and May had two children and May looked, to Daisy’s interested eye, as if she might be expecting a third.
Boy wanted a son, of course, to be heir to the Fitzherbert title and fortune, but so far Daisy had failed to get pregnant. It was a sore point, and the evident fecundity of Andy and May made it worse. Daisy would have had a better chance if Boy spent more nights at home.
She was delighted to see her friend Eva Murray there – but without her husband: Jimmy Murray, now a captain, was with his unit and had not been able to get away, for most troops were in barracks and their officers were with them. Eva was family, now, because Jimmy was May’s brother and therefore an in-law. So Boy had been forced to overcome his prejudice against Jews and be polite to Eva.
Eva adored Jimmy as much now as she had three years ago when she had married him. They, too, had produced two children in three years. But Eva looked worried tonight, and Daisy could guess why. ‘How are your parents?’ she said.
‘They can’t get out of Germany,’ Eva said miserably. ‘The government won’t give them exit visas.’
‘Can’t Fitz help?’
‘He’s tried.’
‘What have they done to deserve this?’
‘It’s not them, particularly. There are thousands of German Jews in the same position. Only a few get visas.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Daisy was more than sorry. She squirmed with embarrassment when she recalled how she and Boy had supported the Fascists in the early days. Her doubts had grown rapidly as the brutality of Fascism at home and abroad had become more and more obvious, and in the end she had been relieved when Fitz had complained that they were embarrassing him and had begged them to leave Mosley’s party. Now Daisy felt she had been an utter fool ever to have joined in the first place.
Boy was not quite so repentant. He still thought that upper-class white Europeans formed a superior species, chosen by God to rule the earth. But he no longer believed that was a practical political philosophy. He was often infuriated by British democracy, but he did not advocate abolishing it.
They sat down to dinner early. ‘Neville is making a statement in the House of Commons at half past seven,’ Fitz said. Neville Chamberlain was Prime Minister. ‘I want to see it – I shall sit in the Peers’ Gallery. I may have to leave you before dessert.’
Andy said: ‘What do you think will happen, Papa?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Fitz said with a touch of exasperation. ‘Of course we would all like to avoid a war, but it’s important not to give an impression of indecision.’
Daisy was surprised: Fitz believed in loyalty and rarely criticized his government colleagues, even as obliquely as this.
Princess Bea said: ‘If there is a war, I shall go and live in Tŷ Gwyn.’
Fitz shook his head. ‘If there is a war, the government will ask owners of large country houses to put them at the disposal of the military for the duration. As a member of the government, I must set an example. I shall have to lend Tŷ Gwyn to the Welsh Rifles for use as a training centre, or possibly a hospital.’
Bea was outraged. ‘But it is my country house!’
‘We may reserve a small part of the premises for private use.’
‘I don’t choose to live in a small part of the premises – I am a princess!’
‘It might be cosy. We could use the butler’s pantry as a kitchen, and the breakfast room as a dining room, plus three or four of the smaller bedrooms.’
‘Cosy!’ Bea looked disgusted, as if something unpleasant had been set before her, but she said no more.
Andy said: ‘Presumably Boy and I will have to join the Welsh Rifles.’
May made a noise in her throat like a sob.
Boy said: ‘I shall join the Air Force.’
Fitz was shocked. ‘But you can’t. The Viscount Aberowen has always been in the Welsh Rifles.’
‘They haven’t got any planes. The next war will be an air war. The RAF will be desperate for pilots. And I’ve been flying for years.’
Fitz was about to argue, but the butler came in and said: ‘The car is ready, my lord.’
Fitz looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Dash it, I’ve got to go. Thank you, Grout.’ He looked at Boy. ‘Don’t make a final decision until we’ve talked some more. This is not right.’
‘Very well, Papa.’
Fitz looked at Bea. ‘Forgive me, my dear, for leaving in the middle of dinner.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
Fitz got up from the table and walked to the door. Daisy noticed his limp, a grim reminder of what the last war had done.
The rest of dinner was gloomy. They were all wondering whether the Prime Minister would declare war.
When the ladies got up to withdraw, May asked Andy to take her arm. He excused himself to the two remaining men, saying: ‘My wife is in a delicate condition.’ It was the usual euphemism for pregnancy.
Boy said: ‘I wish my wife were as quick to get delicate.’
It was a cheap shot, and Daisy felt herself blush bright red. She repressed a retort, then asked herself why she should be silent. ‘You know what footballers say, Boy,’ she said loudly. ‘You have to shoot to score.’
It was Boy’s turn to blush. ‘How dare you!’ he said furiously.
Andy laughed. ‘You asked for it, brother.’
Bea said: ‘Stop it, both of you. I expect my sons to wait until the ladies are out of earshot before indulging in such disgusting talk.’ She swept out of the room.
Daisy followed, but she parted company from the other women on the landing and went on upstairs, still feeling angry, wanting to be alone. How could Boy say such a thing? Did he really believe it had to be her fault that she was not pregnant? It could just as easily be his! Perhaps he knew that, and tried to blame her because he was afraid people would think he was infertile. That was probably the truth, but it was no excuse for a public insult.
