by David Fraser
‘No word from Marcia, Father, I suppose?’
John Marvell was paying one of his infrequent visits to London, and was giving Anthony lunch in his club. It was a hot, humid July day with thunder in the air. July, 1939.
‘No recent word. As you know she wrote from Bargate to this von Arzfeld fellow, asked him when he could pay us a visit. He’s too busy. I can well believe it. Then off she went.’
‘Father, I don’t think there was ever a chance of persuading Marcia not to go back to Vienna. She’s head over heels, you know. When she’s there she can see him.’
‘So it seems. Anyway, she was determined and off she went. Seven weeks now. Your mother’s almost out of her mind with worry. We’ve had three letters – full of affection, everything will turn out all right, still working hard at her art studies, that sort of thing. She’s twenty-one, you know. She can do what she wants. And, of course, you’ve both got a little money of your own.’
‘What do the Carrs think?’
‘I wrote to Francis, your mother wrote to Angie. Believe it or not, they knew nothing of von Arzfeld! Complete surprise to them!’
Anthony did believe it.
‘They wrote back and said she seemed very happy and they loved having her. But it seems she’s got some alternative arrangement in mind and may be moving out.’
Father and son considered this in silence.
‘What about you, old boy?’ said John. ‘We can’t talk about Marcia all the time. How are you getting on? You’ve not been home for several weeks.’
‘Well, as you know, I’ve joined the Territorial Army. I’ve been accepted for a commission if I undertake some training, do satisfactorily and so forth. I’ve been working at it most evenings.’
By now it had become unthinkable to Anthony, and most of his generation and kind to do otherwise.
‘I’m glad,’ said his father. ‘It’s best to have some definite duty if the worst occurs.’ His voice was unsteady. He loathed the thought of his son in uniform. He added,
‘I hope it won’t come to it. I pray all the time.’
‘There’s been this big expansion of the Territorials,’ said Anthony. ‘That, together with the Government introducing conscription out of the blue, has put the Army in a pretty big muddle as far as I can see.’
‘Time!’ said John. ‘That’s what we need. Time, and yet again time. I’m not sure we’re going to get it. I shall be surprised if we celebrate Christmas in peace.’ He felt the weight of both public and private misery. He eyed his son.
It was a good thing that Anthony, in these recent months, had begun to look so much more assured, confident, even at times radiant. There was no girl, as far as his parents knew. Perhaps, perish the thought, he even felt some sort of excited anticipation of the crisis that must surely now come, anticipation like that of an earlier, doomed generation? Still, the boy’s eyes were brighter than they had ever been; and he seldom stuttered now.
‘If all goes well, I’ll have my commission by December.’ Anthony’s mind was elsewhere. He patted his pocket. He could feel in it a folded letter, received three days earlier. There was also a telephone message he had scribbled down as it was relayed to him that morning.
The letter had taken two weeks to reach London.
When she had written it, Anna had sat long at her desk, looking at the sealed envelope. She had always despised people who pretended that emotions could be so strong as to master free-will. ‘What I do,’ she determined to say to herself, ‘I do knowingly.’ She often tried to decide why she loved Anthony as profoundly as she did – a young Englishman of a ‘type’ of which she knew a number and seldom found appealing. Within minutes of first meeting she had felt that he had a quality unlike most of his kind. It was something in the way he moved, something in the intentness he devoted to his companion, something in the still-colt-like impulsiveness of the way he swung his body round to one when walking. Something, of course, in his physical beauty, something in his half-teasing voice, that now and then held tears in it. Something too in his deep and far from typical consideration in love, his instinctive ability, it seemed, to feel how she felt, whether in pleasure or in pain. Something, of course, like Clemens –
She sighed and took the envelope between finger and thumb, decisively.
‘Well, whatever it is,’ she said to herself, fearfully but exultantly, ‘one loves.’
‘There is no doubt about it at all, my darling. None whatsoever. I rejoice that it is so. Before writing to you I wished to reach clear decisions. Kurt, as you know, spent some weeks at Langenbach in January and February. I will say no more of that. Then there was that extraordinary, unexpected visit of mine to London in March. That visit where I was prepared for sadness with my grandmother’s illness but which turned out so joyfully, with her recovery and with you, my Anthony. Even more wonderful than in October!
Be sure that the child within me is yours! By the middle of May I was sure. My child will be born in early December – that is what they think. For Kurt, and for his family, that can be believed. Kurt was here in February, I am saying to them it is likely to be November. It will be a little “late” that is all. It will be strange after several years, but the Langenbachs will be quiet and glad. Kurt – I am not sure. But his pride will help him believe.
I wish him to accept the child as his. You must, please, understand this. Not only will it be better for the baby, but today, in Germany, there could be serious difficulties if it were otherwise. I have written to Kurt that he will be a father, probably in late November.
If my health permits, and I am sure it will, I intend to come over to visit my grandmother in September. She is much better now but to leave it later will be difficult for me. It is now July but there are matters which keep me here.
Be happy for me, my darling, I have never felt better or calmer. Do not be angry or proud or resentful.
Anna’
*
Before Anthony had fully recovered his senses from Anna’s letter he had been stunned by the telephone message. The telephone rang in Mount Street at nine o’clock that July morning.
‘Mr Marvell? This is Margaret Platt. From Wilton Place. You remember –’
‘Of course. Good morning, Miss Platt.’
‘Mr Marvell, I’m afraid Mrs Briscoe has received some rather tragic news, and she thought it would be best to share it with you since you might not otherwise hear it and you are, she knows, a friend of the family.’
His heart had near stopped.
‘Mrs Briscoe has just had a telegram. I’m sorry to say that Captain Langenbach, Anna’s husband, has been killed in Spain. Having survived to the last day of that awful war. Some sort of accident, we don’t know any details. He was about to return to Germany. Mrs Briscoe thought it right to tell you –’
‘Yes – yes. Miss Platt. Thank you.’
‘Poor Anna.’
‘Yes. Oh dear. I – I’ll write, of course. Please thank Mrs Briscoe. It was very thoughtful.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Marvell.’ She had rung off.
Anthony brought his attention back to his father with a radiant smile.
‘Well, look after yourself, old boy. Going away for August?’
‘I’m not sure.’
John Marvell paid the bill.
August, 1939.
‘Mrs Briscoe, this is Anthony Marvell speaking. You may remember I called on you earlier this year, when Anna Langenbach was in London. And you were kind enough to get word to me last month about her husband. That awful tragedy.’
‘I remember, Mr Marvell.’
‘I wondered whether you had any news of Anna. I was so sorry to hear about her husband. I wrote to her – to Langenbach. I haven’t heard anything, of course – there was no need to reply – but I had an idea she might be coming over.’
‘I see.’
‘And I – my family too, of course – would have loved to see her.’
‘I can tell you that Anna hoped to come in September. No
w I don’t know. The whole situation in the world seems terrible, Mr Marvell. What’s going to happen?’
‘Terrible, worrying, I agree.’
‘Anna has many reasons for worrying. She is in a delicate state just now.’
‘Ah –’
‘It doesn’t look to me as if people will be able to come and go freely to Germany much longer. I’ll get word to you if I hear anything. Would you like that?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Briscoe. I would like that very much indeed.’
‘Hilda just wired “Come home at once,”’ said John Marvell to his brother-in-law. ‘At the same time I sent a telegram to Francis Carr, “Urgently need your help to get Marcia home as soon as possible.” You’ve spoken to the Foreign Office people, Stephen, and I thank you for it. Is there anything else we can do?’
It was 27th August.
‘The Carrs will stay in Vienna until ordered to leave, of course. But it’s still perfectly possible for Marcia to travel. Let’s hope she sees sense. There’s no question of closing frontiers yet or anything like that.’
‘It’s inevitable, isn’t it, Stephen?’
‘A few pacifists are still clinging to their illusions. But everyone on our side is pretty clear. Nazi Germany making a surprise pact with Soviet Russia! What can that mean but the go-ahead for Hitler? As you know, we’ve signed a formal defence agreement with Poland yesterday.’
Hilda came in from the outer hall. ‘This has just arrived.’
She tore open the buff envelope and handed the telegram to John without looking at it and without a word. John knew that she sensed its contents as clearly as if she had seen the jarring capital-lettered sentences. He read aloud,
‘WILL BE FINE HERE. WERNER AND I INTEND MARRY THIRD WEEK SEPTEMBER. INTEND STAY WITH AUSTRIAN FRIENDS. WILL SEND ADDRESS. ALL LOVE MARCIA’
It was dawn on 3rd September, a pale, clear dawn with superb visibility. Werner von Arzfeld looked out over the wide Galician landscape from the High Tatra hills. Before him lay southern Poland. The war was only two days old but already a large part of the Polish ‘Cracow Army’ seemed to have been destroyed within a few miles of that frontier over which General von Rundstedt’s ‘Army Group South’ had advanced in the early hours of 1st September. The rest appeared to be in considerable disorder.
Since the beginning of August, Werner had spent most of his time in Slovakia, where 22nd Panzer Corps, to whose staff he was attached, had concentrated. He had been able to spend two perfect twenty-four hour periods in Vienna – a laborious train journey but no great distance. The second of those snatched absences from duty was now three weeks ago. He savoured it in his mind. Marcia had been as delicious as ever. Ah, when this Polish business was over!
Werner had only recently informed his family of his intentions. He had written a long letter to his father. Of course there were problems, but Kaspar von Arzfeld had so just a mind that his son was confident of his support. Meanwhile, by a stroke of good fortune, Werner had been able to arrange for Marcia to lodge with an Austrian family, distant relations of the Arzfelds, elderly, kindly, informal, understanding. Marcia had been perfectly happy with the idea.
‘Casimir Rudberg and his wife have a nice flat. I have told them about us. I am writing to my father. It is all muddled, impossible to do things in the right sequence, because of the political situation. If your relations, the Carrs, leave –’
‘But darling Werner, the Carrs can’t leave. He’s en poste here.’
‘Yes – but if something happened, then the Rudbergs will be happy for you to live with them. For as long as necessary.’
Marcia had met them and been charmed. She had, for some time, been tiring of the Carr ménage and had made tentative enquiries about an independent flat. Of this, however, Werner strongly disapproved.
‘At any time,’ Werner had said, ‘if the Carrs leave. Or before, if you like.’
Marcia had said softly,
‘You mean, don’t you, they’d have to leave if England were at war with Germany,’ and had looked at him, for the first time, with a different look, a wounded, frightened look.
‘I suppose in that case I’d be put in prison, or something!’
‘No, no! It will be all right!’ But he wondered. Ought not a man of honour, even now, to tell Marcia to pack her bags and go? He could not bear the thought. A little later he had said,
‘I wish us to be formally betrothed.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means the world will be told. It means you will be recognized as my fiancée, my wife when circumstances permit the marriage. You will – you would – not be troubled if –’
‘If?’
‘If things get worse. And it will be proper, it will be expected then, that you stay with relatives of mine. Casimir and Amalie Rudberg will deal with some of the formalities for me. They were enchanted by you, of course. I wish we could do it more properly, my little Marcia, but times are difficult. Will your family be very angry?’
‘Well, all in all I think it’s best, too. So all right, Werner, my love. Let’s be betrothed. It sounds great fun. But I do miss you terribly. I miss you all the time. In the night I want to reach out and touch you. When we’re married can we be together always?’
‘Soon, I’m sure.’
Then he had written to his father. He had spoken formally to his Corps Commander, General von Kleist. Although Werner was a very junior member of the Corps Staff, von Kleist had taken an interest in him and the Section Chief had said briskly,
‘I think you had better see the Corps Commander.’ Von Kleist had looked at him keenly.
‘Your family approves, I imagine?’
‘I am sure of it. My father knows the young lady, Herr General.’
‘I hope you will not make complicated plans for family life. There is work to do here.’ Von Kleist knew that ‘Plan White’, the operation order for the invasion of Poland had been approved as long ago as 15th June. Some people thought there would be a last-minute cancellation, a solution. Von Kleist was not one of them.
‘Exactly so, Herr General. I should say one thing. My fiancée is English.’
‘Eine Engländerin!’
‘Yes. A good English family. She is studying in Vienna.’
The Corps Commander pursed his lips.
‘This may be difficult, von Arzfeld. You realize this?’
‘Of course, Herr General.’
‘And it will, no doubt, be difficult,’ thought Werner, as he looked through his binoculars towards a small Polish village in the middle distance. ‘But I do not care.’ The village had earlier been burning, apparently set on fire by the initial German artillery bombardment, but the blaze seemed under control, a little dark smoke drifting in the pale light. It was an exquisite morning, cool, tranquil. The sounds of battle were far away. Werner felt extraordinarily well. There was everywhere profound satisfaction in the sense that, militarily, things seemed to have gone very much according to plan. Now Fourteenth Army, of which General von Kleist’s 22nd Panzer Corps formed part, was bound for the north-east on a great encircling movement – the southern pincer of a mighty trap to destroy utterly the Polish armed forces both west and east of the Vistula. The forward divisions were well under way. The campaign was already assuming the heady character of a pursuit.
There had been some fighting here and there for the Polish frontier positions. The enemy had struggled with considerable vigour in some sectors, and casualties throughout Fourteenth Army had been significant. It was clear from the first, however, that no authoritative hand was controlling Polish operations. Fighting had been piecemeal, uncoordinated. The Luftwaffe had cleared the way. Prisoners gave little evidence of knowing where they were or what their tasks had been. Polish deployment, indeed, had apparently been far from complete. One Polish company had been shot to pieces marching along the road from Cracow, apparently unaware that a war had started. And why on earth, thought Werner, had the Poles concentrated everything, as far as could b
e gathered, forward in the frontier area? It was simply asking for a breakthrough and an encirclement. They must have known they couldn’t hope to defend a frontier stretching on a great arc from the Baltic to the Carpathians. ‘He who defends everything defends nothing,’ Werner quoted to himself complacently. Now, whether by design or desperate instinct, the Polish forces seemed to be streaming eastward to behind the Vistula. If they could get there.
‘And then, with luck, it will all be over,’ thought Werner. One had to trust the Führer’s extraordinary flair for politics. It was unthinkable that Britain and France would launch a world war to interfere in a situation where everyone could see Germany had a strong case for rectification of frontiers and protection of minorities. There would, he supposed sadly, be huffing and puffing by them. This could be trying for Marcia. But it would blow over. The year before, a number of senior generals had been muttering that the Czech business must be stopped before it blew up into a world war. He suspected that his present general, von Kleist, had been one of them. They’d been wrong. Britain and France hadn’t done a thing. The Führer’s instinct had been right.
People like his father, of course, saw it all in a different light. They were appalled by the Nazis, by the bullying and swagger, by the way the Government seemed ready to ride roughshod over law, by the little jacks-in-office. Certainly some very unpleasant stories were current of what went on, of how opponents were treated and so forth. And there was the Jewish business. But as against all that – blemishes which time would doubtless cure or set in perspective – there was the fact that by diplomacy which was as shrewd as it was bold Hitler had put Germany on the path of self-respect once again. And now the Army was helping him to finish the job.
Werner’s mind switched to Marcia, living now with the Rudbergs. He thought of her smile, her hair, her touch, her pale skin and dancing eyes. Onward to victory, and the quicker the better! And then, with luck, a long peace!
