Mary Russell’s War
A Journal of the Great War
by Laurie R. King
(and Mary Russell)
Mary Russell’s War
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2015
Laurie R. King
Contents
Introduction
Mary Russell’s War
Addendum I: The Story Continues
Addendum II: Attributions
End Notes
Introduction
On August 4, 2015, one hundred years to the day after World War I erupted onto the headlines of newspapers the world around, Mary Russell’s War began to appear as weekly instalments in a blog kept by Laurie R. King. The journal, like everything else Miss Russell writes, is both autobiography and cool reporting, laced throughout with a vein of her distinctive dry humour. Here, young Mary’s commitment to recording the progress of world events weaves in and out of her own personal narrative, the two bleeding into each other until the stories of the girl and the century begin eerily to mesh. The vivid words of the journal, combined with the photographs, newspaper clippings, post-cards, and such that Miss Russell slipped among its pages, give us a taste not only of the times, but of this young woman’s extraordinary mind—and of the rich and eventful life that is before her.
Since the 1994 publication of the first Russell memoir, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, a stream of stories (all of them under the “authorship” of Laurie R. King, for reasons explained by Miss Russell elsewhere[1]) have continued to uncover the remarkable adventures of this young woman and her partner-turned-husband Sherlock Holmes. In addition to the “novels” that make up Miss Russell’s memoirs, an assortment of supplemental material in the form of “short stories” and the like offer insight into previously unexplored corners of their lives[2].
And yet, it is equally striking how often Miss Russell chooses not to reveal matters. Her relationship with parents and brother, for example, is given in small (though illuminating) vignettes; details are sparse of her work with the psychiatric doctor Leah Ginsberg; one searches in vain for the precise locations of houses, or even their physical characteristics.
Yes, one is forced to read between the lines, here as elsewhere in the Russell Memoirs. A reader even begins to wonder if this is not a large part of their appeal: one gets the very clear sensation, even when Russell is little more than a child, that privacy is paramount, and that any conclusions regarding her person will require a great deal of research, a thorough analysis, and a lot of just plain investigation.
As is, on reflection, only appropriate.
Mary Russell: My War Journal
4 August 1914
I was fourteen when I first heard about the War. Fourteen years and 214 days, with my nose (as usual) in a book as I walked down the stairs.
At least, that’s how Mother says I shall remember this day. And Father agrees: the War will be both long and hard, for all the European countries and the Empire beyond. Flo’s parents—Flo carries the rôle of my best friend, so of course I telephoned to her about Britain’s declaration of War immediately I had finished my meal, although it was a brief conversation since Mother and Father both wished to use the instrument, yet they would not allow me to go to Flo’s house, oh, when will I be permitted to take a simple walk without a chaperone?—at any rate, Flo’s parents are of the opinion that England will sweep up the German army in no time. However, since Mother has a dreary way of being right about everything, I thought I might mark the occasion by taking out the Journal she gave me for my birthday 214 days ago, and begin writing in it. If she’s wrong, I shall show her this, as a demonstration of her fallibility.
Everyone has been talking about war for what seems like my entire life—certainly long before the Archduke and his wife were shot in Sarajevo at the end of June. I have to admit that I have yet to understand precisely what the heir to a Bohemian throne (will I ever be able to hear that name without envisioning Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler?) has to do with an invasion of Belgium. Judging by the conversation of many adults and the cross-purposes of the newspaper editorials, I am not the only one to whom the sequence is unclear.
Still, one thing is clear: the fuse of the powder-keg that is Europe has been set alight.
Looking at what I have written here, I realise that I must decide how much explication a Diary requires. Do I explain as to a stranger the basic facts of my life? Or do I make notes that might remind a future, absent-minded self that, it being 1914, I live in San Francisco though I was born in England? That my mother is Jewish and my father Christian? I suppose that the possibilities of unfamiliar eyes seeing this means I ought to introduce myself. Very well: my name is Mary Judith Emily Russell (though I never use the name Emily), daughter of Charles Russell (of Boston, Massachusetts) and Judith Rebecca Russell (née Klein, of London, England.) I am a day younger than the Twentieth Century, and in addition to being fourteen years and 214 days old, I am tall for a girl, nearsighted, with blonde hair the same shade as my father’s (although considerably longer) and the blue eyes that often go with that colour. I have a brother, Levi, who is nine years old and resembles our mother, being dark of hair and eye, sharp of tongue and wit, and irritatingly right about things. Especially mathematics. He’s something of a genius. I’m merely very smart.
I probably shouldn’t have written that, since if he finds this he’ll take it as an admission that he has the superior mind. If you are reading this, Levi, remember that even Sherlock Holmes wasn’t as bright as a woman.
11 August
I have decided to write in this journal, not daily (as the name suggests) but once a week. There is so much turmoil, so rapid a shift of events, that thoughtful reflection requires a week’s span.
It is appalling to think what is happening in Europe. Every morning’s paper shouts the headlines: BRITISH AND GERMAN FLEETS IN BATTLE. GERMANS OVERCOME BELGIANS’ DEFENSES AT CITY OF LIEGE. Even AEROPLANES PLAY BIG PART IN LIEGE ATTACK. The fighting in midair was desultory, but deadly. A huge Zeppelin sailed over Liege during the early fighting, but was pursued by a Belgian aeroplanist who risked and lost his life in destroying it. GERMANS BAD SHOTS, SAY PILOTS.
Noble little Belgium. Father put up a map of Europe in the library, and places pins at each new report. He tells me the Germans are following a war plan that depends on rapidly overrunning the countryside between them and Paris, and in the past week, Belgium’s grim defence has slowed the Kaiser. May God grant that this has given France time to prepare for invasion.
America, of course, has declared herself neutral, offering to negotiate between the parties: TENDER OF GOOD OFFICES BRINGS NO RESPONSE.
This despite atrocity: in one conquered town, the Germans took fourteen residents, shooting eight, hanging two—but letting the Mayor go, since the Germans had been his dinner guests the previous evening. I do not understand military thinking. I suppose that when many of those fighting one’s soldiers are, in fact, civilians with weapons, there is no division between uniforms and not.
There are some portions of the world not in flames: PEACE IS NEAR IN WAR-TORN MEXICO. And the newspaper corner advertisements that in the early days were for maps of Europe and a rather tasteless advert for spectacles (Will War Advance Price of Glasses?) have returned to weather reports and apartments for lease on Nob Hill.
But the world appears to be in flames. And not only in Europe.
My parents are arguing. At night, and behind closed doors, but they are arguing, long and hard. Even Levi has heard them, although he has been as unable to hear what they are saying as I.
My parents never argue.
Never.
18 August
I was at the Greenfield house last night (the daughter, Fl
orence, was more or less assigned me as a friend when we came back to San Francisco two years ago, since our mothers share many interests and organisations—although truth to tell, I find more to talk about with Flo’s brother Frank) and found the family almost completely detached from the War. Mrs Greenfield seems more concerned at the potential disruption of their travel plans for next summer than any political turmoil or loss of life: she is convinced that fighting will be over by Christmas, but worries over damage to monuments and shortages of wine and fois gras. When I told her that in Father’s opinion, the War would be a long one, she merely gave one of her ear-splitting laughs and told me not to worry my pretty head. I left before I could say anything rude (which would invariably subject me to one of Mother’s lectures) and collected Frankie for a rather violent game of kick-the-can.
The Parents’ ongoing argument, I have determined, concerns the War. Mother wants to go home, to England. Father absolutely refuses to permit it. Or rather (I’ve located an attic corner with a section of plaster thin enough that sound travels up from Mother’s dressing room) Father refuses to permit her to take Levi and me with her. And although the two of them are habituated to spending long periods separated by the Atlantic, with Mother and us in England while Father comes and goes from his business concerns in America, she has never been separated from Levi and me for more than a few days. And as their overheard conversations have made clear, she does not intend to be now.
So, it looks as if we are to be stuck in neutral territory—America—until the War is over. (On one point they agree: this will not be a matter of weeks, despite Mrs Greenfield.) When I told all this to Levi (who although only nine, is nonetheless more intelligent than most of the adults I know) he very rightly pointed out that, as half-English citizens, we had a responsibility to serve the King in any way we could. And (as an article in the Chronicle described last week) if a woman on the train from Antwerp could discover a German spy on the point of releasing carrier pigeons hidden in a bag, surely we could do no less.
Thus, two nights ago, when we heard four brief blasts of a ship’s horn, we both suspected it was the German cruiser that has been lurking out at sea, waiting to fill its coal stores. A newspaper article five days ago reported that the Leipsic had wirelessed for permission to enter the harbour, and had also sent ashore two of its sailors for medical attention, so we knew it would slip in sooner or later. When the horn sounded, we were ready. I met Levi at the front door, and we made it almost all the way down Gough Street before a patrol spotted the pale coat Levi had insisted on wearing, and took us home again. Mother was not happy. Father pretended to be angry, but I could see that he was also amused. It will be difficult to slip away for the next couple of days, to keep an eye on the Leipsic, although it is reported to be lying between Fort Mason and Alcatras Island, so I may be able to see it from the rooftop with Father’s field glasses, once Mother goes to her meeting this afternoon.
I am cross with Levi. I fear that my brother, bright though he may be, lacks the instincts of a criminal—or of a good detective.
(Which reminds me—there is to be a new Sherlock Holmes story in The Strand, beginning next month! A serial novel that begins, “The Manor House of Birlstone, Chapter I, The Warning,” with Sherlock Holmes making snappish remarks as he stares at a slip of paper he has drawn from an envelope! Oh, how is it possible to simultaneously adore and loathe a thing—a good long story, but one that demands months of waiting? Petty of me, I know, but I do hope the magazine continues to cross the Atlantic without delay during the hostilities. At least during the period that The Valley of Fear is being published.)
As if to confirm the need for citizen spies, this morning’s Chronicle brought the War’s proximity into focus. I shall copy the article:
SEA FIGHT IS HEARD ON SOUTH COAST
MONTEREY, August 17—Firing at sea was heard this evening by J. Lewis, superintendent of instruction at the Y.W.C.A. camp at Asilmar. It was in the direction of the heads, near Santa Cruz, northwest of here. A heavy fog has obscured the view.
Lewis says that the firing started at 7:20 and lasted until after 8 o’clock. It is believed the French cruiser Montelam, which left San Diego Saturday, has engaged with the German cruiser Nurnberg.
Several others at Asilmar, Pacific Grove and New Monterey have reported hearing heavy firing at sea.
I believe that the War will require service from us all before the end, even fourteen year-old girls.
25 August
Reading the headlines, a rational person must wonder precisely what it means to be a “neutral” country. We in California are not at war, but at the same time, even a casual observer (Is there such a thing, in this age?) can see that the United States are merely undeclared allies of England. It is the unspoken truth behind the wording of such newspaper articles as this:
CRUISER LEIPZIG STANDS OFF SHORE
Fear of Seizure by the Germans May Halt Departure of the Royal Mail Liner Moana.
The German cruiser Leipzig, which left port early yesterday morning after taking on coal and stores, ostensibly bound for the German port of Apia, via Honolulu, was still off port at 9 o’clock when spoken by the incoming liner Wilhemina.…
Laden with a million-dollar cargo, the Moana would make a rich prize for the German and, it is said in shipping circles, would be just the seizure that would aid the Leipzig, both as a shield and a coal supply ship if the foreigner intends to proceed to Apia. The Leipzig has only coal enough to steam 3500 miles, and it is more than 4000 miles to the German port.
In the event that it is the intention of the Leipzig to continue her cruise on the Pacific coast she would need plenty of fuel, and to this end might lie in wait for coal-laden windjammers and steamers which at frequent intervals come here from Australia.
That was Wednesday. Thursday’s paper all but accused the German-registered steamer Mazatlan of plotting to transfer much of the coal and provisions it had taken on board into the Nurnberg. Now, I am no friend of the Kaiser, but regarding America’s so-called neutrality: were the Mazatlan’s country of registry to be Great Britain, would this question even arise?
Levi went to ask Papa to take us down to Pier 17 for a look at the Mazatlan, but Papa refused. Had he suggested a jolly ride in the new Maxwell, it would have been an easy matter to urge our path towards the waterfront, but overt reconnaissance of a suspected War Ship was unacceptable. Levi will never learn, that with Mama it is possible to be direct, but when it comes to Papa, particularly when he is in a temper as he has been this week, the oblique approach is better.
Matters appeared to have reached a head on Saturday, all of which Papa spent behind the closed door of his library, typing furiously[3] without so much as a break for luncheon. When he came out, late in the afternoon, late in the afternoon, he had a stamped envelope in his hand (too flat for an entire day’s worth of typing). I did contrive to glance at it while he was putting on his hat, and saw that it was addressed to the War Office in Washington, DC. Papa was gone just long enough to walk to the nearest posting box, during which time I naturally made a thorough search of the library, but found no sign of his long labours. This can only mean that he had locked his manuscript away in the safe.
(Note to self: locate a safe-cracker willing to teach the trade to a young girl.)
After Papa had gone upstairs to bath and shave (both of which he normally does in the morning), he came down, poured himself a drink half again as generous as his usual serving, and gave Mama a kiss on the back of her neck. I note this because the past two weeks have seen the two of them decidedly cool, and although I have no wish to encounter the sloppy emotions parents occasionally reveal, I admit that it is more desirable to have parents in accord than parents at odds. My own are, in general, of an amiable and co-operative disposition, although there have been times, particularly before we moved back here from England in 1912, when walking around them was like sailing into port through a field of mines.
Sunday Levi and I took breakfas
t on our own, with Mah (our cook) in the kitchen. Sunday afternoon, Papa took us down to Golden Gate Park, where he produced a quite marvellous Chinese kite, which rode the stiff breeze like some magical creature.
Monday seemed almost ordinary, by comparison with the last two weeks.
The War news seems to be either triumphant or disastrous, depending on which headline one reads. Last night, I made the mistake of asking Papa how long it might be before we had a chance to travel through the new canal in Panama, since the Germans seemed determined to lock us behind a fence of warships. My innocent question led to an hour spent with the new War Map (19¢ from the San Francisco Chronicle: is this not war profiteering?) spread out over the table in his library. This key point, it seems, is why Japan’s entry into the War yesterday was such a blessing, particularly for those of us on the Pacific Coast: The Japanese navy is keeping the German Pacific fleet bottled up in their port on the southern peninsula of China, leaving only two ships—the Nurnberg and the Leipzig—free to threaten coastal cities and make raids on Allied shipping.
That is something of a relief, although even the presence of those two ships will prevent the Russell family from sailing for the Panama Canal any time soon.
However, the week’s news has also provided me with a weapon against the parents. The next time a lecture looms on the horizon, I shall be ready with a very different article with which to distract an uncomfortable mother or father:
YOUNG LOCHINVAR KIDNAPS GIRL IN AUTOMOBILE
Youth Steals the Object of His Affections, but Is Captured in San Jose.
Mary Russell's War Page 1
