No, that wouldn’t work. How could they have picked up a telegram on the journey without Ruffi noticing? But maybe they could pretend to call her . . . yes, that would work, if they could find a telephone nearby. She would be in Berlin as expected but would be staying with old friends . . .
‘That sounds delightful,’ Nigel was already saying. ‘But I am afraid Lily will not be here until tomorrow night. She hasn’t been well, but when asked to do this . . .’ He glanced at Prinzessin Elizabat.
‘You may speak freely in front of my aunt,’ said Hannelore, her eyes watchful.
‘You understand that I am here semi-officially, to report back to His Royal Highness? David knows Sophie. He trusts her. He is also anxious to have my sister meet Herr Hitler so she can add her assessment to mine. But David has never met Lily. He would like Sophie to be able to make her own opinion without my sometimes . . . extremely persuasive . . . sister. So there must be two separate meetings, one with Sophie and myself, and another with myself and Sophie and Lily, the next day. The afternoon I think you said? That would fit in well, as Lily will arrive here tomorrow night.’ He smiled at Elizabat. ‘We did not expect your hospitality to extend to her too. It is so kind of you. She will love your conservatory.’
Sophie tried to keep all expression from her face. How did Nigel think he was going to manage this?
‘Miss Lily too knows the beauty of the human body?’ asked Elizabat.
‘Most decidedly,’ said Nigel.
Chapter 47
Do I remember being young? I am not sure. But the only thing children truly have in common is their youth. One does not assume that all middle-aged men are similar, so why should children be?
Miss Lily, 1913
VIOLETTE
Her bedroom was a good room, if odd — a plain wooden floor, well-polished, the wooden walls painted with trees and flowers, and even the ceiling too. Shutters, not curtains, a very hard bed, a pink porcelain stove surrounded by pink tiles that gave off sufficient warmth for the season.
The room was even on the same floor as her ladyship and his lordship. But it still was, decidedly, a servant’s room. Worse, from the bottom of one of the trunks Green had produced a black serge dress, white apron and white cap for her to wear.
Violette glared at her. ‘I will not!’
‘You will,’ said Green grimly.
‘I do not have to stay with you!’
‘Don’t be silly. What would you do in the middle of a strange city?’
Violette met her eyes. ‘You forget, I have managed quite well in strange cities. I will sing and men will give me money. And I speak German too.’
‘Last time you went off by yourself you ended up betrayed and penniless.’
‘That was because I was searching for my mother. It distracted me. I do not make that mistake again.’ Blue eyes met blue eyes.
Green sat on the bed’s white coverlet. ‘Violette, please. This is important. I can’t explain to you what is happening now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I do not know you well enough yet to trust you fully.’
Violette considered. Any other answer would have met with refusal. But this was the truth. And reasonable. ‘How long must I be a lady’s maid?’ she asked at last.
Green’s body lost its tenseness. ‘Until we leave this house. Possibly a little longer. I cannot say. But you are booked on the ship to Australia as Miss Violette Jones, daughter of Mr and Mrs Jones, in a first-class suite next to her ladyship’s. You will dine with the family at the captain’s table.’
‘In evening dress?’
‘In evening dress suitable for a thirteen-year-old.’
‘I will be fourteen on the voyage.’
‘I know,’ said Green softly.
Suddenly Violette needed to know. ‘Will I have a birthday party?’
Green nodded, so quickly Violette knew this too was the truth. Her mother had already planned this. She suspected that the evening dresses would be the most beautiful ones that ‘suitable’ clothes could be. ‘A cake at dinner,’ said Green, her voice not quite steady, ‘and the orchestra will play “Happy Birthday”, and you will dance a waltz with your father, and perhaps the captain too.’ She met Violette’s eyes. ‘And there will be presents in the morning, suitable for her ladyship’s ward, and more presents at Christmas time in Australia, and you will never have to play at being a maid again.’
‘Unless I choose to,’ said Violette slowly. ‘For a maid is invisible at times.’
Green sat quite still. ‘That is true,’ she said at last.
‘Then I will be a maid now. An invisible maid. I will even do what you tell me, and ask when I do not know what to do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Green quietly.
‘And one day you will tell me why?’
‘It is not my story to tell.’
‘No? Are you, perhaps, a maid to be invisible?’ The thought had just occurred to her.
‘Not entirely. I was trained as a maid. My . . . work has sometimes entailed more than that, but I truly enjoy the profession, at least with those I have the privilege to work with.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I think, on the ship to Australia, even before perhaps, you will be told everything. Or at least what we have been doing the last few months, and some of what we have done before.’
‘His lordship will tell me?’ asked Violette perceptively, then stared. Why should that make her mother cry.
Green wiped her eyes angrily; Violette knew the anger was not for her, as her mother reached for her hand. ‘Your father will tell you most likely, or perhaps her ladyship. And by then you will understand far more of why this journey has been necessary.’
And by then, perhaps, you will trust me, thought Violette. And tell me everything, not the small bit you plan to tell me now. For she was just beginning to believe that maybe she could trust this woman who was her mother.
Chapter 48
Dogs eat. A man dines. A woman feeds her family, her friends, the world around her and, hopefully, she does it with love.
Miss Lily, 1913
Dinner was good, and nowhere near as odd as Sophie had expected. They ate, clothed, in a dining room that evidently had one of those convenient tables that might be shortened or extended. It was compressed to an oval now, highly polished, the silver gleaming. Instead of an ornate central floral arrangement that almost hid those on the other side of the table, a single fresh gardenia had been placed at every setting, their soft scent covering the table like a cloth.
‘A Japanese tradition,’ said Elizabat, sitting at the head of the table; Hannelore was at the other end, and Sophie and Nigel were facing each other. ‘It keeps conversation general — so silly, that convention of only speaking to those on either side, changing your speaking partner at each course as if it were a horse race and you were responding to the signal to go. The meal must last only until the flower wilts.’
Elizabat wore a pale kimono-like pink shift, loose about her body, dark pink at the hem, paler as it rose towards her neck. Sophie doubted she wore anything beneath it. They had been offered similar shifts at the end of their afternoon in the conservatory pool, blue and white with cranes for Nigel, a soft gold and white camellia pattern for Sophie, a mauve and white much smaller flower for Hannelore, with silk slippers instead of shoes.
It had felt curiously liberating walking upstairs wearing such informal clothing on such a warm, relaxed body, despite her growing unease about how this situation might unfold. And yet she still could not believe that Hannelore would do anything to deliberately harm them. She must truly think that the meetings with this Führer would so convince them there would never again be a need for blackmail.
But who else might she have told about Miss Lily’s secret? Or what might she reveal in times to come? Dolphie? Hannelore trusted Dolphie, loved him as a brother, not an uncle, this man who had saved her life.
Sophie did not trust Dolphie or, rather, trusted him for many things, including kindn
ess, but Dolphie loved his country too fiercely. Such people were dangerous. Sophie knew, for she was one of them.
Perhaps Hannelore might even share her information with this politician or his aides . . .
She became aware that the manservant — certainly not a butler, and nor had Hereward been allowed to take up his duties in so informal a house — was offering her soup. She waited for her hostess to sip, then tasted it. Carrot and chervil, a little thin, but good.
‘What did you think of Ruffi?’ asked Hannelore.
‘A rogue. Why on earth did you send us there? I thought we were to have a family holiday.’
Hannelore laughed. ‘Dearest Sophie. Still so charmingly . . . straightforward.’
‘And you still haven’t answered me.’
‘It is a good thing you two are friends,’ murmured Nigel.
‘I offered you a lodge for the summer so you would come to Berlin with hearts and minds clear, not clouded by the latest anti-German or Bolshevik propaganda in the English press. Ruffi had told me he would be in the south of France, but either his invitation to stay there fell through or he wished to spend the summer with you.’ She spooned up some soup, then added, ‘I suspect the latter. I presume he attempted to seduce you?’
‘Speaking about sexuality with openness liberates the mind,’ Elizabat said in an aside to Nigel.
‘Really? I am afraid I have not always found it so.’
‘Then you must meet Dr Hirschfeld. I will ask him to luncheon tomorrow.’
‘Ruffi propositioned me only once. I assure you it was not a lack of “sexual openness” that led to my refusal.’
‘Nor mine when he suggested that both Sophie and I join him,’ murmured Nigel.
Sophie put down her soup spoon. ‘You didn’t tell me that!’
He smiled. ‘I was afraid you might slap his face.’
‘I still might. Ruffi has said he will show us Berlin tomorrow,’ she added to Hannelore.
‘Ruffi does not see the beauty of the human body, only pleasure and pain. He will not show you the true beauty of Berlin either. He may have you for two hours tomorrow morning only,’ declared Elizabat. ‘We lunch at noon, and then we will relax so you will be ready for this so important meeting.’ Her smile took the barb from the words. ‘I am glad you did not let Ruffi seduce you.’
Sophie picked up her spoon, and sipped the soup again. ‘No one has ever seduced me. I have been the one to seduce.’
‘True,’ said Nigel. ‘It is quite delightful to be seduced by Sophie.’ He met her eyes and winked.
Elizabat sighed. ‘Dr Hirschfeld says that sexuality is fluid like water. It may be hot or cold or in between. A man or woman may love the other sex or their own, or a little or a lot of each. But I am afraid I have never felt any urge for a woman, even one as beautiful as Sophie.’
‘Nor I,’ said Hannelore. She sounded amused again.
‘The doctor will find us all most boring I expect,’ said Sophie.
‘Perhaps,’ said Hannelore. She sipped her carrot soup.
Soup was removed; small fillets of what turned out to be grated raw vegetables in the shape of fish replaced it, with a sauce of mayonnaise and watercress — odd, but delicious. Sophie regretted that it would be bad manners to ask for more.
‘Herr Hitler is vegetarian too,’ remarked Hannelore.
Elizabat gazed at her not-fish cutlets and did not reply. So you do not share your niece’s appreciation of Herr Hitler, thought Sophie. And yet you offer us hospitality so that we can meet him.
‘The trees along your streets are beautiful,’ she said, to break the silence. ‘I wish Sydney had the same.’
‘Sydney is your home town?’ asked Elizabat.
‘Yes, though Thuringa, my country property, feels closer to my heart. I used to wish Hannelore would visit me there.’ She realised she had used the past tense and knew Hannelore had noticed it too.
‘Perhaps she still may,’ said Nigel pleasantly. ‘I haven’t seen Thuringa either. We’re spending this winter there.’
‘And you will see kangaroos!’ Hannelore’s expression was wistful. ‘Sophie and kangaroos and sunlight. I used to dream of them, back when . . . in harder times. But the world has so much hope now.’
A large roasted field mushroom for each diner took the place of roast meat, with new potatoes flecked with parsley, and a casserole of peas in a sauce that tasted slightly of lemon without impinging on their sweetness.
‘I will never eat a pig again,’ said Sophie, then realised she had said it aloud. ‘We ate a considerable amount of pig at Ruffi’s castle,’ she added apologetically. ‘And this is truly delicious.’
‘Ah, I thought you might be referring to the laws of kashrut,’ said Elizabat. ‘The Jewish dietary laws,’ she added when she saw Sophie didn’t understand. ‘My darling Jakob was of the tribe of Israel and so I also kept to the dietary laws. And now I keep them in his memory, though with no meat or dairy in the house, it is easier.’
‘No milk?’ Sophie thought of Danny and Rose.
Elizabat smiled. ‘Except for the children. They must have milk and cheese for their growing bones, and fish for their growing minds. Tonight they will have poached salmon, and rice pudding cooked with whole milk and a little cinnamon.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sophie. ‘Children can be so fussy about their food, especially when you are moving from place to place.’
‘And nannies can be even fussier,’ said Nigel.
‘I would not know. Jakob and I were never blessed with children. I think my family were a little relieved, despite my grief. No, Hannelore, you need not pretend, for I know how you all feel. But I loved him, and we were a world of two. A most good world.’
Elizabat turned to Nigel. ‘It was your sister who gave me the courage to marry him. I met Lily only once, at my older sister’s home. I suppose she will not remember me. I was sitting on a balcony and she sat by me, and asked why I was sad. I told her it was because I loved a man my family did not like, would never like.’ She blinked, as if to capture the memory.
‘What did Miss Lily say?’ asked Hannelore softly.
‘She asked how long my love would last, with all my family’s opposition, with all the tragedies that every life must bring. I said, “Forever,” and she smiled. I will never forget that smile. She said, “There is your answer then. Love, and never waste a second on regret.” That afternoon I left the castle, and went to Jakob’s house. Oh, his mother was shocked, but she forgave me. And we married and were happy and the army would not take him, not fit they said, but I knew it was not that. I was so glad. And then he died of influenza and my life ended, then began again.’
Elizabat looked at Hannelore. ‘My family did not cast me out after all, though of course they did not receive us in public, nor come to my house. But now I have my niece again, as close as any daughter.’
Hannelore reached over and took her hand. ‘And you will always have me. It is a new life for all of us now.’
Elizabat wiped her eyes. ‘That is most true. So much good is happening now. Have you heard of our most modern Garden City?’
‘No,’ said Sophie.
‘You must see it, the Hufeisensiedlung, the Horseshoe Estate, designed by Bruno Taut, before you leave! It is most interesting. The houses are planned to fit into the landscape, rather than the natural world destroyed for the houses. This first stage has more than two thousand houses, of two storeys and three. And colours, my dear — colour is so important. Vibrant colour on the outside, to give life to the spirit, calming colours in the bedrooms, pale mauve in the study — a spiritual but also inspirational colour. And warm-coloured floors, for those who are depressed look down, and cool ceilings for those who need relaxing.’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ said Sophie.
‘You are imagining new estates for your factory workers?’ asked Nigel smiling.
‘Perhaps. I have already updated or built houses for most of my employees, but I am certainly interested i
n new ideas.’
Hannelore laughed. ‘Somehow I do not think Ruffi will show you new housing estates tomorrow.’
And yet you let him show us around, thought Sophie, instead of someone more sympathetic to our interests.
Peaches poached in cassis with nut cream were served.
Chapter 49
Each of you thinks of yourself as one person, my dears. But as you grow older you will learn that we do not just display different faces to others, but to ourselves. Even the cliché ‘mother, daughter, wife’ acknowledges that. And there will almost certainly be aspects of you known only to yourself, sometimes such large parts of who you feel you are, that it seems you are an entirely different person from the one most people recognise.
And this is normal — as long as each of those aspects fits into the current ideals of what normality may be, or you are able to keep them completely hidden.
Miss Lily, 1913
Nigel reached for her in the night. Sophie was not yet asleep, had not been asleep since they’d come to bed two hours or earlier, if the chiming clock in the hallway was correct, despite the calming linden tea they’d drunk instead of coffee.
Tomorrow they would meet Herr Adolf Hitler. It should not feel momentous, even if their meeting had been engineered by a prinzessin wishing to fill her empty life, and the Crown Prince of Britain, who felt his life was even emptier than hers.
Herr Hitler was merely the leader of a relatively small political party. No matter how good his ideals, it was unlikely his party would gain more than the single parliamentary seat it had already won. The National Socialists’ reputation in Berlin was not good — there had been more useful letters from James providing them with background and context. Fighting in the streets with Bolsheviks, disrupting Communist Party meetings. They were a political movement mainly made up of the disaffected, many of whom were ex-soldiers.
Yes, money and support from influential people would help. But money could not make Germany vote for the Nazi Party, even if it could buy them brass bands and billboards to electioneer with, nor could even Miss Lily’s influence help to any great degree, especially if she could provide no compelling reason to support the party. Hannelore was letting her enthusiasm for the man and his ideals cloud her judgement.
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