The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  ‘And I am older now, and I use my anger. And I speak German. I can even look like a German Mädchen. I have my knife and you have been teaching me the jiu-jitsu. And also I am beautiful, and know how to smile so people do not suspect me.’

  Jones looked at Green. ‘Well?’

  ‘It isn’t our decision,’ said Green stubbornly. ‘Nigel and James didn’t include Violette in any of this.’

  ‘Nor has this plan ever been carved in stone. We’ve always known we’ll have to adapt as we go. I trust her,’ he added. ‘And she will be useful. You must see that. Otherwise it will be just me and Nigel. I will be far less conspicuous if Violette is with me.’

  And not her mother? Violette held the question back.

  At last Green nodded. ‘Very well. I . . . I don’t like it. If this goes wrong I want my misgivings on the record.’

  ‘If this goes wrong we may be dead,’ said Jones frankly. ‘And Violette —’

  ‘I am very good at not being dead,’ said Violette. ‘And I have not let anyone I liked be dead either, except for Grandmère. Knives do not help the pneumonia. So what do we do?’

  She felt excitement trickle. This was what she had been born for, lived for. Not for being a dutiful daughter, a ladyship’s protégée. Not for wearing lovely gowns, although she liked them, and not for dining at a captain’s table.

  For this.

  ‘In an hour’s time you and I will leave through the library window. You will wear evening dress. Adult,’ he added to Green. ‘Make her look as sophisticated and wealthy as you can.’

  ‘Pearls and the dress of silver net over deep blue velvet,’ said Green. ‘Low neck, pearls on a silver riband.’

  ‘That sounds right. No make-up beyond a dab of powder. I don’t want her taken for a young prostitute.’ He turned to Violette again. ‘We are going to a café. A . . . strange café . . . but you must look as if you feel comfortable there, just a little interested. You are simply a broad-minded girl playing tourist with her father. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If his lordship comes in you will pretend not to recognise him: her ladyship too. And if anything happens you will protect her ladyship. Get her out of there.’

  ‘And his lordship?’

  ‘I will take care of anything else. So will his lordship. But her ladyship will be taken by surprise. She may even feel she has to protect you. Use that instinct, if you can. Promise that whatever happens you will get her out safely, not let her try to help his lordship.’

  ‘Do you really think she can manipulate Sophie?’ demanded Green.

  ‘Probably,’ said Jones. ‘But if not, Sophie will still be safer with Violette than trying to help Nigel and me.’

  ‘I wish I could be there,’ said Green wretchedly.

  ‘You know why you can’t.’

  Green nodded.

  ‘There is more,’ said Violette. ‘This is just a scrap of a big plan. I want the rest.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She stared at him. ‘You will really tell me?’

  Once more he glanced at Green. ‘I think she does need to know. She is intelligent enough to possibly work it out anyway.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Violette.

  ‘I can’t tell you now. No time. Nor here, in case someone overhears. But I will tell you in the car. You must promise me one thing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Violette cautiously.

  ‘You do not tell anyone. Do not even hint at the knowledge. Not now, and not ever, unless your mother or I give you permission. Especially do not tell her ladyship. She must not know of this. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes. And his lordship’s sister, when she arrives tonight? Does she know this plan?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Green feelingly. ‘Miss Lily knows all about it. You can say what you want to Miss Lily, too.’

  It was as if soda water had replaced the blood in her veins. She felt alive, and truly happy for the first time since Grandmère became ill. She was trusted, a member of a group again, part of a plan, with a purpose. And tonight she would be doing something . . .

  ‘Don’t forget your knife,’ said Jones.

  ‘I never do,’ said Violette, affronted.

  Chapter 52

  Every one of us thinks we are unique. We are, of course. But as one gains experience and empathy one begins to realise there is no one thing unique about any of us, merely the unique way the very similar lives of the human jigsaw are put together.

  Whatever you feel, whoever you are, there will be others who are much the same as you and feel the same, who will reach out to you with understanding.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  Sophie had expected a young suave exploiter, someone who would be at home in the cellar they had just visited, as well as capable of exploiting a vulnerable and wealthy widow. Dr Hirschfeld looked more like a grandfather, even slightly like her own father: wrinkled, luxuriously moustached, blunt faced and kind eyed. He was even dressed conventionally as he sat at Elizabat’s right hand at the table, despite Nigel’s title entitling him to that place of honour.

  ‘Always I have been interested in the subject,’ he said, accepting another glass of lemon water. His English was excellent, and his accent was American. ‘A doctor of the body first, but slowly I found that the body follows the mind. But there was one case . . .’ He took off his glasses, as if to see the past, not the nut loaf and endive salad on his plate. ‘A young army officer. I had been treating him for depression, more than thirty years ago now. But then he killed himself. Selbstmord is the name of it in German, self-murder, for that is what it is. He left a note for me.’

  Dr Hirschfeld rubbed his eyes, and Sophie saw all the tears he had once shed for the young man in the action. ‘He said that despite his best efforts, he could not control his desires for other men, nor had he the strength to tell his parents about them. The poor boy could not even use the phrase homosexual, so abhorrent was it to him. His body and his mind had become abhorrent to himself. Can there be a fate much worse? But he ended the note by saying that the thought that I, Dr Hirschfeld, could contribute to a future when the German Fatherland would think of people like himself with more justice, sweetened the hour of his death.’

  Dr Hirschfeld looked around the table. ‘No, he was not my lover, as my detractors say. He was a young man I loved as a patient, nothing more, nor did he feel more for me. But in all my travels across the world, in every culture, it is the same. So many, many young men and women kill themselves, self-murder, because society cannot acknowledge what is true.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Nigel quietly. Once again he had eaten almost nothing.

  ‘That some women love only women and some men love only men. Others love only the other sex; and others love men and women both. Some may be born with the features of a man or a woman, but the heart and soul that is the other. I have given these people the name “transvestite”.

  ‘What of someone who might feel a wish to be both, at different times?’ Nigel’s tone was politely conversational.

  ‘Perhaps it is because society will not let them combine the role of male and female at one time? Or perhaps they are both. Do we all not become different people in different circumstances? The son is not the same person as the father, or the husband. Why then can a man not be a woman, or a woman a man, at times too? Who can choose who they truly are? Who can choose who to love? Why must they choose? Surely it is the love that matters. If we are all made in the image of God, then each one of us is beautiful.’

  Sophie carefully forked up endive.

  ‘True. So very true,’ murmured Elizabat.

  ‘And so it is my life’s work to free sexuality from its prison, so it can flower and we can bloom with it.’ Dr Hirschfeld replaced his glasses, but did not eat, as if he still remained with the tragedy of that long-ago death.

  ‘We have just seen a club,’ said Nigel expressionlessly, ‘where that kind of thing was celebrated.’

  ‘I do
ubt it,’ said Dr Hirschfeld flatly. ‘I imagine you were taken to a club that delights in the shock, the decadence, that perverts the true innocence of loving sexual desire to make money. Do you think that all those whom you saw felt the desires they pretended? There are many like that in Berlin today, some greedy, many desperate to survive. Those are not what I talk about.’

  He looked steadily at Nigel. ‘There are other clubs, clubs for the sincere, and for those like us, who wish to show that we accept them and do not simply seek amusement. There is one I know well.’ He smiled. ‘It even has an English name, the Seahorse Club, not far from my clinic. A former patient of mine owns it. It is not a place where the half-naked do the tango. You may drink coffee, or perhaps schnapps. You may eat a quiet meal with good conversation. It is a café like any other good café in the city, but it is also a place where those who feel their bodies do not fit with what society expects may be truly free.’

  ‘Free for an hour, or an evening?’ asked Nigel. He sounds as if he is only making polite conversation, thought Sophie. She hoped no one else could see the slight rigidity of his hands as he held his knife and fork.

  What would life be like for her, for Nigel, if he were free? If they were both free, with no personal or social repercussions for their children, or political damage to James’s intelligence network, if society just acknowledged that life and love could be gloriously diverse as long as that love was good, and she could openly live with, love, be married to the person she loved as both Lily and Nigel, and who loved her?

  She looked around the room. How could matters of such importance be confined in this conventional setting, the cutlery just so, the plates the prescribed thumb length from the edge of the table, despite Elizabat’s claim of freedom in matters of the body?

  ‘People should be free for their whole lives,’ said Dr Hirschfeld fiercely, ‘and that is what we fight for. And too long humanity has pretended a woman must be only her ovaries, a child bearer, the servant of her husband. For too long we have held that the only true man is the blue-eyed warrior — I mean no offence, sir, to your blue eyes or military background.’

  ‘I do not think of myself as a warrior,’ said Nigel quietly.

  ‘That is good. For that is not who we humans are at our heart.’

  ‘Then who are we?’ asked Sophie. To her shock she liked this man, trusted him. If Herr Hitler was as surprisingly insightful as Dr Hirschfeld perhaps Hannelore had been right to bring them here. She wondered what Dr Hirschfeld thought of Herr Hitler. Possibly, probably, he disliked him, having been beaten by fascists. But she could not ask. It would antagonise Hannelore, and today was too delicate already. But the followers were not the man. Nothing she had read about Herr Hitler seemed to indicate he would support Dr Hirschfeld’s work. Indeed, he seemed against all forms of . . . decadence. But then so did every politician. What were Herr Hitler’s true beliefs, ones he might not share openly — yet? Herr Hitler himself might be more intelligent and open-minded than his reputation suggested.

  ‘We do not know who we are,’ said Dr Hirschfeld. ‘Not yet. How can we? Once I thought I knew. But now?’ He shrugged. ‘When we have lived rightly, openly, with love and compassion and sexual freedom for many years, let us ask the question then and it may be answered.’ Once again he looked at Nigel. ‘Will you inspect my clinic before you leave?’

  Nigel shook his head. ‘It sounds fascinating, sir. But I am due back in London in a few days. Another time, perhaps. But we could see the Seahorse Club tonight, after our meeting. A short visit only, before we dine.’

  Hannelore made a small sound of protest. ‘But Lily is coming tonight,’ she said, sounding truly anxious.

  Sophie glanced at her quickly, then lowered her eyes to her nut roast. Why did Nigel want to complicate an already difficult evening? Or perhaps this was part of a plan . . . Green as Miss Lily might arrive, talk with Elizabat, then leave on some excuse . . .

  ‘It will only be a short visit,’ Nigel said. ‘Lily intends to come back with us to England for a few months, so I’m sure she won’t mind missing our company for another half-hour.’

  Sophie once again forced herself to focus on her nut roast, to slice a Brussels sprout. That was obviously not the plan, then. Of all places, Shillings was where Greenie couldn’t possibly successfully impersonate Miss Lily when Nigel was there too, and where she was accessible to Hannelore or anyone else who came to call.

  Anger simmered, mixed with anxiety. Why wasn’t Nigel confiding in her? Had he reverted to his old life with Green and Jones, thinking she was too inexperienced in intrigue to be included?

  Nigel nodded politely to Dr Hirschfeld, and then to Elizabat. ‘Will you excuse me? I must ask Jones to find a telephone to send a telegram for me.’ He smiled at Hannelore. ‘I’d like to confirm to His Royal Highness that we will still be seeing Herr Hitler this afternoon. I am sure he will want to be free for a briefing as soon as possible.’

  David was more likely spending the evening in a nightclub and would remember Herr Hitler only when Nigel returned, or when Hannelore smiled at him again. What was this so urgent telegram?

  ‘Of course,’ said Elizabat, as the nut roast was removed — almost as much as had been brought in — and a far more tempting-looking savoury of tiny mushroom dumplings in a tarragon sauce replaced it.

  Chapter 53

  For years I thought that if enough people of goodwill worked together war might be avoided. But it only takes one spear for a whole flight of arrows to follow. One day, perhaps, the human race might outgrow war, just as we are beginning to put aside cockfights, bear-baiting and prisoners torn apart by lions for our sport. One day. Perhaps.

  Miss Lily, 1919

  What did one wear to meet a lower-class politician who had the patronage of a prinzessin and other royalty, or former royalty at least. And five o’clock was such a difficult time, unless it were a cocktail party, which this most certainly was not. Hannelore had said Herr Hitler was abstemious, as well as vegetarian, and even abhorred the smoking of cigarettes.

  ‘Greenie, what dress do you think?’ Her maid was staring out the window at the trees lining the footpath below. ‘Greenie?’

  What was wrong with Green today? Green glanced back. ‘Any of the dresses on the bed should be suitable.’

  Sophie looked at the assembled dresses: no red or claret colours, she noticed, not for a politician so fervently anti-Bolshevik. An off-white shantung silk with draped collar, three-quarter sleeves and brown trim, almost business-like; a plain green, silk, armless sheath with a matching high collared coat, decorated along the edges with small jade beads; or a dark blue linen dress piped in white.

  These were quite different looks. She could ask Hannelore what Herr Hitler might prefer . . .

  She was being stupid. Herr Hitler was supposed to be impressing them, not the other way around. ‘The green silk,’ she declared. ‘Then if we go on to the café afterwards you can remove the coat and give me the green and gold chignon wrap and gold headband. I’ll need to change my shoes too.’

  ‘I won’t be with you,’ said Green. ‘I gather that Prinzessin Hannelore has arranged a motorcar for you all. There isn’t room for me.’

  ‘We can take both cars then,’ said Sophie impatiently.

  ‘I need to be here,’ said Green. ‘You forget, Miss Lily is supposed to arrive tonight. I need to prepare.’

  Sophie looked at her carefully. ‘I expect Nigel will say she has been detained. Or flatly tell Hannelore he does not think his sister or His Royal Highness should support their National Socialists, and so Lily must see Herr Hitler alone tomorrow,’ she suggested, giving Greenie the opportunity to tell her more.

  Green turned, and began to take out the jewels suitable for the green dress.

  ‘Is he really going to attempt a quick change as soon as we get back?’ demanded Sophie. ‘That won’t work — Elizabat will expect to see Lily arrive. Unless Nigel plans to climb out the window . . .’

  Green was still
silent.

  ‘Please tell me you are not going to try to impersonate Lily here. Hannelore knows her too well. You might convince her at a distance, but she’d realise you weren’t Lily after a few words.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Green flatly.

  ‘But you do know what Nigel has planned?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Green simply.

  ‘And yet you don’t tell me? I thought we were friends.’ And Nigel was her husband. She was astonished at the degree of pain she felt. Jones, Green and Nigel or Lily had been together for so many years, but she had thought she was one of them by now.

  ‘The plans have to keep changing with circumstance,’ said Green, not without sympathy. ‘They’ve had to change again today. Nigel says it’s best that you don’t know.’

  ‘Why?’ Sophie tried to keep the hurt and anger from her voice. ‘So you three don’t have to bother to keep me informed of the latest changes?’

  ‘Sophie, my dear.’ Greenie rarely used ‘your ladyship’ now, even in public. But neither did she often use Sophie’s name. ‘Because you need to look surprised.’

  ‘I can look surprised.’ Anger was taking over. ‘I am extremely good at pretending emotions I do not feel, like charming army officers who want to send soldiers suffering from shell shock back to the front line. If I could manage to look as if I found those officers a delight instead of wanting to bite their ankles I can manage anything.’

  ‘Sophie.’ Green spoke softly. Sophie was surprised to see tears in her eyes. ‘This is going to be hard. I don’t just mean hard to pretend. I . . . I am not sure I can bear it.’

  ‘Greenie, what on earth —?’

  ‘Don’t ask what is happening. Please, just don’t ask. Don’t ask Nigel or Jones. Just know that we do have a plan, and that Miss Lily will be here tonight and, if all goes well, the Prinzessin Hannelore will swear for the rest of her life that Nigel and Lily are two, not one, and that she should never have suspected otherwise.’

  ‘But that isn’t possible!’