In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Then Irene ran down the steps to join her smiling husband who once again helped her into the car. Waving towards the porch he eased himself into the driving seat and the car roared into life.

  An arm fluttered from either side as it sped down the drive, through the double row of plane trees, out of sight.

  Eliza, clutching Louise firmly by the hand, waved, as did the rest of the family until the car disappeared. But instead of a happy smile, her expression was one of anxiety at the thought of the uncertain future ahead, not only for the newly married couple, but for all those present, especially the young.

  Irene and Alexander sat close together on the balcony of the villa, hands linked. In front of them a great swathe of moonlight seemed to cut the water of the lake in two, one side dark, the other light, like day and night. Around them towered the mountains, an unseen but almost palpable presence. It was true there were soldiers in the town of Como but no other signs of warlike preparation, and the soldiers had a festive air as though they were on holiday. Despite the fact that Italy and Germany had signed a pact of steel pledging a military alliance it was all extraordinarily peaceful.

  On a table next to them was a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, two tall glasses half full of amber-coloured liquid. Irene wore a long white dress simply cut with a deep V neckline, white sandals on her feet and a broad gold choker round her neck. Her fingers were adorned with heavy, ornate antique rings set with large stones beside which her wedding ring and even her ruby and diamond engagement ring seemed insignificant.

  They were in Alexander’s villa by the side of Lake Como, a place he had bought as a retreat from the pressures of his busy life. By day they walked in the mountains or lay basking in the sun on the terrace, and Irene’s tanned body radiated health. Her make-up, her orange-coloured lipstick blended perfectly with her tan and her gleaming dark curls.

  Alexander thought he was more in love with her every day and not only with her beauty but with her sweetness of disposition, the nobility of her character, her generosity of nature. He leaned forward to pour more wine into their glasses and, as he sat back, his lips caressed her cheek and she eagerly turned her mouth to him in response.

  “Something like this should never end,” he murmured.

  “I think I could stay here for ever,” Irene replied. “Only we can’t, can we?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Did she love it too?”

  “She?” Alexander turned to her enquiringly.

  “Mary.”

  “Yes. I bought the villa for her as a wedding present. Only she never saw it again.”

  “It must have been dreadful for you.”

  “It was. Dreadful.” He sighed heavily.

  “I remember her very well. She was so terribly pretty, like a doll.” As Alexander continued to gaze broodingly over the water, Irene went on, “Does talking about her upset you?”

  He turned to her reassuringly. “Not at all. I don’t think we should forget her, but you must remember that now you’re my wife and I love you. My love for Mary is locked away, maybe in the grave with her. I mourned her, but I don’t think that means I don’t deserve another life.”

  “Of course it doesn’t.” She clasped his hand. “If it upsets you to be here ...”

  “No. It doesn’t. It is a happy place. Father and Sally became engaged here, made love here for the first time I believe. It is happy and peaceful, but how long it will remain so ...” He paused. “But let’s not talk about the war.”

  “There may not be one.”

  “No one seems to be trying very hard to stop it.”

  “Darling ...”

  “Yes?”

  “If there is a war, if it is declared, what will you do?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. Join up, I suppose. I expect my call-up papers any day.”

  “The army?”

  “No. The air force as I love flying.” His hand closed over hers. “Darling, don’t spoil this lovely evening. Drink up and we’ll go and have some dinner.”

  Every night they ate at a different restaurant usually within walking distance of the villa. Then they strolled back and, after a final nightcap on the terrace, went to bed.

  This night was like the others that had gone before except that to Alexander Irene seemed preoccupied, not her usual sparkling self. He wondered if the talk before dinner on the terrace had upset her. Or if it was because it was officially the last night of their honeymoon. The next day they were due to go to Venice to fetch Netta and return with her to England.

  “It seems as though you haven’t enjoyed the evening, darling,” he said handing her a brandy once they were back on the terrace.

  “Oh no!” Startled she looked up. “It’s been wonderful. Every evening, every moment with you is wonderful.”

  “Was it the talk about Mary – or the war?”

  “I am worried about the prospect of war, Alexander.” Carefully she put down her glass without touching the contents, then groped in her bag for a cigarette which Alexander darted forward to light. Then he lit one for himself and sat down beside her.

  “What makes you bring it up now?” He looked perplexed. “I feel further away from the war here than I do at home. In fact I never thought about it until tonight.”

  “I think about it all the time ... my friends in Germany. Alexander, I have a particular friend, Stella Schapiro, who still lives in Berlin. We were at art school together and shared an apartment. I am somehow very anxious about Stella. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

  “When we get back I’ll ask Bart –”

  “No, Alexander.” Her hand rested on his arm. “I want to go myself to Stella to try and persuade her of the danger and to leave Berlin. I worry about her and Ernst her boyfriend.”

  “Perhaps she has left already?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she hasn’t or she would have contacted me.”

  Suddenly the night which had been so wonderful, so full of promise seemed fraught with anxiety and fear.

  “Irene you can’t possibly go yourself,” Alexander exploded. “I forbid it.”

  “But you can’t forbid it Alexander.” A steely note entered her voice. “Even though I am your wife I have rights, you know.”

  “I am perfectly aware of that but you forget how much I love you, how frantic I would be if anything happened to you.”

  “Nothing will happen to me,” she said firmly. “I am married to an Englishman. I have a British passport. My name is Martyn not Schwartz. You don’t think there are any English people in Berlin? There are plenty of English people in Berlin. We are not at war, you know. I will slip in and out, hopefully to return with Stella.”

  “But what if she is already in a concentration camp?”

  “She is not. I heard from her not so long ago. She sounded happy. Her boyfriend isn’t Jewish and she feels safe. She doesn’t want to leave him.”

  “Then let him take care of her.”

  “Alexander, I don’t know how you can be so cruel.”

  “Darling, I am not cruel; but the thought of you going to Berlin just now terrifies me.”

  “Well it doesn’t terrify me,” she said firmly. “I can slip over there and be back before you know I’ve gone, especially from Italy since Mussolini and Hitler are such friends.”

  “I forbid it,” Alexander said, and his mouth closed in a thin stubborn line. “If necessary I’ll prevent you by force.”

  That night for the first time on their honeymoon they didn’t make love but kept to their own sides of the bed.

  Connie said, “I’m so sorry we missed the wedding. Paolo hasn’t been well.” She looked anxiously over at her husband who sat upright in his chair and obligingly coughed as if to confirm what she’d said.

  “You worry too much, my darling. Have some more of this veal, Irene. It is very good.”

  “It is very good,” smiling, Irene shook her head, “but no more, thanks.” She looked pale and tired after two sleepless nights, the r
esult of the first serious disagreement she and Alexander had had since they had known each other. She knew his reaction had been inspired by fear, by love, but still it showed a new and authoritative side of him that worried her.

  They had arrived the previous day in Venice to pick up Netta and take her home with them, the honeymoon now at an end.

  Connie had married Count Colomb-Paravacini in 1934 following her divorce from Carson. She was fifty-two and he was seventeen years her senior but had long adored her, even before her marriage to Carson, and when it had broken up he was there by her side like a faithful old dog. In appearance he resembled a typical English gentleman: tall, with twinkly eyes, a noble bald dome with a white fringe, and a white moustache.

  The Palazzo Colomb-Paravacini on its fourteenth-century foundations overlooked the Grand Canal in a position of unparalleled magnificence. They sat now in the grand dining room with strong thick stone walls, built to keep out the enemy and perhaps also the winter chill, hung with fabulous tapestries. The mullioned windows provided a wonderful view of the ancient city across the Canal.

  Netta had greeted her half-brother with wild excitement and kept wriggling in her chair interrupting the conversation of the grown-ups.

  “Anyone would think you were glad to leave me,” her mother said with a rueful smile. Connie had the look of the well-bred, quintessential English woman. She was tall and slim, small breasted, her brown hair streaked with grey, fine lines round her mouth and eyes. She had never been a beauty but had aged gracefully and well. She wore gold-framed spectacles which gave her a rather stern, studious air.

  “She wants to see her brothers again,” Paolo said tactfully. “We shall miss her.”

  “Will Netta be coming back?” Alexander asked.

  “Of course.” Paolo looked surprised. “I hope the boys too will be here for the rest of the summer. Why should they not be?”

  “Well,” Alexander cleared his throat, “the international situation...”

  “Oh, you’re talking of war.” Paolo leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped the table with his fingers. “Frankly I don’t think there will be one. The powers will come to their senses. Mussolini is a strong influence on Hitler and he is a good man.”

  “Mussolini is a good man?” Irene exclaimed putting down her knife and fork. “After what happened in Abyssinia?”

  “I am not talking about Abyssinia which, maybe, was regrettable – though we undoubtedly did have a claim to it, but he has done a lot for Italy, built magnificent new roads, railway stations.”

  “I don’t know how you can endorse his Fascist views.” Irene’s fine dark eyes gleamed dangerously, and Alexander became concerned on her behalf.

  “My dear,” Paolo gave a benign smile, “Italian Fascism is not like German Fascism. Mussolini is the best thing to have happened to this country in many years. He has introduced stability and re-established national pride. I am a monarchist, of course, but I have it on good authority that Mussolini and the King get on well. Did he not make Vittorio Emmanuel Emperor of Ethiopia?”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss politics.” Connie grew increasingly uneasy as the conversation progressed and hurriedly rang a little bell to summon the maid to serve the cheese. “I don’t want your time here to be spoilt by misunderstandings. Now, this afternoon – are we going to explore?”

  “Oh, yes please,” Irene said. “It is my first visit to Venice.”

  “But not the last, I hope,” Paolo said amiably. “You must understand, my dear, that Italy has had a very unhappy history of late and, but for Mussolini, it would have shared the fate of Russia and been overtaken by the communists.”

  “But what of the Jews?”

  “Oh, Mussolini would never harm the Jews. Italian Jews have nothing to fear from him.”

  After lunch Paolo stayed at home while Connie took Irene and Alexander on a tour of Venice beginning with a trip in the family gondola moored in front of the palazzo and operated by a stalwart member of the staff.

  Connie and Irene leaned back, straw hats shielding their faces from the sun. Alexander sat forward with Netta who couldn’t contain her excitement that they were to leave the following day for England in Alexander’s car which had been left on the mainland.

  Irene still felt tense from the conversation at lunch, and she feared she was becoming increasingly isolated from this family into which she had married, not in haste it was true, but perhaps she hadn’t found out enough about them, or the man who was now her husband. She and Connie stuck to non-controversial subjects; Connie was anxious to hear news of home, and Irene suspected that she was missing England. Connie wore a plain cotton frock, low-heeled sandals and one had the feeling that fashion was not her prime preoccupation. Irene had no difficulty seeing her, when married to Carson, as a sensible, practical countrywoman, pillar of the local community rather than as the wife of an elderly, aristocratic Italian with an admiration of Mussolini.

  “Do you really think you will stay here if there is a war?” she asked.

  “Oh, undoubtedly.” Connie seemed surprised by the question. “We have nothing to fear. I think Carson worries too much. The boys will be perfectly safe here and I shall insist they return.”

  “I don’t think he’ll let you.” Alexander caught the end of the conversation and moved towards them in the boat.

  “Carson will have to let me,” Connie said firmly. “We have a legal agreement about the children. It was part of the divorce settlement.”

  “Do you share Paolo’s view?” Alexander asked quietly. “I mean about Mussolini. You were very quiet at lunch.”

  Connie let a hand fall into the water as the gondola drew in towards St Mark’s Square, the boatman looking for a place to anchor and unload his passengers. Finally she said, “I do think Mussolini has done a lot of good. He has changed the whole structure of the country, improved the legal and educational systems, remodelled the army. You’ve no idea what the Italians are like! He needed dictatorial powers to control them. I don’t, personally, take to Signor Mussolini and his morals are very suspect. As an Englishwoman I disapprove of dictators but, yes, I do rather agree with Paolo and I do think Hitler’s Fascism is not like ours. I don’t like him at all. He is a thoroughly nasty little man.”

  “You know Irene is Jewish? She found what Paolo said rather offensive.”

  Connie nodded. “Yes I do know. We both do. Paolo is too much of a gentleman to wish to offend a guest. He thinks, we both think, that much of what is said about Germany is exaggerated, you know, about the treatment of the Jews, and we feel that everything will be done, should be done, by all the parties involved to prevent war.”

  Connie pulled her hat more firmly over her forehead and turned her gaze to the bank as though to say that that was the end of the matter.

  They alighted from the gondola and strolled in the sunshine round the square filled with tourists and flocks of hopeful, fluttering pigeons.

  They had tea in Florian’s and then Alexander and Irene went to look around St Mark’s while Connie took Netta to do some shopping.

  Dinner that night was eaten at nearby restaurant. Netta had stayed at home because it was intended that an early start should be made. Paolo went out of his way to be charming and even apologised to Irene if he had in any way offended her, assuring her that he had many Jewish friends in Venice and no one could possibly call him anti-Semitic.

  But still Alexander was glad when dinner ended. He would, on the whole, be relieved when their visit to Venice, indeed to Italy, was over. Most of the honeymoon had been wonderful but the last few days had not been a success, and he could see that Irene had withdrawn into a kind of shell, had become uncharacteristically uncommunicative and distant.

  He longed to get back to England, to reassure her of his love and to restore the very real sense of camaraderie that existed between them again.

  The window of their bedroom overlooked the canal and when Alexander joined Irene, who had gone up before him, he
found her leaning over the sill gazing across to the magically lit city on the other side. She wore a cream silk nightgown that reached to the floor.

  “It really is incredibly beautiful,” she said turning to him.

  But to Alexander the beauty was beside him, not outside, and, detecting a change in her mood, he put his arm tenderly around her.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry for what?” She leaned against him.

  “It’s been a bit of a fiasco. Sorry for the other night. I promise never again to come on with the heavy husband act.”

  “Then you will not try and stop me going to Berlin?”

  He pressed her closer. “My darling I don’t advise it. I will, at the very least, try and dissuade you. Look, this is the last night of our honeymoon. Let’s drop the subject shall we?”

  “If you wish, Alexander.” He felt her draw involuntarily away from him.

  “I’m surprised at Connie’s views,” he said in an attempt at appeasement. “About Mussolini. She is being swayed by her husband.”

  “They say a lot of upper-class English people support the Fascists. Look at Mosley. They supported Franco too.”

  “It’s simply because they feel threatened by communism; but I assure you my family are not pro-Fascist.” He gently drew aside her gown and kissed her bare white shoulder. “In this most romantic of all cities let’s make love,” he murmured.

  Alexander woke, aware of strong shafts of sunshine through the shutters. He groped for his watch and saw that it was already eight o’clock. He leaned upon his elbow and rubbed his face, looking to the place beside him for Irene.

  But she was already up. He got out of bed and threw back the shutters. It was a beautiful day for their drive. They should reach the frontier by tomorrow evening. He felt refreshed and invigorated despite the fact that he had had little sleep – he and his bride making up for lost time. He called to her, thinking she might be in the bathroom, but there was no reply.