Wally bought two dozen Meissen plates and three pairs of branched candlesticks. Wally says she finds Mr. Ley overfamiliar, but he’d arranged private visits to the most exclusive shops and really nothing seems to be too much trouble for him.
Tomorrow HRH has to go to Potsdam to inspect a flap-valve factory. He was keen for us to go with him, but we have hair appointments, and Mr. Ley has more shopkeepers expecting us. We can hardly disappoint them.
13th October 1937
To the Kranzler coffee house for ice cream. Wally has let it be known she’s seen two pieces of Biedermeier that would be very acceptable as late wedding gifts, should anyone ask: a walnut secretary, and a four-drawer dresser with some very pretty marquetry. Tonight, to Mr. Ley’s home for drinks. It’s a pity he picks his teeth.
14th October 1937
Everyone who’s anyone in Germany was at Mr. Ley’s last evening. Very few of the wives though, which suited Wally. She always prefers a room full of men. She quite monopolized Mr. Speer, but I made a great hit with Colonel Jodl, who offered me the use of his hunting lodge. What I’d do there I can’t imagine.
Champagne in abundance, mountains of caviar and pretzels, and a Tyrolean band playing HRH’s favorite music. A gay evening, which ended with scowling faces and HRH pulling out of the luncheon he was supposed to attend tomorrow.
Dudley Forwood says it’s to do with a newspaperman called Streicher, who’s on the guest list for a luncheon. Apparently, Mr. Streicher just published a story stating that Wally has Jewish blood. Too ridiculous for words. We didn’t have Jews at Oldfields. Hattie Erlanger once hinted that Ernest was slightly Jewish, but even that’s nothing to do with anything anymore. Ernest Simpson is history, and Mr. Streicher should check his facts.
Tonight to the opera.
15th October 1937
A difficult evening. HRH still simmering about Mr. Streicher’s slur and dragging his feet over Lohengrin, and then, when we arrived at the Opera House, Mrs. Goebbels was wearing a white taffeta identical to Wally’s. Wally carried hers better, and her diamonds outshone all the Germans put together, but still, it quite ruined our entrance and was an unforgivable gaffe on the part of the vendeuse. HRH felt that Mrs. Goebbels should have withdrawn, but, of course, she didn’t have the wit to do it. She’s just a milch cow with her head full of feeding schedules and baby ailments. They say Dr. Goebbels can send for any movie actress who takes his fancy. Extraordinary. To me, he looks like a little goblin in a surgical boot, but Wally talked to him and she says he has a brilliant mind and a voice like black velvet. She’d better not share that observation with HRH.
The opera went on for hours, and as Guests of Honor, we felt obliged to stay to the end, though one act is surely enough for anyone.
Today, we visited with the Air Marshal Hermann Goerings. They say he used to cut a dashing figure, but now he wears his trousers hoisted far too high. Emmy Goering is very vivacious and a former movie star. I wonder whether Dr. Goebbels had her? She’d just learned that she’s expecting a child, and so Hermann was like a dog with two tails. He said, “When my son is born, one thousand planes will fly overhead in salute.”
A German tradition, I suppose, but I wonder people don’t just send flowers. So much quieter.
Hermann and HRH played with a magnificent electric train set while Emmy gave us tea and a tour of the garden.
17th October 1937
While HRH has been descending into coal mines and inspecting new highways, Wally and I have visited two kindergartens, three hospitals, and an institute for old soldiers with no legs. It’s so hard to know what to say to such people. We were also subjected to an overly detailed demonstration of the manufacture of synthetic rubber, which made us so late returning to the hotel the manicurist had to rush, and I went to the Saxe-Coburg dinner with a smudged left hand. If this relentless busyness is a taste of what Wally has let herself in for, I pity her. At least I can get Hattie or someone to take over as Lady-in-Waiting, but for Wally, there’ll be no such escape. No one can stand in for the Duchess of Windsor. I begin to understand her flashes of bitterness.
If David had hung on to his throne and kept her quietly in the wings, she would have had none of these tiresome duties—smiling at cripples, admiring fat babies, showing an interest in welding processes. That side of the business could have been left to Elizabeth York and Marina Kent. I’m sure it’s the kind of thing they enjoy.
18th October 1937
A display of flag-twirling by the League of German Maidens. Tomorrow, dinner with dear Prince Louis Ferdinand and his mother, then, on Friday, we visit with President Hitler. Wally is still set on wearing the dark blue coatdress and a little felt hat. I can’t think why. If all these cheerful flags and banners flying along Unter den Linden are any indication, Mr. Hitler is rather fond of red. I’m going to wear my scarlet twill.
We went a different route to avoid traffic and saw some of those shops with Jewish star placards in the window. Mr. Ley says they are public information notices, to save Jewish people wandering into stores that sell things like blood sausage, forbidden to them by their religion. Not at all the impression Kitty Rothschild gave.
19th October 1937, Cecilienhof, Potsdam
Crown Princess Cecilie may be a Romanov and a Mecklenberg and a great many other unpronounceable things, but her house is of a comfortably manageable size and quite reminded me of houses I’ve seen in Surrey.
Louis Ferdinand as adorable as ever. He thinks he’s found a wife, one of his Russian cousins. He says she’s not only extremely suitable but also good and beautiful. Still, I always rather hoped he’d marry a nice American girl. He’s working in an airplane factory now and quite enjoying it. Hudson’s choice, I suppose. There’s no work for Royalties in Germany at present.
While Wally was freshening up, Cecilie told me that Hitler is rumored to have moving pictures of her, taken when we were on the Nahlin. She said, “They say he plays them all the time. He must have quite a crush on her!”
I’m afraid the Fuehrer may be in for a disappointment. Emaciated women may photograph well, but in the flesh, they lack the bloom of natural good health. There’s a happy medium between the stoutness of German women and Wally’s sharp angles, and there’s no better example than myself.
Louis F. says von Ribbentrop is on the outs, and Mr. Hess and Mr. Speer are the darlings of the moment.
Tomorrow, Munich. A demonstration of butter-churning and a youth concert.
20th October 1937, Bayerischer Hof, Munich
Forwood says Friday’s meeting will be strictly between HRH and the Fuehrer, and that Wally and I will just be shown around the gardens. Forwood obviously hasn’t heard what Crown Princess Cecilie has!
22nd October 1937, Goldene Ente, Salzburg
Today we visited with President Hitler. We were given a trout luncheon at a wayside hostelry, then driven up to the Berghof in time for tea. As our car approached the house, Forwood let out a great whoop of laughter.
He said, “Good grief, it looks like something a builder just put up in Middlesex.”
Forwood has a certain side to him. I thought it was a charming house, and with matchless mountain views. Also, it’s in a very select neighborhood. The Albert Speers have built nearby, and the Martin Bormanns are just a little farther up the road, so everyone knows everyone, rather like West Palm Beach.
As Wally got out of the car, Mr. Hitler came trotting down the steps to greet her. He has a pasty face and is rather short in the leg. He was wearing patent leather evening shoes and an ugly brown jacket, but was all smiles and not at all overwrought as he always appears to be in the newsreels. He and HRH spoke in German, and then the three of them set off up the steps. Forwood and I were rounded up by two aides and taken in by a different door to meet his fiancée. Miss Eva Brown.
Well, Eva may style herself “fiancée,” but she wears no ring. She’s a natural blonde, average figure, very young. She calls the President “Uncle Fuehrer.” We went to her sad little s
itting room. Cheap chintzes, animal pictures torn from magazines, a small shelf of novelettes. Tea and éclairs were served, and she showed us her collection of glass animals. She’d been kept strictly off-stage during our arrival and so was eager for information about Wally’s clothes. She chattered away so inanely Forwood had difficulty keeping up as our interpreter.
Does the Duchess wear a foundation garment? What’s her favorite scent? Had Uncle Fuehrer presented her with flowers? What are her dogs’ names? Has she seen the new Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald movie?
There’s no date fixed for a wedding. She said the Fuehrer is too busy at present. She said she’d so wanted to meet Wally and His Royal Highness, but protocol prevents it until she becomes Mrs. Hitler. I don’t see why. HRH always presented Wally to everyone, even when she was still married to Ernest. The Germans are such sticklers.
She clung to my arm when we got the word that HRH and Wally were ready to leave, doing everything she could think of to delay our departure, but she didn’t come out with us to our car. Not allowed, I suppose.
Once Wally and HRH had climbed into their motor, I seized my opportunity. I caught the Fuehrer’s eye. I told Forwood to tell him how glorious his zinnia beds were and that I hoped he and Eva would have a lovely wedding. Soon.
I received a very cordial bow. I wish I could have had more time to talk with him though. For one thing, I should have liked to recommend Dr. Prilstein’s Tonic Iron Pastilles. I’m sure he’d benefit from them.
Forwood said, “Don’t be disappointed. I don’t think ladies-in-waiting usually get to speak. You and I are just spear carriers, after all.”
Spear carriers! I said, “Speak for yourself. If it weren’t for me, the Duchess of Windsor would still be having her gowns made by a little seamstress in Cromwell Road.”
HRH is full of their visit. He said, “We hit it off immediately. He’s a thoroughly agreeable sort and only wants a fair deal for his country. Who can fault a man for that? All this scaremongering by men like Eden is so much nonsense. I told him, as far as I’m concerned, there must be no more wars between Britain and Germany, and he agreed with me. We’re all of the same blood, after all. Go back far enough, and we’re all Huns.”
Well, I’m not. Father’s people were from Richmond, Virginia, and Mother was one of the Washington Woodhams.
Wally also very smitten. The Fuehrer told her she’d have made a very fine Queen and that her day will yet come. He’d showed her the view from his panoramic window, clear across into Austria. She says he has artistic hands and eyes as blue as a mountain lake. I must say, he put me in mind of a ventriloquist’s doll.
Tomorrow, we turn for home.
28th October 1937, Meurice Hotel, Paris
Two more secretaries started today, but we’re still working against the clock, to finish the letters of thanks for the wedding gifts and finalize our U.S. engagements. I’d have thought it was enough to have a letter that says Thank you for the gift and just run off however many copies, but Wally insists that we personalize each one by filling in the blank. Thank you for the most useful shooting stick. Thank you for the thoughtful lobster hammers. So tiresome.
Tea with Ena Spain.
2nd November 1937
Our luggage was dispatched to Cherbourg this morning, but there is a small cloud on the horizon. Since the newspapers reported Wally and David’s tea party with Mr. Hitler, the Jewish lobby in America has been putting people under pressure to cancel our engagements. They say no one who is a friend of Germany can be a friend of Jews, which is not at all fair. The Eugene Rothschilds are Jews, and HRH stayed with them for months. Also, it’s not Germans in general who dislike Jews, nor even the Fuehrer. It’s Mr. Streicher who’s the problem and, as Wally says, he’s of minor importance in the coming Germany. She laughed off his slurs, and the Anti-Defamation League might learn to do the same.
4th November 1937
Our trip to America now hangs in the balance. The New York longshoremen have said they won’t unload the Bremen if it has bedfellows of the German National Socialists on board. Hardly bedfellows. All we did was pay a few visits, exchange gifts and pleasantries, and oil the wheels of international goodwill, something these Communists don’t understand. I think we should just quietly change to a different sailing, but Freddie Crosbie says it makes no difference. Whether HRH deliberately climbed into bed with Hitler or got there by sleepwalking, the damage is done. He says David and Wally are now labeled as Nazi sympathizers and don’t have a snowball-in-hell’s chance of slipping unnoticed into the United States.
HRH is going to speak to the press tomorrow morning, to clear up the whole misunderstanding.
5th November 1937
America is off. Charlie Bedaux wired this afternoon that he could no longer guarantee the success of the tour, because of adverse union propaganda. Also, that at the request of the British Ambassador, the State Department would not be according Wally royal status. That was what decided HRH. He canceled immediately.
It’s such a waste. All our wonderful new gowns, all those people who are going to be disappointed. Pips was on the telephone the very moment she heard. She said, “Well, Freddie did try to warn you.”
I said, “Freddie didn’t see what a huge success Germany was. We had no problems there with trade unions and people refusing to curtsy.”
She said, “Maybell, you’re spending too much time with that pair. You’re losing touch with reality.”
I think Pips may be envious of my position.
Wally’s blaming the New Bunch for our predicament.
She said, “Bunny and his Cook again! They have wall-to-wall advisers on foreign affairs and could easily have spared one to pop over here and explain the political nuances to HRH, instead of allowing him to go ahead and get into this scrape.”
I don’t know. I’m not sure he’s disposed to listen to people from Westminster anymore. Still, let’s hope sanity prevails and I shall get my chance to spurn Nora Sedley Cordle.
7th November 1937
The Bremen sailed without us, our luggage is sitting in some quayside shed, and Charlie Bedaux has checked out of the New York Plaza, destination unknown. The whole business has been a disaster.
Elsie Mendl is giving us a consolatory dinner.
13th November 1937
A wonderful evening at Elsie Mendl’s. Her help all wore stars and stripes, and she had hired an all-girl saxophone band to play for us after dinner. Came: the old Queen of Egypt, the Dimitri Shapaleffs, Henri and Alix Piston-LeRupin, Lucky Patrice, and Count Maximilian Finto. Nazli Egypt wore a Molyneux gown and a rivière of brilliants and cognac diamonds. I’d rather expected her to be shrouded in black.
15th November 1937
Flowers from Maxi Finto. I think I have an admirer.
17th November 1937
Ernest Simpson and Mary Kirk are to be married tomorrow in Fairfield, Connecticut. Wally says he still carries an enormous torch for her, but I think she was just having a bad day. This damned rain has kept David off the golf course for a week now.
More flowers from the Count. He wants dinner. Elsie Mendl says he has a spread somewhere in South America. When he’s in Europe, he just stays with people.
20th November 1937
Herman and Kath Rogers are going to the States for Christmas and have offered Wally and David their house. Tonight, I dine with my Count Maxi! He sent an orchid.
21st November 1937
Confined to bed with the repercussions of sauerkraut garni. Maxi said he thought a brasserie would be more fun than going to Grand Vefour yet again. He’s a fascinating man. Mother was Irish, father Italian, born in Argentina. He used to raise cattle until he had a bad polo accident. Now he does this and that. Green eyes and still a fine head of black hair. My wrap still smells of his bay rum hair dressing. It made me quite nostalgic for Brumby.
He calls me “May-belle” and is very attentive. He wanted to know everything about me and hardly told me anything about himself, bu
t he does seem to be unattached. He’s avid to see me again before he leaves for Paraguay on Tuesday. A business trip of some kind, and quite unavoidable.
Wally’s invited Lily Drax-Pfaffenhof and the Bernie Cavetts to Cannes for Christmas.
I said, “Does that mean you can spare me?”
She said, “As long as you’re back by the middle of January. We have to get down to house-hunting.”
She’s going to show La Croe to David while they’re down there at Christmas, and then decide on a Paris house in the New Year. The Meurice is delightful, but with a hotel, there’s always the problem of security. She says she lies awake listening for assassins.
HRH has no idea where he wants to live. “Whatever you think, my darling,” he says. She could propose moving to Greenland, and he’d go along with it.
22nd November 1937
Count Maximilian Finto says I’m never out of his mind. A single rosebud arrived with my breakfast tray, a signed book of love poems was delivered while I was out to lunch, and Maxi himself appeared at seven to whisk me away to Boulevard St.-Germain for grilled pigs’ feet.
If Nora Sedley Cordle could only see me now!
Gone With the Windsors Page 39
