The children are silent, near to bursting with anticipation. I cherish this moment; it makes worthwhile all the work I put into crafting a memorable Christmastime.
“Are you ready?” I ask through the crack in the door.
“Yes,” they call out in unison.
I fling open the double doors between the drawing room and the library to reveal the Christmas tree, aglow with the light of a hundred white wax candles. The children step into the golden light of the room, with Winston leading the rest of our immediate family, consisting only of our siblings and their families now that our parents are gone. We watch as the children chatter excitedly about the decor and the abundance of presents underneath the tree.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Winston whispers. We are careful not to reveal to Mary, who, at eight years of age, still believes in Saint Nicholas, the cogs in the machinery of Christmas.
“Do you think so?” I ask.
“I do. Just look at the expressions on the children’s faces.”
I pause for a moment and examine our son and daughters enjoying the golden spectacle. Innocent little Mary, her eyes luminous, squeals with delight over the tree candles, but Moppet is on hand to prevent her from touching their hot, dripping wax; my cousin would choose the company of the children over her adult family every time. Womanly Diana, twenty-one years old and a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, even though she has no real intention of becoming an actress, has shed her affected sophistication, giggling at her younger sister shaking the presents as she guesses at their contents. The stubborn, dramatic Sarah, still at North Foreland Lodge school at sixteen, has relinquished her sulkiness for a few minutes, and I can see a familiar childhood expression of wonder cross her face. Even nineteen-year-old Randolph, whose uncontrollable, sybaritic behavior at Oxford, no doubt due to Winston’s overindulgence and my lack of oversight, serves as a constant source of worry, looks jovial.
“They do look happy, don’t they?” I say with surprise. I am used to wariness, anxiety, or anger on their faces, a reflection, no doubt, of their feelings toward me.
“They have their noble mother to thank for their contentment,” he says rather too loudly, in a manner more befitting a speech than a tender compliment.
I know I should delight in the flattering remark, but I don’t. Winston wants to entomb me in my nobility, to make me part of the very structure of Chartwell, his idealized version of England in miniature. It suits him to ignore my foibles and view me as a sculpture of a perfect wife and mother, because a sculpture doesn’t have needs or desires. A sculpture doesn’t ask anything of him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
August 30, 1932
Blenheim and Munich, Germany
“Look there, Randolph,” Winston calls over to our son, eager to lure Randolph into his unquenchable adoration of his ancestor the First Duke of Marlborough. “That’s the very field where your ancestor fought his greatest battle, the Battle of Blenheim, for which our family palace is named.”
Randolph doesn’t answer; he is doing his best to pretend he is anywhere other than a Danubian field. Why does Winston insist on trying to engage him when he’s so rude in response? And why doesn’t my husband give him a proper dressing-down for his behavior? Instead, he indulges Randolph incessantly—even telling august dinner guests to be quiet while Randolph drones on—even though our twenty-one-year-old Oxford dropout has no accomplishments to warrant preferential treatment. Winston’s coddling of Randolph is a constant source of tension between us, perhaps even more than the divergence in our political views since Winston became a Conservative again. I know I’m not overreacting—as Winston is wont to accuse me—because I catch Lieutenant Colonel Pakenham-Walsh giving his wife an astonished look over Randolph’s insouciance.
Linking my arm through Winston’s, I walk him to another section of the field, away from the sulky Randolph. Normally, I would raise our son’s inappropriate behavior and discuss better approaches, but with the Pakenham-Walshes present, I simply want to change the dynamics. “Can you tell me more about the role of this field in the Battle of Blenheim?” I ask, even though I’ve heard enough about the legendary battle to last a lifetime. At this moment, in order to drag him away from Randolph, I’d even inquire about his views on Germany’s anger over the Treaty of Versailles’s strictures and the impact he believes it will have on Europe for decades to come, a topic he’s known to lecture on for hours to anyone who’ll listen, an increasingly small number.
Along with Randolph, Sarah, Lieutenant Colonel Pakenham-Walsh, and his wife, Winston and I have been touring the Low Countries and Germany to research battlefields for his Marlborough biography. It has been tedious, hot work, but I wouldn’t dream of allowing Winston to conduct it without me. Because of his cavalier attitude toward self-care, constant calamities befall him when he conducts research or travels alone, and in fact, just last year in late December, while on a lecture tour of the United States of America, he was struck by a car while crossing Fifth Avenue in New York City without looking, a fact that I attribute to his insistence that he visit the financier and political consultant Bernard Baruch while Diana and I stayed at the hotel. I shudder to think of how serious several of his past injuries might have been if I hadn’t been present. Accompanying him is one of my many wards against familial disaster. That and keeping him to a fixed schedule as a ward against the depression that looms now that he’s out of power.
When we leave the battlefield to return to Munich, we pass through a large swath of countryside. Battalions of brown-uniformed soldiers march across the flat field, practicing military maneuvers. I am surprised by the sheer number of men; I’d thought that the Treaty of Versailles prevented the Germans from gathering together large groups of soldiers.
Turning away from the window to ask Winston about this gathering, I’m taken aback by the expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“By God, that’s a lot of militia. And they are Brownshirts—Hitler’s boys.”
“That upstart?” While I’m quite familiar with Hitler and his Nazi party, I’d perceived his resentful rantings about the Treaty of Versailles, the economic depression, and mass unemployment, paired with his fervent national pride, to be stirrings of a mad outlier. One hears that his public speeches sound like the ravings of a lunatic. I never thought he’d catch on with the larger German populace. Now, watching this display of rabid Brownshirts, I am worried.
Suddenly leaning across me and Sarah, who sits between us, Winston draws closer to the open window.
“What on earth are you doing?” I ask.
“Shh.” He places a finger across his lips. In a moment, he says, “They’re singing ‘Horst Wessel Lied.’”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the Nazi Party anthem.”
* * *
The old-world European civility of the Regina Palast Hotel is a welcome respite from the fields of Blenheim and Brownshirts. The six of us sit down to afternoon tea, fanning ourselves madly in the cloying fug of the hotel restaurant. Only after a tea and a slightly stiffer drink do we relax and cool down, all except the very dramatic Sarah, who exclaims repeatedly that “she’s never been this hot in her life.” The Pakenham-Walshes must be terribly tired of our children by now and regretting their decision to join us on this trip.
“I say.” Randolph’s face appears unexpectedly animated after a long day of exaggerated boredom. “Is that Putzi over there?”
“What’s that you’re saying?” Winston asks, always ready to engage with his prodigal son.
Randolph waves to a blunt-featured man in a well-tailored gray suit sitting alone at the hotel bar. The man grins, waves back, and rises from his chair. As he walks over to our table, I ask, “Who is that, Randolph?”
“A fellow I met in Boston when I was on my speaking tour. He goes by Putzi, but his real name is Ernst Hanfstaengl.”
“A German chap?” Winston chimes in.
“Yes, but educated at Harvard. That’s what he was doing in Boston, meeting with classmates, if I recall correctly.”
Randolph rises to shake the man’s hand, and he makes introductions all around. We invite Putzi, as he insists we call him, to join us for a drink and dinner if he’s free. I wonder how this man, a cultured, well-spoken gentleman in his forties, came to know Randolph and what commonalities drew them together. They seem an odd pairing, unlikely to have crossed paths.
After a benign description of Winston’s research and our travel to the Blenheim fields, Randolph asks, “So what are you up to these days? I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t recall.”
“Well, we did have quite a few drinks that evening in Boston,” Putzi says with a chortle.
Randolph laughs. “That we did.” I didn’t doubt it; Randolph has been overindulging in alcohol since his teenage years. Sarah looks as though she’s tempted to make a scathing remark about Randolph’s drinking, but I silence her with a sharp glance. The Pakenham-Walshes have suffered through enough ill behavior from the Churchill children for one day.
Putzi answers, “The family business is publishing, but for some years, I have worked in various capacities for the Nazi Party, and I’m currently the press secretary.”
“Ah.” Randolph blanches. “I don’t think I realized that.”
Putzi’s expression remains pleasant and inscrutable. “I don’t think it came up in our conversation.”
The waiter arrives at our table, and we all order another drink and ask for the menus. I know who will take charge of this conversation as soon as the waiter departs—Winston. The opportunity to question an intimate of the Nazi Party will be too tempting to pass up.
“Randolph tells us you’re a Harvard man,” Winston says with a puff of his cigar. To a stranger, this question probably seems like a simple conversation starter. But I know it’s the beginning of an interrogation.
“Yes, I attended the university and actually was a member of the Hasty Pudding Club.”
“Ah, good chaps at the Hasty Pudding. Did you live in America afterward?”
“Yes, in New York. I took over the American branch of my father’s business, the Franz Hanfstaengl Fine Arts Publishing House, and married an American woman.”
“My mother was an American woman, and I don’t need to tell you what forces of nature they are,” Winston says with an almost indiscernible welling of tears in the corner of his eye. He still misses Jennie terribly. She comes up frequently in our conversations, and while I do not exactly miss her, I have a certain sadness over her passing, as I’d grown fond of her in her later years.
Putzi chuckles, “No, you don’t.”
I dive in. I know where Winston is going, and it might help his success to vary the questioner. “When did you and your wife move to Germany?”
“We moved back to Germany about ten years ago.”
“How does your wife like it? It’s quite different from America,” I ask, as if concerned about her shopping habits.
“She enjoys the cultural life of Germany quite a lot.”
“So you weren’t in Europe for the Great War?” Winston interrupts, his tone a touch more sympathetic now that he realizes that Putzi hadn’t fought against him.
“No. I spent the duration in New York.”
“Homesickness draw you back eventually?”
“Actually, a fellow Hasty Pudding member who worked at the U.S. embassy asked me to do him a favor when I was in town visiting family.”
“Oh really?” Winston busies himself with lighting a fresh cigar, as if he is uninterested but making conversation.
“Yes, he wanted me to observe a Nazi rally and report back. I don’t think he expected me to be so favorably impressed with Herr Hitler and his ability to unite and inspire the German people. So much so I moved back to Germany,” Putzi answers.
“That’s when you started working for the Nazi Party?”
“No, that’s when I became friends with Adolf. Only after I’d known him for some time and came to believe in his ability to energize Germany with a national spirit I thought lost after the Great War did I formalize my relationship with his party.”
I am simultaneously fascinated and repelled by the incongruity of this man’s sophistication and his support of Hitler. It makes no sense. Even though I know that the Nazi Party made gains in the number of seats it held in the German Parliament, I’d assumed those supporters were rougher sorts to whom Hitler’s rabble-rousing appealed. Not this sort of man, who calls Hitler by his first name.
“How will Hitler assuage Germany’s grievance over the Treaty of Versailles?” Winston jumps right into the most alarming aspect of the strange leader.
“He has no intention of waging a war of aggression, if that’s what you are concerned about.”
“I think that’s what everyone worries about,” Winston mutters.
“We did pass quite a lot of Brownshirts undertaking military maneuvers on our way back to Munich from the Blenheim fields. I thought that sort of thing wasn’t permitted,” I add, not mentioning the prohibition of the Treaty of Versailles by name. Salt in the wound and all that.
Putzi’s smile never falters. He must make an excellent press secretary, I think as he says, “The Treaty of Versailles prohibits Germany from assembling an army of certain size, among other restrictions. It says nothing about political parties forming military groups for their own protection.”
Ah, I think. That’s how Hitler is circumventing the law. Winston glances at me with a half smile curving on his lips. I must have asked a particularly good question.
Leaning toward us with an eager expression, Putzi says, “Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, I think that if you met Herr Hitler, you’d be reassured.”
“I’d welcome that opportunity.” Winston makes no effort to hide his excitement over the proffered introduction.
Putzi leaps to his feet. “If you are serious, I can bring Herr Hitler to meet you for coffee and dessert this evening.”
Winston takes a big puff of his cigar and says, “I am deadly serious.”
As Mr. Hanfstaengl hastens out of the hotel restaurant, the waiter returns to take our order. A nervous quiet settles over the six of us, until Lieutenant Colonel Pakenham-Walsh blurts out, “Well, that was an unexpected encounter.”
“Was it?” Winston says. “I’m not so sure. It seems awfully coincidental that Mr. Hanfstaengl happened to know Randolph and happened to be here alone at the hotel bar when we sat down for drinks.”
Randolph says, “Really, Papa. You do see conspiracy everywhere. He’s just a chap I met on speaking tour—”
Winston interrupts him. “Why do you think he made an effort to meet you on tour in the first place? Why do you think he made an effort to be here today? Me, of course.”
Randolph’s face turns bright red in fury, and he stands up, sending his chair toppling to the floor with a clatter that startles nearby diners. “Not everything is about you,” he yells, storming off into the hotel bar.
Winston puffs on his cigar, and the waiter arrives with our first course. Everyone grows silent in embarrassment at witnessing this very personal confrontation, and I do my best to make small talk about the next day’s plans. We review our itinerary to tour the countryside around the Blenheim fields, and Pakenham-Walsh talks about the maps he’s making for Winston’s research. Sarah has not uttered a word, cowed by either the impending arrival of Hitler or the lurking menace of her brother’s anger, or both. It’s behavior I would have expected from the meeker Diana, not the more outspoken Sarah.
As the first course plates are cleared away, I excuse myself. I walk in the direction of the ladies’ room but circle around a back hallway to the hotel bar, where I know Randolph is holed up. I want to make sure he doesn’t overdo his drinking.
As I suspected, Randolph sits at a dark corner of the bar, downing a beer. He’s on his third, by the looks of the empty glasses. “I don’t think your father meant to insult you, Randolph,” I say quietly.
“For once, I agree with you, Mama,” he answers without looking at me. “I don’t think it was his intention. But since he believes the entire world revolves around him, he can’t help himself. You of all people should know that.”
My body stiffens. “What do you mean by that?”
“Your whole existence focuses upon him and his requirements. He demands all of you, and there is no space left for your children to have needs.”
I know this, of course; I’ve always known this. But it is one matter to understand a terrible truth deep within the darkness of yourself and quite another to have someone else say it aloud. Especially when the one speaking is your child, who pays the price of that terrible truth.
His words send me reeling, and I half stumble out of the bar. Leaning against the wall outside the restaurant, I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. I feel as though I’ve been slapped, and even as I wonder whether I’ll recover, I know I must play my role. What else is left to me in any event? Randolph is right.
When I approach our table, I see that our main courses have been delivered and that Mr. Hanfstaengl has returned. But I see no sign of Hitler.
“Ah, Clemmie,” Winston greets me. “It seems as though Hitler wasn’t available after all.”
“A pity,” I say, although I’m relieved. After Randolph’s statement, I’m not certain I could handle the stress of an encounter with the infamously intense Hitler.
“Yes,” Mr. Hanfstaengl agrees. “I believe that, if you’d met Herr Hitler, you could have been put at your ease. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting for later in your trip?”
“Perhaps. In the meantime, there is a question you might like to put to him, which can be the basis of our discussion when we meet,” Winston proposes.
“Of course,” Mr. Hanfstaengl answers, ever agreeable.
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