by Alan Bardos
‘You may call me Dolly.’ A warm smile spread across the Captain’s massive face and he discreetly put his empty bottle down.
‘Ernst von Jager,’ Johnny said, pleased that he remembered the name of the German diplomat he’d assumed.
‘May we enquire whether you are travelling to Constantinople?’ Kurt asked.
‘Yes, I am,’ Johnny answered shaking their hands.
‘Then it is settled – we shall all travel together,’ Dolly said, not letting go of Johnny’s hand and pulling him towards the train.
Johnny and Kurt were in hysterics as the bulky figure of Adolphus Brauer staggered about their rocking carriage, struggling to uncork a bottle of champagne. They had been drinking since Bulgaria and well into Turkey, and now the simple task of pulling a cork was proving to be a struggle for even the most experienced amongst them.
Eventually Dolly managed to prize it out with a sweet, elegant pop. He held the cork up to the light and then smelt it wistfully. ‘I'm so glad to be away from Belgium.’
'Indeed.' Kurt beckoned for a drink.
Dolly poured out a healthy measure for himself and his travelling companions. They downed the champagne and Dolly poured out another round. 'This is far superior champagne to anything we got in Belgium, Ernst.'
‘I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments to the Austrian Ambassador.’ Once the plum brandy had gone Johnny had remembered Eady saying the Germans sent Schnapps down the Berlin–Baghdad line and used his diplomatic credentials to talk himself into the guards carriage. The only place on the train Dolly hadn't been able to search. Johnny impounded the first alcohol he saw, which happened to be a case of champagne for the Austro-Hungarian Embassy.
‘You might need to get some more,’ Dolly said, pouring out the last of the champagne. ‘We appear to have run dry.’
‘I’m not sure that I can,’ Johnny said. ‘It was extremely difficult to get the last lot.’
'Come now, Ernst, how will you know unless you try?' Kurt asked solemnly.
'It is necessary to drink to our fallen comrades and those left behind at the front.’ Dolly placed the empty champagne bottle in Johnny's hand.
‘Tell me, Ernst, have you served?’ Kurt asked.
Johnny shrugged noncommittally. His time at the front was probably a subject that should be avoided. Things were taking a definite turn for the worse. Amidst the celebrations, he could feel a sense of guilt emerging. If the drink ran out, the reverie would end and they would start to think about where they had served and the friends they’d left behind.
Trying to avoid the conversation, Johnny glanced out at the rough green pasture flashing past, in the first light of day. It was wet and dreary and not unlike the holidays in Wales his stepfather had taken the family on.
‘I thought you had served, the way you dived for your life when that train passed through Sofia station,’ Kurt persisted.
‘I don’t blame him. If I’d been on the wrong end of a bombardment, I’d be diving for cover every time I heard a whistle,’ Dolly said.
Kurt nodded sadly. 'Yes, bombardments are our business, Ernst. We are artillery, I specialise in the 150mm howitzer – what the British call “5.9s” and “Jack Johnsons”, among other things, I believe. Dolly’s in the heavier stuff. Officially we’re volunteers for hazardous service, place unspecified. Although I suspect that we are on our way to train Turkish gunners.’
‘Powder-heads,’ Johnny said, remembering the German slang for artillerymen and wondered if these were the people who had been firing at him a few weeks ago.
‘You were in the infantry?’ Dolly asked.
‘Yes, before a run in with a Tommy during a trench raid.’ Johnny touched the scar on his forehead with his cup. Breitner had taught him that the best lies always come from the truth. ‘Now I’m back in the diplomatic service.’
‘And were you hit in the chest?’ Kurt asked.
Johnny realised that he was nervously rubbing the box of charms in the breast pocket of his jacket. He hauled himself up and staggered towards the guard’s coach.
'I’ll see what I can do about more drink. I am a courier now, it is my job to fetch and carry.'
The guard looked at Johnny sourly as he waved his diplomatic pass at him.
‘I need to impound a further case of that champagne.’ Johnny made sure to speak in his most clear Prussian German.
‘Please, Herr von Jager, it is meant for the Austrian Ambassador himself. I cannot allow you to take anymore.’
‘Do you know who I am? I represent the Imperial German Diplomatic Service and I am on an urgent mission to present diplomatic papers to the German Embassy in Constantinople.’ Johnny bowed, but the gravitas he was going for was undermined by the train lurching round a bend and he fell drunkenly against the side of the carriage.
The guard stood fast. Johnny put his hand in his pocket and passed the guard a handful of notes.
‘Herr von Jager. I can permit you to take one case, but it will require another signature.’
‘Very well,’ the rocking was making Johnny feel ill and he needed to sit down. He signed the chit and the matter was resolved.
Chapter 14
Laszlo Breitner knocked briskly on the front door of a large wooden house, in the centre of a line of drab waterside residences. Von Grubber had instructed him to report here and make himself useful to an Austro-Hungarian personage of great importance.
He stopped himself knocking a second time and looked instead at the Golden Horn. The great harbour was a mass of boats and ships that bobbed and darted through its shimmering water, which separated the ancient alleys and bazaars of the old city from Pera, the relatively modern quarter of Constantinople. Its mass of buildings was turning pink as the sunlight slowly bled away.
The sound of traffic carried towards him on a sudden sea breeze and he turned to admire the Galata Bridge which linked the two halves of the city. Behind it the Bosphorus glinted, dividing the European and Asian sides of the city.
He had heard people say they'd rather be a beggar here than a prince anywhere else. Breitner had no time for such sentimental piffle. To him this city was not a place of beauty and wonder, but a vital strategic position barring the Russian steamroller from the rest of the world.
The stretch of water that ran through it from the Aegean to the Black Sea was the choke point that the Central Powers had to keep pressure on.
While the faltering Russians were bottled up and cut off from its Western allies, victory was still possible for the central powers. If the Allies were able to open the Straits and equip Russia’s unlimited manpower, defeat would be inevitable. Making this the most important stretch of water in the world, over which the fate of empires would be decided and Breitner was wasting his time playing court jester.
He turned back to the front door and banged again. This time the door swung open and a haughty footman, dressed in fine yellow livery, glared at Breitner. He was wearing rouge and his hair had been elegantly oiled. Another jester to amuse his master, it could be worse, Breitner brooded. He could be a eunuch in fact rather than metaphorically.
‘I am Major Laszlo Breitner, I believe I’m expected.’
The footman swung the door open and showed Breitner into a lavishly decorated reception room bathed in pink sunlight, reflected onto the ceiling from the Golden Horn.
It was an Aladdin's cave of gaudy carpets, tapestries and carvings. Two fountains filled the room with the sputter of water and the smell of flowers and perfumes added to the rich cacophony assaulting Breitner’s reason. It had clearly been designed to dazzle whoever was weak-minded enough to pay credence to such things.
A series of photographs had been displayed in the centre of the room, the monochrome images were at odds with the violent colours that surrounded them.
Breitner moved toward the photographs, they were the usual collection of street vendors and mosques that every tourist brought on picture postcards, but there seemed to be something familiar about the st
yle. The angle of shot, the imagery and sense of perspective gave more power to the images than the usual tourist trap nonsense.
The pictures led Breitner on a story from the Turkish people to portraits of the leading figures in the Young Turk government. The photographs seemed to look directly into the politicians’ souls, revealing their strengths and their lusts. What he saw worried Breitner and he wondered how such people could be trusted.
The portraits stopped abruptly and turned into the familiar landscape of the Hungarian planes, mixed with profiles of Count Tisza and other notable Hungarian statesmen; followed by pictures of his old cavalry regiment, parading through the streets of Budapest.
Breitner gasped. A young officer of the Hussars, trusting and happy, gazed doe-eyed at him. He betrayed his every emotion and feeling to the photographer.
‘You never did get to see that picture, did you, Laszlo?’ Breitner spun round, his blood suddenly on fire.
‘I’m glad to see that you still appreciate my work.’ A luminous figure moved towards him. The water reflections on the ceiling made him feel like the room was suspended in mid-air and for a moment he was again that weak, lovesick boy.
‘Edelweiss…’ Breitner whispered.
‘I haven’t been called that in a long time.’ Esther Weisz smiled and kissed his cheek. She had always reminded Breitner of Károly Lotz's painting the ‘Bathing Woman’. Although he was relieved to see that she was fully clothed in a coral pink dress, matching the light, and Breitner assumed that was why she’d kept him waiting until the sunset reached its zenith.
‘Forgive me, Miss Weisz,’ Breitner said abruptly, refusing to allow himself the sweet joy of her lips. The days of her teasing were long past. That photograph had been the first and only time he’d let himself feel pure abandonment.
Esther arched an eyebrow. ‘So formal. Very well, Major Breitner, won’t you take a seat?’ She offered him a divan and he perched on the unfamiliar seat, trying to maintain a dignified bearing.
‘I understand you saw my sister Kati, in Sarajevo,’ Esther asked politely, sitting across from him.
‘Yes, she was in good health when I saw her in June,’ Breitner said stiffly, as he tried to come to terms with seeing Esther again. She seemed downhearted by his lack of emotion and stared at him for a moment.
‘You do look very soldierly, Laszlo.’ Esther reached across and traced the scar on his face.
‘I took a sabre cut from a Cossack.’ Breitner tried to sound dashing and instantly regretted it.
‘Truly you were in a cavalry charge – against Cossacks? You always were a lot braver than you thought.’ She sounded full of admiration. Breitner cringed.
‘I was repelling a charge and the last thing I felt was brave. Especially when a Cossack’s horse smashed my leg…’ He stumbled on the words, totally unprepared to discuss his war experiences.
Esther looked sympathetic and signalled to the footman, who passed Breitner a bowl of ice cream. ‘Do you remember the first time we met, when your grandfather took pity on a lonely girl in the Gerbeaud Café? You, the dashing hussar in your crimson breeches, how could you not turn the head of a poor country bumpkin?’
Breitner tried to smile and took a spoonful of the walnut ice cream. His grandfather had taken him there as a special celebration after his posting to the 9th. ‘From what I remember you were not alone. There were three sisters, all just as provocative as the other, competing to see who could poke the most fun at the tongue-tied boy in the uniform of a cavalry officer. That is after you’d finished ignoring me and my grandfather asked you to join us.’
‘Annoyingly Kati won the teasing contest, she told you I’d modelled for Károly Lotz. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone blush quite so much, your face matched your trousers.’ Esther held her hands up to her face.
‘Well, admittedly Károly was a great romantic painter, but I don’t think anyone could capture you…’ Breitner found himself laughing. It had been a wonderful afternoon, though admittedly he had been scandalised by the idea that she may have posed naked. The thought overwhelmed him. He had no idea how to react. ‘I should never have said you reminded me of the painting…’
‘It was terribly flattering,’ Esther lifted a coy eyebrow.
‘It was quite remarkable to be around the three of you.’
‘I hope your Grandfather is in good health?’
‘He still takes the water at Balatonfüred and asks after Kati.’
‘I don’t think he ever recovered from seeing her dance to Brahms.’ Esther smiled reflectively. ‘And you had continued your connection with my younger sister in Sarajevo?’
‘Yes, she helped me with some… matters, but she was more interested in an Englishman of my acquaintance,’ Breitner said, hoping that Esther would understand the implication that he had remained true. Not even her sister could replace her in his affections.
‘I could tell from Kati’s last letter that he’d made an impression.’
'I understand that she was going to Belgium. I hope she left before the invasion?’ Breitner asked.
‘I don’t think she had an easy time of it. She’s in Holland now, doing her patriotic duty for the Central Powers by working at the Deutsche Bank. I've done my best to keep Papa’s business interests going. Unfortunately, it doesn’t come easily to me, mathematics and business are Kati's passions.’
‘It was a sad day when your father made you give up your photographic ambitions. You have a rare talent,' Breitner said. She looked at him sharply. Her father had made her give up many things.
‘Papa needed my help with the business, you remember how ill he was, and if he was going to have a daughter who worked, it would be for him.'
‘At least you have a purpose in this wretched city, which is more than I have.’ Breitner said.
‘You have a purpose, Laszlo, you can make a clean start. That’s why I had you transferred to this wonderful place.’
‘You did that, you brought me out here – you have those kind of contacts?’ Breitner was amazed.
‘Oh yes, well, Papa does. It wasn't difficult, you’re far from popular. I’m sure you've seen how much they value protocol at the embassy. I assured them that your knowledge of such things would be unrivalled.’
‘You have done this to me – made me a preening powder puff.’ Breitner managed to keep a steel grip on his emotions.
‘I’m sorry, Laszlo. I didn’t realise how much you hated it.’
‘Miss Weisz, I do not hate doing my duty. A soldier does not complain - they serve!’
‘How wonderfully pompous of you, Laszlo. I sincerely congratulate you. I had forgotten what an insufferable stuffed shirt you are.’
It was a stinging blow that set Breitner’s heart reeling. As much as he liked to think that her father would not have tolerated his brilliant and accomplished daughter throwing herself away on a junior officer. The truth was that he would never have won her heart.
Esther put her finger out to trace the line of his scar, again. ‘Look at what they’ve done to you. I was so worried about you.’
Breitner tensed but chose not to rise to the bait and gently pushed her hand away. She loved to tease him.
'Please, Laszlo, I didn't arrange for you to be transferred to humiliate you, but to help you and I hoped you might want to help me in return.’
‘What with? Do you have place settings that need to be arranged in the correct order of precedence?’
Esther pointed at the photograph of Breitner in his Hussar’s uniform. ‘Do you remember why I took that portrait?'
‘It was to commemorate our reaching an understanding to marry.’ Breitner looked away. To marry her had once consumed him at the expense of everything else. He did not see how it mattered now, or what right he had to be happy. His duty was clear and she was preventing him from doing it.
Chapter 15
Johnny Swift sat back and tried to enjoy the show. He hadn’t seen anything like it since his time in Paris. A chorus of
Can-Can girls were furiously stomping through his favourite dance. Displaying frills and spills in equal measure, but his mind kept drifting.
It made him feel lonely and for some reason reminded him of Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins. There was something about the precision and passion of the dancers.
Johnny turned back to his table as a waiter arrived with another tray of champagne. He chinked glasses with his companions before pouring down the sweet, fizzy acid. Johnny spent a few moments fighting to maintain his dignity in the face of the enemy. His head was swimming and his guts were churning.
‘Prost!’ Johnny tried to focus on the fleshy officer handing him a cloudy glass of what could only be raki. ‘Ernst, if you are not going to watch the pretty girls dance you must drink.’
‘You’re quite right, Dolly.’ Johnny tried to grin and swallowed the drink in one. It was like cough mixture. He dry retched aniseed, but kept it down, much to the amusement of the officers at the table.
‘Here’s to Ernst,’ Kurt shouted from the other side of the table, they all suddenly stood and Johnny stumbled to join them then remembered that he was Ernst. They repeated the toast, downing raki and banged the glasses on the table.
Johnny glanced at his comrades, but no one had noticed his mistake. Their raucous behaviour was attracting stares from the locals. He suspected that he should be keeping a lower profile.
Since their arrival in Constantinople the size of the group had increased as old friends were reunited and he had stayed in their company. Being seen with them made it a lot easier to pass himself off as German and he was starting to feel comfortable in the part he had to play.
After serving on the frontline Johnny felt a certain amount of affinity with the Germans, and they all had a mutual interest in drinking and showgirls.
‘Tell me, Ernst, why is it that a man of your obvious physical prowess is not at the front?’ The question cut through Johnny’s drunken haze. He glanced over at Captain Sigmund Stolz, a vain and haughty officer, sitting across from him in the red trimmed, field grey uniform of the Uhlans. A solitary service medal hung from the triangular plastron panel of his tunic.