The Ambassador's Daughter

by Pam Jenoff

  “How terrible.”

  “He was on a ship not far from mine that was torpedoed. I saw him go down and I could do nothing to stop it.” His recounting is factual and precise, but his eyes cloud over at the memory. “Eight ships and nine thousand men at that battle alone. We joined the navy together, but it was really more his dream to be a great naval officer. I just went along.”

  Now Georg had picked up the mantle, fulfilling the career his brother could never have. “Tell me more about Hamburg,” I say, trying to gently steer the subject away from war. The sadness on his normally strong face is somehow unbearable.

  But he will not be dissuaded. “I think Peter wanted to escape to the sea. You see, our parents were terribly strict and they had such high expectations.”

  “Yes, of course.” I nod.

  “I have a sister, too. My parents had plans for her to marry someone rich and fairly dreadful, so she ran away to Austria. She lives in a cottage in the Obersalzberg with her husband, someone she actually wanted, cared for, and they have about a dozen children. I see her occasionally, send money. They have a modest lifestyle but it’s very happy.”

  “And noisy, I’m sure, with all of those children,” I remark.

  “I don’t mind,” he replies, surprising me. Quiet and order seem better suited to him. “I would have liked children.”

  “You talk like you’re eighty!” I exclaim. “You can still have them.”

  “I’m twenty-five,” Georg replies. “I will be twenty-six, tomorrow, in fact.” There is something grave and imposing about his demeanor that makes him appear more than just a few years older.

  “There’s still plenty of time.” Though it is not at all hot in the room, my skin feels suddenly moist.

  “I suppose. And you?”

  “I do want children,” I reply with more certainty than I’d planned. It was not something I’d thought about on a conscious level until now.

  “No, I was asking about your family. Are there many of you?”

  “Oh.” For the second time in an hour, I feel myself blush. “A small family, also. Just Papa and me.” I do not count Tante Celia or our other extended relations. “My mother died of flu when I was younger.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice is full with the empathy of shared loss.

  “Growing up an only child, Papa working all of the time, was sometimes a lonely existence. That’s why I’d like to have children. How many, I don’t know, but definitely more than one.” I feel myself talking too fast and saying too much. I have not felt this comfortable speaking with anyone since Krysia. “With siblings you always have each other...” I stop, realizing my error. Georg had his brother until he died at war, in front of his very eyes.

  But he does not take offense. “I understand what you mean. My sister, Alice, is my dearest friend, though I don’t see her that often.”

  “And you, do you get lonely?”

  He shook his head. “There was a time when Peter was gone, and my parents, too, that I didn’t want to go on. But I’ve made my peace with it now.” Solitude had become his default state, such that he did not know how to be otherwise.

  “There are so many things I want to do before having children.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, travel mostly. Not just England and France, but the whole world. Africa, maybe. Or take that railway that’s been constructed to China.” I’d thought about it so often since my conversations with Krysia a few months earlier. Talking about it now with Georg, the fantasy journeys I’ve constructed in my head feel almost possible.

  “The Trans-Siberian?” He chuckles as though the idea is far-fetched.

  “No, really. I want to see the world, not just the cities, but the edges and frontiers before they are developed and changed into looking just like everywhere else.”

  “Then you would have loved the navy. I’ve been to some of the places you mentioned—Japan, for one. But I’ve never been far from harbor to the really deep inland bits.” Georg has seen great swaths of the world but always from a great distance, just scratching the surface. But I want to delve deeply into such places—to see the children walking to school and the way the people eat, how they live. “There’s nothing better than standing on the deck of the ship as the coast disappears behind you, a clear horizon ahead.” A dreamy, faraway look comes into Georg’s eyes. “Do you enjoy the seaside?”

  “No. I fear the water,” I confess. Growing up in landlocked Berlin, I had not seen the ocean until I was six, when we’d taken a holiday to the Dutch seaside during Papa’s visitorship at Leiden. I found the dark, murky waters and the rough, churning current unsettling. Since then, I’ve had terrible nightmares about it—a giant wave rising and swallowing me whole. On the ferry crossing I stayed inside the cabin, reading a book, pretending I was elsewhere and trying not to see the endless water that surrounded us on all sides. “It just feels so ominous.” I’m not sure why I’m sharing this confession with a man I barely know.

  He looks puzzled, as if the idea of someone not liking the water is unfathomable. “Can you swim?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never tried.”

  “I could make you love the water.” An image flashes through my mind of Georg and I on a seaside promenade. The cool sea breeze and taste of salt air almost seem real. “Or at least not to be afraid. The thing is to understand that it is a different world—we are visitors in the ocean, not in charge of it. So you have to treat it with respect, come to learn the local customs, so to speak.” His words make sense. But I doubt that I could ever love it as he does, or even be comfortable.

  “Of course, being on a sailboat is one thing. A naval fighting ship is quite another.” He cringes as the memories press over him. “You should give the ocean another chance. It’s the only place to really be free,” he adds.

  “I don’t know about that. The mountains can be most liberating.” Papa and I have always taken our holidays in the Alps. We would pack simple cheese and fruit that would keep for a day, setting off into the woods as the sun broke. We might not speak for hours, each lost in our own thoughts as we wound between the trees. It was a kind of quiet meditation and a peace I’d not found elsewhere.

  I’d suggested hiking when we were in England. “We could go north to the Lakes.” But Papa had shaken his head. “Two Germans disappearing into the middle of nowhere might provoke suspicion.” And anger. There were stories of a mob beating up a few German expatriates in Leeds just as the war had broken out. Papa insisted that we stay in the cities where help was available and we would not be isolated, protested every time I went out alone.

  “Margot...” It is the first time Georg has used my name.

  “Yes?”

  But before he can continue, there is a creaking sound and the library door, already ajar, opens farther. Papa stands there in his overcoat. I look at the clock. It is nearly ten. Georg and I have talked for most of the time and I’ve scarcely done any work. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m headed home and I thought that perhaps I could escort you.” I smile inwardly. Papa is nowhere near finished work—midnight is only a starting point for him. But he was concerned enough about my being with Georg to break from what he was doing and come to check on me.

  “I’m fine, Papa. Though...” I turn to Georg. “I’m afraid we didn’t get very far.”

  Georg nods with recognition. “It’s no matter. We can resume tomorrow.”

  “Same time?”

  “I should be most grateful.” He turns to Papa. “I trust you’ll be at Ambassador Bossart’s dinner party Friday?” Papa had mentioned the dinner in passing, a rare occasion for the German delegation to leave the confines of the hotel and enjoy dinner in the city as a show of good faith.

  Papa smiles wryly. “Is there any choice?” The men chuckle, bonding over their shared dislike for social obligations and their preference for solitary work.

  “Good night, Captain.” Though he has bade me to call him by his given name, doing so feels t
oo intimate in front of Papa.

  “An odd chap,” Papa remarks when we are well clear of the hotel. “So quiet.” His description does not sound at all like Georg, who chatted so easily we scarcely made it through any of the translation. But I think back to how scary and imposing he seemed the day the Germans arrived. Knowing him now, it is hard to picture him as the same person. “Some say he’s a bit touched in the head.”

  “He’s not,” I protest, too defensive of the man I’ve only just met. “I mean, perhaps he’s a bit shaky from battle, but otherwise he appears quite normal.” How can Papa and I look at the exact same man and see such different things?

  We cross the street to our apartment building, not speaking as we walk up the stairs. “Make sure you don’t stay up too late tonight,” Papa cautions as he unlocks the door to the flat. “Tante Celia rang that your appointment tomorrow is at nine, which means you’ll need to be on the seven-forty train.”

  “Appointment?” The dress shop, I remember. My wedding gown is ready for its first fitting. I do not want to go, and consider rescheduling. But best not to make waves—it is a gift I’ve always had, knowing when to go with the current and stifle my rebellious impulses. “The little diplomat,” Papa joked, more than once. “Oh, yes, the fitting.” Going into Paris will give me an excuse to visit Krysia, as well. I’ve missed her mightily since our move. “Good night, Papa.”

  In my room, I change into a nightgown and robe, then pull back the drapes. I strain to glimpse across the road, pressing my head against the window frame. The light in the hotel library still burns. Georg. Though I cannot see him, I imagine him hunched over the desk, studying one of his reports. He so believes in what he is doing, the ability to make a difference and convince the Allies that there is a place for us in this new world order. I hope, for his sake as well as for Germany’s, that he is right.

  There is a knock at my door and I jump back from the window. “Yes, Papa?”

  “I’d almost forgotten. A letter came for you.” My stomach sinks as I take the envelope. Another missive from Stefan, no doubt, when I still had not answered the last. But if it was from Stefan, Papa would have said as much. Instead, he looks quizzically at the blocky, unfamiliar script on the coarse brown envelope. When I do not answer, he hands it to me and leaves with a slight shrug, unwilling to pry.

  I drop to the edge of the bed and turn the envelope over, suddenly uneasy. Then, too curious to hold back, I rip it open.

  Please come see me about a matter of utmost importance.

  It is signed by Ignatz Stein.

  Chapter 6

  “Turn to the left, if you please,” the dressmaker says. I shift, cringing as the stiff material scratches against my skin.

  “Perhaps just a bit more lace at the neck,” Tante Celia offers, rising from her chair and squinting with an appraising eye. Inwardly, I groan. The too-tight collar already creeps against my chin, making me want to gag.

  “I don’t know...” I demur.

  “Your mother,” Celia replies firmly, “would have loved the lace.”

  I open my mouth to protest. The woman in the photos was natural and soft, her flowing clothes nothing like the elaborate frocks Celia favors. I am quite sure she would have preferred my gown to be simple. But the argument is pointless. Celia invokes my mother’s memory frequently as both shield and sword, and my own vague recollections of her provide little ammunition for countering Celia’s assertions.

  As the seamstress pins the fabric around my waist, I see my reflection behind her in the wide mirror. The solemn, dark-haired woman in the white dress seems a stranger. Behind me, Celia’s image appears. My aunt is immaculately coiffed as ever, her hair in a flawless chignon. But the latest fashions cannot mask her too-weak chin and wide nose. Celia has always been about the appearance of things, as if she is trying to plaster over the imperfections and defects of her life, like the man that can never quite be hers because his heart still belongs to her beautiful, dead sister.

  An hour earlier, I’d followed Tante Celia reluctantly into the boutique, which was tucked on a side street in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré district, eyeing the satin-and-tulle-clad mannequins with unbridled dread. I imagined then the weddings those dresses represent, the breathless anticipation of a shared future. Would it be different if I was excited about the prospect of marriage and was picking a dress of my own accord, unfettered by the expectations of others?

  Expectations. My thoughts turn to the note from Ignatz Stein. What could he possibly want from me? He could not be hoping, these many months later, that I might convey some information to him about Papa’s work. I should go to see him today while I am in the city and find out. I shiver, seeing his dark eyes. “Be still, please,” the seamstress admonishes.

  I stand motionless for what seems like forever, feeling the seamstress’s soft rustling hands as she pins the bottom. Finally, she is finished and, with Celia’s help, carefully extricates me from the dress. “Are you hungry?” Celia asks a few minutes later as we step onto the street of grand shops, their wide-paned windows displaying jewelry and furs and fine silks that no one can afford anymore. I inhale deeply, clearing the stuffiness of the dress shop from my lungs. “We could go to the food hall at the department store,” she offers.

  I hesitate, then nod. I am eager to try to see Krysia while I am in the city. But Celia’s expression is so hopeful I cannot refuse. And I am hungry, having not eaten this morning at Celia’s behest in order to remain as slim as possible for the fitting.

  We make our way down the boulevard des Capucines with its rows of fashionable stores and restaurants, past the newspaper kiosks and the stalls selling fruit. Spring has broken in earnest, the trees that line the pavement in full bloom, crocuses sprouting purple from the flower beds. The outdoor cafés overflow with patrons, women in fresh spring fashions and men in blazers with carnations in their lapels. They spill from the tables onto the sidewalks, making it difficult to pass. Above, every shutter in the city has been flung open to let in the fresh air.

  Soon we reach the Galeries Lafayette, its grand staircase and glass dome more reminiscent of an opera house than a department store. The ground-floor food hall appears much like I remember it before the war, but the space is too big for the goods that are now available. There is a subtle pride to the way the sellers have laid out the breads, and a reverence with which the shoppers accept their parcels of food that suggest the years of hunger and doing without will not be easily forgotten. “Not so many vegetables,” Tante Celia remarks critically. I cringe at the obviousness of her German accent.

  “Perhaps when the fields can be tilled with fertilizer instead of the blood of Frenchmen,” a woman beside us replies haughtily, then turns away. Suddenly I am not hungry.

  Tante Celia lifts her chin with surprising defiance. “Why don’t you find us a table?” she suggests to me.

  I navigate my way through the crowd toward the seating area. “Pardon,” I say as a man bumps into me. I step aside to let him pass. But he brushes against me again, this time pushing me toward the wall. The assault was intentional, I realize, as I look up into the face of Ignatz Stein.

  He removes his brown fedora and tips it in my direction. “Hello, Margot,” he says, and there is something predatory about his tone. He looks strangely out of place away from the café.

  “Monsieur Stein...” I lick my lips uneasily. “This is a coincidence.”

  “You didn’t answer my note.”

  “I only received it late last night. There was hardly time.”

  He clucks his tongue. “I understand. Fittings and parties and all. It’s a busy life.”

  He must have followed me, but why? I decide to ignore his sarcasm. “What is it that you want?”

  “You had said you would keep your eyes open.” No longer the affable café proprietor, he looms over me, menacing.

  “I’ve not seen or heard anything from my father that might be of interest.” I fumble for an explanation. “We’re so much more r
emoved from everything since moving out to Versailles.”

  “But you’re working for the German officer now, aren’t you?”

  How had he known? It was a development not two days old, so recent I’d not even had time to tell Krysia. “That should prove useful,” he continues, not bothering to wait for me to confirm. “Information about German military operations is scarce and valuable.”

  I raise my hand. “I have no interest...”

  “Pity, isn’t it, about Cottin? Poor fool really thought he could stop Clemenceau from voting against his beloved Greater Serbia. One only hopes he can be persuaded to remain silent...” Ignatz knows that I will do anything to protect the truth about Cottin’s source, to keep the blame from falling to Papa.

  I stare up at him with revulsion. Stein is Jewish, too, but he is a crude caricature, greedy and manipulative, the way the anti-Semites would paint us all. “If it is a question of money...” I don’t know why I have said this. I have none of my own, but I could figure out something.

  “Don’t insult us. We don’t want money from you or any of the bourgeoisie scum.” He spits this last word. “Your contacts and position make you far more valuable to us than any compensation.”

  I open my mouth to protest—I cannot possibly steal from Georg. Then, thinking of Papa, my shoulders slump. “What is it you want me to do?”

  He drops his voice. “The Germans have claimed they’ve demilitarized.” I stare at him in disbelief. We’ve scarcely begun to recover from the war—how could Ignatz possibly be contemplating another one already? I recall uneasily Georg’s insistence the previous night that a strong military is essential for peace. Perhaps Ignatz is not that far off. He continues, “We believe they’ve stockpiled munitions in the east—and those could be used to support the Whites in their fight against Lenin and the Bolsheviks. Keep an eye out for anything about the German military plans, particularly those on the Eastern Front. Reports, cables—get copies if you can.”