The Ambassador's Daughter

by Pam Jenoff

  “Who is the work for?” I press. “Really, if I’m to risk things and help...”

  “A small group of us gather information to help counter the fascist influence back home. The head of the group is known covertly as Red Thorn.”

  “Can I meet him?”

  “I’m afraid not. Just deliver the papers to me.”

  But before I can protest, Tante Celia is at my side. “Is something wrong?” I turn back toward Ignatz, but he is already crossing the hall, enveloped by the crowd. “Who was that odd man?”

  “A friend of Krysia’s. I was asking after her.”

  “Oh, the Polish woman,” Celia’s tone was dismissive, as if talking about one of the maids. “The pianist.”

  “You’ve heard of her?” For once, I am almost impressed.

  “Of course. Anyone who is anyone has Krysia Smok play at their party, and her husband Marcin, too, if one can get him.” To Celia, Krysia is a commodity and a sign of status, not a person.

  “She’s the daughter of an ambassador, actually,” I reply, fighting to keep the annoyance from my voice.

  Her expression remains skeptical. “This is Paris. Anyone can reinvent themselves here.”

  A waiter brings the tray of assorted cheeses Celia had selected to one of the tables and I take a cracker. “So, I was thinking of salmon terrines for the starter course,” Celia says, turning to the wedding menu as though we were in the middle of a conversation about it. No one is more excited about my engagement than Celia. Though they had fallen on hard times of late, the Osters are an old Berlin family and the fact that they are socially well-placed made Stefan a palatable choice in Celia’s eyes. And it is the wedding she never had the chance to plan for herself. I nod as she continues speaking, still shaken by my encounter with Ignatz and what he has asked me to do.

  “Would you like to go shopping?” she asks when we’ve finished eating. “The boutique over on rue Fleury has reopened. Or shall I just have the car take us back?” Us. She has no reason to come to Versailles. Escorting me back to the suburb is merely a pretense to wait and see Papa.

  “Actually, I’d like to go see a friend,” I reply. “Here in the city.”

  “The Polish woman?” Her nose wrinkles as she tries to comprehend my preference for spending time with Krysia over her. “Suit yourself,” she says quickly.

  Celia’s jealous. For years, she has been trying to be some sort of surrogate for my mother, an older sister perhaps. Celia is closer to my age than my mother’s. We might have been friends, if only we shared some mutual interest or concern beyond Papa. But then Krysia came along and our friendship was instantaneous. I’m not trying to be callous with Celia’s feelings. Who can explain why we bond so readily with one person but not another? It is human nature, some odd makeup of our biology perhaps, or a sense that we were destined to be with some people.

  Celia really tries to be there, though, not just for Papa but for me, in a hundred little ways that are missing without my mother. I am so ungrateful. “I’ll come in next week and we can go shopping then,” I offer. Her face brightens.

  Twenty minutes later, I step out of a cab at Krysia’s. Perhaps I should have called ahead. But she had said Poles did not mind drop-in guests. I ring the bell.

  “You again,” she says teasingly when I reach the top-floor landing, kissing me airily on both cheeks. She wears a gauzy blouse, flat laced slippers that give the impression of a ballerina. “I haven’t seen you at any of the salons.”

  “I’ve been working.” It had not occurred to me that Krysia might wonder about my absence the way I once had hers.

  Behind her there is a shuffling noise and a man appears in the doorway. “You must be Margot.”

  Krysia’s husband looks nothing like I might have expected of a world-renowned musician. In sharp contrast to the brooding artists I’d met at the café, Marcin has a wide grin that lifts his pink, cherubic cheeks close to his eyes. He is a good foot shorter than Krysia, with a full stomach and salt-and-pepper hair, a premature gray. Somewhere between playing Saint Nicholas, if he’d been a bit taller, and one of the elves.

  I flush, flattered that Krysia had spoken about me. What had she said? “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “It’s fine,” Krysia says. “Marcin was just leaving.”

  And whether that is true or said out of politeness, Marcin picks up his coat. “Goodbye, my love.” Marcin’s expression leaves no doubt as to his adoration for Krysia.

  She gazes at Marcin and there is a softness to her eyes that I have not seen before. Her attachment to her husband is not a contradiction to the independent woman I’ve come to know. Marcin’s love supports her and gives her that strength. He is clearly devoted, but yet she still seems so alone. It’s the child who has left a hollow place within her that can never be filled.

  “So you’ve found something to occupy your time?” Krysia asks when the door has closed. She pours two cups of coffee, brings them to the settee.

  I sit down. Sunlight streams in through the lace curtains, creating dancing patterns of shadows on the parquet floors. “I’m just translating some documents for the delegation.” It goes without saying that I am referring to the Germans, and I study her face. Will she be offended that I am helping them? “It’s hardly a life makeover, I suppose.” My tone is apologetic now.

  “But it’s a start.”

  “Perhaps. Only...” Picturing Ignatz looming above me in the food hall, my stomach twists. “You remember the attempt on Clemenceau’s life?”

  She nods. “That idiot Cottin thought he was helping his cause. Instead he just gave those in power an excuse to be less benevolent.”

  “Oh, Krysia!” Suddenly I am telling her everything about Stein’s request that I look for information, first from Papa and now Georg, his threat to expose the truth if I did not. “I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. But I didn’t know what to do. He was your friend and so I thought...”

  “He put you in a very difficult position and that was wrong.” Her lips set grimly. “I long suspected that Stein was up to something. He’s a wild card—he lost his parents in Kiev pogroms as a child, made his way on his wits since he was nine years old.” She takes a sip of coffee, gazing out the window. “The war produced all sorts of would-be spies like Stein. Intelligence is everywhere. All of the information that was once locked up in vaults at ministries is now out, making it that much more enticing for opportunists and rogues.” Suddenly I see a whole underworld to the conference. “Most likely he’s just acting on his own, like Cottin.”

  My hope rises. “Do you really think so?”

  “Let me make some inquiries and find out if there’s something to be done about it all.”

  “You have contacts?”

  “Nothing personal, of course. But I’ve got a cousin who is involved with the Cheka.”

  Cheka is the intelligence arm of the communist party, rumored to be operating on behalf of Russia throughout Europe. I shudder at the notion, foreign and ominous. Somehow, though, it does not surprise me that Krysia has connections everywhere. “You won’t tell Ignatz that we’ve spoken?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “If something should happen to implicate Papa, I couldn’t bear it.” My voice is pleading now. “He’s in a terrible position as it is, suspected by the Allies because he is German, and by the Germans because he is a Jew.”

  “What about you? Do you consider yourself Jewish German or a German Jew?” she asks.

  I tilt my head, puzzled. “I’m both,” I insist. I’ve certainly never felt as though I had to choose.

  “Marcin is Jewish,” she informs me.

  “Oh.” Gentle and refined, he is nothing like Ignatz or the other Jews I’ve seen from Poland and other places to the east. And he is married to a Gentile. Though we live among our non-Jewish neighbors and see them socially and do business with them, intermarriage is just not something that happens.

  “His family has not spoken to us since the
wedding.” Her lower lip droops, pulling her whole face downward.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a hard thing to be rejected simply for being who you are.” She laughs. “There are a great many reasons to dislike me, but usually people at least meet me first.”

  “Nonsense.” To me, Krysia is wonderful, mysterious and sure of herself. But there is something about her quiet confidence, the way she challenges people, that could be off-putting.

  “Anyway, I’ll take care of Stein,” she says, patting my hand. “Try not to think too much about it.” Her tone is so reassuring that for a moment I almost believe she is right.

  * * *

  By the time the train pulls into Versailles, it is nearly dark. I’d lingered longer than I had intended at Krysia’s and there is no time to go back to the apartment to freshen and comb the dust from my hair before I have to be at work. As I near the hotel, my step quickens. Georg is waiting by the door when I arrive. Warmth rises in me, and I am more glad than I should have been to see him again. “I’m sorry if I’m late,” I apologize. “I had an errand in the city and...”

  “Not at all. The library’s not available this evening, I’m afraid. It’s being cleaned. But I’ve cleared a spot in my rooms for you to work.” Pushing a vision of Papa’s disapproving stare from my mind, I follow him down the corridor. He unlocks the door and lets me into a small sitting room with a desk and two chairs and a hat stand. A second door sits ajar, revealing a bedroom on the other side.

  I stand in the center of the room, looking around uncertainly. Georg has cleaned in preparation for my arrival, I can tell, and opened the windows to try without success to clear some of the mustiness from the dank gray space.

  He coughs once, then a second time stronger. “Are you unwell?” I ask.

  “Not at all. I’ve had this blasted cold ever since I came back from sea.”

  “Have you seen a doctor? Papa has a physician in the city on rue de la Rochelle.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s no time. It’s just a cold.” He gestures to the cardboard box I carry. “What’s that?”

  I open it, revealing the small cake that I had picked up for him on impulse before leaving Paris, yellow with just a touch of whipped cream on the top. “Happy Birthday,” I say.

  Several expressions cross his face at once—uncertainty, then bewilderment and finally joy. “I cannot remember when someone last celebrated my birthday.”

  “Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I set down the box, feeling foolish.

  “Not just this moment,” he amends. “I need to leave you for a short while to confer with one of my colleagues,” he apologizes. “But if you wouldn’t mind working on without me, perhaps we could have some cake when I return.”

  “Of course.” In fact, I am uneasy at the notion of staying here alone in the desolate hotel room. I consider asking if I might take the documents with me to our apartment, then decide against it.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Watching him leave, a strange sense of longing floods through me. It’s the room, I tell myself, the fact that I don’t want to be alone here. The space feels even colder and darker without him.

  My eyes drift to the pile of binders and notes over by the desk, the ones that Georg has not given to me. Now would be the perfect time to search for the information Ignatz has insisted that I procure. But I cannot. It is not just that I am nervous, uncertain when Georg will return. There is something in the way he looks at me, filled with such trust. I don’t want to betray that.

  Tea, I decide. I peer into the bedroom. Unlike the sitting area, it has not been tidied for my benefit and the feeling of Georg is everywhere, in the still slightly tousled sheets, the smell of his aftershave, which lingers in the still-wet brush by the basin. Searching for tea, I open the cupboard, which is well stocked with crackers and dried fruit. Georg does not, I surmise, like to stop working and leave the hotel to eat.

  I set the kettle, then walk to the basin, peering into the egg-shaped cracked mirror above it. Georg stands here each morning, washing and getting dressed. Does he ever think of me?

  Alarmed by the thought, I step away from the mirror and closer to his bed. I run my hand over the pillowcase, imagining him there, asleep. This is silliness, a schoolgirl’s crush. But I’m twenty years old, and I have a fiancé waiting for me.

  A sharp whistling jars me from my thoughts and I leap back. The kettle. I pour the tea with shaking hands, then hurry back to the front room.

  I thumb through the pile of memos, sorting before starting on one about the German battleship fleet. The language is complex and I frequently turn to the dictionary, but I soon become engrossed and the translation flows more smoothly.

  The door opens and Georg walks in. I look up, surprised at the time that has passed and the fact that it is nearly ten o’clock.

  “How’s your progress?”

  “Good, I think.” In truth, it is easier to work without Georg and the temptation to talk. I push the notes toward him, smelling as I do the faintly sour odor of wine on his breath.

  He stands behind me and reaches down. “This passage here.” Georg gestures as if to demonstrate his point, and I find myself staring as his hands—the long tapered fingers, soft nail beds almost improbably well-manicured. He bends closer, his warmth against my back.

  Then he straightens. “Shall we have some cake?” Not waiting for an answer, he cuts two pieces and passes one to me. He drops to the seat across from mine and takes a bite. “Delicious. Thank you.”

  I set my plate aside and finish augmenting the translation to include the paragraph he indicated, then pass it to him. He leans over to read it. There is a space between his collar and hair where the skin is exposed, and I am seized with the urge to put my lips there. What is wrong with me?

  I clear my throat. “Let me know once you’ve had the chance to review these if you have any questions.”

  “I shall.” But his eyes glaze over the notes, seeming not to see them. He yawns and sets down his plate. “You said you had an errand in Paris. Where did you go?”

  The question is perhaps intrusive, but I do not mind. “To a dressmaker,” I say. “I had a...fitting.”

  “Not for one of those formal dresses, I hope. After all of the makeup and ruffles the women wear around here, you are positively refreshing.”

  “Thank you.” I shift uneasily.

  He stands again, walking to the mantelpiece and picking up a framed photograph of a ship, a row of men lined up neatly on the gangplank. “Your men?” I ask.

  “They were. It all fell apart at the end.” His words run together now, slurred slightly by drink. “We received orders to move north and engage the British navy there. We knew it was futile—the war was all but over and we were defeated. But we commanded the men to proceed. They refused. They were starving and demoralized. They didn’t want to die, too. It was madness, Margot.” The full sorrow of the sentence crashes down on my name. “Sailors fighting sailors. Two of my own men killed one another.

  “The war cost me everything,” Georg adds abruptly, setting the photo back down unsteadily. He is open and exposed in a way that I have not yet seen.

  “Your brother...”

  He nods. “I lost my father when I was on the ship, too. I received word that he was dying but it was a matter of hours and we were at sea. There was nothing that could be done. It was just days after Peter died at Jutland so he never even knew, which I think was in itself a blessing.”

  He continues, “I was studying at university when the war broke out.” His eyes have a faraway look and his voice sounds like mine when I speak of travel. I see him them as a boy, wide-eyed and bright with a future in front of him. He is so broken now, like so many others. I am seized by the urge to take him into my arms. Can he be healed or is he too far gone?

  “You can still go back.”

  He smiles, as though talking to an indulgent child. �
��That’s kind of you to say. But what school would have me? I’m twenty-five, no, twenty-six.” He gestures toward the rest of the cake, which sits uneaten on the table. “My hands shake like an old man’s and I can’t concentrate. That was a younger man’s dream.” He leans back resigned. “But if we can get this right, that is, if we can come up with an order of things that makes sense, that would mean it was all for something. It has to have meant something, doesn’t it?” He searches my eyes and there is a kind of desperation in his voice.

  Our conversation is intimate now, as though we have known each other years and not just days. “The war took so many good men,” he adds. “I suppose that is why you are on your own?”

  I swallow, uncomfortable at his abrupt shift in focus to me. “There was someone.”

  “You were engaged?”

  I nod. “My fiancé was at the Marne.”

  “A tragedy. So you understand, then, what it was like with my brother.” I realize, too late, that he has come away with the impression that my fiancé died. There was a time when I thought that Stefan was dead. Papa had come back to our rooms at college at midday when I knew he should have been holding supervisions. A telegram was clutched in his hand and his face was the strangest shade of gray. “Darling,” he said. We’d both taken to speaking more English while here, part of our futile quest to fit in, and it spilled over to the times when we were alone. “It’s Stefan...he’s missing.”

  “Soldiers go missing all of the time,” I said, my voice wavering at the end, me comforting Papa when it should have been the reverse.

  He shook his head, and I took the paper from his outstretched fingers to spare him from having to tell me the rest. Words leaped from the page piecemeal, rising up and forming a tapestry of images in my mind. A bomb had blown a crater a quarter of a mile wide, decimating the trench he’d been in. Stefan and his whole unit were gone, and the severity of the attack had left no hope of survivors.

  Stefan was dead. I had imagined it secretly in the places so dark I could scarcely acknowledge them. Had I brought it on him? Even through my sadness, I knew that such things were not possible, that the universe did not operate according to the whims of my mind.