The Ambassador's Daughter

by Pam Jenoff

“‘...than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” he finishes for her. There is an awkward silence between them. Georg’s expression is uncomfortable, Krysia’s icy. “Margot, I need to speak with your father about some matters. If you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for a response, he walks across the room, leaving me deflated by his departure, as well as the realization that the two people I’ve met and like best since coming to Paris do not seem to at all like each other.

  “So that’s your German,” she says, a note of disdain to her voice.

  “He’s not ‘my’ German,” I correct, annoyed. “He’s German—as am I. What was that last bit about?”

  “It’s from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. It means that one should not profess to know all of the answers—and that the world holds a great many mysteries and wonders for one to see.” Her bottom lip curls. “Not that he would understand.”

  “Krysia, you’ve hardly met him.”

  “He’s a fascist soldier and—forgive me—a German.”

  “It is a hard thing to be rejected for who you are,” I say, throwing back at her the words she’d used to describe the pain of being shunned by Marcin’s Jewish family.

  “Perhaps.” But I can tell from the way her jaw is set that she will never accept him.

  Over Krysia’s shoulder, I watch Georg and Papa together, heads bowed low in quiet conversation. The two could not be more different—the scholar and the warrior—yet I love them both so much. Love. I stop, caught off guard by my thought. It is the first time I have ever allowed myself to think of Georg that way and now it has leaped out and I cannot stop it—like trying to put paste back into a tube. Is such a thing possible after just a few days? My feelings for Georg are undeniably real, but at the same time they change nothing—not the fact that I cannot be with him, or that Stefan is still waiting for me.

  “He should be thanking God for the Bolsheviks,” Krysia mutters under her breath.

  I turn to her, grateful for the reprieve from my thoughts. “How can you say that?”

  “Because the red menace, as they call it, is the only thing that’s keeping the Big Four from destroying Germany entirely. They need your country strong enough that communism cannot spread across Europe like wildfire, but not so strong that it can cause trouble again. If it weren’t for Russia, the Western powers would send Germany back into the nineteenth century. Of course, he would not understand that.” Before I can respond, Krysia returns to the piano and joins Marcin as he plays.

  Standing alone, I scan the room for Papa and Georg. Across the party, one of the servers, older and more portly than the others, catches my eye. I gasp. Ignatz. He makes his way over to fill my wineglass. “What are you doing here?”

  “Working. My cousin is a catering manager and I fill in sometimes for a bit of cash.”

  “Oh,” I reply flatly, unplacated by his answer. There are dozens of parties in Paris each week—it makes no sense that he happens to be at this one.

  “And I wanted to see you,” he continues, getting to the heart of the matter. My stomach sinks. “Have you gotten the documents for me?”

  “You only asked me yesterday. There’s hardly been time.” I study his face wondering if he believes me. Could he possibly have known that Georg had left me alone in his rooms the previous night with full access to his files?

  He does not press the point, instead gesturing across the room with his head. “That’s him over there, isn’t it?”

  His question is not in earnest. The only military man in the room, Georg would be hard to miss. “Perhaps I shall speak with him myself.” Ignatz’s tone is menacing. “Or maybe your father...”

  “No!” I yelp, more loudly than I intended. A woman standing behind me turns to look over her shoulder. Ignatz could reveal everything before all of these people and destroy Papa.

  “Don’t play games with us, Margot,” he says, his voice low with menace. “Time is of the essence and...”

  “Darling,” Papa says, coming to my side, “is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” I say, searching for an explanation for my extended conversation with a server. But when I turn around, Ignatz has disappeared. “I’m going to freshen up before we are seated.” I make my way from the reception, then double back around to the piano. “He’s here,” I whisper to Krysia from behind.

  She does not stop playing. “I know. That is what I was trying to tell you. It is just like that fool. Remain calm and I will see what I can learn.”

  A bell rings on the far side of the room, signaling dinner. At the door to the dining room I meet Georg, who is standing to one side, trying without success to adjust his tie. “May I?” I offer. It is something I have done as long as I can remember with Papa, smoothing out the knot, tucking the corners just so.

  His face relaxes. “Please.”

  I struggle to keep my fingers from trembling against his skin, the lump in his throat moves slightly beneath my touch. “There. Much better.”

  “Thank you.” He coughs once, then again. “How are you enjoying the party?”

  Our eyes meet and we laugh, understanding just how much we both hate being here. Then his expression turns serious. “It’s good, I suppose, to be out. I’m sorry if I offended your friend the pianist with my political talk. Spending so much time at sea has robbed me of all sense of polite conversation.”

  “Not at all.”

  “There you are.” Papa comes up behind us.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging to be seated near you,” Georg says. My breath catches. “There are some matters related to the Ruhr proposal that I’d like to discuss.” He was talking, of course, to Papa, not me. But when we reach the table the placards indicate that the seating is the customary man-woman-man insofar as the lopsided numbers permit, and I am nevertheless sandwiched in between Georg and my father. Seeing the arrangement, a frown flickers across Papa’s face.

  The table is set plainly, I notice as I sit down in the chair that Georg has pulled back. The cloth napkins are crude, the knives and forks just a step above everyday kitchen silver. But this is more than just the lingering austerity of the war. Rather, the message from our hosts is clear—we will sit down with you Germans because we must, but we will never accept you as equals.

  As the first course, salmon croquette, is served, Georg engages in conversation with a Swiss military attaché across the table. “If we can make them see that the German navy can help maintain peace and stability in the new order,” he begins doggedly. It is not the first time I have heard him express his views, and there is an optimism and hope in his voice that lightens my heart. But the faces across the table are skeptical.

  “Surely you are aware of Weber’s writings on the subject of the military-economic nexus in Germany?” a Dutchman at the far end of the table asks. Georg falters. Though he speaks well about matters in which he has experience, he is self-conscious about having not completed his education.

  “Will there still be a Germany?” I blurt out, trying to help him by changing the subject. All eyes around us turn in my direction.

  “Pardon me?” a startled older woman to Papa’s right asks.

  I clear my throat, too far gone to turn back. “It’s just that the country is so young.” Though Germany has been unified for all of my life, it is easy to forget that just half a century ago, when Papa was a boy, it was a series of fragmented states. Prussia, Bavaria and the other regions are still in many ways more distinct that homogenous. “The strain of the treaty, if it doesn’t go well, may be more than the republic can bear.”

  “How can you speak of such things about your own country?” Leigh Arrington asks.

  “Our remaining silent will not make the issue disappear. We must meet the question head-on.”

  “My dear, is it your place to trouble with such things?” The question, from a monocled man I do not recognize, is condescending.

  “I, for one, am most interested in what Fraulein Rosenthal has to say,” Georg declares, coming to my defens
e. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Papa nod slightly with approval. His reservations notwithstanding, Papa is pleased that Georg respects my views and treats me as an intellectual equal.

  The main course, mutton in too-rich gravy, is served. The conversation turns elsewhere to a debate about North Africa about which I have no knowledge or views. Beneath the table, Georg’s fingers skim the back of my hand. I wonder if it is an accident, but then his fingers close firmly around mine. I can feel his eyes on me, trying to catch my gaze to ask if I mind. But I am unable to look up. Papa continues speaking to Georg above my head, noticing nothing.

  With my free hand, I sample a piece of baguette, savoring the buttery flavor. Passover had ended just a few weeks ago and it had been nearly torture to walk past the patisseries only to face the dry, sawdustlike matzo Papa had procured from the city’s only functioning Jewish bakery. As I reach for my water glass, there is a clattering across the room, a silver tray falling from a server’s hands and crashing to the floor. Startled, Georg jumps up and reaches instinctively for the pistol he no longer carries.

  “Never mind,” I soothe, putting my arm on his and willing him to sit down again. But he is shaken, a gray pallor to his complexion. Though he is not outwardly wounded like Stefan, Georg is broken in quieter ways. There are other signs, as well—he eats quickly, as though food might be taken from him, drinks each mouthful of water as if it might be his last. “Perhaps we should get some air,” I suggest.

  “This room is infernally warm,” he agrees. “I’ve heard there are some lovely gardens. Do you think we might take a stroll?”

  I hesitate, glancing at Papa, who is ensconced in a conversation with a man on his far side. “I’m going to powder my nose,” I say, gesturing slightly with my head toward the door, prompting him to meet me.

  A moment later, I slip into the garden where Georg waits in the shadows. Outside the spring air is cool, but not unpleasantly so, the smell of fresh honeysuckle coming from the side of the path. A fountain trickles unseen in the darkness.

  “This is much better.” He chuckles as we walk down the path, the voices inside fading. I hope he might offer me his arm, but he does not. “I thought that woman, LeeAnn...”

  “Leigh Arrington,” I correct, secretly pleased he does not remember her name.

  “Yes, that’s the one. I thought she might faint when you offered up your views.”

  “I never should have said anything.”

  “Nonsense. You spoke your mind forthrightly and well and the conversation was better for it. You were only voicing what the others were thinking but were too cowardly to say. I admire your courage.”

  Courage. If only he knew. “I hold my tongue as often as I can. Women where I come from aren’t encouraged to speak or do much, you see. We’re meant to go to the parties and salons, to look nice and act pleasant.” I comprehend fully for the first time the truth of my words. Even Papa, who encouraged me to read and learn, did so just for the sake of knowledge—but what good was it all if I didn’t use it? “That’s why I enjoy our work...” I falter.

  His lips twitch with amusement. “I’m glad to provide a diversion.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all.” What I do, with him and for him, means so much more. But I cannot find the words. “It’s just so frustrating, watching the hypocrisy day after day. Wilson came with promises of freedom and self-determination, the very premise on which America was founded. But the reality seems to only be freedom for some.”

  “Yes, but if we give everyone those rights, it will be anarchy. And right now, when we are among the defeated and seeking our own rights, we must be most careful.”

  I stop and turn to him. “No, it is exactly now, when we are fighting for our own rights, that we must stand in solidarity with others who seek theirs.”

  Georg is silent for a moment. “Of course. Sometimes, amid all of the political struggles, I forget why we are here in the first place. You are like true north on a compass, Margot, and you help me find the way back.” The statement, too bold and naked for the short time we have known each other, hangs awkwardly between us.

  “It’s been a beautiful spring,” I offer, eager to break the tension.

  “Yes, though I understand the farmers are quite mad to have some rain.” I nod. They’ve only just been able to return to tilling the fields after years of battle. It is difficult to fathom the disaster a drought might bring to a country just coming back from the edge of starvation.

  A breeze blows through the garden then, pulling a piece of my hair from its moorings. Georg reaches out and brushes the lock from my face, then stops, hand suspended midair. It is my scar, illuminated in the moonlight, that has drawn his attention. A small colorless indentation just below my left ear, it appeared suddenly years earlier after the flu had passed, a reaction perhaps to the medicines that they tried. It is normally not visible, but tonight with my hair pulled higher, he can see it for the first time.

  I hold my breath, wondering if he will find it distasteful. But he continues to stare at me longingly, eyes wide. “Margot...” He fumbles to find further words but cannot.

  We continue walking in silence. Though we work beside each other each day, the air between us is somehow different here. “I’m glad you decided to attend the dinner tonight,” he says, then coughs slightly. “I mean, even if it isn’t with me.”

  I touch his forearm. “Georg, about that. It was just easier to come with Papa.”

  “I understand. He wouldn’t approve.” He believes my refusal was about him, that he somehow wasn’t good enough. I want to tell him that wasn’t it at all, but how can I without explaining the truth about my engagement to Stefan?

  “Your father doesn’t like me.” It is not a question.

  “That’s not true,” I protest quickly. I touch his forearm. “He thinks you are incredibly smart.” I stop and pull back, a blush creeping into my cheeks. Now Georg knows that we have been talking about him. “It’s only that he is a pacifist. He was against the war.”

  “None of us wanted the war,” he replies. “That is, none of the real people. There are old men, of course, in Berlin and Paris and London using the military for their own ends.”

  “You talk like it is a chess game.”

  “In a sense, it is.”

  “And you don’t mind being a pawn?”

  “If wars are to be fought, they should be led by men who can do it well. Fewer lives are lost that way. A well-waged battle can bring war to a quicker end.” I do not answer. Through the window, I see Papa talking to one of the other guests.

  “You’re quite fond of him,” Georg observed. Fireflies flicker in the distance, then disappear into the blackness like shooting stars.

  “It’s always just been the two of us.”

  “He’s a good man.” He turns away to stifle a cough. “Though I fear academia is an ill fit with the cut and thrust of politics. As poor of a fit as time at battle.” They are both outsiders here. “You must warn him to be careful. I should not want to see him get hurt.” His pupils have grown large in the moonlight, two wide circles swimming in pools of gray.

  Thinking of the information I shared with Ignatz and the danger I’ve brought to Papa, my consternation rises. “You make it sound like war, not a peace conference.” Another sharp breeze cuts across the garden then and I shiver involuntarily. Before I can protest, Georg unbuttons his coat and with a swift motion brings it around my shoulders as he had the night we first met. His scent, wool and fresh soap, wafts up around me, and in that moment it is as if he is holding me in his embrace. “Thank you.”

  “Your necklace is beautiful. May I?” I nod and he brings his finger to my throat, skin warm against mine. The back of his nail grazes my skin as he lifts the gem.

  “It was my mother’s.” Papa had given it to me as a sweet-sixteen present, pulled from the box at the bank that still holds my mother’s better pieces, the ones he considers me too impetuous and careless yet to wear.

  He l
ets the gem fall gently back to my throat, and as he pulls away his hand trembles. He’s scared, I realize. Georg has always been an island, too remote to let anything touch him. Until now. Am I the same? Though I have been involved with Stefan, these feelings are terrifying.

  The back door to the house opens and a silhouette appears. “Margot, are you out there?”

  “Coming, Papa.”

  “I can escort you home,” Georg offers in a low voice as we walk back across the garden. “That way your father will not have to interrupt his conversation. Perhaps the driver could take us down the Champs-Élysée to see the lights.” A shift from the man who had said a few days earlier that he was not in Paris to play tourist.

  Georg’s jacket, I remember as we step into the light of the house, which now feels garish. I slip it from my shoulders and try to hand it to him, but it is too late—Papa has already seen. Confusion, then realization and concern, cross his face in an instant.

  Inside, the party has broken up at the table, the men retreating to the library for brandy and cigars. “Papa, Georg has offered to take me home.” I no longer pretend to call him by his formal title.

  “That is, if you’d like me to escort Margot back to the hotel.” Georg steps in to save me from having to ask. A fine layer of perspiration coats his upper lip.

  I watch Papa struggle inwardly, his own desire to remain in Paris and see Celia colliding with his wanting to keep me and Georg apart. “You’ll take her straight back?” Georg towers over Papa, a giant. But it is Papa who seems somehow larger now, fierce in his protectiveness of me.

  “It’s just a ride, Papa,” I nudge gently. “Georg is hardly a stranger.” Something flickers across Georg’s face. To him it is something more. A ride back to Versailles, just the two of us, a goodbye on the steps of our building....

  “Fine,” Papa relents.

  Georg coughs once, then a second time harder. “I’ll get your coat.”

  As Georg disappears, I spy Krysia in a vestibule, motioning for me to join her. “I didn’t have time to speak with you before with everyone around. I’ve done some checking, and I’m afraid Ignatz is for real. I should have guessed it. He isn’t very subtle. He spends money far beyond what he could earn serving drinks and cakes to a bunch of starving artists. He’s gotten in with some folks with legitimate connections. And he’s not going to leave you alone, I’m afraid. His taking the risk to come here tonight is proof positive of that. He must consider you a terribly valuable asset. Any step out of line and your father will be revealed as the leak.”