by Pam Jenoff
“Oh, Papa.” He had stayed, doing the work of father and mother taking care of me, just the two of us, because there could not be more children. That was a lie, too, I realize now. My mother had found even one child more than she could bear. Papa would not have insisted upon more for fear of what it would have done to her. “I could never feel that way. But if you had told me...”
He pats my cheek. “Such a beautiful girl. She could not have imagined.”
For a moment, I savor the warmth of his hand on my face, his love strong and protecting as it had been every day of my life. Then I pull back. “You lied,” I say, the air suddenly cold and distant between us. Every fond memory I have of the two of us over the past decade seems tainted, premised on a fabrication.
“Margot, please.”
But I turn away, unwilling to be consoled. His betrayal is worse than my mother’s in so many ways because I believed in him. He steps back, defeated. “I’m afraid I must get back to the delegation. We can talk more this evening.”
What good will talking do? I want to ask. It won’t bring her back, give me a chance to speak with her before it is too late. But he has already closed the door. I lie across my bed, studying the newspaper picture once more. Tears form in my eyes, splashing onto the paper like great raindrops. We might have been sisters, or even friends. No, not friends. I cannot forgive her what she did. What would I say to her if she were here now? I would have liked to ask her why she had gone. Now I won’t have the chance.
An hour later Celia rushes into the apartment. “You know.” It is not a question. Papa must have rung her and asked her to comfort me in his absence. “Don’t judge him for this,” Celia pleads. Though she means well, trying to bridge the conflict between Papa and me, I am flooded with anger. Who is she to tell me about my parents? “He loved her...” Hurt washes across her face as she acknowledges the depth of his feelings for her sister, a love that she will never own. “And he tried, really tried.” She is asking for him, not for herself.
I raise my hand. “Stop, please.”
“Don’t blame your father,” Celia presses, more forcefully than I have ever heard her speak. “It would be easy to say that he had been inattentive or too preoccupied with his work. But he is the most loving man I have ever known.” I cringe at the proprietary tone of her voice. “The truth is no man would have been enough for Lucy. She was like that as a girl, always hungry, always wanting more. It was a curse.” Is my own restlessness, always searching for more and never finding it, somehow passed on from her? Maybe that is why I am dissatisfied with Stefan—not because of who he has become, but because of who I really am.
Unable to bear Celia’s explanations any longer, I walk from the apartment and downstairs. Though it is midmorning, the streets are somber and hushed, curtains drawn. At the corner, the fountain in the center of the tiny square is still. The smell of the stale water stirs a memory in me. I am standing in the park at the Tiergarten wearing the pink coat that means I could not have been more than four or five at the time. Papa was abroad at one of his conferences and it was the nanny’s day off, giving my mother and I a rare few hours alone. She kept us in perpetual motion at times like that, walking parks and streets, as though she could not bear to be home and still, just the two of us. I’d wandered off toward the duck pond, captivated by the proud white swans that Papa had always cautioned me to avoid. Suddenly I turned around. I was alone, lost among a sea of unfamiliar trouser legs and coat hems.
I screamed, a high desperate wail, and the crowd parted as though whatever misfortune I was suffering might be contagious. Finally, a vendor took pity on me. “What is your name?” He led me through the park, calling out, “Has anyone lost a child named Margot?” mispronouncing it with a
soft g. At the fountain, I recognized my mother’s coat and leaped from the man’s arms and ran to her. She turned absently, as though she hadn’t noticed I was gone. I waited for her to scold me for disappearing, but she simply gave the vendor a mark for his troubles and led me away. I wonder now if she was sorry to have found me again.
My vision clears. All of the time I had been so obsessed with my own secrets, I had not stopped to think. But now everything Papa had told me, the entire fabric of our lives, was premised on a lie.
I walk heedlessly down the street, not realizing where I am going until I am standing on the steps of the hotel. As the door buzzer rings, granting me access, I am flooded with self-doubt. I should not bother Georg now. Inside the corridor, I knock on his door. There is no answer. I turn the knob, push the door open. “Hello?”
He is not at his desk but in a chair by the window, slumped to one side. “It’s over,” he says, voice slurred. I notice then the empty wine bottle on the floor, his resolution of temperance quickly abandoned with the crisis. Had he been drinking last night or this morning or both? He is still wearing his uniform from the previous evening. The jacket, usually so neat, is unbuttoned and there is a red wine stain on the lapel of the white shirt that peeks out from beneath.
Concern rises, eclipsing my own problems. “Have you slept at all?”
“They handed us the treaty,” he says, ignoring my question. “Three days to say yes or no. They didn’t even adopt Wilson’s Fourteen Points,” he adds glumly. “Studies of the navy?” he spits, knocking down a binder that had been sitting on the windowsill. Papers scatter across the floor. “There is to be no navy. We’ve been betrayed.” He buries his head in his hands. It breaks my heart to see him so deflated by the one thing about which he cared so passionately.
“The conference isn’t over. They still might.” But even as I speak I know that it isn’t likely. Wilson and his delegation were packing up, according to the papers. “Perhaps if we review the notes, we can think of a counterproposal,” I venture, but then I stop. It is moot now and I will not insult him by pretending otherwise.
He looks up. “Margot,” he says, as though just realizing I am there. He starts to reach for me then hesitates, glancing down at his stained, wrinkled uniform. “I’m terribly sorry. If you’ll excuse me a moment...” He stands and walks into the bedroom.
A few minutes later, he returns. His eyes are somewhat clearer now, face washed and shaved. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that, it’s just that everything...” He breaks, noticing for the first time the redness of my eyes. “Margot,” he repeats, crossing the room and kneeling before where I sit. “Are you all right? Is it the treaty?”
“Georg...” I hate to burden him further at a time like this. But I cannot hold back—I tell him the story.
His jaw drops slightly. “She didn’t die from the flu?”
“No, she was alive this entire time, until just now.” My voice cracks. “Only I had no idea.”
“That’s madness!” he flares, his own distress about the treaty momentarily forgotten.
“My whole life has been a lie,” I lament.
He puts his arms around me and draws me close. “Not at all. There’s nothing worse than when someone close to us betrays our trust.” Thinking of the document I stole from him, my stomach turns. “But your father did what he thought was best to protect you. This doesn’t change his love, or who he raised you to be.”
“And my mother?” I demand, pulling back. “Did she do what she thought was best?”
He turns his palms upward, his expression helpless. “I don’t know. But your mother gave you the best of her traits. There’s much of her in you, I think. Your curiosity, the desire to see the world.” I open my mouth to protest. I want to be nothing like her. But he is right.
What had my mother been thinking in those final moments as she lay dying? Had she thought of me, wished she had done something differently when she’d had the chance? Or was she quite content with her choices?
A giant hole opens up and threatens to engulf me. “Oh, Georg!” I move closer, heedless of the tears that stain the front of his uniform. Our roles have switched suddenly. All of this time, it has been me doing the comforting. But now
he holds me in his arms and I am vulnerable as a child. I have been self-sufficient for so long and to lean on someone, to need him for strength, terrifies me beyond anything I’ve ever known.
“Forgive me,” I manage a moment later, straightening. “It was wrong of me to come here like this, especially now with the treaty...” I gesture to the papers strewn across the floor.
“You have been there for me so many times in moments of need. It is my pleasure to reciprocate.” But he shrugs. “None of it matters anymore. I’m just glad you’re here.”
“It was such a waste...all of that time.” Papa had kept secrets from me for years, stopping me from having a chance to know my mother. But am I any better, denying the truth about my feelings for Georg, not living life? Once it seemed to me that if I did the right things, I would be able to stay safe. Now I understand that there is no such thing. All of the rules and conventions, the things that I believed and knew to be right and true, are now gone. But these things, even as they held me in the place I detested so, gave my world structure and order. I am staring over the edge of the abyss.
“It’s more than that,” I say, realizing as I speak that I had not come to Georg merely for comfort. Papa had kept the truth buried for years. I do not want to waste time like that in my own life anymore. “You and I...” I falter.
“I understand. We had discussed my speaking with your father. But after all that has happened, I have no such expectations that you would still want...”
“No, it’s just the opposite,” I say, cutting him off. “You see, I know now that we must.” Unable to find the words, I lean forward, bringing my lips to his. Joy surges through me. This is where I was meant to be and where I want to be now, whatever the cost. His mouth is on mine then, his hands hesitant at my waist.
“Margot...”
Impatiently, I grab his hand and bring it lower, urging him forward with a sureness despite my lack of experience. I slide from the chair to the floor, papers crushing beneath us.
Even as desire rises in me, though, a voice nags in my head: not like this. It is not the impropriety of what is happening—I want Georg too much to stop for social norms. But this is the beginning of something great; it cannot begin with a lie.
“Georg...” I put my hand on his chest to slow him down, then sit up.
He pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I never should have taken such liberties.”
“No, it isn’t that. I want to.” His eyes widen. “But there is something that I must say first.” I will tell him about Ignatz and the document. About my marriage. About everything. I steel myself, but before I can speak, he leans in for one more kiss.
Outside something crackles loudly, lightning striking a tree. The noise comes again, closer now. A knock at the door. I kiss him harder, this moment a dream from which I do not want to awake. If we do not stop, then none of this will ever end. But Georg, still practical, pulls back. “I’m so sorry, but with everything that has happened I must...”
I stand and straighten my skirts. Through the narrow window beside the door, I can see the edge of Papa’s hat, its worn brim unmistakable. My mind races. What is he doing here? I fleetingly consider remaining hidden. Then, remembering my resolution to proceed without lies, I step forward to face him.
“Papa?” I open the door, then stop, motionless. There, standing beside my father, is Stefan.
Chapter 15
“Stefan?” I am incredulous. What is he doing here? He stands in the hallway with only the aid of a cane, but it is apparent from his wobbly stance and the way he grasps the door frame that he still needs a good deal of support. He wears his old and tattered uniform, as though no one had told him he is no longer a soldier. His hair is wheat-blond now, perhaps bleached by the sun, but the change looks permanent, brought on by the trauma he has been through. His eyes dart anxiously from side to side.
Papa sent for him, I realize. He was worried about my closeness with Georg. It was so unlike him—in all other areas of life Papa encouraged my independence and tried to let me make my own decisions. But Georg threatening the security of my future was more than Papa could bear and so he intervened. Even as I curse his choice, I cannot be angry with him for doing the thing he thought was right.
Stefan and I stare awkwardly at each other. It has been four years, and though I recognize him as the wan veteran from the photos he has sent, he is a stranger, any inkling of the boy I knew in Berlin long gone. His face searches mine hopefully. I should embrace him, or at least reach out. But my feet are rooted as though in concrete.
“Margot,” Papa prompts gently. “Stefan has come all the way from Berlin to see you.”
“Stefan.” I say again. Through my panic I see him having hopefully traveled thousands of miles in spite of his wounds to find me. The guilt opens up into a chasm, threatening to suck me in. I step forward and kiss the once-wide expanse of his cheek, now sunken. “It is a wonderful surprise.” He smiles then, basking in my drops of affection, as though my few words have made the struggle of coming here worthwhile. “You’re looking so well,” I add.
He drinks me in hungrily. “And you, beautiful as ever.” The words sound rehearsed, as if he practiced them a hundred times on the journey here. “At first I thought, just a visit,” he manages, and his voice is thinner than I recall, a papier-mâché replica of the strong baritone that had sung so richly in the school chorus. “But with the treaty concluded...”
“Stefan is here to accompany us home,” Papa finishes for him. Home. This is the nightmare I have had a dozen times. If I open my mouth to scream will I wake up?
“Margot...?” My breathing stops, the warmth of Georg’s hand on the back of my elbow where no one can see. His touch is reassuring yet bittersweet, because I am certain it will be the last time I feel it. I look from Stefan to Georg, want and need, duty and desire personified in the men that stand before me. Georg smiles at Papa. “Professor...” His tone is affable, only mildly puzzled. “Is something amiss? Beside the wretched treaty, I mean.” The air is thick and humid.
Papa watches me expectantly. Only hours have passed since we argued, since I discovered the truth about my mother. Now his lie and mine lie together, juxtaposed. I swallow, clearing my throat. “Georg, may I introduce Stefan Oster.” I cannot bring myself to say more, to reveal the full truth of my deception. “Stefan, this is Captain Richwalder.” Stefan’s eyes dart to Georg’s shoulders and, seeing the rank insignia, he straightens and raises his arm to salute. But Georg, unaware of the significance of the introduction, reaches out and shakes his hand. “A fellow member of the Imperial military. A pleasure.”
“Margot has been helping Captain Richwalder in his work for the delegation,” Papa offers, trying to ease the tension. “Translating documents.”
Stefan looks from Georg to me and then back again, and in that moment I am sure he will realize everything. Will he try to strike Georg? But Stefan nods. “A noble endeavor.” I study his face for some sign of suspicion, but find none. Is it so hard to believe that another man might desire me? No, Stefan has always seen the world in the very simplest of terms, accepting things at face value. My wanting to be with Georg, or he with me, is beyond Stefan’s comprehension. “I’m glad you’ve found something to occupy your time,” he says to me, “besides planning for the wedding.”
Wedding. The word echoes through the thick air. Georg’s weight shifts almost imperceptibly and, though I cannot bring myself to look up, I feel his gaze upon me, questioning, wanting me to deny it.
Papa steps in, speaking when I cannot. “Stefan is Margot’s fiancé,” he explains pleasantly. I feel Georg rock back slightly on his heels, as though he has been hit.
I hold my breath, waiting for Stefan to correct Papa and deliver the final blow, announcing a marriage that not even Papa knows exists. I stare at him, willing him to be silent and keep the secret of our vows intact.
Georg clears his throat, the survival instincts of a soldier taking hold. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I mus
t return to my work in the library. Good evening.” He cannot bear to say my name. As he walks down the hall, I try to catch his eyes, to speak to him without words as we have so often. But he fixes his gaze over my head, refusing to meet mine and see the explanations and pleading there.
The door to the library closes behind him with quiet finality, the lone click signaling that I will not set foot inside there again, that the pleasure of sitting among the dusty stacks and listening to Georg breathe beside me is gone forever.
I turn back. Stefan stands with a bright, hopeful smile on his face, either not seeing or choosing to ignore the scene that has played out before him. “I’m well now,” he says. “Well” for him means able to stand and at least walk a bit with assistance. There is a hesitation to his words, a way that he searches for the simplest terms of expression that speaks volumes about the damage he suffered, the absence of the wit and humor he’d once possessed. “I’ve been discharged. It’s so wonderful to see you. All these years, this is what kept me going.” Shame washes over me as I picture Stefan, lying in the hospital bed longing for me. My short, occasional letters, filled with the most basic of pleasantries, had been a lifeline. And as soon as he was able he had gotten out of bed and come to me when I would not go to him.
Stefan takes my hands in his. “Now we can get married.” He continues the pretense that we are not already wed for my benefit as well as Papa’s.
“Yes,” I manage, forcing a smile, acknowledging the long outstanding bill, now come due. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
“How ever did you get here?” The next afternoon Stefan and I stand on one of the terraces at Versailles. We’d spent the better part of the day touring the palace, which I had not taken the time to see properly since we’d moved here. It had seemed an easier activity than trying to venture into Paris. But Stefan had moved with painstaking slowness and the guide tired of us quickly. So we had explored the gilded drawing rooms on the ground floor at a glacial pace, not daring to navigate the steps to the chambers above.