The Ambassador, in the interests of diplomatic courtesy, and quite impressed by the doctor’s cultivated charm, had arranged it. Doctor Wirtz, who was a very good golfer, managed to skilfully lose the match on the last green and, although his young Swiss partner appeared disappointed at the defeat, their French opponents were openly delighted. After Volkmann had driven off in his father’s Packard in something of a sulk, Wirtz had accompanied both diplomats to the club house and insisted on buying the winners a drink.
Later, he found himself invited to the Daubigny house for afternoon tea. He was a thoroughly pleasant guest, commending Madame Daubigny on her tasteful home, and wondering, since he had noticed Odette play tennis so well, if they might perhaps enter as a pair in the mixed doubles? The parents, won over by his savoir faire, said they felt sure their daughter would be honoured by the invitation.
“But why did you agree?” Alex asked. It was his first day there after the traumatic journey, and he was dismayed by this news.
“He’s persistent,” was all Odette said.
“That’s not an answer.”
She was sitting in the café near the courts, wearing the short tennis dress that had drawn the new doctor’s attention. She seemed defensive and unhappy at being quizzed in such a fashion.
“I don’t want to discuss it, Alex. Ever since he arrived here he calls regularly on the Ambassador and my father, and they feel they have to be civil to him.”
“I don’t see why they should be,” Alex said, “your father’s hardly ever been civil to me.”
“Well, that’s different.”
“What’s different about it?”
“He knows you’re after my body. At least he suspects it, and he’s just trying to be protective.”
“So what’s the bloody Nazi after?”
“Now don’t be like that, Alex.”
“He chases you by ingratiating himself with the family. I’ll bet he kisses your mother’s hand! Probably kisses your father’s arse.”
He waited for her laughter, but there was none. They saw the immaculate figure of Hans Wirtz waiting at the courts.
“It’s only a game of bloody tennis,” she said.
Alex sat and watched as she joined the German doctor.
Things felt different. Something had changed.
“It’s the people who’ve changed,” Claude said, “and this place causes it. This charming bugger of a town. It’s like a luxury penal colony; nobody can leave here and they’re bored shitless. It drives us all crazy. Fine for a few weeks in summer, but not for months on end, especially all through the winter. You’ll soon wish you were back in Tokyo.”
“I do already,” Alex said. “The trouble is, the Tokyo we knew no longer exists.”
He began to realise what they had to put up with, while he’d been able to visit and leave after each weekend. His sister was lonely and restless, while his mother seemed to have shut out the rest of the world. Her days were spent playing mah-jong with Paul Jacoulet, or bridge at the hotel.
“She’s still in mourning for that spy,” Jacoulet told him. He was adorned as ever like a geisha. “I can’t imagine why. I didn’t fancy him in the slightest.”
Alex smiled. “I doubt if he fancied you.”
“There’s no accounting for other people’s preferences.” He eyed Alex slyly. “So your pretty girlfriend plays tennis with the handsome new Berlin doctor. Do you think they play any other little games together?”
“I don’t know, Paul.” He refrained from complaint. It was pointless remonstrating with Jacoulet. His mother’s friend enjoyed being malicious and outrageous.
“Quite of a lot of that sort of thing going on,” Jacoulet persevered. “When people are cooped up like prisoners and bored out of their wits, fucking is at least one way to pass the time.”
Alex studied him a moment. There was a bitterness about the artist he had never noticed before.
“Paul, do you hate it here?”
“Not only here,” Jacoulet said, “I’ve fallen out of love with this whole country. I remember other times, better times, when it was a joy to live here. It was a place of real and delicate beauty, quite unique. People were devoted to lyricism; we admired fine kakemonos, we prized treasures like netsuke, wood carvings and origami. The tea ceremony was an elegant ritual, and the art of the geisha, all such graceful things were revered. But now it seems as if the colours of our life have been taken away. Lyric art is scorned. The refined and fragile have become objects to be crushed. We are not allowed to be sensitive, instead we must be what our masters call heroic and warlike. I call it hideous insanity.”
Alex realised he was weeping. Tears ran down his white powdered cheeks, like rain making splashes in a patch of snow.
“I worry about Jacoulet,” Marie Faure said, setting places for the daily game of mah-jong. “He no longer makes me laugh.”
“There doesn’t seem a lot to laugh about, Mama.”
“He weeps a lot.”
“I know.”
“I also worry about Mathilde,” his mother said.
“What’s wrong with Tilly?”
“Too many boyfriends.” She started to carefully build her own tiles into a formal wall.
“Shouldn’t you wait for the others before you do that?”
“If they don’t trust me, they don’t need to play. There’s other things to worry about in this place, too.”
“It’ll soon be warmer, Ma. We’ll all feel better then.”
“I don’t talk about weather.”
“Then what is it that bothers you?”
“Plenty of things bother me. Your Odette, for instance. Your friend who plays tennis with the Nazi doctor. I find it peculiar her family seems to admire him. They have him to morning tea and dinner.”
“So I heard.”
“And play golf with him.”
“Perhaps it’s in the interests of diplomacy,” Alex suggested.
“Why should anyone be diplomatic to such a creature? Do you know he said he felt honoured to be sent here as a doctor for his fellow countrymen, because then it meant they wouldn’t be polluted any longer by the touch of the two Jews.”
“Incredible.”
“Disgusting,” his mother said. “I expect he learnt such behaviour in the Hitler Youth. Did you know of the rumours that Jews are being killed in the concentration camp?”
“I know there’s talk of it. I hope it isn’t true.”
“I look at this Nazi doctor and can believe it’s true. He’s never even spoken to the other doctors since his arrival. Dear old Doctor Wittenberg said good morning to him, and Wirtz just stared at him as if he didn’t exist, then walked straight past. Now neither of our doctors bother trying to talk to him, because they know they’ll be ignored and insulted.”
“He sounds like a real bastard,” Alex said. “Where does this medical storm-trooper live?”
It was traditional that all the houses in Karuizawa had a wooden nameplate on their front fence to identify the occupant. Dr Hans Wirtz’s sign was new, larger than most and very conspicuous, embellished with the initials of all his qualifications. He seemed to have a great many credentials for a comparatively young man.
Alex had brought a screwdriver, and a tiny flashlight. He carefully unscrewed the freshly painted sign, as Claude handed him Dr Plessner’s battered old board. It was long after midnight, and nobody was in the street. Alex fixed Plessner’s name to Wirtz’s gate. Then they moved off with Wirtz’s plate, and strolled through the town.
Early the next morning there was a larger than usual crowd in the vicinity of the tennis club. No-one was playing; instead they all seemed to be chatting together while busily watching the street.
“Here he is,” Claude murmured, and everyone turned to watch. Dr Wirtz strode from the direction of his house. He held a battered sign in his hand as far from his body as possible, giving the strong impression he considered it smelt offensive.
“And here’s Doc Plessner,” Ale
x said, and from the other direction they saw the younger of the Jewish doctors approach. He carried Wirtz’s ostentatious sign. A new and large set of initials, “SS” had been added to his list of credentials. The group roared with laughter when they saw this.
The two met. Without a word, Wirtz tossed Plessner’s shabby name plate on the ground. For a moment the other doctor seemed about to do likewise; instead he held out the board for Wirtz to take. The watching group broke into spontaneous applause. Until then, neither doctor had seemed aware of an audience. Now Wirtz turned and glared, realising too late that he had made himself look churlish. Then, snatching his sign, he strode off. The crowd softly chanted “Sieg heil” to his strutting step.
Plessner picked up his own tattered plate, smiled at the crowd who loudly applauded him again, and walked back toward his house.
“I don’t know if you did it. I’ve no idea who did it. All I’m saying is, it’s the kind of thing you might do, and in my opinion and that of the Ambassador, it was provocative, stupid and unwise.”
Claude Daubigny was in a rage. Alex had come to visit Odette, hoping to persuade her that they might go bike-riding, since the weather was at last starting to become warmer. He had a number of pleasantly remote places in mind where they might spread their sleeping bag, but on arrival had been intercepted by her irate father.
“Well,” the Head of Chancellery demanded furiously, “what do you have to say about it?”
“I have nothing to say about it,” Alex replied mildly. “Just that I saw the Nazi doctor behaving extremely oddly this morning, throwing Doctor Plessner’s house sign on the ground. I hear the SS man has become a golfing friend of yours, but he’s not someone I’d care to associate with.”
Monsieur Daubigny stared indignantly at him, and Alex knew he had gone too far.
“I deeply resent that.”
“Then I apologise, Monsieur.”
“Your apology is offensive, and is not accepted. I associate with him, as you choose to call it, because the Ambassador feels it’s diplomatically sensible to do so. He feels, and after all he is Ambassador, that there is little to be gained by antagonising important Germans. I think you should advise your radical friends we’re in a precarious situation. Remind them the Germans are allies of the Japanese and in a position to influence them. We’ve survived this war in relative comfort, compared to those who’ve been interned. Tell all those idiots who applauded the Jewish doctor this morning, that they did us no favours when word of it leaks back to Tokyo.”
Alex knew he should keep silent. That was the most sensible thing to do. Equally, he knew it was impossible.
“The Jewish doctor, as you choose to call him, has been your physician and ours for years. He’s looked after and been a friend to both our families. Do we have to curry favour by being anti-Semitic?”
“I am not anti-Semitic.” Odette’s father sounded as if he spoke the words through gritted teeth. “I am also convinced, in fact I’m downright certain, that you had something to do with this morning’s absurdity. Of course you did! This nonsensical juvenile charade has your trademark all over it. Now — was there anything else?”
“I came to see Odette.”
“You can go to hell. You’re not welcome. In fact I prefer you to keep well away from my daughter.”
Before Alex could reply, Daubigny slammed the door in his face. As he was about to mount his bike, an upstairs window opened and Odette looked out, smiling.
“Crazy idiot.”
“It was in a good cause.”
“Daddy sounded upset.”
“Never mind daddy. How does it feel, being shut away like a lovely princess in a tower?”
“You say the nicest things sometimes, Alex. I’m utterly bored with Teutonic tennis. He almost clicks his heels each time he hits a winner.”
“Really?”
“And he does kiss mother’s hand, and father’s arse. Well, as good as … because I’m sure he lets him win at golf.”
“Daddy would enjoy that. When can we meet and discuss matters of some importance?”
“Relating to whom?”
“Relating to us.”
“As soon as I escape from my tower,” she said, and blew him a kiss.
25
THE SPRING OF ’45
Peach trees and cherry blossom enlivened the April hillsides. Azaleas flourished and the sun shone as if celebrating the authentic birth of spring. Within weeks the landscape was transformed. Maples and magnolias were blooming, while laurel and birch trees began to fill with nesting larks and finches. The whole countryside became a bright vista that revitalised people’s spirits after the bleak winter, while on the shortwave radio hidden in the house of the French Ambassador, came tidings to gladden the hearts and minds of the thousands confined in Karuizawa.
Berlin was under siege.
Russian armies were advancing through Poland.
Allied troops had crossed the Rhine.
In the Pacific, Iwo Jima was captured.
Then Okinawa, the last great island fortress 600 kilometres south of Japan, was invaded by a massive American army.
This news was disseminated with care, for the spring of ’45 became a strange and dangerous time. Not everyone welcomed what they heard. Nor did everyone believe it. The Nazi enclave in the town was fiercely defiant. They were still a dominant presence, swaggering in the streets, convinced of their Fuhrer’s vision for a 1000-year Reich, unable to accept that defeat in their distant homeland was possible. They had lived with this arrogance for so long, their minds were closed to anything less than total victory.
Throughout the winter, with so many different nations all compelled to coexist together in this crowded resort, a bitter schism had developed between the nationalist Germans and the neutral foreigners. The Germans had persuaded their Japanese allies that a mountain town full of aliens was a danger to security, and more than that, a likely place to plot sabotage and recruit spies. These neutral people, they insisted, had no allegiance to Japan; they fought on no side and were concerned only for themselves and their own betterment. They were a motley collection, Swedes, Swiss, South Americans, Irish, Spanish; all kinds of riff-raff.
Some were Jews who should be removed from sight.
The Germans even included some of their own countrymen among the deviants, those moderates who had lived in Japan prior to the war and felt no loyalty to Hitler’s regime. But in particular they singled out the French as the major source of danger. The French, after all, had been allies of the British at the start of the European war, and were again reunited with them and the Americans. The French needed watching. In fact, since de Gaulle was head of their provisional government, they no longer had a right to be considered neutral, or allowed to remain at liberty. They should all be interned. These were the frequent undercurrents in the spring of ’45.
The Ambassador knew this pressure was being applied. He knew the Japanese were hesitating, for they had a long history of trade with France. French people were regarded as good citizens who had made permanent homes in the Far East, and contributed to its commercial success. Whereas most of these Germans were national-socialist transients who would soon return to the Fatherland. And some were louts, it was said, parading in the streets like storm-troopers. So any move against the French, the government decided, was not an option to be taken lightly.
But Tokyo did bow to one concern from their Axis partner. They agreed on allowing a military police presence, to check on the possibility of insurgence. A squad of Kempeitai were dispatched to the mountains, told to be unobtrusive and to keep watch on all gaijin who might show signs of bias. In particular they were to monitor the French for those who might be engaging in espionage.
Word was circulated among French families to be careful. It would be unwise to show satisfaction at the worsening situation for Japan in the Pacific. And equally indiscreet to delight that Germany was being overrun, and that Berlin was beleaguered and in ruins. Everyone must act as if d
isinterested in the progress of the war. Behave with caution and pretend indifference, that was the advice. Be circumspect.
Alex and his friends found this stance difficult to accept. They had long been harassed and provoked by the Nazis; now they were being asked to conduct themselves as if unaware Germany was on the brink of defeat. Rumours abounded. Radio reports said Hitler had fled to Berchtesgaden, to make a last stand with fanatical SS troops. Another declared he was insane, deep in the Fuhrerbunker beneath Berlin. Finally, at the end of April, came the tidings that he was dead. Hitler had married Eva Braun in the last hour of his life, then in a bizarre pact they had suicided together.
In Karuizawa, the military police kept strict watch for signs of celebration. They were confused and disappointed, for the French seemed aloof to this momentous event. The rest of the world might be rejoicing, but not here. Instead they played tennis, the courts now being allocated more fairly; they met for drinks or played cards, they went horse riding — did all the mundane everyday things they’d being doing for so long. It was a torment to Alex and his friends, who wanted to express their joy, for this must surely be the end of the war in Europe, and they longed to taunt the Nazis whose abuse and aggression they’d endured. Hitler was dead, but there was no surrender, the Germans were still allies. So it was unsafe to show elation.
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