The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  ‘Mark Benson.’ This made him feel unstuffy.

  ‘Oh, I see you smile,’ said the man. ‘I’m never sure if English people know how to – English men, anyway. I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself, there aren’t many people our age on the ship. I just had dinner with a group of septuagenarians, thought I’d look for younger company. Girls tend to be suspicious if a strange man says hello.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Mr Bruegmann.’

  Mr Bruegmann’s face crinkled humorously. He had strikingly thick dark eyebrows. ‘A pleasure for me too, Mr Benson. You’re coming to America for a while, I assume, or you wouldn’t risk being torpedoed. Actually, it gives me a bit of a kick – the thought we might be underwater any minute adds zest to the dry martinis.’

  Mark must have looked blank, since he went on, ‘Not familiar with the dry martini, eh? A sherry and port man? Well, we’ll see about that. Are you visiting with us for long?’

  ‘I’m going to be working at the British Embassy, this is my first trip to America.’

  ‘Uh oh, I should speak to you more formally, you’re an important person.’

  ‘I’m just a Third Secretary.’

  ‘Sounds important to me. In the United States, we tend to be informal. If you meet someone your own age, you pretty soon call him by his first name. Please call me George. If you’d like to, that is. And may I address you as Mark?’ said George, smiling broadly again. ‘Remember, we’re on board ship, we can behave as we want. What the hell, we may be drowned tomorrow. Things loosen up when a ship goes down.’

  They had another drink – ‘I think your first dry martini had better wait till tomorrow’ – and then another. George had been a naval officer, was now the New York representative of the long-established family business in Chicago, was returning from Britain where he had been looking at the prospects for wartime business expansion. They drank dry martinis every evening before dinner, more drinks after dinner. ‘I see you have your eye on that nice girl from Philadelphia,’ said George. ‘I’d look further. Nice girls from Philadelphia are a little dull, let’s face it. They’re worse in Washington, they only talk about politics – and don’t even think of a Southern Belle. Try a New York girl, there’s nothing like them.’

  He got Mark another drink. Mark felt he should not be drinking so much: in Evelyn Gardens the consumption of alcohol had more or less stopped for the duration of the war. But George was hard to resist, and he made Mark laugh, that was very endearing. They stood together as the ship sailed into New York harbour, and saluted the Statue of Liberty. As they disembarked, George said, ‘When you’ve settled in, come and visit me in New York. And good luck!’

  11

  One morning in the early summer of 1915, Irene and Thomas sat on their garden bench. She took his hand.

  ‘I have something to tell you.’

  ‘What?’ he said, alarmed. She smiled, it was typical of him to react so strongly.

  ‘Good news.’

  ‘Irene, you’re not. . .?’

  ‘Yes. December.’

  He embraced her, then hummed loudly. ‘A first grandchild for my parents, and Paul and Freddy said they would catch me up because I was so slow. . .’ He broke off. ‘I can’t wait to tell Frau Mamma.’

  ‘I have told her.’

  ‘You have told her?’

  ‘I love her, I wanted to tell her myself. And we told Mathilde and Bettina – we had a celebration.’

  ‘You told Mathilde and Bettina?’

  ‘Well, with women, you know, it is something special. . . I only told her on Wednesday, when I was sure. I wanted to tell you here, in our own house.’

  ‘Oh Irene, dearest Irene, here you will be like the Virgin Mary in her hortus conclusus.’

  ‘I don’t think I qualify as a virgin, do I?’ She took a deep breath. ‘It will be a German baby, through and through, and it will have a German name, which we must choose carefully. Not Wilhelm.’

  ‘No, definitely not Wilhelm.’

  ‘Nor Wolfgang.’

  ‘No, not Wolfgang.’

  ‘Nor Horst.’

  ‘Would I ever choose such a hideous name?’

  ‘Of course, if it is a girl,’ she said, ‘which I would like just as much, we must also find a fine name, perhaps a socialist one, to suit your politics. I thought perhaps Mariana?’

  ‘What about Dorothea, after my mother?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I should like that. But one day, my baby will meet his, or her, English family. We shall be friends with my English family then, we will see them often, won’t we, Thomas?’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘When we were married, I made a speech, you may remember.’ She remembered, but she wanted to hear his words again. ‘I said that I hoped we would create a house that would unite the best of English and German traditions. That is still my ideal. One day this war will be over, and we will rebuild our old lives and friendships. Our child will be a German child, but he will become a little more English every time he visits his English family, and with his mother he will speak English. In all this madness, we must not forget what really matters. Love, not of one’s country but of individuals. Moral courage, the ability to escape from meaningless rules and to think for oneself. Such things as these.’

  ‘I’m afraid those aims are forgotten now. War and hatred, they’re so intoxicating.’

  ‘But I have one hope emerging out of all this, Irene, that when the war ends, this farce of an empire will disappear. Instead we shall be citizens of a healthy new society, where the needs of the workers will be expressed in a truly modern social system. That’s what I hope.’

  She stroked his cheek.

  ‘I agree with your hopes,’ she said, ‘and we must bring up our child to believe in them, mustn’t we?

  12

  Washington, 5 June 1915

  Dear old things,

  I’m so sorry not to have written sooner but we work, we work, and then we work more.

  I can’t tell you much about details, you’ll understand. Our job, even at my lowly level, is to present Britain as a country fighting for Justice and Peace against an evil enemy. Actually, we meet the evil enemy often, at official receptions, but we have to pretend not to see one another – it’s hard for some of my colleagues, who played tennis with them before the war. The Germans are very aggressive, they’re constantly organising rallies at which German Americans proclaim their loyalty to the Fatherland – they even shout ‘Shoot the President’, because he’s seen as insufficiently pro-German. There are millions of them, wanting the States to enter the war on their side. It’s especially difficult in the mid-west: German food, German newspapers, German faces, German beer.

  On the other hand, it’s hard to understand how they were so stupid as to sink the Lusitania. Their embassy has the effrontery to put notices in the papers saying that anyone who travels on a ship that sails under the British flag, or even docks in Britain, is liable to attack.

  My chief is a brilliant man, he handles a mountain of business but always stays clear-minded. Of course his great purpose is to persuade the Americans to come in on our side, but it’s hard work. I’m surprised at the anti-British feeling here.

  Something that surprised me too at first is the number of blacks here. It’s practically a nigger city, outside the government and embassy area: arriving by railroad you have to go past the most dreary housing full of black families before you reach civilisation. The porters and waiters and most of the house servants are all niggers. At first they gave me the creeps, but I’ve got used to them, they’re so cheerful and friendly.

  I’m going next weekend to stay with Mrs Salt from the ship.

  13

  Pandora comes in, advances towards her mother.

  ‘Darling, how nice to see you.’ Dorothea coughs. ‘Is that dress quite wise?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I’m not sure it does you justice. It’s so floral, so. . . um. . . psychedelic. Did you make it yourself?’

>   ‘Obviously you don’t like it.’

  ‘If you were sixteen, darling, it would be the greatest fun, but you’re twenty-six.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Does it offend you, shall I go home?’

  Dorothea makes a rumbling noise. ‘I’m upset, to tell you the truth. I’ve been reading all this stuff about the First War. Shall we skip tea, it’s quite late, and have a drink? Sophia would have approved.’

  ‘Sophia’s not dead.’

  ‘No, but that Sophia is. Mix me a gin and tonic, will you, darling, and one for you? Daddy won’t be home for two hours at least. Oh, and that woman from the Tate is coming here next Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Pandora looks all innocence. ‘Would you like me to come too?’

  ‘Thank you, darling. I think, this time, I’ll see her on my own.’

  14

  ‘Benson, you’re late.’

  ‘Only three minutes, Sister.’

  ‘You are late. Three minutes, thirty minutes, it’s by the way. When our soldiers go over the top, they can’t be even three seconds late.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ She knew all this by heart. ‘I’m sorry, only I was so tired this morning.’

  ‘We are all tired. If you spent less time chatting to the patients, you might be less tired. The fact you’re only a VAD is no excuse. You must behave like a proper nurse.’

  ‘The poor fellows, they need someone to talk to them, they’re so far from home.’

  ‘Your job is to look after the patients’ medical needs, Benson. This is not a convalescent ward, there is no time for social pleasantries.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ She sounded as contrite as she could. It maddened her to be late, she aimed to be so professional.

  ‘Buck up, Benson. You work hard, I know. And from today you have new duties. As you know, this building is full of Germans.’ She spoke as one might say it was full of rats. Sister Marsden did not care for Germans, the Huns were the worst people in the world, lower than natives in Africa, because they pretended to be civilised but they were savages who’d never changed from the days of Attila. She knew every detail of the atrocities in Belgium, the children they’d bayoneted, the nuns they’d raped. There was absolutely nothing good to be said about Germany. If anyone dared to argue with her she’d lose her temper. ‘The Bryce Report, may I remind you of the Bryce Report? It’s all there, the full record of German atrocities, compiled by our former ambassador in America, do you doubt him?’ She said she understood that Sophia spoke German, as though it were an unpleasant personal habit.

  ‘Yes, I learnt it at school.’

  ‘From today, you are assigned to duties on the German wards. Someone has to communicate with the Hun. But you will speak to them only in the course of duty, you understand?’

  ‘Very well, Sister.’ She acquiesced, though she knew, as doubtless Sister Marsden did, that she would still steal time to ask questions and admire the photographs of loved ones that were always offered for inspection, just as she did with the British soldiers. When she saw these poor broken men, how could she not comfort them? How could she mind that they were German?

  This was a first-resort casualty hospital. It was some way behind the lines but you could hear the guns almost all the time. When there was a big battle, the Red Cross ambulances came in all day, bodies were piled up like sacks. Even when things were quieter, men were brought in. The wounded did not stay here long: if they survived for a few days they were sent on trains to Boulogne and Blighty, but many left only to be buried.

  The hospital was housed in an old château, though you’d hardly know it. All the old furnishings had gone. It was years since the fountain in the courtyard had played, the urns and statues had left only battered plinths, the park was rank with weeds. The chimney pieces were chipped, the walls were roughly whitewashed plaster. The bare floorboards were stained: however hard the prisoners scrubbed, the stains never came out. Many of the room partitions had been removed, the wards stretched into a shadowy distance. Only the chapel in the courtyard retained some of its old appearance, still served by a priest, still used by a few local people, and now the site of an uneasy ecumenicism where visiting army chaplains held services from time to time. Usually the hospital maintained a certain order, in spite of the blood, the filth, the frequent sense of mounting chaos, but when the fighting was particularly bad, all she and the others could do was select which bodies might possibly be saved and which could only be left heaped on the straw.

  Sophia had been there for two months or so, she hardly remembered how long. This was her third hospital, they opened and closed as needs changed. She did not think she was a particularly good nurse, she was too upset by what she saw. At the end of the day she was so tired that sleep was the only option.

  The wounded German prisoners were housed in a wing that was even more dilapidated than the rest. British soldiers stood guard at the entrances, even though most of the prisoners could hardly walk, let alone run away. These patients were given adequate medical attention but little more.

  The sister in charge turned out to be the amiably hearty type. She seemed pleased to see Sophia, said how useful she would be and told her to make a round of the wards. ‘Make sure all the Huns are still alive, won’t you?’ she said. Sophia must have looked at her strangely because she went on, ‘Well, I don’t mean to be unkind. They don’t behave in a particularly German way, except they will speak the language. They’re surprisingly polite and grateful.’ She sighed. ‘Well, some of them will go home one day, when all this is all over.’

  Sophia walked round the wards. There were three of them, on three floors, with a separate room down a long passage for those considered close to death. The rooms were bare and cold, but at least this morning the sun was shining. There had been heavy fighting, and many prisoners had been taken. Most of the men lay motionless, some breathing painfully or crying out from time to time. The smells were hardly drowned out by the disinfectant.

  At the end of the ground-floor ward, a few men were sitting on their beds, waiting to be moved elsewhere. They were quite cheerful. ‘Good morning, Nurse,’ they said in English, saluting as she passed. ‘Are you our new nurse? Congratulations.’ And, ‘Could I have a beer, please, Nurse?’ She did not smile: being familiar with patients, particularly prisoners, was not encouraged.

  In the top ward, something stopped her. She recognised someone, even though he was quite altered, even though he was a wretched shadow. She did not want to recognise anyone here. Especially not this one. He had a bandage round his head and was staring into the distance, his eyes unfocussed.

  She stopped. What was she to do? She could not stop and speak to him, she was on duty. But then, how could she not?

  At the end of his bed was the patient’s chart, with his name, rank, number. It was Curtius, Captain. His eyes met hers, or so she thought. She tensed her mouth, expecting him to recognise her. But he seemed not to see her, his eyes closed.

  At least he was not in the room for those expected to die, or for the drastically amputated.

  ‘Are you all right, Nurse?’ said a voice. It was a nurse she didn’t know. VADs were not expected to stand staring at patients.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘Sorry.’ She moved down the ward, looking to the right, looking to the left, mechanically, not knowing what she saw.

  15

  20 June 1915

  Dear old things,

  My weekend was as nice as could be. The Salts live in an area known as the Main Line, where rich Philadelphians have built themselves large country houses. It’s arable country with low walls between the fields, and little woods, and every so often a big house. Atholl is a grey stone baronial building. The interior is in various styles – William and Mary, what they call Adams, clubland. Thomas would detest it, he’d find it impure. It’s grand but comfortable, with a panelled gallery and drawing rooms and a library, and cosy rooms as well. They have family portraits even though they only made their fortune two generations ago,
in iron. Iron is considered highly respectable, though they don’t talk about money, it’s just assumed you have it.

  They’re mad about England, at least what they think of as England. They play golf and have cricket clubs, they read Punch and The Illustrated London News. Mr Salt, my friend’s son, has his suits and shirts made in Savile Row. But people here are proud to be from Philadelphia, they consider it the best place in the world. Philadelphia has the earliest of everything in the States, the first hospital, the first gentlemen’s club. They consider New York an insane, vulgar city, and Washington full of skulduggery.

  There’s no garden at Atholl but a park and an ornamental farm with white fences along the fields. They have a pack of hounds and at night you hear them baying in the kennels. All round the edge of the farm there are smaller houses for other members of the family, actually they’re very roomy. We visited several of these relations, I felt I was being shown off. It’s very friendly, unknown people leap up, holding out their hand.

  We talk endlessly about the war, I never feel fully off duty. People take one by surprise, you think how easy and genial someone is, then suddenly they ask a tough question, and don’t let you wriggle away with a joke as people might at home.

  The war seems immensely distant, people talk as though it has nothing to do with them, like a theatrical entertainment which has gone on too long. It’s hard to recognise that Europe’s increasingly irrelevant here.

  There were some nice people staying at the weekend, especially the Salts’ daughter Margaret. She’s a graduate of Bryn Mawr, it’s a new women’s college, though when I mentioned it to a lady in Washington she said Bryn Mawr girls never wash. Old Philadelphia families don’t usually send their daughters there.

  I know I ought not to be enjoying myself but I’m afraid I am. I do work extremely hard, H. E. hardly lets us stop, constantly wants to know whom we’ve been seeing, what Americans are saying about the war. He thinks that this war will be as bad as the Thirty Years’ War, Europe will tear itself apart, only America and China will survive.