I want darling Mark to be the godfather. I would like to ask Alexander, but he’s a Jew, it’s not possible. And dear Frau Mamma – German grandparents often become godparents too.
I wish you could be here. But you will see Baby soon, I’m sure.
Your loving daughter,
Irene
22
28 January 1916
Dearest darling – I am SO DELIGHTED!!! And I have not seen Papa so cheerful for a long long time. He says it’s typical of you to make us happy when everyone’s so miserable.
Papa’s not been well, he had a touch of pneumonia, but he’s better. He is often silent, the war upsets him so much. He’s working on his Dance of Death book – I can’t believe it’s good for him, he works away all evening, and he’s black with gloom by the time he comes to bed. I try to persuade him to go out. At the beginning of the war we felt it was patriotic to stay at home, but now we ask, how will it help the war effort if we stay in and glower at each other over a little bit of fish? It’s surprising how sociable people are, though the talk is always about war, war, war.
The good news is that Mark has been promoted to Second Secretary. He’ll be an ambassador soon, I’m sure of it.
That poor dear Andrew Beaumont has been killed in action. His mother is so proud, but he was her only child. I do my best for her. She has found a wonderful spiritualist, at least she thinks him wonderful, who can put her in touch with Andrew. He (the spiritualist) has a house off Belgrave Square, which reassures her, though your father says Belgrave Square doesn’t take one any closer to the ‘other side’. The spiritualist brings her messages from Andrew, he says he’s watching his mother from Heaven, and taking a great interest in natural history. Your father says it’s all nonsense, but I think it has value. It’s a pity the sessions are quite so expensive, Christina has no money and won’t accept any.
Dearest Edward is out of hospital. The wound was not as bad as they feared, and he walks perfectly well with his stick, though he will always have a slight limp. He will be going back to his old firm shortly. Victoria is so patient and good. She’s learnt to type, and plans to work as a stenographer. She says one must always look forwards. I think I told you, her eldest brother was killed, the same weekend Edward was wounded. But she has two other brothers, and they are a military family, perhaps it’s less painful for them.
I am still canteening, but I’ve changed canteen, I got rather tired of the women workers. Young women these days have more money than they know what to do with. You see them in twos and threes in restaurants, drinking, smoking, and dressed up as though there was no war on. I’ve found a canteen at Waterloo run by Lady Limerick, which provides meals for soldiers on the way to the front. My goodness, we do work hard, hardly a break for four hours on end. The men are nothing if not informal, they call us Aunty or Grandma like women of their own class, though all of us are ladies, many with a capital ‘L’. It’s curious, you know, before the war people like us never met the working classes, except servants and shop girls. When I come home it’s difficult to speak to Wilson and Cook in the old way.
We miss you. Your father has your photograph beside his bed. Send us a photograph of Baby and you, it will remind us that not everything is black in this strange world of ours.
With all my love,
Mamma
23
Madison Avenue was at its decorously inviting best. Mark and George had lunched in a little French restaurant and the wine and the company had persuaded Mark to relax, more than a little. They’d chatted about the embassy, and his efforts to talk round the press. Mark remarked, ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be talking so freely,’ and George smilingly said, ‘You’re safe with me.’
Now they were sauntering along Madison Avenue and wondering whether to go for a walk in the park when he heard a loud English voice.
‘Why, Mark, hello!’
It was Harry. Mark looked at him in astonishment, then horror. What was Harry doing in New York? He was supposed to be in Mexico City.
‘I should have warned you I was coming to the States, but it’s confidential, I can’t tell even you what my business is. I’m not coming to Washington or of course I’d have. . .’ He looked at George.
‘George Bruegmann.’ George held out his hand.
‘Harry Mansell. Mark, after so long in the Service you ought to know how to make introductions.’ He and George laughed.
‘How long are you in the States, Harry?’ asked Mark, trying to sound pleased to see him.
‘Oh, a few days in New York, then business elsewhere. I’m on my way home, my posting in Mexico’s over. I tried to enlist but they said no. You too, I gather.’
Mark looked at the sidewalk. Then George made himself highly agreeable, gave Harry his card, told him to look him up if he had time to spare in New York.
‘It’s good to see you, Harry,’ said Mark. ‘I’ (he avoided saying ‘we’) ‘am going to meet a friend, can’t really stay. . .’
‘See you soon, no doubt,’ said Harry. ‘Good to meet you, George.’
Mark and George walked along in silence.
‘So, where are you going to meet your friend?’
‘Which friend?’
‘The friend you’re going to meet.’
‘I’m not going to meet a friend, you know that.’ Then, with an effort at warmth which sounded hollow even to him, ‘You’re my friend.’
‘So why did you tell such a stupid lie? Did you think I was going to say to that man, “Mark and I have to get back to my apartment because we want to make love”?’
Mark had never seen him angry before. Was this a quarrel? They had never quarrelled. Mark hated quarrelling, and George was good-natured and equable, that was understood.
‘D’you think I liked standing on the sidewalk while you pretended I wasn’t there? You were embarrassed, were you? Embarrassed to be seen with me, as though people might think you were associating with a queer?’
‘Don’t talk like that, not on the street.’
‘Not on the street, because someone might hear, and think, “Dear little Mark from the embassy. . .”’
‘Don’t, please don’t.’
‘Someone might think dear little Mark was a queer. Which of course he isn’t, he just likes going to bed with men. Or rather with me, it’s nothing serious. . . I don’t want to embarrass you, let’s each go our own way. Unlike you, I do have friends I’d like to visit, but I don’t think you’d like them, they’re inverts.’
Mark realised he was opening and closing his mouth like a frightened rabbit.
‘Oh and by the way, if you intend to stay tonight, use the spare room.’ Mark went back to the apartment. He passed his eyes round George’s living room, he would never see it again. It was spare, with pale walls, the minimum of furniture, as tidy and convenient as you might expect of an ex-naval officer’s quarters.
He packed his bag slowly, putting in all the things he normally left between visits. He wondered what he should do with the cufflinks George had given him as a birthday present. He often wore them. They’d been a reminder of George, but unobtrusive. He decided to leave them. That would signal the end of their friendship, he supposed. He put the little black box on top of the chest of drawers and made for the front door. On his way across the living room, he changed his mind, went back and fetched the cufflinks. He wrote a little note: ‘I’m so sorry, Mark.’ He caught the train to Washington and drank several cocktails in the restaurant car. They made him even more miserable.
24
The telephone rang. It was Miss Chapel, that pillar of rectitude, whose only peculiarity was that every day her little dog was deposited in the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk at the embassy.
‘Mr Benson?’ What was this? She normally called him Mark. ‘Could you possibly come and see Mr Gray for a moment?’ This meant at once. Mark hurried upstairs.
‘Oh, come in, sit down.’ Cold. Or at best, formal. ‘Something rather boring has cropped up.’ The mi
nister looked at Mark as his housemaster might have done, had he ever misbehaved.
‘You have friends in New York, I understand.’
Mark stared at him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do.’
The minister tapped his pencil against a vase.
‘Can you tell me anything about a particular friend? Mr Bruegmann, I understand.’
‘Mr Bruegmann?’
‘Leaving aside the individual, what does that name say to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh come. It’s a German name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes I suppose so, I do have a friend called Bruegmann but he is as American as can be.’
‘Well, we’ve discovered a little about him. He works in New York but his family live in Chicago.’
‘I knew that.’
‘His father is a prominent member of the German-American League. In the present climate, national loyalties are so heightened that people can think it their right, even their duty, to let patriotic considerations override personal loyalties. Which may mean that they behave in a way that’s not altogether what one might call cricket. . .’ He lit a cigarette. He seemed rather on edge. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
‘Do I? Oh God.’
‘Not necessarily “Oh God”, but you should be aware of the possibility, if you go on seeing Mr Bruegmann. I understand you and he are on very friendly terms, that you stay with him.’ He tapped a glass with his pencil. ‘We have to be careful, all of us. You’ve not been spied on. It’s just that a colleague met you and Mr Bruegmann by chance and on doing a little investigation, felt he should alert me.’
His old friend Harry.
‘You might not want to go on meeting Mr Bruegmann so often. . . Cigarette?’ The minister smiled as though the lecture were over, stretched. The lecture was not over, though. ‘How old are you, Mark?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Thirty, yes, a very good age, when the passions and anxieties of the twenties have passed, but youth and ardour are undimmed. A good time to get married, perhaps.’ He toyed with his paperknife, which was large, solid and silver with a sharp edge.
‘I suppose it is.’
Gray stood up and looked out of the window as though fascinated by the brick building across the street. ‘Think of the advantages of a good wife, someone you can share everything with. You don’t want to get a reputation for being emotionally unstable, temperamental.’ Mark knew what this language meant. ‘There are so many nice girls around these days, keen to find husbands. Haven’t I met you in the company of one of the Philadelphia Salts?’ Gray was engrossed in the view, had his back to the room. ‘I will only repeat the need to be careful, given the war news is so bad.’ He turned round, looked Mark in the eye, pointed the knife in his direction. Then he smiled, rubbed his hands together, placed the knife precisely on his desk, in line with the top of the blotter, slightly adjusted its position. ‘God knows what any of us will be doing in a year’s time, perhaps we’ll be junior members of the German Imperial Consular Service. Alternatively, we may have a British Embassy in Berlin – how would you like to go there? Don’t worry about what I’ve said, just bear it in mind. And I do recommend marriage. There’s not much happiness any other way, you know.’
Mark did not see George again. When George wrote, he threw the letters away unread. And when George telephoned, he promised to ring back but never did.
25
Irene had a painful errand: saying goodbye to Frau Mamma.
In October 1916 Thomas was called up. He had been given a commission related to his professional experience – he could not tell Irene more – and sent somewhere nearer the eastern front – he could not say where. They’d said goodbye rather formally. He’d assured her he would not be in danger and would need sometimes to return to Berlin. She told him that she planned to move to Salitz until the end of the war. The house was not built for winter, he remarked. She said, she could not be colder than she was in Berlin. And no, she would not miss the city. She did not say that nothing could keep her in that icy prison of a flat, overlooking dirty pavements and peeling house fronts. The cold was enveloping except in bed, but with Thomas gone, even bed would be cold. Standing in a line for potatoes or turnips was a daily duty. Bread made from acorns, coffee from carrots, and turnips, turnips, turnips, for Frühstück, for Mittageßen, for Abendbrot: the Bäckerei-Konditorei on their street sold cakes made of wax, and its bread was hard to eat unless one had a special arrangement with the baker. She worried constantly about her baby. Clothing was almost unobtainable; clothes and shoes made of paper yarn looked convincing until the cold struck. At least Frau Mamma gave Irene sumptuous old-fashioned baby clothes adorned with lace and ribbons. They were absurd, but they kept Dodo warm.
Irene felt watched. She was sure that under official orders the Hausmeister scrutinised her letters and packages, and observed her callers. It would be a blessed relief to move to Salitz and live modestly, they had very little money.
She was unable to work. When she tried, she could do nothing, turning away from her paper or canvas in disgust.
She could not say how lonely she felt, now that she sensed reserve, if not worse, from the family. Lotte would enquire how she was and Max would advise her on her health, but they never invited her to visit. Even affectionate little Puppi had turned into a passionate patriot, following reports of battles and advances and retreats on a map. She was engaged to a young officer but he was never mentioned, as though Irene might report on his activities. Only Frau Mamma’s kindness never wavered.
She went on foot, though walking through the streets was painful: the roads were empty but for the occasional droshky and even less frequent car. Along the pavements, among the citizens in heavy overcoats and hats from better days, moved a silent army of widows in deepest black. Everywhere lay the war-wounded, their faces grotesquely distorted, their legs or arms missing. It was hard not to wish them somewhere else.
The Schloßstraße was not outwardly changed. The door was still opened by Mathilde in a white apron, though now she wore mittens. Everything was in good order, polished and dusted. But when Irene made to take off her overcoat, Mathilde put out her hand to stop her. It was soon clear why. It was astonishingly cold in the Salon, and almost dark. Frau Mamma sat in her usual chair, with her knitting by her side. She and Lotte were sitting under thick rugs, wearing mittens and fur hats.
‘Come and kiss me, dearest Irene,’ she said, ‘that will warm me. As you see, we have almost no coal, we only light the stove after dark when the temperature is below zero. Are you and Dorothea keeping well?’ Irene unfolded the rug prepared for visitors. ‘We will have some tea, or what we call tea nowadays. I am sure you are wise to go to Salitz. I’d live there myself, but Christian has to be in Berlin – though it is hard to say what he does here. The poor Kaiser is never here but is always getting in the way at army headquarters. They say he is so depressed he hardly knows what he is doing.’
Lotte intervened. ‘I think, Frau Mamma, you should tell Irene the latest news.’
‘Yes. It’s not good. Is news ever good now? Paul. . .’
‘What about Paul?’
‘He’s alive, thank God. But very bad. We had a telephone call today from his colonel, a friend for many years. You know that when his wound healed, Paul wanted to go back into the army even though he was not strong. After two days. . .’ She stopped, dabbed her eyes. ‘He fainted several times, became delirious, was sent back to hospital. They hope soon to send him back to Berlin.’
‘I am sure he will recover, Frau Mamma,’ said Lotte.
‘We can only pray,’ said her mother, ‘though God seems indifferent to prayers these days, I suppose he has too much on his mind. I wonder if he sometimes feels guilty.’
‘Please, Mamma,’ said Lotte, ‘don’t.’
‘Why not? Here I am, with a son and a son-in-law dead, and another son wrecked, at least for the moment, and my eldest called up though he is nearly forty – what do I have to thank
God for?’
The tea arrived in the Berlin service, with a tiny heap of sugar in the elaborate bowl decorated with flowers, and three small rusks. ‘Will you have some tea? It is disgusting, as you know.’ Frau Curtius looked almost angrily round the room. ‘It is strange, to be living in these fine rooms full of relics of prosperity, but not to have enough to eat. If it were not for your hamster expeditions to the country, I don’t know what we should do. I hate the cold more than almost anything.’ She shuddered, and clasped her cup with both hands. ‘At least this liquid is hot. You know, I have a plan, let me see what you two think. That furniture and panelling in the Herrenzimmer – I am thinking it might make itself useful.’
The young women exchanged anxious glances.
‘It is out of date, is it not? Who wants altdeutsch furniture now, who wants to be reminded of Old Germany? Look to what a pass it’s brought us! It’s solid timber, it would keep us warm for weeks. A man, or even a woman, with a good axe could easily cut it up.’
‘You are thinking of burning the beautiful panelling in the Herrenzimmer?’ Lotte was incredulous.
‘Anything to be warm. Anyway, I never liked that panelling. Your father insisted we should keep it when we moved in, but now he hardly cares. Why retain memories of the good old days when they’ve passed, and weren’t really so good?’
Irene stared at Frau Mamma. This tone reminded her of Thomas in unguarded moments.
‘Don’t look so surprised, I’m not mad, my dear daughters,’ said Frau Mamma, almost merrily. ‘However horrible this war may be, it does encourage one to throw one’s prejudices into the fire, doesn’t it? And that absurd panelling, too.’
26
In a large room in the Foreign Office more than a hundred diplomats were assembled. The room was bare. So were the diplomats.
By mid-war, every possible source of manpower was being investigated, including the Diplomatic Service. Being in London at the time, Mark was summoned to the inspection.
The Iron Necklace Page 17