The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  ‘That’s a limited point of view,’ replies Pandora, pulling the bracelet off her wrist and dropping it on the table. ‘If we believe in truth and history then we must not flinch from the difficult aspects of the past. That’s what the Germans do, they try to forget the Second World War. If one of my German relations was a Nazi, I would need to know. Concealment is never healthy.’

  Dorothea does not reply. She reaches over to Pandora, pulls the letter she is holding out of her hands, ties the string round the bundle of letters, places the bundle back in the box, locks it.

  ‘What have I said?’

  Her mother looks at Pandora defiantly. ‘There were many happy times, you know. If people have been happy together and then lose one another, memories of that happiness can make the pain even more bitter. But I think it’s better to recall the good times, and value them. When Mother and I were in England – beastly England, as I saw it – and she was with Julian, I often prayed we would go back to Berlin. I so wanted my parents to be together, and then they were. And there were many happy days in the Mommsenstraße, and at Salitz, and with my German granny.’ She walks back to the sofa, where Pandora is sitting. ‘Pandora, tell me truthfully, as you love your mother and she loves you – do you mean to write a book about Irene?’

  ‘Would you mind if I did?’

  ‘That would depend.’

  Pandora avoids her mother’s eye. ‘I adored her, you know, and when I sit in her studio I feel she’s very close. It would be a loving biography.’

  ‘And how would you describe my father, whom you hardly knew?’

  ‘I’d listen to you, if you were willing to talk to me. I’d talk to Uncle Henry. . .’

  ‘Oh, Henry is not so interested in people, Henry is only interested in his business and his cars. If you want the truth, you must talk to me.’ She walks around the room, adjusts the flowers in a vase. ‘And to Sophia, I suppose.’

  14

  Pandora walks along Cheyne Walk. She has been meaning to visit Irene’s studio – her studio – for weeks. The thought of going back to a place where she has spent so many happy hours with Irene, but in Irene’s absence, makes her nervous. But she must go. She’d thought of taking one of her girlfriends, but then they’d be inclined to nose around and suggest improvements. So she is going alone.

  It’s a windy day, the Thames is choppy – like her, she thinks. In the big old houses of Cheyne Walk, there’s no sign of life. How will it be, living in this neighbourhood?

  She is frightened of going into the studio: it might be neglected and dusty and full of old paint rags and mice droppings. Irene could not work in a space that was not immaculate, but after so many weeks. . .

  She turns into a side street. It’s not so posh round here. First right, then first left. There are hardly any studios round here any more.

  The white wall of the building looks as it always did. Hesitant, fearful, she turns the key and goes inside.

  The room is very light with its huge northern skylight. She sees at once that it is spotless. The canvasses stand where they have always stood, the paint-spattered table is where it always was, the piles of paper and sketchbooks have not changed. But what is surprising is the vase of white tulips on the table. Irene loved tulips.

  She stands in the middle of the room for a few moments. Then—

  ‘Pandora, is that you?’ From the little kitchen at the back of the studio comes a familiar figure, Mrs Avery, the lady who worked for Irene for years. ‘Hello, dear. Yes, it’s me. I’m so glad to see you, Pandora, I’ve been waiting for you for weeks, thought you’d never come. What kept you? I’m in every afternoon to make sure the place is in good shape. I’ve tried to keep it nice. How does it look, dearie? And would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh yes, I would.’

  ‘There, give us a kiss, in memory of your gran. I’ll make the tea, and you can tell me what you’d like changed before you move in and when that’s going to be, and any improvements you might be making – the bathroom is very old-fashioned. Oh, and there’s a letter for you.’

  ‘A letter? Who from?’

  ‘There, on the table.’

  The letter is addressed to ‘Pandora’.

  My darling Pandora,

  I don’t have so long to live now. But I am very happy to be leaving my studio to you. Sell it if you want, my dear, I don’t want it to be a burden, but I hope perhaps you will keep it, and look after my plants, they will respond to your care.

  With dearest love,

  Irene

  Mrs Avery comes back in, with two white teacups and a white teapot on a black tray.

  ‘The best,’ she says. ‘I thought we’d better have the best cups on such an occasion. Don’t cry, dearie, this is a happy place. Will you want to be living here, do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Pandora.

  15

  On the train and the boat and the train they all stayed quiet. Approaching Cologne, he said, ‘Welcome back to Germany. Welcome to the land of food shortages and inflation.’

  ‘I remember how it was.’

  ‘It is different now, but I hope you will be reasonably comfortable, in spite of everything. In the new society, life will be much better for women. And for the workers, too.’ He had changed to German, particularly when speaking to his daughter, who cheerfully jumbled the languages.

  The carriage was quite full. When her side became crowded, Dodo wriggled off the seat next to her mother and looked up at her father. As she clambered onto his knee, he smiled, a slow soft tender smile that Irene well remembered, a smile that illuminated his face.

  They arrived in Berlin in the late afternoon. ‘We must take a taxi, with all this luggage,’ he said, ‘though they say the taxi fare is twice as much when you arrive as when you leave.’

  ‘Are we going to the Schloßstraße?’

  ‘No, no – home, to the Mommsenstraße. The tenants are gone. It was a little sad, but I repainted some walls, I was able to find some paint. White, a pure colour without associations. I’ve changed a few things. I didn’t know if I was going to be living there alone.’ He spoke softly. ‘Gretchen will be very pleased to see you.’

  The thought of Gretchen was consoling. Irene was reminded of the day she’d first arrived at the Mommsenstraße, of how strange she’d felt. She felt strange now. In 1910 the street had been so prosperous but now it was grey and sad.

  The street door burst open and Gretchen flew out. They embraced, they kissed, they cried, Gretchen exclaiming at Dodo’s height, they grew confused about the luggage and nearly left bags on the pavement, they tumbled upstairs.

  ‘Will you take Dodo to her room?’ Thomas asked Gretchen. ‘I hope she will like her room, I put up some new wallpaper, with bridges and castles and meadows.’

  He opened the door into the Salon. Much of the old furniture had gone, it was very spare. ‘It is the new aesthetic,’ he said in that way he had, partly serious, partly self-mocking. ‘I’ve not completed the work, I’m merely making proposals. I wanted you to make the important decisions. Come, I will show you the studio.’

  The studio was transformed. There was a new easel; a table, where her paints and brushes were laid out; bookshelves, containing, she saw at once, nothing but her books; new blinds; the chaise longue from their Salon. She’d sometimes remarked that she would like to hide its stylised flowers under pale grey covers. It had been re-covered, in soft grey velvet.

  ‘It is your room,’ he said. ‘I have put everything here of yours that I could find.’

  She could hardly speak. She thought about Julian and the leaking lean-to where she’d tried to work, and how she’d hated this flat from afar, remembering the war. She turned to look properly at Thomas. He stood facing her, as though on trial. On his worn and handsome face she saw patience and anxiety.

  Recently Irene had heard a new catchphrase: ‘something snapped inside me’. She was reminded of this expression, something did ‘snap’. She thought, it’s inexplicable, this is t
he crucial moment – not those summer days in Dresden, not the wedding, certainly not the honeymoon, nor the day she’d announced she must stay in Berlin because she was a true German. No, it was this moment, now. Irene, she told herself, I do love him, it’s not my reason that tells me, it’s my heart.

  She met his eyes. She knew her Thomas. He understood.

  When Dodo came into the room in search of her parents, she found them sitting together on the chaise longue. Unhesitatingly, she walked across the room and stood in front of them. She took her mother’s left hand, and her father’s right, and moved them together. She looked at the two of them hand in hand, and nodded.

  16

  Mark sat at the highly polished table opposite the highly polished senior.

  ‘I’m sorry we have been slow to tell you about your next posting. As you realise, there’s been a good deal to sort out, with embassies reopening and many new ones to think about. But I can now tell you: Berlin, that is our proposal – the embassy will be reopening next summer. Would Berlin be of interest?’

  ‘Indeed it would.’

  ‘Excellent. Of course there’ll be formalities, but. . . Your German’s in good shape?’

  ‘Yes, I was rather hoping. . .’

  ‘Quite so. We understand your sister is married to a Berliner. When you go there, you’ll need of course not to go native. Still, such links can be helpful. The press can be hard on men with German connections, but they won’t bother you.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  The distinguished senior said, ‘Diplomacy won’t be the same, now – that concept of the chancelleries of Europe creating a balance between the powers. Working together to create a League of Nations, taking proper account of the United States, that’s what we have to think about, not to mention economic issues. Germany presents particularly complex problems, the possibility of socialist revolution is never far, and you and your colleagues will be most important. Firm to the Germans but friendly, that’s what we need to be.’

  Mark smiled. ‘I imagine the ambassador will be dealing with policy at that level, not me.’

  ‘You’ll have a part to play. We expect a good deal of you, in fact.’

  Mark left the room feeling as though he’d drunk several glasses of the finest champagne. He was indeed heading for the summit.

  17

  The farewell party to mark the final departure from Evelyn Gardens was quiet at first. Not as many people came as Lady Benson had hoped, it was not like the old days. Christina Beaumont, now Mrs Peterson, came with her funny old stick of a new husband, she seemed embarrassingly attached to him. Edward gave his mother the briefest kiss. He and Victoria brought some business friends, she couldn’t see the point of them, she’d had such interesting guests before the war.

  ‘You will be sad to leave this house, how long has it been?’ people said.

  ‘Thirty-four years,’ she’d repeat.

  ‘But how convenient to have a flat,’ they said. ‘And what will you do with all your beautiful things?’ This was hardly sensible, she knew her things were hopelessly out of fashion, but she had no money for new ones.

  Then Laura arrived, wearing a blue silk dress decorated with silver braid and a bewitching cloche hat. Her hair was cut short at the front and gathered round her ears, it was most becoming. She seemed very light-hearted. ‘These days, if you want to find a young man, you have to work at it,’ she remarked when congratulated on her appearance. To Sophia, she said, ‘I’m going to tell you my secret, darling. I’m opening a dress shop, just off Curzon Street. It’s going to be a huge success, and we’re going to have hats and dresses for the fashionable young woman, all the newest things from France. Papa is putting up the money and I’ll be the manager. Do tell me you think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘It’s a spiffing idea.’

  ‘I thought you might come and help me. You have such a feeling for clothes.’

  ‘What, as a shop assistant?’

  ‘No, you goose, on the dress side. I want you to help me to choose the best models, and go to Paris to investigate what’s being worn – you’d enjoy that and your French is good. I’ll give you a share of the profits and a salary. And you’ll wear our clothes at parties and people will say, “Where on earth did you get that dress, it’s too marvellous.” And you’ll whisper my name.’

  Sophia did not reply. Laura inspected her, saw she was rather flushed. ‘You are quite well, darling, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right. Why do people keep asking me? Victoria’s just asked me. And thank you very much, but I’m not interested in working in a shop. How about Clarissa? She’s much more the kind of person you need.’

  Laura moved away, looking puzzled. Sophia noticed with annoyance that she and Victoria were looking in her direction, discussing her. She sat down. She wished she’d not nipped up to her bedroom twice that afternoon.

  Mark too seemed to be studying her. ‘How are you doing, darling?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ she replied, and hiccupped. She wondered if her voice sounded slurred. Mark was looking at her in an analytical sort of way, curious, but kind. She felt she could confide in Mark. ‘I’m so unhappy, Mark,’ she said. ‘Ever since the war ended, I’ve been unhappy. D’you understand how I feel?’ He nodded, and took her hand and stroked it. She wondered if people were looking at them, this was an odd thing for Mark to be doing in the middle of their party, but she was happy that he was doing it, she felt so much at ease with Mark.

  To her surprise, because she felt – or at least she thought she felt – quite normal, Sophia found that she was staggering, and had dropped her cup and saucer on the floor, and had to hold onto an armchair to stop herself from falling over. There was an immediate sharp silence throughout the room, but for a moment only.

  ‘I think you might want to go upstairs and have a rest,’ he said, and as though by magic Laura appeared, and helped her up, and they left the room.

  Nobody seemed to notice, and if they did they never showed it. On and on they talked: ‘The rise of the Labour Party, it’s so very alarming, imagine if they formed a government. . . The rise of the Labour Party, it’s inspiring. . . The cost of living, one can hardly afford a loaf. . . The Ballets Russes, enchanting, I hear. . . Poor Elizabeth, he left her nothing, such a strange man.’ And after a while: ‘It was so lovely, like before the war, thank you so much.’ And, ‘How sensible of you to move, we’re so looking forward to visiting you in your new home.’

  Laura reappeared as the last guests were leaving. ‘Sophia is fine, she’s asleep. It was just, it was just. . . I hope I can persuade her to come and work with me.’

  ‘It seems clear,’ said Mark, ‘that living at home is not the answer, particularly since the new home will be so. . . so intimate. Dear Mamma, I think you have to recognise that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Victoria, ‘what’s clear is that Sophia needs a new life.’

  18

  Embassy life in Berlin was more formal than in wartime Washington. In Berlin, young unmarried members of staff were treated as the ambassador’s family. Every night they assembled in evening dress in the upstairs drawing room, sat at dinner in order of precedence, at the end of dinner stood as the ambassadress left, followed her upstairs for coffee, played cards or billiards, went home not very late.

  At first Mark found this routine pleasant. He’d always wanted to inhabit a huge house. It was enjoyable to walk through the salons to the ballroom and consider how one might fill the rooms with paintings and furniture. He became familiar with his colleagues, knew which were clever and which less so. They endlessly discussed the Treaty of Versailles, and the Babel of political parties in the Reichstag, and the fragility of the centre. The ambassador entertained enthusiastically, bringing together people who would never normally have met.

  Still, Mark began to want variety. He put it to the ambassador that he might usefully extend his range of acquaintances, gathering more informal impressions of the city and the country.
The ambassador was sympathetic.

  At first Mark went to restaurants and the opera and rather correct nightclubs with his colleague Robert. Robert knew a German couple who were anxious to make English friends, through whom they met two vivacious unmarried sisters whose father had just ceased to be reigning prince of a tiny but impressive-sounding German principality and who joked incessantly about their titles. They also met a student of philosophy with another ancient name whose studies were apparently perpetual, and an ex-army officer who sold cars but was going to sell wine, and some strikingly blonde war widows who never mentioned their late husbands, and some Russian princes and duchesses who congregated in the innumerable Russian restaurants. Almost all the German members of this group were ‘von’s, and often Grafs or Gräfins: Grafs clung together, it seemed. Mark and Robert would find that when the bill arrived, their friends had been called to the telephone or were animatedly chatting at a distant table. But they did not object, since the Germans were honest about avoiding the bills. ‘We’re not Jews,’ they’d say, ‘we’ve made no money out of the war, but we’ll be rich again soon, and then we’ll buy the champagne.’ One of Mark’s reports explored the persistent nationalism and monarchism in traditional circles.

  And he experimented elsewhere. He’d abandoned the company of Robert, who’d been disconcerted at a party near the Wannsee by a girl with violet hair who thrust her hand into his shirt and squeezed. Through Irene, Mark met publishers, artists, gallery owners; through Alexander, journalists, Jewish for the most part (there were no Jews in the Graf set) and female couples, said to be typical of Berlin. ‘Poor girls, with the men dead, they must find friends somewhere. . .’ people would say. He was invited to parties given by wealthy businessmen who were happy to have their sumptuous houses filled with the artistic young and to feed them inexhaustible champagne and cold meat and salmon, parties where the waiters and waitresses were readily fondled by the guests, parties that ignited when the theatres closed and the entire cast of a new play arrived, parties that lasted until dawn.