The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  ‘Why are you here alone in the dark? It’s sinister. If you wanted to leave without telling me, why didn’t you go to bed?’

  He turned on a light. It was a very modern light, he had just bought it, you could adjust it as you chose. He shone it into her face.

  ‘I thought you might not come back. I thought you might go to another apartment.’

  ‘What d’you mean, what are you accusing me of ?’ She lost her temper. ‘Stop shining that light at me, it’s unbearable, like a police interrogation.’

  He adjusted the lamp upwards.

  ‘I saw you this evening, I watched you. I saw the way you danced with Alexander.’

  ‘The way I danced with Alexander? Alexander is my friend, our friend, nothing more.’ She reflected that Alexander had been strangely excited and perhaps she had encouraged him. ‘Honestly, Thomas. . . How dare you accuse me?’

  He stood up. They faced one another, both red-faced, crumpled, furious. He looked her up and down. She could not read his expression.

  ‘I can accuse you of many things, Irene.’ He was drunk too, she realised. It was not the first time he had been angry after one of her openings.

  He stepped forward, and put his arms around her, but it was not an embrace, he was trying to pull off the necklace. Tugging at the metal he hurt her, she gave a little scream, he moved his hands behind her neck as though he were going to strangle her, found the clasp of the necklace, pulled it off, scraped her skin, tore out the flowers.

  ‘It’s not your necklace to mock – it has a meaning for us, you know,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand. . .’ The aggression was ebbing away.

  She fell onto the chaise longue, put her hands over her face. She could not see him, she did not know what he was doing until she realised he was sitting down, beside her. He put his arms around her. She did not want him to do this, she felt no affection for him at that moment, but she was so tired and weak she let herself sink into his body.

  ‘I’m sorry, Irene, I’m sorry. . .’

  36

  Visiting Elizabeth – Aunt Elizabeth, officially – in her flat was very unlike arriving at Evelyn Gardens, Victoria reflected. There the process had been ceremonious, the front door opened with a mild flourish, the coat taken, greetings to Wilson, the walk upstairs, admission to the drawing room, where she would be sitting surrounded by piles of paper and perhaps a caller or two. Now she answered the door herself.

  ‘Victoria, how nice. I thought you would be at that job of yours.’

  No, she had some news.

  ‘Good news?’

  Not good news.

  ‘Not Edward, you’re not going to tell me darling Edward is ill. . .’

  No.

  ‘Not the boys?’

  No.

  ‘Then what could it be?’

  It was curious how she never supposed that Victoria might be ill. But then Victoria never was ill, people relied on that. She sometimes wished people did not rely on her so much.

  ‘It’s about the bicycle company. It’s collapsed. Mr White has absconded, he was a charlatan. It turns out everything was in his name, there’s no money left. Every penny’s gone, all Edward’s capital, all yours.’

  Victoria was prepared to staunch Elizabeth’s tears, listen to angry questions, offer what comfort she could. But instead Elizabeth said, ‘Is darling Edward all right?’

  Darling Edward, indeed! Blind, obstinate Edward who’d refused to listen when she advised him against investing everything with White, Edward who was only kind to his mother when he wanted her money. Victoria pursed her lips. ‘He is as all right as can be expected. He asked me to come in his place.’

  ‘Poor darling. . .’

  ‘I cannot say how upset he is.’

  ‘He is not well, don’t forget that.’

  ‘I don’t forget it, how could I? And I don’t forgive him.’

  Her hostess peered into the distance, as though fascinated by her new little sofa. ‘I never offered you any tea, would you like some? Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll manage, I have the pension, really it is quite generous. I’m not ambitious as I used to be, it’s one of the advantages of old age.’ She seemed almost gratified by what had happened. ‘Darling Edward, he must be so unhappy. Tell him to come and visit his old mother, tell him she’s forgiven him, though really there’s nothing to forgive, it’s not as though he deceived me. . . Will you manage, yourselves?’

  ‘Oh yes. Remember, I earn money. And when my parents sold up, something came my way, which I did not invest in Edward’s enterprise.’ Victoria gave a grimace. ‘Imagine, the two of us talking about money, when we were brought up never to mention it.’

  ‘Tell Edward that I do understand, that I respect him for having made such a brave effort. Tell him that what he can do to comfort me is come and visit me, I would like that more than anything.’ She smiled beatifically and bustled out.

  Victoria sat motionless. She supposed she should be relieved that Elizabeth was not angrier.

  Well, she must make something better of her own life, and the boys’. That was the thing left to her.

  37

  REVIEW FROM GERMAN NEWSPAPER, 3 JULY 1924

  A remarkable exhibition is on view at the premises of Goldstein Schmidt, Tiergartenstraße 14, Berlin. Irene Curtius shows forty canvasses, together with prints and drawings. Her subject matter is primarily landscape, a landscape that is recognisably north German in many instances, related to her long acquaintance with Mecklenburg. She invests her work with a powerful sense of colour, often seductive, sometimes harsh, and she infuses these landscapes with emotion. They are at the same time homely and threatening, the colours sometimes strident, sometimes reserved to the point almost of invisibility. But Frau Curtius is constantly exploring new ways of expressing herself. Among the landscapes are two portraits of a mother and child, quiet, gentle works, the figures hardly perceptible as individuals, to be apprehended rather as archetypes. They inhabit an enclosed world filled with light, but a light bounded by darkness.

  Also striking is a small group of paintings that represent, it appears, the most recent of the artist’s creations. These paintings depict Berlin, familiar scenes such as the Lehrter Bahnhof and a street in Charlottenburg. Monochrome and empty of people, they possess an unnerving intensity, the details strangely distorted, the proportions enlarged or diminished, so that one is reminded of the strangeness of some recent developments in modern cinema. Frau Curtius has a powerful imagination and a mastery of technique, constantly reconsidering her vision of the surrounding world. We salute a major talent.

  38

  Mark sat at his breakfast table overlooking the softly green Tiergarten, surveying the crisp white rolls and the rolled butter in a silver dish, the slices of cheese and ham and the plum jam, laid out by Frau Braun. Frau Braun came in every morning to prepare his breakfast and tidy his rooms. Sometimes he’d have liked to wander about in his pyjamas or lie on the sofa after near-sleepless nights, but at least her arrival and the smell of coffee made him get up and dress correctly. Frau Braun often asked him whether he had met a young lady and advised him that he could not do better than a nice German girl, there were so many to choose from these days. He would tell her about the parties he’d been to, and the charming girls he’d danced with, sometimes invented as he shaved. She adored these stories which became more fantastic every time he created one.

  He had made an appointment to see the ambassador that week, to sound him out. If he left the Service, would he ever be able to return? What did the ambassador feel about a career as a writer? The ambassador himself was not a career diplomat, he would no doubt be sympathetic.

  Frau Braun came into the room with some envelopes on a salver. One of the letters had an American stamp, and the handwriting seemed familiar.

  It was from Margaret Salt. She hoped he would not be surprised to hear from her. She had completed her doctoral studies and was planning a European Grand Tour with her friend Barbara, for at least six mo
nths. She wondered if he would care to join them in Munich.

  Mark decided at once to go. And ate three rolls stuffed with cheese and ham.

  39

  ‘You know, we’ve not met for six years. Six whole years, it’s a long time, particularly when one is young, or youngish, or whatever we are.’

  She was wearing a white dress and little green suede shoes and a straw hat, the ensemble looked modest but expensive. He was struck by her appearance, more settled than in the past. No flowing robes or unbound hair. She appeared a daughter of Old Philadelphia: wealthy, and comfortable with her wealth.

  They had arranged to meet at the Hotel Bayerischer Hof, on the terrace if the weather was fine, and indeed it was brilliantly sunny, as spring merged into summer. He had never cared for Munich, irritated by the inhabitants’ insistence that they lived in the most charming city in northern Europe. But that morning the city seduced him.

  ‘It is so nice to see you,’ she went on, rather fast. ‘Tell me what I should eat. One never knows, in Germany, though that’s an absurd thing to say because I never set foot in Germany before today. Let me rephrase: I do not know what to eat, here in Germany. Should I be eating sausage? Should I be drinking beer?’ He smiled, faintly irritated. ‘Well, I see you are not impressed by my stereotypes.’ The waiter was hovering. ‘Suppose you order some white wine, a German wine perhaps? I must say, I’m starving. How was your train journey? We slept like tops. Barbara went for a walk, you’ll meet her this evening. I love arriving in a strange city in the morning. To be honest, I’m surprised how well looked-after everything is, one’s heard such dreadful things. . .’

  She was nervous. He was, too.

  ‘Shall we go to Nymphenburg? I gather it’s delightful. Can you really stay four days? That would be such fun. Barbara is very serious about history. She is very obliging, we can deposit her in a museum now and again, and spend some time together.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘If you’d like that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, very much so.’

  A bottle arrived in a silver holder with a white napkin, inducing an elaborate serving ritual, which made Mark impatient again.

  ‘My parents send their love, we weren’t sure you’d be able to escape Berlin. . .’

  He was glad she was not coming to Berlin, he thought, so much chatter.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to see me, I was so pleased when you telegraphed by return. Oh, Mark, it is nice to see you.’ He said the same thing, reflecting that this was what people remarked when they met after a long interval and weren’t sure what to say.

  She raised her glass. ‘What do you say in Germany?’

  ‘Zum Wohl.’

  ‘Well then, Zum Wohl. And to Germany.’ She did not say ‘To us’, but he sensed the phrase trembling in her mind.

  ‘By the way,’ she was saying, ‘I met an old friend of yours in Washington. A man called Harry Mansell, he spoke warmly of you. He says you’re friendly rivals.’

  And after a while, what with the wine, and three courses of rather good food taken in the shade of a white and green striped awning, they began to talk as easily as they had in that other world, back on the East Coast during the Great War.

  40

  ‘It’s been so nice seeing you.’

  ‘Yes, it certainly has. Though when I remarked that it was nice to see you on Saturday, you looked disapproving.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You clearly thought I was filling a pause with a banality. I was, but you were silent, I had to say something. The second time I said it, you curled your lip in that way you have. Don’t worry, I’m not too serious.’

  ‘I suppose I must be very difficult.’

  ‘Only when you close yourself up. . . I do like the Englischer Garten, it’s large and yet somehow intimate, and sitting on this shady bench we’re quite private, at least until the next people walk past and examine us. It reminds me of sitting with you in the shade at Atholl one hot day.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was a happy afternoon, as I recall.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah, I sense a retreat. Are there parks like this in Berlin?’

  ‘There’s the Tiergarten, but I prefer Charlottenburg.’

  ‘And do you sit there in the shade with ladies?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t look so alarmed. I do ask silly questions, don’t I? Do you sit in the shade with gentlemen?’

  ‘No – what do you mean?’

  Long pause.

  ‘Mark, I notice things. Like the direction of your gaze. . .’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Don’t look so appalled, I’m not making an accusation, only an observation. Mark. . . Mark, lately I’ve spent a great deal of time in New York. . . I don’t mind if you’re attracted to men. I’m not shocked. But I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, you silly fellow. Mark, the important thing is that you like me too. I certainly hope so, because I’ve gone on thinking about you, even when you never wrote. But seeing you again, I feel just as I used to.’ The shrubberies distracted him, reminded him of nocturnal adventures. ‘Actually, if my rivals were to be men, that would be less threatening than other women – can you understand that? As long as I knew that the most important part of you was mine.’

  41

  It was raining hard. They sat in the car savouring their Tomatenbrot and salami and sipping cognac. The car was cold but they felt cosy under their rugs, Thomas and Irene in the front, Dodo and Alexander and Beate in the back. They were parked in a country lane, though it would not be a lane much longer. In the distance one could see colonies of allotments, and the shadowy grey bulk of an apartment building.

  ‘What a truly depressing place,’ remarked Alexander, who had one arm round Beate and the other round Dodo. ‘Who would ever want to live here?’

  ‘Don’t be unpleasant,’ said Beate, and gave him a playful slap. Alexander was in good spirits. They hardly recognised him since Beate had taken charge of his wardrobe and hair. He had been offered the editorship of a liberal political review, and a contract for his next book, about the rise and fall of the German Empire. He was visiting the United States shortly to lecture, and was chronically excited.

  ‘It’s depressing because of the rain,’ explained Dodo. ‘When Thomas builds his houses, it will be quite different, and everyone will want to live here.’

  ‘Will it never rain, when Thomas builds his houses?’

  ‘I suppose, Alexander, that in your new journal you will not say such stupid things, because otherwise I suppose the journal will be a great failure.’

  ‘In my new journal there will be no jokes, only serious statements of an improving sort. As you know, Germans do not like jokes.’

  ‘I like jokes.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re half-English, so you half-understand jokes. I am Jewish, so I do understand them, but in a Jewish way.’

  ‘You’re a very silly man. Beate, Alexander is a very silly man, don’t you think?’

  ‘I hope,’ said Irene, ‘that Henry is going to be quieter than his sister. I cannot imagine how Thomas and I produced such a noisy daughter.’

  Thomas looked proudly at Dodo. ‘Oh, she is a new woman, she will be an eminent public figure. Shall we go and look at the site?’

  ‘Can’t we examine the site from here?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘But I must explain the layout.’

  Out into the pouring rain they went. ‘We will walk up there, and there, and then we will come back.’

  It took a while. He showed them where the community centre would be sited, and the assembly hall, and the row of shops beside the projected S-Bahn station. Churches? No, the churches could look after themselves. They stared at a rise in the ground, covered in scrubby pine trees.

  ‘Around this hill the individual houses will stand, each with a garden extending to the communal path, and looking over the gardens of the hou
ses opposite.’

  They stared grimly at the pines. They longed to go home, but did not like to interrupt Thomas. Only Dodo doggedly asked questions.

  Thomas looked at them all, and laughed. ‘Well, here I am again, talking and talking when you are all getting wet. No more, dear friends. But don’t you see, here we can perceive an allegory of our country’s present and future. Today we stand in the rain, amid these battered fields and woods, just as we live among the ruins of the old Germany. Yet before us, in our minds and hearts, rises the vision of a new Germany, a place of white shining houses and leafy glades, where people will live in brotherhood and happiness, where opportunities will be shared by all. Can we imagine a day when the darkness will lift, and we shall live in the sunlit world of the modern age?’

  They nodded, shivering involuntarily, and smiled at their dear Thomas.

  He cried out the slogan for the new settlement: ‘Unsere Stadt für morgen. Our city of tomorrow,’ and they all responded with enthusiasm.

  42

  It was easy to get tickets to the Bayerische Staatsoper, you merely waved a dollar bill at the hotel concierge.

  They’d been told nobody dressed for the opera in Germany these days, but it was their last evening and they wanted it to be an occasion. When Mark went to collect them in their hotel, Barbara and Margaret walked arm in arm down the grand staircase, creating a palpable stir. They were wearing long dresses with bare shoulders and flowing sleeves, and subtly impressive jewellery. He was struck by their aura of confidence, reflected in the gratified deference of the hotel staff and the admiration of the other guests. They kissed him warmly, transferring something of the splendour that glowed around their naked shoulders.

  ‘You are our guest this evening, my dear,’ said Margaret, ‘though nothing here costs us anything at all, or rather it costs meaningless millions. I ordered some supper in our suite after the opera, will that do?’

  In front of the opera house stood flunkeys in what appeared to be the liveries of the Kingdom of Bavaria, but the liveries were old and faded, and no torches were burning, the building was almost in darkness. The audience mostly wore modest dark clothes: no uniforms, hardly any jewellery. The vestibule and the corridors were in near-darkness, and dankness lingered in the splendid halls. When Mark and his friends were ushered into their orchestra box by a footman who responded with an infinitesimal bowing of the head when they pressed a dollar upon him, they found the auditorium equally dimly lit, the audience large but subdued, the orchestra tuning up in worn-out evening dress. Only the velvet curtain recalled the old days. In the very best seats glittered elaborate clothes and jewels, though the people wearing them were not the people seen there before the war.