‘I don’t know, Nanna. Our Daimler is here and not the luggage men. Elisabeth is reading a letter and you’d better come.’
‘Well, there’s a thing,’ said Lydia, wiping her hands on her apron.
Elisabeth was staring at a letter in her hand and through the front-room window Lydia could see a long black car with a driver in a cap silhouetted against the misty autumn sea. She felt her blood sinking. Elisabeth said, ‘It’s from Toby’s mother.’
My dear Elisabeth,
I am sorry to write abruptly. The house in Richmond is sold. Your belongings have been delivered to your mama’s home in Catford and I have asked the driver to take you there today.
Toby will be brought to my sister’s house in Regent’s Park, which is where I am at present with Bruno Junior, Annabelle and Bonnie May.
There has been an emergency in America. What has happened I am at a loss to understand, but it seems that everyone who had money suddenly does not. My husband’s business is a mystery made up of guesses, hope and arithmetic, none of which is reliable in my opinion.
Suffice to say there has been a catastrophe: people have been buying with dollars they do not have and then selling to pay for what they have already bought. Is this lunatic or am I? Now they are selling investments frantically but doing so makes them worthless. It is all absurd.
My husband tells me the Wall Street Exchange has been unsteady for some time, which was why he returned to New York last month to safeguard his businesses. Alas, the lunacy took hold and he could not.
I have no interest in the world of money, as you know. Bruno always says that commerce is the scaffolding upon which my artists dangle – no, ‘the edifice your artists cling to’ are his words. I have never understood quite what he meant but it seems the edifice has fallen flat and so have we.
This is not the end, it will get worse, my husband says. The Fairhavens have suffered also and will be forced to sell the villa in Amalfi. The trompe-l’œil jungle in the loggia is barely dry. Poor Cara and darling Pixie, they cannot take it in.
I will stay with the children at my sister’s house – Francesca Brion, you will remember – until we get a passage to New York. Thank God Francesca has not been affected by this calamity, her money is in gold and suchlike. Our mother always said my sister has the Midas touch.
I cannot think clearly at present and I will write again when I do not have a headache. I will send your salary.
Please give my apologies to your dear friends for the unexpected arrival of the car. As you can understand, I had to intercept you before you went to Richmond.
Wishing you a pleasant drive. Toby loves the Daimler. It will be the last he sees of it.
That’s all, I think. I cannot trouble my husband with the question of the pony.
Yours in disarray,
Ingrid Schroëder
On the journey up from Kent, Elisabeth had Toby sitting on her lap and he squirmed with incomprehension. He was hot with the struggle to understand and it was too difficult to explain so she only told him some things, and that was hard enough. She said she would not be looking after him any more.
‘We’ll see each other, darling. I’ll come to visit you as often as I can.’
‘No, I’ll stay with you.’
‘My darling, you’re going to your mamma and Aunt Francesca at her lovely house in Regent’s Park. You’ll have Bruno Junior and Bonnie May and Annabelle to play with.’
‘They never do. I’ll stay with you and Nanna, and Little Bear.’
She struggled to keep her voice from giving way. ‘Toby, this isn’t goodbye, I promise you.’
He stared at her, suddenly younger than his seven years. His face squeezed shut, his mouth opened and he wailed a long note of anguish. ‘I stay with you.’ And so their conversation circled.
The Channel and the misty Romney Marsh, the yellow hop fields, the apple orchards heaped with fallen leaves, slipped behind them. Miles of hawthorn hedges, rosehips and blackberries, with autumn licking flames along the green, and the car came to the little towns of Orpington and Bromley, then on through the village of Beckenham where the cottages were mixed with terraces of new brick houses. At Catford, the hedgerows changed to privet.
Ringstead Road, Catford, was agog when the black Daimler smoothed to the kerb outside the house of Mr and Mrs Mole. Elisabeth’s mother stood at the front door with Mr Mole behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder as if they were posing for a photograph. Other doors along the street had opened too.
Elisabeth sat with Toby in the car and his silence in these last minutes was more painful than the tears. The chauffeur turned around and spoke to them. Perhaps this was his last drive in the Daimler too and it didn’t matter any more. ‘I’ll take care of Master Toby,’ he said. ‘There’d be no harm if he sits up front with me. A young gentleman should learn to drive a motorcar.’
Toby climbed in beside the chauffeur and his resignation made Elisabeth want to scramble in with him, ask to be taken back to Kent, refuse to be a piece of nothing thrown up by the tide. But the Daimler was gliding away and Toby was just a smudge of brightness inside.
As the car turned the corner, his face appeared in the rear window. He must have climbed over the seat to see her. Then he was gone.
‘Elisabeth, my dear,’ said Mr Mole. ‘The Kentish air has suited you.’
‘Back again,’ her mother said. ‘There’s a lodger in your room and another in the spare so you’ll have to think again.’
18
On Tuesdays, Gunter Landau had coffee and schnapps with Doktor Ruben Hartog after morning surgery had finished. Gunter walked to Ruben’s house, enjoying the exercise and the prospect of Hannah’s coffee, which she made by simmering a vanilla pod in the cream, and adding a dash of brandy.
Hannah made coffee like this almost forty years ago in her little attic room above a bookshop in Vienna. Ruben was studying medicine. Gunter and Hannah were classics students and also lovers then. Their parting had not been painful thanks to Anna-Marie Fischer.
She was in the university library reaching for a book, her long brown hair curling to her waist. Gunter had never seen a girl so lovely from the back. When she turned, he saw that her face was unremarkable and less beautiful than Hannah’s, but Gunter was already smitten.
Hannah didn’t weep. She kissed him fondly on the cheek and confessed that she and Ruben had long been anguishing over how to tell him they were in love, fearful this would end the friendship of the three of them. Anna-Marie had solved it.
And now, here they were, all four in Munich, content and getting old. The war was behind them, they had been spared tragedy and grief, and also the hardships so many families were suffering in Germany, Ruben and Hannah Hartog with three grandchildren, and Gunter and Anna-Marie Landau, their first on the way.
As Gunter turned into the leafy street where the Hartogs lived, a shadow in his thoughts was spoiling his anticipation. It would be hard to give Ruben the message and Gunter must impress upon Ruben how ridiculous he considered his son’s decision. It was only a matter of time before these latest idiotic ideas of Artur’s were forgotten, but for now they must comply. After all, sweet English Karen was Artur’s wife, this was their first child and his wishes must be respected.
Hannah opened the door. ‘Dear Gunter.’
He noticed, always with a little shock, her thickened waist and the flesh around her jaw. Somehow he could never quite remember she was middle aged. The memory of her at twenty was still so clear.
The youngest grandchild was swinging on her skirt and Gunter lifted the baby into his arms. The house smelled of coffee, as he knew it would – the scent of friendship, student days when they were hungry and so poor that Hannah’s extravagance with the cream and brandy sustained them. It was the smell of mornings, before Anna-Marie, when he’d wake with Hannah. Now Hannah’s black hair was silver-grey. Coffee was the smell of conversation through the night, talk of politics and books, and God, and then mornings when the four
of them were speechless with exhaustion from the feeds and the tantrums of their babies.
Now here they were, not so much changed apart from creaking in the joints a little.
‘Ruben is in the garden,’ Hannah said. ‘Go through and I’ll bring the coffee out to you.’ Gunter put down the baby, who tottered behind her grandmother into the kitchen. Hannah still liked to cook, although they could all afford to pay servants these days.
Ruben was attending to the roses wearing an old sunhat and with a pair of secateurs in his hand.
‘No scalpel, this morning, Ruben, old fellow?’ Gunter said.
‘My operating days should be long over,’ Ruben said. ‘Sadly they are not. Another emergency last night for our poor guest. His wounds have putrefied again and I had to cut away more flesh and amputate a digit at the second joint.’
‘Have pity on me, Ruben. I don’t have your stomach for these things.’ They sat down on the willow chairs under a parasol. ‘And you’re too generous, you and Hannah. You can’t take in every stray you find upon your doorstep.’
‘He is no stray, my friend. And it was not by chance he was beaten outside my house and left at my door.’
‘You take too much upon yourself. You still think it was your speaking against those thugs that is the reason?’ Gunter said.
‘Three times it has happened. It cannot be coincidence. Here’s Hannah with our coffee,’ said Ruben quickly.
They sat talking for a while. Hannah asked after Anna-Marie and Karen. ‘Is Karen resting as Ruben said? Ruben, you haven’t seen Karen for a week and you should visit. You hear me?’
‘I will call when I am asked,’ said Ruben quietly.
He knows, Gunter thought, perhaps nothing need be said. ‘How is the patient upstairs?’ he asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from this awkwardness.
‘He was conscious for a while when they moved him from the hospital. He asked that we write to his sister in England,’ Ruben said.
Hannah went on, ‘It’s fortunate that little Judith has learned some English. She took his dictation but speaking exhausted him – an hour or more to write a dozen lines. She was so calm and brave. Esther sat with her all the time. His injuries are terrible.’
‘He is unconscious again,’ Ruben said. ‘We have a nurse with him. Last night’s amputation and scouring of the wound was probably quite pointless. His blood is poisoned and it’s unlikely he will live but we pray, do we not, Hannah?’
‘We do.’ Hannah refilled their cups and left them. She knew they would talk about the beatings and Ruben would say he was responsible somehow – which was ridiculous. Someone must speak out. After the horrors of the war and the hardships of these recent years, it was madness that Germans were inflicting suffering on each other now. The hatred had contaminated the Landaus’ son. She and Ruben had loved Artur as if he was their own, and he used to be such a sweet quiet boy, a little spoiled perhaps, but always thoughtful and polite. Now he looked at them with contempt – if he acknowledged them at all.
But there was a new generation of babies to take care of, Hannah thought. Life must go forward. She prepared Leah’s food and lifted the baby on to her lap.
Gunter and Ruben were silent until they heard Hannah talking to the baby in the kitchen.
‘You know how young men are, Ruben. It was just a brawl.’
‘Out here? In these quiet streets where families live? No, Gunter, they mean to punish me – punish any Jew who crosses them. It has worked. I’ll say nothing against them now, not with the children here.’
‘This will pass. It will, believe me. They’re just a few young men, a very few, full of restlessness and itching for a cause. This whole thing will die away. The silly little ranting Austrian failed miserably at the election. He’ll be forgotten soon, you’ll see.’
‘Perhaps.’ Ruben filled their cups. They sat quietly for a while and Gunter wrestled with the words in his head, trying to find the best, the most diplomatic. ‘Ruben … it is with the deepest shame … and sadness that I must ask you –’
‘Do not distress yourself. I understand. Artur would prefer me not to attend Karen again.’
‘It pains me to have such a son. He is a fool.’
‘My concern is for Karen. Her heart is weak, you know this, Gunter. Make sure he finds the best of care for her.’
‘He will, though I fear the marriage is in trouble. Artur does not love Karen as he should. He neglects her. They are unhappy, I think.’
‘New marriages are often difficult, Gunter. Do you not remember how Hannah and I would bicker over nothing in the early days?’
‘I know, I know. But this is different. I know my son. In London he was in love. Waiting for Karen to come to Munich tortured him, but something changed when she arrived. Poor Karen. He need not marry her, I told him this, but he wants to. I cannot understand it.’
‘He has a good heart, Gunter. He pretends to be tough but he is easily hurt, anyone can see. Artur is a little lost, perhaps, and troubled, but he will find himself again. You’ll see, he and Karen will be happy, as we have been.’
‘His mind is too much on politics.’
‘Hannah and I, we pray he doesn’t get mixed up with the violence. The bullies may be few but they know how to inflict damage. The young man upstairs might not use his hands again and will have pain in his legs when he walks, if he ever walks or needs his hands in this life.’
‘With your care he has a hope, a chance – the best.’
‘Why they hate us, I cannot understand. But Artur should take care, Gunter. There are Jews in Germany who are not as cowardly as me.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. Not really. And you’re no coward, Ruben. You put your wife and family first. I ask you humbly to forgive us for our son. You and Hannah are so dear to us, and Anna-Marie is beside herself with worry that we’ll lose you.’
Ruben laughed, slapped him on the back. ‘We’re good Germans together, are we not? It will take more than a young man’s foolishness to rid you of us.’
Darling,
I shan’t write much because my new doctor said I must rest almost all the time. Doktor Grundmann is very strict and I liked dear Doktor Hartog better but Artur said he was unsuitable, whatever that might mean. I didn’t ask.
Artur has employed more people and they start work today. He has engaged a cook, a gardener and a girl to help Hede with the housework. I’m not sure how to give them instructions. It’s hard enough with Hede.
Artur is away a lot and I miss him although I don’t make a fuss. His work is important and he travels all over Germany speaking in town halls on behalf of his Party. He says there are too many old-fashioned, narrow-thinking Germans who are frightened of new ideas, and even men like darling Pappa Landau are rather backward, Artur says.
The meetings get quite noisy and Artur’s Party friends, young men called Sturmabteilung, are firm in discouraging anyone who heckles. How can people learn if others interrupt?
He tells me most good honest Germans don’t understand the reasons why their country is rotten to the core because they’re too busy complaining and struggling to get by. Corruption has ruined everything, he says, and the countries that won the war made Germany the whipping boy.
The war was twelve years ago, how can it matter any more? I wouldn’t say it to anyone but you, but sometimes I think Artur cares too much about these things – that’s my selfishness, which I must curb. Of course, he’s patient when people are slow to understand, but I’ve heard some members of his Party bully anyone who disagrees. There’s no excuse for nastiness over something as silly as politics, but it’s wrong to stand in the way of progress. It’s all so complicated. I don’t understand the ins and outs, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.
Oh, darling, Mutti Landau gave us a cradle! It was Artur’s when he was a baby and Pappa Landau’s before that, and back and back in the family. Birds and animals are carved on the sides and a scene of fairies by the pillows. Mutti Landau cried whe
n she gave it to us. Artur isn’t really interested, although he says he is.
I’m doing my best to see that there are more important things at stake than the two of us and our baby. Artur says it will take hard work and clear thinking for Germany to be great again and then everyone, not just us, will be better off. I’m sure he’s right. He is a fine man and I am the luckiest of girls.
With my love,
Karen
• • •
Elisabeth decided she would not go to see George Mander again. That day in Camber she had tried him out, as Karen would have done, as Mr Caffin the surgeon had tried her out, and George Mander, Elisabeth had discovered, could be charmed.
But something wouldn’t fit, wouldn’t settle her decision, even though it would solve everything to marry him and live in his big old house a mile from the sea, to be Rachel’s neighbour, to live close to Vera, and close to Nanna Lydia, who was more a mother to her now than Mrs Mole.
However many reasons piled up in favour of George Mander, Elisabeth knew he was too good a man to have a wife who didn’t love him. After she sent the note giving him her address in Richmond, she wished she hadn’t.
That was before Ingrid Schroëder’s letter came. Elisabeth stood in the Post Office in the Tottenham Court Road while the woman behind the counter looked up the number on a list. ‘We have a Mander & Son Foundry at Bourne and we have a Mr G. L. Mander, near Hythe. Which is the connection you require?’
‘Mr G. L. Mander,’ Elisabeth said.
‘Very good, miss.’ The woman wrote the number on a card and Elisabeth went to the booth, closed the door and sat down on the bench inside to wait for her call to be put through. She had not rehearsed anything, she was tired from a sleepless night and all the walking of the last three hours. She gazed out through the glass at the people in the Post Office coming and going silently like a moving picture.
Last night, she had slept in the dining room on Mr Mole’s camp bed. ‘From the Transvaal campaign, my dear,’ he told her. The October cold came up through the canvas meant for Africa and she couldn’t sleep. She was up at six to put away her bed and lay the breakfast table for the lodgers, Miss Lewin and Miss Brownsort. At eight she caught the train from Catford to Charing Cross.
The German Boy Page 20