“Please!”
The big Daimler turned north again, purring along a network of immaculate streets and avenues until it entered Place de Nations. The car swung right to an imposing set of gates. A uniformed guard in the sentry box recognized Lester’s car and waved them through.
Built in 1926, the monumental Palais des Nations was a blend of art deco and stylized classicism. Ursula’s immediate impression was of a fortress, a safe haven. I made the right decision, coming here.
A moment later Lester unexpectedly remarked, “Hitler and Mussolini are great admirers of this style. We call it fascist architecture.”
At the main entrance more guards saluted as the Daimler drove up. Lester replied with a slight nod, then told the driver to continue on. “We won’t stop now. You’ll get to explore this place soon enough, Ursula. Just don’t be too impressed by the trappings.”
“It’s hard not to, when I think of what the League was created for.”
“Don’t mistake aspirations for achievements,” Seán Lester advised.
His wife and three daughters gave Ursula a warm welcome. Elsie Lester was a trim, stylish woman, with fine features and a sparkling personality. The girls, Dorothy Mary, Patricia, and Ann, were lively teenagers. Clamoring for news of Ireland, they clustered around Ursula. “Let the poor woman catch her breath!” their mother chided. “Dorothy, prepare the tea tray, please. Then we have a room waiting for you, Ursula, so you can unpack and have a bit of a rest before dinner.”
Elsie Lester had created a home as charming and welcoming as she was. Her sitting room featured deep, inviting chairs with reading lamps conveniently placed, fine wool rugs, and a selection of serene landscapes and family portraits. “I want to find a flat of my own as soon as possible,” Ursula told her hostess. “But nothing could be as lovely as this.”
Lester caught his wife’s eye. “We have the makings of a diplomat here, Elsie.”
Ursula laughed. “I’m not known for my diplomacy, I assure you.”
“We have plenty of those around anyway,” he replied, “and much good it does us. I’d rather have one intelligent young woman with good German than a score of so-called diplomats full of hot air.”
“Take Ursula’s coat, dear?” his wife suggested.
For a moment Ursula panicked; her coat hid a figure beginning to ripen with pregnancy. Then she realized that Seán Lester had not seen her in years and Elsie had never seen her before. They would merely assume she was slightly plump.
The truth could not be concealed for long.
Dinner was relaxed and informal. The Lesters thoughtfully had invited no one else to join them, though Ursula would learn they entertained six nights out of seven; it came with the job.
When the girls continued to ply her with questions about Ireland she asked Dorothy, “Are you homesick?”
“Father wants Mother to take us back to Ireland in case there’s a war, but we’ve discussed the situation among ourselves and decided we won’t leave him.”
Ann piped up, “We’ll launch a stay-in strike if they try to ship us off.”1
Patricia added, “Some English children recently arrived here from London. Their parents sent them to Switzerland to escape the possibility of air raids.” She turned to her father. “How could you even think of sending us through London if there is such danger?”
The threat of war polluted the air.
Over dinner Lester gave Ursula a thumbnail sketch of the League’s rather stormy history.
“When the Great War ended,” he said, “Woodrow Wilson’s dream was to develop an international organization to promote collective security and keep something like that from ever happening again. But the U.S. Congress refused to ratify the Versailles Treaty, which contained the League covenant. So America didn’t join with the rest of us. Isolated between two oceans, I don’t think the Americans realize how small the world really is.
“Added to that, the current secretary-general is a Frenchman, Joseph Avenol, who makes no secret of his hatred for all things Anglo-Saxon. That includes Britain and by extension, America as well. He wants the League to be limited to Europe with him in charge, like a sort of feudal superstate.” Lester sighed in spite of himself.
“You sound disillusioned, Seán.”
“Not disillusioned; disappointed. The League could have been so much more.”
“What about the Sudetenland?”
“The Czechs didn’t even present their case to the General Assembly,” Lester replied. “They seemed to feel their position was too clear to need explaining. They had no idea their allies would desert them. But almost from the beginning, Britain and France have given the League their support only when it suits their own national policies. Between them they’ve practically paralyzed the organization. Now they’ve sold out Czechoslovakia in order to save their own skins from Herr Hitler.”
That night Ursula put her head on a goose-down pillow and dreamt…of Ireland.
Next morning she wrote to Henry Mooney, giving him her new address and selected details about her change of employment. “I’ve embarked on a new life!” she enthused. She also sent a note to the Hamiltons, informing them that she had arrived safely and asking Louise to forward her mail. But she did not write to Lucy. She had nothing to say to Lucy.
The afternoon was spent with Elsie Lester, looking at flats. Eventually Ursula found one not far from League headquarters. In good weather she could walk to work; otherwise a taxi ride would not be expensive.
Ursula’s new flat had high ceilings, polished wooden floors, snugly shuttered windows. The furniture, though sparse, reflected a European mix of styles. Heat was provided by a porcelain stove decorated with blue flowers and love knots. A large French armoire held all her clothes with room to spare. The narrow iron bed hid a hard German mattress beneath a plump Swiss duvet.
Ursula did not disfigure the painted walls by driving a nail into them. Instead she hung Saoirse’s bridle from the picture rail, next to a cheaply framed print of Arnold Böcklin’s famous painting, The Island of the Dead.
The Swiss artist’s vision depicted a boat gliding over the lightless waters of the Styx toward heavy cliffs resembling giant wings, waiting to enfold new arrivals. Wrapped in a shroud and silhouetted against funereal cypresses on the shore, the supernatural figure of Charon stood ghostlike in the prow.
The deputy secretary-general was greatly admired in Geneva for his good humor and dignified reserve, but most of all for his untiring industry. His large staff worked as hard as he did. Ursula’s duties would include translating some of the many German letters and communiqués that daily arrived in the secretariat. A few were urgent, a number were important, the vast majority were trivial. But someone had thought they were important, so they must be read.
Lester arranged a tour of the entire complex of League buildings so Ursula would be able to find her way around on her own. “De Valera’s president of the General Assembly this term,” he reminded her, “so he’s here at the moment. Do you want to meet him?”
“I’ve met him,” she replied shortly.
“From your tone, I assume you’re not one of his devoted admirers?”
She raised her chin to a belligerent angle. “In my opinion, Mr. de Valera’s leadership constitutes a major disimprovement for Ireland.”
“I wouldn’t say that here, if I were you.”
Ursula relaxed and smiled. “Don’t worry, Seán, I won’t.”
“In fact, you should say very little in public until you get your feet under the table and understand what’s going on in Europe right now.”
Every morning before she began work Ursula bought the latest Swiss newspapers, including the internationally oriented Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Over a cup of tea in the staff canteen she read the papers front to back. For information about Ireland she relied on the Irish Times, delivered to Seán Lester’s office two days late.
On the twelfth of January the IRA issued an ultimatum to the British government. If British
troops were not withdrawn from Northern Ireland within four days, there would be reprisals.
In the Place du Bourg-de-Four, Ursula purchased a box of silky, whitechocolate truffles and sent them to England with a note: “Dear Fliss, You will be surprised to learn that I’ve returned to Switzerland. Not Surval, but close. I’m in Geneva, working for the League of Nations.”
Should Fliss mention this to Lewis Baines, Ursula thought with satisfaction, he would realize that she was valued by important people. People entrusted with the future of mankind.
But Ursula soon learned that the social structures of the world were not being shaped by the League of Nations. Rather they were contingent upon an infinite assortment of possibilities, any of which might unexpectedly alter the balance. The League had become a bystander, a leaf swirling on the flood tide of events.
A balding, bespectacled little Frenchman who worked in the office of Secretary-General Avenol often had lunch at Ursula’s table in the canteen. One day he remarked, “We are standing on the tracks watching the locomotive rush down upon us.”
Ursula nodded agreement and took another bite of onion-and-mushroom quiche.
When she first arrived in Geneva nothing had tasted good. Then suddenly everything tasted good. Even eggs. Quiche was her current favorite. For lunch she took two helpings and had to restrain herself from asking for a third.
The Frenchman said admiringly, “I do not know where you put all that food, a little sparrow like you.”
Far away in Texas, Henry Mooney read Ursula’s latest letter aloud to his wife and daughters. Henrietta, who was interested in everyone and everything, gave him her rapt attention. Isabella’s mind was elsewhere.
“Bella, stop mooning,” her mother ordered, “and listen to your father.”
“I hear him. It’s good enough for some, going to Switzerland. I never get to go anyplace.”
“You go to Saratoga Springs every summer,” Ella reminded her, “even when we can’t afford it.”
“If I didn’t I would simply die! We can afford it this summer, can’t we? Papa?”
“Come June, I think we can buy you a train ticket. How about you, Hank? Do you want to go too?”
Although she was not yet sixteen, Bella Mooney was a brunette beauty who looked and dressed like a girl of eighteen years. By contrast, her little sister was a tomboy whose favorite clothing—to her mother’s horror—was a one-piece garment called overalls. “I don’t want to go to New York, Pop-Pop,” she told her father. “I want to stay here again and help you with the garden. You said we’d plant more vegetables this year, remember?”
“We may not have to. Roosevelt’s almost got the depression licked, I think. We could put in more roses. You’d like that, Bella.”
“I won’t see them, I’ll be in Saratoga.”
Her little sister chanted, “Bella’s got a boyfriend, Bella’s got a…”
Under the table Bella gave Hank’s arm a cruel pinch. “Liar!” she hissed.
Eyes welling with tears, Hank rubbed the injured arm. “I’m not a liar. I never lie. Much.”
“Good girl,” said Henry. “Bella, apologize to your sister. Now, where was I?”
“You were reading about Ursula’s new job with the League of Nations,” Ella prompted. “Do you think she’s in any danger? The newspapers are predicting war in Europe.”
“Ursula’s quite able to look after herself, Cap’n. Besides, Switzerland’s a federal republic with a long history of neutrality. They’ve avoided getting involved in other people’s wars for nigh on three hundred years.”
Hank interjected, “Does she say anything about her father?”
Suddenly Bella was paying attention. She was fascinated by the tales Henry told of dashing, romantic Ned Halloran.
“ ’Fraid not, Hank. Ursula hasn’t mentioned Ned in a long time and I’m almost scared to ask.”
Ella laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “I’m sure he’s all right.”
“God’s eyelashes, woman, he’s fighting a war in Spain! How can we be certain of anything? Talk about danger—Ned runs to it like metal filings run to a magnet. I’ll tell you something for nothing. If he gets back to Ireland at all, as soon as I can scrape up the money I’m going home long enough to patch things up between us.”
“You didn’t go back for your mother’s funeral,” Ella reminded him, “nor when your sister Pauline died of tuberculosis.”
“I did not,” Henry agreed. “But they were the family I was stuck with. Ned’s the family I chose for myself.”
As time allowed Ursula wrote to her other friends. Their replies came trickling back to her. Letters from those elsewhere in Europe carried a new tension, a growing reluctance to be open about one’s thoughts.
“Dear Ursula,” Fliss wrote. “Thank you for the chocolates, which are delicious. Thank you also for the bomb your IRA detonated in London on the sixteenth of January. Is Adolf Hitler not bad enough?’”
She made no mention of her former enthusiasm for Oswald Mosley and fascism.
Ursula spent several hours crafting a letter that would placate her friend without actually apologizing for the Irish Republican Army. It was much more difficult than she expected.
Chapter Forty-two
On the twenty-sixth of January Franco’s victorious forces entered Barcelona. At the League of Nations there were heated discussions about Spain’s future, but no action was suggested.
Plainly disgusted, Seán Lester told Ursula, “We’ve learned from reliable sources that when Hitler entered the Rhineland, his forces were prepared for a hasty retreat if the French showed any sign of fight. But they didn’t. Will this be remembered as the century when civilization was handed over to the bullies?”
The refurbishment of the house in the North Strand took longer than Finbar expected. His friends chided him for going to the effort and expense when he had no wife. Undeterred, he continued the work, doing much of it himself at night. He consulted the girls he knew about the fitting-out of the kitchen to be certain it was convenient and modern. Each of them harbored the dream of using that kitchen herself. One offered a window box to be planted with geraniums. Another hemmed an armload of flour-sack dish towels. Finbar was suitably appreciative, but when the house was ready, he would occupy it alone.
Sometimes Ursula went to the visitor’s gallery of the General Assembly to listen to debates on the floor. Her favorite location was the front row of the second tier. From there she had a clear view of the delegates seated at the rows of desks below.
One afternoon she found herself next to a handsome, well-dressed youth who could not have been more than seventeen. “I admire Adolf Hitler very much,” he told her frankly. “He has come to power like a knight to the rescue.
“My family is German by ancestry but we live in the South Tyrol, which is governed by Italy. The Italian government demands crippling taxes from my father, they take everything he has worked so hard to build up. Under Mussolini we have no rights except the right to be exploited.
“The older I grow, and the stronger Germany becomes, the more I am drawn to the Fuehrer. I want to be free, I want to be a German among Germans!
“I accompanied my father to Geneva on business as a sort of farewell time with him. When we leave here I am going to enlist in the Brandenburg Division.* I will fight for the Fatherland, I will be part of her glory. What a proud moment that will be!”
His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shone. He was the very image of a young man setting off on a heroic quest. You can almost hear the trumpets in his voice, Ursula thought.
The Versailles Treaty had stranded tens of thousands of ethnic Germans who must be hearing the same clarion call.
The Lesters often invited members of the staff from the secretariat for luncheon at the weekend. Ursula was always included. One Saturday afternoon Elsie took her aside. “I’m a bit worried about you,” she said.
“There’s no need, Elsie. I’m in good form.”
“I’ve never s
een anyone with a healthier appetite. But then, you may have a reason. Am I right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do. I’ve had three children, remember? I know the signs. Unless I’m very much mistaken, the weight you’re gaining isn’t fat.”
Ursula wanted to lie. But she would not kill this child and she would not deny it, either. “Does anyone else know?”
“Not yet.” Elsie gave her a sympathetic smile. “How far along are you?”
“About five months.”
“You should be showing more.”
“I’ve always been too thin. Now I’m just normal, except for the bump. Up to now my clothes have pretty well hidden it, though.”
“Not from a woman’s eyes,” Elsie told her. “Does the father know?”
“He does not.”
“Do you want him to?”
“I do not.”
“So there is not much likelihood of marriage.”
“None. My choice,” Ursula added emphatically.
Elsie’s pretty face was creased with concern. “Have you given any thought to…”
“I have, of course. You know what would happen if I had an illegitimate baby in Ireland. So I’m going to give birth in Switzerland, where people have a more enlightened attitude. I’ll apologize to your husband for using him to get here, but I mean to do the best possible job for him as long as he’ll have me.”
Elsie was looking at her in astonishment. “You’re an amazing young woman. Have you thought about what you’ll do after the baby’s born?”
“I’m going to keep it.”
“And stay in Europe?”
Ursula shook her head. “Not forever. But by the time we go back, my child will have been mine for so long that no one would even think of taking it away from me.”
“What will you tell people in Ireland? That you married here, but your husband died?”
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