Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  They returned to their table for a drink. While Sally talked to the other people Roland watched Catarina being taken around the dance floor, feeling envious of each successive man who partnered her. When she passed by his table, though, her eyes always locked with his.

  Dirty diapers . . . dirty nappies . . . he thought with a smile. What a subject to talk about during a dance. And yet the raven-haired girl with the lilting accent had managed to make a mountain of dirty diapers sound like the most attractive proposition in the whole world.

  *

  The evening ended with the playing of both the British and Argentinian national anthems. As the last note died, Roland looked around for Catarina but she had already left with her brother. At the door he and Sally said goodnight to Ambassador Menendez and his wife, then went outside to search for a taxi. Beyond the cluster of limousines Sally spotted an empty cab and waved for it. Roland helped her in, dropped down on the seat beside her and gave the driver Sally’s address in Hampstead.

  ‘Is that where you’re living these days, Captain Eagles?’ the driver said.

  Roland stiffened in shock and stared through the glass partition at the back of the man’s head. ‘Do I know you?’

  The driver flicked on the interior light, removed his flat cap and turned around. Roland gazed in disbelief at the square solid face, the thick dark hair, the five o’clock shadow. ‘Alf Goldstein, Captain Eagles. Bergen-Belsen, remember?’

  ‘Goldstein!’ Roland slumped back in the seat, amazed at meeting the former sergeant after four years. ‘What are you doing still driving a cab? I thought you’d be living high off the hog by now.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ Goldstein replied as he flipped the meter and drove slowly away from Claridge’s. ‘Cabbing’s my livelihood. Always has been.’

  ‘But that book you wrote – didn’t you make any money from it?’

  ‘Money? I didn’t do that for money. Anything that book made went into a fund for survivors.’

  Roland felt a sharp sensation of disgust at himself. ‘I owe you one hell of an apology.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The reason I never replied to your letter was because I felt sick that you should profit from helping those poor wretches at the camp.’

  ‘You thought I—?’ Goldstein laughed and shook his head. ‘Forget it, I should have said something in the letter. When you never replied I just figured you didn’t want to be reminded of that place, not that I could blame you, or else the army lost the letter before it reached you.’

  Roland remembered Sally sitting next to him and introduced Goldstein to her, explaining how they had been together at the liberation of Bergen-Belsen. When they reached Hampstead, Roland told Goldstein to wait while he saw Sally inside.

  ‘I feel like I’ve exploited you tonight,’ Roland told Sally as she opened the flat door. ‘First you introduce me to Catarina Menendez, and now I’ve met Goldstein again because of you.’

  ‘Maybe I’m your lucky charm. Sweet dreams of your Latin lady.’ She kissed him on the cheek and watched him walk down the stairs to the street door. Sally had no doubt that Roland was already planning how he would win over Catarina Menendez. Nor did she have any doubt that he would succeed, no matter whether the Argentinian ambassador thought he was high enough up the social ladder to be a proper suitor or not. One thing Sally had learned about Roland was that once he made up his mind to do something, nothing could stop him.

  Downstairs, Roland climbed back into the taxi and gave Goldstein the address in Regent’s Park. Goldstein drove slowly, happy for the chance encounter with his old army captain. ‘Remember Kassler?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’ Roland’s thoughts wandered momentarily to Catarina and he had difficulty in placing the name.

  ‘Heinrich Kassler – that SS officer we captured?’

  ‘Christ, yes,’ Roland said as his mind flashed back. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m glad you never did give me your Webley that day. They investigated him pretty thoroughly and it turns out he did a lot of good in that place. Inasmuch as anyone could do any good.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘That fund for survivors I told you about. It’s part of a group I belong to. We didn’t only help the survivors but we kept an eye on those bastards who ran the camps.’

  ‘What happened to Kassler? Do you know?’

  ‘He didn’t get caught up in the red tape for too long. He was back home by the end of forty-five. I even mentioned him in the book.’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Went straight back into the family business. Took over what was left of his father’s factory near Stuttgart. Got a clean bill of health in the denazification program, and now he’s one of the leading lights in trying to rebuild Germany. Then they can start World War Three in another twenty years or so, as soon as someone composes the right marching music.’ Goldstein added bitterly and Roland laughed; his former interpreter hadn’t changed his opinion of the Germans in the past four years.

  ‘By the way,’ Goldstein said, ‘that was quite a write-up you got when you left the army. Quite proud of you, I was. Showed it to all my friends and family, told them you were my old commanding officer.’

  ‘Sally, the woman we dropped off in Hampstead, was the one who wrote the story. Why didn’t you drop me a line if you were so proud?’

  ‘Because you never answered the last bloomin’ letter,’ Goldstein answered with a chuckle. ‘This your place?’ He pulled up outside Roland’s building.

  ‘This is it. Will you do me a favor?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Make a delivery for me first thing in the morning. A bunch of the finest long-stemmed red roses you can get your hands on. Take them to Catarina Menendez at the Argentinian Embassy. Know where it is?’

  ‘Nine Wilton Crescent, South West One,’ Goldstein said. ‘Any message to go with the roses?’

  ‘You bet there is. “To Catarina, the prettiest Kate in Christendom . . . Shakespeare’s words but my sentiments.” Get it signed by me, with this telephone number.’ He gave Goldstein his office number in Wembley, then passed him money to cover both the roses and the cab fare. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Stoke Newington, with my wife and two children.’ Goldstein passed a slip of paper to Roland with his own telephone number.

  ‘Thanks. Never know when I’m going to need a taxi.’

  ‘Thought you would have a car of your own.’

  ‘Too much aggravation. I don’t like driving to begin with and you have to be a masochist to drive in the West End. I take a train to work and taxis everywhere else. Good night, Alf. Nice to see you again.’

  Roland stood on the pavement, watching the taxi move off into the night. Funny, he’d never even thought of Goldstein having a first name, even after going through something like Bergen-Belsen together.

  *

  Roland arrived at the factory at eight-fifteen the following morning, eager to meet with Lawrence Chivers and the factory manager to ensure there would be no hitches with the Adler’s order. By nine-thirty the meeting was over and he was in his office, a cup of tea growing cold in front of him, a cigarette burning untouched in the ashtray as he stared at the telephone and willed it to ring.

  Should he call Goldstein at home and see if the roses had been delivered yet? Maybe he should remind him, just in case he’d forgotten. Or had he worked late the previous night, got home at three or four in the morning and was still asleep?

  The telephone rang and Roland snatched at it. ‘Eagles!’

  ‘Good morning, Roland.’ It was a woman’s voice and his heart leaped, until he realized it was Sally Roberts. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’d recovered from last night.’

  ‘Recovered from what?’

  ‘Hey, you were flying so high that I was worried you might come down to earth with a big thud.’

  ‘I’m still up there.’ He told Sally about the roses and she laughed.

  ‘
You never sent me roses, you louse. But you can do something else instead. You just make damned sure you give the Mercury and me preferential treatment when the greatest romance since Mrs Simpson unfolds. That’s the Mercury’s price for taking you to Claridge’s last night, and my price for having to put up with that twerp of an artist for one dance.’

  ‘You’ll get preferential treatment, I promise. I’ve got to go, speak to you later.’ He hung up and turned away from the desk as his secretary entered the office. The telephone rang again. ‘Eagles!’

  ‘Roland, is that you?’

  This time he knew there could be no mistake. A shiver ran down his spine and his cheeks burned with anticipation. He waved at the secretary to leave, waiting until the door was closed. ‘Catarina?’

  ‘Thank you for the roses, they’re very beautiful.’

  He tried to picture her. What was she wearing? A simple cotton dress? White, as she had worn the previous night? White, yes, that would set off her dark Latin beauty to perfection. ‘I tried to find roses that were as beautiful as the girl I wanted to give them to,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I failed but the task was impossible.’

  ‘Are you trying to embarrass me?’

  ‘The furthest thing from my mind.’

  ‘Where does the Shakespeare quote come from?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. May I see you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tonight, for dinner?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. Had he detected disappointment in her voice? ‘My father is having guests.’

  ‘More lords and ladies for you and your brother?’

  ‘Heaven forbid. Can we meet for lunch instead?’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Someplace quiet.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up outside the embassy at noon.’

  Their date set, Roland quickly made plans for their lunch – he wanted his first meeting with Catarina to be special. He first phoned Goldstein’s home, only to learn from his wife that he was out. He next left a message at the number for the cab rank Goldstein’s wife said he worked out of, then phoned Eldridge’s, leaving special instructions for their luncheon. When Goldstein returned his call he arranged to hire the cab for four hours.

  Shortly after eleven Roland stood outside the factory waiting for the cab driver. When he arrived they went on to Eldridge’s, where Roland picked up a large wicker hamper. With everything in place, they set out for the Argentinian Embassy in Wilton Crescent.

  ‘Is that your lady friend I delivered the roses to?’

  ‘I’m working on it. Did you have any trouble?’

  ‘No. I took them to the embassy like you said, showed the card. A whole stream of people came out to look at me, then finally your friend came. She doesn’t live at the embassy, she lives in the house next door.’

  ‘You know more about her than I do, Alf.’

  They turned into Wilton Crescent and Roland glimpsed Catarina standing outside the embassy. And she was wearing white! Even dressed in a white cotton dress with a white cardigan slung loosely around her shoulders she looked as lovely as she had the night before. In one hand she held a single long-stemmed rose.

  Goldstein drew into the curb and Roland opened the door. ‘Your carriage awaits you, m’lady.’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all morning,’ she said after sitting next to Roland in the cab’s spacious interior. She toyed with the rose, lifting the half-open bloom to the tip of her fine, straight nose. ‘No one has ever sent me roses before.’

  ‘I feel honored to be the first.’

  ‘What is in there?’ Catarina pointed to the hamper on the floor. Instead of looking down, Roland gazed at her hand, the long slim fingers, her nails filed carefully and free of polish. The innocent hand of a child, he couldn’t help thinking.

  ‘Lunch,’ Roland replied, momentarily distracted.

  ‘Are we eating al fresco?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. You’ll see.’

  Goldstein drove the taxi deep into Hyde Park before pulling up in a secluded, tree-lined area. Without a word to his passengers he got out and walked away. Roland pulled down the jump seats to make impromptu tables and placed the hamper on one of them. When he opened it, Catarina gasped in pleasure. ‘Do you own a restaurant as well as an electrical company that does not make very much money at the moment?’

  ‘No. I just like good restaurants. Perhaps I should own one.’

  ‘Perhaps you will one day.’

  ‘Would your father approve of me then?’

  ‘No,’ she answered with a smile.

  ‘What if I owned half a dozen restaurants? And a chain of hotels?’

  ‘Mmm . . .’ She made a great show of considering the question. ‘Perhaps, but only if you were the King’s cousin as well.’

  ‘Did anyone ask who sent you roses?’

  ‘My mother wanted to know who my admirer was.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I gave her your name, then I hid in my room with your flowers so she couldn’t ask any more questions.’

  Roland turned his attention to the hamper. From an insulated compartment he withdrew a bottle of Dom Perignon, still chilled from the restaurant’s refrigerator. He followed this with two long-stemmed champagne glasses, china plates, silver tableware, Irish linen napkins. Carefully packed in the hamper was smoked salmon from the streams of Scotland, caviar, bread cut into tiny triangles. He opened the bottle of Dom Perignon, easing out the cork to avoid the expected wasteful gushing of champagne down the sides. Filling both glasses, he offered one to Catarina.

  ‘To you.’

  She clinked her glass gently against his. ‘To us,’ she said, falling totally under the spell of the man she’d only briefly met the night before. ‘To us. And to a veritable mountain of dirty diapers.’

  ‘Nappies. Why a mountain?’

  ‘Because I want many children. All good Catholic women have lots of children.’ She studied him for a moment. ‘Are you Catholic?’

  ‘Half. My mother.’

  ‘That’s the important half. What is your father?’

  ‘Was . . . my parents are dead. He was Jewish.’

  Catarina dropped her eyes and Roland asked if there was something wrong; for the first time he seemed to notice the slim gold cross around her throat, the only piece of jewelry she wore. She took a long time to reply. ‘My father—’

  ‘He would approve of me even less?’

  ‘You have to understand that he is a very close friend of Juan Perón. Since 1946, when Perón and his painted little whore of a wife took control of Argentina, many German refugees have been welcomed to my country. They have brought their hatred with them and the Jews of Argentina have suffered. Not like they did in Europe,’ she added quickly, ‘but when they criticize Perón for befriending such people they are reviled. Perón has made a fortune being hospitable to German refugees, and if he is to continue filling his coffers he can’t afford that kind of criticism.’

  ‘German refugees? You mean Nazis.’

  ‘If you wish to use that word.’

  ‘Does it bother you that my father was Jewish?’ Roland wondered what he would do if Catarina answered yes. Throw her out of the taxi and let her find her own way home? Or would he ignore such bigotry because he was so captivated by the girl? ‘Well, does it bother you?’

  ‘No. I am too young to have formed such hatreds.’

  ‘And if your father disapproved of me, would you defy him?’

  ‘For my own happiness I would,’ she answered, her voice firm with conviction. ‘But I don’t think he would stand in the way of my happiness. After all I am his only daughter – how could he deny me?’ She smiled suddenly, showing perfectly even white teeth. ‘Besides, I could always argue with him that Catholics are really the first lapsed Jews. My father was in the Oxford debating society, he appreciates a well-constructed argument.’

  Roland reached for the bottle and refilled th
eir glasses. ‘Denying and defying, you’re making it sound like Romeo and Juliet.’

  ‘Perhaps it is. Which play does that Shakespeare quote come from . . . the one you sent with the roses?’

  ‘“The prettiest Kate in Christendom”? I’ll tell you as long as you promise not to hit me.’

  ‘Hit you? Why would I hit you?’

  ‘It’s from The Taming of the Shrew.’

  She dipped a finger in her glass and flicked champagne into Roland’s face. He laughed, and did the same to her. Then, before it could dry, he kissed it from her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

  During the ninety minutes Alf Goldstein was away – dawdling over a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich in a nearby cafe – two young people shared an extravagant lunch in the back seat of a taxi in Hyde Park.

  They ate. They drank. And they talked. Roland, about his past, the sudden loss of his family, the bigotry he’d known that had tainted his father’s life. Catarina, about the restrictions of being a diplomat’s daughter, her dislike for the way her father was trying to arrange socially advantageous marriages for his children.

  And as they did so, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the Argentinian Ambassador to the Court of St James and the ambitious twenty-four-year-old son of a Catholic mother and a Jewish father began to fall in love.

  Chapter Four

  During the next four weeks, Roland’s priorities underwent an abrupt change, from being the last to leave the factory to being the first, rushing home to bathe and change on the evenings he had a date with Catarina. He kept two photographs of her on his desk – one taken on the night of the Claridge’s ball, the other a photo of them together at a nightclub. During the week they kept their dates simple, dinner or a show, always returning early since Catarina had school the next day. On Saturdays, though, when they could be together for the entire day, they went racing, catching the last few meetings of the flat season.

  On their first outing to the track, Roland had worried that Catarina would find little to interest her, that she would only pretend to enjoy the excitement and color he found there. He was wrong. She took to it immediately, stressing how much more fun it was than any of the more ladylike pursuits her father preferred for her. Roland was amused when she wanted to know why there were no Sunday races as well. In between explaining the Lord’s Day Observance Society, Roland considered Catarina’s father . . . Roland rarely saw the ambassador when he called for her. When they did meet, Menendez’s greetings were always courteous, cool and formal, and Roland could see that he was less than pleased that his only daughter was being courted by a . . . what word would the ambassador use? . . . by a commoner, damn it! Roland couldn’t help feeling that Menendez’s faint, aloof disapproval was like a dark cloud gathering on the horizon, and he wondered when the storm would erupt.