“I can’t understand it,” declared Frank. “It’s—it’s simply incredible. The Fuehrer guaranteed their frontiers. He promised to respect their independence. What will happen now?”
“I don’t know,” said Roy uncomfortably. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens … we can’t do anything. As a matter of fact we’d better be getting back to the hotel. I want to wire Fernacres where I am in case a message has come there for me.”
“A message?”
“They might recall me,” explained Roy in an embarrassed tone of voice. “Of course they probably won’t … but still …”
“Yes,” agreed Frank. “Yes, I see.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes and then Frank burst out again—
“They trusted the Fuehrer,” he said in a strangled voice. “They trusted him. He promised that he wouldn’t interfere with them, he said it was his sacred will to respect the Czechs—his sacred will, Roy!”
“He—he’s changed his mind, I suppose,” Roy said.
Frank did not hear him; he continued, “The Sudetenland was his last territorial claim—those were his very words. He said we wanted to live our own lives and others must have freedom to do the same. Those were good words—why has he gone back on them?” Frank was silent for a moment and then he cried, “Oh Heavens, what is that man doing to my poor country!”
“It’s other people’s countries—” began Roy.
“He’s ruining us!” cried Frank. “He’s ruining himself and us at the same time …”
“But Frank—”
“Why do you walk with me? Aren’t you ashamed to call me your friend?”
“Don’t be an ass. You can’t help it,” declared Roy more uncomfortable than ever. He was all the more anxious to proclaim his loyalty to Frank because for a moment he had been a trifle—just a trifle ashamed of him. It had seemed so odd somehow—when he was talking to those men at the news-shop—it had seemed so very queer that he should be chumming up with a German. He felt now that he had been disloyal in some mysterious way, disloyal to the very real friendship that he felt for good old Frank … and yet what on earth would have been the use of disclosing Frank’s identity? “Don’t be an ass,” said Roy. “You know perfectly well we’re friends and always shall be. If Hitler chooses to walk into Prague it’s nothing to do with you.”
“But it is,” said Frank in a despairing voice. “It has a lot to do with me. I am part of my country and that man speaks and acts for me and for all my countrymen. If he lies we are all perjured …”
“But Frank—”
“… and if we’re perjured we’re lost. We’re lost, Roy—don’t you understand that? Who will trust us again?”
The answer was too obvious, and Roy remained silent.
“There’s no sense in it,” continued Frank wildly. “Nobody can deal with people in business if they can’t trust them. I’ve seen that again and again in my work. How then can nations deal with each other unless they have confidence in each other’s promises? The thing is impossible … it’s a madness … and what do we want with Czechoslovakia?”
“He wants the Skoda munitions factories,” Roy pointed out.
“He wants them!” cried Frank. “Roy, they aren’t his. What would happen if everyone took what they wanted. There’s no sense in it at all … and the Czechs,” added Frank, “the Czechs! What do we want with Czechs in the German Reich? They aren’t our own people.”
“It’s all part of his policy,” Roy pointed out.
This seemed to distress Frank more than ever. “No,” he cried. “No, that’s where you’re wrong. It was never the Fuehrer’s policy to incorporate people of alien blood in the Reich. The Austrians—yes, they are our brothers—and the people of the Sudetenland are Germans like ourselves. This is something new, and different—this was never his aim. He has said so again and again.”
“I wish Dane was here,” said Roy in heartfelt tones, for he felt that Dane would know what to say to this wild-eyed haggard young man. “I wish Dane was here. Let’s go back to Fernacres tomorrow and you can talk to Dane.”
“Dane!” cried Frank in horror-stricken tones. “Dane! No indeed, I couldn’t face him. I should be ashamed—”
“Oh Frank, don’t be absurd!”
“I can’t face anyone,” Frank declared; “you say it’s absurd? How would you feel if it were your country—your Britain—that had done this?”
He stopped and waited for an answer to this question.
“Oh well—we wouldn’t do it, of course,” said Roy. (He was aware, directly he had spoken, that he had blundered badly but he could not unsay the words.)
“No,” said Frank softly. “Oh no, of course not. You wouldn’t do it, would you? It’s only ‘foreigners’ who behave like that—people who can’t be expected to know any better.”
“I didn’t say that,” declared Roy.
“That was what you meant.”
“I can’t help it, Frank. I don’t know what to say to you. Everything I say seems to be wrong.”
They walked on and, as they walked, they discussed the affair in the same disjointed uncomfortable way.
“Oh hell!” exclaimed Roy at last. “This has bust up our whole trip—I wish Hitler was dead.”
“You can’t wish it more than I do,” replied Frank.
Long after they had gone to bed and had turned out the light and Roy was fast asleep, breathing slowly and easily like a contented child, Frank lay sleepless and tossed and turned. His whole world had fallen into ruins and everything that he had cherished was gone. He had lost everything—his love and respect for his Leader, his pride in the Nazi régime. He had lost his past and his future and … yes, he had lost Wynne. How could he ask Wynne to share his life? He had no life left—no life worth sharing. He felt like a homeless dog. If there were going to be war he would have to go back to Germany and fight for a régime which he believed in no longer. He would have to fight against Britain and therefore against Wynne and all Wynne’s people. Even if there were not going to be war he could not ask Wynne to leave her comfortable home—he had nothing to offer her. He was a German and he had been proud of the fact, but he did not feel proud of it any more. He had lost Wynne and all chance of personal happiness, but this was not the thought that distressed him most. This was his own private trouble and Frank was thinking more of his country—his beloved country which had been put to shame.
There was only one man in the world who would understand what he was enduring, and that man—Frank was sure—must be enduring the same bitter pangs. That man had trusted Hitler just as Frank had trusted him, had taken Hitler’s hand in friendship and signed a pact with him. That man had been betrayed too. If only I could see him, thought poor Frank (only of course I couldn’t see him. They wouldn’t let me near him—why should they?) if only I could talk to him and tell him what I was feeling, and tell him that others of my countrymen are feeling the same. I would tell him how I saw him that day, when he flew home from Munich, and how I watched him go into his house and cheered him and blessed him for what he had done. He would understand how I was torn in half between my two countries and how I felt that he had put the pieces together and healed me. He would understand how I feel now—ashamed, betrayed.
Before it was light, Frank had risen and dressed, and when Roy opened his eyes to the morning sun he found the room empty. Frank had gone, and he had left a scrap of paper on the dressing table with a few words of farewell. “I’m sorry to go off like this but you will understand. I must bear this alone.”
Roy ate his breakfast in a thoughtful mood. He was very sorry for Frank but he couldn’t for the life of him see Frank’s point of view. What was there in this new development to make such a fuss about? Everyone knew that Hitler was a twister—everyone had known it for some time—Hitler and his policy had been discussed ad nauseam in every ward-room in the British Navy. Everyone knew that we were re-arming as quickly as ever we could and everyone knew why. It wa
s just a question of time—how long a rope should Hitler be given, that was all. There were people who said we ought to have gone to war with him last September, but very few Service people were such fools. Service people knew just exactly how weak we were last September and were unutterably thankful when Chamberlain managed to snatch the situation out of the fire. What was it he had said—“Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.” Yes, thought Roy, it was great work. But most people had seen pretty clearly that Munich had only put off the day of reckoning. Frank hadn’t thought so, of course. Frank had evidently taken the Munich pact at its face value … it was bad luck on Frank.
Roy reviewed the situation in a matter of fact way for he was a matter of fact person and he had been trained to think things out clearly and to act quickly and capably upon his deduction. We’re more prepared than we were, he decided, but we could do very nicely with another year … in another year we should be ready for anything.
He was somewhat surprised that he had not received a telegram to cancel his leave but decided that it was a good sign. It probably meant that we weren’t going to stop Hitler yet. We were going to pay out the rope a bit further … after all what could we do for the unfortunate Czechs? We couldn’t get near them, could we? France couldn’t get near them either … but I’d better go home, thought Roy—as he finished his plateful of bacon and eggs and passed on to marmalade—yes, I’d better make for home … not much fun going on by myself, anyhow.
Roy went straight home, driving at speed but with considerable skill and judgment; and, spending one night on the road, he walked into Fernacres the following evening as his family was sitting down to dinner.
His family was surprised to see him but not inordinately so, for Roy had accustomed it to his erratic comings and goings; Barber was accustomed to them too, and a place was laid for him at the table in the twinkling of an eye.
“What a good thing I ordered a chicken!” said Sophie, emerging from the deep waters of her son’s embrace with a sigh of satisfaction. “I wonder why I did. Something seemed to tell me to order a chicken when I was in Kingsport on Monday, and of course it must have been because you were coming home.”
“It must have been a clever something,” replied Roy as he sat down and unfolded his table-napkin, “because I had no idea on Monday that I was coming home.”
“Then why …” his mother began.
“Where’s Frank?” inquired Wynne.
“Have you been recalled?” asked Dane.
He answered Dane’s question first because it was the easiest. “No,” he said, “unless there’s been a message here. That’s why I wired you. The Terrible won’t be ready for another week … has anyone been recalled?”
“No,” said Dane.
“Where’s Frank?” repeated Wynne anxiously.
Roy shook his head. “I don’t know where he’s gone. He just weighed anchor and steamed away in the night—no address given.”
“You quarrelled …”
“Definitely not. No really, we got on like a house on fire. He’s a frightfully decent fellow … of course he was a bit worried, and I seemed to say all the wrong things, but I’m sure he knew that I didn’t mean to …”
“What on earth …” began Dane.
“Can’t you explain …” began Wynne.
Roy had just put a large spoonful of grapefruit into his mouth but, taking pity upon the bewilderment of his relations, he swallowed it whole. “The fact is,” he said, “the fact is poor old Frank was awfully upset about this Czech business—absolutely sunk—well, I suppose it was natural, really.”
Part Two
german interlude
Chapter One
The town of Friegarten was looking its loveliest when Franz Heiden swung himself down from the big train on to the crowded platform and wandered out of the station into the familiar streets. It was very odd to be home once more after his long visit to England; it was strange to hear German spoken on every side. He had begun to think in German again—quite unconsciously—and to think of himself as “Franz.” He had been away a whole year but he was not happy to return—he felt no surge of joy in returning to his own land. It was a very different home-coming from that to which he had looked forward when he left his native place. There was nobody to meet him. Nobody knew he was coming, so he could not complain—but all the same he felt very sad. He wandered along looking at the people and listening to scraps of conversation as he passed.
It was late in the afternoon and the sun was declining; but, even so, the sunshine was warmer and more golden than the sunshine to which Franz had become accustomed. The trees in the streets were already in bud and there were tulips and scillas in the window boxes. There was a festive air about the city. He noticed flags in the windows and the shops were decorated with coloured paper festoons and he realised that Freigarten was celebrating the great and bloodless victory and the incorporation of an unwilling country in the Reich.
Franz had decided to return to his native place because he felt so uncomfortable in England. After leaving Roy in that unceremonious manner, Franz had taken the bus to Glasgow and from there had proceeded by train to London and on every side he had heard the annexation of Czechoslovakia discussed. His fellow travellers took him for an Englishman and did not mince their words, and their words were all the more weighty and significant because they were perfectly calm. They did not rant and rave against Germany, they did not hate her, they merely judged her and condemned her as they would have judged and condemned any thief or any murderer of innocent men. They discussed the whole affair sanely and dispassionately in a manner that made his blood run cold. Franz had buried himself in his newspaper and had tried not to hear … This was bad enough, but it was worse when Franz reached London and encountered people that he knew, for they were aware of his nationality of course. They were so careful not to mention the Czechs to Franz; they spoke of the weather and the latest show at His Majesty’s and then remembered an important engagement and hurried away.…
It was an impossible position—it was intolerable—his nerves became so tender that he shrank from the kindest word. After two days of wretchedness Franz decided that the only thing to do was to go home … and now, here he was in his native city and he felt more unhappy than ever. He saw now that he had not considered the matter properly before rushing home—there were many difficulties ahead. What could he say to his father? How could he discuss the situation with him? His father was a Nazi to the backbone and believed in the Fuehrer as a monk believes in God—there was no chance of his father sharing his views. I should not have come, thought Franz, it was foolish of me—it was madness. Yet where can I go, and what can I do?
By this time Franz had made his way to the big block of buildings where his father’s apartment was situated—his feet had led him there—but he hesitated at the main door and putting down his suitcase looked up and down the street. Should he go in and announce his presence or should he stop and reconsider the whole affair while there was still time? His father did not know that he was coming home—nobody knew where he was. He might find a job in an office here—or somewhere else in Germany where he was unknown. He was still hesitating and wondering what to do when the porter who took care of the flats came out of the front door. It was a new man and he looked at Franz curiously.
“Are you looking for someone?” he inquired.
“Herr Heiden,” said Franz without thinking.
“He is away,” the man said. “Herr Heiden has gone to Prague, but you will find Fraulein Heiden at home. Here, I will give you the key of the apartment; it is on the third floor, but you will have to walk up for the elevator is not working now.”
Franz took the key. He thought it strange that the man should offer it to a stranger like this, but everything was so strange that he felt as if he were walking in a dream. He went up the stairs, put the key in the lock and opened the door. Everything was the same … that was his first reaction … the hall with its polished o
ak floor, the big, old-fashioned furniture, the mirror with its heavy gilt frame. For a moment Franz felt as if he had never been away, as if he were a schoolboy again, coming home from school … and then suddenly, as he stood there looking round, the conviction came to him that everything was not the same. There was a queer silence in the house. The clock was ticking loudly, but there was no other sound at all, no sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen, no patter of feet on the polished boards. Where was Gretchen, the old faithful servant who had been with the Heiden family for so long? Where was Tant’ Anna? There was a cold musty atmosphere in the house instead of the usual pleasant smell of floor polish. At this hour, thought Franz in some alarm, at this hour the house usually smelt of supper—of frying sausage or boiling soup.
It was getting late now and the hall was dark and shadowy. Franz put out his hand to switch on the light and then he changed his mind. He put down his case and walked across the hall and opened the door of the living-room. It was lighter here than in the hall for the windows faced west and the reflection in the sky from the setting sun filled the room with a ruddy glow. At first he thought the room was empty and then he saw the tall figure of Tant’ Anna standing against the curtain by the window. She turned suddenly as Franz moved. He could not see her face but he was aware that her whole body had become tense.
“Tant’ Anna!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you know me? It’s Franz.”
“Franz!” she said in a sort of gasp. “Franz!”
“I’ve come home,” he told her, going forward to meet her. He took her hands and pressed them, they were hot and dry like the hands of a person with fever. “Tant’ Anna,” he said again, “you’re pleased to see me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, Franz, of course—”
She sat down on the sofa and Franz sat down beside her. For some reason which he could not understand he was frightened—his heart was pounding madly in his breast. There was something the matter, there was something terribly wrong. Tant’ Anna had always been a rock in the sea of life—so calm and sure—and he had always leant upon her and depended upon her; but now he saw that she was just an old woman and there was no strength in her at all. He put his arm round her shoulders and the thinness of her body frightened him more than ever. There was nothing of her but bones.…
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