Winter of the World

5

1939

Thomas Macke was watching the Soviet Embassy in Berlin when Volodya Peshkov came out.

The Prussian secret police had been transformed into the new, more efficient Gestapo six years ago, but Commissar Macke was still in charge of the section that monitored traitors and subversives in the city of Berlin. The most dangerous of them were undoubtedly getting their orders from this building at 63–65 Unter den Linden. So Macke and his men watched everyone who went in and came out.

The embassy was an art deco fortress made of a white stone that painfully reflected the glare of the August sun. A pillared lantern stood watchful above the central block, and to either side the wings had rows of tall, narrow windows like guardsmen at attention.

Macke sat at a pavement café opposite. Berlin’s most elegant boulevard was busy with cars and bicycles; the women shopped in their summer dresses and hats; the men walked briskly by in suits or smart uniforms. It was hard to believe there were still German Communists. How could anyone possibly be against the Nazis? Germany was transformed. Hitler had wiped out unemployment – something no other European leader had achieved. Strikes and demonstrations were a distant memory of the bad old days. The police had no-nonsense powers to stamp out crime. The country was prospering: many families had a radio, and soon they would have people’s cars to drive on the new autobahns.

And that was not all. Germany was strong again. The military was well armed and powerful. In the last two years both Austria and Czechoslovakia had been absorbed into Greater Germany, which was now the dominant power in Europe. Mussolini’s Italy was allied with Germany in the Pact of Steel. Earlier this year Madrid had at last fallen to Franco’s rebels, and Spain now had a Fascist-friendly government. How could any German wish to undo all that and bring the country under the heel of the Bolsheviks?

In Macke’s eyes such people were scum, vermin, filth that had to be ruthlessly sought out and utterly destroyed. As he thought about them his face twisted into a scowl of anger, and he tapped his foot on the pavement as if preparing to stomp a Communist.

Then he saw Peshkov.

He was a young man in a blue serge suit, carrying a light coat over his arm as if expecting a change in the weather. His close-cropped hair and quick march indicated the army, despite his civilian clothes, and the way he scanned the street, deceptively casual but thorough, suggested either Red Army Intelligence or the NKVD, the Russian secret police.

Macke’s pulse quickened. He and his men knew everyone at the embassy by sight, of course. Their passport photographs were on file and the team watched them all the time. But he did not know much about Peshkov. The man was young – twenty-five, according to his file, Macke recalled – so he might be a junior staffer of no importance. Or he could be good at seeming unimportant.

Peshkov crossed Unter den Linden and walked towards where Macke sat, near the corner of Friedrich Strasse. As Peshkov came closer, Macke noted that the Russian was quite tall, with the build of an athlete. He had an alert look and an intense gaze.

Macke looked away, suddenly nervous. He picked up his cup and sipped the cold dregs of his coffee, partly covering his face. He did not want to meet those blue eyes.

Peshkov turned into Friedrich Strasse. Macke nodded to Reinhold Wagner, standing on the opposite corner, and Wagner followed Peshkov. Macke then got up from his table and followed Wagner.

Not everyone in Red Army Intelligence was a cloak-and-dagger spy, of course. They got most of their information legitimately, mainly by reading the German newspapers. They did not necessarily believe everything they read, but they took note of clues such as an advertisement by a gun factory needing to recruit ten skilled lathe operators. Furthermore, Russians were free to travel Germany and look around – unlike diplomats in the Soviet Union, who were not allowed to leave Moscow unescorted. The young man whom Macke and Wagner were now tailing might be the tame, newspaper-reading kind of intelligence gatherer: all that was required for such a job was fluent German and the ability to summarize.

They followed Peshkov past Macke’s brother’s restaurant. It was still called Bistro Robert, but it had a different clientele. Gone were the wealthy homosexuals, the Jewish businessmen with their mistresses, and the overpaid actresses calling for pink champagne. Such people kept their heads down nowadays, if they were not already in concentration camps. Some had left Germany – and good riddance, Macke thought, even if it did, unfortunately, mean that the restaurant no longer made much money.

He wondered idly what had become of the former owner, Robert von Ulrich. He vaguely remembered that the man had gone to England. Perhaps he had opened a restaurant for perverts there.

Peshkov went into a bar.

Wagner followed him in a minute or two later, while Macke watched the outside. It was a popular place. While Macke waited for Peshkov to reappear, he saw a soldier and a girl enter, and a couple of well-dressed women and an old man in a grubby coat come out and walk away. Then Wagner came out alone, looked directly at Macke, and spread his arms in a gesture of bewilderment.

Macke crossed the street. Wagner was distressed. ‘He’s not there!’

‘Did you look everywhere?’

‘Yes, including the toilets and the kitchen.’

‘Did you ask if anyone had gone out the back way?’

‘They said not.’

Wagner was scared with reason. This was the new Germany, and errors were no longer dealt with by a slap on the wrist. He could be severely punished.

But not this time. ‘That’s all right,’ said Macke.

Wagner could not hide his relief. ‘Is it?’

‘We’ve learned something important,’ Macke said. ‘The fact that he shook us off so expertly tells us that he’s a spy – and a very good one.’

(ii)

Volodya entered the Friedrich Strasse Station and boarded a U-bahn train. He took off the cap, glasses and dirty raincoat that had helped him look like an old man. He sat down, took out a handkerchief, and wiped away the powder he had put on his shoes to make them appear shabby.

He had been unsure about the raincoat. It was such a sunny day that he feared the Gestapo might have noticed it and realized what he was up to. But they had not been that clever, and no one had followed him from the bar after he had done his quick change in the men’s room.

He was about to do something highly dangerous. If they caught him contacting a German dissident, the best that he could expect was to be deported back to Moscow with his career in ruins. If he were less lucky, he and the dissident would both vanish into the basement of Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrecht Strasse, never to be seen again. The Soviets would complain that one of their diplomats had disappeared, and the German police would pretend to do a missing-persons search then regretfully report no success.

Volodya had never been to Gestapo headquarters, of course, but he knew what it would be like. The NKVD had a similar facility in the Soviet Trade Mission at 11 Lietsenburger Strasse: steel doors, an interrogation room with tiled walls so that the blood could be washed off easily, a tub for cutting up the bodies, and an electrical furnace for burning the parts.

Volodya had been sent to Berlin to expand the network of Soviet spies here. Fascism was triumphant in Europe, and Germany was more of a threat to the USSR now than ever. Stalin had fired his foreign minister, Litvinov, and replaced him with Vyacheslav Molotov. But what could Molotov do? The Fascists seemed unstoppable. The Kremlin was haunted by the humiliating memory of the Great War, in which the Germans had defeated a Russian army of six million men. Stalin had taken steps to form a pact with France and Britain to restrain Germany, but the three powers had been unable to agree, and the talks had broken down in the last few days.

Sooner or later, war was expected between Germany and the Soviet Union, and it was Volodya’s job to gather military intelligence that would help the Soviets win that war.

He got off the train in the poor working-class district of Wedding, north of Berlin’s centre. Outside the station he stood and waited, watching the other passengers as they left, pretending to study a timetable pasted on the wall. He did not move off until he was quite sure no one had followed him here.

Then he made his way to the cheap restaurant that was his chosen rendezvous. As was his regular practice, he did not go in, but stood at a bus stop on the other side of the road and watched the entrance. He was confident he had shaken off any tail, but now he needed to make sure Werner had not been followed.

He was not sure that he would recognize Werner Franck, who had been a fourteen-year-old boy when Volodya had last seen him, and was now twenty. Werner felt the same, so they had agreed they would both carry today’s edition of the Berliner Morgenpost open to the sports page. Volodya read a preview of the new soccer season as he waited, glancing up every few seconds to look for Werner. Ever since being a schoolboy in Berlin, Volodya had followed the city’s top team, Hertha. He had often chanted: ‘Ha! Ho! He! Hertha B-S-C!’ He was interested in the team’s prospects, but anxiety spoiled his concentration, and he read the same report over and over again without taking anything in.

His two years in Spain had not boosted his career in the way he had hoped – rather the reverse. Volodya had uncovered numerous Nazi spies like Heinz Bauer among the German ‘volunteers’. But then the NKVD had used that as an excuse to arrest genuine volunteers who had merely expressed mild disagreement with the Communist line. Hundreds of idealistic young men had been tortured and killed in the NKVD’s prisons. At times it had seemed as if the Communists were more interested in fighting their anarchist allies than their Fascist enemies.

And all for nothing. Stalin’s policy was a catastrophic failure. The upshot was a right-wing dictatorship, the worst imaginable outcome for the Soviet Union. But the blame was put on those Russians who had been in Spain, even though they had faithfully carried out Kremlin instructions. Some of them had disappeared soon after returning to Moscow.

Volodya had gone home in fear after the fall of Madrid. He had found many changes. In 1937 and 1938 Stalin had purged the Red Army. Thousands of commanders had disappeared, including many of the residents of Government House where his parents lived. But previously neglected men such as Grigori Peshkov had been promoted to take the places of those purged, and Grigori’s career had a new impetus. He was in charge of the defence of Moscow against air raids, and was frantically busy. His enhanced status was probably the reason why Volodya was not among those scapegoated for the failure of Stalin’s Spanish policy.

The unpleasant Ilya Dvorkin had also somehow avoided punishment. He was back in Moscow and married to Volodya’s sister, Anya, much to Volodya’s regret. There was no accounting for women’s choices in such matters. She was already pregnant, and Volodya could not repress a nightmare image of her nursing a baby with the head of a rat.

After a brief leave, Volodya had been posted to Berlin, where he had to prove his worth all over again.

He looked up from his paper to see Werner walking along the street.

Werner had not changed much. He was a little taller and broader, but he had the same strawberry-blond hair falling over his forehead in a way girls had found irresistible, the same look of tolerant amusement in his blue eyes. He wore an elegant light-blue summer suit, and gold links glinted at his cuffs.

There was no one following him.

Volodya crossed the road and intercepted him before he reached the café. Werner smiled broadly, showing white teeth. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you with that army haircut,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you, after all these years.’

He had not lost any of his warmth and charm, Volodya noted. ‘Let’s go inside.’

‘You don’t really want to go into that dump, do you?’ Werner said. ‘It will be full of plumbers eating sausages with mustard.’

‘I want to get off the street. Here we could be seen by anyone passing.’

‘There’s an alley three doors down.’

‘Good.’

They walked a short distance and turned into a narrow passage between a coal yard and a grocery store. ‘What have you been doing?’ Werner said.

‘Fighting the Fascists, just like you.’ Volodya considered whether to tell him more. ‘I was in Spain.’ It was no secret.

‘Where you had no more success than we did here in Germany.’

‘But it’s not over yet.’

‘Let me ask you something,’ Werner said, leaning against the wall. ‘If you thought Bolshevism was wicked, would you be a spy working against the Soviet Union?’

Volodya’s instinct was to say No, absolutely not! But before the words came out he realized how tactless that would be – for the prospect that revolted him was precisely what Werner was doing, betraying his country for the sake of a higher cause. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think it must be very difficult for you to work against Germany, even though you hate the Nazis.’

‘You’re right,’ Werner said. ‘And what happens if war breaks out? Am I going to help you kill our soldiers and bomb our cities?’

Volodya was worried. It seemed that Werner was weakening. ‘It’s the only way to defeat the Nazis,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘I do. I made my decision a long time ago. And the Nazis have done nothing to change my mind. It’s hard, that’s all.’

‘I understand,’ Volodya said sympathetically.

Werner said: ‘You asked me to suggest other people who might do for you what I am doing.’

Volodya nodded. ‘People like Willi Frunze. Remember him? Cleverest boy in school. He was a serious socialist – he chaired that meeting the Brownshirts broke up.’

Werner shook his head. ‘He went to England.’

Volodya’s heart sank. ‘Why?’

‘He’s a brilliant physicist and he’s studying in London.’

‘Shit.’

‘But I’ve thought of someone else.’

‘Good!’

‘Did you ever know Heinrich von Kessel?’

‘I don’t think so. Was he at our school?’

‘No, he went to a Catholic school. And in those days he didn’t share our politics, either. His father was a big shot in the Centre Party—’

‘Which put Hitler in power in 1933!’

‘Correct. Heinrich was then working for his father. The father has now joined the Nazis, but the son is wracked by guilt.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He got drunk and told my sister, Frieda. She’s seventeen. I think he fancies her.’

This was promising. Volodya’s spirits lifted. ‘Is he a Communist?’

‘No.’

‘What makes you think he’ll work for us?’

‘I asked him, straight out. “If you got a chance to fight against the Nazis by spying for the Soviet Union, would you do it?” He said he would.’

‘What’s his job?’

‘He’s in the army, but he has a weak chest, so they made him a pen-pusher – which is lucky for us, because now he works for the Supreme High Command in the economic planning and procurement department.’

Volodya was impressed. Such a man would know exactly how many trucks and tanks and machine guns and submarines the German military was acquiring month by month – and where they were being deployed. He began to feel excited. ‘When can I meet him?’

‘Now. I’ve arranged to have a drink with him in the Adlon Hotel after work.’

Volodya groaned. The Adlon was Berlin’s swankiest hotel. It was located on Unter den Linden. Because it was in the government and diplomatic district, the bar was a favourite haunt of journalists hoping to pick up gossip. It would not have been Volodya’s choice of rendezvous. But he could not afford to miss this chance. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to be seen talking to either of you in that place. I’ll follow you in, identify Heinrich, then follow him out and accost him later.’

‘Okay. I’ll drive you there. My car’s around the corner.’

As they walked to the other end of the alley, Werner told Volodya Heinrich’s work and home addresses and phone numbers, and Volodya committed them to memory.

‘Here we are,’ said Werner. ‘Jump in.’

The car was a Mercedes 540K Autobahn Kurier, a model that was head-turningly beautiful, with sensually curved fenders, a bonnet longer than an entire Ford Model T, and a sloping fastback rear end. It was so expensive that only a handful had ever been sold.

Volodya stared aghast. ‘Shouldn’t you have a less ostentatious car?’ he said incredulously.

‘It’s a double bluff,’ Werner said. ‘They think no real spy would be so flamboyant.’

Volodya was going to ask how he could afford it, but then he recalled that Werner’s father was a wealthy manufacturer.

‘I’m not getting into that thing,’ Volodya said. ‘I’ll go by train.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I’ll see you at the Adlon, but don’t acknowledge me.’

‘Of course.’

Half an hour later, Volodya saw Werner’s car carelessly parked in front of the hotel. This cavalier attitude of Werner’s seemed foolish to him, but now he wondered whether it was a necessary element of Werner’s courage. Perhaps Werner had to pretend to be carefree in order to take the appalling risks required to spy on the Nazis. If he acknowledged the danger he was in, maybe he would not be able to carry on.

The bar of the Adlon was full of fashionable women and well-dressed men, many in smartly tailored uniforms. Volodya spotted Werner right away, at a table with another man who was presumably Heinrich von Kessel. Passing close to them, Volodya heard Heinrich say argumentatively: ‘Buck Clayton is a much better trumpeter than Hot Lips Page.’ He squeezed in at the counter, ordered a beer, and discreetly studied the new potential spy.

Heinrich had pale skin and thick dark hair that was long by army standards. Although they were talking about the relatively unimportant topic of jazz, he seemed very intense, arguing with gestures and repeatedly running his fingers through his hair. He had a book stuffed into the pocket of his uniform tunic, and Volodya would have bet it contained poetry.

Volodya drank two beers slowly and pretended to read the Morgenpost from cover to cover. He tried not to get too keyed up about Heinrich. The man was thrillingly promising, but there was no guarantee he would co-operate.

Recruiting informers was the hardest part of Volodya’s work. Precautions were difficult to take because the target was not yet on side. The proposition often had to be made in inappropriate places, usually somewhere public. It was impossible to know how the target would react: he might be angry and shout his refusal, or be terrified and literally run away. But there was not much the recruiter could do to control the situation. At some point he just had to ask the simple, blunt question: ‘Do you want to be a spy?’

He thought about how to approach Heinrich. Religion was probably the key to his personality. Volodya recalled his boss, Lemitov, saying: ‘Lapsed Catholics make good agents. They reject the total authority of the Church only to accept the total authority of the Party.’ Heinrich might need to seek forgiveness for what he had done. But would he risk his life?

At last Werner paid the bill and the two men left. Volodya followed. Outside the hotel they parted company, Werner driving off with a squeal of tyres and Heinrich going on foot across the park. Volodya went after Heinrich.

Night was falling, but the sky was clear and he could see well. There were many people strolling in the warm evening air, most of them in couples. Volodya looked back repeatedly, to make sure no one had followed him or Heinrich from the Adlon. When he was satisfied he took a deep breath, steeled his nerve, and caught up with Heinrich.

Walking alongside him, Volodya said: ‘There is atonement for sin.’

Heinrich looked at him warily, as at someone who might be mad. ‘Are you a priest?’

‘You could strike back at the wicked regime you helped to create.’

Heinrich kept walking, but he looked worried. ‘Who are you? What do you know about me?’

Volodya continued to ignore Heinrich’s questions. ‘The Nazis will be defeated, one day. That day could come sooner, with your help.’

‘If you’re a Gestapo agent hoping to entrap me, don’t bother. I’m a loyal German.’

‘Do you notice my accent?’

‘Yes – you sound Russian.’

‘How many Gestapo agents speak German with a Russian accent? Or have the imagination to fake it?’

Heinrich laughed nervously. ‘I know nothing about Gestapo agents,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the subject – very foolish of me.’

‘Your office produces reports of the quantities of armaments and other supplies ordered by the military. Copies of those reports could be immeasurably useful to the enemies of the Nazis.’

‘To the Red Army, you mean.’

‘Who else is going to destroy this regime?’

‘We keep careful track of all copies of such reports.’

Volodya suppressed a surge of triumph. Heinrich was thinking about practical difficulties. That meant he was inclined to agree in principle. ‘Make an extra carbon,’ Volodya said. ‘Or write out a copy in longhand. Or take someone’s file copy. There are ways.’

‘Of course there are. And any of them could get me killed.’

‘If we do nothing about the crimes that are being committed by this regime . . . is life worth living?’

Heinrich stopped and stared at Volodya. Volodya could not guess what the man was thinking, but instinct told him to remain quiet. After a long pause, Heinrich sighed and said: ‘I’ll think about it.’

I have him, Volodya thought exultantly.

Heinrich said: ‘How do I contact you?’

‘You don’t,’ Volodya said. ‘I will contact you.’ He touched the brim of his hat, then walked back the way he had come.

He felt exultant. If Heinrich had not meant to accept the proposition he would have rejected it firmly. His promising to think about it was almost as good as acceptance. He would sleep on it. He would run over the dangers. But he would do it, eventually. Volodya felt almost certain.

He told himself not to be overconfident. A hundred things could go wrong.

All the same, he was full of hope as he left the park and walked in bright lights past the shops and restaurants of Unter den Linden. He had had no dinner, but he could not afford to eat on this street.

He took a tram eastwards into the low-rent neighbourhood called Friedrichshain and made his way to a small apartment in a tenement. The door was opened by a short, pretty girl of eighteen with fair hair. She wore a pink sweater and dark slacks, and her feet were bare. Although she was slim, she had delightfully generous breasts.

‘I’m sorry to call unexpectedly,’ Volodya said. ‘Is it inconvenient?’

She smiled. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

He stepped inside. She closed the door, then threw her arms around him. ‘I’m always happy to see you,’ she said, and kissed him eagerly.

Lili Markgraf was a girl with a lot of affection to give. Volodya had been taking her out about once a week since he got back to Berlin. He was not in love with her, and he knew that she dated other men, including Werner; but when they were together she was passionate.

After a moment she said: ‘Have you heard the news? Is that why you’ve come?’

‘What news?’ Lili worked as a secretary in a press agency, and always heard things first.

‘The Soviet Union has made a pact with Germany!’ she said.

That made no sense. ‘You mean with Britain and France, against Germany.’

‘No, I don’t! That’s the surprise – Stalin and Hitler have made friends.’

‘But . . .’ Volodya tailed off, baffled. Friends with Hitler? It seemed crazy. Was this the solution devised by the new Soviet foreign minister, Molotov? We have failed to stop the tide of world Fascism – so we give up trying? Did my father fight a revolution for that?

(iii)

Woody Dewar saw Joanne Rouzrokh again after four years.

No one who knew her father actually believed he had tried to rape a starlet in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The girl had dropped the charges; but that was dull news, and the papers had given it little prominence. Consequently, Dave was still a rapist in the eyes of Buffalo people. So Joanne’s parents moved to Palm Beach and Woody lost touch.

Next time he saw her it was in the White House.

Woody was with his father, Senator Gus Dewar, and they were going to see the President. Woody had met Franklin D. Roosevelt several times. His father and the President had been friends for many years. But those had been social occasions, when FDR had shaken Woody’s hand and asked him how he was getting along at school. This would be the first time Woody attended a real political meeting with the President.

They went in through the main entrance of the West Wing, passed through the entrance lobby, and stepped into a large waiting room; and there she was.

Woody stared at her in delight. She had hardly changed. With her narrow, haughty face and curved nose she still looked like the high priestess of an ancient religion. As ever, she wore simple clothes to dramatic effect: today she had on a dark-blue suit of some cool fabric and a straw hat the same colour with a big brim. Woody was glad he had put on a clean white shirt and his new striped tie this morning.

She seemed pleased to see him. ‘You look great!’ she said. ‘Are you working in DC now?’

‘Just helping out in my father’s office for the summer,’ he replied. ‘I’m still at Harvard.’

She turned to his father and said deferentially: ‘Good afternoon, Senator.’

‘Hello, Joanne.’

Woody was thrilled to run into her. She was as alluring as ever. He wanted to keep the conversation going. ‘What are you doing here?’ Woody said.

‘I work at the State Department.’

Woody nodded. That explained her deference to his father. She had joined a world in which people kowtowed to Senator Dewar. Woody said: ‘What’s your job?’

‘I’m assistant to an assistant. My boss is with the President now, but I’m too lowly to go in with him.’

‘You were always interested in politics. I recall an argument about lynching.’

‘I miss Buffalo. What fun we used to have!’

Woody remembered kissing her at the Racquet Club Ball, and he felt himself blush.

His father said: ‘Please give my best regards to your father,’ indicating that they needed to move on.

Woody considered asking for her phone number, but she pre-empted him. ‘I’d love to see you again, Woody,’ she said.

He was delighted. ‘Sure!’

‘Are you free tonight? I’m having a few friends for cocktails.’

‘Sounds great!’

She gave him the address, an apartment building not far away, then his father hurried him out of the other end of the room.

A guard nodded familiarly to Gus, and they stepped into another waiting room.

Gus said: ‘Now, Woody, don’t say anything unless the President addresses you directly.’

Woody tried to concentrate on the imminent meeting. There had been a political earthquake in Europe: the Soviet Union had signed a peace pact with Nazi Germany, upsetting everyone’s calculations. Woody’s father was a key member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and the President wanted to know what he thought.

Gus Dewar had another subject to discuss. He wanted to persuade Roosevelt to revive the League of Nations.

It would be a tough sell. The USA had never joined the League and Americans did not much like it. The League had failed dismally to deal with the crises of the 1930s: Japanese aggression in the Far East, Italian imperialism in Africa, Nazi takeovers in Europe, the ruin of democracy in Spain. But Gus was determined to try. It had always been his dream, Woody knew: a world council to resolve conflicts and prevent war.

Woody was 100 per cent behind him. He had made a speech about this in a Harvard debate. When two nations had a quarrel, the worst possible procedure was for men to kill people on the other side. That seemed to him pretty obvious. ‘I understand why it happens, of course,’ he had said in the debate. ‘Just like I understand why drunks get into fistfights. But that doesn’t make it any less irrational.’

But now Woody found it hard to think about the threat of war in Europe. All his old feelings about Joanne came back in a rush. He wondered if she would kiss him again – maybe tonight. She had always liked him, and it seemed she still did – why else would she have invited him to her party? She had refused to date him, back in 1935, because he had been fifteen and she eighteen, which was understandable, though he had not thought so at the time. But now that they were both four years older, the age difference would not seem so stark – would it? He hoped not. He had dated girls in Buffalo and at Harvard, but he had not felt for any of them the overwhelming passion he had had for Joanne.

‘Have you got that?’ his father said.

Woody felt foolish. His father was about to make a proposal to the President that could bring world peace, and all Woody could think about was kissing Joanne. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I won’t say anything unless he speaks to me first.’

A tall, slim woman in her early forties came into the room, looking relaxed and confident, as if she owned the place; and Woody recognized Marguerite LeHand, nicknamed Missy, who managed Roosevelt’s office. She had a long, masculine face with a big nose, and there was a touch of grey in her dark hair. She smiled warmly at Gus. ‘What a pleasure to see you again, Senator.’

‘How are you, Missy? You remember my son, Woodrow.’

‘I do. The President is ready for you both.’

Missy’s devotion to Roosevelt was famous. FDR was more fond of her than a married man was entitled to be, according to Washington gossip. Woody knew, from guarded but revealing remarks his parents made to one another, that Roosevelt’s wife, Eleanor, had refused to sleep with him since she gave birth to their sixth child. The paralysis that had struck him five years later did not extend to his sexual equipment. Perhaps a man who had not slept with his wife for twenty years was entitled to an affectionate secretary.

She showed them through another door and across a narrow corridor, then they were in the Oval Office.

The President sat at a desk with his back to three tall windows in a curving bay. The blinds were drawn to filter the August sun coming through the south-facing glass. Roosevelt used an ordinary office chair, Woody saw, not his wheelchair. He wore a white suit and he was smoking a cigarette in a holder.

He was not really handsome. He had receding hair and a jutting chin, and he wore pince-nez glasses that made his eyes seem too close together. All the same, there was something immediately attractive about his engaging smile, his hand extended to shake, and the amiable tone of voice in which he said: ‘Good to see you, Gus, come on in.’

‘Mr President, you remember my elder son, Woodrow.’

‘Of course. How’s Harvard, Woody?’

‘Just fine, sir, thank you. I’m on the debating team.’ He knew that politicians often had the knack of seeming to know everyone intimately. Either they had remarkable memories, or their secretaries reminded them efficiently.

‘I was at Harvard myself. Sit down, sit down.’ Roosevelt removed the end of his cigarette from the holder and stubbed it in a full ashtray. ‘Gus, what the heck is happening in Europe?’

The President knew what was happening in Europe, of course, thought Woody. He had an entire State Department to tell him. But he wanted Gus Dewar’s analysis.

Gus said: ‘Germany and Russia are still mortal enemies, in my opinion.’

‘That’s what we all thought. But then why have they signed this pact?’

‘Short-term convenience for both. Stalin needs time. He wants to build up the Red Army, so they can defeat the Germans if it comes to that.’

‘And the other guy?’

‘Hitler is clearly on the point of doing something to Poland. The German press is full of ridiculous stories about how the Poles are mistreating their German-speaking population. Hitler doesn’t stir up hatred without a purpose. Whatever he’s planning, he doesn’t want the Soviets to stand in his way. Hence the pact.’

‘That’s pretty much what Hull says.’ Cordell Hull was Secretary of State. ‘But he doesn’t know what will happen next. Will Stalin let Hitler do anything he wants?’

‘My guess is they’ll carve up Poland between them in the next couple of weeks.’

‘And then what?’

‘A few hours ago the British signed a new treaty with the Poles promising to come to their aid if Poland is attacked.’

‘But what can they do?’

‘Nothing, sir. The British army, navy and air force have no power to prevent the Germans overrunning Poland.’

‘What do you think we should do, Gus?’ said the President.

Woody knew that this was his father’s chance. He had the President’s attention for a few minutes. It was a rare opportunity to make something happen. Woody discreetly crossed his fingers.

Gus leaned forward. ‘We don’t want our sons to go to war as we did.’ Roosevelt had four boys in their twenties and thirties. Woody suddenly understood why he was here: he had been brought to the meeting to remind the President of his own sons. Gus said quietly: ‘We can’t send American boys to be slaughtered in Europe again. The world needs a police force.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ Roosevelt said non-committally.

‘The League of Nations isn’t such a failure as people think. In the 1920s it resolved a border dispute between Finland and Sweden, and another between Turkey and Iraq.’ Gus was ticking items off on his fingers. ‘It stopped Greece and Yugoslavia from invading Albania, and persuaded Greece to pull out of Bulgaria. And it sent a peacekeeping force to keep Colombia and Peru from hostilities.’

‘All true. But in the thirties . . .’

‘The League was not strong enough to deal with Fascist aggression. It’s not surprising. The League was crippled from the start because Congress refused to ratify the Covenant, so the United States was never a member. We need a new, American-led version, with teeth.’ Gus paused. ‘Mr President, it’s too soon to give up on a peaceful world.’

Woody held his breath. Roosevelt nodded, but then he always nodded, Woody knew. It was rare for him to disagree openly. He hated confrontation. You had to be careful, Woody had heard his father say, not to take his silence for consent. Woody did not dare look at his father, sitting beside him, but he could sense the tension.

At last the President said: ‘I believe you’re right.’

Woody had to restrain himself from whooping aloud. The President had consented! He looked at his father. The normally imperturbable Gus was barely concealing his surprise. It had been such a quick victory.

Gus moved rapidly to consolidate it. ‘In that case, may I suggest that Cordell Hull and I draft a proposal for your consideration?’

‘Hull has a lot on his plate. Talk to Welles.’

Sumner Welles was Undersecretary of State. He was both ambitious and flamboyant, and Woody knew he would not have been Gus’s first choice. But he was a long-time friend of the Roosevelt family – he had been a pageboy at FDR’s wedding.

Anyway, Gus was not going to make difficulties at this point. ‘By all means,’ he said.

‘Anything else?’

That was clearly dismissal. Gus stood up, and Woody followed suit. Gus said: ‘What about Mrs Roosevelt, your mother, sir? Last I heard, she was in France.’

‘Her ship left yesterday, thank goodness.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Thank you for coming in,’ Roosevelt said. ‘I really value your friendship, Gus.’

Gus said: ‘Nothing could give me more pleasure, sir.’ He shook hands with the President, and Woody did the same.

Then they left.

Woody half hoped that Joanne would still be hanging around, but she had gone.

As they made their way out of the building, Gus said: ‘Let’s go for a celebratory drink.’

Woody looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. ‘Sure,’ he said.

They went to Old Ebbitt’s, on F Street near 15th: stained glass, green velvet, brass lamps and hunting trophies. The place was full of congressmen, senators and the people who followed them around: aides, lobbyists and journalists. Gus ordered a dry martini straight up with a twist for himself and a beer for Woody. Woody smiled: maybe he would have liked a martini. In fact, he would not – to him it just tasted like cold gin – but it would have been nice to be asked. However, he raised his glass and said: ‘Congratulations. You got what you wanted.’

‘What the world needs.’

‘You argued brilliantly.’

‘Roosevelt hardly needed convincing. He’s a liberal, but a pragmatist. He knows you can’t do everything, you have to pick the battles you can win. The New Deal is his number one priority – getting unemployed men back to work. He won’t do anything that interferes with the main mission. If my plan becomes controversial enough to upset his supporters, he’ll drop it.’

‘So we haven’t won anything yet.’

Gus smiled. ‘We’ve taken the important first step. But no, we haven’t won anything.’

‘A pity he forced Welles on you.’

‘Not entirely. Sumner strengthens the project. He’s closer to the President than I am. But he’s unpredictable. He might pick it up and run in a different direction.’

Woody looked across the room and saw a familiar face. ‘Guess who’s here. I might have known.’

His father looked in the same direction.

‘Standing at the bar,’ Woody said. ‘With a couple of older guys in hats, and a blonde girl. It’s Greg Peshkov.’ As usual, Greg looked a mess despite his expensive clothes: his silk tie was awry, his shirt was coming out of his waistband, and there was a smear of cigarette ash on his icecream-coloured trousers. Nevertheless, the blonde was looking adoringly at him.

‘So it is,’ said Gus. ‘Do you see much of him at Harvard?’

‘He’s a physics major, but he doesn’t hang around with the scientists – too dull for him, I guess. I run into him at the Crimson.’ The Harvard Crimson was the student newspaper. Woody took photographs for the paper and Greg wrote articles. ‘He’s doing an internship at the State Department this summer, that’s why he’s here.’

‘In the press office, I imagine,’ said Gus. ‘The two men he’s with are reporters, the one in the brown suit for the Chicago Tribune and the pipe smoker for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.’

Woody saw that Greg was talking to the journalists as if they were old friends, taking the arm of one as he leaned forward to say something in a low voice, patting the other on the back in mock congratulation. They seemed to like him, Woody thought, as they laughed loudly at something he said. Woody envied that talent. It was useful to politicians – though perhaps not essential: his father did not have that hail-fellow-well-met quality, and he was one of the most senior statesmen in America.

Woody said: ‘I wonder how his half-sister Daisy feels about the threat of war. She’s over there in London. She married some English lord.’

‘To be exact, she married the elder son of Earl Fitzherbert, whom I used to know quite well.’

‘She’s the envy of every girl in Buffalo. The King went to her wedding.’

‘I also knew Fitzherbert’s sister, Maud – a wonderful woman. She married Walter von Ulrich, a German. I would have married her myself if Walter hadn’t got to her first.’

Woody raised his eyebrows. It was not like Papa to talk this way.

‘That was before I fell in love with your mother, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Woody smothered a grin.

‘Walter and Maud dropped out of sight after Hitler banned the Social Democrats. I hope they’re all right. If there’s a war . . .’

Woody saw that talk of war had put his father in a reminiscent mood. ‘At least America isn’t involved.’

‘That’s what we thought last time.’ Gus changed the subject. ‘What do you hear from your kid brother?’

Woody sighed. ‘He’s not going to change his mind, Papa. He won’t go to Harvard, or any other university.’

This was a family crisis. Chuck had announced that as soon as he was eighteen he was going to join the navy. Without a college degree he would be an enlisted man, with no prospect of ever becoming an officer. This horrified his high-achieving parents.

‘He’s bright enough for college, damn it,’ said Gus.

‘He beats me at chess.’

‘He beats me, too. So what’s his problem?’

‘He hates to study. And he loves boats. Sailing is the only thing he cares about.’ Woody looked at his wristwatch.

‘You’ve got a party to go to,’ his father said.

‘There’s no hurry—’

‘Sure there is. She’s a very attractive girl. Get the hell out of here.’

Woody grinned. His father could be surprisingly smart. ‘Thanks, Papa.’ He got up.

Greg Peshkov was leaving at the same time, and they went out together. ‘Hello, Woody, how are things?’ Greg said amiably, turning in the same direction.

There had been a time when Woody wanted to punch Greg for his part in what had been done to Dave Rouzrokh. His feelings had cooled over the years, and in truth it was Lev Peshkov who had been responsible, not his son, who had then been only fifteen. All the same, Woody was no more than polite. ‘I’m enjoying Washington,’ he said, walking along one of the city’s wide Parisian boulevards. ‘How about you?’

‘I like it. They soon get over their surprise at my name.’ Seeing Woody’s enquiring look, Greg explained: ‘The State Department is all Smiths, Fabers, Jensens and McAllisters. No one called Kozinsky or Cohen or Papadopoulos.’

Woody realized it was true. Government was carried on by a rather exclusive little ethnic group. Why had he not noticed that before? Perhaps because it had been the same in school, in church, and at Harvard.

Greg went on: ‘But they’re not narrow-minded. They’ll make an exception for someone who speaks fluent Russian and comes from a wealthy family.’

Greg was being flippant, but there was an undertone of real resentment, and Woody saw that the guy had a serious chip on his shoulder.

‘They think my father is a gangster,’ Greg said. ‘But they don’t really mind. Most rich people have a gangster somewhere in their ancestry.’

‘You sound as if you hate Washington.’

‘On the contrary! I wouldn’t be anywhere else. The power is here.’

Woody felt he was more high-minded. ‘I’m here because there are things I want to do, changes I want to make.’

Greg grinned. ‘Same thing, I guess – power.’

‘Hmm.’ Woody had not thought of it that way.

Greg said: ‘Do you think there will be war in Europe?’

‘You should know, you’re in the State Department!’

‘Yeah, but I’m in the press office. All I know is the fairy tales we tell reporters. I have no idea what the truth is.’

‘Heck, I don’t know, either. I’ve just been with the President and I don’t think even he knows.’

‘My sister, Daisy, is over there.’

Greg’s tone had changed. His worry was evidently genuine, and Woody warmed to him. ‘I know.’

‘If there’s bombing, even women and children won’t be safe. Do you think the Germans will bomb London?’

There was only one honest answer. ‘I guess they will.’

‘I wish she’d come home.’

‘Maybe there won’t be a war. Chamberlain, the British premier, made a last-minute deal with Hitler over Czechoslovakia last year—’

‘A last-minute sell-out.’

‘Right. So perhaps he’ll do the same over Poland – although time is running out.’

Greg nodded glumly and changed the subject. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘To Joanne Rouzrokh’s apartment. She’s giving a party.’

‘I heard about it. I know one of her room-mates. But I’m not invited, as you could probably guess. Her building is— good God!’ Greg stopped in mid-sentence.

Woody stopped, too. Greg was staring ahead. Following his gaze, Woody saw that he was looking at an attractive black woman walking towards them on E Street. She was about their age, and pretty, with wide pinky-brown lips that made Woody think about kissing. She had on a plain black dress that might have been part of a waitress uniform, but she wore it with a cute hat and fashionable shoes that gave her a stylish look.

She saw the two of them, caught Greg’s eye, and looked away.

Greg said: ‘Jacky? Jacky Jakes?’

The girl ignored him and kept walking, but Woody thought she looked troubled.

Greg said: ‘Jacky, it’s me, Greg Peshkov.’

Jacky – if it were she – did not respond, but she looked as if she might be about to burst into tears.

‘Jacky – real name Mabel. You know me!’ Greg stood in the middle of the sidewalk with his arms spread in a gesture of appeal.

She deliberately went around him, not speaking or meeting his eye, and walked on.

Greg turned. ‘Wait a minute!’ he called after her. ‘You ran out on me, four years ago – you owe me an explanation!’

This was uncharacteristic of Greg, Woody thought. He had always been such a smooth operator with girls, at school and at Harvard. Now he seemed genuinely upset: bewildered, hurt, almost desperate.

Four years ago, Woody reflected. Could this be the girl in the scandal? It had taken place here in Washington. No doubt she lived here.

Greg ran after her. A cab had stopped at the corner and the passenger, a man in a tuxedo, was standing at the kerb paying the driver. Jacky jumped in, slamming the door.

Greg went to the window and shouted through it: ‘Talk to me, please!’

The man in the tuxedo said: ‘Keep the change,’ and walked away.

The cab moved off, leaving Greg staring after it.

He slowly returned to where Woody stood waiting, intrigued. ‘I don’t understand it,’ Greg said.

Woody said: ‘She looked frightened.’

‘What of? I never did her any harm. I was crazy about her.’

‘Well, she was scared of something.’

Greg seemed to shake himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not your problem, anyway. My apologies.’

‘Not at all.’

Greg pointed to an apartment block a few steps away. ‘That’s Joanne’s building,’ he said. ‘Have a good time.’ Then he walked away.

Somewhat bemused, Woody went to the entrance. But he soon forgot about Greg’s romantic life and started to think about his own. Did Joanne really like him? She might not kiss him this evening, but maybe he could ask her for a date.

This was a modest apartment house, with no doorman or hall porter. A list in the lobby revealed that Rouzrokh shared her place with Stewart and Fisher, presumably two other girls. Woody went up in the elevator. He realized he was empty-handed: he should have brought candy or flowers. He thought about going back to buy something, then decided that would be taking good manners too far. He rang the bell.

A girl in her early twenties opened the door.

Woody said: ‘Hello, I’m—’

‘Come on in,’ she said, not waiting to hear his name. ‘The drinks are in the kitchen, and there’s food on the table in the living room, if there’s any left.’ She turned away, clearly thinking she had given him sufficient welcome.

The small apartment was packed with people drinking, smoking, and shouting at one another over the noise of the phonograph. Joanne had said ‘a few friends’ and Woody had imagined eight or ten young people sitting around a coffee table discussing the crisis in Europe. He was disappointed: this overcrowded bash would give him little opportunity to demonstrate to Joanne how much he had grown up.

He looked around for her. He was taller than most people and could see over their heads. She was not in sight. He pushed through the crowd, searching for her. A girl with plump breasts and nice brown eyes looked up at him as he squeezed past and said: ‘Hello, big guy. I’m Diana Taverner. What’s your name?’

‘I’m looking for Joanne,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Good luck with that.’ She turned away.

He made his way into the kitchen. The noise level dropped a fraction. Joanne was nowhere to be seen, but he decided to get a drink while he was there. A broad-shouldered man of about thirty was rattling a cocktail shaker. Well dressed in a tan suit, pale-blue shirt and dark-blue tie, he clearly was not a barman, but was acting like a host. ‘Scotch is over there,’ he said to another guest. ‘Help yourself. I’m making martinis, for anyone who’s interested.’

Woody said: ‘Got any bourbon?’

‘Right here.’ The man passed him a bottle. ‘I’m Bexforth Ross.’

‘Woody Dewar.’ Woody found a glass and poured bourbon.

‘Ice in that bucket,’ said Bexforth. ‘Where are you from, Woody?’

‘I’m an intern in the Senate. You?’

‘I work in the State Department. I’m in charge of the Italy desk.’ He started passing martinis around.

Clearly a rising star, Woody thought. The man had so much self-confidence it was irritating. ‘I was looking for Joanne.’

‘She’s somewhere around. How do you know her?’

Here Woody felt he could show clear superiority. ‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ he said airily. ‘In fact, I’ve known her all my life. We were kids together in Buffalo. How about you?’

Bexforth took a long sip of martini and gave a satisfied sigh. Then he looked speculatively at Woody. ‘I haven’t known Joanne as long as you have,’ he said. ‘But I guess I know her better.’

‘How so?’

‘I’m planning to marry her.’

Woody felt as if he had been slapped. ‘Marry her?’

‘Yes. Isn’t that great?’

Woody could not hide his dismay. ‘Does she know about this?’

Bexforth laughed, and patted Woody’s shoulder condescendingly. ‘She sure does, and she’s all for it. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’

Clearly Bexforth had divined that Woody was attracted to Joanne. Woody felt a fool. ‘Congratulations,’ he said dispiritedly.

‘Thank you. And now I must circulate. Good talking to you, Woody.’

‘My pleasure.’

Bexforth moved away.

Woody put his drink down untasted. ‘Fuck it,’ he said quietly. Then he left.

(iv)

The first day of September was sultry in Berlin. Carla von Ulrich woke up sweaty and uncomfortable, her bedsheets thrown off during the warm night. She looked out of her bedroom window to see low grey clouds hanging over the city, keeping heat in like a saucepan lid.

Today was a big day for her. In fact, it would determine the course of her life.

She stood in front of the mirror. She had her mother’s colouring, the dark hair and green eyes of the Fitzherberts. She was prettier than Maud, who had an angular face, striking rather than beautiful. Yet there was a bigger difference. Her mother attracted just about every man she met. Carla, by contrast, could not flirt. She watched other girls her age doing it: simpering, pulling their sweaters tight over their breasts, tossing their hair, and batting their eyelashes, and she just felt embarrassed. Her mother was more subtle, of course, so that men hardly knew they were being enchanted, but it was essentially the same game.

Today, however, Carla did not want to appear sexy. On the contrary, she needed to look practical, sensible, and capable. She put on a plain stone-coloured cotton dress that came to mid-calf, stepped into her flat, unglamorous school sandals, and wove her hair into two plaits in the approved German-maiden fashion. The mirror showed her an ideal girl student: conservative, dull, sexless.

She was up and dressed before the rest of the family. The maid, Ada, was in the kitchen, and Carla helped her set out the breakfast things.

Her brother appeared next. Erik, nineteen and sporting a clipped black moustache, supported the Nazis, infuriating the rest of his family. He was a student at the Charité, the medical school of the University of Berlin, as was his best friend and fellow-Nazi, Hermann Braun. The von Ulrichs could not afford tuition fees, of course, but Erik had won a scholarship.

Carla had applied for the same scholarship to study at the same institution. Her interview was today. If she was successful, she would study and become a doctor. If not . . .

She had no idea what else she would do.

The coming to power of the Nazis had ruined her parents’ lives. Her father was no longer a deputy in the Reichstag, having lost his job when the Social-Democratic Party became illegal, along with all other parties except for the Nazis. There was no work her father could do that would use his expertise as a politician and a diplomat. He scraped a living translating German newspaper articles for the British Embassy, where he still had a few friends. Mother had once been a famous left-wing journalist, but newspapers were no longer allowed to publish her articles.

Carla found it heartbreaking. She was deeply devoted to her family, which included Ada. She was saddened by the decline in her father, who in her childhood had been a hard-working and politically powerful man, and was now simply defeated. Even worse was the brave face put on by her mother, a famous suffragette leader in England before the war, now scraping a few marks by giving piano lessons.

But they said they could bear anything as long as their children grew up to lead happy and fulfilled lives.

Carla had always taken it for granted that she would spend her life making the world a better place, as her parents had. She did not know whether she would have followed her father into politics or her mother into journalism, but both were out of the question now.

What else was she to do, under a government that prized ruthlessness and brutality above all else? Her brother had given her the clue. Doctors made the world a better place regardless of the government. So she had made it her ambition to go to medical school. She had studied harder than any other girl in her class, and she had passed every exam with top marks, especially the sciences. She was better qualified than her brother to win a scholarship.

‘There are no girls at all in my year,’ Erik said. He sounded grumpy. Carla thought he disliked the idea of her following in his footsteps. Their parents were proud of his achievements, despite his repellent politics. Perhaps he was afraid of being outshone.

Carla said: ‘All my grades are better than yours: biology, chemistry, maths—’

‘All right, all right.’

‘And the scholarship is available to female students, in principle – I checked.’

Their mother came in at the end of this exchange, dressed in a grey watered-silk bathrobe with the cord doubled around her narrow waist. ‘They should follow their own rules,’ she said. ‘This is Germany, after all.’ Mother said she loved her adopted country, and perhaps she did, but since the coming of the Nazis she had taken to making wearily ironic remarks.

Carla dipped bread into milky coffee. ‘How will you feel, Mother, if England attacks Germany?’

‘Miserably unhappy, as I felt last time,’ she replied. ‘I was married to your father throughout the Great War, and every day for more than four years I was terrified that he would be killed.’

Erik said in a challenging tone: ‘But whose side will you take?’

‘I’m German,’ she said. ‘I married for better or worse. Of course, we never foresaw anything as wicked and oppressive as this Nazi regime. No one did.’ Erik grunted in protest and she ignored him. ‘But a vow is a vow, and, anyway, I love your father.’

Carla said: ‘We’re not at war yet.’

‘Not quite,’ said Mother. ‘If the Poles have any sense, they will back down and give Hitler what he asks for.’

‘They should,’ said Erik. ‘Germany is strong now. We can take what we want, whether they like it or not.’

Mother rolled her eyes. ‘God spare us.’

A car horn sounded outside. Carla smiled. A minute later her friend Frieda Franck entered the kitchen. She was going to accompany Carla to the interview, just to give moral support. She, too, was dressed in sober-schoolgirl fashion, though she, unlike Carla, had a wardrobe full of stylish clothes.

She was followed in by her older brother. Carla thought Werner Franck was wonderful. Unlike so many handsome boys he was kind and thoughtful and funny. He had once been very left wing, but all that seemed to have faded away, and he was non-political now. He had had a string of beautiful and stylish girlfriends. If Carla had known how to flirt she would have started with him.

Mother said: ‘I’d offer you coffee, Werner, but ours is ersatz, and I know you have the real thing at home.’

‘Shall I steal some from our kitchen for you, Frau von Ulrich?’ he said. ‘I think you deserve it.’

Mother blushed slightly, and Carla realized, with a twinge of disapproval, that even at forty-eight Mother was susceptible to Werner’s charm.

Werner glanced at a gold wristwatch. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Life is completely frantic at the Air Ministry these days.’

Frieda said: ‘Thank you for the lift.’

Carla said to Frieda: ‘Wait a minute – if you came in Werner’s car, where’s your bike?’

‘Outside. We strapped it to the back of the car.’

The two girls belonged to the Mercury Cycling Club and went everywhere by bike.

Werner said: ‘Best wishes for the interview, Carla. Bye, everyone.’

Carla swallowed the last of her bread. As she was about to leave, her father came down. He had not shaved or put on a tie. He had been quite plump, when Carla was a girl, but now he was thin. He kissed Carla affectionately.

Mother said: ‘We haven’t listened to the news!’ She turned on the radio that stood on the shelf.

While the set was warming up, Carla and Frieda left the house, so they did not hear the news.

The University Hospital was in Mitte, the central area of Berlin where the von Ulrichs lived, so Carla and Frieda had a short bicycle ride. Carla began to feel nervous. The fumes from car exhausts nauseated her, and she wished she had not eaten breakfast. They reached the hospital, a new building put up in the twenties, and found their way to the room of Professor Bayer, who had the job of recommending a student for the scholarship. A haughty secretary said they were early and told them to wait.

Carla wished she had worn a hat and gloves. That would have made her look older and more authoritative, like someone sick people would trust. The secretary might have been polite to a girl in a hat.

The wait was long, but Carla was sorry when it came to an end and the secretary said the professor was ready to see her.

Frieda whispered: ‘Good luck!’

Carla went in.

Bayer was a thin man in his forties with a small grey moustache. He sat behind a desk, wearing a tan linen jacket over the waistcoat of a grey business suit. On the wall was a photograph of him shaking hands with Hitler.

He did not greet Carla, but barked: ‘What is an imaginary number?’

She was taken aback by his abruptness, but at least it was an easy question. ‘The square root of a negative real number; for example, the square root of minus one,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘It cannot be assigned a real numerical value but can, nevertheless, be used in calculations.’

He seemed a bit surprised. Perhaps he had expected to floor her completely. ‘Correct,’ he said after a momentary hesitation.

She looked around. There was no chair for her. Was she to be interviewed standing up?

He asked her some questions on chemistry and biology, all of which she answered easily. She began to feel a bit less nervous. Then he suddenly said: ‘Do you faint at the sight of blood?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Aha!’ he said triumphantly. ‘How do you know?’

‘I delivered a baby when I was eleven years old,’ she said. ‘That was quite bloody.’

‘You should have sent for a doctor!’

‘I did,’ she said indignantly. ‘But babies don’t wait for doctors.’

‘Hmm.’ Bayer stood up. ‘Wait there.’ He left the room.

Carla stayed where she was. She was being subjected to a harsh test, but so far she thought she was doing all right. Fortunately, she was used to give-and-take arguments with men and women of all ages: combative discussions were commonplace in the von Ulrich house, and she had been holding her own with her parents and brother for as long as she could remember.

Bayer was gone for several minutes. What was he doing? Had he gone to fetch a colleague to meet this unprecedentedly brilliant girl applicant? That seemed too much to hope for.

She was tempted to pick up one of the books on his shelf and read, but she was scared of offending him, so she stood still and did nothing.

He came back after ten minutes with a pack of cigarettes. Surely he had not kept her standing in the middle of the room all this time while he went to the tobacconist’s shop? Or was that another test? She began to feel angry.

He took his time lighting up, as if he needed to collect his thoughts. He blew out smoke and said: ‘How would you, as a woman, deal with a man who had an infection of the penis?’

She was embarrassed, and felt herself blush. She had never discussed the penis with a man. But she knew she had to be robust about such things if she wanted to be a doctor. ‘In the same way that you, as a man, would deal with a vaginal infection,’ she said. He looked horrified, and she feared she had been insolent. Hastily she went on: ‘I would examine the infected area carefully, try to establish the nature of the infection, and probably treat it with sulphonamide, although I have to admit we did not cover this in my school biology course.’

He said sceptically: ‘Have you ever seen a naked man?’

‘Yes.’

He affected to be outraged. ‘But you are a single girl!’

‘When my grandfather was dying he was bedridden and incontinent. I helped my mother keep him clean – she could not manage on her own, he was too heavy.’ She tried a smile. ‘Women do these things all the time, Professor, for the very young and the very old, the sick and the helpless. We’re used to it. It’s only men who find such tasks embarrassing.’

He was looking more and more cross, even though she was answering well. What was going wrong? It was almost as if he would have been happier for her to be intimidated by his manner and to give stupid replies.

He put out his cigarette thoughtfully in the ashtray on his desk. ‘I’m afraid you are not suitable as a candidate for this scholarship,’ he said.

She was astonished. How had she failed? She had answered every question! ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘My qualifications are irreproachable.’

‘You are unwomanly. You talk freely of the vagina and the penis.’

‘It was you who started that! I merely answered your question.’

‘You have clearly been brought up in a coarse environment where you saw the nakedness of your male relatives.’

‘Do you think old people’s diapers should be changed by men? I’d like to see you do it!’

‘Worst of all, you are disrespectful and insolent.’

‘You asked me challenging questions. If I had given you timid replies you would have said I wasn’t tough enough to be a doctor – wouldn’t you?’

He was momentarily speechless, and she realized that was exactly what he would have done.

‘You’ve wasted my time,’ she said, and she went to the door.

‘Get married,’ he said. ‘Produce children for the Führer. That’s your role in life. Do your duty!’

She went out and slammed the door.

Frieda looked up in alarm. ‘What happened?’

Carla headed for the exit without replying. She caught the eye of the secretary, who looked pleased, clearly knowing what had happened. Carla said to her: ‘You can wipe that smirk off your face, you dried-up old bitch.’ She had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s shock and horror.

Outside the building she said to Frieda: ‘He had no intention of recommending me for the scholarship, because I’m a woman. My qualifications were irrelevant. I did all that work for nothing.’ Then she burst into tears.

Frieda put her arms around her.

After a minute she felt better. ‘I’m not going to raise children for the damned Führer,’ she muttered.

‘What?’

‘Let’s go home. I’ll tell you when we get there.’ They climbed on to their bikes.

There was a strange air in the streets, but Carla was too full of her own woes to wonder what was going on. People were gathering around the loudspeakers that sometimes broadcast Hitler’s speeches from the Kroll Opera, the building that was being used instead of the burned-out Reichstag. Presumably he was about to speak.

When they got back to the von Ulrich town house, Mother and Father were still in the kitchen, Father sitting next to the radio with a frown of concentration.

‘They turned me down,’ Carla said. ‘Regardless of what their rules say, they don’t want to give a scholarship to a girl.’

‘Oh, Carla, I’m so sorry,’ said Mother.

‘What’s on the radio?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Mother. ‘We invaded Poland this morning. We’re at war.’

(v)

The London season was over, but most people were still in town because of the crisis. Parliament, normally in recess at this time of year, had been specially recalled. But there were no parties, no royal receptions, no balls. It was like being at a seaside resort in February, Daisy thought. Today was Saturday, and she was getting ready to go to dinner at the home of her father-in-law, Earl Fitzherbert. What could be more dull?

She sat at her dressing table wearing an evening gown in eau-de-nil silk with a V-neck and a pleated skirt. She had silk flowers in her hair and a fortune in diamonds round her neck.

Her husband, Boy, was getting ready in his dressing room. She was pleased he was here. He spent many nights elsewhere. Although they lived in the same Mayfair house, sometimes several days would go by without their meeting. But he was at home tonight.

She held in her hand a letter from her mother in Buffalo. Olga had divined that Daisy was discontented in her marriage. There must have been hints in Daisy’s letters home. Mother had good intuition. ‘I only want you to be happy,’ she wrote. ‘So listen when I tell you not to give up too soon. You’re going to be Countess Fitzherbert one day, and your son, if you have one, will be the earl. You might regret throwing all that away just because your husband didn’t pay you enough attention.’

She might be right. People had been addressing Daisy as ‘My lady’ for almost three years, yet it still gave her a little jolt of pleasure every time, like a puff on a cigarette.

But Boy seemed to think that marriage need make no great difference to his life. He spent evenings with his men friends, travelled all over the country to go horse racing, and rarely told his wife what his plans were. Daisy found it embarrassing to go to a party and be surprised to meet her husband there. But if she wanted to know where he was going, she had to ask his valet, and that was too demeaning.

Would he gradually grow up, and start to behave as a husband should, or would he always be like this?

He put his head around her door. ‘Come on, Daisy, we’re late.’

She put Mother’s letter in a drawer, locked it, and went out. Boy was waiting in the hall, wearing a tuxedo. Fitz had at last succumbed to fashion and permitted informal short dinner jackets for family dinners at home.

They could have walked to Fitz’s house, but it was raining, so Boy had had the car brought round. It was a Bentley Airline saloon, cream-coloured with whitewall tyres. Boy shared his father’s love of beautiful cars.

Boy drove. Daisy hoped he would let her drive back. She enjoyed it, and, anyway, he was not safe after dinner, especially on wet roads.

London was preparing for war. Barrage balloons floated over the city at a height of two thousand feet, to impede bombers. In case that failed, sandbags were stacked outside important buildings. Alternate kerbstones had been painted white, for the benefit of drivers in the blackout, which had begun yesterday. There were white stripes on large trees, street statues, and other obstacles that might cause accidents.

Princess Bea welcomed Boy and Daisy. In her fifties she was quite fat, but she still dressed like a girl. Tonight she wore a pink gown embroidered with beads and sequins. She never spoke about the story Daisy’s father had told at the wedding, but she had stopped hinting that Daisy was socially inferior, and now always spoke to Daisy with courtesy, if not warmth. Daisy was cautiously friendly, and treated Bea like a slightly dotty aunt.

Boy’s younger brother, Andy, was there. He and May had two children and May looked, to Daisy’s interested eye, as if she might be expecting a third.

Boy wanted a son, of course, to be heir to the Fitzherbert title and fortune, but so far Daisy had failed to get pregnant. It was a sore point, and the evident fecundity of Andy and May made it worse. Daisy would have had a better chance if Boy spent more nights at home.

She was delighted to see her friend Eva Murray there – but without her husband: Jimmy Murray, now a captain, was with his unit and had not been able to get away, for most troops were in barracks and their officers were with them. Eva was family, now, because Jimmy was May’s brother and therefore an in-law. So Boy had been forced to overcome his prejudice against Jews and be polite to Eva.

Eva adored Jimmy as much now as she had three years ago when she had married him. They, too, had produced two children in three years. But Eva looked worried tonight, and Daisy could guess why. ‘How are your parents?’ she said.

‘They can’t get out of Germany,’ Eva said miserably. ‘The government won’t give them exit visas.’

‘Can’t Fitz help?’

‘He’s tried.’

‘What have they done to deserve this?’

‘It’s not them, particularly. There are thousands of German Jews in the same position. Only a few get visas.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Daisy was more than sorry. She squirmed with embarrassment when she recalled how she and Boy had supported the Fascists in the early days. Her doubts had grown rapidly as the brutality of Fascism at home and abroad had become more and more obvious, and in the end she had been relieved when Fitz had complained that they were embarrassing him and had begged them to leave Mosley’s party. Now Daisy felt she had been an utter fool ever to have joined in the first place.

Boy was not quite so repentant. He still thought that upper-class white Europeans formed a superior species, chosen by God to rule the earth. But he no longer believed that was a practical political philosophy. He was often infuriated by British democracy, but he did not advocate abolishing it.

They sat down to dinner early. ‘Neville is making a statement in the House of Commons at half past seven,’ Fitz said. Neville Chamberlain was Prime Minister. ‘I want to see it – I shall sit in the Peers’ Gallery. I may have to leave you before dessert.’

Andy said: ‘What do you think will happen, Papa?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Fitz said with a touch of exasperation. ‘Of course we would all like to avoid a war, but it’s important not to give an impression of indecision.’

Daisy was surprised: Fitz believed in loyalty and rarely criticized his government colleagues, even as obliquely as this.

Princess Bea said: ‘If there is a war, I shall go and live in Tŷ Gwyn.’

Fitz shook his head. ‘If there is a war, the government will ask owners of large country houses to put them at the disposal of the military for the duration. As a member of the government, I must set an example. I shall have to lend Tŷ Gwyn to the Welsh Rifles for use as a training centre, or possibly a hospital.’

Bea was outraged. ‘But it is my country house!’

‘We may reserve a small part of the premises for private use.’

‘I don’t choose to live in a small part of the premises – I am a princess!’

‘It might be cosy. We could use the butler’s pantry as a kitchen, and the breakfast room as a dining room, plus three or four of the smaller bedrooms.’

‘Cosy!’ Bea looked disgusted, as if something unpleasant had been set before her, but she said no more.

Andy said: ‘Presumably Boy and I will have to join the Welsh Rifles.’

May made a noise in her throat like a sob.

Boy said: ‘I shall join the Air Force.’

Fitz was shocked. ‘But you can’t. The Viscount Aberowen has always been in the Welsh Rifles.’

‘They haven’t got any planes. The next war will be an air war. The RAF will be desperate for pilots. And I’ve been flying for years.’

Fitz was about to argue, but the butler came in and said: ‘The car is ready, my lord.’

Fitz looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Dash it, I’ve got to go. Thank you, Grout.’ He looked at Boy. ‘Don’t make a final decision until we’ve talked some more. This is not right.’

‘Very well, Papa.’

Fitz looked at Bea. ‘Forgive me, my dear, for leaving in the middle of dinner.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

Fitz got up from the table and walked to the door. Daisy noticed his limp, a grim reminder of what the last war had done.

The rest of dinner was gloomy. They were all wondering whether the Prime Minister would declare war.

When the ladies got up to withdraw, May asked Andy to take her arm. He excused himself to the two remaining men, saying: ‘My wife is in a delicate condition.’ It was the usual euphemism for pregnancy.

Boy said: ‘I wish my wife were as quick to get delicate.’

It was a cheap shot, and Daisy felt herself blush bright red. She repressed a retort, then asked herself why she should be silent. ‘You know what footballers say, Boy,’ she said loudly. ‘You have to shoot to score.’

It was Boy’s turn to blush. ‘How dare you!’ he said furiously.

Andy laughed. ‘You asked for it, brother.’

Bea said: ‘Stop it, both of you. I expect my sons to wait until the ladies are out of earshot before indulging in such disgusting talk.’ She swept out of the room.

Daisy followed, but she parted company from the other women on the landing and went on upstairs, still feeling angry, wanting to be alone. How could Boy say such a thing? Did he really believe it had to be her fault that she was not pregnant? It could just as easily be his! Perhaps he knew that, and tried to blame her because he was afraid people would think he was infertile. That was probably the truth, but it was no excuse for a public insult.

She went to his old room. After they had married the two of them had lived here for three months while their own house was being redecorated. They had used Boy’s old bedroom and the one next door, although in those days they had slept together every night.

She went in and turned on the light. To her surprise she saw that Boy appeared not to have completely moved out. There was a razor on the wash stand and a copy of Flight magazine on the bedside table. She opened a drawer and found a tin of Leonard’s Liver-Aid, which he took every morning before breakfast. Did he sleep here when he was too disgustingly drunk to face his wife?

The lower drawer was locked, but she knew he kept the key in a pot on the mantelpiece. She had no qualms about prying: in her view a husband should have no secrets from his wife. She opened the drawer.

The first thing she found was a book of photographs of naked women. In artistic paintings and photographs, the women generally posed to half conceal their private parts, but these girls were doing the opposite: legs akimbo, buttocks held open, even the lips of their vaginas spread to show the inside. Daisy would pretend to be shocked if anyone caught her, but in truth she was fascinated. She looked through the entire book with great interest, comparing the women with herself: the size and shape of their breasts, the amount of hair, their sexual organs. What a wonderful variety there was in women’s bodies!

Some of the girls were stimulating themselves, or pretending to, and some were photographed in pairs, doing it to each other. Daisy was not really surprised that men liked this sort of thing.

She felt like an eavesdropper. It reminded her of the time she had gone to his room at Tŷ Gwyn, before they were married. Then she had been desperate to learn more about him, to gain intimate knowledge of the man she loved, to find a way to make him her own. What was she doing now? Spying on a husband who seemed no longer to love her, trying to understand where she had failed.

Beneath the book was a brown paper bag. Inside were several small, square paper envelopes, white with red lettering on the front. She read:

‘Prentif ’ Reg. Trade Mark

SERVISPAK

NOTICE

Do not leave the envelope

or contents in public places

as this is likely to cause offence

British made

Latex rubber

Withstands all climates

None of it made any sense. Nowhere did it say what the package actually contained. So she opened it.

Inside was a piece of rubber. She unfolded it. It was shaped like a tube, closed at one end. She took a few seconds to figure out what it was.

She had never seen one, but she had heard people talk about such things. Americans called it a Trojan, the British a rubber johnny. The correct term was condom, and it was to stop you getting pregnant.

Why did her husband have a bag of them? There could be only one answer. They were to be used with another woman.

She felt like crying. She had given him everything he wanted. She had never told him she was too tired to make love – even when she was – nor had she refused anything he suggested in bed. She would even have posed like the women in the book of photographs, if he had asked her to.

What had she done wrong?

She decided to ask him.

Sorrow turned to anger. She stood up. She would take the paper packets down to the dining room and confront him with them. Why should she protect his feelings?

At that moment he walked in.

‘I saw the light from the hall,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in here?’ He looked at the open drawers of the bedside cupboard and said: ‘How dare you spy on me?’

‘I suspected you of being unfaithful,’ she said. She held up the condom. ‘And I was right.’

‘Damn you for a sneak.’

‘Damn you for an adulterer.’

He raised his hand. ‘I should beat you like a Victorian husband.’

She snatched a heavy candlestick from the mantelpiece. ‘Try it, and I’ll bop you like a twentieth-century wife.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ He sat down heavily on a chair by the door, looking defeated.

His evident unhappiness deflated Daisy’s rage, and she just felt sad. She sat on the bed. But she had not lost her curiosity. ‘Who is she?’

He shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘I want to know!’

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Does it matter?’

‘It sure does.’ She knew she would get it out of him eventually.

He would not meet her eye. ‘Nobody you know, or would ever know.’

‘A prostitute?’

He was stung by this suggestion. ‘No!’

She goaded him further. ‘Do you pay her?’

‘No. Yes.’ He was clearly ashamed enough to wish to deny it. ‘Well, an allowance. It’s not the same thing.’

‘Why do you pay, if she’s not a prostitute?’

‘So they don’t have to see anyone else.’

‘They? You have several mistresses?’

‘No! Only two. They live in Aldgate. Mother and daughter.’

‘What? You can’t be serious.’

‘Well, one day Joanie was . . . the French say Elle avait les fleurs.’

‘American girls call it the curse.’

‘So Pearl offered to . . .’

‘Act as a substitute? This is the most sordid arrangement imaginable! So you go to bed with them both?’

‘Yes.’

She thought of the book of photographs, and an outrageous possibility occurred to her. She had to ask. ‘Not at the same time?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘How utterly foul.’

‘You don’t need to worry about disease.’ He pointed to the condom in her hand. ‘Those things prevent infection.’

‘I’m overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness.’

‘Look, most men do this sort of thing, you know. At least, most men of our class.’

‘No, they don’t,’ she said, but she thought of her father, who had a wife and a long-time mistress and still felt the need to romance Gladys Angelus.

Boy said: ‘My father isn’t a faithful husband. He has bastards all over the place.’

‘I don’t believe you. I think he loves your mother.’

‘He has one bastard for certain.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then you can’t be sure.’

‘I heard him say something to Bing Westhampton once. You know what Bing is like.’

‘I do,’ said Daisy. This seemed a moment for telling the truth, so she added: ‘He feels my bottom every chance he gets.’

‘Dirty old man. Anyway, we were all a bit drunk, and Bing said: “Most of us have got one or two bastards hidden away, haven’t we?” and Papa said: “I’m pretty sure I’ve only got one.” Then he seemed to realize what he’d said, and he coughed and looked foolish and changed the subject.’

‘Well, I don’t care how many bastards your father has, I’m a modern American girl and I won’t live with an unfaithful husband.’

‘What can you do about it?’

‘I’ll leave you.’ She put on a defiant expression, but she felt in pain, as if he had stabbed her.

‘And go back to Buffalo with your tail between your legs?’

‘Perhaps. Or I could do something else. I’ve got plenty of money.’ Her father’s lawyers had made sure Boy did not get his hands on the Vyalov-Peshkov fortune when they married. ‘I could go to California. Act in one of Father’s movies. Become a film star. I bet you I could.’ This was all pretence. She wanted to burst into tears.

‘Leave me, then,’ he said. ‘Go to hell, for all I care.’ She wondered if that was true. Looking at his face, she thought not.

They heard a car. Daisy pulled the blackout curtain aside an inch and saw Fitz’s black-and-cream Rolls-Royce outside, its headlights dimmed by slit masks. ‘Your father’s back,’ she said. ‘I wonder if we’re at war.’

‘We’d better go down.’

‘I’ll follow you.’

Boy went out and Daisy looked in the mirror. She was surprised to see that she looked no different from the woman who had walked in here half an hour ago. Her life had been turned upside-down, but there was no sign of it on her face. She felt terribly sorry for herself, and wanted to cry, but she repressed the urge. Steeling herself, she went downstairs.

Fitz was in the dining room, with raindrops on the shoulders of his dinner jacket. Grout, the butler, had set out cheese and fruit, as Fitz had skipped dessert. The family sat around the table as Grout poured a glass of claret for Fitz. He drank some and said: ‘It was absolutely dreadful.’

Andy said: ‘What on earth happened?’

Fitz ate a corner of cheddar cheese before answering. ‘Neville spoke for four minutes. It was the worst performance by a prime minister that I have ever seen. He mumbled and prevaricated and said Germany might withdraw from Poland, which no one believes. He said nothing about war, or even an ultimatum.’

Andy said: ‘But why?’

‘Privately, Neville says he’s waiting for the French to stop dithering and declare war simultaneously with us. But a lot of people suspect that’s just a cowardly excuse.’

Fitz took another draught of wine. ‘Arthur Greenwood spoke next.’ Greenwood was deputy leader of the Labour Party. ‘As he stood up, Leo Amery – a Conservative Member of Parliament, mind you – shouted out: “Speak for England, Arthur!” To think that a damned socialist might speak for England where a Conservative Prime Minister has failed! Neville looked as sick as a dog.’

Grout refilled Fitz’s glass.

‘Greenwood was quite mild, but he did say: “I wonder how long we are prepared to vacillate?” and at that, MPs on both sides of the house roared their approval. I should think Neville wanted the earth to swallow him up.’ Fitz took a peach and sliced it with a knife and fork.

Andy said: ‘How were things left?’

‘Nothing is resolved! Neville has gone back to Number Ten Downing Street. But most of the Cabinet is holed up in Simon’s room at the Commons.’ Sir John Simon was Chancellor of the Exchequer. ‘They’re saying they won’t leave the room until Neville sends the Germans an ultimatum. Meanwhile, Labour’s National Executive Committee is in session, and discontented backbenchers are meeting in Winston’s flat.’

Daisy had always said she did not like politics, but since becoming part of Fitz’s family, and seeing everything from the inside, she had become interested, and she found this drama fascinating and scary. ‘Then the Prime Minister must act!’ she said.

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Fitz. ‘Before Parliament meets again – which should be at noon tomorrow – I think Neville must either declare war or resign.’

The phone rang in the hall and Grout went out to answer it. A minute later he came back and said: ‘That was the Foreign Office, my lord. The gentleman would not wait for you to come to the telephone, but insisted on giving a message.’ The old butler looked disconcerted, as if he had been spoken to rather sharply. ‘The Prime Minister has called an immediate meeting of the Cabinet.’

‘Movement!’ said Fitz. ‘Good.’

Grout went on: ‘The Foreign Secretary would like you to be in attendance, if convenient.’ Fitz was not in the Cabinet, but junior ministers were sometimes asked to attend meetings on their area of specialization, sitting at the side of the room rather than at the central table, so that they could answer questions of detail.

Bea looked at the clock. ‘It’s almost eleven. I suppose you must go.’

‘Indeed I must. The phrase “if convenient” is an empty courtesy.’ He patted his lips with a snowy napkin and limped out again.

Princess Bea said: ‘Make some more coffee, Grout, and bring it to the drawing room. We may be up late tonight.’

‘Yes, your Highness.’

They all returned to the drawing room, talking animatedly. Eva was in favour of war: she wanted to see the Nazi regime destroyed. She would worry about Jimmy, of course, but she had married a soldier and had always known he might have to risk his life in battle. Bea was pro-war, too, now that the Germans were allied with the Bolsheviks she hated. May feared that Andy would be killed, and could not stop crying. Boy did not see why two great nations such as England and Germany should go to war over a half-barbaric wasteland such as Poland.

As soon as she could, Daisy got Eva to go with her to another room where they could talk privately. ‘Boy’s got a mistress,’ she said immediately. She showed Eva the condoms. ‘I found these.’

‘Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry,’ Eva said.

Daisy thought of giving Eva the grisly details – they normally told each other everything – but this time Daisy felt too humiliated, so she just said: ‘I confronted him, and he admitted it.’

‘Is he sorry?’

‘Not very. He says all men of his class do it, including his father.’

‘Jimmy doesn’t,’ Eva said decisively.

‘No, I’m sure you’re right.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I’m going to leave him. We can get divorced, then someone else can be the viscountess.’

‘But you can’t if there’s a war!’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s too cruel, when he’s on the battlefield.’

‘He should have thought of that before he slept with a pair of prostitutes in Aldgate.’

‘But it would be cowardly, as well. You can’t dump a man who is risking his life to protect you.’

Reluctantly, Daisy saw Eva’s point. War would transform Boy from a despicable adulterer who deserved rejection into a hero defending his wife, his mother and his country from the terror of invasion and conquest. It was not just that everyone in London and Buffalo would see Daisy as a coward for leaving him; she would feel that way herself. If there was a war, she wanted to be brave, even though she was not sure what that might involve.

‘You’re right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I can’t leave him if there’s a war.’

There was a clap of thunder. Daisy looked at the clock: it was midnight. The rain altered in sound as a torrential downpour began.

Daisy and Eva returned to the drawing room. Bea was asleep on a couch. Andy had his arm around May, who was still snivelling. Boy was smoking a cigar and drinking brandy. Daisy decided that she would definitely be driving home.

Fitz came in at half past midnight, his evening suit soaking wet. ‘The dithering is over,’ he said. ‘Neville will send the Germans an ultimatum in the morning. If they do not begin to withdraw their troops from Poland by midday – eleven o’clock our time – we will be at war.’

They all got up and prepared to leave. In the hall, Daisy said: ‘I’ll drive,’ and Boy did not argue with her. They got into the cream Bentley and Daisy started the engine. Grout closed the door of Fitz’s house. Daisy turned on the windscreen wipers but did not pull away.

‘Boy,’ she said, ‘let’s try again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t really want to leave you.’

‘I certainly don’t want you to go.’

‘Give up those women in Aldgate. Sleep with me every night. Let’s really try for a baby. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then will you do as I ask?’

There was a long pause. Then he said: ‘All right.’

‘Thank you.’

She looked at him, hoping for a kiss, but he sat still, looking straight ahead through the windscreen, as the rhythmic wipers swept away the relentless rain.

(vi)

On Sunday the rain stopped and the sun came out. Lloyd Williams felt as if London had been washed clean.

During the course of the morning, the Williams family gathered in the kitchen of Ethel’s house in Aldgate. There was no prior arrangement: they turned up spontaneously. They wanted to be together, Lloyd guessed, if war was declared.

Lloyd longed for action against the Fascists, and at the same time dreaded the prospect of war. In Spain he had seen enough bloodshed and suffering for a lifetime. He wished never to take part in another battle. He had even given up boxing. Yet he hoped with all his heart that Chamberlain would not back down. He had seen for himself what Fascism meant in Germany, and the rumours coming out of Spain were equally nightmarish: the Franco regime was murdering former supporters of the elected government in their hundreds and thousands, and the priests were in control of the schools again.

This summer, after he had graduated, he had immediately joined the Welsh Rifles, and as a former member of the Officer Training Corps he had been given the rank of lieutenant. The army was energetically preparing for combat: it was only with the greatest difficulty that he had got a twenty-four hour pass to visit his mother this weekend. If the Prime Minister declared war today, Lloyd would be among the first to go.

Billy Williams came to the house in Nutley Street after breakfast on Sunday morning. Lloyd and Bernie were sitting by the radio, newspapers open on the kitchen table, while Ethel prepared a leg of pork for dinner. Uncle Billy almost wept when he saw Lloyd in uniform. ‘It makes me think of our Dave, that’s all,’ he said. ‘He’d be a conscript, now, if he’d come back from Spain.’

Lloyd had never told Billy the truth about how Dave had died. He pretended he did not know the details, just that Dave had been killed in action at Belchite and was presumably buried there. Billy had been in the Great War and knew how haphazardly bodies were dealt with on the battlefield, and that probably made his grief worse. His great hope was to visit Belchite one day, when Spain was freed at last, and to pay his respects to the son who died fighting in that great cause.

Lenny Griffiths was another who had never returned from Spain. No one had any idea where he might be buried. It was even possible he was still alive, in one of Franco’s prison camps.

Now the radio reported Prime Minister Chamberlain’s statement to the House of Commons last night, but nothing further.

‘You’d never know what a stink there was afterwards,’ said Billy.

‘The BBC doesn’t report stinks,’ said Lloyd. ‘They like to sound reassuring.’

Both Billy and Lloyd were members of the Labour Party’s National Executive – Lloyd as the representative of the party’s youth section. After he had come back from Spain he had managed to gain readmission to Cambridge University, and while finishing his studies he had toured the country addressing Labour Party groups, telling people how the elected Spanish government had been betrayed by Britain’s Fascist-friendly government. It had done no good – Franco’s anti-democracy rebels had won anyway – but Lloyd had become a well-known figure, even something of a hero, especially among young left-wingers – hence his election to the Executive.

So both Lloyd and Uncle Billy had been at last night’s committee meeting. They knew that Chamberlain had bowed to pressure from the Cabinet and sent the ultimatum to Hitler. Now they were waiting on tenterhooks to see what would happen.

As far as they knew, no response had yet been received from Hitler.

Lloyd recalled his mother’s friend Maud and her family in Berlin. Those two little children would be eighteen and nineteen now, he calculated. He wondered if they were sitting around a radio wondering whether they were going to war against England.

At ten o’clock, Lloyd’s half-sister, Millie, arrived. She was now nineteen, and married to her friend Naomi Avery’s brother Abe, a leather wholesaler. She earned good money as a salesgirl on commission in an expensive dress shop. She had ambitions to open her own shop, and Lloyd had no doubt that she would do it one day. Although it was not the career Bernie would have chosen for her, Lloyd could see how proud he was of her brains and ambition and smart appearance.

But today her poised self-assurance had collapsed. ‘It was awful when you were in Spain,’ she said tearfully to Lloyd. ‘And Dave and Lenny never did come back. Now it will be you and my Abie off somewhere, and us women waiting every day for news, wondering if you’re dead yet.’

Ethel put in: ‘And your cousin Keir. He’s eighteen now.’

Lloyd said to his mother: ‘Which regiment was my real father in?’

‘Oh, does it matter?’ She was never keen to talk about Lloyd’s father, perhaps out of consideration for Bernie.

But Lloyd wanted to know. ‘It matters to me,’ he said.

She threw a peeled potato into a pan of water with unnecessary vigour. ‘He was in the Welsh Rifles.’

‘The same as me! Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘The past is the past.’

There might be another reason for her caginess, Lloyd knew. She had probably been pregnant when she married. This did not bother Lloyd, but to her generation it was shameful. All the same, he persisted. ‘Was my father Welsh?’

‘Yes.’

‘From Aberowen?’

‘No.’

‘Where, then?’

She sighed. ‘His parents moved around – something to do with his father’s job – but I think they were from Swansea originally. Satisfied now?’

‘Yes.’

Lloyd’s Aunt Mildred came in from church, a stylish middle-aged woman, pretty except for protruding front teeth. She wore a fancy hat – she was a milliner with a small factory. Her two daughters by her first marriage, Enid and Lillian, both in their late twenties, were married with children of their own. Her elder son was the Dave who had died in Spain. Her younger son, Keir, followed her into the kitchen. Mildred insisted on taking her children to church, even though her husband, Billy, would have nothing to do with religion. ‘I had a lifetime’s worth of that when I was a child,’ he often said. ‘If I’m not saved, no one is.’

Lloyd looked around. This was his family: mother, stepfather, half-sister, uncle, aunt, cousin. He did not want to leave them and go away to die somewhere.

Lloyd looked at his watch, a stainless-steel model with a square face that Bernie had given him as a graduation present. It was eleven o’clock. On the radio, the fruity voice of newsreader Alvar Lidell said the Prime Minister was expected to make an announcement shortly. Then there was some solemn classical music.

‘Hush, now, everyone,’ said Ethel. ‘I’ll make you all a cup of tea after.’

The kitchen went quiet.

Alvar Lidell announced the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain.

The appeaser of Fascism, Lloyd thought; the man who gave Czechoslovakia to Hitler; the man who had stubbornly refused to help the elected government of Spain even after it became indisputably obvious that the Germans and Italians were arming the rebels. Was he about to cave in yet again?

Lloyd noticed that his parents were holding hands, Ethel’s small fingers digging into Bernie’s palm.

He checked his watch again. It was a quarter past eleven.

Then they heard the Prime Minister say: ‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at Ten Downing Street.’

Chamberlain’s voice was reedy and over-precise. He sounded like a pedantic schoolmaster. What we need is a warrior, Lloyd thought.

‘This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note, stating that, unless the British government heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.’

Lloyd found himself feeling impatient with Chamberlain’s verbiage. A state of war would exist between us : what a strange way to put it. Get on with it, he thought; get to the point. This is life and death.

Chamberlain’s voice deepened and became more statesmanlike. Perhaps he was no longer looking at the microphone, but instead seeing millions of his countrymen in their homes, sitting by their radio sets, waiting for his fateful words. ‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received.’

Lloyd heard his mother say: ‘Oh, God, spare us.’ He looked at her. Her face was grey.

Chamberlain uttered his next, dreadful words quite slowly: ‘. . . and that, consequently, this country is at war with Germany.’

Ethel began to cry.