The Mommsenstraße was quiet, quieter than ever, since many residents were away, enjoying one of the best summers anyone could remember. As usual the shops offered the people of Charlottenburg the fruits of peace. The Bäckerei-Konditorei proferred sweet and savoury pleasures: Schokoladentorten and Mohntorten, Pflaumentorten and Apfeltorten, Wilhelminentorten and Englische Zitronentorten, Königskuchen and Linzer Torten, Marzipankuchen, mandelat de Turino, corbeilles à la crème, and – smallest and most delicious – petit-fours, petites mosaïques aux confitures, diablotins, croquets à la piémontaise. The florist’s shelves were laden with roses, lilies, carnations from the French Riviera. Oblivious to these delights, the nursemaids with their prams and the fashionable ladies moved languidly along the pavements, unable to hurry in the heat or think about anything except the anticipation of feeling cool.
Only the newspaper placards disturbed the calm: ‘Germany Declares War On Russia’.
Irene was alone in her bedroom. She had been there for some time. Before her lay piles of summer clothes. In two days she was due to go to London for a month with her family, as she had the year before. ‘Hat es Ihnen gefallen?’ Lisa had asked anxiously on her return, as though worried she might prefer England. And yes, she had enjoyed her holiday. But what had been almost better was the journey back, as she said goodbye at Victoria and sat on the boat and boarded the train at Ostend and travelled through the autumnal countryside. Though sorry to be leaving her parents, she’d been glad to be going home. She’d looked forward to seeing Thomas, who had written her long letters about how her plants were flourishing and the maids missed her. She’d looked forward to seeing her mother-in-law and Freddy and Puppi and Alexander. And to the peaceful harmony of their flat.
This afternoon the apartment did not seem peaceful or harmonious. The bedroom was suffocatingly hot. Out of perversity perhaps, she’d not opened the windows. The intertwined plants on the wallpaper threatened to grip her in their tendrils, just as the deep green of the walls and curtains might suck her into their depths. Even the bed, with its carved head and its white cover laden with coloured beads, threatened to smother her under mounds of linen.
She looked at the photographs on her dressing table, as though for guidance. The English photographs stood on the right. Her mother, photographed a long while ago in a flowing, artistic dress, smiled beatifically: Irene heard her voice, telling her to come home. Her father looked as impassive as ever, but she could hear his call too. Her dear Mark. . . she worried about him. . . what would he say to her? And would he have to fight? Please God no.
The German photographs stood on the left. A recent picture showed Thomas in a pale linen suit she particularly liked. It softened his appearance, she’d told him, and when he’d pulled irritably at the cloth, she said that a little softening improved him. He’d raised his eyes to heaven, but when he’d had his photograph expensively taken on the Leipzigerstraße as an anniversary present, he’d selected that suit. Beside him was a Curtius family group, a holiday picture taken just after her marriage: Elise’s little boy and girl, Lotte’s children lined up on the beach by the Baltic. It made her smile to recall grey mornings and sunny afternoons by the ocean, the children so merry in their sailor suits. Behind it was the family group of the Bensons and the Curtiuses at Salitz. She turned it to the wall.
Would the men all have to go to war? Of course Heinz would, as an officer, but what about Freddy? Even Thomas? And Alexander, now that Jews were full citizens of the Reich, would he be called up?
She sighed, oppressed by the throbbing irritation of indecision. She looked again at the piles of clothes. Lisa would have packed for her, but she’d sent the girls out for the afternoon, she could not stand their solicitous, enquiring faces. Her tickets were booked, there was nothing to stop her from going to London except the Diplomatic Notes, the rumours of mobilisation. If Great Britain stayed neutral, she could easily go. They said Britain would never declare war against Germany, her father-in-law declared the Chancellor was pro-British, the German ambassador in London was determined to prevent silliness, the Kaiser loved his English cousins. . .
The trains between Berlin and London were still running, said to be packed with English governesses and businessmen going home, and with German waiters and musicians and merchants coming home. The post still worked. Only the day before, she’d received a letter from her mother, outlining plans and ending, ‘I do so hope there will be no problem about you coming to London, I’m sure this crisis will soon blow over.’ Then she had scored two lines across the page and written, ‘10 p.m. I have been speaking to your father. He says – and I must agree – that in such times as these, all of us should be guided by duty, not by personal inclination. You must decide where your duty lies, my dearest. Of course we will understand, whatever it is you choose to do. Papa sends his love, as do I.’ Irene could see her writing this, blotting neatly, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief so her tears did not smudge the ink.
‘Duty’ – that was a hard word. At Queen’s College they had talked about duty, about how from those to whom much had been given, much was expected. For men, duty meant serving one’s country, but the concept also applied to women, as wives, mothers, Britons, citizens of the greatest empire in the world. There was no escaping: born into a certain level of society, you were bound to subscribe to certain ideals. Mark had been fed even more of this at school, where duty had been a constant theme. He’d parodied the school sermons. ‘My duty,’ he’d proclaimed at fifteen, ‘is to enjoy myself at all costs.’
She stared at the walls. Where did her duty lie now? To her mother and father, and to the country where she’d grown up? Or to the country she’d married into?
She felt violently homesick. She was homesick for the house in Evelyn Gardens, for the butcher’s and post office in the Fulham Road, for her artist friends. Almost against her will, she let the thought of Julian pop out of the box to which she’d consigned him. What would he do now? Would he join the army? He had a reckless side, enjoyed the thought of new experiences – it was the sort of impulsive decision he might take.
Her trunk was open on the floor, where she’d put it after Thomas had left, so as not to upset him. One case would be enough, one couldn’t know what might happen to one’s luggage, let alone oneself, at such a time. If she packed now, quickly, she could put the trunk away and Thomas wouldn’t see it. The thought of her departure agonised him. This evening she would be animated and sympathetic, they would hardly mention her proposed holiday in England. But she knew that in bed he would turn away from her and face the wall, silent and awake, pulling away if their bodies made contact, while she simulated the deep breathing of rest. She wondered if she should go to the station and try to change her reservation to the overnight train leaving this evening, but the trains were full to bursting, she might not get a place. It was even rumoured that no more tickets to Paris or London were being sold. The doors were closing on her.
She put some summer clothes, already folded in tissue paper, into the trunk: a white-work dress with white embroidery on white cotton, a beige shantung silk suit, some embroidered cotton lawn blouses. She had chosen them with great care and wanted to show them to her sister and mother. She needed nothing else, she still had clothes at home. No, no, England was not home. And how could she be thinking about clothes, when the world was bent on war?
She heard a key in the front door. Who was this? The maids were away, Thomas never came home during the day. Nervous, she went into the passage. But it was Thomas, sweating, his face strained. He held a newspaper, which he waved at her. ‘France is mobilising, it seems likely she will declare war on Germany. If you are going, you must go now, while there are still trains. I passed the British Embassy, to see what was going on. It is closed, there was an unfriendly crowd, the police think there will be anti-English demonstrations. . .’
‘I have not packed.’ This was a ridiculous remark, she realised.
‘Packing is not important.’
‘My reservation is only valid tomorrow, I will not be allowed on a train today.’
‘I will come with you. If there is no direct train to London, you can take a train to Hamburg, and then a boat to Copenhagen, where Mark will help you. . .’ He turned away from her and put his hands over his face. He seemed to be shrugging. But no, he was crying. He had been so commanding a week ago. When they had talked about her departure, he had said she should stay in Berlin, had refused to listen when she said there was little danger of war, that she must see her parents. He had gone away and brooded, she supposed, and then come back into her studio where she was drawing a house set in a garden, as though drawing might calm her. He had shouted at her, something he’d never done, and for a moment she’d detested him, and all through this she’d worried (how could one care about such a thing?) that the servants might hear.
He was not at all commanding now. He stood silently, his shoulders heaving, his back to her, more like a child than a man. And yet like a man, for why should a man not show his feelings?
He said, softly but repeatedly, ‘Irene, mein Schatz, ich liebe dich.’
What could she say to that? She consulted her jury on the dressing table, the English on the right, the Germans on the left. Unanimously, they agreed that her duty was clear. And there was something about Thomas – pleading, affectionate; it was as though her heart were moving within her breast.
‘Ich gehe nicht weg,’ she said. ‘Thomas, ich bleibe hier bei dir. Ich bin deine Frau.’ She stretched out her arms. ‘Jetzt bin ich eine Deutsche.’