Chapter Thirty-Four #2
So she talked of Berlin. Of her apartment with its wooden floors and high ceilings, the walls dressed in dark wood carved into whorls and knots that shone warm in the lamplight.
The high brass bed heaped with cool linen and airy feather bolsters.
Of how safe she felt there, tucked into the fourth floor of a building so large it covered a whole block of the city, and how exposed when she walked the streets – as though even the wind were suspicious and might blow rumours of her to the wrong people.
She talked of the high-ranking Nazi officers who bowed low over her hand and praised the ivory glow of her skin, who spoke to her of Goethe and the beauty of Wagner, and slipped notes into her evening bag that implored her to meet them alone, while their wives, in stiff fur and diamonds, stood close by.
Of how careful she was to never accept, but never offend.
To be always – always! – laughing. Charming, encouraging, affectionate, but also aloof.
To be remote when they hoped she would be accessible, and accessible when they assumed she would be remote.
Of how easy it was; that men, each time, are just men.
How little it mattered what language they spoke or uniform they wore; still they were distracted by the curve of a cheekbone, the flutter of eyelashes, the shining whiteness of bare arms in evening dress.
She talked of the late nights wreathed in thick clouds of cigarette smoke and laughter.
Of the way the sharp click of their heels as they drew them together and raised their arms in salute, even now, made her jump a little.
Of the quiet mornings and lonely afternoons where she wrote letters home, parsing, always, the words she used and how much she told.
She told a little of the anger and vicious pride on the streets, the growing fear of some amidst the triumph of others. But not much.
She did not talk of the other meetings. The ones that did not exactly take place. There were so many things she didn’t talk of. Not yet. The gap between her recent life and Honor’s was too great; could be bridged only gradually if at all.
Honor listened and asked questions; practical ones that Doris answered: What of your mother’s family?; blunt ones that she deflected: Are you safe? And at last, ‘What were you talking to that fellow Albert, Fritzi’s man, so intently about?’
‘I wasn’t talking to him.’
‘What were you doing then?’
‘Kissing him.’
‘What? Doris! Why?’
Doris laughed. ‘We reached the house and as I was about to go in, he tried to kiss me, and I let him.’
‘How could you …? A servant …’
‘A jolly handsome chap!’ Doris insisted. ‘Call it an instant of madness. The tennis, the rain, the thunder, those absurd flashes of lightning. Who could resist?’
‘I could,’ Honor said.
‘Yes, I suppose you could,’ Doris agreed. ‘You haven’t the habit of letting men kiss you.’
‘And you do?’
‘I do. Especially if it’s worth my while.’
‘How could it possibly be worth your while?’ Honor sounded baffled. So baffled that Doris laughed again.
‘Really, darling, you are like a child sometimes. Or someone who is only half paying attention …’ And then she remembered all that Honor had told her and she put her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s alright, I know you didn’t.’ Honor put a hand behind her and took hold of Doris’ so that she had to cease her brushing. ‘How happy I am that you’re back.’
‘Me too.’
‘How long can you stay?’
‘I don’t know. It depends. Now, tell me about the Americans.’
‘And then you must change. You’re soaked too. I’ll find out what room you’re in.’
She met Duff on the stairs, coming up towards her. ‘Doris.’
‘Duff.’ She moved to one side, to let him past, but he stopped.
‘How’s Berlin?’
‘Interesting.’
‘Are you on an unexpected visit home?’
‘Not entirely. Perhaps undertaken a little sooner than expected.’
‘I see.’ She moved to go past him and he put out a hand. ‘I imagine the ambassador will want to chat to you. He seems keen to hear happy stories of Berlin and Germany.’
‘Just the kinds of stories I write,’ Doris said carefully.
‘He might also listen to other kinds of stories, if you had those to tell,’ Duff said, looking straight at her.
‘I see,’ Doris responded thoughtfully. Then, ‘Thank you.’
By the time she reached the drawing room, Chips was already there. ‘It’s like being upside down,’ she said, gesturing to the painted ceiling. ‘Or perhaps like watching the city from below the water of the Thames. A fish-eye view.’
‘You always did talk nonsense,’ he said peevishly.
‘It’s only nonsense if you don’t understand it,’ Doris said, smiling sweetly at him.
‘Have you settled in alright?’ he asked.
‘No, but I will.’
‘I suppose you can settle anywhere at this stage.’
‘I can,’ she agreed. ‘Just as you can. What is it now? The last I saw of you, you were picking up the pieces following the abdication. What a blow that was to you.’ She smiled again, not bothering to keep the mockery out of it. ‘What have you been at since? What new plans and schemes for Chips?’
‘I hear you use my name all over Berlin,’ he said peevishly. ‘Von Ribbentrop congratulated me just the other day on having sent such a charming emissary.’
‘Oh, you would be simply thrilled to see the doors it has opened for me. Old Goring himself told me to be sure to remember him to you.’
‘Dear fellow,’ Chips said warmly. ‘So ostentatious, and yet disarming … Well, and what if I were to withdraw use of my name? Tell everyone what you really are?’ He poked viciously at the fire.
‘Indeed. But you can’t, can you?’ She laughed at him. ‘And I know very well that you can’t. First, think what it would do to you, in the circles you care about, to have it known – your wife’s dearest friend, a Jew.’
‘Half a Jew,’ he corrected.
‘There are no halves,’ Doris said. ‘Not anymore. Not now.’ She felt her voice tremble and took a deep breath.
She would not betray herself in front of Chips.
Neither would she try to appeal to anything that might be decent in him.
She would not tell him her stories of watching men and women hustled off the pavement and into filthy gutters, sometimes by children; the look on a young boy’s face as his mother stood in the baker’s while everyone around her was served first, until the shop was empty of all but them.
These were things she hadn’t yet told Honor. She certainly wouldn’t tell him.
‘And, what’s more,’ she continued, ‘I know very well that you are under instruction that cannot be disobeyed to stay quiet. And so, I may do as I please.’
‘Well, I hope you are not making mischief,’ he said. ‘We’ – he laid heavy emphasis on the word – ‘are working hard to bring this thing off. To cement the understanding between England and Germany, so that there will not be war.’
‘There is already war.’
‘War with England. You know that is what I mean.’
‘There is already war,’ Doris repeated. ‘It is now just a question of degrees.’
‘You give up far too easily,’ he said. ‘I’ – he paused, to thump a hand against his chest – ‘will never give up. I will keep fighting to prevent this.’
How to tell him that he had prevented nothing?
Could prevent nothing. No one could. Oh, they might keep war out of England, and indeed England out of war, just as they wished, but the rage and cruelty were already happening where they couldn’t see it and didn’t wish to look.
Someone needed to fight against that, even if men like Chips wouldn’t.
‘Your energy does you credit, Channon.’ It was Ambassador Kennedy, standing in the doorway. ‘If only more of your countrymen were of the same mind.’
‘There are enough of us,’ Chips said. ‘Mostly, there is Chamberlain. And that will be enough.’ He looked at Doris in a pleased way and she, because she didn’t want to impede whatever the ambassador might say next, ignored him.
‘I didn’t realise you had so recently come from Germany,’ Kennedy said to Doris, crossing the room. ‘I would so like to hear your thoughts and impressions.’
‘Delighted,’ she said. ‘Shall we sit?’ And she deliberately led him to a sofa far from Chips, a small one, with room only for two.