Chapter 11
11
D ECEMBER 1914
Benedict always enjoyed the Christmas season at Alton House—except for this year, of course. Inga couldn’t resist butting in and telling everyone how to properly celebrate. She wanted to attend a midnight Mass on Christmas Eve just like she did in New York. After her rapturous descriptions, Nellie wanted to go too. He couldn’t let them venture out at midnight without protection, and since nobody else wanted to go, that left only Benedict to accompany the two women.
So he’d dragged himself to midnight Mass and was now bleary-eyed and in a bad mood the following morning as everyone gathered around the Christmas tree in the main room to exchange gifts. Mrs. Barnes made spiced cider, and Inga put a Christmas record on the gramophone as they prepared to open the presents.
As the senior officer and only independently wealthy man living at Alton House, Benedict was usually the only person to buy everyone a gift. Normally he enjoyed shopping for the perfect gift for each staff member. This year he bought an em bossed set of Charles Dickens’s works for Andrew, and tickets to the opera for Larry, Colonel Reyes, and the other men living in Alton House. He bought a silver comb for Nellie and a cashmere scarf for Mrs. Barnes. And for Inga? He didn’t know her that well, but she always waxed poetic about the village where she’d been born in Bavaria. When he saw a music box shaped like a chalet from the Bavarian Alps, he instantly thought of her and bought it.
He didn’t want anything in return. That wasn’t the way gift-giving worked at Alton House. He was a senior staff member and could afford a nice gift for everyone, but it would have been awkward to expect them to return the sentiment. In the past, the staff had always honored that.
Inga didn’t. First thing in the morning, there they were. A bunch of presents Inga had bought for everyone in the house, including him. It was easy to guess what it was because everyone had identical flat squares wrapped in brightly colored paper.
Gramophone records.
Would it be possible to return the records to the store? “Inga, you shouldn’t have,” he said as she held the record toward him. He’d taken his traditional seat in the wing-back chair by the fireplace while Inga floated around the room, handing out gifts.
“I wanted to,” she said. “Please take it. I miss home, and giving presents makes it feel like a real Christmas morning.” The hollow look in her eyes took him aback. Inga wasn’t ever hollow. She was supposed to ooze with annoying good cheer.
Andrew noticed. “Have you thought about going home for a visit? You could be there in a week.”
Benedict stiffened, praying she’d say no. Transatlantic crossings were getting more dangerous by the week. The Germans agreed not to torpedo passenger ships carrying citizens from neutral nations, but mistakes could happen. Even more dangerous were the underwater mines planted all over the Baltic and North Seas. Too many ships had already been blown to pieces by such mines, and the thought of Inga thrashing in the water, trying to stay afloat...
Luckily, it didn’t take her long to reject the idea. “I can’t go home,” she said. “I don’t have a passport.”
“Benedict could get you one by the end of the day,” Nellie said.
Benedict could, but he won’t , he thought. Why he instinctively recoiled at the prospect of letting Inga go didn’t bear too much scrutiny, but her next words stopped him cold.
“I’m still a German citizen, and that may cause problems,” she said.
“You’re still a what ?” he lashed out.
Inga jumped a little. “No need to sound so huffy. I never got around to taking the American citizenship test. It didn’t seem necessary, and it cost four dollars.”
Anger simmered, making it difficult to keep his tone calm and professional. “Four dollars? I don’t understand. You just spent a fortune buying everyone gramophone records we don’t need, but you won’t spring four dollars to become a citizen of the country you call home?”
Inga looked heavenward. “Why do you have to be such a killjoy?”
“Hey, it’s Christmas,” Andrew said, always the voice of reason. “Nothing bad is going to happen to Inga. She’s a woman.”
“The chancellery accused two old lady nuns of being spies and held them in detention for a month. I spent six hours in court arguing their cause. You think they’ll be any kinder to a woman working in our embassy?”
“Inga,” Andrew said in a conciliatory tone, “why don’t you promise Benedict you’ll take the citizenship test at your first opportunity? Then he can pipe down and not have a heart attack.”
Inga shrugged. “If that will make things better, of course I’ll take one right away.”
“You can’t,” he snapped. “It has to be done in the United States, and then you’re required to pass an interview with a judge.”
Inga gave Benedict the wrapped record she bought him. “That settles it then. I can’t take the test, so why don’t we all enjoy Christmas and unwrap our presents?”
“Yes, let’s do,” Mrs. Barnes said, unusually siding with Inga.
Although Inga bought records for everyone, they all had different musical selections. A mournful piece by Chopin for Larry, ragtime music for Andrew.
Benedict pulled the wrapping back from his own record and blinked. It was Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven, his favorite. “How did you know?” he asked, and she flashed him a grin.
“I peeked at your Encyclopedia Britannica . The notes you scribbled all over the Beethoven entry made it clear you have pretty strong feelings for him.”
It was true. When had she poked through his encyclopedia? He’d never told her she couldn’t, but the notes he made in those volumes were deeply personal, almost like a diary. Still, it was enormously thoughtful, and he hadn’t expected it of her. “Thank you, Miss Klein.”
He watched as she unwrapped his own gift to her. She squealed, actually squealed when she recognized the Bavarian chalet with its wooden logs and steep roof, complete with flower boxes and shutters that could open and close.
“Oh, how I longed to go inside one of these fancy lodges when I was little,” she enthused, her eyes sparkling as she lifted the lid. Inside were two miniature figurines, the lady in a traditional dirndl and the man in full-length lederhosen. The figurines twirled to the music, making a loop around the balcony as the music played. Despite himself, a hint of a smile tugged at the ridiculous delight Inga took in admiring the twirling couple.
“Oh, thank you, Benedict!” Inga rarely bestowed one of her heart-stopping, dazzling smiles on him, but her fresh, wholesome smile was unabashed, and it got to him.
“Who is this for?” Nellie asked, holding up a final unwrapped gramophone record.
“Oh, that’s for Magnus,” Inga said, a blush staining her cheeks. “It’s a traditional Norwegian Christmas carol. I’ll give it to him this afternoon because he has invited me over to have Christmas dinner at Little Bergen House.”
“My, my,” Andrew said. “Can we expect to hear wedding bells soon?”
Benedict froze. Everyone knew Inga had been spending time with the young officer, but this was something he hadn’t considered.
“Heavens, no,” Inga said. “I’m too homesick as it is to think of marrying someone from so far away. I must admit, though, it’s been flattering.”
The muscles Benedict hadn’t realized he’d been clenching eased, and he settled back in his chair to watch as the others continued celebrating the day.
Benedict took one day off for Christmas, then went back to work trying to facilitate an exchange of civilian prisoners. January brought a new and unwelcome development, and this time it was triggered by the British.
A young man named Winston Churchill had been appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, and he took an unusually harsh stance toward German submarine warfare. Rather than treat captured German submariners with the respect owed men in uniform, Churchill ordered them to be isolated and treated the same as pirates and murderers.
Naturally, the Germans retaliated by singling out an equal number of British officers and subjecting them to similar conditions. The British officers were to be held in solitary confinement until the German submarine crews were granted better treatment.
Benedict headed to Magdeburg, where the British officers had been relocated to substandard German prison cells. His diplomatic credentials from a neutral nation ought to afford him private visits with the interned men, but the commandant of the jail refused.
“You may pass by their cells but will not be permitted to speak with the prisoners,” the commandant insisted.
Benedict kept his tone cool but firm. “That would be a violation of the international agreements regarding prisoners of war. Many of your own superiors signed those documents in Geneva and at the Hague. I hope I don’t need to return to Berlin to get authorization to override your order.”
The commandant glared, but then gave a brusque nod to a subordinate to escort Benedict to the basement cells where the British officers were being held. He silently cringed at the stink down here. The light was dim, and each cell was four feet by eleven, barely enough for a man to stand since the cot took up most of the room.
The first officer, Lieutenant Goschen, lay on the cot and was unable to stand or speak. He was awake, his eyes fixed and staring at the dank brick wall a few feet away.
Benedict knelt beside the cot and spoke in a soothing voice so as not to alarm the young man. “Sir, my name is Benedict Kincaid. I’ve come from the American Embassy to help.”
The man kept staring straight at the wall, not moving, not blinking.
Benedict tried again. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
“That one doesn’t talk,” the German sergeant said from the doorway of the cell. “I think he’s deaf, dumb, and blind.”
Benedict reached for the man’s hand. “Lieutenant Goschen, can you hear me?”
The young officer was startled, as if aware of Benedict’s presence for the first time. The lieutenant met his gaze. Oh yes, Lieutenant Goschen could see. No blind man could lock gazes like Goschen was doing. There was a desperate, pleading quality in his expression. He didn’t say anything, but it looked like he wanted to.
“You can hear me?” Benedict asked again.
A squeeze of his hand was the only answer. Again, the man seemed desperate to talk, but simply couldn’t. It seemed cruel to keep pressing.
Benedict covered the man’s hand with both of his own. “I’ll be back in a little while. I’m going to speak with some of your fellow officers. If you think of something to tell me, or some way of communicating, you’ll have your chance.”
A sheen of tears clouded Lieutenant Goschen’s eyes, and he squeezed Benedict’s hand again. The wall of sympathy nearly clobbered Benedict flat, but he forced it back and rose to his feet.
The next cell contained a man in much better health, if a little emaciated. The prisoners weren’t allowed to communicate with each other, although the narrow slits in the doors let them hear what was going on in neighboring cells, and Colonel Blaydon was eager to talk.
“The krauts took Goschen out of a hospital bed to send him here,” Colonel Blaydon explained. “He was shot in the head at Ypres and hasn’t been right since. His father is an earl, and they want to mistreat an aristocrat.”
Benedict tamped down the anger swirling inside. He had a lot of men to interview today and couldn’t afford to let emotion get in the way.
“Tell me how they’ve been treating you,” he asked, and was relieved to hear the prisoners were being fed. But they had no water to bathe, nor were they permitted exercise outside their tiny cells. Over the next hour he heard the same story from all the prisoners. A few weeks ago, they’d all been in well-run camps where they had freedom of movement, the ability to socialize, and almost anything a prisoner could hope for except freedom. Now they were locked in solitary confinement and trapped underground like animals in a burrow. It was retaliation for the way the British had changed the rules regarding submarine crews.
As requested, Benedict headed straight to Ambassador Gerard’s office upon his return to Berlin. Hopefully, the ambassador could persuade the British to stop their punitive treatment of the submarine crews, as it would be the fastest way to get Lieutenant Goschen and the others returned to a normal detention camp.
Inga was in the ambassador’s office, taking dictation about relief supplies. After a day of sitting with grimy men in dank cells, Inga’s fresh, wholesome radiance was a welcome sight. The sage-green suit fit her to a tee. Her blond hair was coiled atop her head artfully, as if a Renaissance painter had arranged it that way. On her collar was a solje brooch, a traditional Norwegian pin of delicate filigree and tiny shining disks that shimmered in the sunlight. It was probably a gift from Magnus, but he didn’t ask. It wasn’t any of his business.
He turned his attention to Ambassador Gerard to begin his report. “The rumors about conditions of the British officers are as bad as we were led to believe. One of the officers is being denied medical care. All of them are confined in solitary cells where they can barely move.”
Inga stood, her expression troubled. “Is there anything we can do?”
Just when he was convinced Inga was a completely vain and frivolous creature, she always surprised him with flashes of genuine compassion.
He wished she wouldn’t. It was easier to keep her at arm’s length when she flirted with Larry or spent too much time fiddling with her hair.
“I’ll let you know,” he said, his gaze sliding away from her cornflower blue eyes and retreating back to the safety of his office.