The Matchmaker of Kenmare

  I saw Miss Begley wince—but only I, who knew her so well, could have caught it. She braved the moment.

  “It’s kind of urgent,” she said. “A girl, a local girl—she’s very worried about him.”

  “What do you know,” I asked, “about the term Special Operations? That’s what he does.”

  Mr. Seefeld looked at us. “It means that he’s a bad man.”

  Miss Begley was about to challenge that; my glance stopped her, and I asked, “What’s the equivalent in your army?”

  He said, “Our problem was that we didn’t have enough of them. Where we did—it worked perfectly.”

  “Explain,” I said, and he settled to the task.

  “In many places all over Europe, especially at the beginning of the war, when we feared great local opposition, we sent in officers dressed as businessmen or clergy or whatever might be acceptable. They went into a local community and organized support for us.”

  Miss Begley asked, “How efficiently did that work?”

  “We fomented attacks against the police in France. We assassinated local leaders who might have led resistance to us.”

  I said, “Is that what Captain Miller does?”

  Mr. Seefeld reflected. “I’d say—no. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s deep behind our lines, German lines, that is.”

  “As far as Berlin?” I asked.

  “No, not that far.” And all the while my brain is saying to me, He’s in a war cemetery in France, not far from the city of Rouen, that’s the fact. Followed by the thought: But we’re not dealing with real facts, are we? We’re handling blind faith.

  Miss Begley said, “How much do you know about the kind of work Captain Miller is doing?”

  “We used to call our fellows ‘the wolves,’ ” said Mr. Seefeld. “But Miller doesn’t belong in a pack.”

  I said, my mind in a shudder, “Why wolves?”

  “The fear. Everybody fears wolves. They’re silent. They kill.”

  I was about to say, “That isn’t always true,” but Mr. Seefeld continued. “I asked Miller about his work. Do you know what he said? Nothing. He said nothing. When I asked him what his work was, he just laughed and did this.” Mr. Seefeld clutched his hand to his throat and made strangling noises.

  Miss Begley pressed. “Where would you search for him?”

  “In Hell,” said Mr. Seefeld.

  I, laughing to reduce the sting, said, “No—where would one look seriously?”

  He left the room and came back with a map of Europe; it bore all kinds of marks; he’d been following the war as closely as we had.

  “Look here,” he said, and drew with his finger a line that ran northeast, from Paris to Berlin. He circled Liège, in Belgium.

  “That’s where the worst fighting will be,” he said, “my country’s last stand.” He shuddered. “I don’t know why any of this happened. I don’t know. I don’t know anything,” and he began to cry, a man still in shock.

  Miss Begley jumped from her chair. “Hans!”

  Now he flooded, boo-hooing like a boy. I had no idea what to do.

  “Come on,” she said. “You and me’ll go for a little walk,” and she eyebrowed me behind his back.

  I sat and talked to the cats. And looked at his map. And retraced his line. And that part of me in which I’d been holding on to some doubts or hopes filled up with the deadweight of premonition, because I knew what was going to happen—we would soon be traveling.

  That night, she took out her pendulum—as I’d expected she would do. She concentrated on Liège. It took some time, and after a faint tremor the needle began to swing over an area southeast of Liège, close to the German border. It didn’t pinpoint any one place to her satisfaction, and she said that she’d try again.

  We spent another week at Lamb’s Head. From my next visit to the library I returned with travel guides to northern Germany and Belgium. On their walk together, Miss Begley had elicited advice from Mr. Seefeld.

  He told her, “Mirror what he’s doing. Go behind the lines of my armies. The people you will meet are friendly to the Irish. He will be among them, or they will know or suspect something. He will be meeting German resistance, they are under very deep cover, or he will be trying to connect with the German forces by pretending to be a sympathizer.”

  “With his accent?” she queried

  Mr. Seefeld replied, “He will have said that he lived in America for some years. His false papers will show that.”

  When she told me this, I said, “But if we’re captured?”

  She said, “He told me to ask the Americans for protection.”

  “But we’re not going in with the Allies?” I said, my mind’s voice a shriek.

  This was just getting worse and worse. I prayed for the KILLED IN ACTION telegram to arrive, and then felt guilty. She sensed my anguish and appeased it by agreeing to go back to the American embassy. That’s where the truth will catch up with her, I thought. Followed by the realization, But will she show any regard for it?

  86

  In the second week of November, we waved good-bye to Mrs. Holst—who approved every step her granddaughter was taking. Her only disaffection showed when she saw or listened to me. We didn’t have a confrontation; no matter how she goaded me, I played for peace; I had enough friction going on in my head.

  When Mrs. Holst had come back from Cork, she’d announced a curious development in her life—a proposal of marriage. It seemed preposterous to me; she was, after all, in her seventies, therefore ancient to someone my age.

  Miss Begley danced at the news. “The matchmaker matched,” she cried, and danced again. And I thought, Poor bastard doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.

  He, the swain, was the brother of Mrs. Holst’s Cork friend, and he’d also returned from the States, but quite recently. She’d never met him until a few weeks earlier; and, by all her accounts, love had swept in at first sight. You can always sell to a salesman, was my thought.

  She said that she’d be leaving Lamb’s Head “at some stage in the not-too-distant future.” Mrs. Holst spoke like a strict official.

  “Good news all around,” sang Miss Begley. “Imagine? Two brides out of this house in one year!”

  And one already a widow, I thought.

  Our plan had been worked out elaborately. First Dublin, and the embassy once more. Then London, a visit to Claudia at the Ritz. And then—and this staggered me—the small port of Hull in the east of England where, through a contact of Mr. Seefeld, we could get to south Denmark or Kiel in northern Germany.

  That was the day I discovered that Miss Begley kept a detailed journal. We had spent hours working out a schedule, and I said to her, “I’m going to bring a notebook and try to keep some kind of record.”

  She said, “I’ll do the same. I can’t lug my diary with me.”

  “What?”

  She laughed at my surprise. “Of course I keep a diary. Look at the interesting things that happen to me. I might let you read it one day.”

  “When do you write it?”

  “Like you,” she said. “At night. I’m not always as diligent as you. And when we’re old and gray, and you come to visit me and Charles, we’ll look back over our notebooks,” she said, “and wonder that we had such adventures.”

  At my age today, I delight myself with my own emotional vigor. When I reach into my memory, I can recall so much, down to the details of my own thoughts at any given moment, and, almost more important, my own mood. It’s always been my burden—and my pleasure—to take my mood from those around me. I think it comes from having been an only child, when I couldn’t help but observe my parents at very close quarters and be affected by them.

  And I believe that it explains why I went along with such aplomb every time Kate Begley proposed an outlandish scheme. I picked up her energy, her vivacity, her life force—and I needed all those to help me stay alive.

  That is how I went into that horrible war a third and final time. I even
found in myself noble feelings about it—principally because James Clare had told me once, “In all great legends, the important things happen three times.”

  87

  Yet, I know that we faked the lightness in our hearts. There were even moments when I tried to seem like a holidaymaker. We’d hired a hackney car with a good pony, and he took us to Killarney—where we shopped for some personal needs. A chemist who knew Miss Begley kindly gave me extra razor blades, and apologized to us for the quality of the rationed soap.

  I went to the bank and inquired about money. They raised eyebrows when I said I wanted German marks. An order was placed that I would collect in Dublin. “Take some American dollars,” they told me. “That’s what the international financiers are saying.”

  We stayed at Mrs. Cooper’s; she and Miss Begley liked each other, and mutually knew wide circles of people. Much of the later evening was spent in trying to render our luggage as efficient as possible. We had so overpacked that we had to leave a suitcase—containing possessions from both of us—in Mrs. Cooper’s care. I joked to her that if we never came back she could sell the things and go on a spree. I don’t think the joke went down well with Miss Begley.

  Here’s the first entry from Kate’s new notebook, made that night.

  12 November 1944: Ben usually lodges in this house when coming through Killarney. I think she’s the Mrs. Cooper whose husband got drunk, and staggered into no-man’s-land during the last war, and was shot. Nana told me that story. I’m so excited that Nana’s getting married. Charles will be delighted too—he loves her. I know that Ben’s trying to tell me we have tough days ahead and I respect him for that. But my excitement will carry me through, and I’ll try not to worry as to Charles’s health.

  And here’s my own earliest note from that last, awful foray, during which all my views about life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and every other damn thing in the world were scuttled.

  13 November 1944: The morning train was empty, and the guard joked about whether we’d have enough fuel to get us to Dublin. Miss B. doesn’t like jokes that threaten our plans. People who see us together assume that we’re married. Miss Begley, showing no tact toward me, corrected a lady, “No, I’m the one who’s married.” And I thought with a huge sadness, “Oh, but I am married.” And then asked myself, “But am I? What an irony is all this. She’s searching for somebody I know is dead and I’m searching for—what?” I can’t actually say, because I can’t actually put down on paper what I believe about Venetia anymore.

  88

  While I think of it, I’ll include here a selection of entries from our separate journals (with commentary now and then from me) because I believe that they have the value of greater immediacy than my simple reminiscence. So that you know what to expect, they take the story right up to the moment when circumstances prevented us from taking notes.

  You’ll ask yourself as you read them, “How in the name of God did they preserve those diaries?” Well, I’ll take the credit for that. No matter what happens in a war, people on the move have to have clothes, and there came a moment when I took over the custody of the notebooks. When, eventually, I told James this, he smiled and said, “I trained you well.”

  13 November 1944: I love train journeys. Ben is a good traveling companion. He’s such a peaceful man to be with. And I like to be seen with him, given the way girls look at him. If I hadn’t met Charles—would I have wanted to marry Ben? Maybe, provided I could knock the sadness out of him. He’s a lot better now. He doesn’t mope as much. Why doesn’t Nana like him? And she surely doesn’t! She keeps nagging me about him, says that there’s a volcano in him. Tonight, we’re in the Wicklow Hotel and tomorrow we go to the embassy again.

  14 November 1944: In the Wicklow Hotel. I’m exhausted. How does KB do it? How does she produce so much energy? And the charm that goes with it? That man in the embassy would do anything for her. We weren’t supposed to hear a fraction of what he told us—he seemed to have forgotten war censorship. I’m too tired to write up in detail what happened today.

  14 November 1944: Ben was so startled to wake up and find me in his bed! I wanted him to have company in the night. He looked so scared when they told us at the embassy that we can become part of the American war effort. They’ll let Ben drive an ambulance in France. I can be his assistant. This is the best news. I don’t think Ben can face it, but I can give him the courage, I know that. He’s brave in himself, he just doesn’t know it. Tomorrow night we leave on the boat for England. I’m looking forward to seeing Claudia again. Sent Nana a card. I think Bob (Nana’s man-friend) will call to see her, now that he knows I’m not there.

  Thursday morning, 16 November 1944: Slept badly, but was able to catch up on the newspapers. KB is singing in the room next door while mighty battles are being fought in eastern France. I hadn’t imagined that the Americans could drive up from Italy so fast. If the little maps in the newspapers are right, they’ll be in Germany within a week or two. Wouldn’t that be our best policy—to wait until that happens? Then we could have the best of both worlds—be safe with the Americans, yet able to ask questions of the ordinary German people? She won’t agree. I wish I knew what to do.

  Later (Thursday afternoon): Miss B. is shopping; I’m waiting for her in the lounge of the hotel. We sail tonight, and I’m not too comfortable now with our plan. To judge from the news reports, Europe is going through awful turmoil, and we have no business going into that kind of scene. We’ve already been near shells and machine guns, and it got us nowhere. This is a wild-goose chase—to find a dead man.

  Thursday, 16 November 1944: Night on the boat from Dublin; the sea is calm. Ben isn’t. I don’t think he’s speaking to me. He says he has no faith in this mission. I’ve told him that to be a friend you must have faith. He got very cross with me and wanted not to get on the boat. He says that he will only come as far as London. He says that we have to go—“have to” emphatically—to the American embassy in London. I say, “Why?” And he says, “Because.” I say, “Because what?” And he says, “Just—because” (which is no sort of grown-up answer). Now I’m the one who’s afraid. But I’m not going to let him see that.

  Thursday, 16 November 1944: The Irish Sea is v. rough; I’m feeling sick. Not a bother on KB. She sails blithely on. I’m going to confront her; I have to. I’m going to say, Look, Charles isn’t with the American forces, and he’s not behind enemy lines. Charles was assassinated in Fauville. When will I do it? On the train? Or should I do it before we disembark so that we can just stay on the boat and go back home?

  Later: 4 A.M. I knew she wasn’t sleeping either, so I suggested (an hour ago) that we stand on the deck and enjoy the air. Stars everywhere, and a whipping breeze that would scrub the face of the moon. I said my say. “Charles will not come back,” I said. “They told me in France that they had no doubt. Why don’t we go home and leave it at that? Have a Mass said for him. Pray for him.” I thought that would soften the blow. It needed to—literally. She slapped me on the face. The few other people taking the night air looked around. She walked away.

  Thursday, 16 November 1944—or is it now Friday morning?: A beautiful night. Lots of stars. A pleasant breeze. Ben has been very agitated. And stupid. He’s behaving as though I don’t know what went on in France, what the Americans said. What he doesn’t know is the strength of my instinct. And it tells me that Charles is not only alive but well. I’ve given Ben a good talking-to.

  Saturday, 18 November 1944: KB still not speaking to me. Claudia not at Ritz Hotel, won’t be back until Monday. Are we waiting until then? KB won’t say. She seems distressed, won’t answer my questions.

  89

  In London on that November Sunday, as you may suspect from the journal entries, we saw nothing of each other. Around lunchtime I knocked at her door and waited; she slid a note out underneath; it rustled at my toe cap: GO AWAY.

  I turned the note around and scrawled on the back of it, “I will. I’m going back home.” The
n I left the hotel and walked for miles, utterly confused about everything. In the weeks to come I would recall that walk as peaceful, a haven, a small paradise.

  Of course I didn’t go back home, because I’d given my word. As I walked, I brought myself around to catch the breeze of optimism, despite the ruined streets. A curious note in the newspapers over lunch triggered it: MANY IRISHMEN NOW ENLISTING IN BRITISH FORCES. What was their thinking? To get in at the end because victory must soon come?

  My own war effort—I used the term mockingly—didn’t seem nearly as grave as the sacrifice they were making. Or, second thoughts, was it a sacrifice at all? An army in retreat attracts increasing enmity—everybody wants to kick the dying man.

  Not that you could tell the Germans felt weak. Their military spokesman, General Dittmar, had been quoted as preparing to counterattack in Holland and Belgium.

  “We stand at the interval between the stage of thinly manned fronts and a new phase of the war. The outlook remains hopeful in view of the means of war, some of which are already in use and some in preparation.”

  By “already in use” he meant, I assumed, the V1 and V2 rockets that had been falling on England, and which therefore might now kill us in London.

  I read General Dittmar’s statement with further confusion. He was the official spokesman for the German High Command. Whom can one believe? Are “we” winning? Certainly the maps show the German fallback—and now I learned on the same page that the Allies had taken the town of Metz, close to the German border. Also, Stalin, coming in from the east, was at the gates of Budapest.

  When I folded the newspaper and went to finish my mug of tea, I found my hands shaking. Oddly, our neutrality calmed me. I began to focus on the word and think what it meant. The political fact of our Irish leaders not wanting us to get bombed had little to do with this idiotic escapade on which I had embarked. Or had it? If I grew “neutral” about it, if I became less emotional, might I be of greater service? Might it not be kinder?