Papa’s career, I lament, ruined because of my own stupidity. Anger rises up in me, then a sense of futility. Krysia had been encouraging me to be my own person. Instead, I’ve become a chess piece in the very way I’d criticized Georg of being. But if I don’t help, I will discredit Papa. “I hate politics.”
“It’s always politics, isn’t it, unless it is our own point of view? Then it is the truth.”
A sharp coughing erupts across the room. Georg. He has stepped from the cloakroom and gasps for air, his face turning red. Suddenly he slumps against the wall and his eyes roll back. He collapses to the floor.
“Georg!” I start forward, but Krysia puts her arm on mine. “Herr Mitten is a doctor. Let him take care of this.” A group of men swarm Georg, tending to him, loosening his collar. Let him be all right, I pray. Minutes pass with agonizing slowness. Outside comes the shrill cry of an ambulance siren.
I step forward again, desperate to be with Georg. He needs me.
But Papa is beside me now, holding me back as medics put Georg on a stretcher and carry him from the house. I turn to him frantically. “We should go to the hospital.”
“It isn’t our place. The other delegation members will look after him.”
I press against his grasp. “But...”
“We should go.”
I start to protest. The notion of returning to Versailles without knowing if Georg is safe is unfathomable.
“I will check,” Krysia whispers. Papa herds me toward the car, the siren wailing long and desolate as the ambulance bearing Georg disappears into the night.
Chapter 8
The next morning I’ve just finished steeping my tea when the bell rings, signaling an unexpected visitor below. Hearing footsteps on the stairway, I wonder if I should wake Papa in case it is official business. But when I open the door to the flat, Krysia appears on the landing. I am surprised; she has not come to Versailles at all in the months since we moved out here, much less unannounced.
“Did I wake you?” I shake my head. Worried about Georg, I’d slept little all night. I look over my shoulder. The apartment is a mess—Papa’s discarded notes are strewn across the floor in crumpled balls, and dirty glasses and filled ashtrays litter the tables. Picturing Krysia’s elegant flat, I step in front of the doorway, trying to block her view.
“I’m sorry not to have called first,” she says, appearing too large in the narrow, crooked corridor. “But I had to catch an early train and I didn’t want to wake anyone.”
“Not at all. I believe arriving unexpectedly is a tradition I started.”
She smiles slightly, but her expression is forced. Has she come in person to bring me bad news? “What is it? Is it Georg?”
“Everything is fine,” she replies hurriedly.
“Won’t you come in? I’ve just made tea.”
“No, thank you. I have an errand out of the city so I won’t be able to stay long. Perhaps we could walk instead? It really is a lovely morning.”
Outside the air is unseasonably warm but not unpleasant, with a gentle breeze wafting lavender from the fields to the east, clearing the smells of the street.
“He has pneumonia,” says Krysia a moment later.
My shoulders slump with relief. “So it isn’t the flu.”
“No, but pneumonia is no trifling matter. Apparently he’s had it for some time but neglected to get care.” I recall the persistent cough that Georg had shrugged off in order to keep working. Ignoring their health is another way in which he and Papa are alike. “Anyway, they’ve pumped him full of medicine and he should be discharged to his rooms later today.”
We round the corner, skirting the edge of the market, where chickens and cabbage and fabric and tools are sold indiscriminately alongside one another from wooden, tarp-covered stalls or cloths spread on the ground. The smell of fish, still alive in murky tubs of water, hangs heavy in the air. Krysia lowers her voice to a whisper. “I spoke with Ignatz after the reception last night,” she says, and I understand then her reason for coming here in person rather than ringing. “I thought perhaps I could reason with him, but I was wrong. He’s quite dangerous. He came from the Pale, saw his own brother murdered by the czar’s army.” He had lost a brother like Georg, but he had responded with anger and bile. “He has a criminal past, has done things that I’d rather not know about. In another time, he would be just a common thug. But in this world...” I nod. Paris right now is a free-for-all, the old rules broken. Power and opportunity are there for those who dare take it.
“Perhaps I should just refuse. After all, Papa has been given an ambassadorial title for purposes of the conference. With his diplomatic immunity, surely he would be sheltered from any scandal.”
She shakes her head. “I grew up as a diplomat’s child, remember? Immunity is easily dispensed with for political purposes. If your father was found to have leaked information, he could be arrested, or simply declared persona non grata and ordered to leave the country.” I nod. Even if he weren’t formally prosecuted, the scandal and having to face Uncle Walter in failure would be more than Papa could bear. “Ignatz isn’t going to let you off until he gets what he wants.”
“But I haven’t seen any documents,” I say evasively. “Georg only has me work on translations, documents given to him by the English or the French. They’re nothing like the information on German weapons that Ignatz wanted. Perhaps Georg doesn’t even know anything.”
“He’s a senior military officer and a member of the delegation,” she replies impatiently. “Of course he knows something. And now...”
“He’s sick.”
She swats at a gnat, then exhales, exasperated. “So much the better. He’ll be resting, disoriented.”
“I’m not going to take advantage of his condition.” There is a line I won’t cross, even when threatened.
“Why are you protecting him? Is it because you have feelings for him?”
“No, of course not. I’m engaged,” I add, pulling Stefan’s ring from my pocket and holding it up like some sort of amulet to ward off danger. “But Georg trusts me.”
“So does your father,” she adds pointedly.
My stomach tightens. How had I gotten into such a mess? But Krysia is right. My loyalties must lie with Papa.
“You asked for my help and I’ve done what I can. You need to look out for yourself now.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I have to go. Come see me when you are in the city.”
“Wait...” She turns back expectantly. I search for the words to form a question, and seek extra guidance from her. But I must figure out the rest on my own. “Thank you.”
“Not at all. I wish I could have been more help. Take care of yourself. Get some rest. And here....” She reaches in her bag and pulls out a small sachet. “You might give these to Georg in some tea or broth.” She knows, even before I’ve admitted it to myself, that I will be going to him.
“What is it?”
“Just herbs, rose hips and such. They are most restorative.” She presses the sachet into my hands and, before I can thank her again, turns and walks down the street.
I return to our apartment where the tea I’d made earlier still sits on the table. I pick up the semi-warm cup, thinking back to my walk in the garden with Georg the previous evening. There had never been a moment like that with me and Stefan. It is hardly a fair comparison, since we knew each other our entire lives before we were together. But even if we had been strangers and met under similar circumstances, it would feel nothing like this. Stefan. Sometimes it is as if he is already gone. But he is out there, wounded yet alive. And I am, or am supposed to be, his.
Papa emerges from his room, dressed for the conference session in the city. “I’m afraid there’s a meeting tonight, so I won’t be back to dine with you. Would you care to come into the city today? You could shop with Celia.”
“I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind. I’m quite tired after last night’s dinner.”
His eyebrows lift.
Then he shrugs. “It’s your choice. I just thought, now that your work with Georg is on hiatus, you might be bored.”
I set the teacup down. “Krysia told me that he’s to be released from the hospital today.”
“He’s sick, darling. He won’t be able to work. And surely you aren’t thinking about going over there....”
“It’s pneumonia, Papa,” I answer quickly. “Not contagious at all.”
“You can’t be certain.” But then, seeing my stubborn expression he knows so well, he shrugs. “My car is waiting. Don’t stay too long at the hotel.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
“Be careful—and give him my best.”
When the door has closed behind him, I race to the window, craning my neck to look down the street at the hotel. It could be hours before Georg returns. I straighten the apartment, then sit down to read by the window. But I glance up to check the street so often I cannot keep my place. Finally, I give up and pace the apartment restlessly.
It is late afternoon when I finally glimpse a flash of white, the top of an ambulance as it lumbers down the cobblestone street below. I leap to my feet in time to see the back doors of the ambulance opening in front of the hotel. My heart twists as Georg is carried motionless on a stretcher through the front gate. When the ambulance has disappeared again, I go to the washroom to freshen. Then, unable to wait any longer, I make my way down to the street. The guard at the front of the hotel, accustomed to my late-day arrival, nods as I pass.
I knock on the door to Georg’s apartment and a moment later it swings open, revealing an attractive dark-haired girl wearing a white apron and cap. “Oui?”
“Oh.” I falter. It had not occurred to me that anyone would be here. It makes sense—Georg is helpless and needs care. Still, I cannot help resent the familiar way the nurse moves around his room, the ease with which she adjusts his pillow.
From the hulking mass of blankets atop the bed, there comes a violent cough. “Georg?” As I move toward him, my jealousy is replaced with concern. He lies motionless with eyes closed, his skin damp and gray. Was he really well enough to be discharged?
His eyes flutter open and as they focus on me, he smiles faintly. “Margot...” He struggles to sit up.
I press my hand on his shoulder. “Rest, and don’t try to move.”
He nods slightly in acquiescence, then closes his eyes once more. There is a dark stubble about his cheeks which gives him an unkempt look. Trying not to stare at the top of his chest, the few dark hairs revealed by the open collar of his dressing gown, I avert my gaze. The apartment is tidy, but there are smells of antiseptic and iodine I do not recognize.
He opens his eyes again. “Hello,” he says, as though he had forgotten I was there. His faint smile lifts my heart. “Now if you will help me get out of this silly bed, we can get back to work.”
“Work? You can’t possibly work in your condition.”
Frustration crosses his face as he processes for the first time the delay that his incapacitation will cause. “How could I have allowed this to happen?”
“You’re human. Humans get ill.”
He shakes his head stubbornly. “Not me. Not now.”
I take his hand, rubbing it like a child’s to soothe him. “Shh. Getting upset will only make things worse.”
The nurse appears again and sets down a tray of broth and toast on the nightstand by the bed. “Merci, Mildred. That will be all,” George says.
“But...” She looks confused at being dismissed. “There’s a tonic if he starts feeling poorly. I’ll check on him again in the morning.
“The delegation insisted upon hiring her,” he explains when she has gone. He coughs again, the spasms indicating that he is the furthest thing from better.
“Drink,” I order, holding the cup and supporting his head. His hair where it meets his neck is short, like the fuzz of a baby chick I once held.
“It’s awful,” he says when he has recovered, frowning so hard I wonder if he is in pain. “You seeing me like this.”
“Not at all.” But his expression remains displeased. Does he mind that I have come? “I was so worried...” His eyes widen, as if unused to having anyone care about him. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” he replies firmly, almost before I have finished asking. “But if you could help me...” I lean forward in anticipation of his request, another pillow or perhaps some medicine. “Can you bring me my binder from the desk?”
“You aren’t nearly well enough to work,” I insist again.
“But there’s no time.” He tries to sit up.
I press him back against the pillow firmly, the skin of his bare chest warm under my hand. “If you get up too soon and relapse, we’ll never finish.”
“But—”
“I can keep working for you,” I interrupt. He relaxes, seemingly mollified. I walk to the anteroom and retrieve the binder he’d indicated and carry it back. “Now I will keep translating as long as you rest. Understood?”
He smiles weakly and closes his eyes once more. “Yes, fraulein.”
I shift in the hardwood chair, balancing the binder on my lap. Working like this is awkward, but I can watch him from here in case he needs anything. A fan hums low in the corner, sending the curtains dancing a gentle waltz. I glance up. Georg’s head is tilted back and he is snoring lightly, eyes dancing beneath their lids. What does he dream about? His features are so familiar to me now, the way Stefan’s should have been, if only I could remember them clearly. His face is relaxed, as vulnerable and innocent as a boy’s. My heart twists. Here I am, caring for Georg as I should have been Stefan. But this does not feel suffocating—I belong here and this is where I want to be.
An hour passes. I set down the translation. Georg is awake now and watching me. “How are you?”
“A bit better now, I think.”
“Do you want to try some of the broth?” He nods. I move the tray close and start to spoon it for him.
“I can manage.” I sit back, watching as he eats with a shaky hand.
He eats in silence, his eyes focused over my shoulder. I follow his gaze to a picture of a group of men on the deck of an enormous ship. “Are you thinking of the sea?”
“The men. They called me a hero after Jutland,” he said. “But I just did what was expected of me, and we—most of us, anyway—made it through. Later I was summoned from the ship to the delegation. The sailors—they think I abandoned them.” He sets the spoon down as a pained look crosses his face.
“Shh,” I soothe.
He continues, as if he has not heard me. “I’m so broken, Margot. And if I can make this work...” His eyes are desperate, wild. He clings to his work for the conference like a raft. “When I’m with you, it all seems possible somehow.” My stomach flips. “The day I stepped off that bus and saw you standing by the roadside, I felt as if I had somehow known you my whole life.” Can he possibly be saying such things? I search his face but his eyes are glazed, lost in some sort of delirium.
I reach forward and press my hand to his forehead. It is alarmingly hot, his fever climbing as night approaches. Perhaps it was a mistake to let the nurse leave. I walk to the sink and find the tonic she’d indicated. “Swallow,” I order, holding a spoonful of the thick brown syrup to his lips.
He obeys, grimacing. “Talk to me....” He pants, eyes closed, too sick now to care whether I continue working or not. “I should like to have a dog again,” he remarks sleepily, jumping topics without reason. “A terrier, most likely.”
“Yes,” I say, a mother giving permission for such a pet. He reaches for my hand and I let him take it. This will mean nothing, I tell myself. But there is an intensity to his touch and longing rises in me before I can help it.
“The other day, when I told you there had never been a woman...that wasn’t entirely true.” I hold my breath. “There was someone once. At port in Genoa, I met a young woman.” I close my eyes, desperately curious and at the same time wishing he
would not continue. “We walked the city and she showed me a great many sites before bidding me bon voyage. She took me as just another sailor, though I could have liked her quite a bit.” The book that is Georg opens and words spill forth, forming a picture that I can now see more completely.
“You remind me of her.” I stiffen. I do not want to be a substitute for someone else. “She was just an image, there for a few hours. But I’ve gotten to know you so much more. The way you flare your nostrils when angry.” I cringe at this less-than-flattering description. “How your eyes seem to change colors with your temper, like two mood stones...” These last words slur as he starts to drift off. Conflicting emotions rise up in me—jealousy over this woman that once held his heart and relief that he has cared, is capable of it.
He does not speak further. I pick up the binder once more, but I am unable to concentrate. Georg is sleeping deeply now, a snore like a low growl each time he inhales, a whistle more teakettle than train with every release. My thoughts turn to Ignatz and the need to find something to pacify him. But the kind of information Ignatz seeks, if Georg possesses it at all, would not be found in the documents that Georg has me translate. I look toward the study, Krysia’s suggestion to search while he is asleep echoing in my mind. If I am going to do this it has to be now. I will check, just once, in order to satisfy Ignatz that there is nothing here. I open the door to the sitting room, then turn back, my guilt rising at the sight of Georg sleeping peacefully. I do not want to betray his trust, but I have to protect Papa.
Trying to step normally but keep my footsteps quiet, I walk through the doorway. On the far side of the sitting room, there is a stack of documents he keeps separate from the other papers, the ones he asks me to translate. I pick up the pile and riffle through, scanning the documents, which are in German. There are cables here about shipbuilding operations, a new line of cargo freighters. I relax slightly. So this is why he has not asked me to translate these materials—they pertain not at all to the conference, but rather to his family’s shipping business.