Robert stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, then took off his shirt and used it to wipe the blood. "We need clean water," he said.
There was a standpipe in the yard. Lloyd went out, but he had no container. He returned to the compound. The bucket was still there on the ground. He washed it out, then filled it with water.
When he returned, the mattress was soaked in blood.
Robert dipped his shirt in the bucket and continued to wash Jorg's wounds, kneeling beside the mattress. Soon the white shirt was red.
Jorg stirred.
Robert spoke to him in a low voice. "Be calm, my beloved," he said. "It's over now, and I'm here." But Jorg seemed not to hear.
Then Macke came in, with four or five Brownshirts following. He grabbed Robert's arm and pulled him. "So!" he said. "Now you know what we think of homosexual perverts."
Lloyd pointed at Jorg and said angrily: "The pervert is the one who caused this to happen." Mustering all his rage and contempt, he said: "Commissar Macke."
Macke gave a slight nod to one of the Brownshirts. In a movement that was deceptively casual, the man reversed his rifle and hit Lloyd over the head with the butt.
Lloyd fell to the ground, holding his head in agony.
He heard Robert say: "Please, just let me look after Jorg."
"Perhaps," said Macke. "First come over here."
Despite his pain, Lloyd opened his eyes to see what was happening.
Macke pulled Robert across the room to a rough wooden table. From his pocket he drew a document and a fountain pen. "Your restaurant is now worth half of what I last offered you--ten thousand marks."
"Anything," said Robert, weeping. "Leave me to be with Jorg."
"Sign here," said Macke. "Then the three of you can go home."
Robert signed.
"This gentleman can be a witness," Macke said. He gave the pen to one of the Brownshirts. He looked across the room and met Lloyd's eye. "And perhaps our foolhardy English guest can be the second witness."
Robert said: "Just do what he wants, Lloyd."
Lloyd struggled to his feet, rubbed his sore head, took the pen, and signed.
Macke pocketed the contract triumphantly and went out.
Robert and Lloyd returned to Jorg.
But Jorg was dead.
viii
Walter and Maud came to the Lehrte Station, just north of the burned-out Reichstag, to see Ethel and Lloyd off. The station building was in the neo-Renaissance style and looked like a French palace. They were early, and they sat in a station cafe while they waited for the train.
Lloyd was glad to be leaving. In six weeks he had learned a lot, about the German language and about politics, but now he wanted to get home, tell people what he had seen, and warn them against the same thing happening to them.
All the same he felt strangely guilty about departing. He was going to a place where the law ruled, the press was free, and it was not a crime to be a Social Democrat. He was leaving the von Ulrich family to live on in a cruel dictatorship where an innocent man could be torn to pieces by dogs and no one would ever be brought to justice for the crime.
The von Ulrichs looked crushed, Walter even more than Maud. They were like people who have heard bad news, or suffered a death in the family. They seemed unable to think much about anything other than the catastrophe that had happened to them.
Lloyd had been released with profuse apologies from the German Foreign Ministry, and an explanatory statement that was abject yet at the same time mendacious, implying that he had got into a brawl through his own foolishness and then been held prisoner by an administrative error for which the authorities were deeply sorry.
Walter said: "I've had a telegram from Robert. He's arrived safely in London."
As an Austrian citizen Robert had been able to leave Germany without much difficulty. Getting his money out had been more tricky. Walter had demanded that Macke pay the money to a bank in Switzerland. At first Macke had said that was impossible, but Walter had put pressure on him, threatening to challenge the sale in court, saying that Lloyd was prepared to testify that the contract had been signed under duress, and in the end Macke had pulled some strings.
"I'm glad Robert got out," Lloyd said. He would be even happier when he himself was safe in London. His head was still tender and he got a pain in his ribs every time he turned over in bed.
Ethel said to Maud: "Why don't you come to London? Both of you. The whole family, I mean."
Walter looked at Maud. "Perhaps we should," he said. But Lloyd could tell that he did not really mean it.
"You've done your best," Ethel said. "You've fought bravely. But the other side won."
Maud said: "It's not over yet."
"But you're in danger."
"So is Germany."
"If you came to live in London, Fitz might soften his attitude, and help you."
Earl Fitzherbert was one of the wealthiest men in Britain, Lloyd knew, because of the coal mines beneath his land in South Wales.
"He wouldn't help me," Maud said. "Fitz doesn't relent. I know that, and so do you."
"You're right," Ethel said. Lloyd wondered how she could be so sure, but he did not get a chance to ask. Ethel went on: "Well, you could easily get a job on a London newspaper, with your experience."
Walter said: "And what would I do in London?"
"I don't know," Ethel said. "What are you going to do here? There's not much point in being an elected representative in an impotent parliament." She was being brutally frank, Lloyd felt, but characteristically she was saying what had to be said.
Lloyd sympathized, but felt the von Ulrichs should stay. "I know it will be hard," Walter said. "But if decent people flee from Fascism it will spread all the faster."
"It's spreading anyway," Ethel rejoined.
Maud startled them all by saying vehemently: "I will not go. I absolutely refuse to leave Germany."
They all stared at her.
"I'm German, and have been for fourteen years," she said. "This is my country now."
"But you were born English," said Ethel.
"A country is mostly the people in it," Maud said. "I don't love England. My parents died a long time ago, and my brother has disowned me. I love Germany. For me, Germany is my wonderful husband, Walter; my misguided son, Erik; my alarmingly capable daughter, Carla; our maid, Ada, and her disabled son; my friend Monika and her family; my journalistic colleagues . . . I'm staying, to fight the Nazis."
"You've already done more than your share," Ethel said gently.
Maud's tone became emotional. "My husband has dedicated himself, his life, his entire being to making this country free and prosperous. I will not be the cause of his giving up his life's work. If he loses that, he loses his soul."
Ethel pushed the point in a way that only an old friend could. "Still," she said, "there must be a temptation to take your children to safety."
"A temptation? You mean a longing, a yearning, a desperate desire!" She began to cry. "Carla has nightmares about Brownshirts, and Erik puts on that shit-colored uniform every chance he gets." Lloyd was startled by her fervor. He had never heard a respectable woman say shit. She went on: "Of course I want to take them away." Lloyd could see how torn she was. She rubbed her hands together as if washing them, turned her head from side to side in distraction, and spoke in a voice that shook violently with her inner conflict. "But it's the wrong thing to do, for them as well as for us. I will not give in to it! Better to suffer evil than stand by and do nothing."
Ethel touched Maud's arm. "I'm sorry I asked. Perhaps it was silly of me. I might have known you wouldn't run away."
"I'm glad you asked," Walter said. He reached out and took Maud's slim hands in his own. "The question has been hanging in the air between Maud and me, unspoken. It was time we faced it." Their joined hands rested on the cafe table. Lloyd rarely thought about the emotional lives of his mother's generation--they were middle-aged and married, and that seemed to say it all--
but now he saw that between Walter and Maud there was a powerful connection that was much more than the familiar habit of a mature marriage. They were under no illusions: they knew that by staying here they were risking their lives and the lives of their children. But they had a shared commitment that defied death.
Lloyd wondered whether he would ever have such a love.
Ethel looked at the clock. "Oh, my goodness!" she said. "We're going to miss the train!"
Lloyd picked up their bags and they hurried across the platform. A whistle blew. They boarded the train just in time. They both leaned out of the window as it pulled out of the station.
Walter and Maud stood on the platform, waving, getting smaller and smaller in the distance, until finally they disappeared.
CHAPTER TWO
1935
"Two things you need to know about girls in Buffalo," said Daisy Peshkov. "They drink like fish, and they're all snobs."
Eva Rothmann giggled. "I don't believe you," she said. Her German accent had almost completely vanished.
"Oh, it's true," said Daisy. They were in her pink-and-white bedroom, trying on clothes in front of a full-length three-way mirror. "Navy and white might look good on you," Daisy said. "What do you think?" She held a blouse up to Eva's face and studied the effect. The contrasting colors seemed to suit her.
Daisy was looking through her closet for an outfit Eva could wear to the beach picnic. Eva was not a pretty girl, and the frills and bows that decorated many of Daisy's clothes only made Eva look frumpy. Stripes better suited her strong features.
Eva's hair was dark, and her eyes deep brown. "You can wear bright colors," Daisy told her.
Eva had few clothes of her own. Her father, a Jewish doctor in Berlin, had spent his life savings to send her to America, and she had arrived a year ago with nothing. A charity paid for her to go to Daisy's boarding school--they were the same age, nineteen. But Eva had nowhere to go in the summer vacation, so Daisy had impulsively invited her home.
At first Daisy's mother, Olga, had resisted. "Oh, but you're away at school all year--I so look forward to having you to myself in the summer."
"She's really great, Mother," Daisy had said. "She's charming and easygoing and a loyal friend."
"I suppose you feel sorry for her because she's a refugee from the Nazis."
"I don't care about the Nazis, I just like her."
"That's fine, but does she have to live with us?"
"Mother, she has nowhere else to go!"
As usual, Olga let Daisy have her way in the end.
Now Eva said: "Snobs? No one would be snobby to you!"
"Oh, yes, they would."
"But you're so pretty and vivacious."
Daisy did not bother to deny it. "They hate that about me."
"And you're rich."
It was true. Daisy's father was wealthy, her mother had inherited a fortune, and Daisy herself would come into money when she was twenty-one. "It doesn't mean a thing. In this town it's about how long you've been rich. You're nobody if you work. The superior people are those who live on the millions left by their great-grandparents." She spoke in a tone of gay mockery to hide the resentment she felt.
Eva said: "And your father is famous!"
"They think he's a gangster."
Daisy's grandfather, Josef Vyalov, had owned bars and hotels. Her father, Lev Peshkov, had used the profits to buy ailing vaudeville theaters and convert them into cinemas. Now he owned a Hollywood studio, too.
Eva was indignant on Daisy's behalf. "How can they say such a thing?"
"They believe he was a bootlegger. They're probably right. I can't see how else he made money out of bars during Prohibition. Anyway, that's why Mother will never be invited to join the Buffalo Ladies' Society."
They both looked at Olga, sitting on Daisy's bed, reading the Buffalo Sentinel. In photographs taken when she was young, Olga was a willowy beauty. Now she was dumpy and drab. She had lost interest in her appearance, though she shopped energetically with Daisy, never caring how much she spent to make her daughter look fabulous.
Olga looked up from the newspaper to say: "I'm not sure they mind your father being a bootlegger, dear. But he's a Russian immigrant, and on the rare occasions he decides to attend divine service he goes to the Russian Orthodox Church on Ideal Street. That's almost as bad as being Catholic."
Eva said: "It's so unfair."
"I might as well warn you that they're not too fond of Jews, either," Daisy said. Eva was in fact half-Jewish. "Sorry to be blunt."
"Be as blunt as you like--after Germany, this country feels like the promised land."
"Don't get too comfortable," Olga warned her. "According to this paper, plenty of American business leaders hate President Roosevelt and admire Adolf Hitler. I know that's true, because Daisy's father is one of them."
"Politics is boring," said Daisy. "Isn't there something interesting in the Sentinel?"
"Yes, there is. Muffie Dixon is to be presented at the British court."
"Good for her," Daisy said sourly, failing to conceal her envy.
Olga read: "'Miss Muriel Dixon, daughter of the late Charles "Chuck" Dixon, who was killed in France during the war, will be presented at Buckingham Palace next Tuesday by the wife of the United States ambassador, Mrs. Robert W. Bingham.'"
Daisy had heard enough about Muffie Dixon. "I've been to Paris, but never London," she said to Eva. "What about you?"
"Neither," said Eva. "The first time I left Germany was when I sailed to America."
Olga suddenly said: "Oh, dear!"
"What's happened?" Daisy said.
Her mother crumpled the paper. "Your father took Gladys Angelus to the White House."
"Oh!" Daisy felt as if she had been slapped. "But he said he would take me!"
President Roosevelt had invited a hundred businessmen to a reception in an attempt to win them over to his New Deal. Lev Peshkov thought Franklin D. Roosevelt was the next thing to a Communist, but he had been flattered to be asked to the White House. However, Olga had refused to accompany him, saying angrily: "I'm not willing to pretend to the president that we have a normal marriage."
Lev officially lived here, in the stylish prewar prairie home built by Grandfather Vyalov, but he spent more nights at the swanky downtown apartment where he kept his mistress of many years, Marga. On top of that everyone assumed he was having an affair with his studio's biggest star, Gladys Angelus. Daisy understood why her mother felt spurned. Daisy, too, felt rejected when Lev drove off to spend his evenings with his other family.
She had been thrilled when he asked her to accompany him to the White House instead of her mother. She had told everyone she was going. None of her friends had met the president except the Dewar boys, whose father was a senator.
Lev had not told her the exact date, and she assumed he would let her know at the last minute, which was his usual style. But he had changed his mind, or perhaps just forgotten. Either way, he had rejected Daisy again.
"I'm sorry, honey," said her mother. "But promises never did mean much to your father."
Eva was looking sympathetic. Her pity stung Daisy. Eva's father was thousands of miles away, and she might never see him again, but she felt sorry for Daisy, as if Daisy's plight were worse.
It made Daisy feel defiant. She would not let this ruin her day. "Well, I'll be the only girl in Buffalo who has been stood up for Gladys Angelus," she said. "Now, what shall I wear?"
Skirts were dramatically short this year in Paris, but the conservative Buffalo set followed fashion at a distance. However, Daisy had a knee-length tennis dress in a shade of baby blue the same as her eyes. Maybe today was the day to bring it out. She slipped off her dress and put on the new one. "What do you think?" she said.
Eva said: "Oh, Daisy, it's beautiful, but . . ."
Olga said: "That'll make their eyes pop." Olga liked it when Daisy dressed to kill. Perhaps it reminded her of her youth.
Eva said: "Daisy, if they're
all so snobbish, why do you want to go to the party?"
"Charlie Farquharson will be there, and I'm thinking of marrying him," Daisy said.
"Are you serious?"
Olga said emphatically: "He's a great catch."
Eva said: "What's he like?"
"Absolutely adorable," Daisy said. "Not the handsomest boy in Buffalo, but sweet and kind, and rather shy."
"He sounds very different from you."
"It's the attraction of opposites."
Olga spoke again. "The Farquharsons are among the oldest families in Buffalo."
Eva raised her dark eyebrows. "Snobby?"
"Very," Daisy said. "But Charlie's father lost all his money in the Wall Street crash, then died--killed himself, some say--so they need to restore the family fortunes."
Eva looked shocked. "You're hoping he'll marry you for your money?"
"No. He'll marry me because I will bewitch him. But his mother will accept me for my money."
"You say you will bewitch him. Does he know about any of this?"
"Not yet. But I think I might make a start this afternoon. Yes, this is definitely the right dress."
Daisy wore the baby blue and Eva the navy-and-white stripes. By the time they got ready they were late.
Daisy's mother would not have a chauffeur. "I married my father's chauffeur, and it ruined my life," she sometimes said. She was terrified Daisy might do something similar--that was why she was so keen on Charlie Farquharson. If she needed to go anywhere in her creaking 1925 Stutz she made Henry, the gardener, take off his rubber boots and put on a black suit. But Daisy had her own car, a red Chevrolet Sport Coupe.
Daisy liked driving, loved the power and speed of it. They headed south out of the city. She was almost sorry it was only five or six miles to the beach.
As she drove she thought about life as Charlie's wife. With her money and his status they would become the leading couple in Buffalo society. At their dinner parties the table settings would be so elegant that people would gasp in delight. They would have the biggest yacht in the harbor, and throw onboard parties for other wealthy, fun-loving couples. People would yearn for an invitation from Mrs. Charles Farquharson. No charity function would be a success without Daisy and Charlie at the top table. In her head she watched a movie of herself, in a ravishing Paris gown, walking through a crowd of admiring men and women, smiling graciously at their compliments.