The Ambassador's Daughter (15 page)

Georg shifts slightly and his expression is pained. His eyes meet mine over her head and the look of longing is unmistakable. He would rather be alone with me, as well, I realize, suppressing a flutter.

The sound of a piano, its cadence familiar, blossoms from the corner of the room. I turn, delighted to see Krysia seated at the keyboard. I had not known she would be playing tonight. The sound is more fulsome than usual, Marcin at his cello beside her. I start toward Krysia, but a tuxedoed man I do not recognize reaches the piano first. He pages through the sheet music over her shoulder and I expect her to be annoyed, but she does not appear so. A moment later, the man whispers something, then walks away. Krysia begins playing a Chopin piece, presumably the one the man requested.

As the last note fades to a smattering of polite applause, I approach. “You didn’t mention you would be here tonight.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I’ve never heard you two play together. You sound wonderful.”

“Marcin is the real artist,” she remarks. He smiles but does not look up from tuning his instrument. “I’m going to take a break, my dear,” she tells him. She steps away from the piano as he begins to play a solo, her eyes wide with adoration. Krysia always seems so strong; it is strange to watch her step back and let Marcin take center stage. But she is right, there is a poetry to the way his fingers move over the strings, a fluidity to his bowing that even a neophyte such as myself can recognize as world-class.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Krysia says. “There’s something I need to... Good evening.” She switches topics abruptly, glancing over my shoulder. I turn and find Georg standing behind me, too close.

“Captain Richwalder.” There is a note of playfulness to my formality. He does not answer, but stares at me. It is the gown, one that Celia had picked out for me. The pink material clings long and lean to my torso and the neckline is much more daring than the everyday blouses I wear to work for him. My mother’s drop pearl necklace circles my throat.

“Margot.” He recovers, then leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, the scent of his aftershave reminiscent of his rooms, only more intense. I freeze—though not improper, it is hardly the traditional kiss on the hand. His lips are warm and fleeting on my cheek, high and close to my ear. He pauses, breath lingering in my hair, and I fight the urge to move even closer. As he straightens, his expression is confused, as though he had not himself quite planned to behave in such a manner.

Beside me, Krysia clears her throat. “Please excuse me,” I say. “Georg, this is Krysia Smok.”

“A pleasure,” she says, but her voice is devoid of its usual warmth and her hand remains at her side.

“Krysia is Polish,” I offer, trying to break the ice that has formed suddenly.

“From Krakow to be exact.”

He grimaces. “Southern Poland is a hotbed for communists. The traitor Rosa Luxemburg for one.” His voice is harsher than usual.

Krysia stiffens at his reference to the recently killed activist. “Rosa and I were classmates in school. She was shot like a dog, her body dumped in a canal. Is this the world we’ve come to?”

“I certainly don’t condone such violence. But the communists are a great menace to our society back home. Law and order is needed,” he adds firmly.

“But in a democracy, the ideals of different groups—”

“All have their place in an orderly forum.” I understand now why Krysia and he instantly dislike each other.

Krysia looks away, unable to continue the debate calmly and unwilling to rise to the bait. “Krakow is beautiful,” she says, returning to more neutral waters. “The City of Kings, we call it. Castles and churches and the mountains close by. You should try to see it someday.”

Georg shakes his head. “It’s landlocked. I’m afraid my love pulls me toward the sea.”

“‘One may find beauty where one least expects it,’” Krysia prods. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth...’”

“‘...than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” he finishes for her. There is an awkward silence between them. Georg’s expression is uncomfortable, Krysia’s icy. “Margot, I need to speak with your father about some matters. If you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for a response, he walks across the room, leaving me deflated by his departure, as well as the realization that the two people I’ve met and like best since coming to Paris do not seem to at all like each other.

“So that’s your German,” she says, a note of disdain to her voice.

“He’s not ‘my’ German,” I correct, annoyed. “He’s German—as am I. What was that last bit about?”

“It’s from Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
. It means that one should not profess to know all of the answers—and that the world holds a great many mysteries and wonders for one to see.” Her bottom lip curls. “Not that he would understand.”

“Krysia, you’ve hardly met him.”

“He’s a fascist soldier and—forgive me—a German.”

“It is a hard thing to be rejected for who you are,” I say, throwing back at her the words she’d used to describe the pain of being shunned by Marcin’s Jewish family.

“Perhaps.” But I can tell from the way her jaw is set that she will never accept him.

Over Krysia’s shoulder, I watch Georg and Papa together, heads bowed low in quiet conversation. The two could not be more different—the scholar and the warrior—yet I love them both so much.
Love.
I stop, caught off guard by my thought. It is the first time I have ever allowed myself to think of Georg that way and now it has leaped out and I cannot stop it—like trying to put paste back into a tube. Is such a thing possible after just a few days? My feelings for Georg are undeniably real, but at the same time they change nothing—not the fact that I cannot be with him, or that Stefan is still waiting for me.

“He should be thanking God for the Bolsheviks,” Krysia mutters under her breath.

I turn to her, grateful for the reprieve from my thoughts. “How can you say that?”

“Because the red menace, as they call it, is the only thing that’s keeping the Big Four from destroying Germany entirely. They need your country strong enough that communism cannot spread across Europe like wildfire, but not so strong that it can cause trouble again. If it weren’t for Russia, the Western powers would send Germany back into the nineteenth century. Of course, he would not understand that.” Before I can respond, Krysia returns to the piano and joins Marcin as he plays.

Standing alone, I scan the room for Papa and Georg. Across the party, one of the servers, older and more portly than the others, catches my eye. I gasp. Ignatz. He makes his way over to fill my wineglass. “What are you doing here?”

“Working. My cousin is a catering manager and I fill in sometimes for a bit of cash.”

“Oh,” I reply flatly, unplacated by his answer. There are dozens of parties in Paris each week—it makes no sense that he happens to be at this one.

“And I wanted to see you,” he continues, getting to the heart of the matter. My stomach sinks. “Have you gotten the documents for me?”

“You only asked me yesterday. There’s hardly been time.” I study his face wondering if he believes me. Could he possibly have known that Georg had left me alone in his rooms the previous night with full access to his files?

He does not press the point, instead gesturing across the room with his head. “That’s him over there, isn’t it?”

His question is not in earnest. The only military man in the room, Georg would be hard to miss. “Perhaps I shall speak with him myself.” Ignatz’s tone is menacing. “Or maybe your father...”

“No!” I yelp, more loudly than I intended. A woman standing behind me turns to look over her shoulder. Ignatz could reveal everything before all of these people and destroy Papa.

“Don’t play games with us, Margot,” he says, his voice low with menace. “Time is of the essence and...”

“Darling,” Papa says, coming to my side, “is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” I say, searching for an explanation for my extended conversation with a server. But when I turn around, Ignatz has disappeared. “I’m going to freshen up before we are seated.” I make my way from the reception, then double back around to the piano. “He’s here,” I whisper to Krysia from behind.

She does not stop playing. “I know. That is what I was trying to tell you. It is just like that fool. Remain calm and I will see what I can learn.”

A bell rings on the far side of the room, signaling dinner. At the door to the dining room I meet Georg, who is standing to one side, trying without success to adjust his tie. “May I?” I offer. It is something I have done as long as I can remember with Papa, smoothing out the knot, tucking the corners just so.

His face relaxes. “Please.”

I struggle to keep my fingers from trembling against his skin, the lump in his throat moves slightly beneath my touch. “There. Much better.”

“Thank you.” He coughs once, then again. “How are you enjoying the party?”

Our eyes meet and we laugh, understanding just how much we both hate being here. Then his expression turns serious. “It’s good, I suppose, to be out. I’m sorry if I offended your friend the pianist with my political talk. Spending so much time at sea has robbed me of all sense of polite conversation.”

“Not at all.”

“There you are.” Papa comes up behind us.

“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging to be seated near you,” Georg says. My breath catches. “There are some matters related to the Ruhr proposal that I’d like to discuss.” He was talking, of course, to Papa, not me. But when we reach the table the placards indicate that the seating is the customary man-woman-man insofar as the lopsided numbers permit, and I am nevertheless sandwiched in between Georg and my father. Seeing the arrangement, a frown flickers across Papa’s face.

The table is set plainly, I notice as I sit down in the chair that Georg has pulled back. The cloth napkins are crude, the knives and forks just a step above everyday kitchen silver. But this is more than just the lingering austerity of the war. Rather, the message from our hosts is clear—we will sit down with you Germans because we must, but we will never accept you as equals.

As the first course, salmon croquette, is served, Georg engages in conversation with a Swiss military attaché across the table. “If we can make them see that the German navy can help maintain peace and stability in the new order,” he begins doggedly. It is not the first time I have heard him express his views, and there is an optimism and hope in his voice that lightens my heart. But the faces across the table are skeptical.

“Surely you are aware of Weber’s writings on the subject of the military-economic nexus in Germany?” a Dutchman at the far end of the table asks. Georg falters. Though he speaks well about matters in which he has experience, he is self-conscious about having not completed his education.

“Will there still be a Germany?” I blurt out, trying to help him by changing the subject. All eyes around us turn in my direction.

“Pardon me?” a startled older woman to Papa’s right asks.

I clear my throat, too far gone to turn back. “It’s just that the country is so young.” Though Germany has been unified for all of my life, it is easy to forget that just half a century ago, when Papa was a boy, it was a series of fragmented states. Prussia, Bavaria and the other regions are still in many ways more distinct that homogenous. “The strain of the treaty, if it doesn’t go well, may be more than the republic can bear.”

“How can you speak of such things about your own country?” Leigh Arrington asks.

“Our remaining silent will not make the issue disappear. We must meet the question head-on.”

“My dear, is it your place to trouble with such things?” The question, from a monocled man I do not recognize, is condescending.

“I, for one, am most interested in what Fraulein Rosenthal has to say,” Georg declares, coming to my defense. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Papa nod slightly with approval. His reservations notwithstanding, Papa is pleased that Georg respects my views and treats me as an intellectual equal.

The main course, mutton in too-rich gravy, is served. The conversation turns elsewhere to a debate about North Africa about which I have no knowledge or views. Beneath the table, Georg’s fingers skim the back of my hand. I wonder if it is an accident, but then his fingers close firmly around mine. I can feel his eyes on me, trying to catch my gaze to ask if I mind. But I am unable to look up. Papa continues speaking to Georg above my head, noticing nothing.

With my free hand, I sample a piece of baguette, savoring the buttery flavor. Passover had ended just a few weeks ago and it had been nearly torture to walk past the patisseries only to face the dry, sawdustlike matzo Papa had procured from the city’s only functioning Jewish bakery. As I reach for my water glass, there is a clattering across the room, a silver tray falling from a server’s hands and crashing to the floor. Startled, Georg jumps up and reaches instinctively for the pistol he no longer carries.

“Never mind,” I soothe, putting my arm on his and willing him to sit down again. But he is shaken, a gray pallor to his complexion. Though he is not outwardly wounded like Stefan, Georg is broken in quieter ways. There are other signs, as well—he eats quickly, as though food might be taken from him, drinks each mouthful of water as if it might be his last. “Perhaps we should get some air,” I suggest.

“This room is infernally warm,” he agrees. “I’ve heard there are some lovely gardens. Do you think we might take a stroll?”

I hesitate, glancing at Papa, who is ensconced in a conversation with a man on his far side. “I’m going to powder my nose,” I say, gesturing slightly with my head toward the door, prompting him to meet me.

A moment later, I slip into the garden where Georg waits in the shadows. Outside the spring air is cool, but not unpleasantly so, the smell of fresh honeysuckle coming from the side of the path. A fountain trickles unseen in the darkness.

“This is much better.” He chuckles as we walk down the path, the voices inside fading. I hope he might offer me his arm, but he does not. “I thought that woman, LeeAnn...”

“Leigh Arrington,” I correct, secretly pleased he does not remember her name.