Winter of the World (12 page)

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-coloured uniform every
chance he gets.’ Lloyd was startled by her fervour. 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 to 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 café 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.

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 colours 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 colours,’ 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 theatres 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. ‘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 asked.

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 pre-war 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 had 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 had assumed that 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 was
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 had 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 harbour, and throw on-board 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.

She was still daydreaming when they reached their destination.

The city of Buffalo was in upstate New York, near the Canadian border. Woodlawn Beach was a mile of sand on the shore of Lake Erie. Daisy parked and they walked across the dunes.

Fifty or sixty people were already there. These were the adolescent children of the Buffalo elite, a privileged group who spent their summers sailing and water-skiing in the daytime and going to
parties and dances at night. Daisy greeted the people she knew, which was just about everyone, and introduced Eva around. They got glasses of punch. Daisy tasted it cautiously: some of the boys
would think it hilarious to spike the drink with a couple of bottles of gin.

The party was for Dot Renshaw, a sharp-tongued girl whom no one wanted to marry. The Renshaws were an old Buffalo family, like the Farquharsons, but their fortune had survived the crash. Daisy
made sure to approach the host, Dot’s father, and thank him. ‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ she said. ‘I lost track of time!’

Philip Renshaw looked her up and down. ‘That’s a very short skirt.’ Disapproval vied with lasciviousness in his expression.

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Daisy replied, pretending he had paid her a straightforward compliment.

‘Anyway, it’s good that you’re here at last,’ he went on. ‘A photographer from the
Sentinel
is coming and we must have some pretty girls in the
picture.’

Daisy muttered to Eva: ‘So that’s why I was invited. How kind of him to let me know.’

Dot came up. She had a thin face with a pointed nose. Daisy always thought she looked as if she might peck you. ‘I thought you were going with your father to meet the President,’ she
said.

Daisy felt mortified. She wished she had not boasted to everyone about this.

‘I see he took his, ahem, leading lady,’ Dot went on. ‘Unusual, that sort of thing, in the White House.’

Daisy said: ‘I guess the President likes to meet movie stars occasionally. He deserves a little glamour, don’t you think?’

‘I can’t imagine that Eleanor Roosevelt approved. According to the
Sentinel
, all the other men took their wives.’

‘How thoughtful of them.’ Daisy turned away, desperate to escape.