Winter of the World (41 page)

‘To Joanne Rouzrokh’s apartment. She’s giving a party.’

‘I heard about it. I know one of her room-mates. But I’m not invited, as you could probably guess. Her building is— good God!’ Greg stopped in mid-sentence.

Woody stopped, too. Greg was staring ahead. Following his gaze, Woody saw that he was looking at an attractive black woman walking towards them on E Street. She was about their age, and pretty,
with wide pinky-brown lips that made Woody think about kissing. She had on a plain black dress that might have been part of a waitress uniform, but she wore it with a cute hat and fashionable shoes
that gave her a stylish look.

She saw the two of them, caught Greg’s eye, and looked away.

Greg said: ‘Jacky? Jacky Jakes?’

The girl ignored him and kept walking, but Woody thought she looked troubled.

Greg said: ‘Jacky, it’s me, Greg Peshkov.’

Jacky – if it were she – did not respond, but she looked as if she might be about to burst into tears.

‘Jacky – real name Mabel. You know me!’ Greg stood in the middle of the sidewalk with his arms spread in a gesture of appeal.

She deliberately went around him, not speaking or meeting his eye, and walked on.

Greg turned. ‘Wait a minute!’ he called after her. ‘You ran out on me, four years ago – you owe me an explanation!’

This was uncharacteristic of Greg, Woody thought. He had always been such a smooth operator with girls, at school and at Harvard. Now he seemed genuinely upset: bewildered, hurt, almost
desperate.

Four years ago, Woody reflected. Could this be the girl in the scandal? It had taken place here in Washington. No doubt she lived here.

Greg ran after her. A cab had stopped at the corner and the passenger, a man in a tuxedo, was standing at the kerb paying the driver. Jacky jumped in, slamming the door.

Greg went to the window and shouted through it: ‘Talk to me, please!’

The man in the tuxedo said: ‘Keep the change,’ and walked away.

The cab moved off, leaving Greg staring after it.

He slowly returned to where Woody stood waiting, intrigued. ‘I don’t understand it,’ Greg said.

Woody said: ‘She looked frightened.’

‘What of? I never did her any harm. I was crazy about her.’

‘Well, she was scared of something.’

Greg seemed to shake himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not your problem, anyway. My apologies.’

‘Not at all.’

Greg pointed to an apartment block a few steps away. ‘That’s Joanne’s building,’ he said. ‘Have a good time.’ Then he walked away.

Somewhat bemused, Woody went to the entrance. But he soon forgot about Greg’s romantic life and started to think about his own. Did Joanne really like him? She might not kiss him this
evening, but maybe he could ask her for a date.

This was a modest apartment house, with no doorman or hall porter. A list in the lobby revealed that Rouzrokh shared her place with Stewart and Fisher, presumably two other girls. Woody went up
in the elevator. He realized he was empty-handed: he should have brought candy or flowers. He thought about going back to buy something, then decided that would be taking good manners too far. He
rang the bell.

A girl in her early twenties opened the door.

Woody said: ‘Hello, I’m—’

‘Come on in,’ she said, not waiting to hear his name. ‘The drinks are in the kitchen, and there’s food on the table in the living room, if there’s any left.’
She turned away, clearly thinking she had given him sufficient welcome.

The small apartment was packed with people drinking, smoking, and shouting at one another over the noise of the phonograph. Joanne had said ‘a few friends’ and Woody had imagined
eight or ten young people sitting around a coffee table discussing the crisis in Europe. He was disappointed: this overcrowded bash would give him little opportunity to demonstrate to Joanne how
much he had grown up.

He looked around for her. He was taller than most people and could see over their heads. She was not in sight. He pushed through the crowd, searching for her. A girl with plump breasts and nice
brown eyes looked up at him as he squeezed past and said: ‘Hello, big guy. I’m Diana Taverner. What’s your name?’

‘I’m looking for Joanne,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Good luck with that.’ She turned away.

He made his way into the kitchen. The noise level dropped a fraction. Joanne was nowhere to be seen, but he decided to get a drink while he was there. A broad-shouldered man of about thirty was
rattling a cocktail shaker. Well dressed in a tan suit, pale-blue shirt and dark-blue tie, he clearly was not a barman, but was acting like a host. ‘Scotch is over there,’ he said to
another guest. ‘Help yourself. I’m making martinis, for anyone who’s interested.’

Woody said: ‘Got any bourbon?’

‘Right here.’ The man passed him a bottle. ‘I’m Bexforth Ross.’

‘Woody Dewar.’ Woody found a glass and poured bourbon.

‘Ice in that bucket,’ said Bexforth. ‘Where are you from, Woody?’

‘I’m an intern in the Senate. You?’

‘I work in the State Department. I’m in charge of the Italy desk.’ He started passing martinis around.

Clearly a rising star, Woody thought. The man had so much self-confidence it was irritating. ‘I was looking for Joanne.’

‘She’s somewhere around. How do you know her?’

Here Woody felt he could show clear superiority. ‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ he said airily. ‘In fact, I’ve known her all my life. We were kids together in Buffalo.
How about you?’

Bexforth took a long sip of martini and gave a satisfied sigh. Then he looked speculatively at Woody. ‘I haven’t known Joanne as long as you have,’ he said. ‘But I guess
I know her better.’

‘How so?’

‘I’m planning to marry her.’

Woody felt as if he had been slapped. ‘Marry her?’

‘Yes. Isn’t that great?’

Woody could not hide his dismay. ‘Does she know about this?’

Bexforth laughed, and patted Woody’s shoulder condescendingly. ‘She sure does, and she’s all for it. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’

Clearly Bexforth had divined that Woody was attracted to Joanne. Woody felt a fool. ‘Congratulations,’ he said dispiritedly.

‘Thank you. And now I must circulate. Good talking to you, Woody.’

‘My pleasure.’

Bexforth moved away.

Woody put his drink down untasted. ‘Fuck it,’ he said quietly. Then he left.

(iv)

The first day of September was sultry in Berlin. Carla von Ulrich woke up sweaty and uncomfortable, her bedsheets thrown off during the warm night. She looked out of her
bedroom window to see low grey clouds hanging over the city, keeping heat in like a saucepan lid.

Today was a big day for her. In fact, it would determine the course of her life.

She stood in front of the mirror. She had her mother’s colouring, the dark hair and green eyes of the Fitzherberts. She was prettier than Maud, who had an angular face, striking rather
than beautiful. Yet there was a bigger difference. Her mother attracted just about every man she met. Carla, by contrast, could not flirt. She watched other girls her age doing it: simpering,
pulling their sweaters tight over their breasts, tossing their hair, and batting their eyelashes, and she just felt embarrassed. Her mother was more subtle, of course, so that men hardly knew they
were being enchanted, but it was essentially the same game.

Today, however, Carla did not want to appear sexy. On the contrary, she needed to look practical, sensible, and capable. She put on a plain stone-coloured cotton dress that came to mid-calf,
stepped into her flat, unglamorous school sandals, and wove her hair into two plaits in the approved German-maiden fashion. The mirror showed her an ideal girl student: conservative, dull,
sexless.

She was up and dressed before the rest of the family. The maid, Ada, was in the kitchen, and Carla helped her set out the breakfast things.

Her brother appeared next. Erik, nineteen and sporting a clipped black moustache, supported the Nazis, infuriating the rest of his family. He was a student at the Charité, the medical
school of the University of Berlin, as was his best friend and fellow-Nazi, Hermann Braun. The von Ulrichs could not afford tuition fees, of course, but Erik had won a scholarship.

Carla had applied for the same scholarship to study at the same institution. Her interview was today. If she was successful, she would study and become a doctor. If not . . .

She had no idea what else she would do.

The coming to power of the Nazis had ruined her parents’ lives. Her father was no longer a deputy in the Reichstag, having lost his job when the Social-Democratic Party became illegal,
along with all other parties except for the Nazis. There was no work her father could do that would use his expertise as a politician and a diplomat. He scraped a living translating German
newspaper articles for the British Embassy, where he still had a few friends. Mother had once been a famous left-wing journalist, but newspapers were no longer allowed to publish her articles.

Carla found it heartbreaking. She was deeply devoted to her family, which included Ada. She was saddened by the decline in her father, who in her childhood had been a hard-working and
politically powerful man, and was now simply defeated. Even worse was the brave face put on by her mother, a famous suffragette leader in England before the war, now scraping a few marks by giving
piano lessons.

But they said they could bear anything as long as their children grew up to lead happy and fulfilled lives.

Carla had always taken it for granted that she would spend her life making the world a better place, as her parents had. She did not know whether she would have followed her father into politics
or her mother into journalism, but both were out of the question now.

What else was she to do, under a government that prized ruthlessness and brutality above all else? Her brother had given her the clue. Doctors made the world a better place regardless of the
government. So she had made it her ambition to go to medical school. She had studied harder than any other girl in her class, and she had passed every exam with top marks, especially the sciences.
She was better qualified than her brother to win a scholarship.

‘There are no girls at all in my year,’ Erik said. He sounded grumpy. Carla thought he disliked the idea of her following in his footsteps. Their parents were proud of his
achievements, despite his repellent politics. Perhaps he was afraid of being outshone.

Carla said: ‘All my grades are better than yours: biology, chemistry, maths—’

‘All right, all right.’

‘And the scholarship is available to female students, in principle – I checked.’

Their mother came in at the end of this exchange, dressed in a grey watered-silk bathrobe with the cord doubled around her narrow waist. ‘They should follow their own rules,’ she
said. ‘This is Germany, after all.’ Mother said she loved her adopted country, and perhaps she did, but since the coming of the Nazis she had taken to making wearily ironic remarks.

Carla dipped bread into milky coffee. ‘How will you feel, Mother, if England attacks Germany?’

‘Miserably unhappy, as I felt last time,’ she replied. ‘I was married to your father throughout the Great War, and every day for more than four years I was terrified that he
would be killed.’

Erik said in a challenging tone: ‘But whose side will you take?’

‘I’m German,’ she said. ‘I married for better or worse. Of course, we never foresaw anything as wicked and oppressive as this Nazi regime. No one did.’ Erik grunted
in protest and she ignored him. ‘But a vow is a vow, and, anyway, I love your father.’

Carla said: ‘We’re not at war yet.’

‘Not quite,’ said Mother. ‘If the Poles have any sense, they will back down and give Hitler what he asks for.’

‘They should,’ said Erik. ‘Germany is strong now. We can take what we want, whether they like it or not.’

Mother rolled her eyes. ‘God spare us.’

A car horn sounded outside. Carla smiled. A minute later her friend Frieda Franck entered the kitchen. She was going to accompany Carla to the interview, just to give moral support. She, too,
was dressed in sober-schoolgirl fashion, though she, unlike Carla, had a wardrobe full of stylish clothes.

She was followed in by her older brother. Carla thought Werner Franck was wonderful. Unlike so many handsome boys he was kind and thoughtful and funny. He had once been very left wing, but all
that seemed to have faded away, and he was non-political now. He had had a string of beautiful and stylish girlfriends. If Carla had known how to flirt she would have started with him.

Mother said: ‘I’d offer you coffee, Werner, but ours is ersatz, and I know you have the real thing at home.’

‘Shall I steal some from our kitchen for you, Frau von Ulrich?’ he said. ‘I think you deserve it.’

Mother blushed slightly, and Carla realized, with a twinge of disapproval, that even at forty-eight Mother was susceptible to Werner’s charm.

Werner glanced at a gold wristwatch. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Life is completely frantic at the Air Ministry these days.’

Frieda said: ‘Thank you for the lift.’

Carla said to Frieda: ‘Wait a minute – if you came in Werner’s car, where’s your bike?’

‘Outside. We strapped it to the back of the car.’

The two girls belonged to the Mercury Cycling Club and went everywhere by bike.

Werner said: ‘Best wishes for the interview, Carla. Bye, everyone.’

Carla swallowed the last of her bread. As she was about to leave, her father came down. He had not shaved or put on a tie. He had been quite plump, when Carla was a girl, but now he was thin. He
kissed Carla affectionately.

Mother said: ‘We haven’t listened to the news!’ She turned on the radio that stood on the shelf.

While the set was warming up, Carla and Frieda left the house, so they did not hear the news.

The University Hospital was in Mitte, the central area of Berlin where the von Ulrichs lived, so Carla and Frieda had a short bicycle ride. Carla began to feel nervous. The fumes from car
exhausts nauseated her, and she wished she had not eaten breakfast. They reached the hospital, a new building put up in the twenties, and found their way to the room of Professor Bayer, who had the
job of recommending a student for the scholarship. A haughty secretary said they were early and told them to wait.