Authors: Roberta Latow
‘And nothing more?’
‘Nothing more, I assure you,’ she told him.
‘Well, anyway, Franklin liked him. Remembered him. He was
au fait
with what this man had done for his country, what he continued to do for his country.
‘Drinks went well, dinner was very amusing. It was like being in the room with two of the great charmers of the world. Then the women went off on a tour of the White House or something, and we got down to talking about the war. Stefanik delivered several messages from Dr Benes. First-hand information, grim, worrying talk, none of which I can reveal here, you understand. And some time later the President said, “Count Stefanik,
we will
win this war.” And Stefanik answered, “Yes, Mr President, I have no doubts about that. My worry is whether my country will win the war.”
‘ “I don’t understand, sir,” said Franklin.
‘So Stefanik said, “The allies will win the war against Hitler and Germany. Deals will be made, Mr President, deals are always made after a war. Victimized countries have a habit of being carved up after great conflicts. Or worse, being swallowed up one way or another by the victors. It would be a tragedy for Europe if that were to happen, Mr President. With due respect, I would like to remind you that the wrong peace could be as dangerous as this war. You are dealing with Stalin, Russia and Communism. Once the armistice is signed, who will control those voracious Russians? The allies will be liberating occupied countries that have lost everything. Having been raped by Germany, they will be raped by Russia. That’s why I pray when the invasion takes place, it is the Americans who walk into Czechoslovakia and not the Russians. It would be good to remember, sir, it is a terrible thing to give away another man’s country. That is nothing but another kind of enslavement, a different kind of occupation than that of the Germans, but maybe not so different as you might think.”
‘Well, you know Franklin, the consummate politician,
always the leader with the large and open view of things, always in control, wanting to be right and fair, always the honourable elder statesman in peace or war. He went as white as a sheet. And a bell started ringing in my head, because Franklin Roosevelt, for the first time in all the years I had known him, faltered. Let his iron-clad image slip. Why? What precipitated it? I had to ask myself. Stefanik, something he had said, hit home to Franklin. Sure, Stefanik was out of line to issue a warning like that but the President is always open to people’s warnings. In a moment of weakness I have never seen before, Stefanik got to him. The President recovered himself, and answered eloquently, as he always does, putting Stefanik more or less in his place.
‘Stefanik is neither a politician nor a diplomat. I understand that before the war he was generous, overly generous even in his support of Benes and his cause, but always stayed in the background, never in the forefront of politics. He shunned always any responsibilities that might bring him to the forefront or lead him to accept any official position in the Benes government. And then, when it really counted, when it was considered almost too late, he marshalled the right men and against all odds pulled off an heroic act for his country. And he has been fighting for its freedom in every way he can ever since.’
Barbara watched her Uncle Harry pull out a long, fat Havana cigar, roll it between his fingers several times, and clip off the tip with a tiny silver guillotine. He lit it and puffed, turning it in his fingers so that the cigar burned evenly.
The children were running in and out of the elegant but ramshackle wooden boat-house. She heard Mimi shriek with laughter over something and turned her attention to the girl. That child is in no position to hear any of this, she thought. Mimi waved, and both uncle and niece waved back. He said nothing to Barbara about her. Clearly he had
no more idea than anyone else in the house that Mimi was Karel Stefanik’s daughter. Barbara returned her attention to her uncle.
‘The Germans were already on the march into Czechoslovakia, the country was falling. Everyone was making a dash to get out. The Czechs were ill prepared to handle what was happening. Dr Benes and his followers were in France. Stefanik saw that the Germans were going to grab his country’s resources, and not least the national treasury and priceless public and private art treasures.
‘The museums and churches worked day and night to crate and wrap their valuables. They turned a blind eye while Stefanik and the men he could rally round him looted. It was them or the Nazis doing the same thing for the Third Reich. He hid them, just as he did his own things, in quarries and caves, or buried them in gardens, or sealed them in secret passages under old palaces. He was way out on a limb with a stroke like that. To protect those who helped him, and the treasures, once the lorries were loaded he himself drove them to their secret destinations. Just a few men helped him, newly made patriots like himself, who agreed to flee the country with him. He was meticulous in protecting the museum people by leaving an inventory and a letter saying the treasures had been removed for safe-keeping.
‘While all that was going on, with the help of the few remaining officers who wanted to get to France to join the army assembling there, he took as much of the treasury as they could handle. They loaded it into five buses and nine cars. He grabbed his daughter and two servants, formed a convoy of gold and people, and led it overland out of the country. The main body of men who helped him became the nucleus of the resistance. They placed in him all hopes of getting the treasury out and bringing help back in.
‘But time was not on his side. Neither were circumstances. Hitler wanted that gold. You can imagine
what happened when they found out it was gone. Someone talked, named Stefanik and told about the convoy. And the chase was on to stop it before it left Czech soil. I don’t know how he made it, but he did. German fighter-planes found and lost them three times. The convoy was strafed and scattered twice. At one point they had a brigade of Germans no more than an hour behind them. They could actually see the German trucks filled with armed soldiers in a valley below. They lost several adults and two children in the strafing. It must have been agony trying to get real speed out of that convoy. Buses not equipped to carry that weight or move at high speed. Anyway, they made it out. But their problems didn’t end there.
‘Hitler was furious. He had the convoy tracked across Europe and exerted pressure on various countries to close the borders Stefanik was trying to cross with the convoy. Somehow, with Dr Benes in Paris pulling what strings he could to assist them, without revealing what the convoy was carrying which would have meant disaster, they crossed into Hungary, travelled through Bulgaria, on into Turkey and finally made for Istanbul.
‘There they almost lost the whole lot – would have, but for Stefanik’s quick thinking. Somehow, by converting his family jewels into costly bribes, he hired a ferry and drove the loaded convoy aboard. In the dead of night they sailed not on the ferry’s normal route across the Bosphorus, but far out on the Sea of Marmara. There they were met by an English frigate. They unloaded the treasury, and all the people, and sailed for England. To this day the Germans are hysterical about losing the Czech treasury and art treasures. No one more so than Goering. To him they were like personal property. They would dearly like to get their hands on Count Karel Stefanik, or anyone they could use as leverage to make him return to Czechoslovakia and divulge the whereabouts of what he left buried as he fled the country.’
Pierre ran up to them and interrupted the brigadier. ‘We’re all ready to go, Miss Dunmellyn. Who’s going to row the boat?’
‘I’m in charge,’ announced the brigadier. ‘I once won a trophy, a large silver cup, for Harvard.’
‘But not alone, Uncle.’
‘No, that’s true. I stand corrected. I once crewed for Harvard, and we won a cup,’ he good-naturedly told Pierre, patting him on the head. Uncle and niece walked with all the children to the weather-worn wooden dock. It tilted not dangerously but lazily to one side. ‘That dock, Barbara,’ chided her uncle, ‘looks as if it’s at its last gasp, it’s so old and tired.’ The children loved that and burst into giggles. ‘Beechtrees always looks like genteel poverty on a rather grand scale.’
He loved to tease her about Beechtrees and the haphazard way she kept it going. She refused to rise to the bait: it was sport for him, and sometimes irritated her. Instead she changed the subject. ‘Can everyone swim?’ she asked, and was greeted with proud and enthusiastic affirmation that they could indeed do without the cumbersome life-jackets stacked under the seats at the bow and stern of the boat.
She had not managed to dismiss as quickly as her uncle the story she had just heard. For Uncle Harry it was just another war-time story. A row around the pond and a walk on the small island in the centre was a favourite pastime for Barbara, but she seemed at that moment unable to feel the
enthusiasm she had when she had suggested it. She was more distracted by what she had heard. It had answered so many questions that she had never felt the right to ask. It also answered those that she might have raised about Karel’s behaviour and how they related to each other.
What fate, she had to ask herself, had brought Mimi to Beechtrees? Fate or coincidence? Barbara was never sure about fate. She felt about it in the same way as she did about reincarnation – uneasy, in need of more proof. She gazed over at Mimi and felt a warmth for the child, the responsibility which had been foisted upon her by circumstances. Caution, she told herself. Sympathy is one thing, but taking on the role of surrogate mother is out of the question. Karel’s story, Mimi’s plight, served to trigger something in Barbara she had been suppressing: the realisation that she was deeply in love with Karel Stefanik.
She watched Uncle Harry with the children. He was busy on the dock, removing his shoes and socks, rolling up his trousers, methodically, from the turn-ups. His jacket had already been removed and was lying neatly folded on the dock, its array of bars and decorations gleaming in the sun.
The rowing boat was long and sleek, of polished mahogany elegantly trimmed in brass. The seats had arched, slatted backs, as did even the two smaller seats at the bow and stern. The larger ones were double, back to back, and the rowing-bench a thick slab of ebony. All had cushions, a faded floral pattern in a worn chintz on the seats. The back cushions matched, and were cut to the same arched shape, and tied on with rather large bows. The period steam engine was housed in a polished mahogany cabinet in the boat’s stern. Nailed to the side, close to the bow, in polished brass letters was her name,
Carlotta Sanchez.
No one had ever learned why a rowing boat in New England should have been named anything as exotic as
Carlotta Sanchez.
Barbara’s great-grandfather, a robber baron and eccentric, had built and named the boat and left
sufficient money in his will to maintain it. It was the best-kept object at Beechtrees. The oars were long, and the paddles shaped more or less like palm fronds.
Once the brigadier had barked out orders for the boating party, he took to the oars. The other house guests arrived at the pond just as they untied and moved away from the dock. The prow of the
Carlotta Sanchez
glided smoothly through the water, parting green lily pads. The smooth strokes of the oars carried the boating party parallel to the shore, from which the other luncheon guests called out instructions. Max, having organized the seating arrangements, placed himself next to Barbara. They faced the brigadier oarsman. Juliet was sitting back to back with them. Pierre and Mimi were placed behind the brigadier and facing them. They made a happy party. Juliet stretched out across her seat so she was able to sit sideways and face everyone, albeit looking over the shoulders of Barbara and her elder brother.
‘Just listen to them,’ said a very grown-up Max. ‘One would think we were children, and had never been in a rowing boat before.’ He cheekily edged himself just a little closer to Barbara.
‘I always did like rowing the
Carlotta Sanchez.
She’s a lovely boat. So easy to handle. They don’t make them like this any more. How about a song?’ With a surprisingly beautiful tenor voice, Harry burst into one of Gertrude Lawrence’s best Noël Coward songs. Barbara picked up on some of the words. Juliet added her sweet voice and knew all the words. ‘If you can’t sing it, children, hum it. Let’s hear you now. Let’s give them a tune they can hear on shore.’ He rowed smoothly and swiftly, and they sang Gertie’s hits at the top of their voices. The ducks were not impressed. They quacked and paddled away. They had circled a good distance around the pond, nearly an hour of rowing and singing (the concert had degenerated into silly nursery songs and giggles) before Uncle Harry beached the boat on the island, sending a flurry of birds high into the
air. Everyone clambered out of the
Carlotta Sanchez,
eager to explore the island. They followed the path to the gazebo in the centre, and Barbara related stories about the grand picnics her mother had hosted there. How her father used to row out to the island alone to play his violin. ‘How haunting it was to hear faint strains of Vivaldi and Brahms floating back to shore through the sounds of nature all around: the rustle of leaves on the trees, the sound of birds and the small animals of the woods, the lapping of the water at the edge of the pond.’
They made their tour and the children read the labels on the trees and shrubs, rare species gathered from all over the world and planted there by Barbara’s great-grandfather. After boarding the
Carlotta
again, with Mimi and Juliet now sitting next to Barbara, Pierre behind them, while Max and the brigadier shared the rowing, they aimed for the shore. Clearly they were all having a happy time together.
An amber hair-pin fell from Barbara’s hair. Mimi picked it up from the floor of the boat and replaced it, asking, ‘Why don’t you live here?’
‘Well, I do, but only for very short periods at a time. My real home is in New York City, and I have a place in Easthampton.’
‘Mimi’s been to New York,’ announced Juliet proudly.
‘Oh?’ answered Barbara, showing great interest in that news by looking directly at Mimi.
‘Yes, and she could live there if she wanted to. She has two houses there, all her own.’
‘But only a flat that I could live in, Juliet. Not a house. It’s nothing like this house, if that’s what you think.’
‘How exciting, Mimi. And are you going to live there?’
‘I live here.’
‘But you can live in both places, just the way I do.’ Barbara realized that she had stumbled on a way to ease the pain that was yet again about to engulf Mimi when she was told the family was leaving without her. Barbara was not
blind to the fact that all the children were besotted with her. Saw her as an object of glamour from a world they had yet to experience and wanted to. Her voice could influence these charming children hungry for experience. She saw her opportunity to point out to Mimi that she had options, and how exciting it would be for her to live in New York City. But then warning bells began to ring in her head. Instinct told her, don’t get too involved and lead this child on another trail of false security and love.
‘I don’t know anyone in New York. My friends are here, so why would I want to go to a big, dirty city full of strangers?’
‘To meet people. Make more friends. You could do that. Why, you already have someone to call on. You know me. You see, it’s as easy as that.’
‘But whatever would I do there all by myself?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t be by yourself, would you? There would be a housekeeper to live with you, and you would make friends very quickly at school. Why, I know some children your age in the city, and they have the most wonderful time. They’re busy running about all the time doing the most interesting things. I could introduce you to them.’
‘I can’t think of anything I could do if I lived in New York, except go to the park to get away from the people and all that rushing around.’
‘That’s because you don’t know New York. There is so much to do. For one thing, you would go to school.’
‘Wouldn’t I have teachers at home like I do here?’
‘Well, you could, but I think you would have more fun in a fine school I know. You would meet lots of girls your age, and older and younger as well, there.’
‘I think I would rather live here.’
This was clearly not going to be easy, thought Barbara. Then help arrived from an unexpected quarter. ‘I wouldn’t,’ piped up Juliet. ‘I would like to be like Miss
Dunmellyn and live in both places. If I did, I would go to – to – well, I don’t rightly know where …’
‘To the theatre, and concerts, and ballet. You could go to galleries and look at beautiful paintings. I could take you there some time. Museums – there are all sorts of wonderful museums in New York to go to. Not just stuffy old places but exciting institutions with fascinating programs for young people just like you.’
‘Oh, how thrilling a place it sounds. And cinema, all those movie houses, we could go to and see Hollywood films and newsreels. Well, if you don’t want to live there, we could all go down just to see it some day,’ interjected Max, while pulling on the oars in rhythm with the brigadier.
‘Shopping. We could spend all day just going shopping for the latest fashions.’
‘You need money for that, Juliet,’ Pierre told her. That took the light out of her eyes. ‘But …’ the light came back ‘… we could get a year’s pocket money in advance if we were clever.’ Everyone fell silent for a moment. The idea was brilliant. How to accomplish it?
‘But it’s so big, so many people. I can’t even imagine how we would get around the place.’ Barbara could tell from Mimi’s voice that she was wavering. In spite of herself there was an interest. The prospect was growing on her.
That was true. But it was more the prospect of having Barbara Dunmellyn for a friend in the city than the city itself that interested Mimi. The woman was everything the children had told Mimi she was and much more. She was kind, and wanted to befriend Mimi and take her around and show her a new world of which Mimi knew nothing. And that was exciting, to be with such a glamorous and beautiful lady. And Mimi sensed something else, safety, the possibility of some continuity in her life, a stranger who would not suddenly appear to sweep her up and vanish just as suddenly as she had appeared. And that was something
she had not felt since the day she was parted from her father. Mimi listened, hung on to Barbara’s every word.
‘Mimi,’ she told the girl, ‘it’s like a great many little villages all strung together like beads on a necklace, and the necklace is the city.’
‘One of Mimi’s houses is in the Village,’ Juliet offered.
‘Where?’ asked Barbara.
‘I don’t know. And anyway I like it here.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to visit Mimi in her house in New York?’
‘Would I! But I like it here too.’
Well, Barbara thought, she’s no help. Then Mimi surprised Barbara.
‘If I did live in New York, I would have to live in the flat in the big building on Central Park West.’
‘That’s just on the other side of the park from me. We could be friends, and sometimes you could come over and visit with me. And when I have time – I don’t have much free time, Mimi, because I work – but when I do, I would take you out to do something. Or you might come to have a meal with me. And if you’re lonely with nothing to do – which is almost an impossibility – I have a man, Ching Lee, who takes care of me. He would take you around and show you some of the city until you were settled. So if one day you should decide to live in both places, you must call me and let me know.’
Mimi was now utterly charmed by the idea of having Barbara as a friend. That the other children could go somewhere to be a guest of hers for a change. It was something to think about, visiting this lady in New York City. She suddenly felt a pang of sadness. If only Mashinka and Tatayana and she had met Barbara Dunmellyn on their arrival in America. If only they had never gone to the Blocks. Mimi began to wring her hands. She felt her joy slipping away from her. She caught sight of Juliet staring at her. When their eyes met, the look of concern in Juliet’s,
and then the signal, a discreet tap on her own hand, for Mimi to stop. She did, at once, and blocked out those painful thoughts of the past. The two girls exchanged brief smiles and their attention returned to the boating party.
‘Is it rude to ask what you work at?’ That was Max.
‘No.’
‘Well, what sort of job do you have?’ asked Pierre. ‘Are you a shop-girl?’
‘God, you’re stupid, Pierre!’ said Max. His younger brother sometimes disgusted him.
Pierre ignored Max and persevered, ‘Are you a teacher, then?’
‘No, I’m an artist. A painter.’
‘A proper artist with a studio and a slanted glass roof?’ The possibility clearly enchanted Juliet.
‘You look more like a movie star than an artist.’ Max reddened to hear his thoughts escape him. The brigadier laughed and teased.
‘Barbara, I sense you have a serious admirer here in Max. I reckon you’d have no trouble getting him to live in New York and accept your friendship.’
He decided to brazen it out. ‘You certainly would not.’ He managed for Barbara a rather bolder look than she had anticipated from him. Awkwardness was avoided when Juliet, lost in the romantic notion of what an artist would be like, pressed on, ‘A studio, all your own, with an easel and a palette of paints?’
‘Yes, a very large and beautiful studio with all the painter’s tools. Mimi and you – well, all of you, if you come to New York – can visit me in my studio. Afterwards I will take you all out. We could have an ice cream at a wonderful parlour called Rumpelmayer’s on Central Park South. How does that sound?’ She had them all hooked now, Mimi included. She could see it in their faces, hear it in the voices questioning her at length about her life and New York.