Promise Me This (30 page)

You will notice, of course, that I am beginning at the end of our planned trip. Mr. Sprague changed our itinerary at the last moment. He said the change is merely a precaution due to the political climate. Despite the sensationalists, none of us believes there will truly be a war. The European powers will surely resolve their differences peacefully. This is, after all, the twentieth century.

I shall write again when we reach the capital.

Please give my love to Aunt Maggie, and let me know how your gardens grow.

Respectfully yours,

Annie

Near the end of the second week, they entered Berlin. Mr. and Mrs. Sprague were pleased with the well-appointed rooms they were able to secure on short notice. They had no trouble procuring seats for the foremost German opera of the season.

“It is as though the city is emptying of tourists, Edwin, and the streets are filling with locals. You do not imagine there is something we don’t know, do you?”

Mr. Sprague assured his wife that things were quite as they should be, though when alone he did his best to ascertain daily the political news. He was not pleased with the strengthening of the alliance between Austria-Hungary and Germany. He registered the furtive glances among shopkeepers, the growing groups of men clustered outside the nearest telegraph and newspaper offices, and the squared shoulders of the daily-growing number of military uniforms in the streets. He completed Eleanor Hargrave’s financial transaction on the second morning, before the ladies had risen for the day, and was relieved to wash his hands of the matter.

The little party of tourists kept to their schedule, but after two days of touring in the summer heat, each was keenly aware of the growing and anxious crowds in the streets, especially those surrounding government buildings. The cafés along Unter den Linden and just outside the Tiergarten were jam-packed, morning to night, with noisy natives, tense and argumentative as if waiting for a gloved challenge to be thrown upon the ground. Men shifted from foot to foot, impatiently waiting at newsstands for the next delivery, quick to drop their coins, then hustle away, devouring the latest paper.

Mr. Sprague regretted that he spoke so little German—enough to order a proper meal and exchange pleasantries on the stairs, at best. He’d never felt so in need of a newspaper written by locals yet so unable to read one.

“There is a change in our itinerary, ladies. We shall make our way to Paris tomorrow morning,” he said after being knocked squarely in the shoulder by a rude passerby. “I cannot ascertain precisely what is about to happen, but I must see you ladies safely away.”

“But, Father!” Connie said. “We’ve still so much to see and do here! Tomorrow is Sunday—not so many trains will be running. Truly, I think the tension is simply their excitable German temperament—so much life!”

“I quite agree with you, Edwin. We shall be packed and ready to leave immediately after breakfast.” Mrs. Sprague caught her husband’s eye and nodded approvingly.

But the next morning the atmosphere in the hotel was charged with a new electricity. Hotel patrons and employees alike spoke rapidly. Annie’s arms prickled as she sensed cold glances directed their way, though she could not imagine why anyone would think ill of them.

“There’s a rumor,” a bold American journalist confided to Mr. Sprague from the table behind them, “that the kaiser’s not gone to the Hohenzollern for the holiday, as planned. He’s still in Berlin, waiting for some word from Austria—this thing could blow wide open, if you catch my meaning.” He raised his brows sarcastically. “I guess even royal yachts must wait for matters of state.”

Annie could not hear what more was said, for Mr. Sprague turned his back to the women and spoke quietly with the journalist for some minutes. When he turned again, Annie knew something was dreadfully wrong—never had she seen him so pale nor so agitated.

Moments later the hotel waiter sloshed steaming coffee across Mrs. Sprague’s serviette, scalding her fingers.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte!”
He bowed, but a smirk belied his apology, no matter that tears sprang to a startled Mrs. Sprague’s eyes.

Mr. Sprague stood, furious beyond the ability to speak, and gently wrapped his wife’s reddened hand in a water-soaked serviette. Though Connie’s and Annie’s mouths were still crammed with toast points, he threw several coins to the table, not waiting for the bill, and drew his family away. “Pack your hand luggage, ladies. I shall send the bellman for our trunks in ten minutes.”

“But, Father—” Connie began.

Mr. Sprague took his daughter firmly by the arm and ushered their small group to the door. “Not another word, Constance,” he insisted quietly, more severely than Annie had ever heard him speak. “Whatever you value most, you must wear on your person beneath your clothing—jewelry, money, whatever that might be.”

Connie’s eyes grew wide; Annie knew her own stood as mirrored images.

“Yes, Father,” Connie replied. Never had Annie heard her friend so meek.

By the time the four left their hotel, the press of the growing crowd intently combing the streets of Berlin nearly forced the travelers apart. Groups of men and women shouted; opposing groups shouted urgently in return. But Annie could not tell what they were saying. She knew only that her party was fortunate to procure a carriage.

The railway station overflowed with passengers waiting for trains that had not come or ran late. Would-be passengers waved paper money, demanding to purchase tickets from sellers who shrugged helplessly and closed their stalls, clearly having no more tickets to sell at any price. Hustlers offered tickets for five times their price.

The air was punctuated by the piercing whistles of trains and grayed by great clouds of steam continually released from the iron horses begging to bolt from their gates.

Mr. Sprague dickered with two hustlers alternately in excellent French and pitiable German. “We shall not be able to sit together,” he announced when he rejoined the ladies, pulling tickets from his vest pocket. The lines in his forehead deepened. “I was unable to procure a sleeper. We shall sit through the night.”

“You take charge of Annie, Edwin. Constance and I will sit together.”

“There are three tickets and one, Betty—seated in separate compartments of the train. I was fortunate to get them. You must keep the girls with you. Do not leave the train until Paris—it is a direct route. No matter what happens, do not leave the train.” He punctuated each word.

“Oh, Edwin!”

Annie found the rising tension and display of affection between Mr. and Mrs. Sprague unnerving. She was keenly aware that except for her, the Spragues would have been able to sit together. But she didn’t have the courage to offer her seat to Mr. Sprague.

“I will find you at the train depot in Paris.” Mr. Sprague spoke quietly and then, even lower, to his wife, “Wait for me there only until you can get a train to Calais. If we are separated, you must use the gold in the lining of—the gold you have—to get the three of you out of Germany and home to Britain, by whatever means you can.”

“Father?” For the first time Connie looked truly worried.

“Things are falling apart here. Our paper currency will be useless on the Continent. We must get home—and right away. Once Germany joins forces with Austria, France will certainly mobilize against them—and Belgium will be caught in their midst. You know what that means for England. Do not speak to anyone unless it is imperative. Our British accents are not an asset at the moment.” Mr. Sprague kissed his wife and held his daughter close. He hugged Annie and conducted them safely to their seats, then stowed their hand luggage above their heads. Mr. Sprague cradled his wife’s injured hand once again, stroked Connie’s cheek, and smiled feebly at Annie. He climbed down and was gone.

Mrs. Sprague sat rigid against her seat, her chin lifted, her veil lowered, and stared straight ahead. Connie followed her example, as best she could. But Annie, suddenly frantic to call him back, leaned from the window, searching the crowd for Mr. Sprague’s hat, desperate to keep it in view as long as possible. She watched him weave through the growing number of uniforms and mass of people, until he disappeared in the long line of cars.

Curious, Michael watched as Mr. Hook, deacon and local telegraph operator, whispered a full three minutes into the ear of Reverend Tenney, delaying the Wednesday-evening prayer service in Swainton’s Asbury Meeting House.

Half the congregation leaned forward in their seats. When his words ran out, Mr. Hook handed a telegram to the reverend and sat, red faced, in his accustomed pew.

Reverend Tenney stood longer than usual, longer by far than it would have taken him to read any normal telegram. At last he took the pulpit, gripped its sides, and searched the eyes of his congregation. He seemed about to speak but bowed his head.

Whispered questions spread through the pews of the small church. Mrs. Hook, the organist, coughed, then began to play strains of the opening hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

By the time the organ finished its call to worship, it appeared that Reverend Tenney had regained his composure. He straightened and held the paper in midair. “Mr. Hook has delivered a telegram from one of our parishioners visiting New York.” He hesitated. “It says that the New York papers report Austria-Hungary has declared themselves at war with Serbia.”

Murmurs of disbelief fluttered through the congregation.

“War?”

“Serbia’s no more than a spot on the map! They’ll run right over her!”

“But war? What does it mean?”

The minister raised his hand again for order. “It means we must pray—we must all pray very hard for the leaders of these countries, that God will grant them wisdom and discernment and mercy.”

“Tell ’em the rest—the worst, Reverend!” Mr. Hook called from his pew.

The reverend’s lips formed a grim line; he waited for silence in the church. “It appears that the nations of Europe are mobilizing, supplying their armies, and moving them into position near their borders—most notably Germany, Belgium, and France.”

“All the countries?” The words passed from lips to lips.

“Those closest to Germany’s borders in particular,” the reverend answered.

“But my Harry’s in Belgium,” a woman whimpered.

“My sister and her family still live in Alsace,” another whispered. “That’s just between. What can they be thinking?”

Reverend Tenney spoke again. “This telegram quotes excerpts from a newspaper article stating that Germany has been building her military for quite some time and that her navy intends to rival that of Britain.” He searched the eyes of his congregation once more as if wanting to pour understanding into them. “We must wait—and pray for reason and peace.”

Maggie Allen sat stone faced and pale between Michael and Daniel McKenica. Daniel reached for her hand.

Michael’s heart constricted in the walls of his chest. “Annie.”
Annie’s in Germany.

Porters and conductors pushed their way through the crowded train, punching tickets, stowing bags and kits above and beneath every available seat, in every conceivable crevice, and shouting orders that neither Annie, Connie, nor Mrs. Sprague understood. The women kept their tickets readily available but alternately pretended to sleep or read so they would not be compelled to communicate with other passengers and forced to display either their nationality or their near ignorance of the language.