Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
“I wish it were over,” Aufenthalt whispered. “I wish it would stop.” He met von Rathenau’s eyes. “And that could get
me
Court-Martialed, Captain.”
Von Rathenau permitted himself a tentative smile. “I am grateful, Lieutenant Colonel. To be honest with you, I have had such encounters before, but none of them here.”
“Yes.” Aufenthalt leaned back in his chair. “It’s difficult to know what to do with him.” He saw the ire kindle in Aaron von Rathenau’s eyes again. “I share your sentiments, Captain, although you may not credit it. But as you yourself have said, he is not alone in his opinion, and if this were to be brought out now, there would be many who would take his part. That would mean more disruption than we have already endured. We are retreating, Captain, and are losing men in the most irresponsible fashion. To bring Major Rauch’s outburst to the attention of the men would cause a greater disunity…” He picked up the pile of dispatches. “He need not get off entirely. I must send in a report in any case, and I will explain in detail what occurred here this afternoon.”
“Will you recommend that any action be taken against him?” There was a dangerous politeness in the young officer’s attitude.
“Yes. When the worst of this is over. First I must get as many of my men as I can home. Then I will appeal to the General Staff for action. Will that satisfy you, Captain, or must you have vengeance now?” He favored von Rathenau with a long, even stare.
With an unpleasant grimace, Captain von Rathenau shrugged. “The men must come first. I won’t oppose you for that.”
There was a sudden rush of air, and then a nearby explosion buffeted the tent. There were shouts at once, and screams of the wounded. Both men hesitated a moment.
“By the time this is over,” the Lieutenant Colonel said carefully, “there may not be any need for action. Not every man here will survive these next few months.”
“Truly,” von Rathenau said quietly.
Another shell exploded, a bit farther away.
“I must see to the damage,” Lieutenant Colonel Aufenthalt said as he got unsteadily to his feet. “This is a rearguard action, Captain, and that imposes certain truths on all of us. The English and the Americans are determined, the French are fanatical, and there are not many of us left with the heart to fight. Major Rauch has the will to continue the battle, and for that reason I need him.”
“Yes,” Captain von Rathenau said, standing aside to allow the other officer to pass him.
When Lieutenant Colonel Aufenthalt was gone, Aaron von Rathenau stood for a minute or two by himself in the tent. Although he had managed to conceal it well, resentment smoldered in him as hot and deadly as the Allied shell that had fallen. His uncle had warned him, and Aaron had promised him that he would not give vent to his indignation. It had been an easy assurance to give, but he was discovering that it would be difficult to honor his word.
“Captain von Rathenau!” came the cry from outside. “We need an officer with Sergeant Klinge’s unit. There’s no one there.”
“At once!” von Rathenau answered, saluting the Lieutenant Colonel’s voice though he could not see the man through the smoke. “Where are they?” he shouted as he came out of the tent.
“To the south. Ask for Sergeant Klinge or Corporal Falls!” The Lieutenant Colonel’s voice was lost in a third explosion.
Captain Aaron von Rathenau put Major Helmut Rauch out of his mind and gave his thoughts to the grim business at hand. Before he reached the men Aufenthalt had identified, there were three more shells dropped on the Deutscher Artillery Company; by the time the barrage was over, another one hundred sixteen dead men lay broken in the trenches.
Text of a letter from Irina Andreivna Ohchenov to her uncle Pavel Ilyevich Yamohgo.
Rotterdam
September 20, 1918
My dear Uncle Pavel:
I was saddened to learn of your failing health, and of course I will not impose upon your hospitality at such a time. You have said that your nurses take excellent care of you and that you do not have space or resources to deal with a niece.
You inquired after Kiril and his family. I am sorry to have to bring you new sorrow, but Tania, Kiril’s wife, died two weeks ago of the terrible influenza which is so prevalent now. Olga, their daughter, died in July. Sasha has recovered, but the physician has warned Kiril that there may still be difficulties. It has been a most trying time here. Kiril has been out of his senses with grief, and I, with so much loss behind me, do not know how to comfort him. I have prayed with him and read Scriptures, but there is no consolation for either of us. You will forgive my blasphemy when I say that if there is a God who hears our prayers, then He must be a cruel and capricious child, for there is no succor for any of us. If He is the merciful Father we have been told, then He must have become senile over the years, for we are cast down and without hope in this strange country.
Because of the great costs we have sustained, I have sold my pearl necklace and the diamond bracelets. It leaves me very little for my support when I reach Paris, as it is still my intention to come there. I am not asking you for any assistance, but the recommendation of a part of the city where I may live cheaply but not in squalor. I am still at a loss to know what to do, but in time necessity will force me to find a means for making my living.
It is everywhere rumored that the war is all but ended. I hope that this is so, since there has been so much suffering and privation. If the Kaiser is willing to accept defeat, I hope that the Allies will not insist on the utter ruin of Germany as part of their terms. There has been bitterness and bloodshed enough. After such a costly war, no one would be so callous as to insist on greater degradation. No doubt France has been the greater victim in this war, but if clemency prevails, then the wounds will heal. You told me that you believe that the honor of France will require a great deal of Germany, and you are probably correct in this assumption, but if you are, then what chance is there of any trust between nations, ever?
You also informed me that you have had no word out of Russia, and so I must conclude that those who have not escaped are trapped there, in prison or in graves. It is another blow to me to hear this, and I had come to think the blows I have already taken had numbed me. It is not entirely so.
There is a nursing order of nuns near me, and they have entreated me to aid them in caring for those struck down by the influenza. I have so far spent five hours out of every day for the last ten days working beside them in their hospital. My Uncle, it would break your heart to see what transpires there. Little lives are extinguished as easily as one might blow out a lamp. The young and the old are the greatest part of the victims. There is so little that can be done for them, but what is possible, we do. It is not uplifting work, or enriching in any way, but it must be done, and I have found that at the moment I am capable of dealing with death all around me because it seems now to be the state of my life.
When I reach Paris I will inform you of my address. I hope that this terrible influenza does not strike you, Uncle Pavel, for since you tell me your health is frail, I have no doubt but that you would be in great danger from it.
Your niece,
Irina Andreivna Ohchenov
9
As James Emmerson Tree turned his borrowed Rolland-Pilain in through the stone gates, he was startled to see a young woman on a long-legged, feisty sorrel mare come up beside him. He brought his gloved hand across his goggles to be certain his vision was clear.
The woman on the horse waved and pointed ahead up the curving slope of the graveled road. She shouted something that James did not hear clearly, then let the mare bound on ahead of the car. Pleasantly baffled, James double-clutched down to second gear and followed her.
The drive wound pleasantly through an avenue of Italian pines, then opened onto a crescent drive before an old stone château built on the edge of the slope. It was well-kept, unlike some of the ancient buildings James had seen in his travels. The tall, narrow windows were glazed with care, keeping the original fittings where possible. At the northern end of the château was a more recent addition, from the time of Louis XIV or XV; a curved wall of windows overlooking a stepped terrace which led to a small ornamental wood fronted by a shining artificial lake with a splendid little island in the center of it.
There was no response from the house yet, which was mildly puzzling, as all the other displaced landowners James had met had kept themselves guarded, protected, and barricaded. He had been received with suspicion and occasionally open hostility by those he had visited previously. He remembered what Madame de Montalia had told him, and thought that she might have already embarked for her archeological site, but that must be impossible. He looked around swiftly and saw the sorrel mare at the far end of the drive. At least there was someone here, he told himself, and so the long journey had not been made in vain. A glimmer of hope returned to him: the young rider might well be another displaced landowner, or part of a family that had been caught up in the chaos of the war. James made himself smile as he got out of the Rolland-Pilain.
The young equestrienne was walking toward him, the skirts of her Wedgwood-blue habit looped carelessly over her left arm. She waved as she approached, the corners of her mouth lifting as she smiled. James had been shown a portrait of the young Maria Louisa of Parma at one of the houses he had visited, and it struck him that this young woman had much the same look to her, though her coloring was different. Her hair, coming loose from a severe knot at the back of her neck, was the color of strong coffee, with yellow glints where the sun struck it. Her eyes, James saw as she came up to him, were a remarkable shade of violet.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Tree,” she said as she held out her hand to him. “Welcome to Montalia.” Her English was softened by her French accent but had none of the hesitancy of one inexpert in the language.
On impulse, James bowed over her hand, kissing it with more enthusiasm than elegance, saying with a kind of schoolbook precision, “Vous êtes bien aimable a un étranger.”
“But you are no stranger, Mister Tree,” she protested cordially. “I’ve expected you for the last two days. I trust you were not too much inconvenienced on the road?” Her lovely eyes danced as she pulled her hand from his.
Belatedly James remembered the expression in Phillippe Timbres’s eyes when he had talked about Madelaine de Montalia. His assumption that this woman was a guest of the château changed and he felt oddly embarrassed. “You are…”
“Madelaine de Montalia. I thought you had guessed that. If you intend to kiss the hands of my servants, Mr. Tree, you will cause an uproar in the house.” She was unflustered, poised without arrogance. “Although I know it is often dull here, I would prefer that the place be livened up in a more conventional manner. That is the phrase isn’t it? Livened up?”
“It’s certainly one of them,” James said, making a desperate attempt not to be captivated by this woman. He had expected one of those formidable French ladies, perhaps in her thirties, with that mixture of pragmatism and sensuality that he had seen before. Nothing had prepared him for this glowing creature. Timbres, he recalled, had said he was half in love with this woman. James had assumed that Phillippe Timbres had succumbed to the practiced seductiveness that was typical of wellborn women, but now, when it was too late, he realized his error. If Timbres had been half as captivated as he was …
Madelaine linked her arm through James’, smiling up at him quickly, mercurially. “I had expected an older man. Most of the foreign journalists are not so very young, are they? Isn’t it unusual for a man your age to be on such an assignment?”
James was at once flattered and irritated by her question. “Well, this isn’t a job for kids, but I’m twenty-five, Madame de Montalia, and I’d guess you’re younger than that.”
A faint, saddened amusement lurked at the back of her eyes. “But appearances can be deceiving. Any capable journalist knows that.” She had reached the iron-ribbed oak door, and rapped on it once. “Come in, Mr. Tree. Doubtless you would like the opportunity to wash and relax after your long drive.”
James suddenly became conscious of the dustiness of the long canvas coat he wore. His visored cap was gritty around the headband, and he was certain his entire face was coated with grime. “Yes, thank you. I would be most grateful…”
“Fine.” She motioned to the middle-aged man who held the door and who James decided was the butler. “Claude, this is Monsieur Tree, the journalist from America,” Madelaine explained. “Have Guillaume or Herriot see to his automobile and bring his bags to his suite of rooms.”
“At once, Madame,” Claude said, closing the door and bowing before going down one of the three cavernous corridors that opened onto the entry hall.
Madelaine indicated the hallway on their right. “Come. I’ll show you how to get to your rooms. This place was designed to baffle invaders; I don’t know if it succeeded, but if my guests are to be used as the standard, the ruse was a triumph.” She walked quickly with a long, clean stride, almost boyish. She was, James saw, not very tall, probably not more than five-foot-one or -two, but with the kind of lavish body that tantalized him. He could tell that she was not tightly corseted: she moved too lightly and swiftly for that. There was none of that suffocating femininity about her, no vapid conversation or stifled expression, no exaggerated modesty, no hothouse-flower manners. She turned to the left, saying, “These are the stairs you must take,” and started up them at once, pointing out as she went the two long swords on the wall. “One of those my father carried. The other is more ancient and goes back to the time of the English Henry V.”
“Your father carried that sword?” It was not new-looking, and from the design, was at least one hundred fifty years old. He mentioned this to her.