The Diamond Waterfall (42 page)

A few weeks later Gib was reported missing. A frightened, shocked Teddy walked from room to room—working harder than ever, taking down dictated letters, reading aloud. Sitting in a corner, head bowed, Amy Hawksworth's arm about her shoulders (Amy herself in love with one of the ex-patients, Sadie said).

“It isn't certain,” Lily said. “Missing only means … He could turn up in some hospital.”

Teddy's face—for she didn't answer—was enough reproach. Would I accept such platitudes, such false comfort?

She had to tell Hal. But just to think of him, to write his name, was to open the floodgates of worry. Any day, the telegraph boy could be at the door.

And Alice. It was for her to tell Alice. An Alice who it appeared had embraced Roman Catholicism, and said that she was “very consoled.” This latest news could only be yet another test of her faith.

Lily knew something of the fighting in Romania. That they had finally entered the war in August of 1916 on the Allied side. That Russia had sent troops to help them keep back the Bulgarians. And that Bucharest had been occupied fifteen months ago. Now the Russian Revolution had altered everything for the worse. She searched out what she could of news. Above all—she worried.

That week of bad news, when they waited to hear about Gib, a letter came from Valentin. It was addressed simply to her (the days of secrecy past). She had just opened the envelope, had seen the bundle of close-written pages, when she was bothered by Mr. Ahlefeldt.

She scarcely heard his query. “I cannot answer now.” (She must read the letter
at once.)
“Speak to Sir Robert about it, please.”

He smiled. “I want everything to go smoothly, easily, but it's already two weeks since I came, and certain matters are still not clear.”

She could scarcely conceal her impatience. “Later, I thought I said
later,
Mr. Ahlefeldt.”

She was alone. The letter. The letter.

It is a different Valentin who writes to you—and who should have written much much sooner.

I have been in the war. This may surprise you, my darling, because of my age, but these matters can be arranged. I have not been fighting all the time. Recently I was with the cavalry in the north of Moldavia. But now, Lily, it isn't the Germans who have defeated me, but a more ancient enemy—the typhus germ. It has brought havoc here. I was ill up in Dumbraveni where it was very bad. Although I have recovered, the damage is quite severe, they say. So you will excuse this uncertain handwriting. No more war for me, even though in my spirit I feel with those who deplore the Armistice we were forced to make. (Although,
more
loss of life. How can that be good?) Also, these days I ask myself, Lily, how could we, I, once have been so lighthearted, so
silly?
We were only children when we were so happy (and then so
un
happy). It seems more than eighteen years since we loved—it's one, two, three hundred.

First now, what is the news, news that is not war? About my wife, Elizabeta, so young, so specially chosen for children. … It has been
pénible
for us both. After six years (and I know as do you that nothing is wrong with me!) there was no child. They found something wrong with her and tried some operations—but still, no. Then three or four years ago they operated to take away everything. Our chances are gone. I am not interested, nor is she, that we should adopt. It is not the same. That is my sad story.

It isn't bad with everyone. Ana Xenescu—her little last child, Corina, is enchanting. She is fifteen now, and Ana is already eager she should be married. But when
I
see her, Lily, so dark, so
vif,
she reminds me only of
our
gift. Lily, I
know,
although I haven't now seen photographs or talked to you any more of this, that Theodora is a spiffing girl.

Older, wiser—I am wiser and I have thought about our daughter.
This is very important, Lily. I've decided (and you are free to tell Robert what you wish of this) that because of what I've told you of my private life, because of this I would wish to leave to Theodora the wealth that I would have given a child of ours—
if you and I had married.

Now, this wealth. I can't give you any exact sums, because such terrible things are happening here with money as well. And now we have Russia to fear as well as Germany. But I was never such a silly little boy as we pretended—I have always been sound in business affairs. Lily, you will find in here on another paper the name and address of a lawyer in Paris, also of a bank, together with other matters. I have made such arrangements that if it is
possible at all
when anything happens to me then our daughter (our gift from God) will be, I am nearly certain, an independent woman. I know this could sound foolish because you are not a family without riches! But I know what Robert told you many years ago.

You must tell our daughter what you like. It is for you to decide. But I
don't
want gratitude, obligation, embarrassment. I do it, give it, also for
my
happiness. There is plenty for Elizabeta, so there is no problem there. I've taken only Sophie in my confidence. (Teodor died in early 1913, during the Balkan troubles. You know this? His heart.)

When I had the fever, I dreamed again and again that you nursed me, you loved me, we were a
long time married.

There were more pages. But she couldn't. She was already too upset. She would read the rest later.

The hundred and one tasks of the day scarcely begun. An unpleasantness already with Mr. Ahlefeldt. She stood looking out of the window, thinking of Valentin, weeping as she had not wept for years. Not for what had happened, but for what had not.

Two weeks later they had a visit from her nephew, David Ziolkiwiski, Daisy's third son. She had heard from Daisy that he had enlisted. It appeared that he would not sail directly to Brest but would be in England a little before going to France. She put off telling Robert. Any mention of Daisy and her family could well set off yet another diatribe against Jews. (She had never discovered what was behind his prejudices, so much more virulent than any others she had encountered. The thought crossed her mind sometimes that it might be he feared and was jealous of what he saw as their greater sexual vigor.)

She wired to David that he should spend a few days with them. Over the years she'd seen photographs of him and the others but remembered him best at the age of six, seven—when they still lived in Yorkshire.

Just after he arrived she had a chance to be alone with him. He was a
fine-looking boy, large, dark. Except for Joszef's lovely eyes, she could see little resemblance. Harry's hands. A look of Ma when he spoke—how Ma might have been if she'd been confident. Families are funny, she thought. He told her, as Daisy had already done, that his sister Ruth's husband, Lew, was already in France, working with the ambulances. Ruth had three children, two girls, Esther and Lily, and a boy, Jay, and was expecting a fourth any day now.

It was unfortunate David should come just when they were having one of their now rare dinner parties. Another time and Robert might well have eaten upstairs, or been in bed early. She dreaded the encounter.

There was a gathering almost like old times. Sadie, specially asked and for once free. Charlie, who couldn't be
not
asked. Erik Ahlefeldt-Levetzau (no choice here). The medical officer at The Towers. A Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. A Mrs. Fraser. All present to greet Lieutenant David Ziolkiwiski.

Food. A problem. Erik Ahlefeldt had told her that in his native country the shortage of fats was so serious that children's health was in jeopardy. She wondered occasionally if he had a wife and family—and if so, where they were? His behavior, always so correct, left no occasion for personal questions.) Game, in season, was the great standby. Problems too of the overworked kitchens, strained to the limits now with feeding patients. This evening they produced charred venison, soup so salted it was painful to the tongue, mangled vegetables. Only the wine was good.

Erik came late. She knew the reason must be some crisis in the hospital (how often had it not happened to her?), but all the same felt irritated. Robert made some light remark which falsely led her to suppose he was in a good mood—he did, after all, seem to approve of the new director.

David he had so far ignored. She hoped for this to continue. But no … He asked suddenly:

“Don't the Yankees, that regiment of yours—don't they keep all the Ikey Moes in one bunch?”

“Sir?”

“Ikeys. Semites, Israelites, what have you. You're a Jew, more or less, aren't you? Nothing to be ashamed of. Fortunately I don't have the problem. Mix you all together, do they?”

David had gone very white. Lily, faint with shame and anger. Charlie cut in:

“Talking of regiments—my cousin, Archer-Seymour, the one in the Princess Royal's—”

Lily was surprised to see Erik Ahlefeldt put down his napkin and rise from the table. “Forgive me. A task I have suddenly remembered. I would like to make my excuses.”

“But certainly.” It made, though, a slight chill. Conversation ceased as he moved to the door.

“Well,” Charlie began again heartily, “Cousin Archie is now fearfully—”

Erik's voice, polite but firm, cut in from the doorway:

“Excuse me. It is not the truth that I have work. I leave your table because I come from a nation that has suffered humiliation—although almost fifty years since. I am not willing to listen that another shall be insulted for his race or his nation. Here or anywhere. That is all.”

The door closed behind him. There was an uneasy silence. Sadie turned to David:

“Although I don't know New York like my own city, I want to ask you —the pastry shops round Union Square …”

Lily, waylaying Robert afterward, reproached him:

“How
could
you? How
dare
you?” She was beside herself with anger at the upset. And to cap it all that it should have been that annoying Dane who defended David.

“I have always said exactly what I like, when I like.”

“Oh?” she said. “Really? I had not noticed!”

“It
is
my roof after all. Your Israelite nephew visits only by my kindness.”

Impossible. He is quite impossible. “This,” she said, “we've had it so many times this argument. Always about Jews … Jews are people, are they not?”

“So are niggers, I suppose, in your book. Wisely, until the North American folly, they were kept in their place—as slaves.”

“You are impossible.”

“Go now,” he said, “go and sit with your nephew. Talk to him as much as you like. And,” he added, turning to leave her, “by the way, I didn't care for the behavior of my replacement. Damned impudence under my roof. His terribly
correct
English—they say his wife was English. No concern of mine that—if he keeps himself to himself out in the cottage, does the work properly.”

Lily said, “There's no complaining on that score.” Even with her prejudice she had to grant him that.

“Tell you what,” Robert said. She saw he was angry still. “Fellow's a Hun, you know. I'm sure they've sent us a Hun.”

It appeared Robert was not the only person to think that. Three days later Lily was in her office before breakfast, writing quickly to Hal. She told him about his cousin. “They are very keen you should come to New York when it's all over.”

When it's all over.
One of the maids, a new one from the next village,
stood at the door. She looked frightened, rushing her words in a low voice so that Lily had to ask her to repeat them.

“It's summat not right—at t'cottage, where t'German gentleman—”

“Danish. From
Denmark,
Annie.”

“Danish gentleman, m'lady. Summat's up. Hodgson was in t'gardens and he said—”

“Perhaps whatever it is Hodgson would care to speak to me?”

Stopping only to put on a heavy coat, she went out. As she passed the stables to reach the cottage, the elderly groom, Wilkinson, said “Good morning,” and looked quickly away.

“Has something happened, Wilkinson?”

“You'd best see for yissen, m'lady. I don't know owt about it. It's nowt to do wi' me.”

She turned the corner then. And saw …

Not a window of the cottage remained unbroken. The place looked almost derelict. The contents of several garbage cans, emptied in a pile under the downstairs windows. Red paint on the door and GET AWAY HOME HUN, YOR BLOOD FOR OUR BLOOD, HANG KISER BUT YOU GO FURST.

She hurried to the back. The door, which opened like a stable door, had the upper part swinging open. The bottom had been kicked in. Inside she saw books scattered, torn from their spines, pages lying about. A violin, broken and trodden on. She picked up a book, let it drop. She was shaking. Terrible, she thought, this is terrible.

“Good morning and please excuse me, Lady Firth.” He stood just behind her, dressed, but not yet shaved.

“What is all this?” she said.
“What has happened?”

“I too must ask what has happened.” His voice was as polite as ever. Only a slight tremor in it betrayed shock. “The truth is I'm still a little afraid—”

“It's a vicious attack,” she said. She looked about her. The violin bow, snapped in three, lay at her feet. “Last night?”

“I'm not certain of the hour. Let's say after midnight. It was maybe six, seven, people that live in the village. Perhaps some drinking first, and then they encouraged each other. It was—ugly. And, yes,
of course
I was afraid for myself—”

“What can I say? My husband—Sir Robert and I—we would both—” She kept repeating, “What can I say?”

“It is enough you are concerned. It is not your fault.” He smiled gently. “Also it is nothing beside what is happening in France, or Flanders. Your son, son-in-law—”