Night Over Water Page 14

  He replied in heavily accented but correct English, “I was placed under house arrest, but permitted to continue with my scientific work.”

  “And then?”

  “I have escaped,” he said simply. He introduced the man beside him. “Do you know my friend Baron Gabon?”

  Margaret had heard of him. Philippe Gabon was a French banker who used his vast wealth to promote Jewish causes such as Zionism, which made him unpopular with the British government. He spent much of his time traveling the world trying to persuade countries to admit Jewish refugees from the Nazis. He was a small, rather plump man, with a neat beard, wearing a stylish black suit with a dove gray waistcoat and a silver tie. Margaret guessed he was paying for Hartmann’s ticket. She shook his hand and returned her attention to Hartmann.

  “Your escape hasn’t been reported in the newspapers,” she said.

  Baron Gabon said: “We have tried to keep it quiet until Carl is safely out of Europe.”

  That was ominous, Margaret thought: it sounded as if the Nazis might still be after him. “What are you going to do in America?” she asked.

  “I am going to Princeton, to work in the physics department there,” Hartmann replied. A bitter expression came over his face. “I did not want to leave my country. But if I had stayed, my work might have contributed to a Nazi victory.”

  Margaret did not know anything about his work—just that he was a scientist. It was his politics that interested her. “Your courage has been an inspiration to so many people,” she said. She was thinking of Ian, who had translated Hartmann’s speeches, in the days when Hartmann had been allowed to make speeches.

  Her praise seemed to make him uncomfortable. “I wish I could have continued,” he said. “I regret having given up.”

  Baron Gabon interjected: “You haven’t given up, Carl. Don’t accuse yourself. You did the only thing you could.”

  Hartmann nodded, and Margaret could see that in his head he knew Gabon was right, but in his heart he felt he had let his country down. She would have liked to say something comforting, but she did not know what. Her dilemma was resolved by the Pan American escort, who came by, saying: “Our luncheon is ready in the next car. Please take your seats.”

  Margaret stood up and said: “It’s such an honor to know you. I hope we can talk some more.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Hartmann said, and for the first time he smiled. “We’re going three thousand miles together.”

  She moved into the restaurant car and sat down with her family. Mother and Father sat on one side of the table, and the three children were squeezed together on the other, Percy between Margaret and Elizabeth. Margaret looked sideways at Elizabeth. When would she drop her bombshell?

  The waiter poured water and Father ordered a bottle of hock. Elizabeth was silent, looking out of the window. Margaret waited in suspense. Mother sensed the tension and said: “What’s up with you girls?”

  Margaret said nothing. Elizabeth said: “I’ve got something important to tell you.”

  The waiter came with cream of mushroom soup, and Elizabeth paused while he served them. Mother asked for a salad.

  When he had gone, Mother said: “What is it, dear?”

  Margaret held her breath.

  Elizabeth said: “I’ve decided not to go to America.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Father said irritably. “Of course you’re going—we’re on the way!”

  “No, I shan’t be flying with you,” Elizabeth persisted calmly. Margaret watched her closely. Elizabeth’s voice was level, but her long, rather plain face was white with tension, and Margaret’s heart went out to her.

  Mother said: “Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. Father’s bought you a ticket.”

  Percy said: “Perhaps we can get a refund.”

  “Be quiet, foolish boy,” said Father.

  Elizabeth said: “If you try to force me, I shall refuse to go on board the airplane. I think you’ll find that the airline will not permit you to carry me aboard kicking and screaming.”

  How clever Elizabeth had been, Margaret thought. She had caught Father at a vulnerable moment. He could not take her aboard by force, and he could not stay behind to deal with the problem because the authorities were about to put him under arrest as a Fascist.

  But Father was not beaten yet. He now realized she was serious. He put down his spoon. “What on earth do you suppose you would do if you stayed behind?” he said scathingly. “Join the army, as your feeble-minded sister proposed to do?”

  Margaret flushed with anger at being called feeble-minded, but she bit her tongue and said nothing, waiting for Elizabeth to crush him.

  Elizabeth said: “I shall go to Germany.”

  For a moment Father was shocked into silence.

  Mother said: “Darling, don’t you think you’re taking all this too far?”

  Percy spoke in an accurate imitation of Father. “This is what happens when girls are allowed to discuss politics,” he said pompously. “I blame that Marie Stopes—”

  “Shut up, Percy,” said Margaret, digging him in the ribs.

  They were silent while the waiter cleared away their untouched soup. She’s done it, Margaret thought; she actually had the guts to come out and say it. Now will she get away with it?

  Margaret could see that Father was already disconcerted. It had been easy for him to scorn Margaret for wanting to stay behind and fight against the Fascists, but it was harder to deride Elizabeth, because she was on his side.

  However, a little moral doubt never troubled him for long, and when the waiter went away he said: “I absolutely forbid it.” His tone was conclusive, as if that ended the discussion.

  Margaret looked at Elizabeth. How would she respond? He wasn’t even bothering to argue with her.

  With surprising gentleness, Elizabeth said: “I’m afraid you can’t forbid it, Father dear. I’m twenty-one years old and I can do what I please.”

  “Not while you’re dependent on me,” he said.

  “Then I may have to do without your support,” she said. “I have a small income of my own.”

  Father drank some hock very quickly and said: “I shan’t permit it, and that’s that.”

  It sounded hollow. Margaret began to believe that Elizabeth might really get away with it. She did not know whether to feel delighted at the prospect of Elizabeth defeating Father, or revolted that her sister was going to join the Nazis.

  They were served Dover sole. Only Percy ate. Elizabeth was pale with fright, but there was a look of determination about her mouth. Margaret could not help admiring her fortitude, even though she despised her mission.

  Percy said: “If you’re not coming to America, why did you get on the train?”

  “I’ve booked passage on a ship from Southampton.”

  “You can’t get a ship to Germany from this country,” Father said triumphantly.

  Margaret was appalled. Of course you couldn’t. Had Elizabeth slipped up? Would her entire plan founder on this detail?

  Elizabeth was unruffled. “I’m taking a ship to Lisbon,” she said calmly. “I’ve wired money to a bank there and I have a reservation at an hotel.”

  “You deceitful child!” Father said furiously. His voice was loud, and a man at the next table looked around.

  Elizabeth went on as if he had not spoken. “Once I’m there I’ll be able to find a ship going to Germany.”

  Mother said: “And then?”

  “I have friends in Berlin, Mother—you know that.”

  Mother sighed. “Yes, dear.” She looked very sad, and Margaret realized she had now accepted that Elizabeth would go.

  Father said loudly: “I have friends in Berlin, too.”

  Several people at adjoining tables looked up, and Mother said: “Hush, dear. We can all hear you just fine.”

  Father went on more quietly: “I have friends in Berlin who will send you packing the moment you arrive.”

  Margaret’s hand went to
her mouth. Of course, Father could get the Germans to expel Elizabeth: in a Fascist country the government could do anything. Would Elizabeth’s escape end with some wretched bureaucrat in a passport control booth shaking his head woodenly and refusing her an entry permit?

  “They won’t do that,” said Elizabeth.

  “We shall see,” said Father, and to Margaret’s ear he sounded unsure of himself.

  “They’ll welcome me, Father,” Elizabeth said, and the note of weariness in her voice somehow made her sound more convincing. “They’ll send out a press release to tell the world that I’ve escaped from England and joined their side, just the way the wretched British newspapers publicize the defection of prominent German Jews.”

  Percy said: “I hope they don’t find out about Grandma Fishbein.”

  Elizabeth was armored against Father’s attack, but Percy’s cruel humor slipped under her guard. “Shut up, you horrible boy!” she said, and she began to cry.

  Once again the waiter took away their untouched plates. The next course was lamb cutlets with vegetables. The waiter poured wine. Mother took a sip, a rare sign that she was upset.

  Father began to eat, attacking the meat with his knife and fork and chewing furiously. Margaret studied his angry face, and was surprised to detect a trace of bewilderment beneath the mask of rage. It was odd to see him shaken: his arrogance normally weathered every crisis. Studying his expression, she began to realize that his whole world was falling apart. This war was the end of his hopes: he had wanted the British people to embrace Fascism under his leadership, but instead they had declared war on Fascism and exiled him.

  In truth they had rejected him in the mid-thirties, but until now he had been able to turn a blind eye to that, and pretend to himself that one day they would come to him in their hour of need. That was why he was so awful, she supposed: he was living a lie. His crusading zeal had developed into obsessive mania, his confidence had degenerated into bluster, and having failed to become the dictator of Britain, he had been reduced to tyrannizing his children. But he could no longer ignore the truth. He was leaving his country, and—Margaret now realized—he might never be allowed to return.

  On top of all that, at the moment when his political hopes were unmistakably turning to dust, his children were rebelling, too. Percy was pretending to be Jewish, Margaret had tried to run away, and now even Elizabeth, his one remaining follower, was defying him.

  Margaret had thought she would be grateful for any crack in his armor, but in fact she felt uneasy. His unvarying despotism had been a constant in her life, and she was disconcerted by the thought that he might crumble. Like an oppressed nation faced with the prospect of revolution, she felt suddenly insecure.

  She tried to eat something, but she could hardly swallow. Mother pushed a tomato around her plate for a while, then put down her fork and said: “Is there a boy you like in Berlin, Elizabeth?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. Margaret believed her but, all the same, Mother’s question had been perceptive. Margaret knew that the appeal of Germany to Elizabeth was not purely ideological. There was something about the tall blond soldiers, in their immaculate uniforms and gleaming jackboots, that thrilled Elizabeth at a deeper level. And whereas in London society, Elizabeth was thought of as a rather plain, ordinary girl from an eccentric family, in Berlin she would be something special: an English aristocrat, the daughter of a pioneering Fascist, a foreigner who admired German Nazism. Her defection at the outbreak of war would make her famous there: she would be lionized. She would probably fall in love with a young officer, or an up-and-coming party official, and they would marry and have blond children who would grow up speaking German.

  Mother said: “What you’re doing is so dangerous, dear. Father and I are only worried about your safety.”

  Margaret wondered whether Father really was concerned for Elizabeth’s safety. Mother was, certainly; but Father was angry mainly at being disobeyed. Perhaps underneath his fury there was also a vestige of tenderness. He had not always been harsh: Margaret could remember moments of kindliness, and even fun, in the old days. The thought made her terribly sad.

  Elizabeth said: “I know it’s dangerous, Mother, but my future is at stake in this war. I don’t want to live in a world dominated by Jewish financiers and grubby little Communist trade unionists.”

  “What absolute twaddle!” Margaret said, but no one was listening.

  “Then come with us,” Mother said to Elizabeth. “America is a good place.”

  “Wall Street is run by Jews—”

  “I do believe that’s exaggerated,” Mother said firmly, avoiding Father’s eye. “There are too many Jews and other unsavory types in American business, it’s true, but they’re far outnumbered by decent people. Remember that your grandfather owned a bank.”

  Percy said: “Incredible that we went from knife-grinding to banking in just two generations.” Nobody took any notice.

  Mother went on. “I agree with your views, dear—you know that. But believing in something doesn’t mean you have to die for it. No cause is worth that.”

  Margaret was shocked. Mother was implying the Fascist cause was not worth dying for; and that amounted almost to blasphemy in Father’s eyes. She had never known Mother to go against him like this. Elizabeth was surprised, too, Margaret could see. They both looked at Father. He reddened slightly and grunted disapprovingly, but the outburst they were expecting did not come. And that was the most shocking thing of all.

  Coffee was served and Margaret saw that they had reached the outskirts of Southampton. They would arrive at the station in a few minutes. Would Elizabeth really do it?

  The train slowed down.

  Elizabeth said to the waiter: “I’m leaving the train at the main station. Would you please bring my suitcase from the other carriage? It’s a red leather bag and the name is Lady Elizabeth Oxenford.”

  “Certainly, m’lady,” he said.

  Redbrick suburban houses marched past the carriage windows like ranks of soldiers. Margaret was watching Father. He said nothing, but his face was taut as a balloon with suppressed rage. Mother put a hand on his knee and said: “Please don’t make a scene, dear.” He did not reply.

  The train pulled into the station.

  Elizabeth was sitting by the window. She caught Margaret’s eye. Margaret and Percy got up and let her out, then sat down again.

  Father stood up.

  The other passengers sensed the tension and looked at the little tableau: Elizabeth and Father facing one another in the aisle as the train came to a halt.

  It struck Margaret once again that Elizabeth had chosen her moment well. It would be difficult for Father to use force in these circumstances : if he tried it he might even be restrained by other passengers. Nevertheless she felt sick with fear.

  Father’s face was flushed and his eyes bulged. He was breathing hard through his nose. Elizabeth was shaking, but her mouth was set firm.

  Father said: “If you get off this train now, I never want to see you again.”

  “Don’t say that!” Margaret cried, but she was too late; it had been said, and he would never take it back.

  Mother began to cry.

  Elizabeth just said: “Goodbye.”

  Margaret stood up and threw her arms around Elizabeth. “Good luck!” she whispered.

  “You, too,” Elizabeth said, hugging her back.

  Elizabeth kissed Percy’s cheek, then leaned awkwardly across the table and kissed Mother’s face, which was wet with tears. Finally she looked at Father again and said in a trembling voice: “Will you shake hands?”

  His face was a mask of hate. He said: “My daughter is dead.”

  Mother gave a cry of distress.

  The carriage was very quiet, as if everyone knew that a family drama was reaching its tragic conclusion.

  Elizabeth turned and walked away.

  Margaret wished she could pick her father up and shake him until his teeth rattled. His needless obsti
nacy made her livid. Why the hell couldn’t he just give in for once? Elizabeth was an adult: she wasn’t obliged to obey her parents for the rest of her life! Father had no right to banish her. In his rage he had split the family, pointlessly and vindictively. At that moment Margaret hated him. As he stood there, looking furious and belligerent, she wanted to tell him that he was mean and unjust and stupid; but as always with Father, she bit her lip and said nothing.

  Elizabeth walked past the carriage window, carrying her red suitcase. She looked at them all, smiled tearfully and gave a small, hesitant wave with her free hand. Mother began to sob quietly. Percy and Margaret waved back. Father looked away. Then Elizabeth passed out of sight.

  Father sat down and Margaret followed suit.

  A whistle blew and the train moved off.

  They saw Elizabeth again, waiting in line at the exit. She glanced up as their carriage went by. This time there was no smile or wave: she just looked sad and grim.

  The train picked up speed, and she was lost from view.

  “Family life is a wonderful thing,” Percy said; and although he was being sarcastic, there was no humor in his voice, just bitterness.

  Margaret wondered whether she would ever see her sister again.

  Mother was dabbing at her eyes with a little linen handkerchief, but she was unable to stop crying. It was rare for her to lose her composure. Margaret could not remember ever seeing her cry before. Percy looked shaken. Margaret was depressed by Elizabeth’s foolish attachment to such an evil cause; but also she could not help feeling a sense of exultation. Elizabeth had done it: she had defied Father and got away with it! She had stood up to him, defeated him and escaped from him.

  If Elizabeth could do it, so could she.

  She smelled the sea. The train entered the docks. It ran along the waterfront, moving slowly past sheds, cranes and ocean liners. Despite her grief at parting with her sister, Margaret began to feel the thrill of anticipation.

  The train stopped behind a building marked IMPERIAL HOUSE. It was an ultramodern structure that looked a bit like a ship: its comers were rounded, and the upper story had a wide veranda like a deck, with a white rail all around.