like an actor in that and many other respects — he desperately needed regular and earnest declarations of love. 'Label uppermost, always label uppermost; when you store and when you pour.' He demonstrated it. 'Otherwise you'll disturb it.'
I knew it would be a predominantly masculine lunch, a departmental get-together, Silas had warned me beforehand, but I still came. Bret Rensselaer and Frank Harrington were both there. Rensselaer was in his middle fifties; American-born, he was trim almost to the point of emaciation. Although his hair was turning white, there was still enough of the blond colouring left to prevent him looking old. And he smiled a lot and had good teeth and a face that was bony so that there weren't many wrinkles.
Over lunch there was the usual seasonal discussion about how quickly Christmas was approaching and the likelihood of more snow. Bret Rensselaer was deciding upon a place to ski. Frank Harrington, our senior man in Berlin, told him it was too early for good snow, but Silas advised Switzerland.
Frank argued about the snow. He liked to think he was an authority on such matters. He liked skiing, golfing and sailing, and generally having a good time. Frank Harrington was waiting for retirement, something for which he'd been strenuously practising all his life. He was a soldierly-looking figure with a weather-beaten face and a blunt-ended stubble moustache. Unlike Bret, who was wearing the same sort of Savile Row suit he wore to the office, Frank had come correctly attired for the upper-class English weekend: old Bedford cord trousers and a khaki sweater with a silk scarf in the open neck of his faded shirt. 'February,' said Frank. 'That's the only time for any decent skiing anywhere worth going.'
I observed the way Bret was eying von Munte, whose stream of high-grade information had taken Bret into the very top ranks of the Department. Bret's desk was now closed down and his seniority had been in peril ever since the old man had been forced to flee. No wonder the two men watched each other like boxers in a ring.
Talk became more serious when it touched upon that inevitable subject in such company, the unification of Germany. 'How deeply ingrained in East Germans is the philosophy of Communism?' Bret asked von Munte.
'Philosophy,' said Silas, interrupting sharply. 'I'll accept that Communism is a perverted sort of religion — infallible Kremlin, infallible Vatican — but philosophy, no.' He was happier with the von Muntes here, I could tell from the tone of his voice.
Von Munte didn't take up Silas's semantic contention. Gravely he said, 'The way in which Stalin took from Germany Silesia, Pomerania and East Prussia made it impossible for many of us Germans to accept the USSR as a friend, neighbour, or example.'
That's going back a long while,' said Bret. 'Which Germans are we talking about? Are young Germans interested in the tears and cries of pain we hear about the lost territories?' He smiled. This was Bret being deliberately provocative. His charming manner was frequently used like this — the local anaesthetic that accompanied the lancet of his rude remarks.
Von Munte remained very calm; was it a legacy of years of banking or years of Communism? Either way, I'd hate to play poker against him. 'You English equate our eastern lands with Imperial India. The French think we who talk about reasserting Germany's border to the frontiers of East Prussia are like the pieds-noirs , who hope once again to have Algeria governed from Paris.'
'Exactly,' said Bret. He smiled to himself and ate some duckling.
Von Munte nodded. 'But our eastern provinces have always been German and a vital part of Europe's relationship with the East. Culturally, psychologically and commercially, Germany's eastern lands, not Poland, provided the buffer and the link with Russia. Frederick the Great, Yorck and Bismarck — and indeed all those Germans who instituted important alliances with the East — were ostelbisch ,
I knew it would be a predominantly masculine lunch, a departmental get-together, Silas had warned me beforehand, but I still came. Bret Rensselaer and Frank Harrington were both there. Rensselaer was in his middle fifties; American-born, he was trim almost to the point of emaciation. Although his hair was turning white, there was still enough of the blond colouring left to prevent him looking old. And he smiled a lot and had good teeth and a face that was bony so that there weren't many wrinkles.
Over lunch there was the usual seasonal discussion about how quickly Christmas was approaching and the likelihood of more snow. Bret Rensselaer was deciding upon a place to ski. Frank Harrington, our senior man in Berlin, told him it was too early for good snow, but Silas advised Switzerland.
Frank argued about the snow. He liked to think he was an authority on such matters. He liked skiing, golfing and sailing, and generally having a good time. Frank Harrington was waiting for retirement, something for which he'd been strenuously practising all his life. He was a soldierly-looking figure with a weather-beaten face and a blunt-ended stubble moustache. Unlike Bret, who was wearing the same sort of Savile Row suit he wore to the office, Frank had come correctly attired for the upper-class English weekend: old Bedford cord trousers and a khaki sweater with a silk scarf in the open neck of his faded shirt. 'February,' said Frank. 'That's the only time for any decent skiing anywhere worth going.'
I observed the way Bret was eying von Munte, whose stream of high-grade information had taken Bret into the very top ranks of the Department. Bret's desk was now closed down and his seniority had been in peril ever since the old man had been forced to flee. No wonder the two men watched each other like boxers in a ring.
Talk became more serious when it touched upon that inevitable subject in such company, the unification of Germany. 'How deeply ingrained in East Germans is the philosophy of Communism?' Bret asked von Munte.
'Philosophy,' said Silas, interrupting sharply. 'I'll accept that Communism is a perverted sort of religion — infallible Kremlin, infallible Vatican — but philosophy, no.' He was happier with the von Muntes here, I could tell from the tone of his voice.
Von Munte didn't take up Silas's semantic contention. Gravely he said, 'The way in which Stalin took from Germany Silesia, Pomerania and East Prussia made it impossible for many of us Germans to accept the USSR as a friend, neighbour, or example.'
That's going back a long while,' said Bret. 'Which Germans are we talking about? Are young Germans interested in the tears and cries of pain we hear about the lost territories?' He smiled. This was Bret being deliberately provocative. His charming manner was frequently used like this — the local anaesthetic that accompanied the lancet of his rude remarks.
Von Munte remained very calm; was it a legacy of years of banking or years of Communism? Either way, I'd hate to play poker against him. 'You English equate our eastern lands with Imperial India. The French think we who talk about reasserting Germany's border to the frontiers of East Prussia are like the pieds-noirs , who hope once again to have Algeria governed from Paris.'
'Exactly,' said Bret. He smiled to himself and ate some duckling.
Von Munte nodded. 'But our eastern provinces have always been German and a vital part of Europe's relationship with the East. Culturally, psychologically and commercially, Germany's eastern lands, not Poland, provided the buffer and the link with Russia. Frederick the Great, Yorck and Bismarck — and indeed all those Germans who instituted important alliances with the East — were ostelbisch ,
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