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Authors: Susanna Moore
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us.”
Even Kreck had stopped moving. No one spoke for a moment, and then I heard Maria Milde ask Don Jaime, “Am I dreaming, or was that potato pie we had for lunch?”
As I looked around the table, I reminded myself that on a dark winter’s day in Ballycarra, just such an afternoon, with film stars, champagne, and handsome princes, had been all that I desired.
After the guests at last left (they stayed for hours, Caspar making several trips to the Pavilion for more wine), I helped Kreck and Caspar to clear the table. I needed Caspar’s help to carrythe turkey cock to the pantry where it was put away (Felix told Kreck that it would be the last lunch party at Löwendorf for some time), but I was able to do the rest myself. Under Professor Wasselmann’s immaculate plate, I found a small, folded sheet of blue writing paper. I opened it and read it. I could understand certain words—the words “tank,” “batallion,” and “munition” are the same in English—and I quickly put the note in my pocket. That there really had been a spy at Christmas lunch was exciting. That it was Professor Wasselmann was a shock.
Later that evening, I passed Felix on my way to the sewing room, having vowed at lunch to make a lace dinner dress for myself. When I stopped to thank him, he said, “You
see
what we do? We celebrate the low, and we long for the past. I’d hoped to be done with deception. My own as well as others.” He was very upset.
“Deception?” I asked.
“That everything will be well for us. That the old world will survive. That it deserves to survive.”
Before I could answer, not that I had an answer, he bid me good night and disappeared down the passage.
The next morning, Kreck brought me a long bundle wrapped in bleached muslin. There was a note tucked into the muslin. It was from Inéz, who had written under an engraved coronet,
My dear, as I will be taking my children with me when I leave Munich, I have no room for these—might you not wear them for me?
Inside the bundle were two blouses, one of natural raw silkwith capped sleeves, the other with tiny pleats of Moroccan crepe, long sleeves, and round pearl buttons. There was a pair of lilac suede gloves, a black suit with a hint of a peplum, a gray pongee suit with a chinchilla collar, a black wool afternoon dress with a wide belt and white faille collar and cuffs, two pairs of stockings (pale, sheer), and a pair of black alligator pumps with rounded toes. Labels were sewn into the seams of the clothes— SCHIAPARELLI, DOUCET, LANVIN —with Inéz’s initials and the date that they had been made for her (I was the same size as Inéz, although smaller in the bust). I fell back on the bed, my new clothes clasped in my arms.
As I slipped on the shoes—they were too big, and I would have to stuff the toes with cotton—I promised never again to criticize her. As I tried on the black suit in the mirror, I swore that I would never again think ill of her or, for that matter, anyone. It was the first time in my life that I’d been given anything so beautiful. I didn’t for an instant believe that she hadn’t room in her luggage.
1940
T he smiling brother and sister who were at Christmas lunch left for Spain at the end of March, hoping to make their way to Algiers. Dorothea was angry when she discovered that Felix had given them the passes, perhaps imagining that they themselves might one day use them. It was the only quarrel I ever knew them to have—whether to fly to safety or to stay at Löwendorf. Once Felix gave away the passes, it would be difficult for the Metzenburgs to leave the country. Kreck told me that Dorothea had considered for a moment going to Copenhagen, where she had cousins, but the Nazis invaded Denmark the first week of April, and she did not mention it again.
When a family of smiling gypsies appeared in the stable yard, Frau Schmidt flung open a kitchen window and screamed, “
Raus, ihr Schweine, oder ich lasse euch
Even Kreck had stopped moving. No one spoke for a moment, and then I heard Maria Milde ask Don Jaime, “Am I dreaming, or was that potato pie we had for lunch?”
As I looked around the table, I reminded myself that on a dark winter’s day in Ballycarra, just such an afternoon, with film stars, champagne, and handsome princes, had been all that I desired.
After the guests at last left (they stayed for hours, Caspar making several trips to the Pavilion for more wine), I helped Kreck and Caspar to clear the table. I needed Caspar’s help to carrythe turkey cock to the pantry where it was put away (Felix told Kreck that it would be the last lunch party at Löwendorf for some time), but I was able to do the rest myself. Under Professor Wasselmann’s immaculate plate, I found a small, folded sheet of blue writing paper. I opened it and read it. I could understand certain words—the words “tank,” “batallion,” and “munition” are the same in English—and I quickly put the note in my pocket. That there really had been a spy at Christmas lunch was exciting. That it was Professor Wasselmann was a shock.
Later that evening, I passed Felix on my way to the sewing room, having vowed at lunch to make a lace dinner dress for myself. When I stopped to thank him, he said, “You
see
what we do? We celebrate the low, and we long for the past. I’d hoped to be done with deception. My own as well as others.” He was very upset.
“Deception?” I asked.
“That everything will be well for us. That the old world will survive. That it deserves to survive.”
Before I could answer, not that I had an answer, he bid me good night and disappeared down the passage.
The next morning, Kreck brought me a long bundle wrapped in bleached muslin. There was a note tucked into the muslin. It was from Inéz, who had written under an engraved coronet,
My dear, as I will be taking my children with me when I leave Munich, I have no room for these—might you not wear them for me?
Inside the bundle were two blouses, one of natural raw silkwith capped sleeves, the other with tiny pleats of Moroccan crepe, long sleeves, and round pearl buttons. There was a pair of lilac suede gloves, a black suit with a hint of a peplum, a gray pongee suit with a chinchilla collar, a black wool afternoon dress with a wide belt and white faille collar and cuffs, two pairs of stockings (pale, sheer), and a pair of black alligator pumps with rounded toes. Labels were sewn into the seams of the clothes— SCHIAPARELLI, DOUCET, LANVIN —with Inéz’s initials and the date that they had been made for her (I was the same size as Inéz, although smaller in the bust). I fell back on the bed, my new clothes clasped in my arms.
As I slipped on the shoes—they were too big, and I would have to stuff the toes with cotton—I promised never again to criticize her. As I tried on the black suit in the mirror, I swore that I would never again think ill of her or, for that matter, anyone. It was the first time in my life that I’d been given anything so beautiful. I didn’t for an instant believe that she hadn’t room in her luggage.
1940
T he smiling brother and sister who were at Christmas lunch left for Spain at the end of March, hoping to make their way to Algiers. Dorothea was angry when she discovered that Felix had given them the passes, perhaps imagining that they themselves might one day use them. It was the only quarrel I ever knew them to have—whether to fly to safety or to stay at Löwendorf. Once Felix gave away the passes, it would be difficult for the Metzenburgs to leave the country. Kreck told me that Dorothea had considered for a moment going to Copenhagen, where she had cousins, but the Nazis invaded Denmark the first week of April, and she did not mention it again.
When a family of smiling gypsies appeared in the stable yard, Frau Schmidt flung open a kitchen window and screamed, “
Raus, ihr Schweine, oder ich lasse euch
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