Page 56 of A Question of Betrayal (Elena Standish)

Margot arrived back in London tired but unable to relax. She could not let go of the thoughts that had been whirling in her mind during her journey home from Berlin. It was the emotions that overcame her most powerfully, though they were not all troubling. In fact, the story that the German soldier, Major Buresch, had told her about the British officer was overwhelming, but it was, in a way, also liberating. She realized that over the years of grief she had allowed Paul to become of almost mythic perfection in her mind. She remembered the good things—the intimacy, the courage, and the laughter—but they had become so large that he had grown to dwarf everyone else she might have cared for. No one could measure up to him. In fact, no one could make her feel anything, other than that to love again would be a betrayal.

The more she thought of it, the more she brought back the reality of Paul: the humanity, and the fallibility that makes people real. He would have shown the same kindness, even fellowship, to a fallen enemy. He had admitted to dulling the edges of fear and pain with whisky. He had shrunk from superhuman to very human indeed, and she loved him the more for that.

She also grieved because he had felt it necessary to be a hero for her, instead of sharing with her what he really felt: the deep, wounding

pain of horror and fear. It was the culture of the time not to tell those at home the truth about the realities of war. But that was fifteen years ago, and it was a different world. Naïvety was dead and cynicism was acknowledged. Perhaps too much, but who could blame anyone? It had been called the war to end all wars, and here they were, possibly on the eve of another. Their leaders made the same mistakes over and over again. The victims learned, but those in power either did nothing or forgot because something else had become more important. Like German expansion into Austria on the heels of assassination, and then the Fatherland Front taking over the government? It was all too believable. Or had she misunderstood the bits she had overheard and pieced together? Was she running from phantoms? Defeat does strange things to people. And she had certainly seen the utter devastation of defeat in Germany when her father had been ambassador. She had seen it every day, in Germany’s hunger and despair. Men begging for work, women starving themselves to feed their children. Had they a choice in any part of this?

But the humiliations of defeat bred something far worse than poverty, hunger, or loss of both the past and the future for the enemy. It bred humiliation, which sometimes turned into rage. Too many had nothing left to lose. Anyone who offered a renewal of hope had a ready audience of millions. Should anyone be surprised that Hitler was gaining so many followers?

The word about Austria was only a whisper, but did people like her father know how deep it was, that it was turning into action? She wished she could do something more useful. Parties, theater, even time spent with friends seemed devoid of purpose now. She must at least tell her father what she had observed. Tonight would be good.

* * *

—

It was still daylight when she was in the taxi and heading home, not too late to have the driver take her to her parents’ house. She found herself smiling as she redirected him. She would tip him well for his trouble.

Katherine was delighted to see her. “Margot, darling, come in, come in! Tell me all about it,” she said eagerly, hugging her daughter, her face alight with pleasure. “Have you eaten? At the very least, have a cup of tea. Stay here tonight; your old room is always made up.”

Margot hugged her back, harder than usual. Cecily was too young to remember the war as Margot did, but perhaps she would lose her husband in a long, drawn out, and far more terrible way. That is, he would still be alive, but altered until the good she had seen in him was fragmented into a thousand pieces, none of them big enough to matter anymore.

Margot let go of her mother and stepped back.

Katherine stared at her. “What’s the matter?” she said. “Was it painful for you?” She went straight to the point, asking if Margot’s going had awakened her grief and sharpened her aloneness.

Margot smiled. “No, in fact I met a man—a German officer—who had been saved by a British officer, and what he said made me think of Paul. It made me see him again in a good way. It reminded me of what he was really like, not just a frozen memory.”

Katherine’s face registered her emotions sharply. Margot saw suddenly far more than an ambassador’s wife’s usual smooth concealment of all personal thoughts. It was as if, for an instant, all pain was allowable…then it was gone again. “But…?” she asked.

Margot decided in that instant she would not tell her mother more than the happy things, the social things: who wore what, what the celebration entailed. “I would like to talk to Father about one or two things.” She saw her mother frown. “Just messages from people he knew,” she lied. “Before I forget what they said.” She smiled quickly. “And thank you, I’d love to stay here tonight and have a good meal. I have had excellent restaurant food in Germany, and I ate some marvelous meals, but I’m looking forward to something comfortable.”

“Yes, of course.” Katherine led the way through to the sitting room. “I’ll tell your father. He will be delighted to see you safely back.”

A moment later, Charles came into the sitting room smiling widely, clearly with relief.

Margot felt a moment of emotion sweep over her. She’d always been her father’s favorite, and she had known this growing up. She had used it to her advantage, and she was not proud of this now. But recently she had felt grateful for their closeness, in spite of the extreme difference in their personalities. Above all, she was filled with an unusual wave of gratitude that she was not in Cecily’s position and that Charles was not in Roger Cordell’s. How painful for Roger to have to watch his daughter walk off into a dark and unknown future with a man he did not like or trust. Although he dared not show it, Roger was bound both by nature and by honor to protect those he loved. And Charles did not have such a fragile wife. Heaven knew, Katherine was every bit as strong as he, and possibly as astute an ambassador. Actually, she was not nearly as emotionally damaged by her experiences of loss as Margot had thought. And although Margot herself had suffered the death of her husband—a blow that perhaps had killed part of her—she definitely was not a fragile woman, either.

She went quite naturally into her father’s arms and hugged him, and she felt him hug her warmly. “You weren’t worried, were you?” she said with a smile when she stepped back.

“Of course I was. It’s my job,” he replied. “Every decent man worries about his daughters. You may be braver and more competent than most, but you also get yourself into bigger messes.”

“Then you must adore Elena,” she replied instantly.

“Never more than you,” he said in sudden gravity. “And she’s only been daring since May, and that was forced on her. Not to diminish the fact that she handled it very well.” He looked at Margot with pride.

Margot had sometimes wondered if he saw an echo of Katherine in her: the elegance, the individuality. Perhaps that was partly why she dressed outrageously sometimes: just to be different. But she must not waste this chance.

“Before Mother comes back with food for us, I have to speak to you.”

He frowned. “Sit down and tell me how Cordell is. Is it about him?”

She sat in the big armchair opposite his. “Yes and no. I overheard something at the wedding party: German army officers talking. There were a lot of them there. I know it’s…” She had been going to say a proactive safety measure, get in on the ground floor, but that was unnecessarily unkind.

He was waiting, dark eyes troubled. They were so much like her own.

“It’s probably a good future for Cecily.” She narrowly evaded the point and then hurried on. “I overheard two regular army officers talking about German influence in Austria. They mentioned a group called the Fatherland Front. It seems violent. Have you heard of it?”

“There are a lot of groups here and there,” Charles replied, “and there’s unrest all over the place. I wouldn’t take them too seriously. Young men indulge in all sorts of wild talk.” He shook his head a little, smiling at some inner thought. “Most of it is just daydreams. Add a little boasting and I dare say they had more celebratory champagne than they could well handle.” He smiled at her. “I’ll look into it, I promise, but don’t worry, put it out of your mind. If you believed every wild tale from a man who is too young to have fought in the war, but longs for a part of the heroism without having any idea what real a real hero is like, what real war is like, you would live in a state of constant anxiety.” His face tightened a little. “Don’t mention this to your mother. She would only worry to no purpose. There are enough strange things going on in Washington, according to her parents. I think it would be a good idea if she took a trip out to visit them in the spring or summer, perhaps? Would you go with her?” There was a look of hope in his eyes. “I doubt I will be able to come, and you haven’t seen your American grandparents for far too long.”

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