Tempting Fate (12 page)

James had taken his dog-eared notebook from his pocket and was scribbling in it. “Henri-Gilbert Griffe and Madelaine de Montalia. Anyone else?” He had also written a few indicative notes to himself:
Griffe—old, feisty, big family. De Montalia—young, Provence, something special.
He began to think he was really on to a story.

“There is also Louis Creusée, who had not one but two châteaux destroyed in 1914. He is working in Paris now, studying codes. He speaks seven languages, and so is very much needed.” Timbres did not like Louis Creusée, who was always demanding that his losses be recognized. His conversation consisted entirely of demands for recompense and declarations that the Germans had caught the French napping and it would serve France right if Germany won. The last time Major Timbres had seen Creusée, he had come close to hitting him.

“A large family as well?” James asked.

“Not particularly. They say he has the Eng…” Major Timbres stopped suddenly, with a guilty look toward Gregory Roper.

“The English Vice?” Roper said at his most mild. “That is what it’s called here, isn’t it? We have other names for it, as you might expect. Just as we consider syphilis the French Disease.”

Timbres accepted this without demur. “Creusée has that reputation,” he said, thinking that had he liked the man, he would not have mentioned this about him. Major Timbres knew that if he wanted to embarrass Creusée, this was one way to do it.

“I don’t think I’ll put that in my story,” James said with much more aplomb than he would have had six months ago.

“There’s two families from near Verdun: one of them is now at Fontainebleau and the other at La Rochelle. I will get their names for you. We had to evacuate a convent near Metz. The nuns are now at a hospital in Caen. The Abbess will have a great deal to tell you. Gaspard Froidmain had quite a sizable estate not far from Fumay, where he raised draft horses. He’s moved his family to Tours and is working with supply and transportation departments. There are others, some much less resourceful than these. There were two very old sisters in a huge château about ten miles outside of Commercy who had nowhere to go and now the château is in ruins, and all that they had in it. The war has made them destitute and they have only a niece left to them, who is a widow.” His eyes were growing hard with his recounting of these losses. “I have no idea where the sisters are now. Shall I go on, Mr. Tree, or will a list be sufficient?”

“A list will be much appreciated, Major,” James said, knowing that he had enough to give Crandell. Perhaps he could even get a series of articles. And once the war was over, he might stay on, doing more stories about how various people put their lives back together. It was suddenly vitally important that Crandell approve of this; it would give him his ticket to stay in Europe. So caught up in his own burgeoning plans was James that he did not hear the question Roper asked the Major, and was startled to hear the answer.

“That is what we hope. If there are more incidents of the same sort in the German ranks, it will be to our advantage.” The Major had folded his arms.

“I thought Jew-baiting went out with Captain Dreyfus,” Roper observed.

“And Disraeli,” Major Timbres said sharply. “Neither of those men had any great influence on Germany. We know of four instances already and we have reason to assume there will be more.” He paused, giving Roper a thoughtful look. “As far as I am aware, no one has said much about this. It might be wise to point it out, but it might also be divisive, if there is dissatisfaction over Jews in your country.”

“I’ll have to weigh the issues and ask for instructions from my employers.” He returned the Major’s look. “There are always difficulties, Major.”

There was a knock at the door, and Major Timbres excused himself to answer it. A young Corporal stood waiting for him, and after saluting, addressed the Major in low, rapid words. Major Timbres heard him out with increasing gravity. When the young man had finished, he saluted and left, his hurried footsteps loud as he went down the uncarpeted hallway. The Major closed the door slowly.

“You must forgive me, gentlemen,” Major Timbres said abruptly, wanting to conceal the urgent apprehension that quickened his pulse. “It seems that the German did say something before the end. It may be important. Colonel Tranche has asked that all his officers attend him at once. I must go. You will understand, of course.”

“Of course,” Roper said.

“Sure,” said James.

“Then excuse me.” He left the room in long strides which retreated down the hall, joined by several others, moving equally quickly.

When the two journalists had been alone for several minutes, Roper turned to his American colleague. “What did you get of that?”

“Most of it. There’s a major offensive building up, to begin on the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, in another attempt to reach Paris. The Germans are bringing up more heavy artillery. Air surveillance will be increased from Rheims to Soissons. I think it’s the Seventh Army and one other. I didn’t hear it clearly.” James spoke in his most conversational manner and rather quietly.

“You have a better command of French than I,” Roper said with some surprise. “You won’t mind my saying that’s rare in an American. I thought you studied it in high school.”

“I did. My teacher was Madame Courante.” James could not entirely keep from smiling.

“I see.” Roper turned to a new page in his notebook. “What have you got there?”

“Mostly the names of people who have lost their estates.” He was a bit guarded with the English journalist, for he had come to know that the competition in this profession was ruthless.

“That’s not much use to me, but I’ll tell you, I believe you’ve hit upon something worthwhile there. I think you’re right about Americans and their lack of comprehension.” He went on in a more clipped tone. “You don’t want to go back to the trenches, do you?”

James closed his eyes in a futile attempt to keep from remembering what he had seen and heard and touched and smelled. “No.”

“No. No more do I.” He sighed. “I hope the other two have got something to share with us.”

“If the Major lets us use any of it. With that new offensive, they might put a stop to stories coming out of this area.” He had had that happen twice before.

“I’ll risk it,” Roper said. “I wonder how long they’ll keep us here?”

It was more than an hour later when the same young Corporal who had spoken with Major Timbres came to the room and said in very poor English that the two journalists were to leave now.

Roper got out of his chair and stretched. “And another dreadful ride, I suppose. We’ll be lucky if they allocate us an oxcart.”

Douglas and Whitstowe were waiting for them just inside the front door. There were soldiers with them, stern men holding rifles.

“What’d they tell you?” Douglas asked. “That Dos is one smooth-talking bastard; nothing but tactics and ordnance.”

Vaughn Whitstowe looked worse than he had earlier; his eyes were glazed, feverish. He had to clear his throat to speak above a whisper. “I’m worried,” he said.

Before he could clarify this statement, the door was opened and all four men sighed as they saw a battered but serviceable Panhard Levassor turn in through the gates.

Text of a letter from Irina Andreivna Ohchenov to her uncle Pavel Ilyevich Yamohgo.

Rotterdam

June 16, 1918

Dear Uncle Pavel:

As you must realize from this letter, I am in the Netherlands. I have been in the company of Kiril Lukovsky—you may remember him: he is my cousin on my father’s side, the second son of my father’s oldest sister—and his family. They are intending to live in France, but at the moment Kiril’s wife, Tania, and two of their children are ill, and their physician has advised them that it would be unwise to attempt to travel at this time.

Leonid is dead, and all the children. I don’t know what has happened to my brothers or their families; no one I have met can tell how I might find out. It is so very disheartening. I have brought some of my jewels, but not all of them, and getting to the Danish ship in order to leave Poland took the diamond-and-ruby necklace that was so treasured by Leonid and his mother. I have now a fair amount of jewelry left, but I am giving the emerald bracelet to Kiril, for he has been my good angel and he has little to support his family in their illness.

What I hope, my uncle, is that you will be willing to take me into your house. I know you and my mother did not get along well and that she spoke harshly of you when you decided to live in Paris. She was not always as charitable as could be wished, but there was little anyone could do. My father loved her with great devotion, and that is always rare. If the sins of my mother must be visited on me, then so be it, and all I ask is that you tell me, if you will, where I must try to live and how much money will be necessary for my wellbeing. My jewels are all I have and when they are gone, then I will have to find a way to earn my living. I would gladly give the jewels to you rather than sell them if you would be willing to let me stay with you while I seek some sort of training for earning my living. At the moment my only real skills are for languages and tapestrywork. Since France has some of the best weavers in the world and there is little call for Russian, Greek, Czech, and Polish, except at universities where they already have such scholars, I suppose I must learn from the beginning. I have an aptitude for figures, and they are one area where language is no difficulty. Two plus two will equal four in Russian, Chinese or Hottentot.

If it is not possible, either because of past injuries from my mother or because the war has made such demands on you that you cannot receive me or guide me, then I hope that you will allow me to leave my address, wherever I come to live, with you, so that any of the rest of our family who may live through that terrible upheaval at home will be able to find me. You have lived away from us for so long that it might not mean a great deal to you. For me, with my own family gone, finding just one nephew or aunt would give me real hope again.

It will be some little time before I am able to travel, and therefore you may reach me at this hotel for at least six more weeks. We have been advised that the fighting in France is currently very bad, and it is probably unwise to try to get there until the worst is over. You may be pleased to know that the belief here is that France will beat back the invaders and emerge triumphant. These people are good-hearted but cautious and they say little. We have been told that in spite of their neutrality, it is feared that Germany might not honor this if they were much provoked. Yet sympathy is with France, and if that gives you heart, then think of it, my uncle, and be proud.

I have had to break off, for the physician was here again. Tania is much worse and the physician has said that he is afraid she has the influenza which is spreading so quickly. He has prescribed willow-bark tea and hearty, broth to give her strength, but has admitted to Kiril that the outlook is not good. This influenza has shown itself to be deadly, and as Tania is already weakened, he can make no promises for her recovery. The three children are another matter. Sasha is already feeling a bit better—one can tell because of the whining. It is too soon to know with Olga and Boris. Olga, being the youngest, is sadly worn down and she is not often fully aware of her surroundings. Kiril has been sitting alone by the window. To have come so far and lost so much and then to be faced with this! I feel his affliction deeply, and yet I know that I am helpless; I cannot comfort him. If this influenza is truly as dangerous as we have been told, what will happen when the war is over and the soldiers go home? Will they carry it with them? I can think of nothing but death.

We have been told that there is a wireless report from Paris and so I am going down to the lounge to listen to it. I will mail this at the desk when I do. For your sake, and my own, I hope that the news is good. It would be wonderful to learn of something—anything—that is not another disaster.

If I do not have a letter from you in the next six weeks, I will suppose that I am not welcome with you, and will do what I can to fend for myself. I hope you will choose to have me. You may fear that others will make similar demands, and are therefore reticent. I cannot blame you for that, but I must tell you that I hope some of the family will approach you for aid, for it will mean that they are alive, and that far outweighs any other consideration.

Text of a letter from MadelaineWith my prayers and my gratitude, no matter what your response may be, this from your loving niece,

Irina Andreivna Ohchenov

6

Jürgen Ostneige glared up from his hunched place in his wheelchair, his hands clenched in impotent rage, and muttered at his wife.

“Yes, darling, I know,” she said woefully as she looked around the front hall of Wolkighügel.

The carpets were viciously ripped, there were obscene words scrawled on the walls, the beautiful fixtures for the gas lights were smashed, and most of the furniture was gone. Gudrun did not know if she could stand to see the rest of the little Schloss if the front hall was like this. Her shoes crunched fragments of broken glass.

“Animals!” Jürgen spat, his mouth working with emotion. There was a line of foam on his lower lip.

Seeing this, Gudrun was recalled to herself. “You must not let this disturb you,” she said, biting back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. “The doctor has said that you must stay calm, Jürgen. It’s very bad for you to be upset.” Rather desperately she added, “Last time they had to tie you to the bed. Do you remember that, my darling?” She managed to keep her voice from rising, but it left her feeling faintly breathless. Unlike many of her countrywomen, Gudrun Ostneige was not a Walkürie. She was tall and slender, in the fragile, willowy style. Her blonde hair was confined at the neck in a sensible, braided bun and her woolen suit was of a conservative cut and dove-gray shade which washed out the color of her eyes and the delicate hue in her cheeks. She had the manner of a matron of thirty-five; she was twenty-six. She turned to the man behind them. “Walther, I think it might be better if you take my husband up to his room and give him his medication now.”