triangles of toast, and made up for the poor food with unlimited magnums of champagne.
Walter was grateful for the thought, but he did not really want a party. He had two weeks away from the battlefield, and he just wanted a soft bed, dry clothes, and the chance to lounge all day in the elegant salon of his parents’ town house, looking out of the window and thinking about Maud, or sitting at the Steinway grand piano and playing Schubert’s “Fruhlingsglaube”: “Now everything, everything must change.”
How glibly he and Maud had said, back in August 1914, that they would be reunited by Christmas! It was now more than two years since he had looked at her lovely face. And it was probably going to take Germany another two years to win the war. Walter’s best hope was that Russia would collapse, allowing the Germans to concentrate their forces on a massive final westward sweep.
Meanwhile Walter sometimes had trouble visualizing Maud, and had to look at the worn and fading magazine photograph he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. He did not relish a party without her. As he got ready he wished his mother had not troubled.
The house looked drab. There were not enough servants to keep the place spick-and-span. The men were in the army, the women had become streetcar conductors and mail deliverers, and the elderly staff who remained were struggling to maintain Mother’s standards of cleanliness and polish. And the house was cold as well as grubby. The coal allowance was not enough to run the central heating, so mother had put freestanding stoves in the hall, the dining room, and the drawing room, but they were inadequate against the chill of November in Berlin.
However, Walter cheered up when the cold rooms filled with young people and a small band began to play in the hall. His younger sister, Greta, had invited all her friends. He realized how much he missed social life. He liked seeing girls in beautiful gowns and men in immaculate suits. He enjoyed the joking and flirting and gossip. He had loved being a diplomat-the life suited him. It was easy for him to be charming and make small talk.
The von Ulrich house had no ballroom, but people began to dance on the tiled floor of the hall. Walter danced several times with Greta’s best friend, Monika von der Helbard, a tall, willowy redhead with long hair who reminded him of pictures by the English artists who called themselves pre-Raphaelites.
He got her a glass of champagne and sat down with her. She asked him what it was like in the trenches, as they all did. He usually said it was a hard life but the men were in good spirits and they would win in the end. For some reason he told Monika the truth. “The worst thing about it is that it’s pointless,” he said. “We’ve been in the same positions, give or take a few yards, for two years, and I can’t see how that will be changed by anything the high command is doing-or even by anything they might do. We’re cold, hungry, sick with coughs and trench foot and stomachache, and bored to tears-all for nothing.”
“That’s not what we read in the newspapers,” she said. “How very sad.” She squeezed his arm sympathetically. The touch affected him like a mild electric shock. No woman outside his family had touched him for two years. He suddenly thought how wonderful it would be to take Monika in his arms, press her warm body to his, and kiss her lips. Her amber eyes looked back at him with a candid gaze, and after a moment he realized she had read his mind. Women often did know what men were thinking, he had found. He felt embarrassed, but clearly she did not care, and that thought made him more aroused.
Someone approached them, and Walter looked up irritably, guessing the man wanted to ask Monika to dance. Then he recognized a familiar face. “My God!” he said. The name came back to him: he had an excellent memory for people, like all good diplomats. He said in English: “Is it Gus Dewar?”
Gus replied in German. “It is, but we can speak German. How are you?”
Walter stood up and shook hands. “May I present Freiin Monika von der Helbard? This is Gus Dewar, an adviser to President Woodrow Wilson.”
“How delightful to meet you, Mr. Dewar,” she said. “I shall leave you gentlemen to talk.”
Walter watched her go with regret and mingled guilt. For a moment he had forgotten that he was a married man.
He looked at Gus. He had immediately liked the American when they met at Ty Gwyn. Gus was odd-looking, with a big head on a long thin body, but he was as sharp as a tack. Just out of Harvard then, Gus had had a charming shyness, but two years working in the White House had given him a degree of self-assurance. The shapeless style of lounge suit that Americans wore actually looked smart on him. Walter said: “I’m glad to see you. Not many people come here on holiday nowadays.”
“It’s not really a holiday,” Gus said.
Walter waited for Gus to say more and, when he did not, prompted him. “What, then?”
“More like putting my toe in the water to see whether it’s warm enough for the president to swim.”
So this was official business. “I understand.”
“To come to the point.” Gus hesitated again, and Walter waited patiently. At last Gus spoke in a lowered voice. “President Wilson wants the Germans and the Allies to hold peace talks.”
Walter’s heart beat fast, but he raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He sent you to say this to me?”
“You know how it is. The president can’t risk a public rebuff-it makes him look weak. Of course, he could tell our ambassador here in Berlin to speak to your foreign minister. But then the whole thing would become official, and sooner or later it would get out. So he asked his most junior adviser-me-to come to Berlin and use some of the contacts I made back in 1914.”
Walter nodded. A lot was done in this fashion in the diplomatic world. “If we turn you down, no one needs to know.”
“And even if the news gets out, it’s just some low-ranking young men acting on their own initiative.”
This made sense, and Walter began to feel excited. “What exactly does Mr. Wilson want?”
Gus took a deep breath. “If the kaiser were to write to the Allies suggesting a peace conference, then President Wilson would publicly support the proposal.”
Walter suppressed a feeling of elation. This unexpected private conversation could have world-shaking consequences. Was it really possible that the nightmare of the trenches could be brought to an end? And that he might see Maud again in months rather than years? He told himself not to get carried away. Unofficial diplomatic feelers like this usually came to nothing. But he could not help being enthusiastic. “This is big, Gus,” he said. “Are you sure Wilson means it?”
“Absolutely. It was the first thing he said to me after he won the election.”
“What’s his motivation?”
“He doesn’t want to take America to war. But there’s a danger we’ll be dragged in anyway. He wants peace. And then he wants a new international system to make sure that a war like this never happens again.”
“I’ll vote for that,” said Walter. “What do you want me to do?”
“Speak to your father.”
“He may not like this proposal.”
“Use your powers of persuasion.”
“I’ll do my best. Can I reach you at the American embassy?”
“No. This is a private visit. I’m staying at the Hotel Adlon.”
“Of course you are, Gus,” said Walter with a grin. The Adlon was the best hotel in the city and had once been called the most luxurious in the world. He felt nostalgic for those last years of peace. “Will we ever again be two young men with nothing on our minds except catching the waiter’s eye to order another bottle of champagne?”
Gus took the question seriously. “No, I don’t believe those days will ever come back, at least not in our lifetime.”
Walter’s sister, Greta, appeared. She had curly blond hair that shook fetchingly when she tossed her head. “What are you men looking so miserable about?” she said gaily. “Mr. Dewar, come and dance with me!”
Gus brightened. “Gladly!” he said.
She whisked him off.
Walter returned to the party but as he chatted to friends and relations, half his mind was on Gus’s proposal and how best to promote it. When he spoke to his father, he would try not to seem too keen. Father could be contrary. Walter would play the role of neutral messenger.
When the guests had gone, his mother cornered him in the salon. The room was decorated in the Rococo style that was still the choice of old-fashioned Germans: ornate mirrors, tables with spindly curved legs, a big chandelier. “What a nice girl that Monika von der Helbard is,” she said.
“Very charming,” Walter agreed.
His mother wore no jewelry. She was chair of the gold-collection committee, and had given her baubles to be
