They stood side by side and read the inscription: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN MICHAEL COURTNEY RFC KILLED IN ACTION 19 APRIL 1917.
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN.
Weeds had grown up around the headstone, and they knelt together and tidied the grave. Then they stood at the foot of it, their heads bowed.
Shasa had expected to be profoundly moved by his father's grave, but instead he felt remote and untouched. The man beneath the headstone had become clay long before he was born. He had felt closer to Michael Courtney six thousand miles from here when he had slept in his bed, worn his old thomproof tweed jacket, handled his Purdey shotgun and his fishing-rods, or used his gold-nibbed pen and his platinum and onyx dress studs.
They went back along the path to the church and found the village priest in the vestry. He was a young man, not much older than Shasa, and Centaine was disappointed for his youth seemed to her a break in her tenuous link to Michael and the past. However, she wrote out two large cheques, one for the repairs to the church's copper spire, and the other to pay for fresh flowers to be placed on Michael's grave each Sunday in perpetuity, and they went back to the Daimler with the priest's fervent benedictions following them.
The following day they all drove on to Paris; Centaine had wired ahead for accommodation at the Ritz in the Place Vendeme.
Blaine and Centaine had a full round of engagements meetings, luncheons and dinners, with various members of the French government, so the four younger members of the party were left to their own devices and they very soon discovered that Paris was the city of romance and excitement.
They rode to the first stage of the Eiffel Tower in one of the creaking elevators and then raced each other up the open steel staircase to the very top and oohed and aahed at the city spread below them. They strolled with arms linked along the footpath on the riverbank and under the fabulous bridges of the Seine. With her baby box Brownie, Tara photographed them on the steps of Montmartre with the Sacre
Coeur as a backdrop; they drank coffee and ate croissants in the sidewalk cafes and lunched at the Cafe de la Paix, dined at La Coupole and saw La Traviata at the Opra.
At midnight when the girls had said goodnight to Centaine and their father and retired demurely and dutifully to their room, Shasa and David smuggled them out over the balcony and they went dancing in the boites on the Left Bank or sat listening to jazz in the cellars of Montparnasse, where they discovered a black trombone player who blew a horn that made your spine curl and a little brasserie where you could eat snails and wild strawberries at three in the morning.
In the last dawn, as they crept down the corridor to get the girls back to their room, they heard familiar voices in the elevator cage as it came up to their floor, and only just in time the four of them dived down the staircase and lay in a heap on the first landing, the girls stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths to stifle their giggles, while just above them Blaine and Centaine, resplendent in full evening dress and oblivious of their presence, left the elevator and arm in arm strolled down the passage towards Centaine's suite.
They left Paris with regret and reached the German border in high spirits. They presented their passports to the French douaniers and were waved through to the German side with typical Gallic panache. They left the Bentley and Daimler parked at the barrier and trooped into the German border post where they were struck immediately by the difference in attitude between the two groups of officials.
The two German officers were meticulously turned out, their leather polished to a gloss, their caps set at the exact regulation angle and the black swastikas in a field of crimson and white on their left arms. From the wall behind their desk, a framed portrait of the Fuhrer, stern and moustached, glowered down upon them.
Blaine laid the sheaf of passports on the desk top in front of them with a friendly Guten Tag, mein Herr', and stood chatting to Centaine while one of the officials went through the passports one at a time, comparing each of the holders to his or her photograph and then stamping the visa with the black eagle and swastika device, before going on to the next document.
Dave Abrahams passport was at the bottom of the pile, and when the officer came to it, he paused and re-read the front cover and then pedantically turned and perused every single page in the document, looking up at David again and scrutinizing his features after each page. After a few minutes of this the group around David fell silent and began exchanging puzzled glances.
I think something is wrong, Blaine,Centaine said quietly, and he went back to the desk.
Problem? Blaine asked, and the official answered him in stilted but correct English.
Abrahams, it is a Jewish name, no? Blaine flushed with irritation, but before he could reply David stepped up to the desk beside him. It's a Jewish name, yes! he said quietly, and the official nodded thoughtfully, tapping the passport with his forefinger.
You admit you are Jewish? I am Jewish, David replied in the same level tone.
It is not written in your passport that you are Jewish, the customs officer pointed out.
Should it be? David asked. The officer shrugged, then asked, 'You wish to enter Germany, and you are Jewish? I wish to enter Germany to take part in the Olympic Games, to which I have been invited by the German government. Ah! You are an Olympic athlete, a Jewish Olympic athlete? No, I am a South African Olympic athlete. Is my visa in order? The official did not reply to the question. Wait here, please. He went through the rear door, carrying David's passport with him.
They heard him speaking to someone in the back office, and they all looked at Tara. She was the only one in the party who understood a little German, she had studied the language for her matriculation examinations and passed it on the Higher Grade.
What is he saying? Blaine asked.
They are talking too fast, a lot about 'Jews' and 'Olympics', Tara answered, then the rear door opened and the original official came back with a plump rosy-faced man who was clearly his superior, for his uniform and his manner were grander.
Who is Abrahams? he demanded.
I am!
You are a Jew? You admit you are a Jew? Yes, I am a Jew. I have said so many times. Is there something
