10. Necessary Work
THERE WAS NOTHING remarkable in his appearance. More smart New England academic than engineer, tall, straight military back, neatly cropped beard; the sort of fellow Dilger might pass on a New York street without a glance.
‘If you don’t trust him, Count, why are you sending him to America?’
‘With men of his sort, Doctor, one is obliged to take a risk,’ Nadolny observed. ‘I’m merely easing his passage with a little money.’
From their vantage point in the General Staff Building, they gazed down upon de Witt in the gloomy courtyard below, pacing a few yards of gravel, smoking, and exchanging occasional words with his escort. Could he sense there was someone watching him? Ordinarily, no one waited for a motor car at the building the locals called the ‘Red Hat’: Prussian timekeeping was famously precise.
‘Sir Roger Casement says he’s a man of principle. Maguerre says he is a businessman…’ Nadolny enunciated the word with disdain, ‘…a profiteer, a mercenary — but we use these people. Keep away from him. He’ll be travelling with two companions. There’s no reason why your paths should cross in America.’
A black Opel pulled up to the steps and de Witt climbed inside.
‘Shall we?’ the Count asked, gesturing to the door.
His office was on the other side of the building with a view of the Reichstag, dark even on a bright day and furnished with uninspiring mahogany pieces. The paintings of battles and officers and the Kaiser belonged to the room but there was also a small scene in a bar at night, painted with heavy brushstrokes in the modern French style. ‘Do you like it?’ he enquired.
Dilger nodded politely. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about art.’
‘You’re interested in music?’ the Count remarked, indicating the armchair in front of his desk.
‘Not especially.’
‘But you’re a friend of Frau Hempel’s?’
‘I can’t see how that can be a concern of yours, Count.’
‘Your safety is my concern,’ he said coolly. ‘She’ll be in New York at the same time as you?’
Dilger nodded curtly.
‘She has many friends, not all of them are reliable.’
‘I don’t like your…’
‘Doctor,’ interrupted Nadolny, ‘I merely observe it would be wise not to be seen too often in public with her. You will draw attention to yourself.’ He bent over his desk, opened a drawer and took out a buff envelope. ‘Your contact is Mr Paul Hilken of the Norddeutscher Lloyd Line. Under no circumstances visit our embassy in Washington. We must assume the British follow its movements closely.’ He paused, elbow on the desk, his thumb stroking the band of his red signet ring. ‘Perhaps the Americans too,’ he added with an old-world smile. ‘Now, I have something for you.’ Rising from the desk, he presented the envelope to Dilger with a small bow.
‘Who…?’
‘Open it, why don’t you?’
It was a short handwritten note from the Chief of the General Staff.
Herr Doktor Dilger… the great service you do your Fatherland… sensible of the danger… most necessary work… following in the footsteps of your illustrious father… a great honour…
Signed simply,
‘You see.’ The Count was standing at his side. ‘Your work is important enough to command his personal attention.’
‘He knows of my father?’
‘He would have liked to have spoken to you in person, but official duties…’ The Count held out his hand. ‘May I?’
Dilger didn’t understand.
‘The General’s letter,’ the Count explained. ‘It has to be deniable — you understand.’
Do I? Dilger wondered as he was escorted from the building. The purposeful click of military boots filled the broad marble stairs as young men in field grey passed him without a glance, proud of their uniform, with nothing to deny. The following day he would make his last secret visit to the Military Veterinary Academy to take possession of the case. Until then, he wished to stroll in the May sunshine without fear of being jostled by a careless passer-by; sip coffee and eat cake at the Aschinger, meet friends, visit the cabaret, drink champagne — forget. But Frieda was in America already and he found it difficult to be merry without her. His friends wanted to know why he’d left the hospital. ‘We need you,’ they said, and in a drunken exchange one of them had accused him of desertion. The memory made him wince.
In the end he walked slowly home to his sister, rehearsing his goodbye. Since his nephew’s death, Elizabeth had relied on him so. The colonel never left the Front, the house was always empty, no visitors, no parties, just the servants, and she was losing the butler and the footman to the war.
She greeted him in the hall with a kiss. ‘I thought you were at the hospital.’
‘I have to talk to you,’ he said, leading her by the hand into the drawing room.
‘Should I ask for some coffee?’ Her voice trembled a little. ‘I’ve had a letter from the colonel. He writes that he’s well — is there ever anything else worth saying?’ She rang for the maid, then sat beside him with her small hands resting lightly in her lap. ‘What is it, Anton?’ Her anxious brown eyes fixed on his face. More mother than sister; was there anyone in the world who knew him better? He’d left Virginia to live with her when he was a teenager.
‘You’re going to the Front,’ she said, raising her right hand a little in alarm.
‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘I’m going home, to America.’
‘America?’ For a second she was relieved. ‘For how long?’
Before he could answer there was a knock at the door and the maid entered with a tray. The china rattled as she brushed the back of a chair. Elizabeth sighed irritably. She’d been impatient with the servants since Peter’s death, and it was a wonder they had any. Good staff were hard to come by since the start of the war. There was going to be a shortage of pretty much everything.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ she declared, handing him a cup. ‘What about the British and — well — the
That his mission might be sunk by a German submarine made him smile.
‘No. Please, think of it,’ she demanded. ‘Why now, when we’re at war?’
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘It isn’t necessary,’ she persisted. ‘Is it Emmeline? Is she sick? She hasn’t said anything to me in her letters.’
Their sister Emmeline was well, all the family in America were well, he assured her, but there were things he must attend to.
What sort of things? she wanted to know. What could be so important that it would take him away from his work at the hospital and from his sister? Did she remember the last time they had visited their father’s farm at Greenfield? he asked her. Peter was old enough to ride. They’d spent hours on horses in the woods and meadows above the house. He had taken his nephew to New York City and they’d stared in wonder at 15 Park Row and the new Singer Building.
‘Why, Anton?’ She wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Tell me,’ she said with a stamp of her foot; thin straight lips, jaw set, the little Dilger dimple in her chin — a face full of determination. Just like mine, he thought.
‘Sister, I can’t tell you,’ he replied firmly.
She stared at him for a few seconds, the thumb and forefinger of her right hand plucking distractedly at her black skirt. ‘Don’t go, Anton,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t.’
‘It won’t be for long.’
Biting her lip, turning her face away: he reached for her hand but she pulled it away, fumbling with her sleeve for a handkerchief. ‘I can’t lose you… not you as well.’
