The Ambassador's Daughter (12 page)

“Same time?”

“I should be most grateful.” He turns to Papa. “I trust you’ll be at Ambassador Bossart’s dinner party Friday?” Papa had mentioned the dinner in passing, a rare occasion for the German delegation to leave the confines of the hotel and enjoy dinner in the city as a show of good faith.

Papa smiles wryly. “Is there any choice?” The men chuckle, bonding over their shared dislike for social obligations and their preference for solitary work.

“Good night, Captain.” Though he has bade me to call him by his given name, doing so feels too intimate in front of Papa.

“An odd chap,” Papa remarks when we are well clear of the hotel. “So quiet.” His description does not sound at all like Georg, who chatted so easily we scarcely made it through any of the translation. But I think back to how scary and imposing he seemed the day the Germans arrived. Knowing him now, it is hard to picture him as the same person. “Some say he’s a bit touched in the head.”

“He’s not,” I protest, too defensive of the man I’ve only just met. “I mean, perhaps he’s a bit shaky from battle, but otherwise he appears quite normal.” How can Papa and I look at the exact same man and see such different things?

We cross the street to our apartment building, not speaking as we walk up the stairs. “Make sure you don’t stay up too late tonight,” Papa cautions as he unlocks the door to the flat. “Tante Celia rang that your appointment tomorrow is at nine, which means you’ll need to be on the seven-forty train.”

“Appointment?” The dress shop, I remember. My wedding gown is ready for its first fitting. I do not want to go, and consider rescheduling. But best not to make waves—it is a gift I’ve always had, knowing when to go with the current and stifle my rebellious impulses. “The little diplomat,” Papa joked, more than once. “Oh, yes, the fitting.” Going into Paris will give me an excuse to visit Krysia, as well. I’ve missed her mightily since our move. “Good night, Papa.”

In my room, I change into a nightgown and robe, then pull back the drapes. I strain to glimpse across the road, pressing my head against the window frame. The light in the hotel library still burns. Georg. Though I cannot see him, I imagine him hunched over the desk, studying one of his reports. He so believes in what he is doing, the ability to make a difference and convince the Allies that there is a place for us in this new world order. I hope, for his sake as well as for Germany’s, that he is right.

There is a knock at my door and I jump back from the window. “Yes, Papa?”

“I’d almost forgotten. A letter came for you.” My stomach sinks as I take the envelope. Another missive from Stefan, no doubt, when I still had not answered the last. But if it was from Stefan, Papa would have said as much. Instead, he looks quizzically at the blocky, unfamiliar script on the coarse brown envelope. When I do not answer, he hands it to me and leaves with a slight shrug, unwilling to pry.

I drop to the edge of the bed and turn the envelope over, suddenly uneasy. Then, too curious to hold back, I rip it open.

Please come see me about a matter of utmost importance
.

It is signed by Ignatz Stein.

Chapter 6

“Turn to the left, if you please,” the dressmaker says. I shift, cringing as the stiff material scratches against my skin.

“Perhaps just a bit more lace at the neck,” Tante Celia offers, rising from her chair and squinting with an appraising eye. Inwardly, I groan. The too-tight collar already creeps against my chin, making me want to gag.

“I don’t know...” I demur.

“Your mother,” Celia replies firmly, “would have loved the lace.”

I open my mouth to protest. The woman in the photos was natural and soft, her flowing clothes nothing like the elaborate frocks Celia favors. I am quite sure she would have preferred my gown to be simple. But the argument is pointless. Celia invokes my mother’s memory frequently as both shield and sword, and my own vague recollections of her provide little ammunition for countering Celia’s assertions.

As the seamstress pins the fabric around my waist, I see my reflection behind her in the wide mirror. The solemn, dark-haired woman in the white dress seems a stranger. Behind me, Celia’s image appears. My aunt is immaculately coiffed as ever, her hair in a flawless chignon. But the latest fashions cannot mask her too-weak chin and wide nose. Celia has always been about the appearance of things, as if she is trying to plaster over the imperfections and defects of her life, like the man that can never quite be hers because his heart still belongs to her beautiful, dead sister.

An hour earlier, I’d followed Tante Celia reluctantly into the boutique, which was tucked on a side street in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré district, eyeing the satin-and-tulle-clad mannequins with unbridled dread. I imagined then the weddings those dresses represent, the breathless anticipation of a shared future. Would it be different if I was excited about the prospect of marriage and was picking a dress of my own accord, unfettered by the expectations of others?

Expectations. My thoughts turn to the note from Ignatz Stein. What could he possibly want from me? He could not be hoping, these many months later, that I might convey some information to him about Papa’s work. I should go to see him today while I am in the city and find out. I shiver, seeing his dark eyes. “Be still, please,” the seamstress admonishes.

I stand motionless for what seems like forever, feeling the seamstress’s soft rustling hands as she pins the bottom. Finally, she is finished and, with Celia’s help, carefully extricates me from the dress. “Are you hungry?” Celia asks a few minutes later as we step onto the street of grand shops, their wide-paned windows displaying jewelry and furs and fine silks that no one can afford anymore. I inhale deeply, clearing the stuffiness of the dress shop from my lungs. “We could go to the food hall at the department store,” she offers.

I hesitate, then nod. I am eager to try to see Krysia while I am in the city. But Celia’s expression is so hopeful I cannot refuse. And I am hungry, having not eaten this morning at Celia’s behest in order to remain as slim as possible for the fitting.

We make our way down the boulevard des Capucines with its rows of fashionable stores and restaurants, past the newspaper kiosks and the stalls selling fruit. Spring has broken in earnest, the trees that line the pavement in full bloom, crocuses sprouting purple from the flower beds. The outdoor cafés overflow with patrons, women in fresh spring fashions and men in blazers with carnations in their lapels. They spill from the tables onto the sidewalks, making it difficult to pass. Above, every shutter in the city has been flung open to let in the fresh air.

Soon we reach the Galeries Lafayette, its grand staircase and glass dome more reminiscent of an opera house than a department store. The ground-floor food hall appears much like I remember it before the war, but the space is too big for the goods that are now available. There is a subtle pride to the way the sellers have laid out the breads, and a reverence with which the shoppers accept their parcels of food that suggest the years of hunger and doing without will not be easily forgotten. “Not so many vegetables,” Tante Celia remarks critically. I cringe at the obviousness of her German accent.

“Perhaps when the fields can be tilled with fertilizer instead of the blood of Frenchmen,” a woman beside us replies haughtily, then turns away. Suddenly I am not hungry.

Tante Celia lifts her chin with surprising defiance. “Why don’t you find us a table?” she suggests to me.

I navigate my way through the crowd toward the seating area.
“Pardon,”
I say as a man bumps into me. I step aside to let him pass. But he brushes against me again, this time pushing me toward the wall. The assault was intentional, I realize, as I look up into the face of Ignatz Stein.

He removes his brown fedora and tips it in my direction. “Hello, Margot,” he says, and there is something predatory about his tone. He looks strangely out of place away from the café.

“Monsieur Stein...” I lick my lips uneasily. “This is a coincidence.”

“You didn’t answer my note.”

“I only received it late last night. There was hardly time.”

He clucks his tongue. “I understand. Fittings and parties and all. It’s a busy life.”

He must have followed me, but why? I decide to ignore his sarcasm. “What is it that you want?”

“You had said you would keep your eyes open.” No longer the affable café proprietor, he looms over me, menacing.

“I’ve not seen or heard anything from my father that might be of interest.” I fumble for an explanation. “We’re so much more removed from everything since moving out to Versailles.”

“But you’re working for the German officer now, aren’t you?”

How had he known? It was a development not two days old, so recent I’d not even had time to tell Krysia. “That should prove useful,” he continues, not bothering to wait for me to confirm. “Information about German military operations is scarce and valuable.”

I raise my hand. “I have no interest...”

“Pity, isn’t it, about Cottin? Poor fool really thought he could stop Clemenceau from voting against his beloved Greater Serbia. One only hopes he can be persuaded to remain silent...” Ignatz knows that I will do anything to protect the truth about Cottin’s source, to keep the blame from falling to Papa.

I stare up at him with revulsion. Stein is Jewish, too, but he is a crude caricature, greedy and manipulative, the way the anti-Semites would paint us all. “If it is a question of money...” I don’t know why I have said this. I have none of my own, but I could figure out something.

“Don’t insult us. We don’t want money from you or any of the bourgeoisie scum.” He spits this last word. “Your contacts and position make you far more valuable to us than any compensation.”

I open my mouth to protest—I cannot possibly steal from Georg. Then, thinking of Papa, my shoulders slump. “What is it you want me to do?”

He drops his voice. “The Germans have claimed they’ve demilitarized.” I stare at him in disbelief. We’ve scarcely begun to recover from the war—how could Ignatz possibly be contemplating another one already? I recall uneasily Georg’s insistence the previous night that a strong military is essential for peace. Perhaps Ignatz is not that far off. He continues, “We believe they’ve stockpiled munitions in the east—and those could be used to support the Whites in their fight against Lenin and the Bolsheviks. Keep an eye out for anything about the German military plans, particularly those on the Eastern Front. Reports, cables—get copies if you can.”

“Who is the work for?” I press. “Really, if I’m to risk things and help...”

“A small group of us gather information to help counter the fascist influence back home. The head of the group is known covertly as Red Thorn.”

“Can I meet him?”

“I’m afraid not. Just deliver the papers to me.”

But before I can protest, Tante Celia is at my side. “Is something wrong?” I turn back toward Ignatz, but he is already crossing the hall, enveloped by the crowd. “Who was that odd man?”

“A friend of Krysia’s. I was asking after her.”

“Oh, the Polish woman,” Celia’s tone was dismissive, as if talking about one of the maids. “The pianist.”

“You’ve heard of her?” For once, I am almost impressed.

“Of course. Anyone who is anyone has Krysia Smok play at their party, and her husband Marcin, too, if one can get him.” To Celia, Krysia is a commodity and a sign of status, not a person.

“She’s the daughter of an ambassador, actually,” I reply, fighting to keep the annoyance from my voice.

Her expression remains skeptical. “This is Paris. Anyone can reinvent themselves here.”

A waiter brings the tray of assorted cheeses Celia had selected to one of the tables and I take a cracker. “So, I was thinking of salmon terrines for the starter course,” Celia says, turning to the wedding menu as though we were in the middle of a conversation about it. No one is more excited about my engagement than Celia. Though they had fallen on hard times of late, the Osters are an old Berlin family and the fact that they are socially well-placed made Stefan a palatable choice in Celia’s eyes. And it is the wedding she never had the chance to plan for herself. I nod as she continues speaking, still shaken by my encounter with Ignatz and what he has asked me to do.

“Would you like to go shopping?” she asks when we’ve finished eating. “The boutique over on rue Fleury has reopened. Or shall I just have the car take us back?”
Us.
She has no reason to come to Versailles. Escorting me back to the suburb is merely a pretense to wait and see Papa.

“Actually, I’d like to go see a friend,” I reply. “Here in the city.”

“The Polish woman?” Her nose wrinkles as she tries to comprehend my preference for spending time with Krysia over her. “Suit yourself,” she says quickly.

Celia’s jealous. For years, she has been trying to be some sort of surrogate for my mother, an older sister perhaps. Celia is closer to my age than my mother’s. We might have been friends, if only we shared some mutual interest or concern beyond Papa. But then Krysia came along and our friendship was instantaneous. I’m not trying to be callous with Celia’s feelings. Who can explain why we bond so readily with one person but not another? It is human nature, some odd makeup of our biology perhaps, or a sense that we were destined to be with some people.

Celia really tries to be there, though, not just for Papa but for me, in a hundred little ways that are missing without my mother. I am so ungrateful. “I’ll come in next week and we can go shopping then,” I offer. Her face brightens.

Twenty minutes later, I step out of a cab at Krysia’s. Perhaps I should have called ahead. But she had said Poles did not mind drop-in guests. I ring the bell.

“You again,” she says teasingly when I reach the top-floor landing, kissing me airily on both cheeks. She wears a gauzy blouse, flat laced slippers that give the impression of a ballerina. “I haven’t seen you at any of the salons.”

“I’ve been working.” It had not occurred to me that Krysia might wonder about my absence the way I once had hers.