1949 (30 page)

Foreign newspapers were difficult to obtain behind the lines, Irish papers impossible. As the civil war in Spain wound down to its inevitable conclusion, Ned longed for news from home.

He could not recall the last time he had written to Ursula. Or anyone else. There were holes in his memory. Great gaping holes that swallowed whole months at a time, taking the bad memories with the good. Sometimes that was an advantage.

One morning as they were breaking camp he noticed an unfamiliar officer giving orders. Out of the side of his mouth, Ned asked a peach-fuzz corporal, “Who's that fellow?”

“You know him, it's Tom Murphy.”

“Och sure, I know Murphy,” Ned said without conviction. “But where's Frank Ryan?”

“Don't you remember? The bloody Nationalists captured him over a year ago and charged him with being a saboteur. He was sentenced to death but Franco's never signed the execution order. De Valera claimed that executing Ryan would prevent Éire from recognizing any government headed by Franco.”
¹

Ned looked puzzled. “De Valera's the commandant at Boland's Mill.”

The young corporal grinned. “He was, old-timer. In 1916. This is the hind leg of 1938 and Dev's the taoiseach now.”

“The Chief?” Ned struggled to remember. “Does he know we're here?”

“I'm sure he does. Didn't he pass a law forbidding Irishmen to fight in this bloody war? After we were already in Spain, of course,” the other added.

“That Dev's a cute hoor,” Ned cackled. “He's the only man I know who can chew a meal and whistle at the same time. Did you know he wore bright red socks with his Volunteer's uniform, all Easter week?” He cackled again, a strange, cracked laugh.

Halloran should have been sent home long ago, thought the corporal. The man was as mad as a brush. Other soldiers regarded him with superstitious awe because he could walk untouched through a hail of gunfire. Knowing life was only a waking dream, he was indifferent to death. Knowing this as his truth, the bullets ignored him.

But when the fog lifted from his mazed mind and his eyes turned to cold green glass, Halloran could shoot better than any man in the International Brigades. An officer could point to some Nationalist bastard who was just a flyspeck on the horizon and say, “Take him down,” and Halloran would. Every damned time.

The young corporal hawked, spat into the yellow dust, and ambled off to relieve himself. His liver had been ruined by copious quantities of cheap wine. Occasionally he was terrified but most of the time he was bored. He wanted to go home.

Everyone wanted to go home.

 

This war can't last much longer, Ned told himself. I should write to Ursula and tell her I'll be coming home soon.

Coming home. As if they were a magic incantation, the words cleared his brain. Ireland spread out before him in his imagination. Coolness and wetness and greenness to soothe his burning eyes.

The Spanish sun was a giant yellow balloon filled with savage birds. When the balloon burst, jagged black forms came swooping down out of the sky. Piercing and stabbing, they drove cruel beaks and sharp claws straight through Ned's eyes into his brain. The pain was intense.

Sometimes he could fight them off with an effort of will. Not always.

Not today.

By evening he was too exhausted to compose a letter. Any strength he had left must be hoarded for his book.

The book was amorphous and ever-changing. Sometimes it was about Pádraic Pearse; sometimes it was about Michael Collins. When the words came strong and true, when Ned knew what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, the book was about Síle. He would lie on his back at night with his fingers laced at the nape of his neck, and bring her to life on the blank pages of his mind.

But on this particular night he wanted to capture his own thoughts. For the book. The real book he was really going to write. Someday. Tomorrow.

When he got home.

Shrugging out of his Sam Browne belt, Ned pulled a notebook from his grimy pack. He had only a stub of a pencil but it would have to do. He chewed on it for a time, drawing strength from the elements of lead and wood. Then he began to write.

“In Spain we Irish are fighting a version of our own civil war, except this time we changed sides. O'Duffy and his Free State followers joined Franco's revolutionaries. We Republicans support the elected government. Am I the only person who sees how ironic this is? Our history has developed irony to an art form.”

The light faded but Ned kept on writing. He sometimes experienced brief periods of darkness even at high noon—damage done by the black birds, perhaps—and had taught himself to do essential tasks by feel. Fortunately the spells had not yet occurred during combat. At other times he could cope.

“As with all wars,” he wrote, “both sides claim to be fighting for freedom and truth. Franco's Nationalists want to return to a static, feudal Spain governed by strict religious principles and an aristocratic hierarchy. The Republicans hope for a society where the interests of the common man are paramount, religion no longer exercises a stranglehold, and the many political divisions can reconcile their interests.

“Which side will win? Hitler and Mussolini have thrown their support behind Franco. It is only a matter of days now, weeks at the most.”

Ned put down the pencil and rubbed the bridge of his nose. One of his terrible headaches was building. Sometimes he prayed a bullet would drill into his skull and release the pressure.

 

Aside from dealing once a month with its more distasteful aspects, Ursula gave little thought to her menstrual cycle until she realized, with a shock, that her last period had been in August.

An examination of her naked body in the looking glass confirmed her fears. Frequent nausea had ruined her appetite, yet her waist was definitely thicker.

I'm infanticipating. That's a nice way of saying pregnant. Pregnant and unmarried in Catholic Ireland
.

Others would say disgraced, ruined. Ostracized and outcast. Battered by society's judgment, countless Irish girls committed suicide every year.

Ursula met her own eyes in the glass.
Life's too interesting and death's too permanent. What are my other options?

Finbar Cassidy had proposed marriage.

I will not bind a man for life to a woman who does not love him, who would only be marrying him to give her child a name. I hope to God I have more integrity than that
.

Besides, marrying Finbar would mean spending the rest of my life in domestic servitude. That's all our government wants from women now
.

Thank you, Eamon de Valera
.

Ned was in Spain, perhaps dead for all she knew. Henry Mooney in America seemed a million miles away. She could go back to the farm in Clare, but Lucy was a spiteful woman—look how she had treated Eileen. Ursula had a dark suspicion that Lucy had kept Saoirse's money for herself and allowed him to die. That alone was reason to shun her forever.

Louise Hamilton loved children and had none of her own. She would be sympathetic. But Hector would not; he would never allow his wife to take in a fallen woman. So there was no sanctuary in Gardiner Street.

If Ursula turned to the Church she could expect to be sent to the infamous Magdalen Laundry. Sisters of the Holy Saints Magdalen Home for Wayward Girls and Fallen Women, where the nuns had enormous power and were accountable to no one. Most of them showed no mercy to their hapless charges. Inside high stone walls from which few pregnant women could hope to escape, the nuns worked their Magdalens to exhaustion in a steamy sweatshop for the good of their souls. When a baby was born the nuns took it away before the mother ever saw it, and put the infant in an orphanage.

Ursula had a horror of orphanages.

Some Irish girls who found themselves in her predicament secretly gave birth in country ditches or abandoned outbuildings—or even graveyards. If they survived the ordeal, they abandoned their infant to its fate rather than face the opprobrium of Church and neighbor.

According to back-fence gossip, other women used wire coat hangers to abort themselves. But with the knowledge that life was growing within her came the certainty that life was sacred. She could not kill; it was as simple as that. The discovery surprised her almost more than the pregnancy. She had always believed that if she had the man who shot Síle within her gunsights, she could blow his head off.

The girls at Surval, though young and supposedly virginal, had represented a wide range of experience. When no chaperone was within earshot they had exchanged confidences that would have shocked their elders. The Turkish girl had described exotic forms of contraception secretly practiced by women in her country. Because the topic was, from the Catholic point of view, forbidden, Ursula had listened with fascination. Yet she never thought it might someday apply to her.

Now it was too late.

Mea culpa, mea culpa. And I alone to face the consequences
.

There was a certain strength to be drawn from being totally alone. The answer, when it came, must come from within herself.

And it did.

Overriding her independent nature, she sent a telegram asking for a favor. She did not explain the reason for her request.
One step at a time. First I must have somewhere to go
.

Seán Lester replied immediately. “Delighted to have you on my staff. Your knowledge of German more useful than ever. Will make all arrangements. Come as soon as possible.”

 

When he did not receive any reply from Ursula, Lewis Baines convinced himself of two things: he was in love with her, and she had jilted him. For months afterward he was obsessed by thoughts of her, enjoying a romantic melancholy as pleasurable as it was painful. It made him more attractive than ever to other women, many of whom were happy to help him forget. In time the pain faded.

Yet for the rest of his life, whenever he heard some Yank sing the sentimental American ballad, “My Wild Irish Rose,” Lewis would remember Ursula's eyes. And wish that men could weep.

 

Ursula handed in her notice to 2RN's newly appointed staff administration officer, who protested strenuously against losing her. Everyone at the station protested. But she was adamant. That same day she gave up her room in Moore Street. The few things she could not take with her, including her saddle, would have to be stored in the attics of number 16 again.

“I've accepted a job in Geneva with the League of Nations,” she explained to Louise. “I don't know how long I'll be there, but I'd be a fool not to go. The pay is better than I'll ever make at 2RN.”

“I thought you loved broadcasting too much to do anything else.”

“People change,” said Ursula.

She spent Christmas with the Hamiltons. A cold, damp Christmas; the atmosphere heavy with the smells of cooking. Louise had a bad cold and Hector was suffering from dyspepsia. On Christmas Eve he went to bed early, leaving the two women alone to listen to Midnight Mass on the wireless.

Afterward, as Ursula was starting upstairs to bed, Louise caught her and gave her an impetuous hug. “Come back to us, Precious.”

“I shall of course. I always do.”

Next day she departed for Switzerland.

The taxi driver grunted as he hoisted Ursula's bulging suitcase and two heavy boxes into the car. As well as her clothes and toilet articles she was bringing her favorite books—the ones she could not bear to leave behind, including Ned's old schoolbooks—and Saoirse's bridle. Plus all the new things Lewis had given her.

I suppose I should pack them up and send them back to him. But I'm not such a fool as that
.

Aer Lingus did not yet have a direct flight to London. In order to use the Irish airline Ursula was obliged to take an Aer Lingus monoplane to Liverpool, then travel by train to London to catch the Geneva flight. The League, through Seán Lester's office, was paying for her transportation.

At first she was afraid she might be airsick, but fortunately that phase of her pregnancy had passed. As the small plane winged its way across the Irish Sea she tried not to think of Lewis flying across the same sea to visit her.

Never again
.

In Liverpool train station Ursula heard as many Irish accents as English ones. Since the onset of the depression Irish emigration had returned with a vengeance, sending thousands of migrants not west to America but east to England, seeking work. “Welcome to Dublin east,” the ticket agent joked in a Wexford accent.

During the train ride to London, Ursula stared out the window at England. England, the ancient enemy. Perfidious Albion. Although brittle with winter, the countryside strangely resembled Ireland. Except the fields were larger and not embraced by stone.

I'm here. I'm actually here
.

At Heathrow she had to wait almost two hours for the flight to Switzerland. She thought about placing a telephone call to Fliss but decided against it. Fliss might rush out to the airport for a quick visit and she did not want that. Did not want to take a chance that Fliss might recognize her condition. Did not want to have to make conversation, either.

The DC3 bound for Geneva was three-quarters full. Most of the passengers appeared to be businessmen; only two were women. Ursula was given a window seat and was thankful when the seat beside her remained unoccupied. She was not in the mood to talk.

The plane roared down the runway with a thrilling surge of power and lifted into the sky. The sensation was less like flying than in a small aircraft, but as Ursula gazed through the tiny window the earth fell away at startling speed. Up and up they went, storming heaven, climbing to a height that would have been unimaginable a few short years before. The plane banked sharply, then they were threading their way among peaks of cloud, as if mountains had climbed into the sky by magic. Inured to the wonder, the businessmen began talking or reading newspapers.

Ursula put her hands over her belly where the real magic was.

After a while she moved to the empty seat to facilitate earwigging. “I was at a sales conference in Geneva when the Czech crisis erupted,” the man across the aisle was telling his seatmate. “Rumors were running wild. Every country in Europe began issuing mobilization orders. The Swiss government stationed soldiers on the bridges, then plunged the city into a most inconvenient blackout.

“We went to the Palais des Nations to see the League in action. I tell you, it was bizarre. Journalists from fifty countries were swarming in the lobby, fighting for telephones and asking one another what the hell was happening. It was no good asking the delegates, they didn't know either.”

The seat in front of Ursula was occupied by a man whose white knuckles gripped the armrest for the entire flight. Ursula overheard him ask the air hostess for a drink of water. “I am very nervous,” he said apologetically. “I just took my children to England and I may never see them again.”

“Of course you shall,” the hostess consoled.

“We are Jewish.”

The hostess hesitated. “Could you not…ah…stay in England with your children?”

The man made a small, hopeless sound. “My wife, her parents, my business…all in Freiberg. We are Germans too, you understand. I have to go back.”

 

The plane dropped out of the sky onto the runway of Cointrin Airport. Geneva, birthplace of Calvinism and the International Red Cross and home of the League of Nations, was Switzerland's most cosmopolitan city. Under other circumstances Ursula would have been delighted to find herself in Geneva again. As a schoolgirl she had toured historic Old Town, duly impressed by the Cathedral of St. Peter and the numerous art galleries. As an adult she would have enjoyed dining in the many chic French bistros and rustic Italian
grotti
, or exploring the haute couture shops along the left bank of the Rhone. Under other circumstances…

As she emerged from the door of the aeroplane a cold, dry wind hit her in the face, taking her breath away. She heard someone call her name. Beside a gleaming Daimler saloon ostentatiously parked on the apron stood Seán Lester in topcoat and muffler.

“The steps are icy,” warned the air hostess.

Ursula tucked her handbag under her arm and gripped the safety rail with both gloved hands. Once she would have bounded down. Today she descended one careful step at a time.

Lester met her at the foot of the steps. “It's good to see you again, Ursula. We're right over there.” He put a hand under her elbow. “That car's an embarrassment, isn't it? But that's the League for you. My driver will collect your luggage and Elsie's waiting at home to welcome you. She has more faith than I do, I wasn't even sure you'd come.”

Ursula laughed. “I'm not that easily frightened.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I must warn you, I've made Elsie promise that if war should break out, she'll take the children and go back to Ireland.”

The Jewish man passed them, trudging across the apron toward the terminal. His was a curiously shrunken figure inside an overcoat that appeared too large for him. He had turned his collar up, but they could hear him coughing. “Could we offer that man a ride as far as the train station?” Ursula asked Lester. “I overheard him saying he's going to Basel.”

“Why doesn't he fly? The Swiss have excellent air taxis.”

“He plans to cross the border at Basel, but the airport there is watched by German agents and he's afraid of being picked up. He's Jewish.”

“Oh.”

Strange
, Ursula thought,
how that one word seems to explain so much
.

“I'd be happy to offer him a ride to the train station,” Lester said. “I made myself unwelcome in Danzig by trying to help the Jews; there's no point in breaking the habit now.”

The airport was five kilometers northwest of downtown Geneva. During the short ride into the city the Jewish man, after profusely thanking both Lester and Ursula for their kindness, said nothing. Lost in thoughts Ursula could only imagine, he gazed morosely out the window.

Lester ordered his driver to the Gare Cornavin, Geneva's main train station. From the warm car they watched as the Jew stepped out into a bitter winter wind, passed through the bronze station doors, and disappeared.

“What will happen to him?” Ursula wondered.

“God only knows.” Lester stared after the vanished figure, then gave himself a little shake. He turned back to Ursula. “Your plane was a few minutes early, so Elsie won't be expecting us yet. Would you like to have a quick look at League headquarters?”

“Please!”

The big Daimler turned north again, purring along a network of immaculate streets and avenues until it entered Place de Nations. The car swung right to an imposing set of gates. A uniformed guard in the sentry box recognized Lester's car and waved them through.

Built in 1926, the monumental Palais des Nations was a blend of art deco and stylized classicism. Ursula's immediate impression was of a fortress, a safe haven.
I made the right decision, coming here
.

A moment later Lester unexpectedly remarked, “Hitler and Mussolini are great admirers of this style. We call it fascist architecture.”

At the main entrance more guards saluted as the Daimler drove up. Lester replied with a slight nod, then told the driver to continue on. “We won't stop now. You'll get to explore this place soon enough, Ursula. Just don't be too impressed by the trappings.”

“It's hard not to, when I think of what the League was created for.”

“Don't mistake aspirations for achievements,” Seán Lester advised.

 

His wife and three daughters gave Ursula a warm welcome. Elsie Lester was a trim, stylish woman, with fine features and a sparkling personality. The girls, Dorothy Mary, Patricia, and Ann, were lively teenagers. Clamoring for news of Ireland, they clustered around Ursula. “Let the poor woman catch her breath!” their mother chided. “Dorothy, prepare the tea tray, please. Then we have a room waiting for you, Ursula, so you can unpack and have a bit of a rest before dinner.”

Elsie Lester had created a home as charming and welcoming as she was. Her sitting room featured deep, inviting chairs with reading lamps conveniently placed, fine wool rugs, and a selection of serene landscapes and family portraits. “I want to find a flat of my own as soon as possible,” Ursula told her hostess. “But nothing could be as lovely as this.”

Lester caught his wife's eye. “We have the makings of a diplomat here, Elsie.”

Ursula laughed. “I'm not known for my diplomacy, I assure you.”

“We have plenty of those around anyway,” he replied, “and much good it does us. I'd rather have one intelligent young woman with good German than a score of so-called diplomats full of hot air.”

“Take Ursula's coat, dear?” his wife suggested.

For a moment Ursula panicked; her coat hid a figure beginning to ripen with pregnancy. Then she realized that Seán Lester had not seen her in years and Elsie had never seen her before. They would merely assume she was slightly plump.

The truth could not be concealed for long.

Dinner was relaxed and informal. The Lesters thoughtfully had invited no one else to join them, though Ursula would learn they entertained six nights out of seven; it came with the job.

When the girls continued to ply her with questions about Ireland she asked Dorothy, “Are you homesick?”

“Father wants Mother to take us back to Ireland in case there's a war, but we've discussed the situation among ourselves and decided we won't leave him.”

Ann piped up, “We'll launch a stay-in strike if they try to ship us off.”
¹

Patricia added, “Some English children recently arrived here from London. Their parents sent them to Switzerland to escape the possibility of air raids.” She turned to her father. “How could you even think of sending us through London if there is such danger?”

The threat of war polluted the air.

Over dinner Lester gave Ursula a thumbnail sketch of the League's rather stormy history.

“When the Great War ended,” he said, “Woodrow Wilson's dream was to develop an international organization to promote collective security and keep something like that from ever happening again. But the U.S. Congress refused to ratify the Versailles Treaty, which contained the League covenant. So America didn't join with the rest of us. Isolated between two oceans, I don't think the Americans realize how small the world really is.

“Added to that, the current secretary-general is a Frenchman, Joseph Avenol, who makes no secret of his hatred for all things Anglo-Saxon. That includes Britain and by extension, America as well. He wants the League to be limited to Europe with him in charge, like a sort of feudal superstate.” Lester sighed in spite of himself.

“You sound disillusioned, Seán.”

“Not disillusioned; disappointed. The League could have been so much more.”

“What about the Sudetenland?”

“The Czechs didn't even present their case to the General Assembly,” Lester replied. “They seemed to feel their position was too clear to need explaining. They had no idea their allies would desert them. But almost from the beginning, Britain and France have given the League their support only when it suits their own national policies. Between them they've practically paralyzed the organization. Now they've sold out Czechoslovakia in order to save their own skins from Herr Hitler.”

 

That night Ursula put her head on a goose-down pillow and dreamt…of Ireland.

 

Next morning she wrote to Henry Mooney, giving him her new address and selected details about her change of employment. “I've embarked on a new life!” she enthused. She also sent a note to the Hamiltons, informing them that she had arrived safely and asking Louise to forward her mail. But she did not write to Lucy. She had nothing to say to Lucy.

The afternoon was spent with Elsie Lester, looking at flats. Eventually Ursula found one not far from League headquarters. In good weather she could walk to work; otherwise a taxi ride would not be expensive.

Ursula's new flat had high ceilings, polished wooden floors, snugly shuttered windows. The furniture, though sparse, reflected a European mix of styles. Heat was provided by a porcelain stove decorated with blue flowers and love knots. A large French armoire held all her clothes with room to spare. The narrow iron bed hid a hard German mattress beneath a plump Swiss duvet.

Ursula did not disfigure the painted walls by driving a nail into them. Instead she hung Saoirse's bridle from the picture rail, next to a cheaply framed print of Arnold Böcklin's famous painting,
The Island of the Dead
.

The Swiss artist's vision depicted a boat gliding over the lightless waters of the Styx toward heavy cliffs resembling giant wings, waiting to enfold new arrivals. Wrapped in a shroud and silhouetted against funereal cypresses on the shore, the supernatural figure of Charon stood ghostlike in the prow.

 

The deputy secretary-general was greatly admired in Geneva for his good humor and dignified reserve, but most of all for his untiring industry. His large staff worked as hard as he did. Ursula's duties would include translating some of the many German letters and communiqués that daily arrived in the secretariat. A few were urgent, a number were important, the vast majority were trivial. But someone had thought they were important, so they must be read.