The Quality of Mercy (6 page)

‘I was in a play about Elizabeth of Austria and he came backstage. I was young. Each night he filled my dressing-room with flowers. He went and saw my parents and asked permission to marry me. He was already divorced but he was very rich and my parents thought it would be a good match. You think he’s what the French call
mal baisé
but
I
found him attractive. At least I did then. He was so . . . so
fervent
. We were married in the Karlskirche in Vienna. He loved me then – or at least that was what I thought. He called me “Hasi”, his little bunny, but things went wrong almost immediately. I quickly realized he wanted to own me. I was one more beautiful object in his collection. Then, while I was pregnant with Heidi, the film I had made just before I met him came out.’

‘
Last Night in Vienna
?’

‘Yes. There was a terrible scandal. I was seen running naked in the woods. At the time it was being made, it seemed not very shocking. I was merely the spirit of freedom at one with nature. I was naive. The film was a
succès de scandale
. Helmut said I made him look a fool – that I was nothing better than a whore.’

‘So why did he not divorce you?’

‘He thought about it but then he began to be proud of my – what is the word? – my notoriety. Instead of shunning me, his friends and business acquaintances wanted to meet me. Then, when we went to America, we met Mr Mayer on the boat and he offered me a film contract. I saw this as a way of escape but, as I told you, Helmut won’t let me go.’ She shrugged and, for no good reason, Edward felt himself condemned as a failure. In that little gesture she conveyed that she had sought a ‘parfait gentil knight’ and found instead a man of straw.

At that moment there was a noise and Harry burst through the french windows.

‘Come on, sir. Frank says you must watch us ride the motorbikes. We’re going to have a race. Lord Louis has a wizard new Kodak cine camera. He’s going to film us.’ He dashed off in high excitement without waiting for an answer.

‘We’re coming. Let’s go downstairs, Joan. I must make sure the boys don’t kill themselves. My brother would never forgive me. He thinks I’m irresponsible enough as it is.’

On the gravel the boys stood beside two motorcycles. Edward began to feel apprehensive. These were not little pop-pop machines but something much more serious. Frank was standing beside a Harley Davidson, gleaming red and black and promising all kinds of trouble.

‘I say, Frank, old lad, is this wise? This looks a powerful animal. Are you sure you can ride it?’

‘Don’t worry, Uncle. I rode bikes at Cambridge and in America. Anyway, we’re only going a few hundred yards, just to give Harry a bit of excitement. He’s a nice boy and he’s determined to have a go.’ Frank tried to sound superior but failed.

‘You’re not just showing off in front of . . .’ Edward indicated Sunita with a nod of his head.

‘Uncle, you can be so patronizing sometimes,’ Frank said sharply. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘Sorry,’ Edward mumbled, ashamed of himself.

Frank smiled and forgave him. ‘I’m so glad you introduced me to Lord Louis. He’s a man I could follow, if you understand me. He says I ought to join the RNVR. He’s told me who to go and see in London. He says the navy needs people like me. Do you think he means it?’

For a blessed moment, Frank had forgotten his pose of the languid man-about-town bored with everything and become an eager boy again.

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it.’ Edward prayed he was right.

Everyone was milling about admiring the machines and offering unwanted advice. Mountbatten came up to them. ‘Ready then, boys? Just to the end of the drive, but be careful.’ He tapped the saddle of the Harley Davidson. ‘This beauty can do ninety miles an hour.’

‘I say, is it safe?’ Sunny inquired, meaning his son’s machine.

‘Of course it’s safe,’ Mountbatten said forcefully, misunderstanding. He stood back and admired it. ‘It’s called the Knucklehead because of its bulging rocker boxes and I think it’s the handsomest machine they’ve yet built.’

‘He meant Harry,’ Ayesha corrected him.

‘You mean the Rudge? Don’t you worry, my dear. Safe as houses.’

Harry was astride a Rudge Ulster – an altogether smaller machine than the Harley Davidson but still capable of doing seventy miles an hour on the flat – and his parents had every reason to look anxious.

‘You will be careful, won’t you, Harry,’ Ayesha was saying. ‘Promise me not to go fast or I’ll tell Dickie you can’t ride at all.’

Edward noted her easy use of Mountbatten’s nickname.

‘Oh, don’t fuss, Mummy,’ the boy said impatiently. ‘I’ve ridden it a bit already. It’s no more difficult than riding a bike.’

‘Right, boys,’ Mountbatten said. ‘I’m going to the end of the drive in the car so I can film you coming towards me. When you pass the car, that’s the end of the race. And, Harry, you get a hundred yards’ start because Frank has the more powerful machine and much more experience than you. Good luck! Herr Mandl will start you when I wave to say I’m ready.’

The drive was no more than three-quarters of a mile but to Edward it seemed quite long enough.

With a little help from Mandl, the boys started their engines and waited for the signal. When it came, Harry wobbled away, gaining confidence as he gathered speed. They wore no helmets because the distance was hardly great enough for a serious accident but, as Frank accelerated and passed Harry, only just avoiding the Rudge Ulster as it swerved like a shying horse, Edward began to think the boys ought to have been encased in armour.

Frank roared past Mountbatten, shouting and waving one hand in the air in triumph. Harry was only a few seconds behind, but, while trying to avoid the Harley Davidson which was now stationary in the middle of the drive, he veered off the road and bumped over the grass before coming to a halt some hundred yards away. Although he toppled over, there was no danger and Frank was soon helping him untangle himself from the bike. They both saw the man at the same time. He was lying on his back with one arm above his head as if he had been waving and had fallen to the ground with his hand still outstretched.

‘I say,’ Frank said, going over to him, ‘are you all right?’

‘Is he asleep?’ Harry asked doubtfully.

‘His eyes are open,’ Frank pointed out as he knelt beside the man. He tried to find a pulse but the flesh was cold and lifeless. ‘I think he’s dead.’ Lord Louis walked over to see what the matter was and Frank indicated the body. ‘I think the poor chap’s had it,’ he said, looking up at Mountbatten.

‘You mean . . .?’ Mountbatten, too, knelt beside the body. ‘He’s dead all right. Frank, ride back to the others and tell them to telephone for the police. We’d better not touch anything.’

‘Shouldn’t we try to revive him?’ Harry asked doubtfully. This was the first corpse he had ever seen.

‘Not even the Good Lord could raise this one,’ Mountbatten said abruptly.

‘Who is he?’ Frank asked. ‘Do you recognize him?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest. Never seen him before,’ Mountbatten replied. ‘I wonder what he died of. I can’t see any wound or anything. Must have had a heart attack.’

‘Perhaps if we turned him over,’ Harry said, excited now the initial shock was fading.

‘No, Harry, Lord Louis’s right,’ Frank said, grabbing his arm. ‘We can’t do anything for the poor chap so we’d better leave him for the police doctor to examine. I’ll buzz off back to the house. Golly! This’ll need some explaining.’

3

‘Thank God you’re safe! I’ve been worried sick about you.’

They were in Edward’s rooms in Albany. Verity had refused to let him meet her off the train. She wanted first to go to her flat and compose herself – wash and lie on her bed staring at the ceiling, luxuriating in being free from fear for the first time in weeks. She had roused herself with some difficulty and thought about eating something but the idea made her feel sick and she lit a cigarette instead. Still in something of a daze, she opened her suitcase. She looked at the crumpled contents with loathing and considered throwing the whole thing out of the window.

In the end she found a dress that she had left behind in her cupboard when she packed for Vienna. She showered and, feeling better, went out into Sloane Avenue, hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to Fleet Street. When she left the
New Gazette
two hours later, the adrenalin which had enabled her to make a full report of her activities to Lord Weaver, her employer, was exhausted and she felt weak and desperately tired. She looked at her watch. It was six in the evening. She decided she needed a strong drink and a shoulder to cry on. She hailed a cab and had it take her to Piccadilly.

‘Have you, Edward?’ Verity asked, looking at him sadly. ‘I don’t know why you should. I treated you so badly but now I’m punished for it.’

‘Adam . . .?’

‘Gone! I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.’ To his amazement, she burst into tears.

‘V . . . ’ he pleaded, ‘dearest V – don’t take on so.’

‘Oh God. . . ’ She gulped away her sobs. ‘Don’t be kind. I can’t bear it. Why don’t you hate me?’

‘I never could. Now, please, stop weeping. You have streaks of black running down your cheeks. Here, let me.’ He took out his handkerchief and tried to mop up her tears. Instead of meekly letting him, she threw herself into his arms, clutching at him like a drowning man hanging on to a lifebelt. ‘I do love you, Edward.’ She blinked blearily up at him. ‘I’m so tired. If you hold me, I can rest.’

‘You’re safe – that’s all that matters.’

She tore herself away, angry not at him but at the world, at herself. ‘I’m safe but hundreds, perhaps thousands are
not
safe.’

‘Tell me what happened,’ he said gently. ‘You were arrested. Did they . . . did they . . . hurt you?’

‘They roughed me up but they weren’t serious about it. If they had been, I would be dead.’

‘What happened exactly? I only know what I read in the
New Gazette
.’

She steadied herself. ‘I think it would do me good to tell you.’

‘I
need
to know. I love you, V, and I want to know how it has been for you. Everything.’

‘Well then, let me think. You heard that Hitler ordered Schuschnigg to cancel the plebiscite? That was last Friday. On Saturday Schuschnigg resigned and the Nazi, Seyss-Inquart, replaced him as Chancellor. On Sunday the “Reunification of Germany” was decreed and Austria ceased to exist. All day long huge bombers roared over our heads. I watched it all with Georg Dreiser. He was so sad. It was as if someone he loved had died.

‘I went back to my flat to listen to the wireless while Georg went off to pack and say goodbye to his family. It was so strange listening to history being made on the wireless. They played military marches between accounts of German troops being welcomed by the grateful people of Austria. According to the man describing events, Hitler was met by thousands of people raising their arms in homage to their Führer and I am sure he wasn’t lying. It was everything I had dreaded. And it all happened so fast. The Führer’s Mercedes was crossing the border . . . the Führer was in Linz . . . Then, unaccountably, there was a delay. Linz is only two hours from Vienna but Hitler did not come. The crowds gathered. The Vienna Nazis, their numbers swelled by thousands imported from the provinces, waited tensely for their hero but all they could do was wait. Shout, march, threaten and wait. Apparently, I learnt afterwards, Police Chief Himmler had rejected the security precautions designed to safeguard Hitler. One shot from a maddened Jew or an Austrian patriot might have led to a bloodbath.

‘On Monday the Brownshirts began to round up Jews in Leopoldstadt – that’s Vienna’s Jewish district. Anyone carrying a suitcase was in danger of being arrested. I hardly dared go out because gangs of Nazi thugs were roaming the streets looking for “enemies” but I had to see Georg off. The trains were still running to the Swiss border and, thank God, no one stopped him at the station. It was not until Monday evening that the Führer entered Vienna. I prayed, though you know what I think about religion, that Georg had got across the border but I knew the rest of his family was still in the city. Himmler, they said on the wireless, was already preparing the “great spring cleaning” to rid Vienna of its Jews . . .

‘I went out to see for myself. Don’t let anyone tell you that the Viennese – I can’t speak for the rest of Austria – did not welcome Hitler. They did. The church bells were ringing as first the tanks and then the soldiers marched through the centre of the city. In the Heldenplatz the crowds were screaming and crying out, “We want to see our Führer,” “
Ein Volk
,
ein Reich
,
ein Führer!
” “
Juda verrecke!
” “Death to the Jews!” Everyone had put on their best clothes as if it was some sort of national holiday. The men were in green suits, lederhosen and white stockings – a ridiculous outfit at the best of times and this was not the best of times – or in Nazi uniform. Women in frocks or dirndls threw flowers at the soldiers marching past. You’ve no idea how terrifying it is to see rank after rank of soldiers goose-stepping through the streets of a city. The sound of marching boots on cobbles . . . I’ll never forget it as long as I live. And the noise of thousands of ordinary people shouting themselves hoarse over the coming of a tyrant – I kept thinking that soon this awful noise might be heard in Whitehall and Trafalgar Square.

‘Then there was Hitler himself in the brown uniform of a storm trooper. He was standing in an open car saluting and smiling. If I had had a gun, I would have shot him. Instead, they threw flowers and I saw at least one woman crying tears of joy. It was a kind of frenzy. I found it pathetic that the crowds which greeted Hitler along the Ringstrasse – delirious with joy – were old enough to know better. They were not young fanatics. I mean,
they
were there as well, of course, but for the most part the crowds were Viennese bourgeois – small shopkeepers – roused out of their normal stolidity. They seemed convinced that the Saviour had come to them in the form of a little man in a brown uniform dwarfed by the enormous military car in which he stood gesturing. Pathetic but sinister. Behind and in front of the Führer in thirteen police cars – I counted them – Gestapo SS in black uniforms with skull and crossbones on their caps scanned the crowds for enemies. And suddenly I realized how I must look, skulking around, not waving or screaming for my Führer. I saw some men in uniform scowl at me so I scurried back to the flat to type up my report.