The Quality of Mercy Read online

  She had hoped that at least among the Jews she would have found friends. They, she thought, must see the reality of what would happen when German tanks paraded through the city centre, along the Kärntnerstrasse and stood in the Stephans-Platz outside the cathedral. And yet so many did not. They seemed to believe that Austrian Jews would be granted privileged status – that they would be spared the Nazis’ venom.

  There were exceptions, she reminded herself. She had a date that evening to accompany a young Jew to a ball and she had gone to some trouble to ensure he would not be disappointed in her. They had met – rather absurdly – a week before at a thé dansant. It was fashionable in Vienna to go to the park at five o’clock to take tea and listen to the military band. This was the charming face of Vienna foreigners always fell for – Gemütlichkeit, they called it. When the music began, the young men would rise from their tables and invite ladies to dance. Verity had been surprised but not displeased when Georg had stood before her, bowed solemnly, almost clicked his heels, and invited her – in excellent English – to foxtrot.

  Thinking back, she realized that he knew who she was and had decided she might be able to help him reach England but, at the time, she thought he had merely liked the look of her and she was flattered. By the end of the afternoon she had promised to help him obtain a visa and, that evening, had wired Edward for the necessary letter of welcome. She had seen enough of refugees in Spain prepared to promise anything – to do anything – to get to England to be almost inured to hard-luck stories, but this young man had not asked for her pity and she admired that. She could do very little to ameliorate the situation in which so many Jews now found themselves but what little she could do she would. Georg Dreiser was still in his twenties. He had done well at the Piaristen-Gymnasium and was now studying law at the University of Vienna and at the Konsularakademie, a diplomatic college with an international reputation.

  Verity gathered that he had a foot in both political camps. He was a member of a Jewish student fraternity, politically active for the Zionist cause. He told her that he had found he had a talent for public speaking and soon had a reputation as something of a rabble-rouser. Each member of the fraternity took a so-called ‘drinking name’. Georg’s was D’Abere, a French version of the Hebrew word for ‘talker’. On the other hand, he had many friends among the Catholic nationalists. He would walk in the Vienna Woods with a group of non-Jewish friends and discuss Wagner, Karl Kraus and Nietzsche. He was highly intelligent and spoke English, French and some Italian in addition to his native Yiddish and German.

  He was not conventionally good-looking. His limbs seemed all over the place and, though he was tall, he was not strong. His face was as soft and puffy as one of the Viennese cream pastries he loved so much. His nose was squashed, like a boxer’s, and his eyes set too close together but they were very bright and somehow knowing. He had what Verity could only describe as ‘grown-up eyes’. He had seen much unpleasantness in his short life and understood that there was worse to come. He was quick to tell her about himself and his family. His father was a director of an insurance company and it was a paradox that, as anti-Semitism became more pronounced, he was protected by colleagues who were supporters of Hitler and Anschluss. However, the previous year his father’s luck had run out and he was now in prison waiting to be tried on trumped-up fraud charges.

  ‘It has some advantages,’ Georg said drily as they attempted an Argentinian tango. ‘As a prisoner of the civil court, he is protected from being sent to a concentration camp.’

  ‘And you?’ Verity had inquired. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘Only until Hitler walks into Austria, which could be any day now.’

  ‘But why didn’t you leave before?’

  ‘Why should I? I am an Austrian. Who has the right to tell me to give up my home, my family, my education and go into exile?’ he demanded. ‘Would you leave England if someone suddenly decides they do not like the look of your face?’

  ‘No, of course not, but . . .’

  ‘But now, yes, I must leave, but to leave I need a visa. I wondered . . . is there anyone you know in England who could write and say there is work and a little money to support me for the first few months? We are not allowed to take money out of the country and the British Embassy requires that refugees prove they will not be a burden on the state.’

  It made Verity boil with anger as she imagined some starched-shirt bureaucrat deciding on a whim whether or not to allow Georg to avoid death in a concentration camp.

  ‘Of course!’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ll do what I can. Meet me this time next week and I will try and have something for you.’

  ‘You are most kind,’ Georg said, bowing over her hand. ‘You may say I shall not come quite empty-handed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t say any more. I am being watched but I have information which might be useful to your government.’

  Verity looked at him with disbelief. ‘Why should they watch you? Because you are a Jew?’

  ‘I told you, I have a somewhat – wie sagt man? – unsavoury reputation as a political activist and I have friends who interest the authorities . . .’

  Verity hesitated. She wondered if Georg was a fantasist. What could this young man know which would make him dangerous to the Nazis? He saw her look and changed the subject. ‘Miss Browne, let me show you Vienna as it used to be,’ he said eagerly. ‘Let us have one last night of “Old Vienna” before it vanishes for ever.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘I’ve been to the Spanish Riding School if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘No, no! Not that – I hate horses anyway and they hate me – nor the Hofburg – not even Schönbrunn, though I would like to take you there sometime. No, I mean an old-fashioned Vienna Ball where we can waltz to music by Strauss. There are balls and dances every night until Lent. This year,’ he added wryly, ‘it will indeed be a time for penitence. Next week is the Konsularakademie ball which the diplomatic corps and members of the government attend. It is what I think you call a “glittering occasion”.’

  ‘And you can go?’

  ‘That is part of the paradox! As a Jew I may not be welcome in certain bars and clubs but at the ball I shall be treated like any other gentleman. Nothing unpleasant – Da gibs koa Sünd! as we say here. Everyone knows my father and they know why he is in prison. I have no doubt they will do what they can to protect him.’

  ‘It’s a mad world!’ Verity exclaimed.

  ‘It is indeed. Until I am thrown into a camp I am quite acceptable in society, at least until our government surrenders to the Nazis.’

  ‘You think they will?’

  ‘There can be no doubt of it. Chancellor Schuschnigg is a good man but he cannot go against the vast majority of Austrians who wish to be part of the new German Reich. “Und ist kein Betrug in seinem Munde gefunden worden.”’

  Verity furrowed her brow so he translated: ‘“And out of his mouth there came forth neither deceit nor falsehood.”’

  She had not liked to snub the young man by refusing his invitation and it certainly promised to be an interesting occasion. She might glean information from people of influence, people whom, up to now, she had singularly failed to meet. But there was a problem: what was she to wear? Georg would, he said, borrow his father’s white tie and tails. There was nothing for it, she told herself, but to buy something especially for the ball. On the face of it, it was absurd to spend money on a dress she would probably only wear once but she owed it to Georg not to look out of place. And it wasn’t only a dress. She would need gloves, shoes and an evening bag and she would have to have her hair done. She suddenly felt more cheerful. She would give this young Jew something to be proud of.

  She went to Spitzer for her dress. Fortunately, the manager spoke good English and, when she had explained her predicament, he was most helpful. An hour later she came out with a gown of shimmering moiré, the colour of ‘lake water’ as the manager put it, and a black evening clo
ak. She wished Edward was there to reassure her but the dress looked all right, she thought. Gloves she bought from Zacharias – long white kid gloves so sensuous she wanted to stroke her face with them. She found shoes at Otto Grünbaum and an evening bag – so small it would hardly take a handkerchief – exquisitely decorated with hundreds of tiny pearls. Flushed with success, she also bought a fan made from peacock feathers, which she practised opening and closing with a twist of her wrist.

  Georg had said he would pick her up from her flat at eight o’clock but the hour came and went with no ring at the bell. At first she was anxious and then angry. Here she was all dressed up with nowhere to go, as the saying went. She had been made a fool of and she was not someone to take that lying down. Just as she was about to tear off her finery and go to bed in a sulk, there was a violent knocking on her door.

  It was Georg, unusually flustered and almost be-draggled. ‘I am so sorry – forgive me, please – I was delayed – unavoidably delayed,’ he added as though grabbing at the phrase for support.

  Verity’s anger dissipated. He had obviously been in a fight. His evening dress was stained with mud and his tie was all awry. He had a cut on his cheek and his hair was mussed up. ‘Have you been attacked?’ she demanded.

  ‘I . . . I met some youths . . . I will tell you later.’

  ‘Wait a minute – before we go anywhere, let me tidy you up.’

  She made him take off his coat and sponged the mud off it. She brushed his hair and gently bathed the cut on his face. As Georg calmed down he seemed to see Verity for the first time.

  ‘You are so very kind and beautiful, Fräulein Browne . . .’

  ‘You may call me Verity,’ she said graciously, ‘if we are to enjoy the evening.’

  The ball was in full swing when they arrived and she was relieved to find that she was dressed correctly. As Georg said – whatever the prejudices of the Viennese, they were certainly not going to spoil the ball by exhibiting them. He introduced her proudly to several distinguished-looking elderly men as ‘my English friend, the journalist, Verity Browne’. By no means all of his friends – to judge from their names – were Jewish and she met and danced with diplomats and government officials who urged her to come to them for information on the political crisis. On the whole, they seemed complacent. They would muddle through – they used the verb fortwursteln – Austria always did. Britain would support the Chancellor. Hitler would not prevail. Verity was triumphant. This was just the breakthrough she had been looking for. Virtue, she told herself smugly, was its own reward but if helping Georg led her into Viennese society she would not complain.

  Panting, Georg and Verity polkaed to a halt. She was suddenly aware of a buzz of conversation around them and she asked him what was the matter.

  ‘There’s a rumour that Chancellor Schuschnigg has been summoned to meet Hitler. Here’s Manfred Schmidt. He’s an old friend of my father’s – not a Nazi, you understand. He’ll tell us what’s happening.’ He grabbed by the sleeve a bearded man with a worried frown on his face. ‘Onkel Manfred, what’s the news from the Ballhausplatz?’ The Ballhausplatz was the Austrian foreign ministry.

  ‘Ah, Georg, my boy, it is time you and your parents left for England. I hear that your father will soon be released from prison but the Nazis . . . who knows . . . ?’ He hesitated. ‘Hilter has ordered Schuschnigg to cancel the plebiscite’ – this was the popular vote on whether Austrians wanted to become part of a greater Germany.

  Suddenly, to Verity’s horror, she heard outside the building a rising chant of Sieg heil. They went on to the balcony and looked out over the square. It was cold and wet but the Platz was illuminated by hundreds of torches borne aloft by young men wearing the white stockings and lederhosen of the outlawed Austrian Nazi party. They wore swastikas on their arms, which until then had been illegal, and chanted, ‘Germany awake, Judah perish.’ As Verity watched, the crowd swelled and began to sing ‘Deutschland, Deutschland, Über Alles’ and then, lifting their arms, the ‘Horst Wessel’, the Nazi Party anthem.

  Georg turned to Verity and said grimly, ‘It was youths like these who beat me up on my way to your apartment. It is as I feared. Osterreich ist kaputt.’

  2

  ‘You can do what you want, Ned, but I flatly refuse to go anywhere near Broadlands and nor will Connie.’

  It was breakfast and Edward had just read aloud a note from Lord Louis Mountbatten, delivered by hand, inviting them all to lunch that very day. Connie studied her eggs and bacon, refusing to look her brother-in-law in the eye. His nephew, Frank, was still in bed. He had arrived the day before, exhausted after a punishing week of dancing and flirting on the Normandie. Edward looked at his brother with dismay. He knew Gerald could be obstinate but his refusal to consider being Mountbatten’s guest seemed ridiculous.

  ‘It’s not like you to be discourteous,’ he chided. ‘I agree that from all accounts the man is rather too pleased with himself but he’s said to be a good naval officer. He’s not just a playboy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ned, I don’t want to be rude to your friends but there it is. I don’t wish to discuss it.’

  ‘He’s not my friend but Sunny is and I certainly can’t refuse him. What about Frank? Surely he can go? You know he will be bored here. This will give him something to think about.’

  ‘I would rather he did not go but he’s not a child any more. He can make his own decision.’ The Duke looked even sulkier. ‘I hate that word “bored”,’ he said suddenly angry. ‘Most people are bored but they have to earn their living as best they may in “boring” jobs. They don’t gad around the world picking up unsuitable girls. I am very much afraid my son is turning into a spoiled brat. He seems to think life is just one long party. Well, it isn’t and the sooner he finds that out the better.’

  ‘I say, Gerald, steady on! There’s a war coming sure as eggs is eggs and we’ll all have our duty to do but young men like Frank will carry the worst of it. You shouldn’t begrudge him the chance to sow a few wild oats.’

  ‘I’m not against the boy sowing a few wild oats . . .’ He caught the expression on the faces of his wife and brother. ‘Well, I’m not,’ he said stoutly. ‘Being a duke is a damn dull business. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Connie?’

  She hardly knew how to answer him. She had indeed felt constricted on occasion by what was expected of her and, if she were honest, she did think her husband had become dull but she was well aware that most women would give their souls to be where she was.

  ‘We have Frank and we have Mersham,’ she said diplomatically. ‘We have no cause for complaint when I think of what some people have to put up with.’

  Edward looked at her with affection. Connie was not one of those indolent, whining women he met sometimes who could talk of nothing but how difficult it was to get good servants.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why you don’t like the man,’ Edward demanded, a trifle plaintively.

  The Duke said nothing but opened The Times noisily and pretended to read. He hated gossip but what he had read about the Mountbattens had shocked him.

  Lord Louis Mountbatten, known to his family and close friends as Dickie and to other friends and acquaintances as Lord Louis, was Queen Victoria’s great-grandson. There was a photograph to prove it in an ornate silver frame on a side table in the drawing-room at Broadlands of him as a baby sitting on her lap. It was the hinge upon which his life swung and never for one moment did he forget his position as a member of the Royal Family or allow anyone else to. He was tall – over six feet – with a ramrod-straight back, a fine head and a strong jaw. He had very little imagination and no intellectual curiosity. When he went to the theatre it was to admire the actresses and – some spiteful gossips would add – good-looking young actors. He had no sense of humour, which occasionally made him ridiculous, but he was by no means stupid. He possessed one of those highly focused minds which, when presented with a problem, worry at it until it’s solved. He had suggested several t
echnical improvements to his naval superiors on subjects such as wireless telegraphy and gun aiming.

  He was ambitious both in his chosen career and in his determination to be treated not just as a minor royal but a leader in high society. He was not particularly interested in politics but, when he thought about it at all, saw himself as a liberal. He loved sport – particularly dangerous sport in which he could prove himself to be a man among men. He drove fast cars and fast boats and played polo with only two things in mind – he must win if at all possible but above all he must put on a ‘good show’. His vanity led him to make mistakes. He was not a good judge of character and preferred to be surrounded by men who would not criticize or challenge him. His closest friend was a man called Peter Murphy who supplied him with girls while making no effort to conceal his preference for his own sex.

  Mountbatten had made himself a boon companion of his cousin David, the Prince of Wales, and it seemed a moment of personal triumph when the Prince became Edward VIII. The triumph was short-lived, however, and when the King was forced to abdicate to marry Mrs Simpson, Mountbatten dropped his cousin with, some felt, undue haste and went to considerable lengths to assure the new King of his loyalty.

  Mountbatten was well connected but not rich so in 1922 he married Edwina Ashley. She was beautiful, intelligent and fabulously wealthy. Her grandfather was the millionaire financier Sir Ernest Cassel and, through her father, she was descended from the Earl of Shaftesbury, the nineteenth-century philanthropist, and the dashing Lord Palmerston, Foreign Secretary and later Prime Minister to Queen Victoria. The marriage brought him two fine houses: Brook House – a huge mansion on Park Lane – and Broadlands. In every respect it was a brilliant match and, if Edwina chose to take lovers from almost the moment they were married, it did not seem to affect their mutual affection. On their honeymoon they had gone to Hollywood where they were treated as royalty which, of course, Mountbatten considered himself to be. He adored the shallow glitter of the world of movies which appealed to his exhibitionist side. The glamorous young couple were fêted by stars such as Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford. Cecil B. de Mille taught Mountbatten how to use a 35mm cine camera and, it was said, how to satisfy a woman.