Circles of Time (46 page)

HOW DEEP DOES THIS CONSPIRACY GO? ran the headline in the democratic
Berliner Tageblatt.
They began their story by praising the flier's war record and then bemoaning the fact that he had been led astray by extremists and reactionaries who sought to cripple the Republic by meaningless acts of terror.

A hastily printed special edition of the
Volkischer Beobachter
viewed the gallant flier in a different light. They blamed Erich Lieventhal himself for forcing the man to take such a drastic step—“an action motivated by the highest degree of patriotism. It is a well-known fact that Erich Lieventhal was a member of a small group of international bankers and financiers, mostly Jewish, who were seeking—with the aid of Jewish bolshevism—to control the world. Herr Lieventhal has paid a terrible price for his arrogance and deceit, but we, the National Socialist Movement of Greater Germany, cannot weep for him!”

And rumor swept the city. In the western districts, red flags hung from the tenement windows of the workers. They saw in Lieventhal another victim of Freikorps terror and elevated this man, who had been neither the workers' friend nor enemy, to that same pantheon of the martyred slain where rested Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg. The old
Spartakist
banners were unfurled and two hundred thousand people marched in a slow procession through the streets to crowd into the Schlossplatz and listen to hours of oratory while sullen-faced army troops looked on. There were few incidents, but here and there Red Front and Freikorps toughs clashed, and one or two men were kicked to death before Lieventhal's sealed coffin had been carried into the Reichstag to lie in state.

GERMANY, BE CALM! cried the sane and sensible
Vossische Zeitung.
THERE IS NO CONSPIRACY AGAINST THE GOVERNMENT.

They were right and the rumors began to fade. A twenty-four-hour holiday was proclaimed by President Ebert—“A day of mourning for a man who gave his all for the Republic.”

The funeral service began in the Reichstag—eulogy following eulogy. Black bunting. An orchestra playing the
Coriolanus
Overture followed by the funeral march for Siegfried from
Götterdämmerung.
The cortege wended its way slowly, to the sad rolling of muffled drums, to the Brandenburg Gate and on through the Tiergarten to the Lieventhal family plot.

If a great man had died, so had a father. Amelia, veiled in black, sat in a carriage between an elderly uncle and aunt. She sat stiffly and shed no public tears.

“It was good of you to come,” Bernhard Lieventhal repeated as a select group of mourners entered the mansion on Charlottenburger. He was the elder of Sigmund Lieventhal's sons, but had left business and politics to his brilliant brother. He was a professor of chemistry at the University of Heidelberg and had been for over thirty years. “So good of you to come. Yes, so good of you....”

Champagne and little cakes were served in the marble rooms. Muted conversation. The awkwardness of paying respect and showing sympathy to the living—“Words cannot express …”

“I'm sorry, Amelia. Sorry I was too late.” Martin held her hand tightly and then let go of it.

She smiled wanly, the veil raised from her face and draped across her hat. “You did everything it was possible to do, Martin. I shall never forget your concern.”

“If only I could have done more.”

“No, Martin, you mustn't think that way.” She looked past him, down the long line of dark-clothed people waiting to offer their condolences. “Did Jacob come?”

“Of course, Amelia.”

“I thought he might have returned to England.”

“He's going back tomorrow. So am I.”

A shadow of dismay crossed her face as she scanned the crowd. Martin looked at her for a moment, then moved on.

The von Rilkes were there—not Frederick Ernst, but his brother Theodor—and Werner. Werner stood pale and stony-faced next to Carin, apart from the crowd. Martin walked up to them and Carin hugged him fiercely.

“It's so ghastly,” she said, her voice trembling. “What must the world think of us?”

“I hope they feel a sense of shame. Lieventhal once said they couldn't squeeze blood from a stone, but he was wrong.”

Carin stepped back and dug out a handkerchief from her small black beaded purse. “Dear Christ,” she murmured, dabbing at her eyes, “will it never stop?”

“I don't know,” Martin said, looking at Werner. “Will it?”

Werner stared back, coolly unperturbed. “It will stop when a sense of order and direction returns. Not a moment before then. You know that as well as I.”

“There have been over three hundred assassinations since the Republic was founded. That can hardly lead to order.”

“A nation's destiny is often forged in chaos. Perhaps this is the final act—the final brutality. God grant it be so.”

Jacob waited patiently so as to be the last in line. When he stepped up to Amelia he took her by the arm and led her gently to the library where they could be alone.

“I haven't had a moment's sleep since this happened, Amelia.”

“It was not unexpected,” she said. “I knew they would kill him if they wished to do so.”

“It's you I'm concerned about. I don't want any of the hate to touch your life.”

“It won't.”

“There's no guarantee of that. I'd feel a great deal happier and at ease if you left the country—at least for a while. I talked to your uncle about it. He agrees. He mentioned Zurich. You could enter the university there. I would prefer England. I'm sure you could get into a college at Oxford.”

She was as tall as he and her eyes met his in a steady gaze. “But why England, Jacob?”

“Because—well—because I'm very
fond
of you. I would like you to be near. I'm not very fond of Switzerland, by the way. Not overly fond of mountains.”

She nodded solemnly. “I think I understand. Very well, I will talk to Uncle Bernhard about it.”

“Yes,” he said with relief. “Please do that—as soon as you can.”

As he turned toward the door, she held out her hands and touched his face, then bent forward and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Thank you, Jacob. Thank you very much.”

T
HE
D
EUTSCHER
A
ERO
Lloyd Fokker with five passengers aboard roared down the packed-earth runway at Tempelhof, soared into the bright June morning, and headed for Paris. Martin and Jacob sat across from each other, and neither man said a word even when the plane landed in Frankfurt for refueling. Martin felt too worn out by events to do anything but doze. Jacob's reflective silence was his own affair.

They landed on the outskirts of Paris in the afternoon and walked stiffly toward the terminal buildings and hangars.

“Do you want to stay overnight and fly out tomorrow?” Martin asked.

Jacob stopped walking and set down his leather suitcase. “No. I'm going back to Berlin, Martin.”

“When did you decide to do that?”

“Just this second. I've been agonizing over it all day.”

“Amelia?”

Jacob nodded. “I've had this—
feeling
about her ever since the day I took her to lunch. Concern … protection. I can't explain it, Martin. She's so—
young
—vulnerable. Maybe it's no more than a kind of brotherly concern. I can't sort it out. Do you understand, or am I talking crazily?”

“I understand, Jacob. And you won't find any answers standing here. If you hurry, you might catch the plane for Frankfurt.”

“Yes—yes, I'll do that.” He picked up his suitcase and started back toward the tarmac. “Odd how things work out, isn't it? So damn odd.”

Martin watched him run toward another Aero Lloyd plane that was loading its passengers. He felt a pang of regret—even, he thought dimly, a touch of envy. Then he turned and walked quickly toward the terminal building and the waiting taxis.

S
UMMER HAD LINGERED
on into a hazy, golden October that was, Lord Stanmore thought, quite un-English. He was grateful for the warmth, however, dreading—after five months in California—the inevitable sleet and cold. The hot sun of that semiarid land had tanned his face and thinned his blood. Leaning back against his shooting stick, he closed his eyes to the sun. Pleasant enough, but there was no real heat to it. Yuma, Arizona, in September. Now
that
had been a sun! He had stepped off the train for a few minutes and had seen a Mexican gandy dancer expectorate on a rail. The spittle had turned to steam with a sharp pop—the way a drop of water reacts when dropped on a red-hot skillet.

“Would you like to time him, Father?”

He was startled out of his reverie of Yuma, the barren yellow wastes and the burning rails. Opening his eyes he turned his head and looked at William striding toward him through the tall grass at the edge of the track.

“No, Willie. He's your bloody horse. You have the pleasure. How far are you running the poor beast?”

“Seven furlongs.” Holding the stopwatch in his hand, he pointed off. “From Handley's Corner, up the rise, and down to the wire.”

There was no wire at the moment, only two flags on poles stuck into the ground where the wire would be. Another ten days before the Sullington races began. Workmen swarming about, painting and repairing, mowing the grass, unloading and stacking a mountain of hay. There were several horses cantering about the grassy oval or being walked from the stables to the track. He spotted Baconian, his light chestnut coat gleaming like a polished penny. Young Ralston up, William's girl friend—or whatever she was—walking alongside with Martin, the two of them talking a blue streak, Dulcie Felicia Gower waving an arm in animated self-expression.

“What's Martin and—the redhead discussing, you think?”

“Dulcie,” William said, frowning at the stopwatch. “You know her name as well as I do. I don't know what they're talking about. The life of Jesus, the Communist Manifesto—who knows?”

“Trouble with the watch?”

“The sweep's gone bonkers all of a sudden.”

“Rubbishy clockwork these days.” He plucked a silver beauty from his waistcoat. “Take mine, lad. It'll bring you luck.”

Not that much was required. The earl didn't need a watch to judge the speed of a horse. Baconian, two-year-old son of Buckminster out of Pearly Pride, soared through seven furlongs like a horse possessed. It took all of young Ralston's strength and skill to slow the animal down.

“He'll do ten furlongs in two minutes six and bleak fractions—and on
this
turf! That's an Ascot winner if I ever saw one. There won't be a horse to touch him when he reaches three. And what a stud he'll make!”

Martin, lounging back in the grass and studying the cloud patterns, had not paid much attention to the workout. He found horses to be pleasant creatures to look at, but that was about it. “Willie thinks he's got this—cup—or whatever—in the bag.”

“Yes,” the earl said. “King George's Cup. I feel he does, too. It'll be quite a boost up for the Biscuit Tin. Of course, he's got one or two good horses to beat and Ralston will be going against some shrewd jockeys. But it'll take more than luck and jockey tricks to beat Baconian. That ruddy horse could race the wind.”

It was pleasant to lie in the grass on a balmy day. The South Downs of Sussex. Low, rolling hills. Distant woods in yellow leaf. Indian summer they called it in Chicago and the Midwest. Martin wondered idly if the English called it anything but
decent weather for a change.

The earl plucked his stick from the soft ground and folded the small canvas seat. “Well, Martin, it's back to Abingdon for me. Are you going to stay and drive up later with Willie?”

“I don't think so. I've had enough of horses for one day. I'll keep you company.”

“Splendid.”

The earl drove the Rolls himself—with more skill and speed than his chauffeur would have done.

“That girl … Dulcie. What do you think of her?”

“Highly intelligent,” Martin said. “A bit impassioned on certain subjects.”

“Daughter of an Anglican bishop. First time I met her she launched into a lecture on free love! Quite set me back on my heels, I must say. Doesn't believe in marriage, but she's faithful as a saint to Willie. I've no real objection, I suppose. Sleeping with a nice girl isn't the worst of crimes, is it? And she's handy around the horses. You should see her up in Derbyshire, in old hip boots, mucking out the stables!”

“They'll get married. It's just the marriage vows she objects to at the moment. The honor and obey part. She feels it smacks of slavery.”

“Today's youth! Minds of their own. Even more evident in America.
Flaming
youth, as the moving pictures call them. But I like America, although it is filled with the most curious customs. Take having a drink as an example. You go into a place, say the Coronado Hotel, sit in a splendid lounge. Waiter chap comes up to you and asks what you'd like. Pot of tea, you say—and then you give him a wink. If you don't give him a wink, you get a pot of tea. If you do wink, you get gin! Quite curious, but one soon gets the hang of it.”