He removed his glasses. “Are the archives any help?”
“They might be, if there were any correspondence from Berlin after July twenty-fifth, when Austria declared war on Serbia and set the whole thing going. I suppose everyone was leaving the country by then.”
“Hmm.”
“Why ‘hmm’?”
“Because it’s odd. Because you’d think there would be a flood of chatter. Any good journalist would stay until the bitter end.” He looked back at the rows of wooden cabinets. “Have you looked in the confidential files?”
“The what?”
“The confidential files. The ones containing particularly sensitive information. The real dirt, as they say.”
I climbed to the tippy-tips of my four-inch heels. “WHAT DID YOU SAY? NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WERE CONFIDENTIAL DAMNED FILES!”
Oh, he smiled at me, old Tibby, with the patience of a governess instructing her charge. He fished around in his tweed jacket pocket, produced a set of keys, and dangled one in front of me. “Someone is telling you now.”
Violet
The villa in Wittenberg is seething with guests, the way Walter likes it. Jane and Henry have joined them, and Lionel Richardson, who goes out shooting with Walter every morning. Violet never realized Walter knew how to shoot, she presumed that sort of thing went against his principles, but off he goes, shotgun slung under his tweedy arm, like an English squire, while Henry and Violet retire to the makeshift laboratory in the carriage house and Jane lies in bed, writing letters. Lise and Albert Einstein and Otto Hahn and his wife are expected later tonight in Hahn’s automobile; they telephoned from Treuenbrietzen at four o’clock to say that they had been delayed by a number of unlucky flats and would probably miss dinner.
In the meantime, a pair of German officials have come to dinner, and Jane is acting as hostess. If the arrangement seems odd, nobody appears to notice. Violet, sitting in nominal wifely state at the opposite end of the table, the quiet end, is happy to let Jane direct the conversation from Walter’s left hand, flirting first with one German official and then the other, while Violet answers stilted questions from the officials’ wives and passes the salt. Jane has ordered candles instead of the harsh electric lights, and the scent of burning wax reminds Violet of childhood, when she would peer through the doorway and watch her parents host their long and ponderous dinner parties.
“But surely it won’t come to war,” says Jane, sounding more amused than alarmed.
Herr von Karlow throws a nervous glance at Lionel. “Nobody wants war, of course, madame. It is simply a matter of obligations.”
“Obligations.” Jane laughs. “Surely, Herr von Karlow, you can’t possibly suggest that Germany would allow herself to be dragged into defending Austria from the colossal threat of poor little Serbia?”
Lionel has finished his duck and now calmly plucks a plum from the display at the center of the table. He lifts his knife to slip out the pit. “But it isn’t just poor little Serbia, is it? Russia will rush in to defend her fellow Slavs from Austria’s outrage. That’s the point. Serbia can defy Austria because she counts on Russia, and Austria can defy Russia because she counts on Germany. A neat little arrangement, which is supposed to keep everyone from fighting at all.” He cuts the plum into slices and pops one into his mouth.
“Russia should not interfere in Austria’s affairs,” says Herr von Karlow, pale-faced. “Austria has every right to avenge the murder of her prince.”
“Well said.” Lionel eats another section of plum. “And I have every confidence that Austria will do all in her considerable power to ensure that other nations are not dragged into such a local dispute. Because if Russia goes to war, then France must mobilize in her defense, and then all Europe comes to Armageddon.”
His easy words bring the table to stillness. Someone’s knife clinks musically against a Meissen plate. Violet looks out the window, where the air is still light and hazy, the sunset still hours away. The green lawn lies at peace beneath a pale blue sky; beyond the cluster of linden trees, Violet can just see the corner of the tennis court. A lugubrious hot summer: how could war possibly interrupt it?
The other German speaks up. “Naturally Germany should deplore a general war.”
“Naturally,” says Lionel.
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