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She gave him a candid look. "Do you want to know about Olga, or is it too embarrassing?"
Gus looked away. What could be more embarrassing? First he had received a note from Olga, calling the engagement off. She had been abjectly apologetic but had given no explanation. Gus had been unwilling to accept this and had written back demanding to see her in person. He could not understand it and speculated that someone was putting pressure on her. But later that same day his mother had discovered, through her network of gossiping friends, that Olga was going to marry her father's driver. "But why?" Gus had said in anguish, and Mother had replied: "My darling boy, there is only one reason a girl marries the chauffeur. " He had stared uncomprehendingly, and Mother had at last said: "She must be pregnant. " It was the most humiliating moment of Gus's life, and even a year later he winced with pain every time he recalled it.
Rosa read his face. "I shouldn't have mentioned her. I'm sorry. "
Gus felt he might as well know what everyone else knew. He touched Rosa's hand lightly. "Thank you for being direct. I prefer it. And yes, I'm curious about Olga. "
"Well, they got married at that Russian Orthodox church on Ideal Street, and the reception took place at the Statler Hotel. Six hundred people were invited, and Josef Vyalov hired the ballroom and the dining room, and served caviar to everyone. It was the most lavish wedding in the history of Buffalo. "
"And what is her husband like?"
"Lev Peshkov is handsome, charming, and completely untrustworthy. You know as soon as you look at him that he's a rogue. And now he's the son-in-law of one of the richest men in Buffalo. "
"And the child?"
"A girl, Darya, but they call her Daisy. She was born in March. And Lev is no longer the chauffeur, of course. I think he runs one of Vyalov's nightclubs. "
They talked for an hour, then Gus walked her downstairs and hailed a cab to take her home.
Early next morning Gus got the California result by cable. Wilson had won by 3,777 votes. He had been reelected president.
Gus was elated. Four more years to try to achieve all they aimed for. They could change the world in four years.
While he was still staring at the telegram, his phone rang.
He picked it up and heard the switchboard operator say: "A call from Shadow Lawn. The president wants to speak to you, Mr. Dewar. "
"Thank you. "
A moment later he heard Wilson's familiar voice. "Good morning, Gus. "
"Congratulations, Mr. President. "
"Thank you. Pack a bag. I want you to go to Berlin. "
{III}
When Walter von Ulrich came home on leave, his mother gave a party.
There were not many parties in Berlin. It was difficult to buy food, even for a wealthy woman with an influential husband. Suzanne von Ulrich was not well: she was thin, and had a permanent cough. However, she badly wanted to do something for Walter.
Otto had a cellar full of good wine he had bought before the war. Suzanne decided to have an afternoon reception, so that she would not have to provide a full dinner. She served little snacks of smoked fish and cheese on triangles of toast, and made up for the poor food with unlimited magnums of champagne.
Walter was grateful for the thought, but he did not really want a party. He had two weeks away from the battlefield, and he just wanted a soft bed, dry clothes, and the chance to lounge all day in the elegant salon of his parents' town house, looking out of the window and thinking about Maud, or sitting at the Steinway grand piano and playing Schubert's "Fruhlingsglaube": "Now everything, everything must change. "
How glibly he and Maud had said, back in August 1914, that they would be reunited by Christmas! It was now more than two years since he had looked at her lovely face. And it was probably going to take Germany another two years to win the war. Walter's best hope was that Russia would collapse, allowing the Germans to concentrate their forces on a massive final westward sweep.
Meanwhile Walter sometimes had trouble visualizing Maud, and had to look at the worn and fading magazine photograph he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. He did not relish a party without her. As he got ready he wished his mother had not troubled.
The house looked drab. There were not enough servants to keep the place spick-and-span. The men were in the army, the women had become streetcar conductors and mail deliverers, and the elderly staff who remained were struggling to maintain Mother's standards of cleanliness and polish. And the house was cold as well as grubby. The coal allowance was not enough to run the central heating, so mother had put freestanding stoves in the hall, the dining room, and the drawing room, but they were inadequate against the chill of November in Berlin.
However, Walter cheered up when the cold rooms filled with young people and a small band began to play in the hall. His younger sister, Greta, had invited all her friends. He realized how much he missed social life. He liked seeing girls in beautiful gowns and men in immaculate suits. He enjoyed the joking and flirting and gossip. He had loved being a diplomat-the life suited him. It was easy for him to be charming and make small talk.
The von Ulrich house had no ballroom, but people began to dance on the tiled floor of the hall. Walter danced several times with Greta's best friend, Monika von der Helbard, a tall, willowy redhead with long hair who reminded him of pictures by the English artists who called themselves pre-Raphaelites.
He got her a glass of champagne and sat down with her. She asked him what it was like in the trenches, as they all did. He usually said it was a hard life but the men were in good spirits and they would win in the end. For some reason he told Monika the truth. "The worst thing about it is that it's pointless," he said. "We've been in the same positions, give or take a few yards, for two years, and I can't see how that will be changed by anything the high command is doing-o
r even by anything they might do. We're cold, hungry, sick with coughs and trench foot and stomachache, and bored to tears-all for nothing. "
