of such an idea. “Do you think that’s what the Allies have in mind?”
“Surely some sort of partnership. Remember what Wilson said at the cease-fire, peace without blame.” It was true that in the desperate efforts to stop the fighting, Wilson had made such hasty promises. But the rhetoric since we’ve been in Paris has been far more pointed.
He continues. “So I believe such an arrangement is possible. But we’ve got to make the case.” He is animated now, gesturing broadly with his hands to illustrate his point. “There’s a vast amount of correspondence about the role that naval fleets might play, drawn up before and during the war. Synthesizing it will give a sense of what the Big Four are thinking and help to frame any proposal. But we have to work quickly.”
I nod. The other nations have been meeting for close to six months, inviting the German delegation only at the final hour. Captain Richwalder’s idea makes sense, but the window for providing any sort of input and making a difference is slim. “I would have started earlier, of course, but I was given access to the materials just days before leaving Berlin,” he adds.
“Of course.”
“I’ve prioritized the documents most in need of translation.” He spreads the papers out on the desk before me. I would have expected the hands of a soldier, thick and crude. But his fingers are long, more artist than warrior, delicate half-moons at the cuticle.
He retreats to one of the chairs by the low table, which is piled high with papers, and I turn to the first document. It is a report on the structure of the smaller vessel fleets, and though once or twice I consult the dictionary I brought with me, to be certain of the exact words, it is not altogether difficult. My translation settles into an easy rhythm. Working alongside Captain Richwalder is not so different than reading in the study with Papa.
When I’ve finished the first page, I glance up, studying Captain Richwalder out of the corner of my eye. He is as imposing as he’d appeared at the arrival ceremony, with strong features seemingly etched from granite. But close up, there are little things I can see now—long eyelashes, almost impossibly so for a man, a bottom lip much fuller than the top. Faint, end-of-day stubble covers his cheeks.
He looks up unexpectedly. “Do you need something?”
“No.” Heat rises from my neck as I fumble to find an excuse for my staring. “I was just wondering, how are things in Berlin?”
“You’ve not been back?”
“Not since the start of the war. We were in England.”
“England?”
“Yes, Papa was on a teaching fellowship.” My own explanation sounds uneasy. At the time, our departure had been too rushed to ask. But afterward I had questioned it silently myself: Why had we gone to an enemy country right after the war broke out? Papa could have postponed the fellowship. But there had been an urgency to our leaving. Had he been worried for our safety? The war never reached German soil, and surely at Uncle Walter’s palatial mansion in the countryside we would have been fine. Had he been afraid of something else?
Captain Richwalder shakes his head. “Very bad, I’m afraid,” he says, returning to my original question. “The Social Democrats nominally hold power in Berlin, but the south, Bavaria especially, has become a hotbed of communist activity. There are rumors that the government may have to retake Munich by force to restore order.”
“That I’ve read in the press. But what is it like on the street?”
He pauses, struggling to fashion a description beyond the political. “Strikes, protests, rioting. Neighbors who lived in peace their whole lives taking sides and fighting one another. It’s anarchy. You will find the city much changed. Immigrants have poured in by the thousands from the east, living in these cramped apartments, entire families in a single room. And there’s no food, not for them and not for the people with
“Surely some sort of partnership. Remember what Wilson said at the cease-fire, peace without blame.” It was true that in the desperate efforts to stop the fighting, Wilson had made such hasty promises. But the rhetoric since we’ve been in Paris has been far more pointed.
He continues. “So I believe such an arrangement is possible. But we’ve got to make the case.” He is animated now, gesturing broadly with his hands to illustrate his point. “There’s a vast amount of correspondence about the role that naval fleets might play, drawn up before and during the war. Synthesizing it will give a sense of what the Big Four are thinking and help to frame any proposal. But we have to work quickly.”
I nod. The other nations have been meeting for close to six months, inviting the German delegation only at the final hour. Captain Richwalder’s idea makes sense, but the window for providing any sort of input and making a difference is slim. “I would have started earlier, of course, but I was given access to the materials just days before leaving Berlin,” he adds.
“Of course.”
“I’ve prioritized the documents most in need of translation.” He spreads the papers out on the desk before me. I would have expected the hands of a soldier, thick and crude. But his fingers are long, more artist than warrior, delicate half-moons at the cuticle.
He retreats to one of the chairs by the low table, which is piled high with papers, and I turn to the first document. It is a report on the structure of the smaller vessel fleets, and though once or twice I consult the dictionary I brought with me, to be certain of the exact words, it is not altogether difficult. My translation settles into an easy rhythm. Working alongside Captain Richwalder is not so different than reading in the study with Papa.
When I’ve finished the first page, I glance up, studying Captain Richwalder out of the corner of my eye. He is as imposing as he’d appeared at the arrival ceremony, with strong features seemingly etched from granite. But close up, there are little things I can see now—long eyelashes, almost impossibly so for a man, a bottom lip much fuller than the top. Faint, end-of-day stubble covers his cheeks.
He looks up unexpectedly. “Do you need something?”
“No.” Heat rises from my neck as I fumble to find an excuse for my staring. “I was just wondering, how are things in Berlin?”
“You’ve not been back?”
“Not since the start of the war. We were in England.”
“England?”
“Yes, Papa was on a teaching fellowship.” My own explanation sounds uneasy. At the time, our departure had been too rushed to ask. But afterward I had questioned it silently myself: Why had we gone to an enemy country right after the war broke out? Papa could have postponed the fellowship. But there had been an urgency to our leaving. Had he been worried for our safety? The war never reached German soil, and surely at Uncle Walter’s palatial mansion in the countryside we would have been fine. Had he been afraid of something else?
Captain Richwalder shakes his head. “Very bad, I’m afraid,” he says, returning to my original question. “The Social Democrats nominally hold power in Berlin, but the south, Bavaria especially, has become a hotbed of communist activity. There are rumors that the government may have to retake Munich by force to restore order.”
“That I’ve read in the press. But what is it like on the street?”
He pauses, struggling to fashion a description beyond the political. “Strikes, protests, rioting. Neighbors who lived in peace their whole lives taking sides and fighting one another. It’s anarchy. You will find the city much changed. Immigrants have poured in by the thousands from the east, living in these cramped apartments, entire families in a single room. And there’s no food, not for them and not for the people with
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