Perhaps von Munte sensed the hesitation for he said, ‘It’s generous of you to share it with us.’
‘I was looking through my cellar the other day.’ He stood up straight, looking out across the snow-whitened lawn as if oblivious of his guests. ‘I found a dozen bottles of 1878 port down there. My grandfather bought them for me, to mark my tenth birthday, and I’d completely forgotten them. I’ve never tasted it. Yes, I’ve got a lot of treasures there. I stocked up when I had the money to afford it. It would break my heart to leave too much magnificent claret behind when I go.’
He poured the wine carefully and evoked from us the sort of compliments he needed. He was like an actor in that and many other respects – he desperately needed regular and earnest declarations of love. ‘Label uppermost, always label uppermost; when you store and when you pour.’ He demonstrated it. ‘Otherwise you’ll disturb it.’
I knew it would be a predominantly masculine lunch, a departmental get-together, Silas had warned me beforehand, but I still came. Bret Rensselaer and Frank Harrington were both there. Rensselaer was in his middle fifties; American-born, he was trim almost to the point of emaciation. Although his hair was turning white, there was still enough of the blond colouring left to prevent him looking old. And he smiled a lot and had good teeth and a face that was bony so that there weren’t many wrinkles.
Over lunch there was the usual seasonal discussion about how quickly Christmas was approaching and the likelihood of more snow. Bret Rensselaer was deciding upon a place to ski. Frank Harrington, our senior man in Berlin, told him it was too early for good snow, but Silas advised Switzerland.
Frank argued about the snow. He liked to think he was an authority on such matters. He liked skiing, golfing and sailing, and generally having a good time. Frank Harrington was waiting for retirement, something for which he’d been strenuously practising all his life. He was a soldierly-looking figure with a weather-beaten face and a blunt-ended stubble moustache. Unlike Bret, who was wearing the same sort of Savile Row suit he wore to the office, Frank had come correctly attired for the upper-class English weekend: old Bedford cord trousers and a khaki sweater with a silk scarf in the open neck of his faded shirt. ‘February,’ said Frank. ‘That’s the only time for any decent skiing anywhere worth going.’
I observed the way Bret was eying von Munte, whose stream of high-grade information had taken Bret into the very top ranks of the Department. Bret’s desk was now closed down and his seniority had been in peril ever since the old man had been forced to flee. No wonder the two men watched each other like boxers in a ring.
Talk became more serious when it touched upon that inevitable subject in such company, the unification of Germany. ‘How deeply ingrained in East Germans is the philosophy of Communism?’ Bret asked von Munte.
‘Philosophy,’ said Silas, interrupting sharply. ‘I’ll accept that Communism is a perverted sort of religion – infallible Kremlin, infallible Vatican – but philosophy, no.’ He was happier with the von Muntes here, I could tell from the tone of his voice.
Von Munte didn’t take up Silas’s semantic contention. Gravely he said, ‘The way in which Stalin took from Germany Silesia, Pomerania and East Prussia made it impossible for many of us Germans to accept the USSR as a friend, neighbour, or example.’
‘That’s going back a long while,’ said Bret. ‘Which Germans are we talking about? Are young Germans interested in the tears and cries of pain we hear about the lost territories?’ He smiled. This was Bret being deliberately provocative. His charming manner was frequently used like this – the local anaesthetic that accompanied the lancet of his rude remarks.
Von Munte remained very calm; was it a legacy of years of banking or years of Communism? Either way, I’d hate to play poker against him. ‘You English equate our eastern lands with Imperial India. The French think we who talk about reasserting Germany’s border to the frontiers of East Prussia are like the pieds-noirs, who hope once again to have Algeria governed from Paris.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bret. He smiled to himself and ate some duckling.
Von Munte nodded. ‘But our eastern provinces have always been German and a vital part of Europe’s relationship with the East. Culturally, psychologically and commercially, Germany’s eastern lands, not Poland, provided the buffer and the link with Russia. Frederick the Great, Yorck and Bismarck – and indeed all those Germans who instituted important alliances with the East – were ostelbisch, Germans from the eastern side of the River Elbe.’ He paused and looked round the table before going on with what was obviously something he’d said time and time again. ‘Czar Alexander I and Nicolas who succeeded him were more German than Russian, and they both married German princesses. And what about Bismarck who was continually defending Russian interests even at the expense of Germany’s relations with the Austrians?’
‘Yes,’ said Bret sardonically. ‘And you have yet to mention the German-born Karl Marx.’
For a moment I thought von Munte was going to reply seriously to the joke and make a fool of himself, but he’d lived amid signals, innuendos, and half-truths long enough to recognize the joke for what it was. He smiled.
‘Can there ever be lasting peace in Europe?’ said Bret wearily. ‘Now, if I’m to believe my ears, you say Germany still has territorial aspirations.’ For Bret it was all a game, but poor old von Munte could not play it.
‘For our own provinces,’ said von Munte stolidly.
‘For Poland and pieces of Russia,’ said Bret. ‘You’d better be clear on that.’
Silas poured more of his precious Château Palmer in a gesture of placation for all concerned. ‘You’re from Pomerania, aren’t you, Walter?’ It was an invitation to talk rather than a real question, for by now Silas knew every last detail of von Munte’s family history.
‘I was born in Falkenburg. My father had a big estate there.’
‘That’s near the Baltic,’ said Bret, feigning interest to make what he considered a measure of reconciliation.
‘Pomerania,’ said von Munte. ‘Do you know it, Bernard?’ he asked me, because I was the closest person there to being a fellow-countryman.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Many lakes and hills. They call it Pomeranian Switzerland, don’t they?’
‘Not any longer.’
‘A beautiful place,’ I said. ‘But as I remember it, damned cold, Walter.’
‘You must go in the summer,’ said von Munte. ‘It’s one of the most enchanting places in the world.’ I looked at Frau Doktor von Munte. I had the feeling that the move to the West was a disappointment for her. Her English was poor and she keenly felt the social disadvantage she suffered as a refugee. With the talk of Pomerania she brightened and tried to follow the conversation.
‘You’ve been back?’ Silas asked.
‘Yes, my wife and I went there about ten years ago. It was foolish. One should never go back.’
‘Tell us about it,’ said Silas.
At first it seemed as if the memories were too painful for von Munte to recount, but after a pause he told us about his trip. ‘There is something nightmarish about going back to your homeland and finding that it’s occupied exclusively by foreigners. It was the most curious experience I’ve ever had – to write “birthplace Falkenburg” and then “destination Zlocieniec”.’
‘The same place, now given a Polish name,’ said Frank Harrington. ‘But you must have been prepared for that.’
‘I was prepared in my mind but not in my heart,’ said von Munte. He turned to his wife and repeated this in rapid German. She nodded dolefully.
‘The train connection from Berlin was never