The Ambassador's Daughter. Pam Jenoff

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      “Aren’t you cold?”

      I shake my head stubbornly.

      “That’s hardly a suitable coat.”

      “It’s the fashion.” I struggle to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

      “Well, no one is here to see.” He takes his coat and puts it around my shoulders in a strange, too-familiar gesture.

      A mixture of soap and wool wafts upward from the collar. “Now won’t you be cold?”

      “I’m something of a polar bear actually. All of those nights on the North Sea.”

      My eyes travel to the contour of his shoulder, dark against the lighted window. “Papa mentioned that there’s a trip to the battlefields scheduled for Sunday. Are you going?”

      “Not if I can help it. I’ve spent the past four years on a battlefield of another sort. I’d like to see them, of course, and pay respects, but on my own, not from the window of a motor coach. I came here to work, not sightsee.”

      “I suppose you won’t be going into Paris for the plenary session tomorrow, either?”

      He shook his head. “We weren’t asked.” How odd, to be summoned all of this distance, only to be sequestered in a hotel, excluded from the very meetings for which you were invited. But then he forces a smile. “It’s no matter. So much better to have the time to work and not be shut up in stuffy proceedings all day.”

      “True. What are you working on?” His eyes widen and I wonder if he minds the question.

      “It’s quite dry,” he says apologetically. He is not offended, just surprised that I might take an interest. “I’m the delegation’s military officer and I’m studying plans and proposals as to what the treaty might look at, reading up on what the French and British experts are advocating in order to develop a counter position.” He continues, “There’s going to be a whole new world, a way for nations to coexist and to form strong alliances that will ensure we never face such destruction of man like that again.” His shoulders straighten. “I can be part of that, I think, by helping the navy to find its place. It’s slow going. Not the technical parts—I’m familiar with all of the engineering concepts from the ship. But languages were never my strong point and the delegation can’t spare a translator outside of the sessions.”

      “I can help you,” I blurt out, without meaning to. “My French and English are quite good. I’ve got no technical training but with the aid of a dictionary I could muddle through.”

      He looks at me dubiously. “It’s tremendously dull, lots of engineering reports.”

      “I studied maths and science through the progymnasium level,” I reply. His jaw drops slightly, making his lips even more full. “I know it isn’t the typical curriculum for a girl,” I add, my words flowing more easily than usual. Back home girls are typically schooled in the gentle arts of music and literature at the high school level. But I had gravitated naturally toward the sciences and Papa had let my curiosity direct my studies.

      “There’s nothing to be paid for it.”

      “That’s fine.”

      He coughs slightly. “Then why would you want to?”

      “For the chance to do something—” I fumble for the right words, replaying my talks with Krysia “—meaningful. Real.” Because I’m sitting here in the middle of the world being formed, I add silently, playing at dinner parties and treasure hunts.

      “Fine,” he acquiesces. For a moment I am annoyed—I’m trying to help him, but it sounds as if he is doing me a favor. “It’s quite late tonight but if you’d like to come by tomorrow evening at eight, we can work after the delegation retires. You’ll need clearance, of course, but that shouldn’t be hard to get with your father’s credentials.”

      “So we’re agreed.”

      “Ja. If …” he adds, “your father approves.”

      I bristle and open my mouth to tell him that I am an adult and my own woman. But I can tell by his tone that it is not subject to debate, and that he will not cross another member of the delegation. “I’m sure it will be fine. I will see you tomorrow.” I stand and hand him his coat. “Thank you for the shoe, and the tea.” He stands. I wait for him to offer to escort me home, but he does not.

      Back at the apartment, Papa is hunched over some papers in the study, reading so intensely he does not hear me come in. Smoke curls upward from his pipe, giving off a sickly smell. Seeing me, his brow furrows. “Is something amiss? I thought you were with Celia.”

      “I was. I came home. Are you working?”

      He shakes his head. “Just composing a cable to Uncle Walter.” I worry sometimes that Papa reports back to his brother-in-law too much, as if beholden to a superior. But Uncle Walter is just curious, a child being kept from the adults’ table, eager for every detail he is missing, as well as an assessment of how the Germans will fare. He has always imagined himself a political thinker. I suspect that in reality he is just an excellent prognosticator of what is to come, and he sorely needs details to do that.

      “Papa,” I begin tentatively.

      “Ja, liebchen?” He looks up and smiles. My father, an absentminded academic, can fairly be accused of spending the better part of life in a hazy bubble of his own thoughts. But he has always had a way of knowing when my tone was serious and required his actual focus and attention.

      Which was not the effect I am going for here when I was hoping to pass this by him before he ever had the chance to focus on it. “I’ve been offered an opportunity to do some work.” He raises an eyebrow, and I continue. “Captain Richwalder from the delegation, you know him?”

      “The young military officer. We met earlier.”

      “He needs someone to help him with translations. Please, Papa, I’m just so terribly bored.” I don’t tell him that the work will need to happen in the evening or in the library of the hotel. “I just want to help.”

      He rubs his chin. “I see no harm in it. It will be good for your linguistic skills.” He turns back to his papers.

      Dismissed, I walk to my room. Across the road, the massive expanse of the palace grounds, trees and fountains are shrouded in darkness. I press my head against the window, craning my neck to glimpse the hotel. The light in the library still burns yellow on the first floor and I imagine Captain Richwalder hunched over his papers. I wonder what the work will be like. Will my language skills be sufficient? Remembering his imposing gaze, I shiver. Then, I turn off the light and climb into bed, anticipating with excitement and more than a little dread the day that is to come.

       5

      It is just shy of eight o’clock and the lamps glow behind the curtains at the hotel as I approach. I knock and a few seconds later the door opens. Captain Richwalder wears no jacket this evening, but his dress shirt is pressed crisply, the short hair above his ears still damp from washing. “Thank you for being prompt,” he says, sounding as though used to people being otherwise. I had, in fact, loitered a good СКАЧАТЬ