Necessary Lies(44)
She opens one of these articles and begins to read.
Unity Valkyrie Mitford, a real golden-haired lady, was the fourth daughter of Lord David Bertram Ogilvy Freeman-Mitford. “I don’t believe in your God,” she said to her religion teacher at St. Marie School, and on the blackboard she drew a naked pair in a passionate embrace. She was expelled. In 1933 she went to Nuremberg. Among cheering crowds, men in brown shirts marched at night in the light of torches. Beams of light shot into the sky. Swastika banners billowed in the wind. “I want to meet him,” she said to her sister Diana after she had heard the Führer speak. “There is no one else I can be with.”
In Munich, day after day, Unity sat at a table in Osteria Bavaria, watching Hitler dine with his companions, order his favourite vegetarian dishes. Since he did not approve of makeup and smoking, she wore no lipstick. On the 9th of February, 1935, a miracle happened. The Führer noticed her unfailing presence; his eyes paused on her blue, lively eyes, her shiny blond hair.
“It was the most beautiful day of my life,” Unity Mitford wrote to her father. “His aide-de-camp came up to me. ’Madam, the Führer wants to speak with you.’ When I approached His table He rose and shook my hand and asked me to sit next to Him. I told Him He should come to England, and He said, ’I would be afraid to, for I could start a revolution! Then, Rosa, the waitress, came to ask if I wanted a postcard for Him to sign, and I said yes. Not that I approve of American customs, but He asked for my name and signed the postcard for me, and invited me to Bayreuth. He told me that we should not allow international Jewry to divide two Aryan nations, and I said that, soon, we will be allies, fighting the same war. I am so happy. I must be the happiest girl on earth. There is nothing left for me now but to die of happiness.”
To her mother, she wrote: “What really struck me was His great simplicity. He was so natural that my shyness evaporated. It is a true miracle that this most powerful man on earth is so humble and straightforward.”
She followed him everywhere. Into the flap of her black suit she pinned a swastika with his signature underneath. Hitler’s aides called her Mitfahrt, a fellow traveller, always at his side when he wanted to see her, in Munich, Bayreuth, Berlin, Nuremberg, Breslau. She sat on the marble dais at party rallies and at the Olympic Games, rushed for breakfasts at his hotels, tea and walks at the Berghof. “I have two fatherlands,” she said. “Germany and England. And I love them both” In 1939, she wrote in the Daily Mirror that Hitler would never make England his enemy. She could guarantee that.
When on the 3rd of September 1939, England declared war on Germany, Unity Valkyrie took her most cherished presents, the Führer’s portrait in a silver frame and a swastika with his signature, wrapped them up and returned them with a letter. “I cannot bear the thought of war between Germany and England. I choose suicide.” In the Englischer Garten she shot herself in the head. She didn’t die, but the bullet was too firmly lodged in her head to be removed. Paralysed, she lay in a private clinic, waiting for death. When the Führer came to visit, he brought her a bouquet of red roses. Her suicide attempt did not surprise him. Wasn’t she only a woman? Influenced by an emotional longing for a force that would complement her nature? “I want to go back to England,” Unity said, looking at him. The roses, dried, went with her.
In England she refused to see anyone. Alone, half-alive, unable to move, she waited for the news of German victory. She died on May 28,1948.
Hunger wakes Anna in the morning, a painful, gnawing knot in her stomach. Breakfast is served in a room called Lila Weneda, the only Polish name she has seen anywhere in this sterile, glittering hotel. She can vaguely remember the Polish romantic play from which the name is taken, its pure-hearted peaceful people and their vicious invaders. A curious choice of a name, the thought has crossed her mind, a play by a poet who chastised Poland for being the peacock and parrot of other nations.
As she rides downstairs to the breakfast room, Anna watches herself in the elevator mirrors, her face multiplied by smokey panels, surrounding her on all sides. Two American men enter the elevator on the third floor. Clean-shaven faces, black, freshly pressed suits.
“Gee, these cats here are tough,” one of them says. “They sure know what they want.” He bends down and pulls up his socks. “Free market. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” the other man answers and they laugh.
In Lila Weneda, under stainless steel domes there are scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages and bacon. On the opposite side an arrangement of cheeses, fruit, cold cuts, small jars of marmalade and jams. Anna piles slices of smoked salmon on her plate, adds a few capers, a spoonful of cottage cheese. She eats slowly, glancing out of the window at the grey square building of Central Station. She has slept the whole night through, in spite of the time lag. It must be the low pressure, she thinks; outside wet snowflakes are getting thicker. Her father was right. Kwiecie-plecie, the braiding winter and summer.
A young waitress avoids Anna’s eyes, flashing her a smile of fearful submission. When Anna tries to open the lid of a coffee thermos jar, she rushes forward and does it for her. “Allow me, Madam,” she says in English.
In one of Anna’s old dreams of return they would have come here together, with William, for a concert tour. William would be given an enthusiastic reception. Every evening, she would watch him bow to the cheering audience, and then look at her. She shrugs her shoulders and takes another sip of coffee. Today she will take another look at Warsaw, and tomorrow she will be on the way to Wroclaw, on her way home.