The Ambassador's Daughter. Pam Jenoff
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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.
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