The Ambassador's Daughter. Pam Jenoff
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of the peace conference, whispered about in the salons, debated openly in the bars and parties: What will happen to Germany? “Back home they believe that it will be a fair peace.”
“Yes, they have to, don’t they? I’m Krysia Smok,” she says, extending a hand.
“Margot Rosenthal. A pleasure.” I want to mention the fact that I have seen her before but that would beg the question of what she was doing in the park, too intrusive of someone I’ve just met.
“I didn’t think the German delegation was coming until late spring,” she remarks.
“They aren’t. That is, we aren’t part of the delegation. My father is a professor, he teaches at Oxford at the moment….” I can hear myself babbling now. “And he’s detailed to the conference, not the delegation.” I study her face, wondering if she is impressed by the distinction.
From behind the column comes tittering laughter. “Really, even the kitchen staff have political aims,” a woman comments in English. “Are we to have soufflé tonight or a political rally?”
“They say the Japanese will demand a statement of racial equality, too,” her companion replies in a hushed tone, as though saying it aloud might make it real.
“Americans,” Krysia scoffs as they walk away. “They think they’re so progressive. And yet women in the States still do not have the right to vote.” I consider her point. Women were only given the vote in Germany a year ago and I haven’t been back to have the chance.
Papa is at my side then. “Darling, I’m sorry to have left you. I was waylaid by a Dutchman.”
“It’s quite fine. Did you hear about the kitchen boy?”
“Yes, Indochinese, by the sound of things, and seeking Wilson’s support for some sort of autonomy.”
“Do you think he lost his job?”
“I think,” Papa replies gently, “that he did what he set out to do at the conference and …” He stops midsentence and turns to Krysia. “Forgive my manners.” Papa is not like some of the men at the conference, seeing through the staff as though they are not here. “I’m Margot’s father, Friedrich Rosenthal.”
“Papa, this is Krysia Smok.”
She tilts her head. “Rosenthal, the writer?”
He shifts, uncomfortable with the attention. “I’ve written a few academic books, yes.”
“I’m more acquainted with your articles.” How is Krysia, a pianist from Poland, familiar with my father? “I particularly enjoy your work on the interplay between the suffragist cause and socialism,” she adds, animated now.
Papa bows slightly. “I’m humbled. And I’d be delighted to discuss the subject with you further if you’d like to come around for tea tomorrow. For now, I must excuse myself. Margot, I’m afraid I need to stay to speak with one of the British representatives after this.” He pats my cheek. “The car will be out front for you. Don’t wait up for me. I shall see you in the morning.”
When he has gone, I turn back to Krysia. “How do you know my father’s work?”
“His writings on the advancement of women in the communist system have been very helpful to the suffragist cause.”
“Papa isn’t a communist,” I reply quickly, though I’ve never read Papa’s work myself.
She doesn’t hear me, or pretends not to. “I detest pure academics. But your father, well, he was quite active in the protests in his day.” Papa out of his study is an animal removed from natural habitat; it is difficult to fathom him on the streets, chanting angrily like the Serb nationalists in front of the foreign ministry on the Quai d’Orsay. There is much about him, I realize, that I do not know.
Her gaze travels the room and stops on the catering manager who has entered the salon and is staring at us. The reception is winding down and Krysia is meant to be playing as the guests leave, not talking. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” she says, shuffling through her sheet music.
“Come to tea tomorrow,” I press. I’m lonely for company beyond the superficial chatter of the parties and I’ve enjoyed these few brief moments of conversation more than any since our arrival.
She shakes her head, demurring. “Is it because we are German?”
“Of course not.” Her tone is sincere. “I have a prior obligation. Another time.”
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the calling cards that Tante Celia had insisted I need. They seemed so frivolous at the time, but I’m glad to have them now. “In case you change your mind.”
“Thank you.” Krysia puts the card in her pocket in a way that tells me she will never use it.
She resumes playing and I walk from the salon, deflated. In the main ballroom, the gathering has begun to dissipate. I make my way to the cloakroom and when I return, the piano bench is empty.
Outside, I scan the line of cars and find ours. There is a dampness to the frosty night air that I can almost taste. As I get in, I see Krysia walking from the hotel with her parents. She kisses them each on the cheek and starts in the other direction, her blue cape radiant in the sea of black. I watch as she slips away, quiet as a cat, then ducks into the alleyway before reaching the boulevard.
Where is she going alone at night? It is after ten and there is still a curfew. I climb from the car once more. “I’ll make my own way,” I say to the driver, shutting the door before he can protest.
I weave my way through the departing crowd, breaking free and turning down the alleyway where I last saw Krysia. The street is dark and I fear that I have lost her, but I hear footsteps ahead and quicken my pace. A moment later the passageway opens onto a wide avenue and Krysia appears in a yellow pool of streetlight. She moves swiftly, almost seeming to fly beneath the billowing cape. I struggle to stay back far enough so as not to be noticed.
Krysia reaches the corner and stops. Then she turns, facing me before I have time to hide. “You again!” I freeze, an animal trapped. “Are you following me?”
“No—” I protest too quickly.
“I was joking, of course. You’re staying in the area?”
“My hotel is nearby, but I am going to visit some friends.” I regret the lie as soon as I have spoken, the notion that I would be calling on anyone at this hour of the night hardly plausible.
She does not respond but continues walking, shrugging her shoulders in a way that suggests I am welcome to join her. We travel wordlessly along the rue Royale, the swish of her cape giving off a faint hint of lilac perfume.
“Did you come to Paris before the war?” I ask, hoping she will not mind conversation. My breath rises in tiny puffs of frost.
“Yes. There was not so much work for pianists in southern Poland.” She unfurls detail a bit at a time, like a kite string, or thread off a spool. “When the war broke out I found myself stranded here.” There is something deeper beneath the surface, a longing in her voice that belies a part of the story she is not willing to share with me. “But I miss home terribly. Do you?”
“I suppose.” I have not until just this moment thought about it. Our town house in Berlin’s Jewish quarter is not large—even as a child, I could touch both walls of my bedroom at the same time if I stretched my arms out sideways. But it is cozy and made beautiful by all of my mother’s decorations, the floral trim and slipcovers that Papa never would have thought to do himself and that he has left untouched since she died. There’s a tiny garden with a fountain in the back, a park down the road for strolling. It’s been years since we’ve actually lived there for any period of time, though. “We’ve been abroad for so long. Now home is wherever Papa and I land with a place to lay our heads and books to read.”
She smiles. “The vagabond lifestyle.” We