The Quality of Mercy Read Free Page B

and his hair was mussed up. ‘Have you been attacked?’ she demanded.
    ‘I . . . I met some youths . . . I will tell you later.’
    ‘Wait a minute – before we go anywhere, let me tidy you up.’
    She made him take off his coat and sponged the mud off it. She brushed his hair and gently bathed the cut on his face. As Georg calmed down he seemed to see Verity for the first time.
    ‘You are so very kind and beautiful, Fräulein Browne . . .’
    ‘You may call me Verity,’ she said graciously, ‘if we are to enjoy the evening.’
    The ball was in full swing when they arrived and she was relieved to find that she was dressed correctly. As Georg said – whatever the prejudices of the Viennese, they were certainly not going to spoil the ball by exhibiting them. He introduced her proudly to several distinguished-looking elderly men as ‘my English friend, the journalist, Verity Browne’. By no means all of his friends – to judge from their names – were Jewish and she met and danced with diplomats and government officials who urged her to come to them for information on the political crisis. On the whole, they seemed complacent. They would muddle through – they used the verb fortwursteln – Austria always did. Britain would support the Chancellor. Hitler would not prevail. Verity was triumphant. This was just the breakthrough she had been looking for. Virtue, she told herself smugly, was its own reward but if helping Georg led her into Viennese society she would not complain.
    Panting, Georg and Verity polkaed to a halt. She was suddenly aware of a buzz of conversation around them and she asked him what was the matter.
    ‘There’s a rumour that Chancellor Schuschnigg has been summoned to meet Hitler. Here’s Manfred Schmidt. He’s an old friend of my father’s – not a Nazi, you understand. He’ll tell us what’s happening.’ He grabbed by the sleeve a bearded man with a worried frown on his face. ‘Onkel Manfred, what’s the news from the Ballhausplatz?’ The Ballhausplatz was the Austrian foreign ministry.
    ‘Ah, Georg, my boy, it is time you and your parents left for England. I hear that your father will soon be released from prison but the Nazis . . . who knows . . . ?’ He hesitated. ‘Hilter has ordered Schuschnigg to cancel the plebiscite’ – this was the popular vote on whether Austrians wanted to become part of a greater Germany.
    Suddenly, to Verity’s horror, she heard outside the building a rising chant of Sieg heil . They went on to the balcony and looked out over the square. It was cold and wet but the Platz was illuminated by hundreds of torches borne aloft by young men wearing the white stockings and lederhosen of the outlawed Austrian Nazi party. They wore swastikas on their arms, which until then had been illegal, and chanted, ‘Germany awake, Judah perish.’ As Verity watched, the crowd swelled and began to sing ‘ Deutschland , Deutschland , Über Alles ’ and then, lifting their arms, the ‘ Horst Wessel ’, the Nazi Party anthem.
    Georg turned to Verity and said grimly, ‘It was youths like these who beat me up on my way to your apartment. It is as I feared. Osterreich ist kaputt .’

2
    ‘You can do what you want, Ned, but I flatly refuse to go anywhere near Broadlands and nor will Connie.’
    It was breakfast and Edward had just read aloud a note from Lord Louis Mountbatten, delivered by hand, inviting them all to lunch that very day. Connie studied her eggs and bacon, refusing to look her brother-in-law in the eye. His nephew, Frank, was still in bed. He had arrived the day before, exhausted after a punishing week of dancing and flirting on the Normandie . Edward looked at his brother with dismay. He knew Gerald could be obstinate but his refusal to consider being Mountbatten’s guest seemed ridiculous.
    ‘It’s not like you to be discourteous,’ he chided. ‘I agree that from all accounts the man is rather too pleased with himself but he’s said to be a