Chapter Thirty Four
Journey's End
Upstairs, Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
Having said good night, the children went upstairs to bed, but as far as the older boys were concerned, it was not to sleep, even with the ever watchful Nanny Bridges on hand to look in on them. Just as soon as Rob and Max felt the coast to be clear, quiet as two church mice, they stripped their beds. Then, loaded with pillows and blankets, they made their way down the corridor to Danny's bedroom where, with two makeshift beds contrived as before and the door firmly closed, the three boys sat chatting about the day's events; especially about what had happened on the ferris wheel and then in the little square at St. Johann. However, it had been a very long day, so by the time Herzog and his wife arrived wet and bedraggled at Rosenberg, the three cousins were fast asleep.
With his bed made up on the floor, Max was nearest the door, as a result of which it was he who was first woken by footsteps in the corridor. Not that in itself this was unusual but, on hearing voices, recognising those of his mother and his aunts, Max now heard another, which he did not recognise, that of a woman, clearly in distress, speaking in a language which he did not understand, but which nonetheless still sounded familiar. Then he had it: the unknown woman was speaking in Jewish.
Cautiously, Max opened the bedroom door, just in time to see his aunts helping a young woman along the passage, while following in their wake, Max saw his mother. But despite having done his very best to keep quiet, beneath him a floorboard suddenly creaked, whereupon, Mama turned, to see Max, who had been joined by Rob, peering round the door of Danny's bedroom.
Edith immediately retraced her steps.
"What are you two doing in there?" she asked, keeping her voice low.
"Well, we ... we wanted to ... talk to Danny. Who is it, Mama?"
With all that had happened tonight, Edith was bone weary and hadn't the heart to remonstrate.
"The wife of a friend of your father's. From Vienna. She's expecting a baby". At that very moment, reinforcing what she had just said, a piercing cry came from a bedroom further down the passage.
"Why didn't she stay in Vienna and have her baby there, Mama?" Max asked, all eyes.
Edith demurred. Now was not the time to try and explain what had happened in Leopoldstadt.
"The lady and her husband ... were on their way to Salzburg ... when she started feeling ... unwell. So they came here. Now, if you two are keeping Danny company, it's high time you were both fast asleep. Understood?"
"Yes, Mama".
"Yes, Aunt Edith".
"Good. Then, we'll say no more about it".
A short while later.
The schloss had been built in the fifteenth century and, despite all the many additions and alterations undertaken thereafter, the core of the building dated from this time, including the ochre painted exterior walls which, in places, were some three metres thick, and had once been surrounded by a deep, water-filled moat, long since filled in. Dating from this time also was the heavy studded oak front door which, many years ago, had been divided into two halves. Nonetheless, despite the solidity of its original construction, being sawn in twain, ironically enough to make it easier to be opened, had weakened its overall integrity.
While a contingent of those under his command made their way stealthily round to the rear of the building, there to the consternation of those of the domestic staff who were still up, forcing their way in through the offices, here at the front of the mansion Islemann gave the order to break down the entrance door with an improvised battering ram; the implement hastily selected for this purpose being one of the heavy cast iron benches gracing the forecourt. Ordering half a dozen of his men to pick up the nearest bench and charge the door, they did so several times until, with a rending of timber, the ancient wood splintered, the bolts gave way ...
Friedrich's study.
Seeing Friedrich calmly loading his pistol, Matthew shook his head.
"Remember, what I just said. Not unless we have to. We have something else at our disposal. Let's make use of that".
"Matthew, whatever you may ..." Tom began.
But Matthew wasn't listening.
Herzog shook his head.
"I won't endanger your family".
Friedrich grimaced.
"Too late for that, I fear, but if you think we'll give you over to those wolves, then think again!"
Entrance Hall.
A moment later, the four men were in the hall, standing facing the front door.
Friedrich ghosted a thin smile at Herzog.
"Now, here, stand by me". Inside his jacket pocket, his hand closed on the butt of his Roth-Steyr pistol, retrieved moments earlier from the drawer of his desk, which he was quite prepared to use, but only if absolutely necessary, hoping fervently that whatever it was Matthew had in mind would work. Well, they would soon find out. A moment later, with a crash of rending timber, the front door gave way, and the men of the Bundessicherheitswachekorps swarmed into the entrance hall.
Danny's Bedroom, the same time.
"What the feck?" yelled Danny, now wide awake, and sitting bolt upright in his bed. He had been fast asleep, decidedly so, dreaming of what he couldn't now quite recollect, but all the same was acutely aware of the result of it between his legs - his mickey pleasurably stiff - now once more becoming limp - and also, too, the inevitable damp patch on the front of his pyjama trousers, something which seemed to be happening almost nightly now. Danny blushed, thankful that the bedroom was lit only by the small beside lamp. Shamefaced, he saw Rob and Max were also wide awake, as well they might be, given the thunderous racket coming from somewhere downstairs, seemingly from the front of the house.
"Crikey! What's going on? What is it?" asked Rob groggily. He had only just drifted off to sleep again.
"Search me!"
While Rob stretched, yawned, and shook himself awake, Danny reached hastily for his dressing gown, pulling it on, hiding the fading stain on the front of his pyjama trousers - he wouldn't want either Rob or Max to think he had wet himself - slipped out of bed, ran over to the door, and flung it wide. The noise from down below intensified, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.
Max scrambled up from his improvised bed on the floor and almost sprawled headlong.
"Scheiße!" Danny and Rob sniggered. Not that ten year old Max was prone to swearing but, given the fact that Danny and Rob had taught him a series of what Mama would have said were very rude words indeed, he had obligingly returned the compliment, teaching his cousins some of the more choice German swear words which he had learned from one of the stable lads. What prompted his outburst had been Fritz who, curled up at the foot of his young master's improvised bed, dreaming of his food dish down in the kitchen filled to the brim with choice titbits, had been woken all the noise. Pottering across the floor to the door of the bedroom to investigate what was going on, and in the process entangling himself in the feet of his young master, the little dachshund nearly tripped Max up.
With Fritz yapping loudly at their heels, the three boys raced down the corridor as far as the landing, where they were joined a few moments later by Saiorse, Simon, and Bobby, and then also, much to their surprise, by Aunt Mary and Aunt Edith. Below, all was a riot of noise and confusion, with uniformed men of the Bundessicherheitswachekorps streaming into the hall through the wreckage of the front door and broken glass from the vestibule, while others appeared from beneath the main staircase. In the middle of all of this tumult, Max saw his father and uncles, and with them another man who looked strangely familiar. Max had it now - he was one of the two men they had encountered in the Watchman's Chamber of the Stephansdom. Saw too, with a distinct sense of shock, Uncle Matthew pull a pistol from his pocket and press it hard against the temple of an officer of the Bundessicherheitswachekorps.
Entrance Hall.
Here in the lamp lit hall, at a glance, Friedrich took in a gaggle of anxious servants, along with the huddle of white-faced children gathered above on the landing.
Catching sight of Herzog, Iselmann barked out an order.
"Take him!"
But Matthew was quicker. Before anyone realised what he was about, he pulled his own service revolver from his jacket and rammed the muzzle hard against Iselmann's left temple. The captain froze instantly.
"Now, unless you want your brains splattered all over this hall, I suggest you do exactly as I say". Matthew spoke in perfect German, his voice richly laden with menace,
Iselmann could not conceal his surprise; flicked the tip of his tongue over dry lips.
"What would you have me do?" he croaked.
"Call off your dogs, order them to drop their weapons, and then leave this house".
Iselmann nodded to his men.
"Do it!" he snapped.
"Friedrich?"
"Yes?"
"Those over there by the stairs, see that they leave ... by the front door".
Friedrich nodded. Intimated, with a wave of his own pistol, what the rest should do.
Having done as they were ordered and dropped their weapons, with surly looks aplenty, the men of the Bundessicherheitswachekorps filed unwillingly out of the house.
"Mary?"
"Yes?" She wasn't aware Matthew had seen her appear above him on the landing, but evidently he had.
"Have the children return to their bedrooms," he said crisply, without taking his eyes off Iselmann.
"Yes, of course". Doing her best to keep her voice level, Mary did as she had been instructed and, along with Edith, began shepherding the children back to bed. "Now, come along, all of you, back to bed".
Down in the hall, Friedrich told Kleist to tell the servants to do likewise.
"Now ... " Matthew lowered his revolver. "I suspect the purpose of your "visit" here tonight is to arrest this man?" He nodded in the direction of Herzog.
Iselmann inclined his head.
"Then, I've saved you from making a complete and utter fool of yourself".
"How?" Iselmann asked.
The way Matthew was acting suggested that he held a trump card. What that might be - if he was reading the situation aright - Tom, who so far had played no part in what had taken place, could not for the life of him imagine. All the same, he gave his brother-in-law full marks for brinkmanship; would never forget this scene, played out in the splendour of Rosenberg's magnificent Entrance Hall.
"Continue with this foolery and, at the very least, you will cause a rupture of relations between Great Britain and the Republic of Austria. At worst, you run the risk of starting a European war. Do you want either of those things on your conscience?" Matthew asked softly.
"Are you threatening me?"
Matthew shook his head.
"Hardly that. On the contrary, in this, if in nothing else, we are the same. Like you, I never threaten, although I may warn. Remember? Herr Herzog, would you be so good as to show the captain your passport".
"My passport?" With realisation dawning, a slow smile spread across the face of the young Jew. Fumbling inside his jacket, Herzog pulled out a document with a navy blue hardcover, emblazoned with an embossed coat of arms.
Matthew nodded.
"Let the captain see it".
Herzog handed Iselmann the passport. Having glanced at it, he looked enquiringly at Matthew.
"For your benefit, let me translate. A précis will suffice. It says that the bearer, Herr Herzog, is a British citizen. That being so, do you really wish to run the risk of a diplomatic incident, let alone something far, far worse? I doubt very much if your superiors, those here in Austria or ..." Here Matthew paused for dramatic effect. "... let's just say elsewhere, would want that. You, of course, will know them far better than do I, so only you can be the judge as to how they would react, but if I were you ..."
With Iselmann and his men, their tails firmly between their legs, having quitted the schloss, climbed into their vehicles and driven away, surveying the devastation they had caused, Matthew turned to Friedrich.
"I rather think you'll be needing a new front door".
Tom smiled.
The British were ever the masters of understatement.
Then, from upstairs, there came the cry of a baby.
Westbahnhof, Vienna, Lower Austria, a few days later.
"I suspect it always will be," said Sybil.
"Agreed!" laughed Edith.
"Yes, indeed". Mary smiled.
The three sisters were standing in the sunshine beside the open door of one of the luxurious blue and gold sleeping cars of the westbound Orient Express now waiting here in Vienna's Westbahnhof, from which the train was shortly to depart on its long journey from Istanbul, all the way across Europe, as far as the port of Ostende on the Belgian coast.
Sybil nodded towards where Danny, Robert, and Max, together with their fathers, were presently standing admiring the powerful engine at the head of the express - undoubtedly the most prestigious of all the trains de luxe which was to convey the Crawleys and the Bransons on the first stage of their long journey home to England and Ireland. What Sybil had been referring to was the closeness of the bond between the three boys. The journey would take a couple of days, first across Austria to Linz, then on across Germany by way of Nürnberg, Frankfurt, and Köln, and so into Belgium, to Bruxelles, and from there to Ostende and the Belgian coast. Thence by steamer over the English Channel to Dover, by express train up to London where the paths of the Crawleys and the Bransons would finally divide: the Crawleys heading north from King's Cross to Yorkshire and Downton Abbey, and the Bransons westwards from Paddington to Fishguard, before boarding another steamer across the Irish Sea to Rosslare, and thence by train back to Dublin and Blackrock.
It had been the intention that the Herzogs would travel with the Crawleys and the Bransons as far as Linz where they would change trains and go on to Switzerland. However, as yet, Esther was in no condition to make the long train journey to Switzerland, and given what had happened at Rosenberg, Friedrich decided that it would be for the best if, in due course, he himself travelled with the Herzogs, as far as the Swiss border, so as to ensure nothing untoward happened. So, this morning, while the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns travelled into Vienna, the Herzogs remained behind at Rosenberg where they would be safe enough, at least for the present; Matthew's tour de force on the night of the police raid having scotched the likelihood of Iselmann and his uniformed thugs causing any further trouble. As to what had become of the other young Jews, Goldstein and the rest, involved in what had happened at the Wurstelprater, there had still been no word.
When the morning of departure of the Bransons and the Crawleys from Rosenberg dawned, there had, inevitably, been a great deal of sadness and tears at the breakfast table, and not only on the part of Danny, Rob, and Max. While Friedrich had been of a mind not to say anything to Max about next year's trip to Bremgarten, seeing just how upset the three boys were, not knowing when they would see each other again, he had relented. In an instant, glumness had turned to smiles and for most of the journey into Vienna, the three boys spent their time plying Matthew and Tom with all manner of questions about the racing circuit at Bremgarten, the motors, the speeds, who would be taking part, and so forth. However, although the boys and their fathers were promised to meet up at next year's Grand Prix, with the way things were fast deteriorating in Central Europe, it was by no means certain that the meeting would come to pass. Not that the boys' fathers said anything on this score; after all, que sera, sera: what would be, would be.
Now at last, here beneath the cavernous roof of Vienna's Westbahnhof, came the moment for everyone to say goodbye with a great deal of handshaking, hugging, and kissing, as well as, understandably, the shedding of yet more tears. The Bransons and the Crawleys boarded the express, where they stood by the windows of their compartments to wave goodbye to the Schönborns. A moment later, with the doors all closed, the whistle blew, and the heavy train began moving slowly out of the station, Friedrich, Edith, and Max remaining standing on the platform waving until the express rounded a curve and the last carriage had disappeared out of sight.
And so, to misquote Shakespeare, after all the alarums and excursions of the summer, with the Bransons having returned home, what Sybil, in a breezy, chatty letter written to Mary a week or so later, referred to as their Alpine Interlude, was well and truly over. In Blackrock, County Dublin, as well as across the Irish Sea at Downton Abbey in Yorkshire, life resumed its customary tempo, with Tom back at his desk on Talbot Street in Dublin, Sybil returning to her duties at the Rotunda Lying-In Hospital, Matthew picking up the reins at Downton, and Mary undertaking her numerous social commitments. That said, not a day went by that she did not think of Tibor and what had become of him.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, early autumn 1933.
A matter of weeks after the departure of the Bransons and the Crawleys, Friedrich left Rosenberg to travel to the Near East, in order to fulfil his long standing commitment to supervise the excavation of a presumed Roman villa on the edge of Samaria in Palestine, which he had been appointed to direct on behalf of the Austrian Archaeological Institute.
However, it had been with a heavy heart and many misgivings that Friedrich gave instructions for his trunk be packed and sent down to the station at St. Johann for onward shipment to Trieste. Several days earlier, at a mass meeting in Vienna, just before the annual holiday held on 12th September to commemorate the breaking of the Ottoman siege of the capital in 1683, the pint-sized Dollfuss had set Austria on the road towards a Fascist dictatorship by proclaiming the end of parliamentary democracy in the country. In a display of tub-thumping, the diminutive Chancellor announced that while he would not waste time enumerating "the sins which especially our parliament, our so called democracy, has committed, ... such a parliament, such a body as representative of a people, such leadership can not and shall not be again".
Friedrich and Edith were appalled by the turn of events and what it might presage. Friedrich said again that he would tender his apologies to the Institute in Vienna, and not take up his appointment but Edith was just as adamant, as she had been earlier, that he should go out to the Near East as intended. All the same, both agreed that the time had now come to put in hand preparations necessary to ensure that the family was in a position to leave Austria at a moment's notice should circumstances make it impossible for them to remain. With this in mind, Friedrich gave instructions to Schelhammer & Schattera, his bankers in Vienna, to begin transferring certain funds to an account held by him in Wegelin's bank in St. Gallen in the canton of the same name in Switzerland. Caution was the name of the game, for nothing must be done which would alert the authorities in Vienna as to what was afoot. Thereafter, and just as discretely, various items of movable property, furnishings and so forth, presently at Rosenberg, were packed, crated, and sent by railway, either to Switzerland, or else to France, to La Rosière, the château belonging to the Schönborns which stood on the north bank of the Loire, some distance east of Nantes.
After the departure of Danny and Rob, Max was uncharacteristically quiet and moped visibly. Nothing seemed the same and he wondered if it ever would be. He put his thoughts into words when, having wandered into Rosenberg's chapel where his mother, who, while she had no time for organised religion, had a faith of sorts, was seated at the organ. Seeing Max, she stopped playing and smiled. Enquired what he had been doing. Max shrugged disconsolately. Sat down heavily in the nearest pew. Looked at the stone flags beneath his feet.
For a moment or two, sensing his mood, Edith regarded her son thoughtfully. Unseen, mouthed a silent prayer.
"It will pass," she said softly.
"Will it, Mama? I miss them so much".
"I know you do".
"Well, then ..."
"Come," she said.
"What?"
"Listen ..."
Edith began to play, the Largo from Handel's Xerxes.
Max nodded.
Taking his cue from his mother, here in the splendour of Rosenberg's ornate chapel, he began to sing.
Ombra mai fu
di vegetabile,
cara ed amabile,
soave più.
Max's singing voice, that of a pure treble, soared effortlessly, high among the gilded putti and painted saints of Rosenberg's ornate Baroque chapel. But, whether what happened in the chapel had anything to do with it, just as Mama had said it would, although it took another week or so, Max's misery did pass, and he recovered his customary bonhomie.
Surrounded by love, and doted on by his parents, who took pains not to alarm him and to try and shield him from much of what was happening here in Austria, being a sensitive boy, and in many ways old for his years, with what he had seen unfold on the snowbound streets of Leopoldstadt, and more recently in the Marktplatz of St. Johann, Max was only too well aware that there was an unpleasant side to life. Not that he understood why it was the Jews were so hated; at least by some. Being also an observant boy, it was inevitable that he would wonder why it was that rooms long since closed were now being opened up and things from them carefully wrapped and packed away into crates and tea chests. Some weeks after his father had left for Palestine, when, one afternoon, Max and his mother were sitting together down in the rose garden, he asked Mama why this was happening. His mother was prompt with her answer.
"Darling, you know your father and I don't approve of much of what the government is doing here in Austria?"
"Yes, Mama". Max nodded his head.
"So, if we felt that we had no option ... but to leave here ... and go and live somewhere else, would you mind so very much?"
For a long while, Max said nothing. Instead, he sat in silence and looked about him.
Here at Rosenberg, autumn had come early. This afternoon, there was a distinct chill in the air from the north, where the snow crested Alps glistened fitfully in the weak September sunshine. To the south, save for swathes of dark green conifers, the leaves of the trees which made up most of the Wienerwald, whether beech, oak, or hornbeam, had already turned to brown, the woods themselves hidden beneath a thick blanket of mist. Closer at hand, the scents of damp earth, fallen apples, and leaf mould mingled with the smell of wood smoke from a nearby bonfire. Here in the rose garden, which was Max's mother's pride and joy, only a handful of blooms still remained and soon even these would be gone. Above the terrace, as if he was seeing them for the first time, Max saw the pepper pot chimneys, steep, red tiled mansard roofs, and ochre coloured walls of Rosenberg. It was all he had ever known, but, as he wondered what he should say to Mama by way of reply, it was now that he recalled snatches of something Aunt Eva - what had become of her and Uncle Manfred no-one seemed to know - had said to him over a year ago, in the ballroom.
Ballroom, Rosenberg, January 1931.
"Tell me something".
"What do you want to know?" Max asked.
"In this room, who matters most to you?"
"Why, Papa and Mama of course".
The Baroness nodded.
"You see, in life what matters most is that you have the love of those whom you love. Other people, places, they don't matter".
Rosenberg, early autumn 1933.
Now, with what he recalled firmly in his mind, Max had the answer to his mother's question.
"No, Mama. Just so long as we're all together".
As for Fritz, the irascible little dachshund found all the disruption attendant upon the packing up of furnishings and ornaments especially irksome. Over the past few years, with most of the principal rooms of Rosenberg closed and shuttered and their contents swathed in dust sheets, they had been off limits. Now, one after the other, as they were opened, this gave the ever inquisitive Fritz the chance to explore, to find somewhere which he hoped would be quiet and out of the way of Weismann's boots. However, no sooner had the little dachshund settled himself down and gone to sleep, than his slumbers were abruptly ended by doors and shutters being flung open and a succession of servants tramping in and out, making - as Fritz saw it - a very great deal of unnecessary noise. It was to avoid this that one morning, having trotted into the long disused Morning Room, finding no-one about and a packing chest stuffed with inviting straw, Fritz pottered inside, curled himself up, and promptly went to sleep.
It was only later, as the crate was about to be nailed shut that a suspicious movement in the straw, followed by a series of snuffles, alerted a servant to the fact that all was not as it should be. Otherwise, Fritz might well have found himself on his way to France in the company of the Schönborns' prized Meissen dinner service.
In recompense for what had been done for him by Goldstein and the others in Leopoldstadt, Friedrich made it his business to accompany the Herzogs and their newborn son on the train from St. Johann as far as Feldkirch where they were to be met by some of Friedrich's own people and taken onward to Zürich, there to begin a new life in Switzerland. When Friedrich told Herzog what he proposed doing, the young Jew had protested; said that he wouldn't hear of it, that it wasn't necessary, but Friedrich stood his ground. Said that he would never forgive himself if something happened to Herzog and his young family on their long journey across Austria to the Swiss border.
On his return to Rosenberg, before he left for Trieste to board the Lloyd Triestino steamer which would take him halfway across the Mediterranean to Haifa, Friedrich made Edith promise that if things became really difficult and the situation in Austria deteriorated to such an extent that staying on was no longer tenable, then she and the boys would leave the country without him. Between them, they agreed a discrete form of words, which Edith would send in a telegram to Friedrich out in Palestine, alerting him as to what had happened, upon receipt of which he would then find some way of rejoining them in Switzerland.
Max had been right about his Uncle Manfred and Aunt Eva. Enquiries put in hand by Friedrich to find out what had become of them proved abortive. It seemed that the telegram purportedly dispatched from Oradea across the border in Roumania had been a ruse, possibly sent with the intention of trying to ensnare Friedrich in the abortive coup. Since nothing further was ever heard of them again, that sadly they had indeed both perished in the destruction of Rózsafa seemed the only possible conclusion; needless casualties of an attempted coup which had never stood any chance of succeeding in its aim to place Crown Prince Otto on the vacant throne of Hungary. This notwithstanding, both Friedrich and Edith always had fond memories of both Manfred and Eva,; so too Max, to whom both of them, especially Eva, had been so very kind.
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, September 1933.
After the Bransons returned to Ireland, with Danny, Saiorse, and Bobby having gone back to school, and Sybil to her nursing, over at the offices of the Irish Independent on Talbot Street, matters local, national, and international, soon claimed Tom's attention. For, here in Ireland, back in January, several months before the Bransons had left to travel to Austria, a General Election had been held, which had been rather more democratic than the process which had seen Herr Hitler appointed as Chancellor of Germany that same month.
Here in the Free State, when the votes had been counted, Fianna Fáil, the party of Éamon de Valera, had retained power but one seat short of an overall majority. While Tom approved wholeheartedly of the vote subsequently passed in the Eighth Dáil Éireann to abolish the Oath of Allegiance to the British Crown, Matthew had been somewhat sniffy about it.
Tom had little time for de Valera, at whose door he laid the continuing economic stagnation of the country, the ongoing emigration by those who, had circumstances been more favourable, would have undoubtedly stayed in Ireland, the failure of the Irish language to flourish, and the continued partition of the country into the Free State and what was now called Northern Ireland, the latter comprising the greater part of what had been the former province of Ulster, excluding the counties of Cavan, Donegal, and Monaghan, and still firmly within the United Kingdom. In Tom's mind, all of these failings summed up the Ireland of de Valera. A man who had turned out to be very good on rhetoric but failed to deliver. Something which Tom put into words in a lengthy, pithy editorial he penned for the Indy.
And, there was something else, which Tom, well aware of the laws of libel, did not mention in his article.
All these years later, he could not rid himself of the gnawing suspicion, one held by many, that, back in August 1922 during the Irish Civil War, de Valera had been involved in the assassination of Tom's friend, Michael Collins, then Commander in Chief of the New Irish Army. Tom had always admired Collins and not just because of the part the Big Man, as he had been affectionately known, had played in obtaining Tom's release from Dartmoor Prison in December 1921.
Idrone Terrace, October 1933.
One wet morning, towards the end of the following month, young Bobby burst excitedly into the kitchen at the back of the house. At the time, Tom had just come in from the garden and Sybil was seeing that Danny and Saiorse had everything they needed for school.
"So, have you ..."
"Yes, Ma!" Danny sighed. At times, he thought Ma treated him as if he was still a little boy.
"Yesterday you forgot to take your protractor with you. And from what I recall, your Mathematics master was none too pleased. Remember the lines he gave you? All the fuss you made? So with that in mind ..."
"Da! Ma!"
Sybil spun about on her heel.
"Darling, what is it?"
"This!"
Bobby brandished aloft a letter.
"It's come all the way from Switzerland!"
"From Switzerland? Are you certain?"
Bobby nodded.
"Yes, Ma! For sure! Look!"
Bobby pointed excitedly to the colourful row of stamps affixed neatly to the envelope, each of which bore upon it, in capital letters, and in a series of different colours, the word HELVETIA, which meant nothing at all to Sybil.
"And just how do you know that?"
"When we were in Austria, Uncle Friedrich told me that's the name Switzerland has on their stamps".
Sybil could well believe it. Bobby's growing stamp collection was his pride and joy. While they were at Rosenberg, Bobby had been delighted to find that, as a boy, his Uncle Friedrich had a similar interest in philately, had shown his young Irish nephew some of his own stamp albums, a collection which had been begun years earlier by his own father. All the same, Sybil shook her head. There had to be some mistake. After all, they didn't know anyone in Switzerland. While Matthew went there from time to time, to Geneva, to the League of Nations, at the present moment he was at home in Downton. And although Friedrich had property in the country, he was in Palestine, from where he had written to them a week or so ago, enclosing a series of stamps for Bobby which Friedrich had bought from the stall of an old Turkish dealer in the Arab Souk in Jerusalem.
Tom held out his hand for the letter and Bobby gave his father the envelope. Tom studied the handwriting on it which was unfamiliar. However, the letter was, nevertheless, correctly addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Branson, Idrone Terrace ... but while the writer clearly knew where the Bransons lived, he, or she, was apparently unaware that Tom never used his full Christian name. Still mystified, and for Bobby's sake being careful not to damage the row of colourful stamps, Tom tore the envelope open. Within, was a neatly folded letter and inside that two black and white photographs. For a moment, while he scanned the closely written lines of the letter, Tom said nothing.
"Well I never!" He held up the photographs, the first of which showed a couple, a young man standing somewhat self-consciously beside his wife, his left hand resting rather proprietarily on her right shoulder, she sitting on a chair. In the second photograph the couple appeared again and in the same, obviously posed, setting of a photographer's studio, with the identical montage of a lake and mountains as the backdrop, but this time the woman held, seated in her lap, a bouncing baby boy.
"It's from the Herzogs. So, they made it safely over the border into Switzerland after all!"
Idrone Terrace a few days later.
Bobby had been delighted with his set of stamps from Palestine which, helped by Da, he stuck into his album. A day or so later, Ma suggested that instead of she or Da thanking Uncle Friedrich for the stamps in their next letter, why didn't Bobby do so himself? Uncle Friedrich would be delighted to hear from him. So, that same evening, after supper, Sybil had sat with Bobby in the kitchen and helped him pen his letter of thanks to his uncle in distant Palestine. Although short, it took a while as, at the first attempt Bobby made several spelling mistakes and, wanting it to be perfect, with the errors duly amended by his mother, carefully copied it all out again in his best handwriting. The final, polished version ran:-
Dear Uncle Friedrich,
Thank you for my stamps. I like them very much. I like the one of the castle best. And the funny writing. Da says it is Arabic. He helped me put them into my album. I hope you are well. Ma says it is very hot where you are. I hope Aunt Edith is well too. And Max and little Kurt.
With love from your nephew Bobby
"Is that all right Ma?" .
"Just perfect, darling. Uncle Friedrich will be very pleased you took the time to write it all yourself".
Unobserved, Tom had come quietly into the kitchen.
Looking over his young son's shoulder, he too pronounced himself well satisfied with the end result.
"It's good enough to publish in the paper, for sure," he said.
Bobby's head popped up in alarm.
"No, Da. It's private!"
"That it is, son. I was only joking".
Sybil looked from her husband to her son; then back again, and smiled. As everyone in the family said, in looks they were as alike as two peas in pod.
General Post Office, O'Connell Street, Dublin.
The following Saturday, Sybil took Bobby with her by train into Dublin, to the General Post Office, where she let him ask the clerk for the necessary stamp to put on his letter.
The young clerk behind the counter looked imperiously down his long nose at the little boy, before telling Bobby the cost of posting a letter out to Palestine, at which point, Bobby's eyes grew very wide. Reaching deep into the pocket of his shorts, he pulled out a small leather purse, and then emptied its entire contents onto the counter which in coinage amounted to the princely sum of 1d.; Bobby having spent the rest of his weekly 6d. pocket money on liquorice sticks from Mrs. Doyle's sweetshop in Blackrock. Along with the 1d. coin there came an assortment of odds and ends, including a rusty bent nail, a rubber band, and a piece of Wrigleys Spearmint chewing gum which he had bought off Jimmy O'Connor in the playground at school, who in turn had been given it by his older brother who worked as a stevedore down on the quays on the Liffey. Ma did not approve of chewing gum; she thought the habit of walking along chewing quite disgusting, which was why Bobby had hidden it in his purse. Fortunately, just at that very moment someone whom Ma knew came into the GPO, so Bobby was able to thrust the strip of chewing gum back into his pocket unseen.
"Is that enough?" he asked, looking hopefully up at the clerk.
It seemed it was not. 3d. was the price of the stamp for a letter to Palestine.
"Oh!" Bobby's bottom lip trembled. There was nothing else for it. "Ma, may I ... may I have my pocket money early, please?" he asked falteringly. It was normally given to the children each Sunday, after lunch.
"Of course you may". From out of her purse Ma now drew a bright, newly minted sixpence with the harp of Brian Boru on one side and an Irish wolfhound on the other. Bobby passed this to the clerk who then gave him the stamp for the letter and 3d. by way of change. Watched by Ma, Bobby first licked and then stuck the stamp on the envelope, which he handed up to the clerk, who deposited it in a large wicker basket.
A moment later and they were outside the GPO, standing beneath the huge portico of the imposing building, watching the Saturday crowds thronging along O'Connell Street. Just before they set off for Clerys, which lay on the other side of the street, where his mother had some purchases of her own to make, Ma turned to Bobby.
"Now, mind you don't go spending the rest of your pocket money on liquorice ... or chewing gum". Bobby squirmed. It was just as Danny had said. Ma had eyes in the back of her head.
Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, October 1933.
Over here in England, at Downton, from time to time, indeed more often than she would admit, even to herself, Mary found herself thinking back to what had happened in Hungary, wondering what had become of Tibor. However, only once did the recent past intrude into the present, and that quite unexpectedly, one bright morning, early in October, when Barrow appeared in the Dining Room during breakfast with the day's early post. Usually this comprised a predictable mixture of both personal letters and correspondence appertaining to the running of the estate. The latter, Mary thought, should by rights be dealt with down in the Estate Office. However, despite her having said so several times, such correspondence continued to be delivered up to the house, probably because, ever since Matthew had invested the considerable amount of money he had inherited from dear, dead Lavinia's late father in the estate, had made it his business to adopt a hands-on approach to the running of Downton. Even more so, following Robert's death in 1931, to the extent that poor old Wainwright, the Estate Manager, had grumbled to Mary on more than one occasion that, with His Lordship doing so much of the work himself, at times Wainwright felt quite redundant.
"Hello, what's this? Well I'll be damned!"
Mary's heart skipped a beat. Hoped fervently that whatever it was in the post that had piqued Matthew's interest, it was not another bill from her dress maker up in town which, more often than not, led to an argument between husband and wife. As far as Mary was concerned, she was the countess of Grantham and had to look the part, equating her, as she saw it, infrequent, purchases of new dresses to Matthew buying stock, machinery, and seed for the estate. Of course, Matthew refused to see the analogy. Mary sighed. At times, she thought him to be quite parsimonious in his constant striving to make Downton pay its way.
Having asked Barrow for some fresh coffee - quite why Mary didn't know - the pot had only been replenished but a short while ago and, apart from Matthew, no -one in the family drank coffee at least not at breakfast. Waiting until he was quite certain the butler had left the room, heard his footsteps echoing across the stone flags of the hall – although he had never been caught doing so, Barrow was said to listen in at keyholes – Matthew now handed Mary a postcard.
"Tell me, darling, what do you make of that?"
Continuing to sip her tea, Mary glanced cursorily at the black and white image. At the moment, her mind was on this morning's meet of the York and Ainsty Hunt in which she was to ride. Not that in her present condition she should have been riding at all, but she had promised Matthewy that she would amble along at a gentle pace behind the rest of the field. While Mary enjoyed riding for its own sake, more than anything she loved the thrill of the chase involved in riding to hounds. Considered that it was part of the duties of the earl and countless of Grantham to host meets here, as had been the case in her father's day. Matthew, who detested blood sports, saw no such need. That being so, while as earl of Grantham and master of Downton, he would, perforce, play the part of the genial host to perfection, welcoming here to the great house those who arrived for this morning's meet, share with them the stirrup cup, that would be the sum total of his involvement in the affair.
Mary assumed the postcard must be from Sybil who, if she remembered rightly, had, in her last letter, said the Bransons were going out to the farm on the Clontarf Castle Estate which lay north of Dublin and was where some of Tom's adoptive family lived, whom Mary had met at Tom and Sybil's wedding back in the long gone summer of 1919. A moment later, Mary set down her teacup with a start, so much so that it rattled noisily in the saucer.
The view on the postcard was not of Dublin, nor indeed of anywhere in Ireland that she recognised which, was hardly surprising given that the picture showed an impressive, large, domed building, surrounded by several minarets, beyond which could be seen what appeared to be a broad river, spanned by a low, many arched bridge.
Matthew quirked a brow.
"St. Sophia. From the Asiatic shore". He paused. "In what is now called Istanbul. Although I prefer to use its old name. Constantinople. In Turkey".
Mary's brow furrowed.
"Darling, while geography may not be my strong point, it may surprise you to learn that I do know where Constantinople is. And, for that matter, Bremgarten too!"
"Touche!" Matthew laughed. Mary turned the postcard over. The writing was unfamiliar; far neater than Sybil's erratic hand. And then she saw the signature.
A single word.
Mary's heart skipped a beat as she heard again the syncopated rhythm of Puttin' on The Ritz., saw the milieu of swirling dancers in what had been Rózsafa's beautiful ballroom which she supposed was now no more. Saw once again, too, the face of her youthful partner. Recalled what had been her very last sight of him from the aeroplane, standing beside Tibor, on the grass airstrip in the early morning light.
Micky.
Micky Waldstein. It had to be.
She glanced up; found Matthew's eyes were upon her.
"From darling Micky? Micky Waldstein?"
Matthew nodded.
"Indeed. The very same".
"Oh, thank God!" Mary's relief was genuine and heartfelt. In the short time she had known him, she had come to have a very soft spot for young Micky.
Now that she thought about it, Mary remembered he had said something to her about going to stay with relatives in Constantinople at the end of the summer. However it had been accomplished, it seemed that he had done just that. More importantly, it meant that he was safe and which therefore suggested that …
Mary turned back to the message, written in a firm, neat hand, and correctly addressed to The Earl of Grantham, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England.
Uncle Matthew, I trust this finds you well.
Devaj says woof!
Greenmantle.
Micky
Mary looked up.
"Well, this means, presumably, that Micky and his dog are both safe and well in Turkey?"
Matthew nodded.
"But he says nothing about …"
"Tibor? No. He doesn't. At least not directly".
"Not directly? He says nothing at all. And Greenmantle? What is that? A place?"
Matthew tapped the side of his nose.
"Wait and see".
"Matthew, darling, if you know anything … anything at all …"
"About Tibor, you mean?"
Mary nodded.
Matthew shook his head.
"No. Well, nothing that I would care to divulge ..."
At that precise moment, Barrow returned with the coffee, announcing, as he set down the silver pot on the table, that His Lordship was wanted urgently on the telephone, thus precluding any further conversation between husband and wife. A short while later with Matthew still not having returned, Mary left the Dining Room and went upstairs to change into her riding clothes. When she came downstairs again, it was to learn from Barrow that there had been an accident out at High Fell farm. A load of logs on a cart had shifted, trapping one of the labourers beneath the fallen load. The man was in a bad way and, with all thought of the hunt forgotten, Matthew had gone over to see what could be done. For Mary, this news, along with Matthew's earlier guarded comment regarding Tibor, quite took the edge off the morning's proceedings.
So, when the hunt convened on the gravel outside the front door of the abbey, Mary was in no mood to go. Not that she really had any choice in the matter, as to feign indisposition now would be taking the coward's way out, which was not for her. After all, she was a Crawley, twice over. So with the hunt foregathered outside the front of the great house, Mary was all smiles, welcoming one and all to Downton, before explaining what had happened out at High Fell, and apologising for His Lordship's unavoidable absence.
A short while later, with the signal to move off having been given by the huntsman, Tom Carter - a quick double note on the horn - with a great deal of noise and hullabaloo, preceded by a pack of crying hounds, gravel flying, the assembled throng clattered jauntily away from the abbey. The predetermined route took them down the length of the long drive and into the village, up High Street, past the Grantham Arms, where some of the locals paused in what they were doing to watch the colourful, noisy spectacle of the hunt go by, and so into Church Street. Thence by way of Priest Lane and along The Narrows where The Old House, one of Downton's few timber framed buildings, jutted right out into the road so justifying its name. It belonged to the estate and cost a fortune to maintain, so much so that, predictably enough, Matthew was thinking of selling it. Not that in these straightened times he thought anyone would be foolish enough to take it on. Besides which there were still a good few years left to run on the lease granted to Josiah Grindle back in 1918, which he was not willing to surrender. So, for the time being, and much to Matthew's frustration, the estate continued to be saddled with the upkeep of the building.
Thereafter, the hunt left the village behind it, came down Mill Lane, at the foot of which old Alf Cotterill, the miller, doffed his cap to the cavalcade as they swept past up New Bank and so out into the open countryside where, with the leaves fast turning, the trees were a blaze of amber, carnelian, gamboge, and russet, the hues of feuilles mortes, and in the bright morning autumn sunshine, everything took on a golden hue.
Some miles further on, below Whin Moor, close to Aldwark, with a quick series of double notes having been blown signifying that the fox had been sighted, with the hounds scenting their quarry, and about her the field now gathering pace, Mary, as she had promised Matthew, taking things rather more sedately, was not seeing the well-known the countryside of the West Riding.
Far from it.
Instead, in her mind's eye, she was miles away, in Budapest, seated in an open topped motor, the wind in her hair, sitting beside Tibor in the velvet darkness of a Hungarian summer's night, racing across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, beneath which the sluggish grey waters of the Danube murmured their way ever onward towards the distant sea.
Downton Abbey, December 1933.
For the rest of the year, life continued much as it always had, with autumn in turn giving way to winter.
Overlooking the wide sweep of Dublin Bay, the snug, flat fronted house on Idrone Terrace was often shrouded in mist, which Sybil, with a nod to her Yorkshire childhood, called a sea fret, or else betimes the façade drenched in spray as, whipped up by gale force winds, mountainous seas crashed repeatedly against the foreshore, breaking over the railway line and road beyond it. At Rosenberg, snow came early, the Alps and the Wienerwald were both lost to sight amid blizzards of whirling flakes which blanketed the house and grounds in a mantle of pure white, the double windows and wood burning stoves keeping the chill of winter at bay. But, in England, while it was was the coldest December since 1890, little snow had fallen.
Here at Downton Abbey, Mary vowed her advancing pregnancy would be her last. This time, she had not developed a craving for raw carrots as had been the case when she had been expecting both Robert and Rebecca, but that said, Mrs White's homemade chutney - Mrs. White being the successor to the redoubtable Mrs. Patmore - was absolutely delicious!
This year Mary found the run-up to Christmas more taxing than ever. There were luncheon and dinner menus to approve, deciding where house guests were to sleep, the daily problem of choosing what to wear, and now with the Winter Term at Ripon School over, Robert and Simon were home for the holidays, while Rebecca aged all of six years was proving something of a handful, even for Nanny Bridges. So, that was yet another call upon Mary's time. And, dealing with fractious children was definitely not her forte.
Then, to cap it all, this morning, after breakfast, Matthew had blithely announced there would be two more guests joining this week-end's shooting party; when Matthew himself didn't even shoot! A young couple, recently engaged, the woman, Harriet Astley, being a distant relative of Matthew's late father, a travel writer, although not under her own name, and considered by many to be a veritable latter day Gertrude Bell, constantly on the move from one far flung place to another. Not that, as far as Mary could recall, Matthew had ever made mention of her before, but Harriet was bringing her fiancé here, before they motored on up to Northumberland to stay with friends for Christmas. Mary raised her ever expressive eyebrows. Last minute additions to a house party always spelt trouble. For one thing, they messed up the agreed seating plan at dinner.
However, before she could say a word on the subject of the inconvenience of it all, with the enigmatic assertion that Mary would find Harriet's young man very rum, Matthew was away, motoring out to Wath Head to arbitrate a problem which had arisen concerning the ownership of fish weirs on the River Ure, and thereafter over to Ripon, to attend a meeting of the West Riding Landowners' Association of which he was Chairman. So, he would be gone for most of the day.
Entrance Hall, later that same day.
Given that it was December, by the time Matthew returned to Downton, it was already dark. Once back at the abbey, he came in through the offices and headed upstairs, there to bathe and change, Mary being informed discretely of His Lordship's return by the saturnine Barrow.
Save for the two additions to the company, who were delayed somewhere on the road by a problem with their motor, the other guests making up the shooting party had already arrived. From early afternoon had drifted in from all points of the compass, some from close at hand, while others had come from farther afield, but all of whom were now taking tea in the Entrance Hall where, on this chill December afternoon, crackling merrily in the enormous hearth, the blazing log fire, was much appreciated.
Having apologised several times for Matthew's absence, not that anyone seemed to mind in the slightest, Mary let it be known that he had returned to the abbey and would be down shortly. And, then, in no time at all, here he was; handsome, dapper and, even if Matthew did not shoot, the epitome of the perfect host.
Conversation quickly turned to other matters, the on going problems in both India and Palestine; the romance between the Prince of Wales and Thelma Furness which was said to have run its course on account of someone the Prince had been introduced to, by none other than Thelma herself, an American by the name of Wallis Simpson; the completion of the National Grid; the newly established Milk Marketing Board, as well as - something dear to Matthew's own heart - Captain Eyston, who had achieved a land speed record of nearly 102mph, at Brooklands, in a diesel powered motor car.
Unlike Mary, several of the women present had heard something of Evelyn Dormer, the nom de plume used by Harriet Astley, knew something of her travels in foreign parts, and Deborah - Debo - Vernon had even read her latest book: A Wanderer in the Levant. which, in some of its content, was said to be quite scandalous. This notwithstanding, all were agreed that while Harriet was pretty and vivacious, given her lifestyle, it was surprising that she had found the time to meet a man, still less to become engaged.
"So what's he like then, Harriet's fiancé?" asked Debo.
"Why, darling, he's absolutely, positively divine. We met him up in town, at the Balfours. Good looking, dark haired, and such a fine figure of ..."
Mary smiled. Astrid Manners could always be relied upon to over egg things.
"Yes, I think I understand you!" laughed Debo.
"It was ever so romantic".
"What was?"
"How they met?"
"And where was that?"
"In Istanbul".
"Really?"
"Yes, cross my heart and hope to die - not literally, you understand! But yes. It was in a bazaar or some such God awful place. She quite literally fell at his feet. Heat exhaustion, or was it a touch of the vapours?" Astrid giggled. "Well, something like that. No, I'm sure it was the heat. Or perhaps it was his smouldering good looks. Either way, he just appeared. As if from out of nowhere. On a horse. A veritable knight in shining armour. Not literally you understand".
"Well, no. Of course not, darling. It would have been frightfully hot".
"What would?"
"Being in a suit of armour. Out there".
"Where?"
"Where you said".
"Oh, in Istanbul. Yes, I suppose it would be".
"Would be what, darling?" asked Debo.
"Terribly hot ... in Istanbul".
"And what is he, darling?"
"What do you mean?" Astrid set down her teacup.
"What I mean, darling, is where is he from?"
"Oh, I see! I think someone said he was Roumanian. Or was it Greek? Not that it really matters. They're all one and the same out there".
"A bloody foreigner then".
Astrid nodded.
"Yes!"
"Darling, he's not ... He's not ..." Debo's voice sank almost to a whisper. "... an Israelite, is he?"
Astrid giggled again.
"Good Lord, no! At least, I don't think so. Then again he might be. And if he is, well you know what that means!" Astrid made a snipping motion with her fingers.
"Oh, darling, you really are too awful!"
Mary found herself thinking back to what she herself had said when she had first met Tibor in Budapest, when her opinion of foreigners had been much the same as was now being expressed, and which she knew to be far from the truth.
Mary looked up. Unobserved by her, having been chatting with Gilbert Thirle, Matthew had crossed the hall to stand beside her by the fireplace.
"What's his name?"
"Who?" Matthew asked, while continuing to survey the animated scene.
"Harriet's fiancé. You didn't say".
"Didn't I? I thought I had".
Mary shook her head.
"No, you didn't".
However, before Matthew could answer her, there came an insistent knocking at the front door, answered promptly by Barrow, letting in a blast of chill air in the process, heralding the arrival, at long last, of Miss Astley and her fiancé.
Mary sighed. Time once more to assume the role to which she had been born, that of châtelaine of Downton Abbey; to play the part of the ever attentive, thoughtful hostess. As the young couple moved forward into the hall, Mary stood up, glancing briefly at her reflection in the mirror. At least she didn't show too much. Another month or so, and it would be impossible to disguise her increasing size. At the same time, she saw, mirrored in the misted pier glass, the reflections of the young couple. Mary's heart skipped a beat and, for one brief moment, the familiar scene before her dissolved into a kaleidoscope of competing images. No, it couldn't possibly be ...
Mary turned.
"Tibor!"
"Didn't Matthew tell you?" Tibor grinned, his eyes were alive with mirth, just as they had been that very first time they had ever met, in far distant Budapest.
Momentarily, Mary was lost for words. All she could do was to slowly shake her head, while at the same time trying to recover her customary poise. Having done so, blinking back her tears, she now bestowed on Tibor a dazzling smile, and extended him her right hand.
"Welcome, to Downton Abbey!"
Author's Note:
Trains de luxe - the collective name given to the named trains formerly operated across Europe by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits of which the Orient Express was the most famous.
Schelhammer & Schattera - the oldest bank in Vienna, founded in 1832.
Wegelin & Co., a bank in St. Gallen in the canton of the same name in Switzerland, founded in 1741, and now defunct.
Max as a boy singing in the chapel at Rosenberg presages his later performance as a young man in the parish church at Downton - for which see my story The White Cliffs Of Dover. Ombra mai fu, known also "Largo from Xerxes", is the opening aria from the 1738 opera Serse by George Frideric Handel.
Founded in 1836, and based in Trieste, Lloyd Triestino, formerly Österreichischer Lloyd, was the shipping company responsible for most of the overseas trade and passenger travel of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. With the collapse of the empire in 1918, Trieste became part of the Kingdom of Italy and the company changed its name to Lloyd Triestino. It is still in business, but from 2006 it has operated under the name of Italia Marittima.
As to whether de Valera played any part in the assassination of Michael Collins remains unclear. Now nearly a century later, it seems unlikely that the truth of what led up to Collins' murder will ever been known.
For the relationship between Tom and Michael Collins, see my story Reunion.
hundred lines - an old school punishment of having to write out a certain sentence over and over again, the wording of which usually bore a direct relation to why the lines had been given.
In 1933, the cost of sending a letter to Palestine, then a British Mandated Territory, from anywhere within the British Empire (of which the Irish Free State was then still a part) was 3d. Irish coins of the period featured animals and birds on their reverse side.
Greenmantle is the second of the novels written by John Buchan concerning the exploits of the fictional British spy, Richard Hannay, who first appears in The Thirty Nine Steps.
Like it or loathe it, hunting with hounds was, at the time of the story, and indeed still is, very much a part of the English countryside.
Stirrup cup - the traditional drink (usually port or sherry) served prior to a foxhunt.
During a hunt, the huntsman is the only person permitted to sound the horn both to control the hounds and to let other members of the field (those following the hunt) know what is happening.
Crying as in the the sense of baying.
Gertrude Bell (1868-1926) administrator, and archaeologist, who played a major role in establishing the Hashemite kingdom of Iraq in 1921.
The Prince of Wales had been introduced to Wallis Simpson by Thelma, Viscountess Furness at her Leicestershire home, Burrough Court, in January 1931. Wallis Simpson supplanted Thelma Furness in the Prince's affections early in 1934.
National Grid - the name of Great Britain's high voltage electricity supply - it began operating in 1933.
Milk Marketing Board - established in 1933 to control the production and distribution of milk in Great Britain.
Not an Israelite ... In the 1930's many members of the English aristocracy were pro-Fascist and ant-Semitic, as is vividly portrayed in the novel and the film of the same name, The Remains of the Day.