American SectorGermany: Spring to Summer 1947
28 April 1947
It has been a very long time since I've kept a diary. I couldn't or didn't dare do so for so many years. Those same years I usually had had other roles to play, roles that kept me from recording things of importance to me. In a way, I've lost a lot of my life, that's unrecoverable now. Ah, well.
Robin went on TDY today; it's 3 months at the War Department. The longest separation of our marriage. A few days here or there never bothered me much. After all, a little separation is good to remind us how much we want to be together. And our reunions are certainly sweet. But 3 months! Sweet Dewi Sant! Not to talk to him, touch him, listen to his troubles, laugh with him, hear his gentle breathing at night, feel his arms around me! It'll be as desolate as Shropshire for me.
3 May 1947
Work is grueling right now. Ever since I got married, the service and I haven't quite got on. Being married is only part of the problem. I'm married to an American who is himself a serving intelligence officer at the strategic level. This has created all sorts of problems, and no doubt, my superiors are waiting for me to get with child and be out of their hair. While they're vainly hoping that, I've been trying to reconcile myself to the service. It's seemed alien for a while now. I've been shuffled through several different assignments, no doubt increasing my disaffection; now I've been assigned to the Allied denazification process. Anyway, I have been sequestered in the analysis of endless German records, mostly Gestapo.
I've run across names and incidents I never wanted to see again. I've even met my alter ego, Elena Schmidl, on occasion. Rereading those reports—many of which I read at first instance years ago—almost makes me physically ill. Particularly the ones written by Dietrich Feldcamp and Wolfgang Hochstetter. At least Dietrich had the good sense to resort to the whiskey and the revolver. Wolfgang has yet to be found. How odd I should still refer to them by their given names.
Looking back on my tenure in the Gestapo, I see it as a different age, a different me, even. I wonder how I did it. Everybody was spied on; everybody was set against each other. The only place to live in freedom was inside your own head. I had to be doubly careful because this was all undercover work for me. I did it for three years. Did I not realize or ignore the danger? Did I think I would come away unscathed? I don't honestly know. I've woken up screaming now 3 nights out of 4.
8 May 1947
Oh, hell! Now I can't drink my tea. It makes me sick. Just what I don't need—to be sick again. That will be more time off from work this year. I was so ill at the beginning of the year that I actually thought I might die. Pneumonia and pleurisy. I felt so bad, breathing was so painful, that I wanted to die. And from the way Robin treated me during my convalescence—as if I might break—I know he thought I was going to die. My sweet lamb! He's so transparent when it comes to me; wears his heart right on his sleeve.
I got the pneumonia during a quick trip to Berlin. Ugh. I hate that town, and if I never have to set foot there again, I'll be a happy woman. So where does this stomach upset come from? Reading the damned records?
From what I've been reading and from what certain colleagues have said, I think I've an idea what Wolfgang has been up to. Nothing good, I can assure you. Would that Robin were here, so I might talk about this with him. Ah, well, I should be getting a letter from him soon. And soon, also, I'll be in the garden all my spare time. My pride and joy!
12 May 1947
Robin has been gone fully two weeks now, and I've taken to sleeping in his pyjama jacket. I do hope a letter comes soon, for I miss his presence. He should be getting mine any day now, not that there was much to tell him, besides I've exhausted my capacity for Agatha Christie, that the flowers are coming up in the garden, that I'll press the first good rose of the year for him.
He'd have been on my case, as he would put it, for my brooding. The nightmares haven't gone away. Some of the things I did even in the name of defeating the Paperhanger seem so questionable now. I suppose that's just conscience and hindsight. After all, how many agents get to look back on their own work? Oh, and the mistakes I made! My God, I'm surprised I didn't end up dead, particularly back in mid '42. From some of the reports I've read, they had to have known. Why didn't I get caught?
17 May 1947
Mail call today! A heavy load. In addition to my own correspondence, I have also have to deal with Robin's while he's away. Fortunately, most of it can be handled with a quick note saying sorry, he's TDY. We did get an invitation to Sgt. Carter's wedding. Apparently, he's marrying some girl named Mady. Fortunately, it's Michaelmas. We should be able to make that. There were a couple of other things I will simply send along to Robin when I send my next letter. This includes a somewhat late arriving letter from his brother Ted. What a queer duck he is.
Angharad wrote, and not good news, either. Her husband, Rhys, is ill, again. He's not been in good health for several years now. The trouble this time seems to be his heart. Angharad will be devastated if he dies; theirs has been a truly companionate marriage. And Rhys, what a sweet man! He's borne all his ill-health with the patience of a saint and never turned into the crabby, whingeing invalid. I want him to get over this. Angharad didn't mention her sons. How are they?
I went out in the garden this evening to say my prayers. Among the plants, particularly my roses, I feel much calmer. The birds singing in the twilight add to the sense of peace. It makes it much easier to compose myself and to pray.
No letter from Robin. I'll really start to fret I don't see one next week. He doesn't wait to get mine before writing me, so our letters usually cross paths in the mail.
25 May 1947
Today's Whitsun. It's this holy day in particular that truly makes me miss Britain. We usually have Morris dancers, and I really like to watch the men in their kit, including the bells, dance on the green, knocking sticks and leaping to the music. Skipping and waving handkerchiefs. Ah, it's grand. Doesn't really feel like Whitsun without them.
Well, the good news for the week is that finally, I got a letter from my absent husband. Poor lamb! He sounds positively worn out already. And he's so cryptic about what he's doing that I know right off it's secret stuff. Probably has a lot to do with the worsening relations with the Soviet Union. What we don't need is another bloody war, but undoubtedly we'll get one. God Almighty! This one would be a lot worse than the one we just got out of, as if anybody is really ready or willing to fight another one. I suppose the ballyhoo will simply speed the partition of Germany; that's what it's coming to. That's certainly what Robin hints at. He also says straight up that he hates the Pentagon. He says it's impossible to find his way around in it because everything keeps bending back on itself. He ends up getting lost 3 days out of 5. There is also a rodent problem. Maybe he should get a cat? Rat terrier?
Unrelated to his work in Washington—well, it's not actually in the capital, but I've only been in the States once—is his family. His sister Maggie is getting married this summer, so he's going to take leave and go to the wedding. I adore Maggie and wish her all the best. I'll have to write and tell how much I'll miss not being there. She, of course, knows why. When Robin and I were there in the late summer of '46, I was not well received. Maggie thought her mother was being horrid to me and went out of her way to be nice. I've no problem calling her sister. I just hope her betrothed is worthy of her.
I will never set foot again in their mother's house. My mother-in-law and I cordially loathe one another. I realize that Robin is her oldest son and nobody, not even the Blessed Virgin Mary, would be good enough for him, but that's no excuse for the way she treated me when I went to meet the family. But my being Welsh, not American, and a widow—read used goods—did not sit well with Mrs. Hogan. I'll be damned before I call her Mum. Poor Robin! He was caught between us that summer. I've vowed never to do that again, and I try to contain my feelings about his mother.
And now, for the bad news. I'm with child. This will make the 7th time I've gone with child, and it will undoubtedly be the 7th time I'll lose a child. I should have realized it sooner. The inability to drink tea, the soreness of my bosom, some of the dreams I've had all go with this. But now the fatigue and the feeling of sitting in a dinghy in the middle of the Channel confirm it. By my reckoning, I'm about 1 ½ months gone, and if everything goes as it has in the past, I should suffer a miscarriage some time in the next month. I can conceive, but I can never deliver.
29 May 1947
I've sworn, to myself, that I am not going to get my hopes up about this baby. But I still think about what it would mean if I actually had a child. I've thought like this every time I've carried Robin's child. Would motherhood mean a loss of independent identity? Would I just then be an extension of Robin, and not a full person in my own right? I am Mrs. Robert Hogan, and that is certainly quite a lot, but I am also MSB Hogan, intelligence agent. If I actually got past 3 months, I'd have to tender my resignation. Realistically, there's no way I could continue, as even an analyst, and be a mum. The service wouldn't allow it, and certainly, Robin wouldn't stand for it. What about me, personally? Ah, well, this aspect is sort of irrelevant, isn't it?
What's not so irrelevant is Robin's career; if he goes any higher up the chain of command, I will undoubtedly have to quit. He's brigadier now, at age 39. The pressure is already on me and him. And if I'm honest with myself, I've rather lost my enthusiasm for my work; right now, it is more police work than not. I was always a field agent, but I've not had a field assignment since 1945. But to send me back into the field would separate me from Robin which I don't want. Also, from the perspective of the service, it would be damned stupid. I'd be a jolly good target, the chink in Robin's armor. The Opposition would use me to pressure Robin; no, in that sense, I'm a security risk. That's another big reason I've been booted to denazification. Now, the Americans don't tell the British everything, and pillow talk is something to be concerned about. This makes me a security risk from the American perspective. I usually don't want to admit this, but I know that when the war crimes commission comes to an end, so does my tenure in the service.
But what do I do then for an independent existence, my own identity? I love Robin dearly, but I will not be totally dependent upon him. That's one consequence of my marriage to Tom Broadbent that can never be erased. I probably should read Gaudy Night again. I very much appreciated Harriet Vane then. I am the most fortunate of women in that Robin appreciates independence, but there are times when I doubt he defines it quite the way I do.
4 June 1947
Friday is the 3rd anniversary of the Normandy Invasion. It was a remarkable feat, one of the most important battles of the war. It also cost me two dear cousins—Rhodri and Huw, both of whom died on Sword beach. I've taken to having Mass said for them on June 6. I also include Robin's brother Jim who died on the Yorktown at Midway in 1942.
I don't know whether Robin takes any comfort from this, but I certainly do. Robin, who was quite close to Jim, won't admit it, but he feels guilty for having survived the war. I know what that is. I survived the war, too, but Rhodri and Huw, with whom I grew up, didn't. Rhodri got shot before he even hit the beach, and Huw got killed by mortar fire. I should have been shot in September 1942. A Captain Gustav von Bock wrote a report detailing my activities and naming me a British spy. For whatever reason—Robin would probably call it dumb luck—the report was rejected at a higher level, and von Bock went to the Russian Front. I got lucky; they got killed. Is it ever fair?
6 June 1947
I went to Mass for Rhodri, Huw, and Jim today. A requiem is not a gay affair to begin with, but it's made worse by head-spinning nausea and general fatigue. I've started going to bed earlier, approximately 9pm, but I guess I'm going to have go earlier. Not that that's appealing, for there's no charm in a bed devoid of Robin.
I sent a packet of things to him today. Several letters and a couple of newspaper articles, plus the book he wanted. I put the pressed rose in the middle. It was a beauty—a heavy-scented, old-fashioned red rose, with a myriad of petals. It's an old Victorian variety that I've always loved.
Of course, I wrote him, telling him what I can about work, how it is upsetting me, how I miss him. But I did not and am not going to inform that I'm with child again. That would get his hopes up; this'll be the third time for him. And it's torn him up so the other two times I've missed. My darling wants children; he had no idea what he was giving up when he married me. I won't torture him, particularly now that he's in the States, with this news, which will only have to be followed up with the notice of loss. He'd be alone and grieving. Dammit! I do wish it could be different.
13 June 1947
Another heavy mail call, including one from Robin and one from Angharad. I always smile when I start reading a letter from Robin; he always opens with 'my darling girl'. My dear husband is completely fed up with his superiors. They won't listen to him, and so he's feeling very frustrated. I never enjoyed being patted on the head like a good little girl by the upper ranks. Robin has even less patience for that. Unfortunately, in his case, youth is not an advantage. To top it all off, he's got a summer cold. Probably due to climate change. Every time I go to Wales now, after being away so long, I get an instant head cold. So far, Robin's is only making him tetchy and uncomfortable. And he's not getting the rest he should! I'll make sure to send him some Swiss mint for a tisane; it always makes him feel better.
Well, there's nothing to make Angharad feel better. Rhys is very ill. In fact, if I read correctly between the lines, he's dying. When Angharad becomes afraid, she gets very stiff, very formal, even with me, her sister. It's such a shame, because Rhys deserved better out of this life. Of course, so did Rhodri, Huw, and Jim. But Rhys! The gentle schoolmaster! His family adores him, his students appreciate him, and this silly ailment is going to rob him of his life. To use Robin's phrase, Angharad is going to be a basket case. And she'll be of absolutely no use to the boys, Owain and Dai. I shouldn't think of them as boys. Owain carried the King's Commission in the war, and Dai is doing his national service now. I'll say a novena for them all.
And on a related note, I've hit the 2 month mark. The little bugger'll take French leave when I can least afford it. I wish to God Robin were here to hold me.
17 June 1947
The fatigue has become worse. As I was reading the endless Gestapo records—tracking down Nazis is so thrilling—I fell asleep at my desk. Falling asleep on duty is unacceptable. Fortunately, only my assistant caught me. I have to be in bed by 7pm now. It has never been this bad before. The first time I barely knew I was with child, and the miscarriage in June 1945 was just a disappointment. The second time around I was ill—nausea, soreness, fatigue—but nothing like this, nothing incapacitating. That loss in August 1946 hurt much more because I was in Connecticut at the time. I got to demonstrate my inadequacies in front of my mother-in-law. I didn't think she was terribly sympathetic, but I may be overly hostile because she's had 5 children, while I can't seem to have one! Maggie, God bless her, was very consoling, both to me and Robin. All the other factors vis-à-vis my mother-in-law came into play as well. It was an awful experience for Robin.
One of the major irritations I have right now is that my time in the garden is curtailed. I love being among the plants. There is something about it that is calming, soothing, even comforting. The roses are going to be spectacular, but if I don't get in there, the weeds are going to be riotous. With all the lovely rain we've had, they're running amok.
21 June 1947
I've written another letter to my husband. And no, I've not written about the baby. It does trouble me to keep it from him, but really, all he'd do is worry. Keeping secrets from him when I don't really have to irks me. I've got enough to hide without adding to it. Actually, I didn't have much to say except the work still bothers me and the garden is choked with weeds. I've not been to cinema, or a dance, in weeks—I don't go without him. In the case of cinema, there's been nothing of any real interest anyway. Naturally, I didn't tell him that being asleep by 7pm precludes going anywhere. I will have to summon up enough energy to be at Swanie's farewell bash next week. Oh, I did tell him that I've had to purchase a new radio. The Beeb just wasn't coming in, and I simply cannot miss my serials. Or the World Service. Or the classical music. Not to mention, cricket, football, and rugby. And I did remember to include the Swiss mint for a tisane. He'll probably be over his cold by the time it gets there, though.
Every time I write to Robin, or read his letters, I think about the crumbling relations with the Soviet Union. The only thing we had in common was a hatred of Hitler. Now, all our mutual suspicions are coming to the fore. I try to push this out of my mind because the consequences of this falling out could be quite disastrous. Please God, not again! I've lied, stolen, and killed quite enough for one lifetime. All I want is a little peace.
I also think about how much I want this baby—smile like Robin's, skin like mine, bubbly personality. OH STOP IT, MIRIAM!!! Fantasies will only make it harder to cope later on!
24 June 1947
Well, the comic relief came today. I got a letter from Signor Buonacelli, and the man is still madly in love with me. Donna Maria, mia cara, he calls me. There are two things the man just does not understand. One: I hate being called Mary or Maria. It may be what my name means in Hebrew, but I am Miriam, not Mary. Two: I am a very married woman, very much in love with my husband.
Beyond that, the rest is so very amusing. I met Signor Buonacelli when Robin and I went to Rome in February 1945 to relieve the British Ambassador of certain items and information, who in this case was acting as a conduit for American information. At the time, I found it very strange that the United States does not have diplomatic relations with the Vatican. According to Robin, the US has never recognized the Vatican. It's apparently predicated on anti-Catholic hostility and fear of ultramontanism. Very peculiar country my husband hails from. Anyway, we met Signor Buonacelli in Rome. He was delighted to see Robin, but then the poor man laid eyes on me, and he was gone. I found his fulsome flattery and exuberant courtship an absolute riot—sweet but meaningless. I certainly didn't take it seriously at the time or now: I have eyes only for Robin. However, Robin's tolerance quickly evaporated, and at one point, he threatened Buonacelli with a swim in the Tiber. At that point, getting out of Rome was the expedient thing to do.
It wasn't precisely jealousy. I think it was more anger at having his plans for a short honeymoon with his bride completely upset. We completed our mission, though not without danger, sooner than anticipated. We had 48 hours of essentially R & R, and Robin wanted to take advantage of that, but Signor Buonacelli was not to be shed. Looking back now on it, I understand Robin's anger.
All right, I've giggled through another overwrought Italian missive. Time to consign it to the flames—literally. I never reply. One would think that silence might make an impression.
27 June 1947
Everybody wants to talk to Robin! His correspondence has become rather overwhelming. Much more than I can handle right now with everything on my plate. I'm just going to have to sift through it all tomorrow.
One letter of note caught my eye. Sgt. Kinchloe wrote, saying he was going up to university to read electrical engineering. He wants to know if Robin could write a letter of recommendation for him. Time is of the essence here, since apparently this is all being done behind the scenes. I think it is a wonderful idea. I support the good sergeant to the fullest. He was the steadiest and most reliable of Robin's men. Also, he mentions Princess Yawanda. It failed to work out. I'm not surprised, given what Robin told me of the lady. Sgt. Kinchloe deserves far better. Anyway, I'll telegraph Robin the specific details and then send the letter with my next letter.
1 July 1947
Even as I write this, my pen shakes. I've started reading the reports I wrote as Elena Schmidl. My God!! what a good little Nazi Gestapo officer I appeared to be. The cold-blooded ruthlessness with which I carried out my duties as Schmidl must have been what kept me in place. Poor von Bock. I was a better actress than he was a true believer. I read these reports now and ask myself how did I do it? It was so long ago. I remember being both scared and exhilarated by infiltrating the Nazi war machine. It seemed, at the time, like Miri's own private war. Maybe I was still working off anger from my disastrous first marriage, redirecting it toward the war effort; maybe it was nationalist-born hatred for the enemy. Maybe it was some combination of the above, plus things I'm unaware of. But whatever it was, it's gone now. Something died the night Haggis did. Meeting Elena again makes realize I was righter than I knew when I said I couldn't do this anymore. I wonder if my superiors understood that better than I did—and that's why I've been reading records since war's end. It's not just a message to get out and take care of my husband like I ought to, though some of that's definitely there. It's a message that I've given all I can to the service.
But what do retired agents do? Write spy novels like Fleming? I giggle every time I think about Ian and his fantasies.
4 July 1947
American Independence Day. Not exactly a day of celebration for me. All my neighbors, however, are indulging themselves in picnics and fireworks. Just wait till I celebrate the King's birthday.
And speaking of the Empire, Robin got a letter from Peter Newkirk. Actually, it was addressed to both of us. London is still bleak, rationing is still in force, and nothing seems to be picking up. There are problems, particularly with the currency and the Government's admission of inability to keep up commitments abroad—this last is old news, for we knew that back in March. India will be partitioned next month. I'd like to know how Newkirk comes by this intelligence—he must know somebody in the India Office who can't keep quiet. Newkirk says he's trying to open a pub, but the going is rough because the banks are unwilling to assist him. I just imagine the impression he makes in Barclay's. He's looking for a partner right now. If all things go well, we'll have to have a pint on the house to celebrate. I'm delighted that Newkirk's going to give it a go, but he'll need a partner with real income.
Virginia Woolf thought it necessary for a woman to have £500 per annum and a room of her own. I dare say she'd have been shocked at £1500 per annum. I'll call my solicitors in London who'll contact Newkirk. This will be an anonymous, silent partner arrangement. Not only must Newkirk not know, but Robin must absolutely never know. I may have inherited the bulk of Tom's estate, and even after death duties, it was considerable, but I am Robin's wife. He supports me. I do not him on challenge this.
7 July, 1947
The solicitors assure me that Peter Newkirk is not a good investment. I sweetly informed them that they could either draw up the necessary papers or they could lose a client. Make your choice, gentlemen. I'm sure they'll grumble about an idiot female with too much money, but they'll do my bidding. I'm a good source of fat fees.
Robin's latest missive arrived today. He got the mint, but as I suspected, the cold had already passed by the time it got there. Apparently, though, the mint tisane is good cold, something very necessary now in Washington. Robin is complaining about the heat. I hate to tell him that the Foreign Office classifies duty in Washington in the summer as tropical service. But the heat is only one problem. The ideology of anti-communism and containment has taken hold in foreign policy and the War Department. I sense my husband shaking his head over it. Will the eastern European countries take part in the Marshall Plan? If not—I don't see it happening—then a divided Europe and a divided Germany seem likelier than ever. If it keeps the peace, I'll live with it, but God forbid it should start the next war.
12 July 1947
I got a telephone call at 4am from Wales. It was a distraught Angharad—Rhys died last night. Damn and blast! I am in shock right now. Drained, too. I promised Angharad I'd be in Caernarfon as soon as possible. I'm leaving tomorrow.
Today, I have to pack for a fortnight in Wales. Officially take leave from work and leave explicitly detailed instructions on Wolfgang Hochstetter, as if they can catch the blighter. Wolfgang is running an escape conduit for Nazis to Argentina. It's extensive, and part of me giggles because it rather resembles what Robin used to do. I doubt my husband would be so appreciative of the irony. And the whole problem will still be waiting for me when I get back from Wales. I have to telegraph Robin with the news and Angharad's address and exchange.
13 July, 1947
Got a cable late last night from Robin. He sends his condolences and all his love. Wishes he could be there with me in Wales. God how do I wish he were here now. I've been crying—for Rhys, Angharad, their sons, but also for myself. I will miss Rhys and his silly wordgames, his gentle smile, his sharp intelligence. Last night was so cold in grief, and Robin not here to comfort me.
I rang Angharad back yesterday and let her know I was leaving today for Wales. I should, with luck, make Caernarfon by Wednesday. That's good, she said, Requiem Mass is Thursday. I'm supposed to pick up Dai in London. Will I even recognize my nephew—19 and in the Royal Army. A trooper not an officer.
And even as I feel struck to the bone by Rhys' death—Bloody hell! He was only 51!—I am reminded that I am now three months gone with child. I've never carried a baby this long before. Do I have reason to hope? Even in the midst of death there is life?
15 July 1947
Met Dai in Waterloo Station. Ah, he's filled out some since joining the Army. It has to be from the exercise, not the food. I've never met an Army canteen that served anything but swill.
Dai almost didn't recognize me. I still keep my hair black. Only when I was Elena Schmidl did I let it run to my natural premature grey. I prefer to look 30, not 40. It's vanity, but it's also a way to tease Robin, who's begun to silver at the temples. Those'll be fine, distinguished silver wings soon enough, but I like to make it seem as if he robbed the cradle. He's rarely amused by this attitude.
And Dai says my accent in English has gone funny, more American. I suppose it has. My husband is an American. But my Welsh accent is still pure Caernarfon—as I proved when I blistered his ears in Welsh. I suppose teasing me is one way of dodging the sadness of his da's death. Dai did want to know where his uncle was and was displeased that he'd not come.
I found out my nephew Owain is marrying in January. It hardly seems possible, but it's true. Owain'll be 24 early next spring, so he's old enough. Is he wise enough? I've not seen Owain since early 1944. And let's face it, being in the service, being married to Robin means I've gone far further than most of my family, except for two uncles who went out to India. Time and distance separate me from my family.
Speaking of family, I'm not going to tell them I'm expecting. It's just not right, not right now. Also, I don't want to spoil it. It's still not real, though I've made an appointment to see Dick Reynolds Monday next. He's in practice in London. He'll tell me what to do next.
July 18, 1947
Rhys' Requiem was yesterday. I'm done in—emotionally, physically, spiritually. Angharad is inconsolate. Worse and more stunning, to me, is how old she looks! She looks well beyond her 44 years—more my mother than my sister! While suffering themselves, Dai and Owain have been very supportive of their mother. And the family have been very helpful and will continue to be.
I seem the odd woman out. There are family members I don't know—mostly new wives and small children. For them and for me, we are total strangers who greet each other with cordial politeness. But my other cousins seem a little perplexed by me, and I by them. I don't know if it is because of all my emotional turmoil in combination with excessive tiredness. I almost fainted Wednesday evening; fortunately, Dai was there to catch me. I am sure the family thinks I am ill and trying to keep it a secret from everybody, especially Angharad. So they're not quite sure how to behave. Oh, bother! I don't trust anything I feel right now. It's all such a bloody muddle.
This much is true: I have been gone a long time. And I have married out. Owain had best think about this. His fiancée Barbara, a very nice girl, is Canadian from Toronto. They are planning to live in Caernarfon. Will she be happy here? She doesn't even speak Welsh, and that's not going to go over well with the family. Robin can't wrap his tongue around it, much to everyone's general annoyance. Suppose they end up having to move to England? Or worse, Canada? Are they ready for any of this? Actually, I should ask myself the same question. Am I ready to move to the States when Robin gets posted back there? I'll go with him, but it will take me very far away from home.
My nephews are not pleased that Robin's not here. I, too, wish he were here. For entirely different reasons.
21 July 1947
I saw Dick Reynolds today. He's looking very well indeed, and is the same tetchy Scot he's always been. He has lost more hair, and he's less than enthusiastic about the National Health Service. Ah, the Tory emerges! I love arguing politics with him. I'm such the vociferous Labourite. It was such a pleasure to vote for Atlee. Churchill made a great war PM, but I wouldn't have trusted him to be mediocre domestic PM. Too much the Tory for that. Labour's committed to truly making this a land fit for heroes. And of course, the Home Secretary is Welsh, Aneurin Bevan.
Dick confirmed that I'm with child and scolded me severely for not seeing a doctor sooner. I told him there was no point. I knew almost as much as any doctor about miscarriage. Dick called me bloody daft and told me the chances were excellent that I'd have this baby. Didn't I think it would be a good idea to tell my husband? I find it uncanny the way Dick reads my mind; it unnerves me. Robin can't even do this. Dick also asked if I thought it would be a good idea to resign from the service. He's right about that, too, but I hesitate. What if I bet wrong?
I've been put on a strict regime of medical supervision, but I want British medical attention, not American. The Americans are so coldly scientific; they treat being with child the same as they do pneumonia. British midwives and doctors have always been much more sympathetic about it all, especially loss of a child. I didn't break my leg in August of 46. Dick agreed with me and promised to help me find someone I liked. But under no circumstances was I to travel every month from Germany to England to see him. That would be far too fatiguing, uncomfortable, and impractical.
The head-spinning nausea and fatigue are good signs, according to Dick, who assures me that they should—should mind you!—go away in the next month. They can't go away soon enough for me. I hate sitting in my chair, feeling as if I were in a boat in choppy water. And he tells me that I should feel the child's movements sometime between my fourth and fifth month. The quickening. This is all news to me since I've never got this far before. My waist has already started to thicken, and so wardrobe changes are in order. Great, shopping for ugly clothes to mask the results of the fact my husband and I enjoy each other.
26 July 1947
Well, I'm leaving for Germany this evening. I don't really want to leave Angharad who seems to move through her days as if in a trance. Dai is going to be here a fortnight yet, and I think Owain's permanently in Caernarfon now. My sister and I have not spoken much in this time, but what we have said shows a gulf of experience. She's a very unhappy widow. There's no way to heal her loss; Time will only numb. I, on the other hand, was a very happy widow. In fact, I kissed the messenger who told me Tom had been killed. I yelled "Hallelujah! The bastard's dead!" I'm sure that made a great impression. But it doesn't give much to go on with Angharad. I love my sister, and I feel guilty for leaving her in the lurch, but I doubt seriously I can do much for her.
I don't look forward to everything that's piled up since I've been gone. I still have to settle accounts with the service. I've thought about it over the last couple of days here in Caernarfon, and I realize that I am actually happy to leave the service. My heart wasn't in it anymore. Reading my alter ego made me realize what it cost to do what I did. I can't find it do it anymore.
I should ring or telegraph Robin in the States about the baby. But I can't. As irrational as it is, I don't want to jinx it. I'm going to wait to tell him. Also, I want to see his face when I tell him that this time it's for real. Though I'm not certain I believe that yet. That maybe what's holding me back. On the other hand, he's likely to be very upset with me for not telling him. Ah, well, I'll just have to cope, now won't I?
27 July 1947
I had an unexpected overnight delay in Paris. Mechanical failure. It gave me the opportunity to see if I could find Louis LeBeau's café. I can't believe he called it Chez Lui. Couldn't he have come up with something better? I did find it; it's in Montmartre. It seems a thriving establishment. He's catering, too, and making a real name for himself. He told me he's doing Carter's wedding in September—to make sure the guests don't starve or suffer food poisoning. Louis doesn't trust the happy couple to do it right.
Looking very pleased with himself—a French Cheshire cat—he asked about 'mon colonel', and I reminded him it was 'mon général' now. I filled him in what's been going on since war's end. He watched me very carefully through out our conversation, and then asked me quietly, if I were well. I didn't seem myself, rather deflated. I had to confess that I was coming back from my brother-in-law's funeral. Also, the travelling was taking its toll, too. Louis said he'd light a candle for my family. I was touched. And then God decided to make a liar out of me. I went to leave, thanking for him for his hospitality and promptly fainted. The world went black. I couldn't have been out for more than a couple of minutes—probably lack of food, since I stupidly forgot to eat, though with my head still spinning around, how could I? Louis' face was white. I'm sure he had nightmares in those couple of minutes of trying to explain to Robin how I dropped in his café. Fortunately, it didn't come to that, and I managed to restrain him from sending for a doctor. I had to tell him that I am enceinte. He was so pleased for Robin and me, said we'll make wonderful parents. A cold shiver went down my spine at that point. What kind of mum will I be? The enormity of it all is beginning to hit. I think I may be swamped. Louis then proceeded to be something of a nursemaid. God, how I dislike that! I can barely tolerate it from Robin. But I couldn't hurt Louis' feelings, and I know he was doing it as much for Robin as for me. Tolerance, old girl, that's the ticket.
30 July 1947
I just out from under all the correspondence that had accumulated over a fortnight's absence, and now, here comes yet another deluge. I can't wait for Robin to get back. I've got other things to do besides answer his mail.
The garden is on the verge of being a jungle. The weeds are taking over. They're choking out the smaller flowers, like the geraniums, periwinkles, and marigolds. The roses haven't been properly seen to, and they're now frowzy. The climbers need new lattices, and the rain has very nearly ruined the vegetables I had going. At least, the rosemary is thriving.
And I've resigned from the service, but it won't take effect until August 15. In the meantime, I have to wind up the Hochstetter affair—which took me the better part of 2 months to piece together. With all the pieces in the puzzle together and given my knowledge of Wolfgang, I should be able to trap him inside a week. However, somebody else can execute the plan. I just wish this were all behind me now; I'm impatient for my freedom. Robin would call it short-timer's fever.
And speaking of Robin, he sent me George Kennan's article on containment. Theoretical politics. As much as I wanted to throw it aside—I'm no ideologue—Robin's point that people at the strategic level are accepting this professor's argument made me read it. It strikes me as being very abstract. Do politicians ever think that way? I'm not sure. There are things they believe in—look at the Beveridge Report—but these tend to be concrete things, not abstract concepts. Anyway, Robin said he is leaving for Connecticut 1 August for Maggie's wedding which is on the 4th. That's Monday. Robin says he really likes her bridegroom; Harry's a good guy. Of course, my husband may be prejudiced since they are both pilots. Going to Connecticut means he won't be home until August 15. He'll get in late, too, meaning he'll be a perfect crab, and I'll probably be sound asleep. What a welcome home!
4 August 1947
Well, Maggie got married today. It was to be an afternoon wedding. I hope it was lovely. Maybe the crystal vase I sent from London will get there soon. It's from both me and Robin. My husband forgets things like this. Hell, he's forgotten my birthday, so I'd like to ensure a proper wedding gift from us both.
In a couple of senses, I'm glad I'm not there. I couldn't have faced a wedding so soon after Rhys' funeral. And I'd've been so tempted to let the entire Hogan clan know that at last I am with child. Such spite is totally out of place at a wedding. It's Maggie's day in whole.
8 August 1947
Wolfgang was captured today. I got the thrilling task of interrogating him, and in complete contrast to my expectations, he recognized me—as Elena Schmidl. He wasn't too sure which side I worked for, but I left him no doubts. I am the King's good servant. But I treated him to an Elena Schmidl interrogation which broke him in 3 hours.
Much more than that and I'd've broken. While I'd found my old anger, based as much on hatred of Nazism as on hatred of the enemy in general, I cannot sustain it. It's too corrosive, too destructive. But what I cannot fathom is how Wolfgang doesn't understand what he did was wrong. As I recorded all the information pouring out of him—it will all have to be corroborated, but that's not my problem—I found myself limp from the effort of listening. Forget the interrogation. How twisted Wolfgang must be NOT to recognize the evil of what he did. I sought to subvert it from within without believing anything except it needed to be defeated, and it nearly defeated me. I'm glad I never have to do this again. It's more than I can do.
But I leave the service in a blaze of glory. Wolfgang's capture and interrogation is quite the feather in my cap. Knowing that he'll stand in the dock for his crimes, with the probable outcome a substantial stretch in prison, or possibly even execution, personally reassures me. Evil will be called to account. Elena Schmidl can rest in peace, mission accomplished.
13 August 1947
I saw my doctor today. According to him, I'm doing fine, and everything is progressing normally. Dr. Brett is a bit of a scatterbrain, but at least he's English. He's not behaving as if I had a disease to be treated. I've got a regime to follow to ensure proper nutrition for me and the baby, but above all, I'm to relax and enjoy being with child.
I really am going to have to get maternity clothes. I've been putting it off; I've been letting things out over the past month, but I can't do that anymore. I can't button any of my skirts now, and only 2 dresses will accommodate my bosom and my tummy. They're all too tailored for that. I look pleasantly plump, but I find my tummy quite noticeable. I wonder what Robin will notice when he gets home? Maternity clothes are so awful! So ugly! Shapeless smocks, drab skirts, rotten colors, and miserable fabrics. Some of this is vanity, but what's wrong with a little fashion? I am not a cow. I may simply start with larger-waisted trousers and a couple of Robin's old shirts. That should work fine for awhile and certainly around the house. I suppose though I will simply become too big for anything but those hideous smocks. Whoever heard of Peter Pan collars on expectant mothers?
16 August 1947
Robin got home late last night. I'd tried to stay up but gave up around 9pm. I must have been deeply asleep because I didn't even feel him get in bed. I woke up in the night with him curled up against me, his arm across my tummy. I luxuriated in his embrace. I thought about kissing him awake, but he was so peaceful-looking, so angelic I couldn't bring myself to disturb him.
I have to say my husband doesn't miss a thing. At breakfast this morning, as I was about to drink my orange juice, he lit into me: "And just when do you plan on telling me about the baby?" It's nice to know that he notices, but I resented being called on the mat. I politely informed him that yes, I am with child, and I waited because I wanted to tell him to his face. After about 10 minutes of huffiness, he settled down. Once I told him how far along I was and what Dick and Dr. Brett had said—Robin was pleased I'd seen Dick—he got that funny look on his face that men apparently always get when confronted with the fact their wives are expecting. It seems as if they don't understand how it happened. But I can tell he's pleased to finally be Daddy.
Of course, now having told Robin of his impending fatherhood, I feel overwhelmed. There is so much to do! So much to think about! I almost want to go screaming into a closet, but I'll muddle through. After all, I've done harder, less rewarding things in my time. This'll be grand. And I'll have Robin through it all.
London, England: November 1956
Slamming the diary shut, Hogan looked up. Miri had been so pleased to be with child, and to him, she had never been more beautiful than when she had been carrying Patrick. In his wallet, he still had a photo of her 6 ½ months gone. She'd been blissfully unaware of him, and he'd been able to snap a picture of her sitting there in her garden, both holding and stroking her burgeoning belly
And the day Patrick was born! Even 18 hours of labor had not been able to diminish her enthusiasm and joy. Dr. Brett had let him in for a brief visit. Beaming brighter than a bomber's moon, she'd been so proud to present Patrick to him. It had taken him over an hour to coo, soothe, and caress the brand-new mum into the sleep she'd needed. It was the cruelest joke not to let her rear Patrick to adulthood.
He couldn't bring himself to read anymore. Her voice had rung in his ears as he'd read, and he couldn't bear it. His absence from her in the diary reflected in miniature her absence from him. He'd come back to her, and she never would to him. The permanence of the loss overwhelmed him. Bowing his head, he finally let go of his suppressed grief. The tears flowed.
Oblivious to the passage of time as he wept, Hogan returned to reality at the light pressure of two thin arms reaching partially around him. Patrick pressed his forehead against his father's temple and whispered simply, "You miss Mummy, don't you?"
Choking back fresh tears, he managed to respond, "Yes, Patrick, I do." He clasped his son's hand in his own. For a several minutes, father and son remained locked in their embrace. Hogan finally broke the spell. Wiping away his tears, he faced his son and kissed him on the forehead. "Thank you, Sport, but you need to be in bed." He guided the boy back to his room, tucking him up.
As Patrick snuggled under the duvet, he asked, "Daddy?" Lustrous, large, and nearly black eyes gazed upwards. His mother's eyes.
"Yes," responded Hogan, who hoped his son wasn't going to ask more questions about death and dying. He couldn't take it right now.
"Do you think Mummy's happy in Heaven?"
Hogan responded truthfully. "No, I don't. She'd much rather be here, with us, than there." He reached out and tousled his son's silky hair, so like Miri's. "Now, go back to sleep. You've got school tomorrow, and Sister Michael will not appreciate me for keeping you up." Patrick gave his father a quick smile before flinging himself on his stomach. Hogan turned out the light, and after a few minutes, left his sleeping son to his dreams.
Marching resolutely into his own bedroom, Hogan turned his side of the four-poster down then changed into his pyjamas. He walked over to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and stared out into the night. In the light from the street lamp, Hogan watched several of the last leaves of autumn drift to the ground. The trees were mostly bare, and it would only be a matter of time before they'd see icy rain and sleet. Hogan muttered as he let the drapes fall back, "I will always miss you, my darling girl."