We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [15]
The Peacemaker, leaning forward, broke the silence between them. “We have to affect the terms of the armistice now!” he said urgently. “Before Wilson can force a punitive settlement on Germany and start an economic ruin that will draw into it the whole of Europe. Germany is the key, Mason. Never forget that! They’ll rise again. Let it be as our friends—not as our enemies. Think of the future. Whatever you believe of the morality of any of it, the simple truth is that we cannot afford revenge. The ordinary German soldier is no different from the ordinary British soldier. How often have you told me that? The mothers and the widows in a German town are the same as those in London or Cambridge or anywhere. Think, Mason! Use your intelligence, not your sentimentality.”
Mason’s resolve had been firm, yet in one short speech the Peacemaker had moved the ground under it, and it wavered. Revenge was the last thing Mason wanted. There was nothing left to take, no one left to hurt any more terribly than they already had been. How could he have been so certain only a few moments ago?
“There is nothing I can do,” he said aloud. It was an evasion, an escape from responsibility, and he knew it before the words were finished.
“For God’s sake, man, you can try!” the Peacemaker snarled, fury suddenly twisting his features. Then with an effort so profound the strain of it was visible, he forced himself to lean back and lower his voice. “If we don’t make a just peace—one on which we can build a new and united Europe—then economic chaos will ruin every chance we have of building up what is left of our civilization. We must repair the spirit of our people so they have a will to work, and a faith that it is to some purpose. Can’t you see that?” His face was pale, his eyes glittering. “Do I have to explain to you what happens to a nation if we rob it of its identity, its means of regeneration, its faith in its own worth and destiny?” He flexed his long, thin hands. “If the Germans accept that the terms are just, we can be allies in the future. If they can’t, then they will hate us. Secretly, violently, they will plan revenge, and it won’t matter how long it takes—they will have it. Nothing good is built upon hatred.”
Mason knew this was true, but the use of the word allies shivered through him with all the warnings he had not seen or understood the first time, before John and Alys Reavley were murdered—or Sebastian Allard, or Owen Cullingford, Augustus Tempany, or Theo Blaine—and every village in Britain bereaved of its youth.
He rose to his feet, surprised at how stiff he was.
The Peacemaker stared up at him. “What?” he demanded.
“I’ll consider what there is to say that will cut across emotion and make them look at reason and reality in the future,” Mason answered.
The Peacemaker stood also, an inch or two taller than Mason. “There’s no time to weigh and measure,” he said grimly. “It sounds like the evasion of a moral coward who won’t say no to a man’s face.”
At another time, even months ago, Mason’s temper would have risen to such a charge. Now he was too weary, too clenched inside in his gut with the reality of death, to be stung by the wound of words. He smiled. “And that sounds like the attempt at manipulation of an armchair warrior who is used to shedding other people’s blood,” he answered. “I told you, I would consider what I think, and then act accordingly. I am just as aware as you of how little time there is.” And without looking back to see if the Peacemaker’s face was twisted with rage or pain, or simply blank with surprise, he walked to the door, down the steps, and finally into the dark, windy street.
By early afternoon the following day, Mason was back in Yorkshire, in the land he loved. He had booked a room at the village pub and, after a late lunch of homemade sausages—he did not ask what went into them in these times of hardship—he put on good walking shoes and set out in the evening light. He was high