Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, and the guilt of being safe.

As told by Lady Pamela

In 1940, I was only 11 years old when it was unexpectedly announced that my sister and I were being sent to America until the end of the war. We were going to stay in New York with someone called Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt. We were going, it was explained, because our maternal great-grandfather was Jewish and our paternal grandfather was German.

The facade of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s imposing New York residence was enormous and the inside was no less so. The hall was cavernous, all marble floors and surfaces, and featured a huge malachite vase that was even taller than either me or Patrica. (I encountered this vase once again, much, much later in life, in the entrance hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art).

Arriving at 640 Fifth Avenue, my sister and I were on best behaviour, almost curtseying to Mrs. Vanderbilt, who came sweeping into the vast marble hall and instructed us to call her Aunt Grace….