The Women in His Life

Stepping away from the dressing table, Ursula gave herself a final cursory glance, smoothed one hand over her short, wavy blonde hair before turning, walking over to the wardrobe where her coats and capes were kept.

There was a knock on the door, and before she could respond it flew open and her personal maid Gisela hurried into the room. ‘You are ready to leave, Frau Westheim? Which fur will you wear?’

Ursula’s smile was as lovely as her face, and in her low, cultured voice she said, ‘I’m not taking a coat. The velvet wrap will do nicely, Gisela. If you would be good enough to get it out for me, please. Oh, and I will need a pair of white kid gloves. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.’

‘Yes, Frau Westheim.’

Ursula stepped out into the bedroom corridor, pushed open the door exactly opposite hers and went inside. A night light on the bedside table glowed faintly in the dim and shadowy room. She tiptoed over to the bed, looked down at the small boy sleeping there so peacefully with one of his small chubby hands resting under a pink cheek. Bending over him, she stroked his blond hair, gave him a light kiss.

The boy stirred. A pair of eyes opened and a sleep-filled voice murmured, ‘Mutti? I’ve been waiting for you, Mutti.’

Ursula filled with a rush of surging warmth, and she smiled inwardly. She experienced such infinite joy when she was with this child. There was a chair near the bed and she pulled it closer, sat down, took his other hand in hers. ‘I was dressing, Mein Schatzi. Papa and I have to go out this evening.’

‘Papa came to kiss me. He’s buying me a pony next summer,’ her small son confided, suddenly wide awake. His brown eyes gleamed brightly with excitement as they fastened so intently on hers.

Ursula leaned forward to kiss him again. He nuzzled his warm little face against her cheek and a pair of tender young arms went around her neck and he clung to her. She held him close, stroking his head with one hand. She loved this four-year-old boy so very much. Her only child. Her heart. She was so afraid for him. Nothing must happen to him. She must protect him with her life.

Pushing away the troubled thoughts with which she now lived on a daily basis, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Your pony will be waiting for you when we go to the villa in the Wannsee next summer. Papa will have it taken there for you.’

‘Mutti?’

‘Yes, Maxim?’

‘Will Papa show me how to ride it?’

‘Of course he will,’ she said, smiling.

‘What’s the pony’s name?’

‘I don’t know. We haven’t found the right one for you yet. But we will. Come now, it’s time to go to sleep.’

Still holding her child in her arms she leaned forward, laid him against the snowy linen pillows, but he did not want to let go of her, clung to her more tightly than ever, almost fiercely. Gently she unclasped his arms, straightened her back, and sat up. Touching his face lightly with her fingertips, she spoke to him with great tenderness. ‘You’re such a good little boy, Maxim, a sweet boy, and I love you very, very much.’

‘I love you, Mutti.’

‘Goodnight, Mäuschen, sweet dreams,’ she murmured against his cheek.

‘Night.’ He yawned and his eyelids began to droop, and Ursula knew he would be fast asleep before she even reached the door. She crept out on silent feet, returned to her bedroom where she collected her wrap, gloves and evening bag from her maid.

‘Goodnight, Gisela,’ she said, pausing in the doorway and turning around. ‘And please don’t wait up for me.’

‘But Frau Westheim, I always help you to –’

‘No, no, it’s not really necessary,’ Ursula interrupted softly. ‘I can manage by myself, but thank you anyway.’ With these words she walked along the corridor to the staircase.

This swept grandly down to the vast baronial entrance foyer of the Westheim house, a mansion on the Tiergartenstrasse, near the Tiergarten, in a charming residential area of Berlin.

Halfway down the stairs, Ursula stopped, stood stock still listening, her head on one side.

Sigmund was playing the piano in the music room, and the melodic strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata came wafting to her on the warm air. It was beautiful … delicate … but so ineffably sad. Her throat ached with unexpected emotion, and inexplicably tears sprang into her eyes. And she realised that tonight for some reason this particular piece of music seemed to move her especially, perhaps more than it ever had before.

She stood for a moment longer, composing herself and marvelling at Sigmund’s touch. It was magical. If he had not been an investment banker she believed he could easily have become a classical concert pianist, such was his talent. But banking was in his blood. Centuries of it. Passed down from father to son, ever since Jacob Westheim, the founding father of the dynasty, had opened the original merchant bank in Frankfurt in 1690. The entire family had moved to Berlin over a hundred years ago, and the Westheim private investment bank in the Gendarmenmarkt, Berlin’s financial district, dated back to 1820. Like his father and their illustrious forebears, Sigmund had a brilliant financial brain, and he loved the bank and his work, but had he been born into any family other than the Westheims he might easily have turned out to be a musician by profession.

The clock in the foyer began to chime and the pendulum struck six times, announcing the hour and cutting into her thoughts. She hurried down the stairs, deposited her things on an antique loveseat underneath a Gobelin tapestry, then crossed the black-and-white marble floor, heading in the direction of the music room. Here she paused in the doorway, stood regarding her husband, thinking how handsome he looked in his dinner jacket and black tie.

The moment he saw her, Sigmund stopped playing, sprang up, came swiftly to meet her. Brown-haired with bright blue eyes and a warm, sincere smile, he was about five foot eleven, slender, compact of build, a good-looking man with a strong, well-defined face. He was thirty-six years old, and he had been married to Ursula for fifteen years.

Ursula walked towards him.

They met in the middle of the room.

He took hold of her hands, pulled her to him, put his arm around her, brought his lips to her cheek. They had known each other all of their lives, and their parents had always hoped they would marry; when they had, two elite German families had been united. But it had not been an arranged union. Theirs was a true love story. They had fallen in love as children and they had never wanted anyone but each other. It was a perfect match.

Sigmund broke their embrace, held her away from him and looked down into her face. ‘You are very beautiful tonight, Ursula.’

A faint smile touched her lips and her eyes signalled her deep love for him, but she made no response, merely inclined her head graciously.

He put his arm around her, walked her back towards the foyer. ‘I was going to have a glass of champagne with you before we left, but I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. I think we must leave. I promised Irina we would meet her at the reception, and I don’t want to keep her waiting since she’s going there alone.’

Ursula nodded. ‘Of course, I understand.’

Her voice was so low it was barely audible and Sigmund came to a standstill, glanced at her swiftly, then tilted her face to his. He frowned when he saw the worry in her eyes and the gravity which had suddenly settled on her face. ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

‘I wish we didn’t have to go, Sigmund.’

‘But you were enthusiastic when the invitation came. Why this change of heart at the last minute?’ He sounded puzzled.

‘I was never that enthusiastic,’ she replied. ‘Not really.’

‘It’s important that we make an appearance, you know. The Ambassador is expecting us.’

For a moment she did not speak, and then she said slowly, ‘There will be Nazis there.’

‘That’s true, yes. But then there are Nazis everywhere these days. You mustn’t let it concern you.’

Again she was briefly silent before saying, more vehemently than was usual for her, ‘But it does concern me, Sigi. We’re Jews.’

‘And Germans, Ursula. Real Germans, just as our forefathers were for centuries before we were born. Remember, we are both from great and ancient families, and furthermore, as an investment banker, I am extremely important and useful to the Government and State, as I have so often pointed out to you. You know they need me to help them build the economy, and for my foreign connections, the bankers and industrialists I’m acquainted with, and also for the foreign currency and gold the bank deals in.’ He put his arm around her again, held her close to him, finished confidently, in a reassuring voice, ‘We are not at risk, Ursula, please believe that.’

She leaned away from him, looked up into his face, gave him a penetrating stare. ‘The Nazis fill me with dread. I detest being anywhere near them, or having to even breathe the same air.’

‘I know, I know. But, Ursula, many of our good friends will be present this evening, and you’ll be with them. Renata and Reinhard, Kurt and Arabella von Wittingen, and Irina …’ His voice trailed off. He was not sure how to make her feel better at this moment.

‘Yes, many of our friends will be there, Sigi,’ she concurred softly, ‘including those who are now members of the Nazi Party. I’m uncomfortable with them, too, these days.’

His swift nod indicated that he acknowledged the truth of her comments, and he grimaced, then cleared his throat. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t possibly cancel at this hour, and we really must leave. Now, darling. Quite aside from not wishing to keep Irina waiting, I don’t want to offend Sir Nevile Henderson by being late.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said at once, forcing a smile, putting on a bright face, instantly trying to change her demeanour. There was nothing to be gained by upsetting him further. ‘I’ll be fine, Sigi, please don’t worry about me.’

Looking relieved, he smiled into her eyes, took her arm, squeezed it, and together they hurried out of the music room into the foyer, where Sigmund picked up her wrap. He was placing it around her shoulders when Walter, the butler, came through from the servants’ quarters at the back of the house. When he saw his employers, to whom he was devoted, he inclined his head respectfully, went immediately to the clothes cupboard, took out Sigmund’s overcoat and brought it to him.

‘Thank you, Walter, but I think I’ll carry it,’ Sigmund said.

The butler nodded, carefully folded the coat, handed it to him, then ushered them out.

Chapter Seven

The car was waiting in front of the house.

Karl, the chauffeur, greeted them cordially, held the door open for them, and helped them inside. Sigmund told him they were going to the British Embassy, and a second later Karl pulled away from the kerb and headed along the Tiergartenstrasse in the direction of the Hofjägeralle.

Ursula glanced out of the window as the car sped past the Tiergarten, the lovely public park which had once been the private hunting forest of the Brandenburg princes several hundred years ago. How forbidding it looks tonight, she thought, bringing her face closer to the glass. The trees were stark, bereft of leaves, skeletal black images silhouetted against the cold and fading sky of early evening. She felt suddenly chilled and nestled deeper into her velvet wrap.

And then in her mind’s eye she pictured the park as it was in the summer months. At that time of year the Tiergarten was breathtaking in its beauty, the rolling expanses of grass, the abundant weeping willows, the limes and the horse chestnut trees lushly green, the planted beds bordering the paths bursting with flowers of every hue, the flowering bushes in full bloom. The lilacs were her favourites, dripping their plump May blossoms of pink and white and mauve, filling the air with a delicate, evocative fragrance.

Laid out in the manner of a natural English park, landscaped in parts, and scattered with artificial ponds and flowing streams, the Tiergarten had majesty and serenity; it was a place of happy memories for her. She had gone riding through it as a child and a young girl, still rode there when the weather was good, and she had always been partial to walking along its winding paths beneath the panoply of cool and shady trees. In the past it had been with Sigmund; now she went there with Maxim and his nurse; occasionally she would stroll through this gentle green enclave by herself, when she wanted to be alone or to think. It was, for her, still a place of peace and safety amidst the turbulence of life in Berlin today, always a refuge. And the beauty and simplicity of nature soothed her, were a balm to her troubled spirit.

Sigmund made a remark to her about his mother, and she turned to him at once, searched his face in the dimness of the car, put a hand on his arm lovingly, knowing how concerned he was about her. For a few seconds they discussed the senior Frau Westheim, who had been in precarious health since her husband’s death two years before. They went on to talk about his sisters Hedy and Sigrid and their relationship with their mother, and chatted briefly about the happenings of the day, before lapsing into silence again.

For a short while they were caught up in the intricate webs of their own private thoughts.

Ursula, who adored Sigmund, and respected him, wanted desperately to believe that he was correct in his assertions about their situation, as far as the Nazi regime was concerned. On the other hand, her intelligence and her woman’s intuition were at odds with his assurances. They were saying entirely different things to her, were alerting her to trouble. Her deepest instincts told her that something horrendous was coming, although what this was, what form it would take, she could not say. She sat up straighter in the corner of the car, stiffening slightly. Was it this awful foreboding that was at the root of her anxiety and apprehension? She was convinced it was. She felt an overwhelming sense of anticipatory despair and her blood ran cold. She sank down into herself and her gaze turned inward.

For his part, Sigmund’s thoughts were also somewhat troubled. It was perfectly true that he felt reasonably secure in Berlin, despite the climate of the times, for although measures had been taken against Jews, the entire Westheim family had been left alone. This was also the case with other prominent and wealthy Jewish families who were important, and useful to the State. Then again, not one piece of Westheim property had been touched and the bank had not been closed down. Nor had he been forced to take on Aryan partners, as some Jewish businessmen had. And yet, lately, he had been assailed by worry, had started to harbour a disturbing suspicion that the situation was going to change for every Jew living under the rule of the Third Reich.

Only a few minutes ago he had been reassuring his wife, speaking brave words to her, having no wish to underscore her smouldering anxiety. But he must confront the possibility that they might soon be in danger. Not to do so would be sheer folly. Perhaps it would be wise to leave Berlin, to leave Germany, as so many already had. He was a wealthy man. Conceivably he might be able to buy their way out, purchase exit visas and new passports. But he would need assistance to do that, the right introductions to those who could produce the necessary documents. He was fully aware that bribery, graft and corruption were commonplace in the Third Reich; it was only a question of knowing exactly who to go to in order to get what he needed. He had friends who could probably guide him in this, ease the way for him. But would they? And whom could he trust? He ran a few names through his head, pondered them carefully.

Karl swept off the Hofjägeralle, took the car around the circle that was the Grosser Stern, passed the Siegessäule, the winged victory column that dominated its centre, and headed down towards the Brandenburg Gate.

Ursula stared in front of her as they drove under the triumphal arch of the gate, focused her eyes on the Unter den Linden ahead. The Nazis had defaced this wide and stately avenue, the most glorious and beautiful of all the boulevards in Berlin, by erecting rows of soaring columns down its centre and along its sides. Each one of these columns was surmounted by a giant Nazi eagle, and because the columns were floodlit they were thrown into relief, stood out dramatically against the darkening night sky.

Typical Nazi theatrics, Ursula thought, loathing what she saw. To her the columns were towering reminders of the domination, tyranny and menace the Third Reich represented. She averted her eyes.

They were passing the Pariserplatz. Her parents had owned a house on that elegant square, and she had grown up there, had been married to Sigmund from that house, and it was there that her mother had died in 1935, and then her father, only last year. The square had played such an important part in her life: it evoked a time past, the Berlin she loved and which, tragically, was now gone forever.

She sighed under her breath and tried to shake off her despondency. Karl had turned right and was driving up the Wilhelmstrasse where the British Embassy was located at number seventy. They were about to arrive at their destination, and she adjusted her expression, fixed a smile on her face as she had learned to do.

There was a lineup of cars in front of theirs. Some were official and from various ministries, others were diplomatic and bore stiff little flags on their bonnets; she recognised the colours of Italy and America and Spain.

A moment later Ursula was alighting from the car, and in the split second she waited for Sigmund to come around from the other side, she glanced up the Wilhelmstrasse. Only a few doors away from her stood the Reich Chancellery where Hitler was ensconced around the clock with his sinister henchmen, and she could not help wondering what diabolical schemes they were hatching at this moment. Her insides shrivelled at the thought, and a shudder ran through her.

And then Sigmund was by her side, smiling down at her, and she tried to smile back, but it was rather faltering. If he noticed this he showed no sign of it, simply took hold of her elbow firmly and led her forward through the huge doors above which the Union Jack fluttered in the cold wind.

The sight of the red, white and blue flag lifted her spirits. It was not merely a banner of coloured cloth that was the national emblem of Great Britain, but a symbol of freedom, democracy and justice.

Sir Nevile Henderson, His Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador in Berlin, stood in the hall situated between the two reception rooms at the top of the broad staircase, greeting his guests as they arrived. He was his usual smiling self, debonair and full of charm.

Sigmund and Ursula edged along slowly behind the other guests, until at last Sir Nevile was shaking her hand and warmly welcoming her, before turning his attention to Sigmund. Ursula stood by, waiting. The two men exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, and then together she and Sigmund stepped away, and headed for one of the two rooms where drinks were being served before dinner.

The reception was already in full swing.

The room was thronged and there was a sense of glamour about the gathering, a feeling of tension and excitement in the air, as there generally was at such affairs in Berlin these days. This was especially so at the foreign embassy parties which tended to be international in scope and peopled with interesting characters.

Shimmering crystal chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, masses of flowers were banked around the room, adding to the festive mood, and a small string quartet played quietly in a corner. White-gloved waiters in tail coats were fleet of foot amongst the crowd, expertly balancing immense silver trays which held either glasses of champagne or assorted canapés. And gazing down on the scene was the life-size portrait in oils of King George VI, newly crowned last year, who had stepped into the breach after his weak and shallow brother, Edward, had abdicated and rushed off to marry Mrs Simpson, the American adventuress.

‘It’s quite a turnout this evening,’ Sigmund murmured in Ursula’s ear, escorting her into the room, glancing about as he did.

Instantly, a waiter came to a standstill in front of them, offered them champagne. Sigmund thanked him, took two flutes, handed one to Ursula and clinked his glass to hers. He looked about. ‘I don’t see Irina, do you?’

Ursula followed his gaze, swiftly surveyed the gathering. ‘No, I’m afraid not, Sigi. Perhaps she’s in the other reception room. And you’re correct, it is a crowd tonight.’

She saw that the diplomatic corps was present in full force, spotted several ambassadors she knew by sight, as well as the familiar faces of two British foreign correspondents who were talking to their American colleague, William Shirer. Mingled in amongst them were Government ministers, military officers, high ranking Nazis, members of the German aristocracy and prominent Berliners.

Some of the young internationals who lived in Berlin were also present. She knew from Irina that they were popular with the staffs of the British and French Embassies because they were charming, entertaining and good looking, and enlivened these formal diplomatic functions. The majority had titles and were Hungarians, Slavs, Lithuanians, Austrians, Poles, Rumanians, or White Russians like Irina. With their families, they had been displaced from their homelands by the erratic swings of political power in a shifting Europe inexorably changed some twenty years ago, first by the Russian Revolution and then the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

Ursula’s eyes roved the room and she noticed how well dressed everyone was. Elegance was the order of the evening, it seemed. The men wore dinner jackets or military uniforms; the women were decked out in their finery, and most of them boasted a certain chic, a stylishness that was eye-catching. A few women clinging to the arms of some of the Nazis looked out of place, flashy in their gaudy dresses splattered with sequins or diamanté, their hands, arms and throats plastered with vulgar jewellery.

In the crowd she saw a familiar burnished head, a piquant smiling face in which vivid blue eyes danced, a small hand waving in greeting to her.

Ursula’s face instantly lit up. ‘Sigi, Irina’s over there!’

‘Yes, I just saw her myself. Come on, darling.’

He took hold of Ursula’s arm and they hurried over to their friend. Irina came to meet them half way, her black lace dress of ballerina length swirling around her slim ankles, and a moment later they were hugging and kissing each other, and laughing.

Irina had a gay effervescent personality and was full of joie de vivre, and again it struck Ursula that her extraordinary life, marked by tragedy, upheaval and turbulence, had done little, perhaps nothing, to scar her. Princess Irina Troubetzkoy and her mother Princess Natalie had fled Russia after the Bolsheviks had murdered Prince Igor Troubetzkoy in 1917, when the Romanov autocracy fell. Irina had been six years old, her mother twenty-five, at the time. The Troubetzkoys had lived as refugees in Lithuania, Poland and Silesia before journeying to Berlin and settling in the city ten years ago, which was when Ursula and Sigmund had first met them. Recently Princess Natalie had married a widowed Prussian baron, and for the first time in their twenty-one years of exile from Russia the two women had a real home at last.

Irina, Sigmund and Ursula were talking about her mother and the change for the better in her fortunes when Irina began to chuckle.

Sigmund stared at her, raised a brow, asked in perplexity, ‘What is it? Have either of us said something which amuses you?’

Irina shook her head. ‘No. I was just thinking that my mother has now acquired a degree of respectability since her marriage to the Herr Baron.’ She looked around, then dropped her voice. ‘As far as the Nazis are concerned, that is. How ridiculous when one considers that she has always been a woman of rectitude and impeccable moral character, with a spotless reputation, quite aside from the fact that she’s of royal blood and is a cousin of the late Tsar.’ Irina leaned closer to them, confided softly, ‘Incidentally, Göbbels just attached a label to us foreign exiles. International garbage he calls us.’