Tonight she had wanted to wear a simple dress, which was why she had chosen this particular one, a floor-length column that fell in fluid lines from shoulder to hem. The sleeves were long, the bodice plain, the neckline high, skimming across the throat, while the back was worked into a draped-cowl effect. Made of matte crepe and cut with superb skill, it was the colour, nevertheless, that caught the eye. Called Patou Blue, it was almost, but not quite, violet.
This vibrant shade was the ideal foil for the woman’s Nordic colouring. Her hair was a shining silver gilt, her skin creamy, her eyes a misty grey-blue, luminous, fringed with thick blonde lashes. She was of medium height, but her slender figure and long coltish legs made her look taller. Her feet and ankles were delicate, well shaped, and she had aristocratic hands, slim, with tapering fingers. It was the combination of her physical attributes, her ability to wear clothes well and her inherent good taste that gave her an elegance of appearance that was quite singular. Gentle of manner, the overall impression she projected was a mixture of femininity, great breeding, and intelligence. Her name was Ursula Westheim. She was thirty-four years old.
Satisfied that the gown was appropriate not only for the reception and dinner at the British Embassy, which she was to attend that evening, but that it also suited her mood of reserve, her sense of restraint, she slowly walked across the floor in the direction of the dressing table. But when she came to the white marble fireplace she paused, stood warming her hands at the huge log fire that blazed up the chimney and took the chill out of the air on this cold winter night.
After a moment she found herself turning inward, sinking down into her myriad thoughts, as she was wont to do of late. Introspective of nature though she was, this characteristic had grown and magnified, become more pronounced in the past year. She had to watch herself rigidly, particularly at social functions, since she had developed a habit of drifting off, carried along by her thoughts into a place known only to her, and where no one else could follow. Her husband Sigmund endeavoured to understand; he was infinitely patient with her and gentle, but she was conscious that his family, most especially his mother and his sister Hedy, found her remote, impenetrable. She could not help this. Her thoughts were like inchoate monsters in her mind, forever present yet not wholly formed and therefore all the more troubling.
She lived with a nagging anxiety that never seemed to leave her these days. Moreover, she no longer felt safe anywhere, except perhaps when she was in this house. It was her haven, her place of beauty, her bastion against the ugliness in the world outside its doors, her strong citadel. There were moments when she truly wished she did not have to leave it, and, in a certain sense, there was very little for her beyond these walls.
The Berlin she had been born in, and where she had grown up, no longer existed. Today it was a city of fear, of brutality and thuggery, of treachery and betrayal, of grimness and virulent rumour. It was teeming with the Gestapo, the Secret Police who stalked the streets, the beer halls and the cafes; frozen-faced SS men were everywhere one looked, as were Hitler’s unholy gang of thugs, posturing and ridiculous in their operetta uniforms, screaming shrilly and striking theatrical poses, for all the world like toy soldiers playing war games. Except that their games were deadly, dangerous, and of course they were not toy soldiers, not even soldiers, but murderers with evil intent in their hearts.
Last year she had been at a reception at the French Embassy on the Pariserplatz when Hitler had walked in suddenly, flanked by Gobbels and Goring and several of his other cronies. She had been startled to see how small they were, unimpressive rather ordinary little men who looked quite different in reality than they did in their photographs in newspapers, which made them seem invincible. She had thought they appeared a bit foolish in their fancy-dress uniforms, and it was, for a brief moment, difficult to take them seriously as they hurried past, strutting, arrogant, vulgar, and bloated with self-importance. But that moment had been fleeting, and indeed she took them seriously. Very seriously. The power they embodied was only too real. And it was a terrifying power.
She was forever asking herself how such a large number of people had allowed themselves to be led by the nose by a man like Hitler, a former vagabond and derelict who wasn’t even a German, but a jumped-up, uneducated Austrian corporal who could not speak the German language properly. Yet, amazingly, many believed he had only the welfare of the German nation at heart, had fallen under his spell, had been duped by him, considered him to have extraordinary brilliance and ability, not to mention great magnetism, and they were mesmerised by him and by his demagoguery. Weren’t they aware of the frighteningly ruthless aspects of his terrible creed? How could they possibly think he was their saviour? He was leading them down a road to hell.
She had voiced these thoughts to her dearest friend Renata von Tiegal recently, and Renata had said, ‘The Germans have a tendency to love false Gods, to worship false idols. And don’t let any of us forget that.’
And then Renata’s husband Reinhard had remarked in a regretful voice, ‘Hitler should have been stopped years ago. The Western Alliance could have done it. But they didn’t, and now I’m afraid it’s too late. For us. For them.’ Kurt von Wittingen, who was also present that evening, had finished softly, ‘The British, the French and the Americans failed to understand one basic fact. That the Nazis didn’t want power because of the economic situation. They wanted power.’
Well, they had power, didn’t they? Ultimate power. Ursula shivered involuntarily, gripped the mantelpiece, and rested her forehead on her hands. She closed her eyes. What to do? What to do? This question was her constant companion, endlessly reverberating in her head. Panic flooded through her, but after only a moment she got a grip on herself. What she would do, what they would all do, was simply keep going. That was the only answer. There was no alternative. One day at a time, she told herself, I’ll get through one day at a time.
After a short while she lifted her face, and her eyes swept the room. How normal it looked and therefore so reassuring. Her bedroom was truly beautiful, such a tranquil setting with its mixtures of pale greens in the watered silks that splashed over the walls, hung at the windows, covered chairs and a chaise longue. The furniture was French, finely-scaled antiques from her favourite Louis XVI period, and here and there were scattered elegant and exquisite trinkets and small objects which she had collected over the years or had inherited from her family. Rose-quartz boxes, miniature watercolours, antique porcelain snuff boxes and vinaigrettes, Meissen figurines, and silver-framed photographs of family and friends, those dearest to her and whom she loved the most.
And everywhere there were bowls of fresh, hot-house flowers spilling their bright colours and fragrant scents into the room, which glowed at this hour with the muted light from crystal lamps shaded in pink silk.
The superb bedroom was made all the more superb by the art. Her eyes came finally to rest on the paintings by Auguste Renoir, and she admired them yet again, and as usual she was awed. How magnificent they looked against the pale green walls. Two were paintings of nudes, another was a portrait of a mother with her two daughters, and the fourth depicted a garden in summer. To Ursula their tints were breathtaking: shell-pink and pearl, deep rose and lustrous gold, soft pastel blues and greens and the most glorious of yellows. All were light-filled, warm and sensuous, quite wondrous to behold. They were part of the Westheim Collection which had been started by Sigmund’s grandfather Friedrich in the late nineteenth century, immediately following the historic first Impressionist showing in Paris in 1874, and she considered it a privilege to have them hanging here in her home.
Sighing under her breath, Ursula roused herself, aware that Sigmund had returned from the bank some time ago, and that he was already dressed in his evening clothes and waiting for her downstairs. Now she must hurry. Punctual himself, he disliked tardiness in others. She went to the Venetian mirrored dressing table positioned between two soaring windows that floated up to the high ceiling, opened the bla
ck leather case resting on top of it, glanced at some of the magnificent jewels which lay glittering on the black velvet.
Automatically, almost without interest, she put on a pair of simple, diamond earrings, slipped on her diamond engagement ring next to her gold wedding band, and closed and locked the case. She would wear nothing else, none of her important pieces. She loathed ostentation at the best of times and these were the worst. And why encourage the envy of others, she added under her breath.
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, Mauschen, 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.’
The Women in His Life Page 7