the dinner party?’
‘Sure did.’ He settled back, feeling relaxed and contented and comfortable with her. His eyes roved around the room, and fell on the photographs arranged on the library table behind the sofa facing them. He allowed his gaze to linger, and after a short while, he said, ‘I haven’t wanted to pry, but I gotta admit I’m riddled with curiosity. Ever since I arrived here, I’ve sensed a sort of, well, a kind of mystery, I guess. About your aunt and uncle. Where are they?’
He got no further. Francesca had stiffened and he felt her sudden tenseness. He saw that the laughter had fled out of her, and seriousness mingled with sadness had crept onto her face. He waited, uncertain whether he ought to continue.
At last Francesca said, ‘My Aunt Arabella lives in West Berlin.’
‘And your uncle? Where is he?’
She returned his concentrated look, bit her lip and glanced down at her hands. ‘I’d rather not … not talk about it, Vic,’ she said softly.
‘We’re not sure where my father is, if indeed he’s alive.’ Christian’s voice rang out clearly as he propelled himself to the fireplace.
Victor went cold and he held himself very still. He shook his head slowly and lifted his hand, as if telling Christian to say no more. He was acutely embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he apologized, ‘I’m sorry. I’m blundering in again – into something that’s none of my business. Please, let’s forget I ever asked the question.’
‘No, no, Victor, that’s all right. And don’t be upset,’ Christian replied. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. And, as I said, Father’s whereabouts are unknown. We don’t talk about him very often, especially with friends, because – well, because Diana and I have come to realize it’s easier to ignore the situation whenever we can. Naturally, it’s always there, at the back of our minds, although we do try not to dwell on it, for our own sanity.’
‘He’s dead!’ Diana’s pronouncement startled them all, and three pairs of eyes followed her movements. She entered the room purposefully, her face uncommonly pale. She took up her position in her favourite spot on the hearth, and continued firmly, ‘At any rate, I believe he’s dead. Originally, when the rumours started about two years ago, I thought there was a possibility of his being alive. But now I can’t give credence to the stories …’ Her voice trailed off, and then she said, ‘Victor, would you mind getting me another drink, please? White mint over ice.’
‘Sure.’ He sprang up. ‘What about you, Christian?’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a cognac.’
There was a silence whilst Victor fixed the drinks. Francesca, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked apprehensively from Diana to Christian, and wished Victor had not opened this particular Pandora’s box. On the other hand, in all fairness to him, his inquisitiveness was only natural. Perhaps it would have been simpler if she had told a white lie a moment ago, and said her uncle also lived in West Berlin. Yet the family were so aware of Kurt von Wittingen’s uncertain fate, it was always there in the background, hanging over them like the sword of Damocles.
Victor passed the drinks around without a word, said finally, in a subdued tone, ‘Look, let’s forget I ever –’
‘Just a minute, Victor,’ Christian interrupted and turned his gaze on Diana. ‘I really think we owe Victor an explanation, darling, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. You’d better make yourself comfortable,’ Christian suggested, addressing Victor, all of his attention now focused on him. ‘The story I have to tell you is complex, one I have partially pieced together myself over the years, from bits of information from my mother, my grandmother and several of my father’s friends.’ He sighed faintly under his breath. ‘Can I presume you don’t know too much about German politics in the years before World War Two?’
‘You can,’ Victor said.
Christian nodded, took a deep breath. ‘I’m not going to bore you with a long dissertation about the rise of Adolf Hitler, but to understand my father’s story, you must also understand what was happening in Germany in those days. In the middle of the nineteen twenties the Weimar Republic, which had been created in 1919, was extremely shaky. By 1928 Hitler had re-established his leadership of the Nazi Party, membership in the Party had reached sixty thousand, and the Nazis got two point six per cent of the vote in the Reichstag elections that particular year. In 1933 Hitler was appointed Chancellor by President Hindenburg, and between the burning of the Reichstag a month later, in February, and the elections in March, Hitler had become virtual dictator of Germany. His rise to power had horrified and frightened liberals, my father amongst them. As I told you yesterday, Father was an anti-Fascist who had dedicated his fortune, his energy and his time to fighting Fascism – actively but secretly. There was no way he could come out into the open without exposing himself and the family to extreme danger and arrest. However, for years he had been a leading member of an underground movement in Germany, helping Jews, Catholics, Protestants and so-called “political offenders” of all types who sought to flee Germany.’ Christian took a swallow of his cognac, and asked, ‘Did you ever read a book by Baroness Orczy called The Scarlet Pimpernel, Victor?’
‘No. But I saw the movie starring Leslie Howard.’
‘Good. Then I know you’ll understand what I mean when I say my father was, in many ways, a modern-day Scarlet Pimpernel. Oddly enough, his code name was Blue Gentian, after the alpine flower. You see it was absolutely necessary that my father’s identity be kept a secret from the Nazis, from everyone actually, and according to my mother it was Dieter Mueller, another leader in the underground, who invented the name. Dieter was a professor in literature, and I suppose he thought the name suited my father admirably. After all, Father was an aristocrat, a member of a socially prominent family, and seemingly beyond reproach, who had nothing but time and money on his hands to lead a life of leisure and gaiety in elegant circles. Yet at the same time he was actually a clandestine operator risking his life to save the lives of others.’
‘But wasn’t that kind of pointing a finger at your father?’ Victor asked swiftly.
‘You mean because of the parallels between the Scarlet Pimpernel and my father, the same use of flowers as code names, of course? But no, not at all. I doubt anyone would have thought of making the analogy, and besides Prince Kurt von Wittingen was above suspicion. Not only that, all the men in the underground movement were known by the names of flowers. Dieter’s idea again, who himself had the code name of Edelweiss. But to continue. In the middle of the nineteen twenties my father became a senior consultant to Krupp, the German armaments king. He was travelling all over Europe, handling top-level negotiations, entertaining foreign dignitaries, acting as a kind of roving ambassador, in fact. It was the perfect cover for him. It enabled him to come and go almost as he wished, gave him easy access to all manner of important people, and thus fantastic sources of privileged information. In the spring of 1939, fully aware that the situation in Germany was worsening, Father sent my mother, Diana and me to England, to stay with Uncle David at Langley Castle, ostensibly on a prolonged vacation but really for safety’s sake. By June of that year my mother, like most well-informed people, knew that war between England and Germany was inevitable, and, wanting to be with Father, she decided to return to Berlin. He would not hear of it, and rented a small house in Zurich for us, since it was relatively easy for him to visit Switzerland. He was with us from time to time, even after 1939, but generally he was either travelling or in Berlin.’
After another sip of his drink, Christian continued, ‘We didn’t see him much in 1941, not at all during
