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
