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.’
‘Ah yes, Doctor Göbbels –’ Sigmund began, and bit off the rest of his sentence.
A pair of SS officers, very typical of their breed, cold-faced and blue-eyed with short-cropped blond hair and ramrod-straight postures, were drawing to a halt in front of them. They clicked their heels together, made elaborate bows and focused their penetrating eyes on Irina. Both flashed her smiles, and one of them said, ‘Guten Abend, Prinzessin.’
‘Good evening,’ Irina responded, repeating his greeting politely, even proffering a smile. But her eyes, which were the colour of violets, turned almost black and they were glacial.
The officers inclined their heads courteously, and moved on, perfectly in step like carefully programmed robots.
‘And that’s Nazi garbage,’ Irina whispered. ‘A couple of Heydrich’s hatchet men. I felt like spitting in their faces.’
Ursula put a gentle hand on her arm, murmured, sotto voce, ‘Please, do be careful what you say, Irina, you never know who’s listening.’
‘Yes, informers are all over the place,’ she muttered in agreement. ‘One doesn’t know who to trust these days.’ Irina now spoke in a voice so inaudible the Westheims had to draw closer to her in order to hear what she said as she added, ‘But a foul regime such as theirs needs informers in order to function, to flourish.’
Renata von Tiegal, who had been scanning the reception room from the entrance, saw them and hurried over. She was always dramatic looking, and tonight more than ever, gowned in scarlet silk, this vivid colour most effectively setting off her inky-black hair and ivory skin.
‘Hello!’ she cried. ‘I was looking for you. How is everyone?’ Her dark eyes and her wide smile radiated affection.
‘We’re all well,’ Sigmund said, answering for the three of them. ‘And you look superb this evening, my dear.’
‘Why thank you, Sigi,’ she said.
Ursula slipped her arm through Renata’s and asked, ‘And where’s Reinhard?’
‘In the other reception room.’ Renata glanced about her with quickness, brought her gaze back to her friends. ‘What a happy crowd it appears to be tonight.’
‘But everyone is happy
