Ursula did not immediately respond, Renata said, ‘Look,’ and took hold of her arm, brought her face closer to her friend’s, ‘it could take Sigi several weeks to get the necessary documents together, to arrange everything to facilitate your departure.’
‘It might, that’s true. And thank you for inviting us to the Schloss. It’s so kind and thoughtful of you. But I can’t leave Sigi alone here in Berlin. You know how much he needs me. We’ve never really been apart since we were children, except when I was at school in England with you and Arabella.’
‘He can see you at weekends. He can drive down to the Mark with us every Friday afternoon. Please say yes.’
Ursula remained uncertain. ‘Let me think about it, and I’ll discuss it with Sigi.’
The telephone began to ring and Ursula rushed to answer it, wanting to pick up before the butler did.
‘Hello?’ she said, fully expecting to hear her husband’s voice, but it was Arabella von Wittingen at the other end. She listened for several moments, then murmured, ‘Thank you, Belle, and I’m all right, really.’ She listened again, then quickly explained, ‘Their phone is out of order. Ren is here. Do you wish to speak with her?’ Ursula stood with the receiver pressed to her ear, nodding her head several times before she said, ‘Yes, Arabella, that’s fine. Goodbye.’
‘She’s coming over here, isn’t she?’ Renata stated as Ursula put down the phone.
‘Of course. I suppose we both knew she would. And I’m sure you’ve gathered that she’s been trying to telephone you.’
Renata nodded.
‘Arabella is in her most Bolshy and defiant mood this morning,’ Ursula confided. ‘She insists that the three of us go out to lunch. To the Adlon Hotel.’
Straightening up on the sofa, Renata threw her a questioning look. ‘Are you up to it? And do you think we should?’
Ursula was thoughtful, wondering whether or not it would be a wise thing to do. And then she, who of late had sometimes been fearful about going out, suddenly had no qualms at all. Her own sense of defiance and her pride made her say, ‘Of course I’m up to it. And why shouldn’t we go to lunch at the Adlon? We’re as entitled as anyone else, aren’t we?’
‘Indeed we are!’ Renata agreed. ‘Let’s do it!’
Ursula walked back to the sofa, stood looking down at the silver tray, shaking her head. ‘We’ve been so busy talking we never drank the coffee, and now it’s probably quite cold. Shall I ask Walter to brew some more?’
‘Not right now, thanks. Let’s wait until Arabella gets here. You know what she’s like about her morning tea. She’s bound to ask you for a pot, so we might as well share it with her.’ Renata rose, strolled over to the window, glanced out into the Tiergartenstrasse, then swung to face Ursula. ‘I heard on the radio earlier that the Nazis have already given last night a name. They’re calling it Kristallnacht … crystal night. Because of all the broken glass, I suppose.’ Renata shuddered, and grimaced in utter disgust. ‘How despicable the Nazis are! Imagine using a pretty and poetic name like that to describe a night of such unspeakable savagery!’ She shuddered again. ‘It’s beyond comprehension.’
‘Everything that’s happening is beyond comprehension,’ Ursula said.
The Tiergarten was deserted.
As Sigmund walked down the path he realised it would not be anything but deserted in bitterly cold weather such as they were having in Berlin this December. And that was precisely the reason it had been chosen for the rendezvous. A park without people was a safe park.
He had no idea whom he was to meet.
Irina had slipped a note to him two nights ago, during drinks at the von Tiegals’ house, where he and Ursula were attending a small dinner party. Within seconds of pocketing it he had excused himself, hurried to the bathroom in order to read it, impatient to know what it said.
The note had been brief and to the point.
Tiergarten. Saturday. 11 a.m. Hofjägeralle side. For identification your contact will say: The blue gentians are not in bloom today. Destroy this note.
After reading the note a second time, he had set fire to the bit of paper with his cigarette lighter, held it until it was almost burnt through, then dropped it into the toilet bowl and flushed it away. Returning to the living room, he had found Irina in conversation with Reinhard, and he had simply touched her elbow, as if by accident, to let her know he had read the note and destroyed it. He knew better than to discuss anything in front of others, even their closest and most trustworthy friends. A slip of the tongue might put others in grave danger.
Sigmund had asked Princess Irina Troubetzkoy for help the evening he and Ursula had attended the reception and dinner at the British Embassy, which had been the ill-fated night of the Nazi riots – Kristallnacht – as it turned out.
Without ever having been told, he knew intuitively that Irina was closely tied to one of the secret movements which aided Jews, Catholics, Protestants, dissidents, and so-called ‘political offenders’ of all kinds, who sought to flee Germany and the persecution of the Third Reich. From a few things he had picked up, here and there and at different times, he was aware that there were several such movements operating in Berlin; all were run by German aristocrats, for the most part, although some of the young international émigrés were also apparently involved. All were opposed to Hitler and his regime, and violently anti-Nazi.
When he had approached Irina four weeks ago he had not made any reference to the various resistance movements, deeming it wiser not to do so, and had merely asked her if she could put him in touch with someone who might help him get exit visas. She had replied that she would see what she could do, and a week later she had invited them to dinner with her mother Natalie and the baron, at the baron’s house on the Lützowufer. She had found an opportunity to get him alone for a moment, had murmured that the matter was in hand, and that there was no need for him to approach anyone else. ‘Patience, Sigi. Trust me,’ she had said softly, before gliding away to speak to another guest. Three more weeks had gone by until she had finally passed the note to him on Thursday. He had been vastly relieved, and had hardly been able to contain himself until today.
As he continued along the same path that ran parallel with the Hofjägeralle, walking in the direction of the Siegessäule, Sigmund saw a man coming towards him. He was tall and thin, dressed in a dark-green loden coat and a Tyrolean hat, and he was striding out purposefully, swinging a walking stick. He seemed oddly familiar to Sigi, who within seconds was filled with dismay. He had recognised the man; it was Kurt von Wittingen. The last person he wanted to run into when he was on this kind of delicate mission was a friend who would engage him in conversation, and in the process most probably scare off his contact. But Sigmund knew there was nothing he could do. He was trapped. He could not turn around and walk in another direction because Kurt had already seen him, was raising his stick, waving it in greeting. There was nothing for it but to act in the most normal way, chat for a few minutes and then walk on. Fortunately the weather played in his favour. It was so icy he was sure Kurt would not wish to linger.
A moment later the two men were drawing to a standstill, greeting each other warmly, and shaking hands.
After
