As he straightened he heard the rustle of silk and a small sigh, and he smiled inside, waiting. Then he heard it … the low whistle like a bird chirping in the Tiergarten. He pursed his lips and gave a little whistle himself, and waited again.
The trilling response came almost immediately, and he pushed open the big double doors with both hands and bounded into the room, laughing as he rushed to her, exclaiming, ‘I am here, Grandmama! I am here!’
She laughed, too, as he drew to a standstill in front of her and leaned forward, proffering her cheek to him.
He gave her a big kiss, then stood back regarding her, rocking on his heels. His grandmother was dressed in a black lace and silk dress, as she usually was, with the long string of shiny white pearls like fat peas hanging around her neck and the sparkly clips on her ears. She had lots of silky white hair piled on top of her head, with tortoiseshell combs pressed in at each side to hold it there. Her skin was funny, all wrinkly like scrunched-up paper, but she had smooth, pink apple cheeks and bright shining eyes that reminded him of round blue pebbles.
He loved her a lot.
‘Don’t do that, Maximilian. Don’t rock backwards and forwards in that fashion,’ his grandmother scolded, but her voice was gentle.
‘Sorry, Grandmama.’
She took the box which lay on her lap and handed it to him. ‘This is from Auntie Hedy. She wasn’t able to come tonight, but she sent this to you and many kisses as well.’
‘Oh thank you, Grandmama!’ he cried, taking the box from her. Excitedly he tore off the fancy coloured paper, lifted the lid and looked inside.
‘Oooh!’ he cried when he saw the six candy pigs lying side by side in the box. They were plump and rosy, with beady eyes and yellow bows, and they looked delicious. His mouth watered.
‘They’re made of your favourite marzipan,’ his grandmother said, smiling at him indulgently. ‘But you’re not to eat even one before dinner. Your mother will be cross with both of us, if you do.’
‘I won’t, I promise, Grandmama,’ he said, as always a polite and obedient boy. After putting the lid back on the box, he placed it on a nearby table, picked up the torn paper from the floor, crumpled it in a ball and threw it into the fire.
Then he stepped closer to his grandmother, put one of his small, chubby hands on top of hers and began to pat it. ‘Gangan,’ he said, reverting to his babyhood name for her. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Anything in the whole world, Maxim.’
He held his head on one side and wrinkled his nose. ‘How do you know when to whistle?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How do you know I’m there, outside the door?’
Her mouth twitched in amusement but she kept a serious face and said, ‘Well, I don’t really know that you’re there. I hope you are … I suppose I sort of feel that you are … because I love you.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘I like our game, Grandmama.’
‘So do I.’ Margarete Westheim leaned back in the chair and studied her only grandchild for a moment. She loved him so much she sometimes thought her heart would break from it. The knowledge that she would have to leave him was an agony. Her only regret about dying, and die she must one day in the not-too-distant future, was that she would miss all those years of his growing up, the wonderful years. He was such a beautiful boy, full of life and laughter and mischief, and so bright, and intelligent beyond his years. She prayed to God every night that Sigmund would succeed in getting the child out of Germany. Like her son and daughter-in-law she was terribly afraid for him. A pestilence stalked this land. A shiver ran through Margarete, and she wondered where God was in this Godless nation. But then what could He do? Evil was man’s invention, not God’s.
‘Is something hurting, Gangan?’
Startled out of her brief reverie by his piping child’s voice, Margarete looked at him quickly. ‘No. Why do you ask that, darling?’
‘You have a funny look on your face, a puckery look, like you’re going to cry.’
‘I’m fine,’ she reassured him with a swift smile, suddenly aware of the worry in his child’s eyes. She opened her black beaded evening bag, reached inside, took out a small item wrapped in silver paper and handed it to him. ‘Here you are, Maxim, here is your Friday pocket money.’
‘Oh, Grandmama, thank you, thank you.’
He unwrapped the silver paper, his eyes shining as he stared down at the coins in his hand. Four marks. His Gangan always gave him four now. Last year he had received three. Next year she would give him five. She had told him that. One mark for every year he had been born. He leaned closer to her, kissed her cheek, and beamed into her face as he slipped the coins in his pocket, playing with them for a moment, liking the way they jingled.
The door opened and Maxim turned his head. When he saw his father standing in the doorway he flew to him at once, crying, ‘Papa! Papa!’
His father caught him, swung him up and kissed him, and carried him in his arms as he strode across the floor.
‘Good evening, Mother,’ Sigmund said.
‘Good evening, Sigi,’ she responded, her clear blue eyes so like his lighting up at the sight of him. He was her youngest son, the third one she had borne. His two elder brothers were both dead over twenty years now. Killed in the trenches of the Somme in the Great War when only boys. Two sons she had sacrificed for the Fatherland.
Sigmund put Maxim on the sofa, went to kiss his mother before sitting down next to his small son. He said to her, ‘I understand from Ursula that Hedy is not coming this evening, that she’s not feeling well. Nothing too serious, I hope?’
‘A cold, Sigi, that’s all.’ Frau Westheim sighed. ‘There’s always something with Hedy these days. That girl would be better off living in a warmer climate, I do believe.’
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Sigmund murmured, and continued, ‘She’s not seemed well since she broke off her engagement to Paul.’
‘No, she hasn’t,’ Frau Westheim agreed, and turned her head, looked into the fire, a faraway expression flicking onto her face.
Watching her, Maxim thought: Gangan looks unhappy. I wonder why? He glanced up at his father, his wonderful Papa, and smiled at him adoringly.
Sigmund stared down into the small, bright face upturned to his, smiled back, and said, ‘Do you remember what I told you last Friday evening? When I was speaking to you about the standards I want you to have when you are a big boy, and when you are a man?’
‘Yes, Papa, you said a gentleman never tells a lie.’
‘That’s correct, Maxim, but now I’m afraid I must amend that statement.’
‘Oh.’ Maxim looked surprised. He was not sure what the word amend meant, but he was reluctant to admit this, so he kept silent.
‘I don’t suppose you know what amend means, do you?’ Sigmund said, as if reading
