Barbara Taylor Bradford – The Women in His Life (страница 14)

Satisfied that the gown was appropriate not only for the reception and dinner at the British Embassy, which she was to attend that evening, but that it also suited her mood of reserve, her sense of restraint, she slowly walked across the floor in the direction of the dressing table. But when she came to the white marble fireplace she paused, stood warming her hands at the huge log fire that blazed up the chimney and took the chill out of the air on this cold winter night.

After a moment she found herself turning inward, sinking down into her myriad thoughts, as she was wont to do of late. Introspective of nature though she was, this characteristic had grown and magnified, become more pronounced in the past year. She had to watch herself rigidly, particularly at social functions, since she had developed a habit of drifting off, carried along by her thoughts into a place known only to her, and where no one else could follow. Her husband Sigmund endeavoured to understand; he was infinitely patient with her and gentle, but she was conscious that his family, most especially his mother and his sister Hedy, found her remote, impenetrable. She could not help this. Her thoughts were like inchoate monsters in her mind, forever present yet not wholly formed and therefore all the more troubling.

She lived with a nagging anxiety that never seemed to leave her these days. Moreover, she no longer felt safe anywhere, except perhaps when she was in this house. It was her haven, her place of beauty, her bastion against the ugliness in the world outside its doors, her strong citadel. There were moments when she truly wished she did not have to leave it, and, in a certain sense, there was very little for her beyond these walls.

The Berlin she had been born in, and where she had grown up, no longer existed. Today it was a city of fear, of brutality and thuggery, of treachery and betrayal, of grimness and virulent rumour. It was teeming with the Gestapo, the Secret Police who stalked the streets, the beer halls and the cafés; frozen-faced SS men were everywhere one looked, as were Hitler’s unholy gang of thugs, posturing and ridiculous in their operetta uniforms, screaming shrilly and striking theatrical poses, for all the world like toy soldiers playing war games. Except that their games were deadly, dangerous, and of course they were not toy soldiers, not even soldiers, but murderers with evil intent in their hearts.

Last year she had been at a reception at the French Embassy on the Pariserplatz when Hitler had walked in suddenly, flanked by Göbbels and Göring and several of his other cronies. She had been startled to see how small they were, unimpressive rather ordinary little men who looked quite different in reality than they did in their photographs in newspapers, which made them seem invincible. She had thought they appeared a bit foolish in their fancy-dress uniforms, and it was, for a brief moment, difficult to take them seriously as they hurried past, strutting, arrogant, vulgar, and bloated with self-importance. But that moment had been fleeting, and indeed she took them seriously. Very seriously. The power they embodied was only too real. And it was a terrifying power.

She was forever asking herself how such a large number of people had allowed themselves to be led by the nose by a man like Hitler, a former vagabond and derelict who wasn’t even a German, but a jumped-up, uneducated Austrian corporal who could not speak the German language properly. Yet, amazingly, many believed he had only the welfare of the German nation at heart, had fallen under his spell, had been duped by him, considered him to have extraordinary brilliance and ability, not to mention great magnetism, and they were mesmerised by him and by his demagoguery. Weren’t they aware of the frighteningly ruthless aspects of his terrible creed? How could they possibly think he was their saviour? He was leading them down a road to hell.

She had voiced these thoughts to her dearest friend Renata von Tiegal recently, and Renata had said, ‘The Germans have a tendency to love false Gods, to worship false idols. And don’t let any of us forget that.’

And then Renata’s husband Reinhard had remarked in a regretful voice, ‘Hitler should have been stopped years ago. The Western Alliance could have done it. But they didn’t, and now I’m afraid it’s too late. For us. For them.’ Kurt von Wittingen, who was also present that evening, had finished softly, ‘The British, the French and the Americans failed to understand one basic fact. That the Nazis didn’t want power because of the economic situation. They wanted power.’

Well, they had power, didn’t they? Ultimate power. Ursula shivered involuntarily, gripped the mantelpiece, and rested her forehead on her hands. She closed her eyes. What to do? What to do? This question was her constant companion, endlessly reverberating in her head. Panic flooded through her, but after only a moment she got a grip on herself. What she would do, what they would all do, was simply keep going. That was the only answer. There was no alternative. One day at a time, she told herself, I’ll get through one day at a time.

After a short while she lifted her face, and her eyes swept the room. How normal it looked and therefore so reassuring. Her bedroom was truly beautiful, such a tranquil setting with its mixtures of pale greens in the watered silks that splashed over the walls, hung at the windows, covered chairs and a chaise longue. The furniture was French, finely-scaled antiques from her favourite Louis XVI period, and here and there were scattered elegant and exquisite trinkets and small objects which she had collected over the years or had inherited from her family. Rose-quartz boxes, miniature watercolours, antique porcelain snuff boxes and vinaigrettes, Meissen figurines, and silver-framed photographs of family and friends, those dearest to her and whom she loved the most.

And everywhere there were bowls of fresh, hot-house flowers spilling their bright colours and fragrant scents into the room, which glowed at this hour with the muted light from crystal lamps shaded in pink silk.

The superb bedroom was made all the more superb by the art. Her eyes came finally to rest on the paintings by Auguste Renoir, and she admired them yet again, and as usual she was awed. How magnificent they looked against the pale green walls. Two were paintings of nudes, another was a portrait of a mother with her two daughters, and the fourth depicted a garden in summer. To Ursula their tints were breathtaking: shell-pink and pearl, deep rose and lustrous gold, soft pastel blues and greens and the most glorious of yellows. All were light-filled, warm and sensuous, quite wondrous to behold. They were part of the Westheim Collection which had been started by Sigmund’s grandfather Friedrich in the late nineteenth century, immediately following the historic first Impressionist showing in Paris in 1874, and she considered it a privilege to have them hanging here in her home.

Sighing under her breath, Ursula roused herself, aware that Sigmund had returned from the bank some time ago, and that he was already dressed in his evening clothes and waiting for her downstairs. Now she must hurry. Punctual himself, he disliked tardiness in others. She went to the Venetian mirrored dressing table positioned between two soaring windows that floated up to the high ceiling, opened the black leather case resting on top of it, glanced at some of the magnificent jewels which lay glittering on the black velvet.

Automatically, almost without interest, she put on a pair of simple, diamond earrings, slipped on her diamond engagement ring next to her gold wedding band, and closed and locked the case. She would wear nothing else, none of her important pieces. She loathed ostentation at the best of times and these were the worst. And why encourage the envy of others, she added under her breath.

Stepping away from the dressing table, Ursula gave herself a final cursory glance, smoothed one hand over her short, wavy blonde hair before turning, walking over to the wardrobe where her coats and capes were kept.

There was a knock on the door, and before she could respond it flew open and her personal maid Gisela hurried into the room. ‘You are ready to leave, Frau Westheim? Which fur will you wear?’

Ursula’s smile was as lovely as her face, and in her low, cultured voice she said, ‘I’m not taking a coat. The velvet wrap will do nicely, Gisela. If you would be good enough to get it out for me, please. Oh, and I will need a pair of white kid gloves. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.’

‘Yes, Frau Westheim.’

Ursula stepped out into the bedroom corridor, pushed open the door exactly opposite hers and went inside. A night light on the bedside table glowed faintly in the dim and shadowy room. She tiptoed over to the bed, looked down at the small boy sleeping there so peacefully with one of his small chubby hands resting under a pink cheek. Bending over him, she stroked his blond hair, gave him a light kiss.