The Women in His Life

‘As soon as I’ve contacted the hospital I’ll be over,’ Norman Spank said. As an afterthought, he added brusquely, ‘Don’t touch anything, Elias,’ and promptly hung up.

Elias sat down heavily in the chair near the desk, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written Douglas Andrews’s phone number in Manhattan. He dialled it, and as the number began to ring he braced himself to give the young man the terrible news.

Maxim floated in space … in a great white void … in a vast nothingness.

He wanted to open his eyes. He could not. He felt as if they were permanently sealed. It was as if the top and bottom lashes were glued together.

Where was he?

He did not know. He hardly cared. His body, which a moment ago had seemed weightless, now felt as heavy as lead, and immovable.

Gradually he became aware of voices. A man’s voice, clear, resonant, a voice he had never heard before. The man was saying something about blood transfusions, a bullet which had lodged near the heart.

And then Maxim heard a woman speaking. Her voice filled the air … it was light … musical … and it seemed familiar, yet he could not quite identify it.

‘He’s not going to die, is he, Doctor Morrison?’ the woman asked.

‘We’re doing everything to save his life,’ the man replied. His tone was sombre. ‘He lost a lot of blood at the time of the shooting, and, as I have explained, the operation to remove the bullet has been delicate, complicated. He is in a very serious condition, I’m not going to mislead you about that.’

‘But he does have a chance, doesn’t he?’ the woman persisted.

The doctor did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘Fortunately, Sir Maximilian is a healthy man, strong, robust. That’s an important factor. And he is in the best of hands here at Mount Sinai. He’s getting superior care and treatment, and he is being monitored night and day.’

Maxim made a supreme effort and finally he managed to lift his eyelids. He blinked, adjusted to the light.

The room where he was lying was quite large.

He saw a man in a white coat. That must be the doctor.

Then he became aware of the others standing at the bottom of the bed.

The women.

They were grouped in a semi-circle. He was conscious of five pairs of female eyes focused on him intently, watching him, waiting. His mother. His first wife. His third wife. His mistress. His daughter Alix.

All of the women in his life were assembled here, keeping vigil over him.

He snapped his eyes shut. He did not want to see them, nor deal with them.

Everything suddenly came back to him. He remembered driving to Long Island in the rented Jaguar, going into the cottage in East Hampton, surprising the intruder. Then the man had pulled a gun and shot him. He could not remember anything after that.

The doctor in the room had just mentioned Mount Sinai. So he had been brought to New York. How long had he been here? He had no idea.

He wondered if he was going to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

Teddy. Where was Teddy?

Maxim tried to open his eyes but the effort to do so was far too great.

He wanted Teddy. She could save him. She had always saved him in the past.

He could not die now. He must live. He had so much to do. So much to put right.

Maxim tried to speak but the words would not come out of his mouth.

Teddy. Oh Teddy where are you? Help … help … me …

He felt himself drifting back into the vast white nothingness, that great vaporous void that had engulfed him before, and he fought it, but it was too strong for him in his weakened state and it overwhelmed him.

And finally he succumbed to it, fell into a deep unconsciousness once more.

Part Two (#ulink_2851e1fa-d38d-5aef-81ce-63752b810dd0)

Ursula, Berlin 1938

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Psalm 91: The Bible

Chapter Six (#ulink_0f5d3b40-9bd1-5570-a80e-2c25d6448391)

The woman stood before the Empire-style cheval mirror in the bedroom, staring hard at her reflection.

Slowly she turned, studying the gown. She had bought it on a trip to Paris three years ago and it was by Jean Patou, her favourite couturier. She had worn it only once since then and now she saw that it had retained its incomparable style and elegance, as had the other Patou creations she owned.

Tonight she had wanted to wear a simple dress, which was why she had chosen this particular one, a floor-length column that fell in fluid lines from shoulder to hem. The sleeves were long, the bodice plain, the neckline high, skimming across the throat, while the back was worked into a draped-cowl effect. Made of matte crepe and cut with superb skill, it was the colour, nevertheless, that caught the eye. Called Patou Blue, it was almost, but not quite, violet.

This vibrant shade was the ideal foil for the woman’s Nordic colouring. Her hair was a shining silver gilt, her skin creamy, her eyes a misty grey-blue, luminous, fringed with thick blonde lashes. She was of medium height, but her slender figure and long coltish legs made her look taller. Her feet and ankles were delicate, well shaped, and she had aristocratic hands, slim, with tapering fingers. It was the combination of her physical attributes, her ability to wear clothes well and her inherent good taste that gave her an elegance of appearance that was quite singular. Gentle of manner, the overall impression she projected was a mixture of femininity, great breeding, and intelligence. Her name was Ursula Westheim. She was thirty-four years old.

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.