The Women in His Life

‘Have you any idea which country we might be able to go to?’

Kurt shook his head. ‘Not at this moment. I doubt that it will be America, though. The US Congress doesn’t seem willing to modify the immigration laws, to allow any more Jewish refugees from Germany to enter the country. Nor does Roosevelt seem prepared to act.’

‘What about England?’

‘I believe that’s your best chance, since the British have been very generous about taking in Jewish refugees from Europe for some time. And anyway, my influence and contacts are much stronger with the British diplomatic service. Never fear, I will pull every string available to me.’

‘I know you’ll do your damnedest. Where will we actually go when we leave Berlin?’

‘To one of two cities, Lisbon or Paris. But more than likely it will be Paris, where you could pick up your entry visas from the British Embassy, if you didn’t have them in your hands when you left Germany.’

‘Have you any idea when that will be?’ Sigi asked.

‘I daren’t promise anything, or give you a specific date. But I don’t think it will take much longer than a month to get the documents. Let’s say early January.’

Sigmund nodded. ‘I can tell Ursula, can’t I? Just to alleviate her awful worry about Maxim’s safety.’

‘Yes, but do warn her not to discuss your plans with anyone outside the family. And don’t tell her who is helping you. The less you say, and actually the less you know, the safer it is for me, Irina and our friends. And for you too, in the long run,’ Kurt said.

‘You have no cause to worry, Kurt. I will be discreet, and so will Ursula. And not one member of my family will know any of the details, only that we are going to leave. I realise that there will be hefty pay-offs involved, and I would simply like to add that money is no object.’

‘I know that, Sigi. I also know that it is now impossible for Jews to transfer any assets abroad. I hope you took care of that some time ago.’ Kurt gave him a questioning look.

Sigmund nodded. ‘I managed to get some money out.’

‘But not enough, perhaps. You must have Ursula sew her most valuable jewellery into the linings of the clothes she will be travelling in, such as a suit jacket and its skirt, her top coat, even under the lining of her hat. That is the best way to get valuables out undetected. And have your mother and sisters do the same thing.’

‘I will.’

‘Oh, and one other thing, they must do this themselves. I’m not suggesting for one moment that your servants are disloyal, but it’s wise to be cautious. One never knows about anyone these days. Brother is informing on brother, so just be careful in front of the servants. The last thing you want is the Nazi guards at the border alerted that you are carrying valuables. They would confiscate everything.’

‘I am quite positive our servants are trustworthy, they have been with the family for years. However, I will naturally heed your advice,’ Sigi promised.

‘And also be careful what you say on the telephone … at home and at the bank. Phone-tapping has become a favourite Nazi pastime,’ Kurt remarked in a disdainful tone.

‘Do you think my phones are tapped?’ Sigmund asked swiftly.

‘I’m not sure. Possibly they are at the bank. Just be aware, that’s all.’

‘I have been for a long time.’

‘Good. That’s it for now. We will go our separate ways. And when we meet again socially we will obviously not discuss this meeting, or anything else pertaining to the matter.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Sigi concurred.

‘Once I have the documents in my hands, I will arrange a rendezvous for us. We will meet somewhere exceptionally safe,’ Kurt said, then went on to explain, ‘And you must be prepared to travel immediately, of course. So be ready. And you must travel light. Take only one suitcase each, if possible. If it’s not, then do not take more than two each, at the most.’

‘I understand.’ Sigi came to a halt, turned to face the other man. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Kurt, I really don’t. I am overcome with gratitude for what you’re doing for me and my family. The words thank you somehow don’t seem to be quite enough.’

‘Thanks are not necessary, my dear old friend. I am glad to help you. And for your own sakes, I’m glad you’re going. It’s obvious, after Kristallnacht, that this country is in the hands of mass murderers.’ Kurt’s sensitive, gentle face filled with a terrible sadness and he sighed heavily. There was a slight pause before he went on quietly, ‘Stay calm. Try not to worry. Everything is in hand. With a bit of luck you’ll soon be out of Germany. In the meantime, just continue to go about your business in the most natural way.’ He thrust out his hand.

Sigi took it, clasped it strongly. ‘Thank you again, Kurt, and from the very bottom of my heart. I will never forget this, never as long as I live. You are a true friend.’

The two men parted company.

Sigmund stood for a moment watching Kurt’s retreating figure. Then he turned up the collar of his overcoat, thrust his hands in his pockets, swung around and walked in the direction they had just come. He could not wait to get back to his house on the Tiergartenstrasse to tell Ursula the good news.

His thoughts turned to Prince Rudolph Kurt von Wittingen as he hurried along the path. He trusted Kurt implicitly. And if anyone could pull this off, then he could.

For several years Kurt had been a senior consultant to Krupp, the German armaments king. As such he roamed all over Europe, frequently travelled to England and the United States, handling top-level negotiations, entertaining foreign dignitaries and acting as a sort of roving ambassador for the Krupp organisation.

Sigi now realised that this job was the perfect cover for Kurt. He was able to come and go almost as he wished. He had access to all kinds of important people, who in turn were extraordinary sources of information, and probably privileged information at that.

This aside, Sigmund knew for a fact that Kurt was an anti-Fascist, an idealist who happened to be a realist, in that he viewed the totalitarian dictatorship that was Germany through clear, unblinkered eyes. Naturally he would be involved in some sort of resistance movement because of his convictions.

Sigmund wondered why he had never thought of this before. Perhaps because of the Krupp connection, which was undoubtedly the real reason why it existed in the first place. It was a red herring to throw people off the scent. A protection for Kurt. He was above suspicion as Krupp’s envoy.

And then there was Graf Reinhard von Tiegal. Sigmund considered his other close friend. The count was also an aristocrat, from an ancient Prussian family of Junkers, the conservative landholders who were descended from the Teutonic knights. And so by reason of birth and upbringing Reinhard also detested everything the Nazis stood for, and believed them to be criminals of the worst kind.

Was Reinhard involved in the resistance to Hitler? Sigi asked himself. More than likely, he decided after only a moment’s thought. And although he knew how dangerous it was for both men, the knowledge that they were fighting the Nazis with whatever means they had was immensely comforting to him.

As long as there were men of honour and humanity in Germany then Hitler and his evil regime would eventually be overcome and ultimately destroyed.

Ursula looked up quickly as Sigmund walked into the library and angrily threw the newspaper she had been reading down on the floor.

‘I don’t know why I bother with the papers anymore!’ she exclaimed, gesturing to the pile of discarded journals at her feet. ‘They’re only full of Hitler’s vile lies and propaganda, courtesy of Göbbels!’

Sigmund sat down on the sofa next to her. ‘I suppose we all keep reading the newspapers hoping against hope that we’ll glean a little bit of real news.’

‘Yes, you’re right, darling,’ she agreed.

Sigmund took her hand in his and smiled into her drawn face. ‘I have some news, Ursula,’ he said softly. Moving closer to her, he kissed her cheek, then whispered against her hair, ‘I saw my contact a short while ago. The plans are progressing. We’re getting out. Hopefully within the next four to five weeks if all goes well.’

‘Thank God! Oh thank God!’ she gasped, holding onto him tightly. ‘Maxim’s going to be safe. Our little boy is going to be safe, and that’s all that matters, Sigi.’

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_8f273547-2c44-5919-a103-c78ef81dfa96)

Maxim stood outside the library, listening.

The door was open a crack and he peeped through it. Just as he thought, his grandmother was sitting near the fireplace in her favourite chair, the one in which she always sat when she came to visit them. She preferred its straight back, he had heard her say that to Mutti and Papa many times. She sat staring into the fire, her hands resting on top of her black cane with its polished silver handle that gleamed brightly in the firelight.

He liked her cane. It had belonged to his grandfather.

His Grandfather Westheim had died two years ago. He remembered many things about him, and he missed him very much. When his Grandfather Westheim used to come to visit them he would lift him up on his knee and tell him stories, and sometimes he would take him for a drive in his big black motorcar with Manfred, the chauffeur, at the wheel. They would sit on the back seat together and talk of many Important Things, like The Bank, where he would work with his Papa when he grew up, and which would be his one day. After their drive they always stopped at Grandfather’s favourite Konditorei and had an ice cream and sometimes cake as well, and his Grandfather Westheim would smoke a cigar and sip a small cup of strong coffee, very black and very sweet, which he was not allowed to have.

He wished his grandfather would come back. But dead people never came back. Not ever. Being dead meant that you had gone to Heaven to live with God, his Papa had told him that. His Grandfather Neuman was dead, too. He had died last year, and Mutti had been very sad and had cried a lot, and he had cried too, partly because she was crying and that made him sad. But he had loved his Grandfather Neuman as much as he had loved his Grandfather Westheim.

Suddenly he wondered if the grandfathers ever met each other in Heaven and sat and smoked their cigars and drank cognac and talked about Important World Matters, as they had when they had not been dead. He hoped they did. He wouldn’t like them to be lonely in Heaven. His Grandmama Neuman was another dead person, but he had never known her. At least, he had only been one year old when she had died, just a little baby, not grown up like he was now that he was four, and so he couldn’t remember much about her, not really. There was only Grandmama Westheim left. ‘We must treasure her,’ his mother kept saying.