The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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

      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.

      Maxim bent over and pulled up his sock which had slithered down around his ankle.

      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