The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      The boy stirred. A pair of eyes opened and a sleep-filled voice murmured, ‘Mutti? I’ve been waiting for you, Mutti.’

      Ursula filled with a rush of surging warmth, and she smiled inwardly. She experienced such infinite joy when she was with this child. There was a chair near the bed and she pulled it closer, sat down, took his other hand in hers. ‘I was dressing, Mein Schatzi. Papa and I have to go out this evening.’

      ‘Papa came to kiss me. He’s buying me a pony next summer,’ her small son confided, suddenly wide awake. His brown eyes gleamed brightly with excitement as they fastened so intently on hers.

      Ursula leaned forward to kiss him again. He nuzzled his warm little face against her cheek and a pair of tender young arms went around her neck and he clung to her. She held him close, stroking his head with one hand. She loved this four-year-old boy so very much. Her only child. Her heart. She was so afraid for him. Nothing must happen to him. She must protect him with her life.

      Pushing away the troubled thoughts with which she now lived on a daily basis, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Your pony will be waiting for you when we go to the villa in the Wannsee next summer. Papa will have it taken there for you.’

      ‘Mutti?’

      ‘Yes, Maxim?’

      ‘Will Papa show me how to ride it?’

      ‘Of course he will,’ she said, smiling.

      ‘What’s the pony’s name?’

      ‘I don’t know. We haven’t found the right one for you yet. But we will. Come now, it’s time to go to sleep.’

      Still holding her child in her arms she leaned forward, laid him against the snowy linen pillows, but he did not want to let go of her, clung to her more tightly than ever, almost fiercely. Gently she unclasped his arms, straightened her back, and sat up. Touching his face lightly with her fingertips, she spoke to him with great tenderness. ‘You’re such a good little boy, Maxim, a sweet boy, and I love you very, very much.’

      ‘I love you, Mutti.’

      ‘Goodnight, Mäuschen, sweet dreams,’ she murmured against his cheek.

      ‘Night.’ He yawned and his eyelids began to droop, and Ursula СКАЧАТЬ