Winter of the World

He made his way into the kitchen. The noise level dropped a fraction. Joanne was nowhere to be seen, but he decided to get a drink while he was there. A broad-shouldered man of about thirty was rattling a cocktail shaker. Well dressed in a tan suit, pale-blue shirt and dark-blue tie, he clearly was not a barman, but was acting like a host. ‘Scotch is over there,’ he said to another guest. ‘Help yourself. I’m making martinis, for anyone who’s interested.’

Woody said: ‘Got any bourbon?’

‘Right here.’ The man passed him a bottle. ‘I’m Bexforth Ross.’

‘Woody Dewar.’ Woody found a glass and poured bourbon.

‘Ice in that bucket,’ said Bexforth. ‘Where are you from, Woody?’

‘I’m an intern in the Senate. You?’

‘I work in the State Department. I’m in charge of the Italy desk.’ He started passing martinis around.

Clearly a rising star, Woody thought. The man had so much self-confidence it was irritating. ‘I was looking for Joanne.’

‘She’s somewhere around. How do you know her?’

Here Woody felt he could show clear superiority. ‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ he said airily. ‘In fact, I’ve known her all my life. We were kids together in Buffalo. How about you?’

Bexforth took a long sip of martini and gave a satisfied sigh. Then he looked speculatively at Woody. ‘I haven’t known Joanne as long as you have,’ he said. ‘But I guess I know her better.’

‘How so?’

‘I’m planning to marry her.’

Woody felt as if he had been slapped. ‘Marry her?’

‘Yes. Isn’t that great?’

Woody could not hide his dismay. ‘Does she know about this?’

Bexforth laughed, and patted Woody’s shoulder condescendingly. ‘She sure does, and she’s all for it. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’

Clearly Bexforth had divined that Woody was attracted to Joanne. Woody felt a fool. ‘Congratulations,’ he said dispiritedly.

‘Thank you. And now I must circulate. Good talking to you, Woody.’

‘My pleasure.’

Bexforth moved away.

Woody put his drink down untasted. ‘Fuck it,’ he said quietly. Then he left.

(iv)

The first day of September was sultry in Berlin. Carla von Ulrich woke up sweaty and uncomfortable, her bedsheets thrown off during the warm night. She looked out of her bedroom window to see low grey clouds hanging over the city, keeping heat in like a saucepan lid.

Today was a big day for her. In fact, it would determine the course of her life.

She stood in front of the mirror. She had her mother’s colouring, the dark hair and green eyes of the Fitzherberts. She was prettier than Maud, who had an angular face, striking rather than beautiful. Yet there was a bigger difference. Her mother attracted just about every man she met. Carla, by contrast, could not flirt. She watched other girls her age doing it: simpering, pulling their sweaters tight over their breasts, tossing their hair, and batting their eyelashes, and she just felt embarrassed. Her mother was more subtle, of course, so that men hardly knew they were being enchanted, but it was essentially the same game.

Today, however, Carla did not want to appear sexy. On the contrary, she needed to look practical, sensible, and capable. She put on a plain stone-coloured cotton dress that came to mid-calf, stepped into her flat, unglamorous school sandals, and wove her hair into two plaits in the approved German-maiden fashion. The mirror showed her an ideal girl student: conservative, dull, sexless.

She was up and dressed before the rest of the family. The maid, Ada, was in the kitchen, and Carla helped her set out the breakfast things.

Her brother appeared next. Erik, nineteen and sporting a clipped black moustache, supported the Nazis, infuriating the rest of his family. He was a student at the Charité, the medical school of the University of Berlin, as was his best friend and fellow-Nazi, Hermann Braun. The von Ulrichs could not afford tuition fees, of course, but Erik had won a scholarship.

Carla had applied for the same scholarship to study at the same institution. Her interview was today. If she was successful, she would study and become a doctor. If not . . .

She had no idea what else she would do.

The coming to power of the Nazis had ruined her parents’ lives. Her father was no longer a deputy in the Reichstag, having lost his job when the Social-Democratic Party became illegal, along with all other parties except for the Nazis. There was no work her father could do that would use his expertise as a politician and a diplomat. He scraped a living translating German newspaper articles for the British Embassy, where he still had a few friends. Mother had once been a famous left-wing journalist, but newspapers were no longer allowed to publish her articles.