Winter of the World

Carla did not much like Ludwig. He was a right-wing bully and he had supported the Nazis in the early days. Perhaps he had changed his views: many businessmen had, by now, though they showed little sign of the humility that ought to go with having been so wrong.

She did not answer immediately. She sat down at the table and looked at the family: Ludwig, Monika, Werner and Frieda, and the butler hovering in the background. She collected her thoughts.

‘Come on, girl, answer me!’ Ludwig demanded. He had in his hand a letter that looked very like Ada’s, and he was waving it angrily.

Monika put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Take it easy, Ludi.’

‘I want to know!’ he said.

Carla looked at his pink face and little black moustache. He was in an agony of grief, she saw. In other circumstances she would have refused to speak to someone so rude. But he had an excuse for his bad manners, and she decided to overlook them. ‘The Director, Professor Willrich, told us there was a new treatment for Kurt’s condition.’

‘The same as he told us,’ said Ludwig. ‘What kind of treatment?’

‘I asked him that question. He said I would not be able to understand it. I persisted, and he said it involved drugs, but he did not give any further information. May I see your letter, Herr Franck?’

Ludwig’s expression said he was the one who should be asking questions; but he handed the sheet of paper to Carla.

It was exactly the same as Ada’s, and Carla had a queer feeling that the typist had done several of them, just changing the names.

Franck said: ‘How can two boys have died of appendicitis at the same time? It’s not a contagious illness.’

Carla said: ‘Kurt certainly did not die of appendicitis, for he had no appendix. It was removed two years ago.’

‘Right,’ said Ludwig. ‘That’s enough talk.’ He snatched the letter from Carla’s hand. ‘I’m going to see someone in the government about this.’ He went out.

Monika followed him, and so did the butler.

Carla went over to Frieda and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ Frieda whispered.

Carla went to Werner. He stood up and put his arms around her. She felt a tear fall on her forehead. She was gripped by she did not know what intense emotion. Her heart was full of grief, yet she thrilled to the pressure of his body against hers, and the gentle touch of his hands.

After a long moment Werner stepped back. He said angrily: ‘My father has phoned the hospital twice. The second time, they told him they had no more information and hung up on him. But I’m going to find out what happened to my brother, and I won’t be brushed off.’

Frieda said: ‘Finding out won’t bring him back.’

‘I still want to know. If necessary, I’ll go to Akelberg.’

Carla said: ‘I wonder if there’s anyone in Berlin who could help us.’

‘It would have to be someone in the government,’ Werner said.

Frieda said: ‘Heinrich’s father is in the government.’

Werner snapped his fingers. ‘The very man. He used to belong to the Centre Party, but he’s a Nazi now, and something important in the Foreign Office.’

Carla said: ‘Will Heinrich take us to see him?’

‘He will if Frieda asks him,’ said Werner. ‘Heinrich will do anything for Frieda.’

Carla could believe that. Heinrich had always been intense about everything he did.

‘I’ll phone him now,’ said Frieda.

She went into the hall, and Carla and Werner sat down side by side. He put his arm around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She did not know whether these signs of affection were merely a side-effect of the tragedy, or something more.

Frieda came back in and said: ‘Heinrich’s father will see us right away if we go over there now.’

They all got into Werner’s sports car, squeezing on to the front seat. ‘I don’t know how you keep this car going,’ Frieda said as he pulled away. ‘Even Father can’t get petrol for private use.’

‘I tell my boss it’s for official business,’ he said. Werner worked for an important general. ‘But I don’t know how much longer I can get away with it.’

The von Kessel family lived in the same suburb. Werner drove there in five minutes.

The house was luxurious, though smaller than the Francks’. Heinrich met them at the door and showed them into a living room with leather-bound books and an old German woodcarving of an eagle.

Frieda kissed him. ‘Thank you for doing this,’ she said. ‘It probably wasn’t easy – I know you don’t get on so well with your father.’

Heinrich beamed with pleasure.

His mother brought them coffee and cake. She seemed a warm, simple person. When she had served them she left, like a maid.

Heinrich’s father, Gottfried, came in. He had the same thick straight hair, but it was silver instead of black.

Heinrich said: ‘Father, here are Werner and Frieda Franck, whose father manufactures People’s Radios.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Gottfried. ‘I have seen your father in the Herrenklub.’

‘And this is Carla von Ulrich – I believe you know her father, too.’