Voice of the Heart (63 page)

‘What do you mean by trouble?’ Victor asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘Mummy had been able to lead a reasonable existence up until then, a relatively normal life. Believing her husband to be dead, she had been content to build her life around us, her children. The idea that Daddy was alive after all, and rotting in Lubyanka, changed all that. In the last two years she has become a tormented woman… demented by worry, uncertainty and anguish, alternatively buoyed up by hopes… futile hopes in my opinion.’

‘What a horrendous thing for her to live with, for you all to live with!’ Victor stared at Diana aghast. ‘Are you saying that you haven’t been able to find out if it is your father or not?’

Diana nodded. ‘Precisely. Dieter, Mummy, Christian and I all went to Bonn, and through political connections of Dieter’s we were able to meet with Chancellor Adenauer. The West German Government took up the case, and they made a formal request to the Russians for confirmation that the prisoner in Lubyanka was Daddy. The Russians categorically denied the existence of any such prisoner, let alone one who was a German prince. In the last twelve months, Christian and I have been to Bonn twice, and more pressure has been exerted. In consequence, our Government made further approaches to the Russians, only to be stonewalled.’ She bit her lip, frowned. ‘We’re at an impasse.’

Victor was silent. He sat back on the sofa, ruminating on the things he had just heard. Finally he glanced from Diana to Christian and said slowly, ‘Forgive my ignorance,
but why would the Russians arrest your father in 1945 in the first place? What possible reason could they have had to take him prisoner?’

Christian smiled faintly. ‘It’s not ignorance, Victor. It’s a perfectly normal question, and one we all asked each other two years ago. Dieter was able to supply the answer only too readily. He believes my father was taken by the Russians because they thought he was a spy. Specifically, a spy for the Americans, and therefore an enemy of the Soviet Union.’ Christian shook his head. ‘Don’t look so sceptical, Victor. Apparently many Germans were arrested by the Russians at that time because they suspected them of being spies—I’ll go further, were convinced they were spies. For the Americans. But whatever the reason, it’s irrelevant really, in as much as Mother and Dieter are quite positive my father
is
the man in Lubyanka.’

‘And you? What do you think, Christian?’ Victor asked, snuffing out his cigar which had been smouldering in the ashtray, forgotten.

After a few minutes, Christian admitted, ‘I honestly don’t know what to think, old chap. I really don’t. I waver between doubt and certainty. One minute I’m agreeing with Mother, and then, unexpectedly, I’m swayed by Diana’s conviction that Father is dead. But when Dieter makes an appearance, as he did yesterday, with more rumours, I’m siding with the two of—’

‘We don’t have enough concrete facts!’ Diana cried peremptorily, her voice unusually high-pitched for her. ‘The longer I ponder the story the more I come to realize how flimsy it is, in reality. I’m sure Daddy was killed at the end of the war in Berlin, and that his body was one of the many unidentified. I suppose, in a way, I hope he
is
dead.’ Her tone was suddenly tremulous and she blinked and looked away. She finished, in a sad little voice, ‘Perhaps that’s preferable to me, because then he would not be suffering. I can’t stand the thought that he’s alive in Lubyanka and being subjected to…
to—’ Diana was unable to continue and her emotions took hold of her.

Francesca instantly jumped up and joined her on the hearth. She put her arms around her cousin and said soothingly, ‘Oh Dibs darling, don’t cry. It’s not much consolation, I know, but Daddy and I agree with you.’ As she spoke Francesca glanced at Christian, her eyes full of love and compassion. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but we
do
believe that Uncle Kurt died in 1945, as we’ve told Aunt Arabella many times.’

Christian half inclined his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, and wheeled himself over to the console. He poured himself a cognac, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Returning to the fireside, he focused on Victor. ‘Having heard this extraordinary story, what do
you
think? Is my father dead, or is he in Lubyanka?’

‘I can’t give an opinion either way,’ Victor pursed his lips. Suddenly he changed his mind. ‘I guess I’m ambivalent, like you, Christian. I don’t know what to think. Jesus, what a goddamn lousy thing to five with on a day-to-day basis. It’s a heartrending situation. No wonder you never want to discuss it. It’s all my fault everyone’s upset. I shouldn’t be so nosey. I’ve only succeeded in ruining a lovely evening.’

‘Oh please, Victor, don’t be silly,’ Christian said. ‘There’s no need to keep apologizing. And you haven’t spoiled the evening, has he, Diana?’

‘Hardly. In fact, you’ve made it extra special and memorable.’ She smiled at Victor. ‘But would you mind if we drop the subject now? I’d like to concentrate on the present, the next few days to be exact.’ She took a deep breath and, adopting a more cheery tone, went on, ‘Christian and I are going to Munich tomorrow, to spend the day at Grandmother’s, with our mother. I won’t be able to take you skiing on the Rossfeld. However, Astrid and Vladimir will go with you. Is that all right?’

‘Sure. That’ll be great,’ Victor said, pulling his mind away from his troubled thoughts, looking at her with admiration.
There was something very unusual in this girl, a certain indomitability that took his breath away. ‘But what about Francesca? She’ll be all alone here.’

‘Oh don’t worry about me, I’ve got lots of things to do,’ Francesca assured him with a warm smile. ‘You will be back for lunch though, won’t you?’

Before he could respond, Diana said, ‘Astrid wants both of you to have lunch at her house, Cheska. It’ll be fun for you, and I know Victor will enjoy seeing the von Böler estate. It’s most impressive and puts Wittingenhof to shame.’

‘That’s nice of her,’ Francesca said. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the place myself. Kim told me it’s like a miniature Versailles.’

‘That’s true.’ Diana stood up. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to tell Manfred to lock up, and then get off to bed. We have to leave very early in the morning.’ She kissed Francesca and Christian, and then moved across the floor to Victor. He rose and hugged her to him. ‘You’re an extraordinary person, Diana,’ he said, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘So are you,’ she responded, squeezing his arm, her expression affectionate. She turned and walked to the doorway. ‘Good night everyone.’

Shortly afterwards, Christian also took his leave of them. The minute they were by themselves, Victor said, ‘I guess you can’t take me anywhere, kid. I’m a dumb idiot.’

‘Hush!’ Francesca exclaimed, and moved over to sit next to him on the sofa. She took his hand in hers, and insisted, ‘Please do let’s forget all this, Vic. Diana’s right, we must put the tragedy of Uncle Kurt out of our minds. Just as she and Christian do most of the time. And honestly, they’re not angry or upset with you. Neither am I.’

‘That’s a helluva relief.’ He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. ‘Mind if we sit here for a bit?’

‘Not at all. Would you like another drink, darling?’

‘Sure, why not. One for the road, I guess.’ He released his
hold and his eyes following her as she walked across the room were filled with tenderness. ‘Do me a favour, baby, kill the lights in here, please.’

‘All right. Shall I put on a record, one of the Sinatras maybe?’

‘Terrific idea… the Cole Porter selection… together those two are an unbeatable team, about the greatest.’

Within minutes the room was entirely in darkness, its edges grey and murky, but the fireside was bathed in roseate tints and the logs spurted and flared in the grate so that a pool of isolated golden light surrounded them like a nimbus. They sat for a long time on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the romantic ballads, speaking hardly at all, content to be alone together. At one moment Victor turned his head and glanced out of the windows which intersected the wall opposite. Beyond the glass, an indigo sky, speckled with the brightest stars, was being intermittently streaked with silver radiance as the moon came out from behind black clouds. It clearly illuminated the landscape, breathtaking even at this hour in its white and silent beauty.

It’s so peaceful out there, he thought, just as this room is also enveloped in tranquillity. Victor averted his face and stared into the fire, his eyes reflective now. Images of the dinner party danced before him in the flames. It had been perfect down to the last detail. And so civilized. The guests had been charming, cultured, intelligent and well informed, the men elegantly attired, the lovely women exquisitely gowned and bejewelled, and all had been gathered together in the most gracious of settings, partaking of excellent food and vintage wines. Yes, it had been an occasion of gaiety and joyfulness as befitted Diana’s birthday.

Coming so quickly after this glittering, happy scene, the story of Kurt von Wittingen had been chilling, had had a curious unreality about it to Victor, as though it were somehow out of sync. Yet this was not the case, and it was only too real, just as Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Dachau
had been real, as Christian’s ruined legs were real. Victor dwelt on all that had been said in the last hour and his disquiet returned, and he felt a sudden and terrible coldness in the region of his heart. Evil had cast its dark shadow over this night. But evil is always there, lurking, he found himself thinking, as it has lurked since the beginning of time when man first discovered his immense capacity for it. And as long as man walks this earth it will flourish, for it is man’s invention not God’s. A sigh rippled through him and he closed his eyes.

Francesca shifted her body against his, swivelled her head and looked up into his face. ‘What is it? Is something wrong, Vic?’

He opened his eyes and stared at her. He was tempted, for a moment, to voice his thoughts, but changed his mind. ‘I’m okay. Nothing’s wrong, Ches,’ he murmured and lifted his hand and touched the top of her head, and she relaxed and settled back in his arms and a silence fell between them again. It was long after the music had stopped and the fire had burned low to dying embers that Victor finally roused himself. He led her out of the sitting room, down the long gallery and up the great staircase, and not once did he let go of her hand so tightly clasped in his.

Three months later, Terrence Ogden walked briskly across the ancient Market Place in Ripon, dropped a large manilla envelope in the post box and went into the first tobacconist’s shop he saw. He bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes, exchanged a friendly word with the girl behind the counter, and swung through the door of the shop, whistling under his breath.

He headed out of the Market Place, past the Town Hall and the Wakeman’s House, and down the hill at a rapid pace, returning to the Spa Hotel at the edge of town where the cast and crew of
Wuthering Heights
were staying.

It was a Saturday morning in late June, and the kind of glorious summer day he remembered so vividly from his childhood, but which had been sadly infrequent in the ensuing years. Or so it seemed to him. Terry wondered absently if, in the way that memory can play peculiar tricks, he had simply imagined those golden days of his early boyhood. Perhaps the summers had been as inclement then as they were now. A faintly ironic gleam flashed in his light blue eyes. It was odd how the lovely weather, whether real or a figment of his imagination, was the only pleasant thing he remembered about those poverty-stricken years of growing up in Sheffield. All his other recollections had a desperate, almost Dickensian flavour to them. Empty belly. Patched clothes. Socks so darned they were all darn. Broken-down shoes letting the snow and the rain seep through. Dad on the dole. And when he was working, it was down the pit, filling his lungs full of coal dust. Mam scrubbing and cleaning, washing, ironing, charring for the rich. Old before she was young.

Terry shrugged and blinked and discarded these thoughts. They served no purpose now. Those days were long gone. Times had changed in merry old England and he, thank God, had been able to change his parents’ lives. And for the better. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, feeling healthier than he had in years. Terrence Ogden was also a somewhat chastened man after his drunken brawl with Rupert Reynolds earlier in the year. He was fully conscious that he had had a close call, a brush with death, and he had taken himself in hand, with firmness. If he was not exactly abstinent, he had cut down on his drinking considerably, and had thrown all of his energies into his work. Now he wondered vaguely where Reynolds had skipped off to, where he was hiding. Norman had said he was most likely on the Continent. Not far enough away for me, Terry mumbled under his breath.

‘Hey, Terry, what’s the hurry, me old cock?’

Terry swung around. Jerry Massingham, astride a bicycle, was pedalling down the road as if his life depended on it, his red hair mussed by the light breeze, his coat flapping out behind him. Dressed in an unsuitable heavy tweed suit, a Viyella shirt and a canary-yellow wool tie, Jerry looked like a country doctor on his morning rounds.

‘Good God, Jerry, this is one way to make certain you get a heart attack!’ Terry said as the production manager slowed to a stop and jumped off the bicycle. ‘And what the hell are you doing rushing up and down the country lanes on a bloody bike in the first place?’

‘I like riding a bike, it’s good exercise,’ Jerry informed him, a wide grin creasing his flushed face. He fell into step with Terry, wheeling the bicycle between them. ‘I had to get to the post office before it closed, to send an express package to London. There weren’t any production cars available an hour ago. The second unit’s using them. They’re out on the moors, getting some background shots. And what are you doing abroad at this hour? Taking a constitutional?’

‘I also went to post a letter, and to buy a paper. Besides, it’s turned eleven.’ He gave Jerry a swift look, finished caustically, ‘I don’t normally spend my mornings liggin in bed, contrary to what
you
might think.’