LITMIR.BIZ

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were not good at secrecy, they had to demonstrate their emotions.

      They danced on until they passed Inge Wisliceny dancing with Richard Fischer. Inge looked especially beautiful tonight. Long dresses and deep necklines were becoming on her. Lottie let go of Peter’s hand to wave to her. Inge smiled sadly as they whirled past and disappeared. ‘And where is your uncle Glenn now?’ she asked.

      ‘Heaven knows. Somewhere in Europe. Every few weeks we get a postcard from him. He visits now and again and he’s always sending gifts of food. He thinks we’re starving.’

      ‘Many Germans are starving,’ Lottie reminded him. ‘But Glenn was always generous. He was my favourite man. I was eighteen when he got married. I cried to think I’d lost him. I went to the East Coast just to be a bridesmaid. Handsome, clever and brave.’

      ‘And rich, too,’ said Peter sardonically. He was getting rather fed up with this eulogy to Glenn Rensselaer.

      ‘Not your uncle Glenn. He cares nothing for money, but his father is rich, of course.’

      ‘My grandfather, you mean; yes, he got rich from the war,’ said Peter. ‘They say that one out of every ten trucks the American army used came from a Rensselaer factory.’

      ‘You’re not going to be one of those boring people who want to blame the war on war profiteers.’

      ‘So many people died,’ said Peter. ‘It’s obscene to think that the fighting made anyone rich.’

      ‘So what would you prefer?’ she said. ‘That the government own everything, make everything, and decide how much money each and every citizen deserves?’

      ‘It might be better.’

      ‘You’d better stay away from politics, Peter Winter. No one will believe that you could be so dumm as to want to deliver yourself to the politicians.’

      ‘Yes. Long, long ago my brother, Pauli, told me more or less the same thing.’

      There was something touching about Peter Winter when he admitted to his shortcomings. ‘You’re adorable,’ she said and brushed her lips across his cheek. He caught a whiff of her perfume. ‘Why are you staring at me?’ he asked.

      ‘I know you so well from your photographs. Your grandmother has pictures of you everywhere in their house in New York. And in the room where I practised piano there is a photo of you at the keyboard. You must have been about ten or twelve. They told me you practised three hours every day. Is it true?’

      ‘I’ve given up the piano. I haven’t touched a piano for years.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘My hand was injured.’

      ‘Where? Show me.’ She pulled his hand round into view. ‘That? Why that’s nothing. How can that make any difference to a real musician?’

      ‘I can’t play Bach with a fingertip missing.’ For the first time she heard real anger in his voice, and she was sorry for him.

      ‘Don’t be so arrogant. Perhaps it will prevent your becoming a professional pianist, but how can you not play? You must love music. Or don’t you?’

      ‘I love music.’

      ‘Of course you do. Now, tomorrow you will visit me and I will play some records for you. Do you like jazz music?’

      ‘It’s all right.’

      ‘If you think it’s only all right, then you haven’t heard any. Tomorrow you’ll hear some of the best jazz music on records. I brought them from New York with me. You’ll come? I’m staying with the Wislicenys.’

      ‘I know. Yes, I’d be honoured.’ Listening to jazz music was a small price to pay for being alone in her room with this wonderful girl.

      ‘The really great jazz is not on records. You should hear it in Harlem. Although you have to go to the black people’s brothels in Memphis or New Orleans to hear the real thing.’

      Peter Winter turned his head away so that she didn’t see his embarrassment. Even in this degenerate, wide-open city of Berlin one didn’t expect well-brought-up young ladies to know what a brothel was, let alone to mention it in conversation with a man.

      ‘Are you looking for someone?’ she asked.

      ‘My brother.’ It was not true, but it would do.

      ‘Your father sent for him. I was there. Is something wrong?’

      ‘Pauli invited some strange people.’

      ‘Sure, but it’s his show.’

      ‘His birthday? Yes, but sometimes one’s friends do not mix well with family.’

      ‘Will he get told off?’

      ‘He’ll get round it. Pauli can charm his way out of anything,’ said Peter.

      ‘Do I hear a note of envy?’

      ‘No.’ Peter smiled. How could he ever envy Pauli, except sometimes for the way that his parents indulged him? ‘He’s always getting into the sort of scrapes that test his charm to the very limit. Goodness knows how he’ll ever pass his law finals.’

      ‘I can’t imagine your brother, Pauli, as a lawyer.’

      ‘And what about me?’

      ‘Easily…a trial lawyer, perhaps. You have the style for that.’

      ‘And Pauli doesn’t?’

      She was cautious. Peter’s readiness to defend his brother against any sort of criticism was something of which the Wisliceny girls had already told her. ‘Is there any need for him to do anything? Isn’t it enough that he’ll inherit half the Winter fortune and keep this fine old house going while you run the business?’

      Peter smiled grimly. ‘Father would have something to say about that. Father is a man of the Kaiserzeit…. So, I suppose, am I.’

      ‘Yes, you are.’

      ‘And you don’t object to us formal, humourless Teutons?’

      ‘Object? Goodness, what could I object to? I’m not going to marry and settle down here. I’m just a tourist.’

      He hastily thought of something to say. ‘Pauli’s not a fool. He’s clever, and as brave as a lion.’

      ‘Poor butterfly…’ she sang softly as they danced. She knew the words, and her soft, low, murmuring voice was bewitching.

      ‘Keep your money’

      Pauli loved and feared his father, but now the time had come for him to speak up for himself or be crushed by his father’s personality. He looked at the picture of the Kaiser that hung on the wall, and then he caught his breath and turned on his father. ‘You pretend it’s a party for me, but who are invited to your grand house? Your rich friends and the people you want to impress, that’s who. Do you know what I think about your friends and your party…?’ He stopped. His mother’s face had turned pale, and there was a look of such anguish there that he could not bear to hurt her more. Through the door he could hear the band playing ‘Poor Butterfly’. It took him back to the first day of the 1918 offensive – the captured British battery, the tinny gramophone.

      ‘Go on,’ said Harald Winter calmly. Deeply hurt by his son’s outburst, he couldn’t repress a secret feeling of satisfaction that Veronica was present to see his predictions come true. For Harald more than once had said that Pauli was an ungrateful wretch. It was his terrible experiences in the war, of course. Harald Winter had always been quick to explain the faults of those around him. Pauli had been through all sorts of hell, and that had affected him. Otherwise the boy would have been pleased to have such a lavish celebration held in his honour. As for Pauli’s complaint that most of the people there were friends of his parents

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