Miriam came on a flying visit from Lisbon. She had grown a little plumper, was married to an American banker and had two children. 'We're flying home next week. Do come to America with us. Bill can fix it for you. He has good connections with the State Department.'
'Not homesick for the Kurfiirstendamm any more?' Detta couldn't help asking.
'You must be joking,' said Miriam.
Detta spent her annual vacation at home as usual. So much had changed at Aichborn. All men 'able to bear arms' were fighting at the Fronts, which were falling back. Their wives did almost all the work at home. Townsfolk who had fled from the air raids populated the estate, and ladies in high heels made their way through the muck, laying themselves open to mockery and derision. Frau von Aichborn had difficulty keeping the peace. In addition, the foreign labourers had to be protected from Fanselow, the district farmers' leader, who particularly liked harassing the Poles when he was at Aichborn.
Today he had his sights set on the Polish groom. Jurek was just harnessing up 'Loschek', as he affectionately called the old horse that pulled the muck cart. 'Get a move on, you damn Polack.' Fanselow snatched the whip from its place on the cart.
Detta came between them, holding out the basket full of eggs she had just been collecting. 'Oh, please, Herr Fanselow, would you take these to my mother in the kitchen? Thanks, that's very kind of you.' Surprised, Fanselow put the whip down and took the basket. Jurek's brown eyes looked gratefully at Detta.
The Baron was sceptical and silent when he came home from his desk job at Army High Command one February day in 1943. The truth about what had been described as the heroism of the German Army in its defeat at Stalingrad had filtered through. 'No one's going to get us out of this mess now,' was one of his few observations, which were made grimmer by their scarcity.
Hans-Georg, on leave from Paris, was more talkative. 'There's no doubt of it, Hitler must go,' he told his sister as they rode in the snow-covered park together. 'Only a government formed from the best conservative forces in the country can bring us an honourable peace. The Allies have already agreed not to exploit any confrontation within Germany for their own military ends.'
'The man will never go voluntarily,' said Detta.
A bullet at close quarters will solve that problem,' said the newly appointed cavalry captain with conviction. 'Luckily, some comrades who have access to him are willing to risk all. Oh, Detta, I wish I was among those select few.'
She heard the enthusiasm and determination in his voice, and felt glad he was not. Thank goodness he's not in the firing line in Paris, she thought with relief, spurring her horse on.
Detta received the message in April 1945. Someone had pushed it under the door of her apartment by the harbour. Captain David Floyd-Orr, serving with his special unit, had fallen to his death on the steep coast of Normandy three years earlier. She did some arithmetic. He must have volunteered for this suicide mission just after they parted. She could hear him saying, 'I get vertigo even standing on a kitchen stool.'
You fool, she thought, you dear. dear fool. A wave of tenderness swept over her.
Her boss had work for her that morning, which took her mind off things. The consul-general pointed to an elegant crocodile case bearing the initials F.M. 'Sent to us by the Foreign Ministry. Its owner died a few days ago in an air raid on Berlin: Fernando Mendez, a Spanish diplomat. He and the case were dug out of the ruins of a house on the banks of the Lietzensee, where he'd been spending the night with his girlfriend. Among the few items retrieved was a letter from his parents in Barcelona. Hand it all over to Senor and Senora Mendez, and express condolences from the government of the German Reich,' Dr Kessler told his vice-consul.
So now the case stood open on Detta's desk, and she set about making a list of its contents; she would be asking for a receipt in line with regulations. Blue and white striped silk pyjamas, washing and shaving things, the dead man's diplomatic pass, a half full travel flask of cognac, his parents' letter, and a bar of Sarotti bitter chocolate which had been broken into. She discreetly disposed of a packet of condoms and picked up the phone to arrange her visit. The cleaning lady answered: Senor and Senora Mendez were at their daughter's house in the country.
Detta put the case away in the filing cabinet and turned to some papers. Shaking her head, she read an application from one Federico Vargas for a visa to Germany. This lively little man had already visited her office several times. He was keen to get to Cologne and make business contacts for the future. 'Eau-de-Cologne always sold well here before the war,' he had assured her.
'Rejected!' she wrote right across the application, adding, with more than a touch of sarcasm: 'We recommend the applicant to turn to the British Consulate, now responsible for Cologne and the surrounding area.' She couldn't help smiling. David would have liked that. Then grief got the upper hand again.
She was grateful when Tom Glaser invited her out to dinner that evening. The flight captain was in Barcelona for two days. He was waiting for a spare part for the plane to come from Madrid. 'Is it bad?' he asked with sympathy. She was silently weeping, and he didn't try to comfort her. He had something even worse to tell her. 'Do I get a coffee?' he asked at her front door.
Another time, Tom. I'm very tired.'
'I have news of Hans-Georg,' he said quietly.
Detta was electrified. She let Tom in. It was months since she had heard anything about her brother. After the failed assassination attempt on Hitler, he had disappeared without trace. A secret special mission to the Eastern Front,' was the story spread by the family, although they knew better.
'He joined the Wehrmacht's successful putsch against the SS in Paris, and after that operation was abandoned he went underground at first, with the help of the French Resistance,' Glaser told her. 'I know that from an Air France colleague who's in the Resistance too. But he soon looked like being discovered, and he reached Germany with a transport of wounded men. Somehow or other he made his way home. Even the Gestapo didn't think he'd be crazy enough to hide at Aichborn. That's been his good luck so far. But they've been there twice already looking for him. Detta, it's no use pretending, he's in a hopeless situation. It's only a question of time before they capture him and kill him.'
'Can you get a message to him?'
'I can phone your parents from Berlin. They'll understand me, even if the message is coded. What shall I say?'
'Tell them I'll get Hans-Georg out.'
'You're crazy,' exclaimed the flight captain.
Detta's mouth was set in determination. 'Very likely.'
Dr Kessler had never addressed her by her first name before, nor had he ever spoken to her so frankly. 'Henriette, you can't leave. Germany is in rubble and ashes. The end is just a question of weeks now. Friends in the government have promised that even after we've lost our consular privileges we won't be expelled. It's simple for you. Your family in Madrid is very influential, they'll protect you. You are young, you have plenty of time ahead of you. Everything will get back to normal at home some time.'
'I'm still applying for short-term leave, Consul-General.' said Detta firmly. 'I have to go to Berlin. I'll be back in a few days' time,' she added optimistically.
The Mercedes with the pennant of the German Reich and the CC plate of the Corps Consulaire took Vice-Consul Henriette von Aichborn to Prat de Llobregat airport on the outskirts of Barcelona. The driver carried her bag to Departures. 'You'll be back, won't you, Dona Henrietta?'