It had been like being on a roller-coaster ride and one of her hopes for the evening ahead was that Max, who always seemed to know what was going on, would be able to cast a little light on things that still mystified and troubled her.

Ilse surveyed her reflection in the glass, knowing it was perfect and, because she had very little vanity, not being much impressed by the fact. Instead of thinking about herself she was wondering if Max would be staying at the Unter den Linden mansion and spending time with his father while he was in Berlin. At one time there would have been no question but that he would have been staying in what was, after all, his family home. Over the last couple of years, though, he had begun staying in other places as well. Sometimes he stayed with Hugo and Hester. Sometimes he stayed a couple of nights with Hester’s parents, the Dresners, enjoying suppers of fried chicken and potato latkes. Sometimes he stayed with friends of dubious character, such as his friend Fritz, a former Brownshirt. He had friends all over Berlin and they came from every circle of Berlin society. When he had rung her to say he was back in Berlin he had totally surprised her by saying he was doing so from her parents’ new apartment in Charlottenburg.

Sometimes—and her tummy muscles tightened at the thought—he stayed with Lotti.

She rose to her feet and crossed the room in order to take her evening bag from one of the shelves of her wardrobe.

Even though she knew Max and Lotti were only good friends—best friends—she couldn’t help the panic she felt at the prospect of that friendship turning into something deeper, as Nancy and Claus’s friendship had. The idea of being jealous of her much-loved sister was too unbearable to contemplate.

She put a lipstick, a compact, an embroidered handkerchief and a small phial of Je Reviens into her handbag and snapped it shut.

She mustn’t think of Max falling in love with anyone. She must just be glad he was once again in Berlin and that at any minute he would be taking the steps of the mansion’s bronze and marble staircase two at a time in order to tell her he had arrived and it was time for them to be leaving.

It wasn’t Max who arrived first, though; it was Vladimir.

The butler led him into the grand drawing room and, by the time she joined him, he was halfway through a whisky and soda.

‘You look—breathtaking,’ he said as she welcomed him.

Ilse gave him the benefit of her slow, sweet smile. Everyone told her she looked breathtaking, but her looks meant very little to her except in so far as they were useful where her classical acting ambitions were concerned. Unworldly about things as she often was, even she knew Gustav Gründgens would not have taken such an interest in her if it hadn’t been for her extraordinarily angelic looks.