‘Won’t you change your mind, Liebchen?’ he asked pleadingly as she stood in the circle of his arms.

‘I can’t, Berthold.’ She touched his cheek lovingly, fighting back her tears. ‘But we won’t be separated for long. Papa says the whole hideous business will be over by Christmas.’

The whistle, which had already blown once, blew again.

‘I must go, Berthold.’ The tears she had so successfully held at bay until now began streaming down her face.

‘Take care of yourself, Liebchen,’ he said, his voice cracking slightly. ‘You need plenty of rest from now until the baby is born. Promise me you will rest. Promise me that you will look after yourself.’

‘Of course I will,’ she said, aware that minutes were now running down into seconds. Josephine was already aboard the train with the children, Max highly excited at the prospect of a train ride and then a sea journey. Grateful that he was too young to understand the nature of this parting from his father, she raised her face one last time for Berthold’s kiss.

It was, as always, loving and gentle and tender. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing that it were not. She yearned for a kiss that expressed raw need of her. Deep passion. Despair. And Berthold, because of his diffident nature, could not respond to her in the violent way she wanted, just as he had not responded to Josef’s takeover of the steelworks and factories in the way she had wanted.

Confused as always by the mixture of love and disappointment he aroused in her, she reluctantly stepped away from him and onto the train. Dreadful as this parting was, there was one consolation. Zelda had suggested Paul leave Berlin with her.

Unlike Max, Paul was old enough to understand the nature of their leave-taking and he too was tearful.

Together they stood at the open window of their compartment, blowing kisses as the Pullman began to ease down the platform. Outwardly, it was just like all the other goodbyes when they had left for Yorkshire. In reality, even ten-year-old Paul knew how different it was.

‘And so Zelda’s taken out German citizenship, has she?’ her father said to her as they had dinner together on the night of her arrival. ‘I’m glad you never did.’

‘I couldn’t. I don’t feel remotely German. I’m English down to my toes.’

He laughed. ‘You’re Yorkshire down to your toes,’ he corrected. ‘And as Yorkshire is God’s own country, it isn’t surprising you haven’t transplanted well elsewhere.’

The next morning, the main story in The Times was of how Serbia had rejected Austria’s ultimatum.

‘Isn’t it odd we might soon be at war with Germany all because of a country so small I can hardly find it on my globe?’ Paul said, lying on his tummy on the drawing room’s faded Aubusson carpet. The globe from her father’s study was in front of him and with his weight resting on his elbows Paul spun it around until he was looking at Europe. ‘The word “Balkans” isn’t even written on here,’ he said plaintively. ‘But look how big Austria-Hungary is, Aunt Vicky. And when it’s joined with Germany, it’s enormous.’