Berthold’s Christmas letter to her mercifully escaped the attention of the censor.

Dearest Liebchen,

Christmas without you is not Christmas at all. Give all our darling children a big hug and a kiss from their loving papa. I have carved Max a wooden horse big enough for him to ride on.

I would like to think I will soon be giving it to him here, in Berlin, but, despite all the propaganda we are being ceaselessly exposed to in Germany, the war news is grim. Those who told us the war would be over by Christmas were fools. The trenches now stretch from Switzerland to the North Sea. How can any decisive battles take place when both sides are permanently and miserably dug in? Josef thinks the answer lies in the use of big guns—and if big guns should bring an end to things speedily, perhaps he is right. I’ll say no more about it, Liebchen, because I know how painful you find any reference to munitions production.

Domestically, things are well with Zelda and Josef. She is expecting another baby in the summer. Perhaps this time it will be a girl and, if it is, there will be very little age difference between her and Nancy. Perhaps in a year’s time they will be sharing a pram together as you take them for a walk in the Tiergarten.

All my love, dearest darling.

Your lonely Berthold

Only after rereading it several times did she put it in the sandalwood box in her dressing-table drawer with all his other letters.

That evening she said to her father, ‘Berthold writes that Josef believes big guns are the answer for a speedy ending of the war. What does he mean by “big”? Does he mean cannon?’

‘I don’t know, my dear.’ Her father looked deeply worried. ‘But even with letters being sent via New York he shouldn’t be mentioning in them things that, were they to be opened and read by the censor, could have disastrous consequences for you. So far it has escaped official notice that you are married to a German but if it became known, and especially if the connection was made that your husband is the Berthold Remer of the House of Remer, you would be immediately interned. Caution Berthold never to mention arms of any kind ever again. Things are bad enough at the moment without them being made worse.’

It was advice she took to heart. The number of Germans living in England who had been interned ran into thousands. On the streets anyone with a German surname, even if British-born, risked being attacked by anti-German mobs. That she had been spared any such hideousness was, she knew, only because she lived in a village where she had been known since birth and where her father was greatly respected.

‘And because you came straight home,’ Josephine pointed out to her pragmatically. ‘Yorkshire folk aren’t daft. They know where your loyalties lie and that’s all that matters to them.’