‘War trials?’ She took her hand out of her muff, brushing snow away from her face. ‘But war trials won’t affect Berthold. He isn’t a soldier…isn’t a general…

‘He’s a member of the House of Remer and so a producer of armaments. It will be enough.’

She sucked in her breath.

‘I heard it spoken of and thought I should warn you. Prepare you.’

The shock was so overwhelming she swung away from him, stumbling.

He caught hold of her arm.

She half fell against him, her distress so great at the thought of Berthold standing in a dock alongside war criminals that tears streamed down her face. ‘He’s a kind, gentle, vulnerable man,’ she said in a choked voice as he steadied her. ‘Nothing so bad could happen to him. God wouldn’t let it happen.’

She knew the instant she said it, what a foolish thing it had been to say. None of the millions maimed and dead had deserved what had happened to them. The war wasn’t of God’s making and neither were the consequences.

Struggling for self-control she turned away from him, beginning to walk as quickly as the snow would allow, glad that he’d had the sense not to make a response to her idiotic outburst.

As they stepped onto the terrace he said, ‘I won’t come in again. Give my best wishes to your father and to Max and Paul.’

She fought the temptation to throw her arms around his neck. Instead, she said stiffly, ‘Yes. Of course I will. Goodbye, Adam. Good luck.’

He hesitated, as if about to say something, and then merely nodded and turned away from her, walking across the terrace towards the path leading to the drive, his hands deep in the pockets of his snow-covered overcoat, his broad shoulders hunched.

In March, Russia sued for a separate peace with Germany and in April, Germany hammered the Allies at Arras. One weekend, when Paul and Max were home, the little flags on the large map moved constantly. And not in the right direction.

‘We’re being pushed back towards the Channel,’ Vicky heard Paul say bleakly, and then Max said in an uncertain voice, ‘I suppose…I suppose that Papa and Uncle Josef will be pleased.’

In July, her father stood brooding over the map and then said to her, ‘We’re no longer moving backwards, Vicky. We’re moving forwards. Blow me, but I think this bally war might be moving to a conclusion.’

Paul thought so too. ‘The Germans are withdrawing from the Marne,’ he said, repositioning flags with the aid of the latest information in that day’s Times. ‘I think we’ve got the Kaiser on the run, Aunt Vicky.’

He was right. Suddenly, the mood in the country became fiercely optimistic. Talk of the ‘final push’ was on everyone’s lips.

With American forces pouring into battle in huge numbers and fighting with great heroism, the flags on Paul’s map which represented the German army ebbed backwards farther and farther.

August gave way to September and there began to be rumours of a surrender. By the end of October, Germany was living in the shadow of defeat and Austria’s empire was disintegrating fast.