Berlin
27 February, 1933
Max looked at his watch, and a sinking realisation that he was late plunged through him. His heavily pregnant wife was surely expressing her disappointment at this moment to her family. It was past nine and the time had got away from him. In his defence, slim as it was, he’d warned her that he had a meeting after work. Despite this, she’d insisted on calling together her parents and sisters for Jonas’s birthday celebration.
‘You don’t have to be home for all of it. Just be back in time to see everyone,’ Rachel had pleaded softly. ‘Jonas will be asleep within an hour of them all arriving anyway.’
She rarely made demands on him. Theirs was a gentle, peaceful relationship. Two inherently quiet people had found each other; her laughter was a balm to his remoteness, and they always found plenty of amusement and love to share . . . especially for their son, turning three.
‘So the celebration is really for you,’ he’d teased.
‘Of course. Any excuse to celebrate his life. Consider yourself lucky I’m not that religious or we’d be cutting his hair for the first time and having quite the ritual gathering.’
He pulled a face at the thought. ‘I will be late, but I’ll get home as fast as I can.’
‘Thank you.’ She kissed him and then stroked his face, lingering. ‘I love you, Max.’
‘Mmm. Well, if that’s on tonight’s menu, I’ll definitely try to cut the meeting short.’
She laughed. ‘Is that meeting really so important?’
He sighed. ‘It is, I’m sorry. The expansion of our rail network waits for no one.’ He planted a peck on her cheek. ‘Be good for your mother, Jonas,’ he said, crouching to kiss his son’s head. Jonas managed a chubby wave and a beaming smile that showed off his glimmering infant teeth, now a complete set…
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