Little White Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

favourite uncle.
    ‘Don’t,’ Sara murmured in an aside to him, as Lionel’s fists clenched involuntarily. ‘Don’t say anything,
mein Liebling
.’
    ‘Mama, this is absurd!’ Lionel hissed. ‘Chin up? He’s
insane
!’
    ‘Shh. Your brothers’ll hear. I’ll see Uncle Abe off, and then let’s you and I have a glass of port together in the study. Calm down, Lionel. It’s not good for your blood pressure.’
    He said nothing but watched her move regally through to the drawing room. His brothers were still arguing mildly over the merits of some play or another. He turned away in disgust. What was the phrase?
All of Rome is burning and the band plays on
. He lit another cigarette and moved again to the window. Outside, seemingly oblivious to the impending doom, snowflakes continued to fall.
    SARA HARBURG
    It was nearly midnight by the time Lionel stopped talking. ‘England?’ Sara put up a hand to nervously touch the locket she wore around her neck. It was a small, uncharacteristic display of weakness. But in her next breath she rallied, caught hold of herself. She was aware of how much he depended on her. ‘England,’ she repeated slowly, but it wasn’t a question this time. ‘Have you spoken to Uncle Paul?’
    He nodded, drawing on his cigarette, taking care not to blow the smoke anywhere near her face. ‘He’s confident he can get us in. But only if we leave soon. We can’t wait any longer, Mama. We’ve got to go.
Now
.’
    Sara nodded slowly. She looked at the room, at the wood-panelled walls laden with bookshelves, pictures, the plump, comfortable furniture; the beautifully aged leather chairs with the red, ruched-silk cushions she’d had specially sewn. Over in the corner, there was the standard lamp with its fringed shade and the gilt and rather gaudy Blackamoor that Uncle Paul had bought at Sotheby’s and brought over to Germany as a gift . . . it was their home.
Her
home.
This
was their life. Generation after generation had worked hard, saved and sacrificed personal gain.
For those that come after
, the mantra by which every man in the Harburg family lived. That they’d come from such humble beginnings had never been forgotten, not like some she knew. You worked hard in this life to provide for those whose turn it was next. And by God, they’d worked hard. What was more, the accumulation of their wealth had nothing to do with the display of it. The Harburgs had
never
flaunted their success, never taken it for granted. That old, ancestral fear of displacement had never quite left them, though in Sara’s generation the fear had been buried, sublimated under the libraries and art collections and the patronage for which she, Sara Harburg, was so renowned.
    But what use was all of that now? What use was a Harburg box at the
Staatsoper
when they were banned from stepping inside? Lionel was right. Slowly but surely the Nazis were stripping them of everything that made them human, made life worth living. Scores of families they knew had left Germany, many of them to Palestine. But, just like Lionel, Sara was alarmed by the thought of leaving the world that she knew – music, good food and wine, conversation, the ballet – for an unknown culture in a corner of the world she knew little about. She had no desire to go to Palestine but she wasn’t delusional, either, like Abe. If others like Max Warburg was talking openly of rescue, Lionel was right. They had to leave. And quickly. And yet . . . every one of her eight children had been born in that house. Leaving this would mean leaving some essential part of herself behind.
    As if sensing her thoughts, Lionel suddenly put out a hand and touched her arm. ‘It’s a hard choice, Mama. God knows. But it’s no choice at all. It’s this . . . or nothing.’
    She looked down at his hand, and then covered it with her own. She nodded slowly. ‘Do what you can, Lionel. Make the preparations. Your brothers won’t come, you know that?’
    ‘I know.