His Majesty's Hope (15 page)

David stared. He knew that “gross indecency” was illegal. If his actions were found out, he could be arrested and imprisoned, even do hard labor. Since “friends of Dorothy” were widely diagnosed as diseased, they were often “cured” with castration, lobotomies, pudendal nerve surgery, and electroshock treatment. And while at Oxford most looked away, in London, especially working in government, one had to be careful. Extremely careful. “I’m sorry if … I’ve offended you. Truly.”

“
You
don’t offend me,” Rosamund clarified. “But your behavior does. Color-coded pocket squares to signal interest to absolute strangers. Foot positions in public lavatories. It’s disgusting. It’s unnatural. An abomination in the eyes of God.”

David recoiled as if struck. “You’ve heard from God on this, then?”

“I’ve heard from the Rabbi. God expects us to be chaste and reserve … that sort of thing … for marriage. Within the context of marriage, it’s a
mitzvah
. And marriage can only be between a man and a woman.”

“So why did you say yes to my dinner invitation? Why subject yourself to my company, if it’s so distasteful to you?”

Rosamund looked across the room to summon their waiter. “First of all, because my parents asked me to, and I didn’t want to tell them why I didn’t want to. They don’t know anything about your … proclivities, and I don’t want to be the one to shatter their illusions. Second, because I wanted a chance to tell you how I felt, after all those years of humiliation at Oxford. And third, because I’m absolutely sick of rationing.” She looked up at the hovering waiter. “I’ll have the roast, please. Rare.”

The next morning, Elise did as she had promised Father Licht, and snuck into the record-keeping rooms of Charité Hospital. There, she found drawer upon drawer of records of Charité’s patients deemed “unfit for life.” All had been dispatched to Hadamar.

Within each file was abundant paperwork. Notification of admission to the Hadamar Institute. A letter to the parents, reporting a fake illness, such as pneumonia. Then the real death report, for Nazi eyes only. A death notification with the false reasons. The death certificate. Letter to the parents about the dispatch of the urn. And often, correspondence, sometimes tearstained and written with a shaky hand, from the parents, pleading for more information about what had happened.

In the files, Elise also found a letter from the Führer—the official letter, which gave Dr. Brandt and the other doctors their go-ahead
for the mass murders. It was dated—backdated?—from the day Germany declared war.

God help me
, Elise prayed. With shaking hands, heart thudding, she made copies of the papers, wrinkling her nose at the stench of the sulfur used to make reverse-image photocopies.

As she was copying, the door opened. “Nurse Hess!” she heard. “What are you doing in here?”

Elise startled and tried not to panic at the sight of Nurse Flint. “Oh, um, Dr. Brandt asked me if I could try to fix the photocopy machine. He said it was broken.”

Nurse Flint cocked one eyebrow. “There are protocols for handling a broken photocopy machine and you know that. And we must follow them.
Ordnung muβ sein!
”

Elise smiled her brightest. “I think I almost have it, Nurse Flint.”

“How would you feel if one of the technicians tried to perform a nurse’s duties?” She clapped her hands. “Step away from the machine, Nurse Hess.”

Before she did so, Elise tried to gather up the papers she had been copying.

“Hand them to me,” Nurse Flint ordered. She was taller than Elise and outweighed her by at least sixty pounds. It suddenly seemed close and hot in the room.

Elise handed over the files.

“Nurse Hess, these are confidential records. Why on earth would you be making copies?”

“As I said, I was fixing the photocopy machine.”

Nurse Flint’s eyes narrowed. “There seems to be nothing wrong with it.”

Elise tried to pull up the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Well, of course there isn’t—I fixed it.”

Nurse Flint threw the papers into a nearby bin. “Don’t do it again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nurse Flint seized Elise by the elbow and steered her out of the records room. Elise knew that her mission—or at least this particular attempt—had failed.

In another wing of Charité, Herr Mystery, also known as Patient No. 1564, was lying silently, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling.

The most pertinent thing about his case now was that he seemed to be unable to speak—even though there was no damage to his vocal cords that any of the doctors could find. “Shell shock,” Dr. Brandt called it. “Battle trauma.” It could be permanent, the doctors said—or it could go away at any moment.

Elise believed that all Herr Mystery needed was someone to talk to. And so, when she checked on his vital signs, she made sure to keep speaking to him. “It’s a beautiful day today,” she said, as she took his pulse with warm, steady hands. “You wouldn’t know it in here, but the rhododendrons in the Tiergarten are blooming.”

She opened the dressing on his wound. “Ah, that’s healing nicely,” she soothed as she removed the gauze and taped on fresh. “You’ll begin to feel like your old self in no time.” As she said the
words, she watched his eyes, his pupils. He understood her; she was certain of it. She could tell by his reactions, even though he pretended to ignore her. Even though he looked afraid.

She lifted his head and plumped his pillow. “There now,” she said, settling him back down. “I’ll ask the doctor when we can have you sit up. Once you can do that, we can get you into a chair and I’ll push you outside. Fresh air and sunshine—won’t that be nice? Certainly nicer than in here.”

Herr Mystery reached out and put his hand on her forearm. He looked into her eyes. Elise could see his gratitude.

“You’re welcome.” She patted his hand. “I’ll be back to take your vitals again in a few hours.”

After work, Elise went straight to visit Father Licht in his office at St. Hedwig’s.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t get the files. I was so close. I was actually making the copies—and then I was caught.” She shuddered at the memory.

“I don’t want you to put yourself in danger,” Father Licht said.

“Well, I’m the one who has to see that bus leave, filled with children, every day,” Elise countered, crossing herself, “knowing full well where it’s going and what’s going to happen.”

Father Licht nodded grimly. “But if you suspect they’re on to you … I know your mother is quite high up in the party, but even she might not be able to help you …”

“My mother has nothing to do with this,” Elise said. “I’m the one who has to live with my knowledge. I’m the one who chooses to do something. I believe it’s what God would want.”

“Then, may God be with you, my child.” He rose and put on his jacket. “And now I’m afraid I must leave.”

“Where are you going?” Elise asked.

He smiled. “Bible study group.”

Father Licht’s weekly Bible study was held at the home of the widow Hannah von Solf.

Secretly, however, it comprised a Berlin-based Nazi resistance circle. They came from all walks of life: barons and shopkeepers, Catholic priests and Lutheran pastors and Communist atheists, factory owners and trade unionists. The disparate men were united by their hatred of Nazism and their desire to end Hitler’s regime. Their membership, which had begun with only a few in 1936, had grown to more than twenty. And they all knew that if they were ever discovered, they would be murdered by the Gestapo—no questions asked.

Father Licht sat down next to Gottlieb Lehrer in Frau von Solf’s salon. The furniture and décor were art deco, all angles and symmetry. Most of the men were substantial, and it looked as if the delicate chairs they sat on would give way at any moment.

There were twelve members present. Frau von Solf motioned for a young maid to put down a tray of
Pfannkuchen
, dusted with powdered sugar. “I’ll pour the tea, Helga,” the Frau von Solf said to the maid. “You may go.”

After she had served the caraway tea and the men had helped themselves to pastry, she called the meeting to order. “Herr Lehrer,” she said to Gottlieb, “would you please begin?”

Gottlieb looked at the pale faces surrounding him. “I am pleased to say that our friend from Britain arrived safely.”

There was a round of applause.

“And our radio operator now has the crystals he needs.”

“Excellent,” Frau von Solf said, clapping her ring-laden hands together.

“However, we still have to plant the bug in Frau Hess’s study.”

“Isn’t her Fire and Ice Ball tomorrow night?” asked Frau von Solf.

“Yes,” Gottlieb answered. “And I have concerns. She’s inexperienced—”

“She?”
said Herr Zunder, a Lutheran minister at the Berliner Dom. “A
woman?
”

“That was my reaction, too,” Gottlieb replied.

“A
woman
,” Frau von Solf said drily. “My word.”

The men didn’t pick up on her sarcasm.

“According to our plan,” continued Gottlieb, “she’ll plant a bug in the study at Frau Hess’s villa, then return to Britain the following night. Although, as I’ve said, I have concerns. She’s done one or two minor things in Britain—but this is her first foreign mission. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be there to make sure the microphone is set.”

“I will pray for her,” Licht said. “And you, too—that your mission is successful.”

“I will pray as well,” said Herr Zunder.

Frau von Solf wiped powdered sugar off her lip with a linen napkin. “And Father Licht, what do you have to report?”

“I have a source at Charité Hospital. This person may be able to gain access to some of Dr. Brandt’s files.”

“You’re sure Bishop von Preysing will speak out?”

“If we have irrefutable proof, yes, Frau von Solf,” Licht replied. “As well as Bishop Michael von Faulhaber of Munich, Bishop Clemens August Graf von Galen of Münster, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer of the Confessing Church.”

“Excellent. And Herr Zunder, what news have you?” And so they talked, drinking tea, long into the night.

When Elise returned home to Grunewald, she knew what she had to do. Maybe she couldn’t get the files—or couldn’t
yet
get the files—but she might be able to save a life or two.

The attic of her home was large and unused, except for storage. No one ever went up there—only the maids, once a year, to retrieve the Christmas decorations. But Christmas seemed a lifetime away. The room could easily be cleaned out and the old trunks and broken furniture moved to one side, in order to make a habitable living space.

When her mother was out of the house and the maids thought she was at the hospital, Elise snuck back upstairs, where she scrubbed and straightened—careful, though, of every footstep. The attic had trapped the heat of the summer days and the air was difficult to breathe.
How many can I hide?
she wondered as she leaned on her mop. She was tired and dusty, her dress covered by a filthy apron and a kerchief covering her hair.

There was one bed up in the attic already, a double, which Elise made sure no mice were nesting in. So that was room for two. But maybe one more?

She found an old roll-up mattress with navy-blue ticking stripes she’d once used for a camping trip with the Bund Deutscher Mädel. It was thin, and the floor was hard, but still …

There were a few chamber pots, left over from the old days.
Well, they’re going to have to do
, Elise decided.
The children will need fresh sheets and towels. A change of clothes. A supply of water and food …

Am I insane?
She remembered all too well how it felt to have the SS men pin her against the wall, while the other two aimed their weapons at her. But then she thought of Gretel. And Friedrich. And the others.

Satisfied the attic was at last habitable, she tiptoed out.