His Majesty's Hope (21 page)

David and Freddie were at the Ritz Hotel for dinner, with Daphne Brooks and her girlfriend, Kay McQuire. David and Freddie looked dapper in their dinner jackets and black tie, Daphne in a sunny yellow gown that set off her blond ringlets, and Kay in trousers with a white silk blouse with the collar open at the throat and cuff links at the wrists. Her short brown hair was glossed back with Brylcreem.

“Another bottle of fizz, if you please,” David called to one of the waiters hovering nearby, as yet another cleared their dishes.

The waiter removed the empty bottle from the stand, dripping with the melted ice. “Yes, sir.”

“A girl could get used to this.” Daphne leaned back in her velvet chair and sighed with contentment. In the formal dining room of the Ritz, with its thick carpets, heavy draperies, and glittering chandeliers reflected in panels of mirrors, the war seemed—at least for the moment—worlds away.

David and Freddie exchanged glances. “Well,” David said, as the waiter returned with a newly opened bottle of champagne and began refilling their glasses, “that’s actually one of the things we wanted to talk to you about.”

Kay raised an eyebrow and took out a cigarette. Freddie reached for his Evans lighter and lit it for her. “Thanks, darling,” she said, taking a long drag.

David cleared his throat. He reached for his champagne, raising the glass to his dry lips and taking a nervous swallow. “We … have a business proposition for you.”

The two women looked at each other. “Well, you certainly have our attention,” Daphne said.

“You see,” David continued, “there now seems to be a little issue about my trust and my inheritance. Where once everything seemed quite straightforward, now there are … strings attached.”

Kay shrugged. “How could that possibly have anything to do with us?” Daphne asked.

“Good question! Here’s the thing—”

Freddie sighed. “Would you get to the point, please?”

“Oh, merciful Minerva!” David glared at him. “In a nutshell, ladies, unless I get married, I’ll forfeit my trust and my inheritance. As you well know, the blessed state of holy matrimony was never something I ever aspired to—” He stopped, looking over at Freddie.

“Stay on topic,” Freddie admonished.

“And so I was wondering—hoping, that is—that one of you two ladies might consent to enter into it—as a business arrangement—with me.” David took a deep breath. “Wherein one of you would agree to marry me and pose as my wife. All the while free to live her own life, of course. Just as I would mine.”

Daphne giggled. “And did you have one of us in particular in mind?”

David gave an impish smile. “The choice would be like poor Paris’s—a man surrounded by goddesses.”

“And the golden apple at stake,” Kay said. She thought for a moment, her ruby lips pursed, then reached over for Daphne’s hand. “We’re in a good place, David. We have a two-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury—of course, one bedroom’s just for show. Our landlady thinks we’re old maids, who are also the best of friends. We have our tribe of like-minded women, go to the theater, go to dinner parties, write, support candidates. We’re ARP street wardens, for goodness’ sake. We have made, against all odds, a life together. A
good
life.”

“Of course,” David agreed. “And Freddie and I hope to do the same. This … marriage … would be in name only. A few family functions to attend.”

“That’s all?” Kay asked skeptically.

“Well, there would be the conversion, of course …”

“Convert?” Daphne gasped. “To Judaism?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m an Anglican.”

“There’s also the small matter of”—David paused delicately—“an heir.”

Kay and Daphne met eyes, shocked. Without words, the two women came to an understanding. “No,” Kay said finally, turning a cold stare to David. “No. We’re not about to sell our integrity—not to mention even
think
about bringing another human life into the world—merely to save your precious pocket money.”

She stood and threw her linen napkin on the table. Daphne stood, too. “We may not be as rich as you, but we work for a living, and we’re able to support ourselves,” she said. “We live as we want—more or less. I’d rather have toast and beans at home, with the woman I love, than all the champagne at the Ritz. Come on, Kay—we’re going.”

The two women swept out, leaving whispers and stares in their
wake. David and Freddie looked at each other. “Well,” Freddie deadpanned, lifting his champagne coupe to his lips. “That went well.”

David looked up and caught their waiter’s eye. “The bill, please,” he said glumly.

“You have company,” Elise said to John when she and Ernst reached the attic.

John sat up in his bed, taking in both Elise and Ernst. Ernst spoke first. “Ernst Klein. Rogue Jew. Pleased to meet you.”

“John Sterling, injured British pilot. Pleased to meet you, too,” he said in broken German.

“Well then,” Elise said. “Ernst, you take the roll-up mattress on the floor there. I’ll get you some clean sheets and blankets. I’ll also bring up a washbasin and then some dinner.”

“You’re taking too great a risk, Elise,” Ernst warned.

“Mother’s rarely home, and doesn’t pay much attention to me when she is. Neither do the servants. There’s always a lot of food around—most of it goes to waste anyway. You two just rest. I’ll set everything up, and then we can make plans tonight.”

Ernst’s eyes filled with tears. “I can never thank you enough …”

“Yes,” John said, “how can we ever repay you?”

“Let’s just focus on getting you both out,” Elise whispered firmly. “And Ernst, would you please take a look at John’s incision? It seems to be healing well, but you’re the surgeon, after all. And for heaven’s sake—be quiet.”

Frieda was unable to think, unable to breathe. Ernst was at Clara Hess’s home. This was no game; his life was on the line. She loved
Elise, but she also thought her friend was naïve, spoiled, and unaware of the terrible danger Jews were in. He would be safe for what—a few days, maybe? And then what? What if a servant heard a footstep, or wondered where all the bread was going? What would happen to Ernst then?

Frieda changed out of her nurse’s uniform in the locker room and dressed quickly, pinning on her hat in the mirror by the door. It wasn’t as if she had a plan in mind. She just walked out of the hospital and then kept walking.

“I’m here to see Frau Hess,” Frieda announced at the Abwehr, after showing her identity card to the guards at the entrance.

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

“Frau Hess will want to see me.”

“What is this concerning?”

Frieda’s voice didn’t waver. “Her daughter. Elise.”

“And who are you again?” Clara Hess was at her desk, going over reports. She looked up as Frieda entered, taking in the younger woman’s worn dress and scuffed shoes. “How do you know my daughter?”

“Frau Hess, my name is Frieda Klein, and I work with your daughter, Elise, at Charité Hospital.”

“I’m an extremely busy woman, Fräulein Klein—what is this about?”

Frieda took a tremulous breath. “Has Elise ever … ever spoken about me? Or my husband?”

Clara blinked. She put down her silver pen and looked Frieda in the eye. “You’re the nurse who married the Jew,” she said, putting
the pieces together. “I’m sorry, but I work in Intelligence—I have nothing to do with deportations.”

“I’m not here to talk about my husband,” Frieda insisted. “Or, at least not directly. I’m here to talk about Elise. What she’s been doing.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed. “My daughter? What
has
she been doing?”

“Something that—if it were found out—would bring great embarrassment to the Abwehr. And to you, in particular.”

Clara leaned back in her leather chair. Her gaze was cold. “I’m listening.”

“I will tell you everything I know,” Frieda continued. “But only on the condition that Ernst won’t be hurt in any way. That he won’t be sent away. Save him—and I’ll tell you everything.”

“My dear,” Clara said with an icy smile. “Why don’t you sit down?”

That night, Maggie and Gottlieb had another argument.

“You’re still here?” he asked, coming back to the apartment at the end of the day. He’d been to Mass at St. Hedwig’s and then to the Berlin Boxing Club, to take his anger out on their heavy bags and several unfortunate sparring partners.

Maggie met his gaze. “Yes, I’m staying to do the interview. And if I get the job, I’ll be staying indefinitely.”

“You,” he said, stabbing a finger at her, “are a reckless fool!”

His rising temper caused his face to turn red. Even his oversized ears were red.

Maggie was stunned by his intensity. “No, I’m not,” she countered. “It’s exactly what I was trained to do. Appraise a situation and act accordingly.”

“Those are not your orders!” Gottlieb exploded. “You’re supposed to follow orders!”

Maggie was becoming frightened, but knew she couldn’t show it. If she showed any fear or uncertainty, she’d be on the next SOE plane to England. “My orders have room for improvisation,” she retorted. “I’ve already given word I won’t need a pickup tomorrow, and that I’ll send word on Tuesday.”

“Every day you stay here, every message we transmit, puts us all in danger!”

Maggie’s temper finally snapped. She’d had it with Gottlieb, with the Nazis, with all of Germany, with its stupid protocols, cruel rigidity, and endless rules. How could anyone with any sense have let it get this bad? “It wouldn’t be necessary for me to be here at all if you people had stood up to Hitler in ’thirty-three.” There, it was ugly, and she’d said it. It was out.

Gottlieb looked as stunned as if she had slapped him. “They wouldn’t just hurt us, you know. They’d hurt our families first. I have a mother and three sisters. Do you think I want to see them questioned by the Gestapo? Tortured? Beheaded?”

Maggie instantly regretted her impulsive outburst. Of course it wasn’t just Gottlieb at risk. She was jeopardizing all the people he cared for, the people he loved. “I’m sorry, Gottlieb. I’m sorry that your family’s in danger. I’m sorry your country has been led astray by these monsters.”

“Germany’s not the only country with monsters,” he countered, enunciating each word furiously. “You in America have the Ku Klux Klan, Henry Ford, and Father Coughlin—it’s not as if the United States is a utopia of any sort. And let’s not forget the MS
St. Louis
.”

Maggie flushed. He was right, of course. “But that’s why we need to act—why
I
need to act. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gottlieb. To the men in those positions, we secretaries, janitors,
cleaning ladies, receptionists—we’re all invisible. They simply don’t see us. We’re there to be used, no more human than a telephone, or a typewriter. And because they think we’re the same as furniture, they let slip all kinds of things around us.”

“Not Germans.”

“Germans, too,” Maggie countered.

Gottlieb stood and went to the kitchen cupboard. He reached for a bottle and two glasses. “You are
not
doing this. You’re not putting yourself, and the few members of the resistance we have, in danger.”

“Gottlieb—I’m smart, I’m trained, and I have the courage to do this.”

He sat down on the sofa and poured brown liquid into both of the glasses. “Brandy,” he said, holding one glass out to her.

Maggie accepted it. She and Gottlieb both swallowed. Maggie’s throat burned. But she did feel a tiny bit better.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

“No.”

Gottlieb finished his own drink, then poured another. “Sit down. Please.”

Maggie sat, but as far away from him as the sofa would allow.

“You asked me, in the Tiergarten, if I believed in evil,” he continued. “Ten years ago, I would have said no—that there’s no such thing as ‘evil,’ just the absence of God’s love. However, since then, I’ve changed my mind. I do believe in evil. I do believe in Satan. I believe that we all are in hell here—in Berlin, in Germany—and the reason we are is that we didn’t speak up sooner. There are things going on … It’s not just the invasions, the conquering.”

“The Jews,” Maggie said. “Yes, we all know. We heard about Kristallnacht.”

Gottlieb winced. “No, you don’t, or at least you don’t know the half of it. Back in the early thirties, many people saw Nazism as an
answer to Communism, to atheism—and thought that, with the Nazis, we could fix the economy and keep our churches. Well, they’ve let us hang on to our churches, but as soon as the war is over, they’ll demolish them, too. They want a pagan, warrior society. With no room for love, for empathy, for compassion.”

“Yes, I
know
that.” Maggie swallowed more brandy.

“No, you still don’t know the full extent of the horror. They’re killing children. They’ve started killing large numbers of German children who are mad or deaf or dumb. Or missing an arm or a leg. Or drooling. Or ‘disruptive.’ They’re sending them to special hospitals and gassing them.”

“What?” Maggie blinked. She heard the words but couldn’t comprehend them.

“I’m telling you—they’re killing children. And now they have all these Jews out of Germany, in concentration camps in Poland. What do you think they’re going to do with them? They can barely feed them now—what about this winter?”

Maggie was silent.

“There are stories about the Nazis setting up a Jewish colony in Madagascar—more like a police state. But I’ve heard about what’s going on, in the ghettos, in the camps. They’re working them to exhaustion. Then they’re shooting them, rounding them up and shooting them, and dumping the bodies into mass graves. But—if they’re willing to gas children—how long do you think it will take them to start gassing the Jews?”

“They’re killing …” Maggie finally managed to say, “children?” Her brain felt paralyzed. “Why?” was the only word she could find.

“Do you know anything about art?” Gottlieb asked.

“Art?” Maggie made her frozen head nod.
What on earth does art have to do with killing children?

“When the Nazis came into power, they had an enormous exhibit
of the so-called degenerate art of the Jews and Communists. It was ugly. The painting, the sculptures were about war, and the brutality of war. The wounds of the injured. The pain of death. About the agony of the living. It was the art of the avant-garde. This art was seen as the violence of the Jews and Bolsheviks—often considered one and the same—against the German people.