His Majesty's Hope (24 page)

Maggie brushed her hair, turned out the light, and crawled into bed. Although the bed was soft and the linen pillowcases smelled like lavender, it was hard to feel sleepy as she lay wondering who’d slept there before, where that person was now.

But they’d warned her against that. Think in German, breathe in German, sleep in German,
be
German.… It was sweltering and the room was stuffy. Maggie tossed and turned.
It would be easier if I wasn’t sleeping in a bed I suspect belonged to a deported Jew
, Maggie thought.
SOE didn’t cover this
.

She realized she wasn’t angry with Gottlieb. No, Gottlieb was one of the brave few working against the Nazis. He’d taken an enormous risk in taking her in, and even though she was gone, her association with him did put him, and his group, in continued danger.
It will be worth it, Gottlieb
, Maggie thought.
I know it
. Then,
It
will
be worth it—right?

The room was dark, blackout curtains pulled tightly shut. All Maggie could hear was the wind in the birch trees near the window and, distantly, the drone of planes. She remembered Princess Lilibet and Princess Margaret at Windsor Castle—they’d been able to identify each plane by the sound of its engine, saying “theirs” or “ours” as the aircraft passed overhead.

What if I should have gone back?
Maggie thought, starting to doubt herself. What was it she’d said to Noreen before she’d left?
“Piece of cake.” Ha! What a fool I was
, Maggie thought.
This is no game
.

She turned and pulled the sheet over her head, braced for nightmares.

Maggie was unprepared for the sight of Alexandra Oberg the next morning in the sunroom.

Alexandra was slender, with blond braids and enormous sea-blue eyes. She also had an unmistakably burgeoning belly underneath her loose-fitting tea gown. She ran her hands over her bump possessively. Maggie guessed that the girl was at least in her third trimester, if not close to her due date, and suddenly realized why she might need a “companion.”

“
Guten morgen
, Fräulein Oberg,” Maggie said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alexandra carefully lowered herself into one of the parlor chairs. “So, how is Papa treating you?” she asked.

“I haven’t had too much to do with your father, actually.”

“He’s worried about me,” Alexandra said, matter-of-factly. “And about the baby. Sit down, please.”

Maggie did. “How far along are you?”

“Thirty-five weeks. Feels like thirty-five months at this point.”

Alexandra’s face was pale and bloated, and her ankles were swollen. But she had a lovely smile. “I was making packages for the front, for a while,” she told Maggie. “But now my doctor wants me to stay at home. Bed rest.”

Maggie had heard of such things in late-stage pregnancy. “High blood pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you lie down on the sofa and we’ll put your feet up. That will help the swelling.”

With a grunt, the girl raised herself, then waddled to the sofa, slipped off her shoes, and slowly lowered herself. Maggie took a number of needlepoint cushions and slid them under her charge’s feet to elevate them. “I’m supposed to be like this all day, but I get so bored,” Alexandra said. “Still, I know I’m lucky.”

“Oh?” Maggie said, trying to sound neutral. She’d never heard of an unwed mother refer to herself as “lucky.”

“I’m a ‘bride of Hitler’—carrying a baby for the Fatherland. It’s the greatest honor a racially pure woman can have.” Alexandra’s face fell slightly. “Even if my father doesn’t quite see it that way. But it’s every German woman’s duty—to bear as many children as possible for the Führer.” She patted her belly. “His father is Aryan—Nordic, of course. And after I’ve delivered I will give the child up to the
Lebensborn
.” The girl’s eyes shone with resolve.

“And the father?”

“He’s in the East, at the Russian front. An officer,” she said proudly. “He is doing his duty, and I am doing mine.”

“Were you … in love with him?”

“Gods, no!” Alexandra laughed. “We were at
Mädchen
camp and there was a party, a big bonfire with the Hitler Youth … Well,” she said, finally blushing, “you can imagine what happened.”

Maggie blinked, trying to take it all in. “Would you like anything to drink? Eat? Do you need a blanket?”

“Oh, I’m fine now that you’re here.” Alexandra closed her eyes. “Maybe you could read to me? There’s a copy of the
Frauen Warte
on the table there—would you read one of the articles?”

Maggie picked it up, a weekly Nazi magazine for women. On the cover was a drawing of massive German artillery, taking aim at
a map of Great Britain. The cover caption read,
The Rhythm of Labor Resounds Again in Our Nation’s Factories! We Have Clenched the Fist That Will Force England to the Ground!

Maggie fought a shudder. “Perhaps something lighter?”

“There’s a piece about German women,” Alexandra said, laying her arm over her eyes and settling in. “I’d like to hear that again.”

“Of course,
gnädiges Fr
ä
ulein.
” And so Maggie read aloud,
“We Women in the Struggle for Germany’s Renewal”
—and tried to keep herself from screaming.

Evening Mass at St. Hedwig’s ended with Father Licht’s daily final blessing:
“I pray for the priests in the concentration camps, for the Jews, for the non-Aryans. What happened yesterday, we know. What will happen tomorrow, we don’t. But what happened today, we lived through. Outside, the Synagogue is burning. It, too, is a house of God …”

Afterward, Father Licht found Elise. “And how are our friends doing?” the priest asked.

“Not too badly, considering,” she replied.

“Come, child,” Licht said. “Let’s go to my office. We can talk in private.”

Gottlieb Lehrer was already there. He stood as soon as he saw Elise.

“Elise, this is Gottlieb Lehrer. Gottlieb, Nurse Elise Hess.”

“Guten tag,”
Elise said. She looked at him closely. “Haven’t we—”

“—we met at the party,” Gottlieb said. “Yes—Clara Hess’s party. You assisted my girlfriend when she fainted. I’m grateful for your help,
gnädiges Fräulein.
”

“Of course,” Elise said, taking a seat.

“You’re Clara Hess’s daughter?” Gottlieb shook his head. “I don’t envy you.”

“And your escort that night, Margareta Hoffman—is she really your girlfriend, or one of us?”

Gottlieb smiled thinly. “The less you know, Fräulein Hess, the safer you are.”

Father Licht put his elbows on his desk and made a steeple of his hands. “Elise, Gottlieb is one of the people I work with on various projects, including transporting Jews to safety in Switzerland.”

“Really?” Elise said, leaning forward. “How have you been able to manage that?”

“I’ve been working with Dietrich Bonhoeffer at the Abwehr,” Gottlieb replied. “In short, the German reputation for mistreating Jews has started to get out and Goebbels wants to control Germany’s image. And so, to counteract this, we select some Jews to go to Switzerland, talk about how wonderfully they’re treated, how excited they are to go to Poland and then Madagascar—and then, well, somehow they just disappear.”

“Disappear?” Elise frowned.

“Of course we make sure they’re provided with money, papers, safe houses, and so on,” Gottlieb assured her. “We’ve been able to get a number of Jews out this way but not enough. And we can’t keep it up forever.”

“Well, I have two men I need to get out—what assistance can you offer?”

“We’re aware of the great sacrifice you’re making, Elise, and we’re looking into different safe houses. A more secure solution than Clara Hess’s attic,” Licht said.

Gottlieb whistled through his teeth. “You have two hideaways staying with you? Were they there during the party?”

“One was,” Elise admitted. “Hide in plain sight, as they say. What can you do for them?”

“We’re looking into various options, Elise. But I also want to talk to you both about the so-called children’s euthanasia program at Charité. Gottlieb,” the priest said. “Nurse Hess has worked with some of the patients at Charité murdered at Hadamar as part of that program. She is an eyewitness.”

“Ah,” Gottlieb said. He crossed himself.

Elise did as well. “The horrors I’ve witnessed are burned into my brain and my heart,” she said. “I will never forget—never. And as long as I have breath, I will make sure what these child murderers are doing will come to light.”

“You saw the actual crime—did you see any of the paperwork?”

“Some,” Elise said. “They’re quite cagey about it—using the names of fake staff members for letters, lying directly to the parents. I tried to copy some of the more incriminating files, but they’re now under lock and key.”

“What about the administrative offices?”

“The administrative offices?”

“Yes, all the higher-ups are at the Chancellery, part of the so-called State and Party Affairs, located at Tiergartenstrasse Four.”

“I work at Charité,” Elise said and shrugged. “I think that’s my best bet for access to paperwork. Although now the file rooms are triple-padlocked. The administrators in charge of records seem to have caught on to me. Now they’re going to great lengths to conceal evidence.”

Licht closed his eyes in silent prayer.

“I’ll keep trying,” Elise said, realizing that every day that passed, more children would be bused to Hadamar. “And I’ll pray to St. Jude,” Gottlieb said.

“Why, thank you so much for your vote of confidence,” she replied, hoping her sarcastic tone was not lost on him.

“Elise, did you know that, before the war, Gottlieb was studying to be a priest?” Father Licht intervened, before the young man could answer.

“And I was going to be a nun! Still plan on taking my vows after the war is over.”

Gottlieb scowled. Elise, with her Rhine maiden curves and dancing blue eyes, didn’t strike him as someone likely to become a nun. But she was used to such looks. “Let me guess,” she said to him. “Jesuit?”

Father Licht permitted himself a small smile, which he hid behind his hand.

“Why, yes,” Gottlieb said, surprised. “How did you know?”

“You seem very …” Elise considered her words. “Intense.”

“Hmpf,” Gottlieb said, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted.

In the Hesses’ attic, with assistance from Ernst, John’s health continued to improve.

Every day, he dressed himself in some of Elise’s father’s old summer clothes: linen trousers and soft, frayed shirts. Day after day, in sock-clad feet, he walked the perimeter of the space, first with assistance from Ernst, then on his own, getting stronger and faster. Ernst read the books Elise brought for them from her father’s library—Franz Kafka’s
The Trial
, Thomas Mann’s
The Magic Mountain
, Alfred Delp’s
Tragic Existence
—and tried to help John with the German translations.

Every morning, before the house was awake or the servants arrived, Elise tiptoed upstairs with a picnic basket of food to last all
day—sandwiches, mostly, and fruit and a large Thermos of coffee and a carafe of water. She brought wooden bowls of shaving soap and blades, and pitchers of fresh water and a basin for washing.

She also procured a wireless radio, which—ear pressed to the speaker—John used to find the BBC. He might be far from home and in enemy territory, but he loved hearing English after so many months, and was heartened that Britain was holding on. And he listened in shock, hearing the voice of Winston Churchill himself, giving his latest speech.

“We live in a terrible epoch of the human story,”
the Prime Minister announced, in sonorous tones,
“but we believe there is a broad and sure justice running through its theme. It is time that the enemy should be made to suffer in their own homelands something of the torment they have let loose upon their neighbors and upon the world. We believe it to be in our power to keep this process going, on a steadily rising tide, month after month, year after year, until they are either extirpated by us or, better still, torn to pieces by their own people.”

John and Ernst looked at each other.
“It is for this reason that I must ask you to be prepared for vehement counteraction by the enemy. Our methods of dealing with them have steadily improved. They no longer relish their trips to our shores
.…

“We do not expect to hit without being hit back, and we intend with every week that passes to hit harder. Prepare yourselves, then, my friends and comrades, for this renewal of your exertions. We shall never turn from our purpose, however somber the road, however grievous the cost, because we know that out of this time of trial and tribulation will be born a new freedom and glory for all mankind.”

John stood, tears pricking his eyes, as the BBC played “God Save the King.”

Only when the broadcast was over did Ernst speak. “So the Germans have bombed British civilians. Now Britain’s going to bomb more German civilians.”

The Englishman looked at the German. “Yes.”

“Do you think those bombings will have anything to do with the eventual outcome of the war?”

“Maybe.” John shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“An eye for an eye, yes?”

John looked uncomfortable.

Ernst slumped back on his roll-up mattress. “All I can tell you as a doctor is—everyone bleeds the same.”

As August passed, Maggie learned Alexandra’s schedule. In the mornings, she would read to the girl, in the sunroom. They would have lunch together. Then Alexandra would take a nap. In the evenings, they would knit for the soldiers.

To the casual observer, Maggie and her young charge seemed like friends. They often laughed together, shared
Kaffee und Kuchen
, confided girlish secrets. All the while, Maggie was hiding her dismay at the way Alexandra, a healthy and intelligent girl, had been brainwashed into becoming some kind of breeding machine for the Reich, her own talents secondary to her capacity to produce future Nazi warriors.

But Alexandra believed that Maggie was Margareta Hoffman, originally from Frankfurt, who’d gone to school in Switzerland and then met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome. She thought it was unbelievably romantic that Margareta had given up so much for her lover, to follow him to Berlin.