Journey to Munich

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Leslie was waiting outside. “Did you get the release?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No. He told me I had to wait until tomorrow, due to administration, or something like that.” She hated herself for sounding so absentminded. She had been distracted by the entrance of the Führer, she realized—and she wasn’t the only one. The two officers had appeared intimidated at the arrival of their leader. “I won’t be seeing the same officer—he’s embarking on a journey with the Führer, or so he said.”

  Leslie shook his head. “I’ll have the time for your next meeting confirmed through official consular channels. Not to worry—it’s just like these people to make us run around a bit. I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

  “Thank you,” said Maisie.

  Nothing was said during the short journey back to the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten, but just before the motor car cruised to a stop alongside the hotel, Leslie turned to Maisie.

  “Look, Miss Donat, if you want to do something interesting this afternoon, pay a visit to the Residenz. It’s worth looking at and might take your mind off things. I am sure everything will be all right—this has all been approved at the highest level, and the Germans aren’t going to pull out now. It’s just the boys in uniforms throwing a bit of weight around. Your father will be out tomorrow, I’m sure of it.”

  “I wish I felt as confident as you, Mr. Leslie, really I do. But I will wait to hear from you—and yes, I will go to the Residenz. It’s just along the road, so not exactly an expedition. Thank you.”

  Maisie stepped out of the motor car and watched as it moved away from the curb, out into the light midday traffic. She turned just in time to see another motor car, a taxicab, pull up behind Leslie’s vehicle. Mark Scott was following the man from the British consulate. She stood for a moment wondering why the American was following Leslie. Or was he? Perhaps he’d simply tailed them back to the hotel, seen her step from the motor car, and now his work was done. She sighed, but the sighting remained on her mind, nagging her. It was almost a physical feeling, as if a friend kept nudging an elbow into her side to draw her attention to something. She could not brush the insistent jab away.

  Maisie had never been one to play the tourist. She preferred to merge with the locals, if she could, not to draw attention to herself with a camera, notebook, or sketching paper, though she might have a map in her bag. In the cities she’d visited since leaving England almost four years earlier, she would wander the streets, slipping along little-used paths and byways, stopping for a drink or a bite to eat at a place where only those who lived in the area might linger. It was as if she were walking into the vanishing point, a place where she might never be seen or found again.

  But since arriving in Munich, Maisie understood that there was a division between her perception of the situation and the reality of life in the Bavarian town. Fine clothing was still sold to fashionable women, men visited their tailors, people rushed to and from work and school, men and women drank in the bars and clubs, stumbling out in the early hours. As she wandered the halls of the Residenz, the grand home of Bavarian aristocracy for almost five centuries until the end of the war, in 1918, these thoughts brought Maisie back to Elaine Otterburn. She had another day at her disposal. Perhaps she would visit one more time, make one final plea for Elaine to return home. She was considering what tack she might take when she heard someone approach, the snap of steel-capped heels echoing in the chambers around her. She almost did not respond to her adopted name.

  “Fräulein Donat.”

  She turned around. “Oh, forgive me—I was so taken with the magnificence all around me, I was not paying attention.”

  The officer who had interviewed her at the Nazi headquarters gave a short bow. “I completely understand. To be here in this place is to be transported, is it not?”

  Maisie smiled. She felt the clamminess of fear slick against her skin. “Is this your lunchtime, sir?” Had she been told his name? She tried to remember. “I’m so sorry, but I think the worry of the past few days has caught up with me—it’s the waiting to see my father. Forgive me, but I cannot remember your name.”

  “That is because I never told you, Miss Donat. My name is Hans Berger. I have a military title that is almost impossible for an Englishwoman to pronounce correctly, but it means I am a major, though I am at the moment assigned to administration at the Führer’s headquarters. I am honored to be of service.”

  “Yes, I would imagine so. Very fortunate to be chosen for the job of liaison with other consulates.”

  “Oh, that is not quite what I do, but in your case, it may seem so.”

  Maisie looked at her watch. “I want to see as much as I can before I leave Munich. I plan to do some shopping this afternoon—a few souvenirs to take home, I think.”

  “Come, let us look together—there is much to tell about the Residenz. Being here clears my mind for the rest of the day, so I come often. A few moments amid such beauty, and I am refreshed.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” said Maisie.

  Berger pointed out various elements of note as they walked together. To Maisie, the Residenz seemed to be touched by Midas himself, so abundant was gold everywhere one gazed. It was without doubt a place of beauty and magnificence, an opulent palace demonstrating untold privilege and wealth. Yet as she walked on, and as Hans Berger pointed out a painting, a mural, an embellishment of design, Maisie could not prevent her mind from returning to the fact that the Führer had come to power on a tide of public emotion based upon want and fear, and his promises to give the people their due. Once again she considered her deep sense of being surrounded by doubt when she passed people on the street—a vibration so subtle it was like a faint scent carried on the air, or the few drops of rain that fall before a shower. Why did so many people take the detour along the alley, avoiding the Nazi salute? And why did so many look aside or step into a shop if they saw soldiers in the brown uniforms coming their way? She suspected they were a people with a profound sense of honor torn between loyalty to their country and a feeling that something was deeply amiss. Maurice had taught her of the balance between opposites: that when thirsty, people might drink too much, and that when starved of love, they may bestow affection with no discrimination. Look at the child who clings if he doubts his mother’s adoration, who feigns illness or pain if it brings his mother’s arms about him.

  “Shall we walk into the gardens? It is not too cold, and they are particularly lovely, I think, when fewer people are here.”

  Maisie smiled. “Perhaps for a short while. I would like to return to my hotel to rest before I venture out again today.”

  Berger led the way to the Hofgarten, again giving Maisie what amounted to a history lesson on the way. But as they entered the garden, his tone changed. “Miss Donat, you have been busy while in Munich.”

  Though she felt anxiety grip her stomach, Maisie revealed no sign of alarm. She wondered what information Berger had been given of her movements, but she replied with honesty, imagining her father in Leon Donat’s place. “There has been a lot of waiting. I am very anxious to see my father, and to take him home. He is not a young man, and being in prison will have had a poor effect on his health.” She paused, looking straight into Berger’s eyes. “Prisons are not designed to enhance well-being.”

  Berger stopped, pointing out another aspect of the garden to which Maisie should pay attention. Then he returned her direct gaze.

  “You have visited Schwabing, Fräulein Donat?”

  Maisie shrugged. “I had time on my hands, and I heard it was an interesting area, full of artists in their studios.”

  “Yet you did not visit an artist or a studio. You visited a woman of poor morals.”

  Maisie continued to look straight at Berger as she answered, though in truth, she was unsettled. “I visited the daughter of friends of my father. They are people of influence who are worried about the young woman, and they want her to come home. I was asked to intercede on their behalf—women of her age are
not always disposed to follow the dictates of their parents. Frankly, I had little faith in my ability to influence her to return to England—she likes it here. But I promised I would try.” She took a breath. “And if you are about to ask how the parents knew I was leaving for Munich, when I have told no one and wanted only to come here to be reunited with my beloved father, then I can only tell you that the father of the girl is a powerful man who is very good at procuring information.”

  After what felt like a long delay, Berger responded, “Yes, I understand.” Then he walked on, once more assuming the role of tour guide, an officer in a black uniform who knew so much about the wealth of past aristocracy, yet was acting upon orders from a man who claimed to represent the ordinary people. Maisie wondered what Maurice might make of the imbalance.

  Berger accompanied Maisie on her return to the hotel, giving his signature short bow as he bid her good-bye.

  “I did not specify a time for your appointment tomorrow morning, Fräulein Donat. I will ensure your consulate is informed that I expect to see you again at noon. As it transpires, I am not making the journey that was originally planned; I am needed here in Munich. You will have plenty of time to present your papers to the Kommandant at Dachau, to be reunited with your father, and to proceed with him to the station for the train to Paris. You must of course leave Munich as soon as possible following your father’s release.”

  “I am looking forward to it, Major. Very much.”

  He clicked his heels, extended his hand upward, and repeated the words she had come to despise: “Heil Hitler.”

  He had turned before she could lift her hand in response. She closed her eyes and exhaled, pausing before entering the hotel. She wondered if his speedy departure had been deliberate, giving her the opportunity not to salute his leader.

  “Maisie.”

  The voice was low, and came from her right.

  Moving with speed, Maisie took Elaine Otterburn’s arm and with a firm hand led her away from the hotel entrance.

  “Never, ever do that again. You must not call me by my name in this country, ever.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  Maisie looked Elaine up and down. She was ill-kempt, and as she pulled her coat around her, a flap of her dress peeped through, showing stains, as if some dark liquid had been spilled on the silk. Kohl was smudged under her eyes, and her hair had not seen a brush or comb that day. Her stockings were laddered, and she seemed unsteady on her feet.

  “Elaine, we cannot go into the hotel. Wait—let me get a taxicab, and we’ll go to your flat.”

  “No, we can’t go there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We just can’t.”

  Maisie paused. She felt goose bumps across the skin at the nape of her neck.

  “Elaine, everything tells me that we must return to the flat, now, before anyone else ventures in.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Maisie slipped her arm through Elaine’s.

  “Talk to me about anything, Elaine. We must look like two friends meeting for a cup of coffee, or going about our errands for the morning.”

  She hailed a taxi, and had the driver drop them on a side street not far from Elaine’s lodgings. After checking that no one was there—the other young women with rooms in the house were out, and the landlady appeared not to be present—Maisie followed Elaine up the stairs. At the top she had to take the younger woman’s arm for fear that she would stumble.

  “Elaine, try to have some control. Whatever happens, we must contain ourselves.”

  Elaine looked at Maisie, her head shaking—not to counter her words, but as if she were cold to the bone. She said nothing, but nodded, forcing some measure of dominion over her body. She passed her keys to Maisie, her fingers barely able to keep them in her hand.

  Maisie slipped the door key in the lock, turned the handle, and took a deep breath, afraid of what she might encounter. She pushed the door open and gasped. The room looked as if a madman had been released within its walls. Bedclothes had been ripped from the mattress and thrown on the floor. Clothing was strewn atop the pile of linens. Cups left on a tray on the chest of drawers had been smashed. And across the mirror in red lipstick was scrawled the word Hure. Whore.

  Maisie looked at Elaine, at the contusion across her cheekbone, her laddered stockings, and the blood on her torn dress. She asked no questions. “Close and lock the door. We must set about cleaning up.”

  “I was going to telephone the police, but—”

  “It would be best if you didn’t.”

  Maisie found a bowl, which she took to the kitchen along the landing, bringing it back filled with water. She had a cloth over her arm, pulled from a makeshift line over the sink where the young women had hung their silk stockings to dry. When she returned to the room, Elaine was sitting on the edge of the bed, the torn robe she’d picked up from the floor held tight in her hands.

  “Who would have done this?”

  “First, we must sort out your room,” said Maisie. “Then you can tell me what happened. If I thought the police would have any interest, I would leave everything as it is. But I can tell there is nothing here to give us any clue as to the identity of the person who did this, except that.” She pointed to the mirror. “And I want to get rid of it.”

  Elaine gasped, tears falling anew as she choked her words. “You think Luther is dead? Do you think he is dead?”

  Maisie placed the bowl of water on the dressing table and put an arm around Elaine. “Until you tell me the whole story, I cannot say. Now then, there will be time for tears later, Elaine. We must get on, and then you can describe everything that happened. If you sit down to tell your story amid all this clutter, your ability to think back with clarity will be diminished by what is about you; you must be in a place that is clear. I cannot take you onto a hilltop or put you in a field, but I can get this room cleaned. Come, there is work to be done.”

  Maisie scrubbed the mirror while Elaine picked up clothing, folding each item and placing it in a drawer. Maisie kept an eye on the younger woman as they worked. She knew that the destruction of Elaine’s home—and for better or worse, it was her home—was meant to undermine her, to make her feel unsafe—and with a bitter twist, given the slur writ large across the mirror. If Elaine now felt less than secure, it was with good reason. Sweeping shards of china cups into a paper bag, Maisie stopped to inspect a long seam of lipstick, powder, and kohl pressed into a floorboard, as if someone had ground the thick red substance into the grain of the wood, compounding the damage with the powder and inky kohl. This was not just destruction but a deliberate act of cruelty, as if the perpetrator wanted nothing more than to destroy Elaine Otterburn’s charm—her wide eyes, big smile, and hearty laugh.

  Soon the women had finished cleaning and stood back to survey the results. Elaine’s face was streaked with tears. “It’s never been this neat and tidy.” She attempted a smile, but began to weep once again.

  “Sit down for a moment, Elaine.” Maisie left the room, emptied and rinsed the bowl, and refilled it with cold water. She searched the small kitchen until she found an unsoiled cloth, and returned to the room. She steeped the cloth in water, wrung it out, and gave it to Elaine. “Press this across your eyes—it will diminish the swelling. And now tell me what happened.”

  Elaine’s chest heaved with sobs. She pulled away the cloth and turned to Maisie, one eye clear of kohl, the other still smudged, as if half her face were that of an angel, the other touched by darkness—a theater harlequin. “We’d been drinking, so I was rather squiffy, but we were always like that. Luther—his name is Luther Gramm—isn’t much older than me. He never wanted to do what he was doing in the Schutzstaffel, but it was the right thing, he said. He’d been an apprentice architect before he went into uniform. He enjoyed a good time.” She paused, wiping her eye and looking at the black smudge across the cloth. “We’d been to a club, lots of laughing, lots to drink, you know, and we danced the night away. I liked him, r
eally I did. We got on well together.” Elaine began to cry again.

  “Go on, Elaine. Until I know the whole story, I do not know if I can help you.”

  “But you must. You must help me. I’m all alone, and now this has happened.”

  Aware that the woman was panicking, Maisie softened her own voice. “Tell me what happened, Elaine. You must go on. We might not have much time.”

  Elaine swallowed her tears and wiped the cloth across her mouth. “Luther told me he knew a place, an alley where lovers go. You see, the old Frau downstairs would chuck me out if she knew I’d had a man up here. I’ve been pushing my luck a bit, and we were taking chances going back to the house where the officers are lodging.” She covered her face with the cloth, leaned into it, and then sat up, dropping the cloth into the bowl of water. “I was a bit scared, to tell you the truth. There wasn’t much light, except a bit from the houses, and it was a damp place, smelly. I don’t think I could find my way there again, to tell you the truth. But Luther insisted and dragged me down there, and we began, you know, to kiss.” She stopped speaking.

  “Go on, Elaine,” said Maisie, her voice low.

  Elaine sighed. “We were in a doorway. We didn’t think anyone could see us. Then we heard a motor car, and there were headlamps coming toward us. Slowly. Really slowly. I wondered how the motor car could even get down the alley—there must have been only a foot either side of it, if that. And there was a man walking in front of the car—I remember thinking that he looked like one of those men they have at funerals, walking in front of the hearse as if to pace it out, so the horses don’t gallop off and everyone remains respectful. What do they call them? Escorts? Something like that.” She paused, reached for the cloth, wrung it out, and pressed it to her eyes, as if to block out the images that came with her words.