Journey to Munich

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “That man was not—I repeat, not—my father. Mr. Leslie, my father would not have greeted me in German. He might be proficient in the language and able to conduct business, but we’re British—we speak English. I don’t know how you can question me—I thought it was obvious. Yes, he was of the same height, the eyes are similar, and at one point he would have had my father’s build. But please do not assume I would not know my father because time has passed while he has been incarcerated in one of the most terrible places on earth.”

  Leslie rubbed his forehead. “This is going to cause an enormous amount of trouble, Miss Donat. We’ve managed to keep this whole agreement with the Germans under wraps, and while dealing with their nasty SS boys, and now diplomatic machinations are going to swamp us. There’s the situation with Austria, the question of the Sudetenland. The last thing we need is this situation to distract us from matters of policy. The Prime Minister would be furious if he knew.”

  She took a breath, closed her eyes, and then spoke again. “Mr. Leslie, just for one moment, let us consider the horrors that await the man I just had to dismiss as not being my father. I have consigned a human being to more torture, and I am sure he has endured a terror beyond words in that place. Yet I could not pretend, as I would have liked to, just to get him out of there. I had to tell the truth, because I have to find my father. Now I will have that man on my conscience for the rest of my life—because I denied him his freedom.”

  Leslie rubbed his eyes. “What do you mean, you have to find your father? I daresay you will be required to leave Germany soonest. There will doubtless be a veritable brick of paperwork waiting for me at the consulate.”

  Maisie turned to Leslie. “I am not going anywhere until I know what has happened to my father. I want to know if my father is still in that prison. Frankly, I don’t think he is. How did that man come to be mistaken for my father? Make no mistake, those two thugs in uniform were as shocked as we were that he was not Leon Donat. They are now in the position of having received funds from the British government in exchange for a British citizen who was wrongly imprisoned—and they’ve lost him. My father could be dead, but if he isn’t, then where is he? And why did he not come home? I want to know all these things, Mr. Leslie.”

  “But really, Miss Donat, you do not have any experience of these things.” His half laugh was dismissive, reminding her of Acker. “You should go home to England now, instead of waiting for news here.”

  “I don’t intend to wait for anything, Mr. Leslie.” She looked out of the window. “I may not have the experience, but what I lack in experience, I will make up for in tenacity. I do not intend to take a backseat any longer.”

  “The matter of your continued presence in Munich is something I have to discuss with my superiors. It will be a diplomatic embarrassment.”

  “Discuss it all you want. I will do what I have to do.” She knew the insolence in her tone would not endear her to Leslie, but at the same time, she could only respond as if it were Frankie Dobbs who was unaccounted for.

  Maisie turned away, looking out once more to the winter-barren trees lining the streets as the motor car wove through Munich traffic. Already a plan was forming in her mind, a plan that encompassed Elaine Otterburn, who was unaccounted for, and Mark Scott—who she hoped really was in her wake, the enemy in his sights.

  Then there was the matter of the missing—presumed dead—Luther Gramm. Maisie wondered if the man’s murder was intertwined with the disappearance of an English businessman. Or was it just a distraction from the heart of the matter?

  Where was Leon Donat?

  Hurried plans were made for Maisie to spend the night at the consulate, in a room designated for visiting foreign office dignitaries. She requested a new reservation be made at the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten for the following day. When the consular clerk, an assistant to Leslie, asked how many nights she would be staying at the hotel, she replied, “Three,” not wanting Leslie to know she might be in Munich longer. The bill would be settled by the consulate upon receipt; she would change the date of anticipated departure when she signed the register.

  The room where she would spend the night was well appointed in an almost Gothic décor, with heavy velvet curtains and thick Persian rugs on a carpet that, before it faded, would have been the color of crushed blackberries. The furniture seemed cumbersome, and she wondered how many men would have been required to move just one piece. As she stood on the threshold, she thought the room might serve well for a moving-picture show starring Bela Lugosi.

  She was informed that the driver would take her to the hotel the following day, after lunch, and that Mr. Leslie would see her in the morning, when he’d had sufficient opportunity to speak with his superiors in London. Another visit to the Nazi headquarters might be necessary—“Though in the circumstances, they should come to us,” said the clerk, his voice tinged with contempt.

  Yes, I bet he’ll be doing a lot of speaking, thought Maisie as she imagined Leslie rattling off instructions to get this or that person on the telephone. She checked the time: late afternoon. Leslie would have spoken to Huntley and MacFarlane without delay. Huntley would deal with foreign office liaison, using whatever tactics were necessary to keep the truth of today’s outcome from spreading along the corridors of Whitehall and Westminster. Maisie and Leon Donat were small fry in terms of the greater political maneuvering at present under way—but like a tiny pebble in a shoe, the truth about them could be crippling if revealed. And how would Robbie MacFarlane respond to the businessman’s disappearance? Oh, please, please, keep him away from Munich. She uttered the words as if offering up a prayer to be answered.

  Sitting at the mahogany writing desk, Maisie made a list. Locating Mark Scott was imperative—she was not sure she trusted him, but without doubt he had his finger in a few pies, and he seemed to have knowledge at his disposal. Was Elaine Otterburn safe in England—or was she somewhere in Munich? Maisie had heard nothing more about the dead SS officer. That problem had gone to ground—but for how long? Then there was the place where Leon Donat had been arrested, a workshop of some sort. It was likely locked up by now, the doors chained, but she had to locate it, as well as to find someone who knew Ulli Bader, the man Leon Donat had tried to help. He was supposedly the son of a good friend. Who was that friend, and where was his son, the man who had apparently evaded capture?

  And was it true that Leon Donat had tried to help? Had he tried to assist the young man, or had he become involved somehow in producing propaganda against Hitler’s Reich? Had he really been arrested in error, or had he committed a crime against the Führer’s regime? But how could he have? He’d only been in Munich a matter of days. Unless . . . unless he’d wanted to stay.

  Maisie leaned back in the chair, feeling the unforgiving wood press into her spine. She sat forward again and looked over her notes. She had brought no documentation with her from England, other than the papers required to release Donat. She’d had only a short time to memorize all the reports, photographs, letters, and transcribed interviews she was tasked with reading before her departure from England. She closed her eyes as if to envision each sheet of paper, each image.

  A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a late lunch. She had asked for only a sandwich and a cup of tea. As she ate, she formed her plan. There was not much time before nightfall, but she hoped something could be accomplished before the end of the day. Had all gone well, she would be at the station by now, as good as on her way home. Now she could only speculate on when that journey might take place. Before doubt could claim her, she made ready to leave the consulate, put on her coat and hat, and walked toward the door. Only as she passed the mirror did she realize that she had forgotten to put on her wig. And of more crucial importance, she had answered the door and taken in the tray without it, having taken it off almost as soon as she was left alone.

  The momentary terror passed as soon as she replaced the wig, after rubbing in cold cream to soothe the welt along the top of her
forehead. She would carry on as if nothing had happened. But the woman who brought her lunch might have seen her when she arrived at the consulate, wig in place. Would she see her again? And would she mention—possibly to Leslie—that the lady in the guest room had very short hair indeed?

  Perhaps she should wait until tomorrow to begin her search for Leon Donat, when she was fresh and rested. She could not afford another slip.

  Fatigued and despondent, she removed her coat and hat and pulled off the wig again. Throwing them all across a leather chair, she lay back and stared at the ceiling, where a garland of alabaster leaves encircled an ornate glass chandelier hung to resemble a flower, as if crystal were growing down from above her head. She thought about the man she had denied freedom. She felt like a Judas. But how could she have saved him? She suspected the man had been used, but had she accepted him as her father to save his life, how could she have traveled through Germany and France with him, a man who apparently spoke no English and thus was clearly not the man she had come to receive on behalf of herself and her country? Could she have taken him and just put him on a train for France and freedom? Perhaps. But if the SS officers were party to the subterfuge, then she would have been revealed as an impostor.

  She’d had to make a swift decision in the guard room, and for better or worse she had told the truth. How could anyone have guessed, when the man was thrown in prison, that Leon Donat’s captors would begin to play cat and mouse, stipulating that a member of the prisoner’s family should be present for his release? After all, a family member would be able to identify him.

  Maisie stood up and walked across to the window to draw the curtains. The room faced a side street, which was empty save for a couple of people walking toward the main thoroughfare as if to catch a train at the end of the working day. She was about to reach for the cord to draw the curtains when she noticed a man lingering under a lamp across the street. She looked down; below her window a guard patrolled the building. It was not a display of might, simply one guard assigned, she supposed, to answer questions, direct travelers to the entrance around the corner, and help the odd person who had mislaid a passport.

  When she glanced back toward the lamp, the man was still there but had now retreated into the shadows. She smiled. If she was correct, Mark Scott still had her six.

  CHAPTER 13

  Maisie ordered breakfast in her room, though this time she was careful to replace her wig long before she heard the maid’s knock at the door. As she opened it, she noticed the woman looking at her twice, as if trying to pinpoint what was different about her.

  Maisie smiled. “I had my hair tied back last night—I’d just washed it, and couldn’t find a hair dryer. I wonder if you have such a thing here?”

  The woman smiled. Her English was perfect. “We don’t have hair dryers—most of our guests are men, and if they’re accompanied by their wives, the maid attends to their hair.”

  “Of course. Thank you. Anyway, it’s dry now, and a few curlers always do the trick.”

  The woman nodded and left the room.

  Maisie breathed a sigh of relief, though she wondered if the woman believed a word she’d said.

  A sealed envelope bearing her assumed name had been placed to one side of her breakfast tray.

  MISS EDWINA DONAT

  Timetable, March 12, 1938

  09:15 hrsCollected by Peter Stamont

  09:30 hrsLibrary

  Briefing with Mr. Gilbert Leslie

  10:00 hrsTake private telephone call from London

  10:15 hrsDepart for Nazi headquarters

  10:45 hrsBriefing on investigation

  11:15 hrsProposed departure from Nazi headquarters

  11:45 hrsArrive at consulate; debrief in library

  12:15 hrsLuncheon in consular dining room

  13:00 hrsDepart for Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Miss Edwina Donat must submit daily timetable to the consulate for approval.

  “Well, we’ll see about that.” Maisie ran her finger down the page, where she tapped her fingernail against one word: approval.

  At the appointed time, not a minute too soon or a second too late, a man who introduced himself as Peter Stamont knocked at the door. Maisie was ready for the briefing and the journey to Nazi headquarters: she wore her plain burgundy costume and her stout walking shoes, and carried her coat over one arm. Her hat was already pinned to the wig, which for once felt secure on her head. Or perhaps she was simply getting used to it.

  Stamont was what her stepmother would have called a “long, tall drink of water” in a blue pinstripe suit. He had a stoop to his shoulders, as if from childhood his height had caused him to lean forward in an effort to hear and be heard. She was sure he had no need of amplification, but whenever she spoke, he cupped his ear with one hand. His dark eyes and brows suggested an earnest approach to life, and she thought, he might be one of those people who always tried to please. She wondered how he felt when a column of men with brown uniforms raising their hands in a Nazi salute marched toward him on the street. He was too tall not to be noticed. Did he make a quick detour into a shop or down an alley? Or did he do as was expected in his host country? She suspected the latter. She could not blame him for it—he was too much of a target.

  Stamont guided her to the library, where Gilbert Leslie waited, a black telephone on the table before him. As she sat down, Maisie realized there was a lock at the side of the telephone. Calls could neither be made nor received from it without the key on the table next to Leslie.

  “Miss Donat. I trust you had a good night. Sleep well?”

  “In that room, I suppose one expects to sleep like the dead.”

  Leslie looked up, giving a brief smile. “Didn’t take you for one with a quick quip at the ready, Miss Donat—but I suppose it is a bit like an anteroom at an Italian mausoleum, not that I have ever been in one.” He pressed his lips together. “Right, down to business. First of all, I’ve been in touch with London—with a Mr. Brian Huntley. Not sure if you’ve heard his name, but he was one of the more important negotiators with regard to your father’s release.”

  Maisie frowned. “The name is a little familiar.” She told the white lie with ease, continuing in the same vein. “I had a briefing from a woman, though I was not informed of her name. I was simply told I would meet you here in Munich, and off we’d go. Of course there was some indication of what I might expect when I relinquished the papers to be counterstamped by the Nazi authorities, that sort of thing.” Maisie pulled her chair in closer to the table, as if earnest in her words. “It’s all rather like being swept up into a nightmare, actually. I keep thinking I will wake up and find myself on a train to Paris with my father sitting next to me, asking me if I could possibly bear another game of cards.”

  “Yes, quite. In any case, I’ve been on the telephone this morning to London, and my instructions are to assist and encourage our hosts—the term ‘hosts’ is loose—to search for Mr. Leon Donat. You have been given leave to remain for some three days, considering the toll this must have taken on you. We understand how difficult it would be for you to depart Munich, under the circumstances. You will want to know any information as it comes in.”

  “All the time I do not know where my father is, I will be anxious for news.”

  “Indeed.” Leslie consulted his notes and looked back at Maisie. “Now, we have been summoned to Nazi headquarters. Apparently, this whole thing has put them into a bit of a spin, and—”

  “How do you know they’re in a spin?”

  “Miss Donat, not only would we be in a spin if the boot were on our foot—losing citizens at a diplomatically sensitive time is not generally a good idea—but we have our sources.”

  “I see. Of course you do.”

  “One thing might be in our favor, though it will certainly draw manpower away from the investigation. It has to be said that the SS administrators and their Gestapo brethren are nothing less than vipers when it comes to seeking out prey.�
� He tapped the table. “Events have moved on apace in Austria. German troops entered the country, and we have word that Kurt von Schuschnigg, the Austrian chancellor, has been replaced by the Nazi Arthur Seyss-Inquart. The Gestapo and Waffen SS will be swarming across Vienna—you can count on that.” He turned a page of typewritten notes. “We have word that Herr Hitler will be making a triumphant entry into Vienna tomorrow. However, whilst all this is going on—and we can only hope it puts the men we see today in a good mood—I must assure you that we have certain resources of our own here in Munich, and will conduct a parallel investigation into your father’s disappearance. Though such searching has, of course, to be carried out in a somewhat, well, careful manner.”

  Maisie nodded. “And you will keep me posted daily?”

  “We will do our best, though you understand there are certain formalities here that cannot be divulged to a civilian, no matter how deeply concerned with the welfare of the subject of the investigation.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Now, let me brief you on what we expect at Nazi HQ. Frankly, they cannot bully you. You have been as shocked as anyone could be, given the circumstances—but they will ask about your father’s associates here, and will ask you again about his intentions during what should have been a sojourn of just a few days. They may try to intimidate you—in fact, at some point, you can count on it—but simply be yourself, and all will be well.”

  Maisie nodded.

  Leslie looked at his watch. “The call should be coming in soon. Again, nothing to worry about, Miss Donat—some foreign office bod over there wants to check up on you, in private. A word to the wise, though—all calls received and placed from this telephone in this room are, we hope, unable to be overheard by any listening devices employed outside the confines of the consulate, and indeed inside the building. However, one can never completely trust anyone. Frankly, I remain circumspect in all telephone conversations. Mind you, you’re safer than you would be on an ordinary telephone.” He took the key, slipped it into the lock, lifted the receiver, and turned the dial once for the operator.