His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Mein Gott, there’s only one thing better than dancing,” Elise said breathlessly, pushing back damp hair and giving Fritz a significant look.

  He winked at her. “I’ll go now. Meet me in five minutes.”

  In the alley behind the theater, Elise gave a contented sigh and pulled her panties back up and her skirt back down.

  “Someday, I’d like to do it with you in a bed, not just a wall job,” Fritz said, leaning against the postered brick wall.

  “Oh stop!” Elise protested, flushed and laughing. “Someone will hear us!”

  Fritz pulled off the condom he was wearing and began to pee, hitting the soldier in black featured on an SS recruitment poster square in the face. “Swing Heil!” he shouted, as he shook his penis and zipped up his trousers.

  “Fritz!”

  “What! You weren’t so shy a few minutes ago.”

  “Well, that was different.”

  “For a girl who wants to be a nun, I’ll say.”

  “I haven’t taken any vows yet, remember,” Elise said, straightening the seams on her stockings. “And, until I do, I see nothing wrong with enjoying life.”

  The metal doors of the theater were flung open as people ran out. “H.J.!” one girl shouted. Elise gasped. The Jugend—Hitler Youth—often stalked the swing parties and shut them down for being “un-German.” They were violent and unpredictable, like the leaders they followed. More people poured out as Elise and Fritz watched in shock.

  They heard shouting over a megaphone from inside. “We are closing this club! Give your names at the door!” A group of H.J., dressed in black, swarmed out into the alley to corral people back inside. Through the open doorway, Elise could see fights had broken out between the H.J. and the swing dancers as the Jugends’ hard rubber batons met flimsy umbrellas.

  “Come on!” Elise called, grabbing Fritz’s hand. “We must go!” The two ran as fast and as hard as they could away from the H.J. and the club, finally finding an open church, St. Michael’s.

  Once inside, they slammed the doors shut. Then, breathless, they took seats in hard wooden pews, a still and silent world away from the riotous dance club. The church smelled of incense. An organist was practicing Bach’s “Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme.” A priest, preparing the altar for the next day’s Mass, shot them a baleful look but said nothing.

  Then the doors banged open—the H.J. with their red swastika armbands. Elise turned in the pew, waiting, ready. Fritz stood, holding his umbrella. The air felt charged, the way it did before a thunderstorm.

  The priest, an older man with silver hair combed over large ears, looked up and assessed the situation. “This is a place of worship,” he intoned to the boys in uniforms, his voice filling the soaring space as it did on Sunday mornings. “This is no place for you.”

  “This is no place for you!” one of the older boys rejoined, spitting on the floor with contempt. “The Germans are God’s chosen people and Hitler is our Savior! We don’t need churches and priests and ministers telling us what to do anymore.” He looked back to his comrades and began chanting: “Hang the Jews! Put the priests against the walls!”

  One by one, the other boys joined in. “Hang the Jews! Put the the priests against the walls! Hang the Jews! Put the priests against the walls!”

  “Stop!” the priest thundered from the altar. The ugly face-off was interrupted by the menacing howl of an air-raid siren.

  The H.J. boys looked at one another, then back to the priest. “Heil Hitler,” they said in near unison, saluting.

  “Gute nacht,” he replied.

  The head H.J. boy took one step toward the priest, then another. The siren wailed. “Say ‘Heil Hitler.’ ”

  The priest held his ground. “Good evening.”

  “Say ‘Heil Hitler,’ old man!”

  The priest didn’t flinch.

  The boy reached behind the priest and pulled off his skullcap, throwing it to the floor. He spat on it, then ground it under his black boot. As the other boys cheered and the sirens continued their wail, he turned and left, the rest following after.

  The priest nodded to Elise and Fritz, leaving the defiled skullcap on the floor. “You can come with me—we have a crypt that doubles as a bomb shelter.”

  Elise and Fritz followed, meeting up with him at the altar. The organist, a stout older woman with large hands perfect for bridging octaves, came, too.

  As they walked together, Elise said, “You didn’t say ‘Heil Hitler’ to them. Weren’t you afraid of being arrested?”

  “My dear,” the priest replied, opening the door behind the altar that led down into the crypt and letting them all enter first. “I made the decision a very long time ago not to say ‘heil’ to anyone but God.”

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Maggie cornered David in the dining room over his breakfast and newspaper. It was dim, so she pushed aside the blackout curtains and opened a few of the windows, letting in lemony sunlight and warm morning air.

  “Mr. Wright, hmm?” she teased, sitting down and pouring herself a cup of weak tea.

  “Jumping Jupiter, stop—just stop!” David said, turning red. It was one of the few times in their four years of friendship that Maggie had ever seen him blush.

  “When did all … this … happen?” she asked.

  “While you were off—doing, well, whatever it is you’ve been doing for the last few months.”

  Maggie spread margarine on a piece of toast. “And is it serious?” she asked. David had had numerous romances and love affairs, flirtations and flings—including one with a British traitor at Windsor Castle—but never had anyone serious in his life. Perhaps he’s growing up? Maggie wondered. Goodness knows, living through these last few years has changed us all. Maggie was one of the very, very, very few people who knew David was homosexual, and she took the responsibility of keeping his secret seriously.

  “It is, actually,” David said, through a large mouthful of toast.

  Maggie looked down at her nightgown and ratty plaid flannel robe. “He’s not still here, is he?” she asked, patting her disheveled hair and glancing to the doorway.

  “Oh, goodness, no. He took off before dawn.”

  “Well, congratulations to both of you. I think it’s absolutely wonderful.” Maggie stood to give David a huge embrace, causing him to choke on a crumb.

  “Careful there, Mags. It would be a shame to survive all those air raids, only to be taken out by an overenthusiastic flatmate and a wayward piece of toast.”

  Maggie returned to her seat, beaming. “I’m just so happy for you, David.”

  “Well, it’s not all hearts and flowers, you know.”

  “Really? Why on earth not?”

  “Oh, nothing at all to do with Freddie.” David sighed. “It’s my parents, you see. They think it’s high time I should get married. To a nice Jewish girl. Have babies and suchlike things. I blame the war for it. Before, I might have managed my bachelor existence. Now, they’re suddenly quite concerned with their potential progeny.”

  Maggie took a sip of tea. “Well, can’t you just put them off?”

  “That’s the sticky part. They’re not religious at all, just go to temple on the High Holidays. One of my father’s favorite foods is bacon, for heaven’s sake. But ever since the Nuremberg Laws passed, they’re twitchy. And now they’ve given me an ultimatum. Find a bride and get married by my thirtieth birthday, or be completely cut off. In case you don’t remember, I’ll be thirty on—”

  “September third. Yes, of course I know when your birthday is, you lout.” Maggie contemplated David’s parents’ ultimatum. It was horrible, of course, but still just a bit funny. She snorted a little. David did love his luxuries so. The idea of his making do without seemed … interesting. “You know, the rest of us seem to survive without vast sums from rich relatives.”

  “I’m cursed with exquisite taste, Mags! Cursed, I say! Plus, this flat is in their name. I’d have to find somewhere else to live.”
He leaned in toward her. “We’d all have to find somewhere else to live,” he said pointedly.

  Maggie did still own her late grandmother’s house on Portland Place in Marylebone, but there were too many ghosts there, so she had rented it out. “I understand.” She put on her best serious face. “So what do you plan to do?”

  “No idea.” He took an enormous bite of toast. “Speaking of love, how’s what’s-his-name?”

  David had been best friends with Maggie’s late almost-fiancé, John Sterling. They had all worked together at Number 10 for Mr. Churchill, before John joined the RAF. His Lancaster had crashed somewhere near Berlin and he was officially classified as “missing and presumed dead.” His family had held a memorial service a few months ago; Maggie had taken the train from Scotland to London to attend and mourn, along with David. Loyal to the core to his late friend, David wasn’t enamored of Maggie’s current beau, Hugh Thompson. “What’s his name again? Stew? Lou? Prue?”

  Maggie frowned. “You know perfectly well what his name is. And Hugh is fine, thank you. In fact, I was coming from his flat last night. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “You’re right, Mags.” David had the decency to look ashamed. “You’re a grown woman—you have the right to live your life.”

  “David, I loved John,” Maggie said. “I did. He was my first love. And it nearly killed me to find out his plane had been shot down. To have Nigel write to me to say that they’d given up hope. I was at the memorial service if you recall, holding up his mother.” Maggie raised her chin. “But life does go on.”

  “I know, I know,” David amended. “So—how is Hugh?”

  She smiled. “I don’t kiss and tell. Besides, it’s the last time we’ll see each other, for a while.”

  “Really?” David didn’t know exactly what Maggie was up to, but as Winston Churchill’s head private secretary, he had a fair amount of clearance; he knew she’d been training with SOE. “Off so soon? No rest for the weary, apparently.”

  “You know I can’t give details.”

  “Well, I hope I still have the flat whenever it is you return. If I can’t figure anything else out—” David stood and walked over to Maggie, then dropped down dramatically on one knee. He took her hand in both of his. “Maggie, my redheaded shiksa goddess, would you do me the supreme honor of marrying me?” He grinned. “After you convert, of course.”

  Maggie nearly spat out her tea. “I’m, ah, very flattered, David, and will keep it in mind. But as one of the ‘overlooked people’—and a Jeffersonian agnostic at that—I’m not sure marriage to me specifically would do the trick. Not that I don’t appreciate the lovely offer, of course.”

  David looked serious as he stood up. “Far safer to be one of the overlooked at this point, I should think. By the way, give ’em hell, Mags.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “I certainly intend to.”

  Hell was just what Maggie Hope had trained for.

  When she returned to the SOE office later that morning, she was directed to Noreen Baxter, a woman about Maggie’s age, with pale skin, rosebud lips, and crimped brown hair. “Don’t be nervous, darling,” she said, slipping her arm through Maggie’s as they walked the corridors of 64 Baker. She drew close and whispered in Maggie’s ear. “You’re the first woman to be dropped—we’re all rooting for you.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie whispered back as they reached Noreen’s office. They both sat down on a worn sofa.

  “Now, your cover story is the most important part of the operation,” Noreen told her, picking up a folder from the low table and handing it to Maggie. “Here you are. Your name is Margareta Hoffman. You were born on the second of June, 1916, in Frankfurt, to a German businessman and his wife. You were educated in Switzerland, which will explain any inconsistencies with your accent or verbiage. You met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome, where you were hired as his typist.”

  For the next two hours, Maggie read and memorized the file, including names and addresses of contacts in Berlin, and Noreen quizzed her on it, even adding in trick questions, such as “Who does your hair?” “What’s your doctor’s name and address?” and “How do you do laundry?”

  Then Maggie wrote letters to her family and friends, telling them that, once again, she would be away on official business, and would contact them when she returned. To Aunt Edith, in Wellesley, Massachusetts. To her father, Edmund Hope, at Bletchley Park. To Sarah, on tour, care of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. To the newly wed Nigel and Charlotte Ludlow. David and Hugh knew, more or less, what she was doing, but she wrote to them anyway.

  In case she didn’t come back. She’d already made out her will, leaving her most precious possession, her slide rule, to David.

  Afterward, Maggie was quizzed by another agent named Kim Philby, a dashing young Cambridge graduate, who was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a deep red tie and red double-point pocket square. He was tough but thorough, and when she’d finished with him, she felt more secure with her cover. “Remember,” Philby admonished, “you are now Margareta Hoffman. Let your life here melt away. The more comfortable you are in Margareta’s skin, the safer you’ll be.”

  Maggie nodded. She wasn’t at all against the idea of leaving Maggie Hope in England. Maggie had problems—a bluestocking aunt who’d lied about her father’s death while raising her, a father who’d kept his existence a secret until she uncovered it, and a mother who—well, Maggie was still wrestling with the ugly truth of that. John, the man whom she’d loved and turned away, was dead. And Hugh was … confusing. Margareta was free from all that.

  Noreen swept back in. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.

  Maggie raised one eyebrow but complied.

  Noreen peered inside. “Well, I can see you’ve had good American dentistry, but on the Continent, fillings are gold, not silver. We’ll need to switch them out. I’ll make you an appointment for our dentist.”

  “You’re going to change my fillings?”

  Noreen nodded, walking to the telephone. “You only have two, so it shouldn’t be that bad.”

  “We leave nothing to chance,” Philby added.

  Just after noon, her fillings replaced with gold by an SOE dentist, Maggie returned to the office. Her teeth hurt. But the pain took her mind off her nerves.

  In Noreen’s office, there were clothes on hangers on a hook behind the closed wooden door. “Go ahead, put them on,” Noreen told her. “They’re quite nice, actually.”

  Maggie locked the door, then stripped down to nothing and first put on the underthings. At one time, she would have asked Noreen to leave, but her time at paramilitary camps had done away with modesty. The lingerie was German-made and quite luxurious, compared to what she usually wore. Next came a Jaeger suit and blouse, broken-in Rieker shoes with the soles rubbed in German soil, and an elegant leather handbag.

  “Quite cosmopolitan,” Maggie commented.

  “Forget bombs—letting that gorgeous bag go may quite literally kill me,” Noreen said.

  “I promise to bring it back, safe and sound.”

  “Inside, you’ll find a wallet with some Reichmarks, face powder, keys to your flat, Goethe’s Faust, and Hitler’s Mein Kampf. You’ll be given a suitcase with a few changes of clothes, your gown for the party, more undergarments, a nightgown, and toiletries, including German-brand sanitary towels, just in case.”

  Noreen appraised Maggie’s face. “You don’t wear much makeup—that’s good. Nazi women don’t, just like they’re not supposed to smoke and drink—not that that stops them, of course.” She laughed. “Oh, all this luxury is wasted on you! You should see what we have picked out for the girls parachuting into France later this month—hideous dowdy things—no style at all. Smelly and scratchy. You’re very lucky.” Without missing a beat, she continued, “Nelson gave you the lipstick with the cyanide pill in it, yes? Let’s put that in there.”

  Maggie transferred the gold tube with the false bottom from her bag to Margareta’s. She sniffed—the bag
smelled of something both beautiful and disarming. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Jicky,” Noreen said. “There are benefits to conquering France—Jicky is Guerlain, of course. There’s a small bottle in your purse. And this is one of our best toys.” Noreen handed Maggie a red and white box of Milde Sorte cigarettes. Maggie turned it this way and that to see what it really was. “It’s a subminiature spy camera with a film cartridge, small enough to fit into a cigarette pack. Just in case you find anything useful.”

  Noreen patted a chair. “Now, come, sit down. I’m going to teach you how to do your hair.” With deft fingers, she fashioned Maggie’s coppery tresses into an intricately braided updo, the latest in Germanic elegance.

  “I feel like I should be dancing around a solstice bonfire,” Maggie said, turning her head back and forth and looking in the mirror of her compact. “I just hope I can replicate it.”

  “You’ll have plenty of downtime with nothing to do, so you can practice.” Noreen scooped up Maggie’s clothes and folded them, then wrapped them in brown paper. “We’ll keep these safe for you,” she promised. “And it’s only four days. You’ll be back before you know it.”

  Then Noreen handed Maggie a scrap of silk with writing on it. Maggie’s codes. For her to use each time she communicated, and then tear off and destroy. “And what happens if you don’t have the silk and you need to radio us?”

  “Then I have to use a poem instead,” Maggie answered. “A poem I’ve memorized.”

  “If the enemy knows you’ve destroyed this code, it will be in their power to make you tell them your poem.” Noreen’s eyes were grave. “Remember it’s what would allow the Germans to transmit to England and endanger the lives of all who come after you. That’s why you have the pill.” Then she smiled. “Now, here’s your ‘poem’—we chose it especially for you.”

  Maggie was expecting something from Shakespeare, Milton, or even the King James Bible—but not what Noreen passed her. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”