Maggie smiled, delighted to see the words again. As she’d been taught, she picked five words at random: equal, rights, life, liberty, and happiness. Noreen copied the words down, then created Maggie’s code. And so the five words became:
e q u a l r i g h t s l i f e l i b e r t y h a p p
which corresponded to the code alphabet of
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z
“You’re our honorary Yank,” Noreen said. “So we wanted something appropriate.” She pointed to Maggie’s skirt. “There’s a secret pocket in the hem.”
Maggie found it and tucked the scrap of silk away.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing.” From a shelf, Noreen pulled a bag full of black yarn and long knitting needles. She drew out a scarf in progress. “Margareta is a knitter.”
“All right …” Maggie said, not seeing the point but willing to play along.
“Do you know why?”
Maggie’s forehead creased. “Knitting socks for German soldiers?”
“Yes, many German women do that in their spare time. But,” Noreen said, holding the half-done scarf in one hand, “this knitting might save your life. Do you see the pattern?”
Maggie squinted. It was hard to see any sort of a pattern in pearl stitches against flat stockinet in black yarn; it all looked like mistakes. “Not a great knitting job.”
“Look closer,” Noreen said.
Maggie did. “It’s code,” she said, realizing. Ah, brilliant! “Morse code.”
“In an emergency, if you can’t get to a radio, knit a message into your scarf, then go to Hasenheideplatz, located just outside your contact’s flat. There will be an older woman there, every morning, sitting on a bench and working on her knitting—Berlin’s answer to Madame Defarge. She’ll see the code you’ve knit in and copy it, to get it back to us. Likewise, she may provide information for you. When you’re done, rip the coded stitching out.” Noreen looked hard at Maggie. “You do knit, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied. “I do. Not well, and I can’t turn heels, but enough to knit some code, certainly.” It was one of the few traditionally feminine crafts that Aunt Edith had taught her. Knitting had a structural logic based on geometry and proportion that had always appealed to her. She accepted the needles and ball of yarn from Noreen, and tucked them into her handbag.
There was a sharp rap at the door. “The car’s here, ladies,” a woman called.
Maggie and Noreen made their way downstairs. A glossy black Riley had pulled up in front of the door and was idling. The driver, a FANY in her brown uniform, exited the car. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said as she walked around to open the trunk.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, handing over her valise. “You are coming with me?” she said to Noreen in what she hoped was a strong and confident voice.
“Absolutely,” Noreen answered, opening the car door. “Come on, hop in.”
It was getting dark by the time they reached the Whitley airport in Reading, the night air chill after the warm summer day. The car went through security and then out to the airfield.
They pulled into the parking lot. Maggie and Noreen exited the car and entered the building. “Why don’t you use the loo? It’s a long way to Berlin.” Noreen touched Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry—they won’t leave without you.”
Maggie found the ladies’ W.C. Her face in the mirror was gray. What am I doing? she wondered. But it was too late to go back now.
“Almost ready!” Noreen chirped to Maggie when she returned. She pulled papers from her purse. “Now, here are your passport, identity card, proof of Aryan descent, and your ration card. Put them in your wallet. You’ll need to sign them, as Margareta Hoffman, of course. Let’s see, and clothing coupons and some more Reichmarks. Don’t spend them all in one place.”
Maggie accepted the fountain pen, a Lamy, and practiced her new signature in German script a few times before actually signing her name. “Did this actually come from Germany?” she asked as she signed numerous documents and official papers.
“It’s German, but it came from the Lower East Side of New York City.”
Maggie finally finished signing everything. Her stomach was doing flips in nervous anticipation.
“Goodbye, Margareta,” Noreen said, kissing her on both cheeks. “We don’t say ‘good luck’ in this business, so I’ll just say ‘cheers.’ We’ll see you soon.”
Maggie took a shaky breath as her heart thudded in her chest. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, kissing Noreen back. “Piece of cake.” It was now time to board the plane.
This moment was exactly what she’d trained for. Still, now that she was climbing the narrow ladder to the Westland Lysander’s hinged door, she was having second thoughts. I’m stupid, I’m so ridiculously stupid—why couldn’t I have stayed a secretary? Or a governess? I was actually good at those things … Maggie reflected as she took off her shoes and put them in her suitcase. Then she bandaged her ankles, rolled up her skirt, zipped up her padded jumpsuit, and pulled on heavy boots.
It’s just like training, it’s just like training … she repeated to herself, like a mantra.
“Your parachute’s up there.” The RAF sergeant, a young man with high color, low voice, and a Scottish accent, wore a shearling jacket. He helped her up the ladder through the trapdoor in the midsection of the plane, a converted Halifax bomber, with the underside gun turret removed and replaced by a hatch. The belly of the beast, Maggie thought. Her nostrils flared as she detected the scent of oil.
The RAF sergeant boarded behind her; he would be her dispatcher when they reached the drop zone. Her folded-up parachute was at one end of the plane. Her suitcase, now packed into a crate, was attached to another parachute.
The engines started up with a roar. Maggie strapped herself in next to the sergeant, in the walled-off area that was just behind the nose, where the flight crew sat. “You doing all right there, miss?” he said. “If you need to be sick, there’s a bucket in the corner.”
“I won’t need it, Sergeant,” Maggie assured him. At least I really, truly hope not.
The plane began moving, slowly at first, then gaining speed as it finally achieved liftoff, and Maggie could hear the wheels being retracted with a loud crash and a corresponding tremor.
“Now, I have some hot tea,” the sergeant said, pulling out a green-and-silver Thermos. “But I also have some gin if you’d prefer.”
“Tea, please,” she said, thankful for a civilized beverage in strange circumstances. “Just a little,” she amended, realizing the plane had no toilet.
“We also have some cheese sandwiches. Oh, look, a bar of chocolate!”
Maggie’s stomach turned a few somersaults. “Really—you have it.”
“Nervous?” he asked, not unkindly.
“No. Well—maybe a little.”
“It’s good to be nervous,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. “Means you’re alive. Now, we’ll be flying over the Netherlands and then into Germany. Might try to get in a catnap while we’re up here. They’re going to turn the lights off soon, anyway.”
Maggie finished her tea, crossed her legs and arms, and closed her eyes. She internally recited Canto III of Longfellow’s translation of Dante’s Inferno—it seemed appropriate, after all—
Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost.
Justice incited my sublime Creator;
Created me divine Omnipotence,
The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.
Before me there were no created things,
Only eterne, and I eternal last.
All hope abandon, ye who enter in!
She was sure she’d never sleep on the plane, but before long her eyes had closed and her mind was filled with images of burning swastikas and the sound of howling wolves. And then she felt the sergeant poke her arm. “Wake up,
miss,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
Maggie was so groggy and dazed by her nightmare that she didn’t have time to panic as she stood and let him help her on with her parachute. “Now remember what they taught you in training,” he told her. “Keep your legs together when you jump and tuck your chin. And, most important, bend your knees when you land.”
He went to the hatch in the floor and opened the doors. A great gush of icy wind came up, nearly knocking her over. Maggie took a few steps toward it and peered down into the darkness.
“They’re under blackout, too,” the sergeant said. “But, look—that’s our man on the ground. He’s giving the signal. Don’t worry—he’ll take good care of you.”
Maggie felt her heart starting to beat faster and faster. She forced herself to take deep breaths. “It’s time now, miss.”
The plane circled lower and slowed. Maggie walked, with tiny steps, closer to the hole. She and the sergeant squatted down at the edge. Below, they could see a bonfire glittering orange in the darkness. “You all right, miss? Do you want to jump, or should I push you? No shame in it—done it for lots of the boys.”
That made Maggie twist her mouth in a half smile. “No, I want to jump on my own.”
“That’s right,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder again. Maggie was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for his touch. “Now, just remember—bend your knees. Five, four, three, two …”
Maggie jumped, or rather stepped, into the hole and dropped straight down. It felt as if there was no air in her lungs as she fell, her body pushed almost sideways by the contrast in speed, as she plummeted through the air. S = D/T, Maggie thought in the logical part of her brain, even as the other parts screamed in fear and excitement, a trick she’d learned on practice jumps. Speed=Distance divided by Time.
She pressed the button on her harness to release the parachute, heard it engage, then open, and felt a painful tug on her legs and rear where the straps were attached.
Her descent into darkness began to slow and she almost, almost, had a split second to enjoy the feeling of flying before she hit the ground—sooner than she expected.
And much harder.
She lay on her side, in pain. Slowly the burning feeling subsided, although her knees still throbbed. From a long way off, she heard voices. “Gute nacht, gnädiges Fräulein! So glad you could ‘drop in,’ ” a male voice said. She saw the glare of flashlights.
I bet he’s been working on that all day. Maggie spat out dirt and grass and sat up, grabbing the hand in front of her and coming up to her feet. There she swayed, unsteady, testing her limbs and joints for damage. But as she hit the disk on her belt to disengage the parachute, she smiled.
“Thank you. Next time, I’ll remember to bend my knees,” she said in perfect German.
One of the men detached the parachute from the crate protecting Maggie’s suitcase, then retrieved the suitcase itself from the padding. “You will be needing this, Fraulein Hoffman,” he said, handing it to her.
“Danke schön,” Maggie said, trying not just to speak but to think in German, as she extricated herself from her jumpsuit. Her ankles and knees were sore, but her left hip had taken the brunt of the impact. She brushed grass from her face and hair and continued to spit out dust and dirt. “What’s your name?”
“Herr Karl. If you can walk now, the auto is over this way.” He picked up her valise and led the way to a waiting truck, its headlights dimmed by blackout slats.
“In you go,” he said, opening the door for her. “I’ll put this in the back.” He also folded both parachutes and broke down the crate, pulling nails from the wood until it collapsed, then putting everything into the truck bed.
As Maggie sat in the front seat, she realized her legs were shaking. And her hands. She was overwhelmed, but part of her was still thrilled. I’m in Germany!
They drove down a dark and twisting road, to a small farmhouse. There Maggie was introduced to Frau Karl, Herr Karl’s wife, and a young man, their son, called Carl. Carl Karl. Maggie tried not to smile.
Herr Adelwin Karl was in his late fifties, with pale, thinning hair and a weather-burned face. His light eyes were filled with fear, and darted back and forth, as though he expected the Gestapo to break down the door at any moment. Frau Karl was small and dark, with a no-nonsense air that indicated she was the boss of the operation. Carl was young, sixteen at the most, and had an eager, round face. He was solidly built and somewhat clumsy in the way most teenagers are, with large hands and large feet, like a puppy’s.
“Sit down, sit down!” Frau Karl called to all of them as she bustled about the warm and delicious-smelling kitchen. “Dinner is almost ready.” Maggie did as she was bid, sitting at a rough-hewn wooden table, already set.
Sure enough, there were onions sizzling in a cast-iron pan; Frau Karl turned them over with a pair of tongs. Carl took a loaf of brown bread from the cupboard, and Adelwin filled three glasses with milk and brought them to the table. Frau Karl brought a large bowl of mashed vegetables. “Himmel und Hölle,” she told them, putting it down. “Apples from heaven and potatoes from the earth.”
Maggie was surprised to find that she had a voracious appetite. She downed everything, mopping up the onion grease with the bread, as well as a good portion of the Himmel und Hölle. What she couldn’t finish, Carl Karl tucked into with abandon.
When they were done, and the table was cleared, Adelwin brought out train schedules and maps, to make certain that Maggie knew where she was going in the morning. Herr Karl would drive her to the station early; there Maggie would take the train to Berlin, where she would meet up with Gottlieb Lehrer.
“There aren’t many SS here in our tiny town,” Frau Karl told her, “but you still need to be careful. Anyone can turn you in for anything, at any time. Always assume you’re being watched.”
Maggie gave an enormous yawn; it was well after midnight. “Excuse me.”
“Come, let me show you to your room,” Frau Karl said.
Maggie bade good night to the men, then followed Frau Karl up the narrow wooden stairs. “Your suitcase is in there,” she said, indicating a guest room. “Schlafen Sie gut. I will see you in the morning.”
The first thing Maggie did was open her suitcase, checking for the radio transmitter crystals and the microphone. She breathed a sigh of relief: both seemed undamaged.
She was able to undress and put on her nightgown before the first wave of exhaustion engulfed her. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her before she was fast asleep.
Downstairs, Frau Karl cleaned up the kitchen, washing the last of the dishes. “Do you think she’ll make it? She’s a woman after all. She might have an advantage. No Nazi would ever believe that a woman could be a spy.”
“I hope so,” Herr Karl said, drinking ersatz coffee. “I certainly hope so.”
Chapter Five
Elise had been shocked to receive the invitation to Gretel Paulus’s memorial service. The card stock was thick and bone-white, the text engraved in black ink.
HERR AND FRAU ODWIN PAULUS
REQUEST RAE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT THE MEMOMAL SERVICE FOR
OUR BELOVED DAUGHTER, GRETEL ADA PAULUS
ON SUNDAY, THE 5TH OF JUNE
AT TWELVE O’CLOCK NOON
KAISER WILHELM MEMORIAL CHURCH
BREITSCHEIDPLATZ 10789
RECEPTION TO FOLLOW
NIEBUHRSTRASSE 27
BERLIN-CHARLOTTENBURG
The day of the memorial service, Elise donned her best black crepe dress, hat, and gloves. It was hot; Elise’s dress stuck to the small of her back. Underneath the hat, her hair was damp.
The service was traditional, and the priest sounded truly sorrowful to have lost the little girl from his congregation. Afterward, Elise, with the rest of the mourners, went to the Pauluses’ nearby home. It was a large and comfortable third-floor apartment in a baroque limestone building. Inside, Bauhaus furniture was juxtaposed against ninet
eenth-century herringbone wood floors. The wide windows looked out over a courtyard garden, where roses bloomed and a raven croaked in an apple tree. People dressed in black milled about, clutching delicate cups and saucers, speaking in subdued voices.
“Ah, Nurse Hess,” said Gretel’s father, finding her in the crowd. His eyes were blank and his voice was a monotone. “How good of you to come. Gretel always spoke so well of you. Won’t you have something to drink? Eat?” He indicated a plantation table in the dining room, swathed in white linen, piled high with fruit, cold cuts, cheeses, breads, and pastries. A fat black housefly buzzed over the table, finally landing on a sticky, almond-covered zuckerkuchen.
“I’m fine, thank you, Herr Paulus,” Elise replied. “I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t know Gretel for long, but she was a lovely child. She was always so brave and cheerful.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Nurse Hess,” he said, his eyes trying to focus.
Elise wondered whether to press on. The girl was dead, after all. Why upset a grieving father? Then she remembered Gretel holding her little bear, and took a breath. “If I may ask, Herr Paulus, what was the cause of her death?”
“Pneumonia,” he said flatly. “They told us she died of pneumonia.”
“They ‘told you’?” Elise repeated, confused. “Gretel didn’t die at home? I wasn’t aware that she’d been readmitted to Charité.”
Herr Paulus blinked. “No, no—she left Charité and was sent to the Hadamar Institute, for additional evaluation. While she was there, she caught pneumonia. They sent us her ashes in an urn. We didn’t even have time to see her. We don’t even have her body to bury. They sent her away to Hadamar without telling us. It was only later that we were informed. And then it was too late.” He turned to the urn on the mantel, in front of a framed oil painting of Hitler. It was shiny and black, an enameled swastika facing front.
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