His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Elise’s ears began to ring. She thought she might be losing her mind. She closed her eyes. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,” she prayed silently, “from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.…”

  But where was God as the children of Charité were being murdered? Elise wondered. She said Hail Mary after Hail Mary, and still received no answers. And felt nothing but horror and despair. She must have dropped off to sleep, but woke with a start when the bus pulled back into the parking lot of Charité, in the midmorning.

  And then the thought hit her. What if God were asking the exact same thing? What if God is asking where are we?

  Back at Charité, Elise changed into her black funeral dress. She was walking out the doors of the hospital when she noticed Dr. Brandt striding from the main entrance. He was still in his white coat and SS armband.

  Breaking into a run, she caught up with him on the sidewalk, her heels banging on the concrete. “Dr. Brandt,” she said breathlessly, “I need to speak with you.” The scent of car exhaust lingered in the sticky air.

  Brandt looked annoyed, as though he’d heard a mosquito buzz. “I’m busy, Nurse …”

  “Hess,” she reminded him, “Nurse Hess.”

  “Yes, Nurse Hess.” He looked at her, now recognizing her face. He smiled. “I’m going out to get a cup of decent coffee. That fake coffee they serve in the cafeteria isn’t fit for man or beast.”

  “Dr. Brandt,” Elise said, falling into step with him, “who is Nurse Aloïsa Herrmann?”

  He stopped short and stared. “How do you know about Aloïsa Herrmann?”

  Elise looked him full in the face. “It’s she who sends letters to the parents of children being shipped off to Hadamar. Whoever ‘she’ is.”

  “And what do you know about Hadamar?” Dr. Brandt loomed over her.

  “I know—” Elise took a shuddery breath. God, give me strength. “I know it’s where you’re sending children to be murdered.”

  Without warning, Dr. Brandt’s hand shot out and slapped her across the face. The blow caught her off balance, sending pain rocketing through her cheekbone and skull. She staggered backward and put a hand up to her reddening skin.

  “That is not for you to know! It does not concern you!”

  “It does concern me! These are my patients! They’re being murdered and their parents are being lied to!”

  “Who have you told? Who knows?” Dr. Brandt gripped her arm.

  “Stop!” Elise cried. “No one!”

  “Don’t interfere with what you don’t understand. If we don’t rid ourselves of these … lice, they will multiply and compromise the entire body. This isn’t about morality—it’s about delousing. Genetic hygiene. The mercy killing of the sick, weak, and deformed is far more decent, and in truth a thousand times more humane, than to support a race of degenerates.”

  Four SS officers approached. Two pulled out guns while the other two forced Elise up against a wall. The rough mortar between the bricks scraped her back. She heard the clicks of two safeties being released.

  “Everything all right here, Herr Doktor?” one of the officers asked.

  There was a beat, a curious moment in time, when all of them knew that life or death was hanging in the balance. It stretched on forever and yet passed in an instant.

  “Yes, let her go,” Dr. Brandt answered. “She is young—just a misunderstanding. Yes, Nurse Hess? I know who your mother is, and I would be most unhappy to tell her of your unprofessional behavior today.”

  “Jawohl,” she managed, her voice cracking.

  The two officers released her and turned toward Brandt. “Heil Hitler!” they said, raising their arms in sharp salute.

  “Heil Hitler!” Dr. Brandt replied, arm raised.

  She slid down onto the pavement as her legs crumpled beneath her.

  The officers continued along the sidewalk, and Dr. Brandt resumed his mission to find decent coffee without looking back.

  I’m lifting my eyes to the hills now, Lord, Elise thought. And I’ll do everything in my power to make this stop, but I’d appreciate some help, all right?

  When she was finally able to stand and walk, Elise realized she didn’t want to go home. And she couldn’t bear to go back to the hospital. Then a word came to her—sanctuary. She began walking, across the Spree, and then to the church, not far from the Brandenburg Gate. She needed to talk to God.

  Elise was no stranger to St. Hedwig’s in Berlin-Mitte. It was where she had been baptized, made her first Communion, and was confirmed, thanks to her grandmother, who’d insisted over Clara’s objections. And it was near the hospital, so she could easily go for morning Mass or evening vespers.

  St. Hedwig’s, modeled after the Pantheon in Rome, had an enormous verdigris dome. Inside, the dome rose to a single high window, looking down on the congregation like a great eye. An oversized, bloodred Nazi banner hung from each Corinthian column, and a gold-framed painting of Hitler presided over the altar. On a large wooden crucifix hanging from above, Jesus wept. Here and there, flickering candles from small altars pierced the darkness.

  Elise entered and dabbed the fingers of her right hand into the basin of holy water, then made the sign of the cross, touching her hand to her forehead, heart, and both shoulders, whispering, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.” Then she walked down the aisle, knelt, and crossed herself again.

  Looking around, Elise spotted an older woman, with thick white hair twisted into a bun, walking to a side chapel devoted to St. Michael the Archangel. In the Catholic tradition, St. Michael was considered “a great prince who stands up for the children of your people.” Elise could think of no one more appropriate to whom to pray.

  She dropped a coin into a small wooden box, then took a brown wax candle, lit it, and knelt on a low needlepoint-covered riser to pray, the golden-blue flames flickering in the dim light. She prayed and prayed, crossing herself again and again. When she was done, she crossed herself one last time and stood.

  “Excuse me, Frau,” she said to the other woman in the chapel, who had also finished her prayers, “have you seen Father Licht?”

  “In his office, I should imagine,” the woman said. “Why, child, you’re trembling! Are you all right?”

  But Elise had already walked past her, eyes unseeing. “I just need to find Father Licht.”

  Father Johann Licht, Provost of the Cathedral of St. Hedwig, was in his office in the brick building behind the church itself. He had an angular face and hawklike nose, skin stretched over his hollow cheekbones into straight planes, and fine, dark hair brushed back under a black skullcap. Worry lines carved through his forehead and between his brows. He’d grown up in Ohlau, the youngest of seven brothers and sisters, studied at Innsbruck, and become a priest. Since Kristallnacht, he prayed publicly for the Jews every day at evening prayer, and was under constant surveillance by the SS.

  His small office was simply furnished, with a plain wooden crucifix, a framed picture of Albrecht Dürer’s Praying Hands on the wall, and a yellowing Käthe Kollwitz “Never Again War!” poster tacked up next to it. Licht sat in the wan light as he went over his notes for Sunday’s homily. Elise knocked softly on the open wooden door.

  “Yes?” he said, starting. Then his gaunt features warmed into a smile. “Elise! You gave me a shock! How are you?” he said, rising. “Is everything all right? Come, sit down, child.”

  Elise slumped down in the straight-backed chair opposite his desk. “I fear you won’t believe me if I tell you, Father.”

  “You’d be surprised at what I can believe these days.” He contemplated her face for a moment: the pallor, the seriousness of intent, the sudden aging of her young features. “Why don’t I get you a cold glass of water?” he suggested, “and then you can start at the beginning.” He poured from a pitcher on his desk.

  Elise accepted the glass and sipped. Then she told her story.

  When she’d finished, Fath
er Licht rubbed his thin hands together, then took off his spectacles. “I’m sorry to say, child, that I—we—already know about this. The Nazis refer to their eugenics program internally as Operation Compassionate Death or the Children’s Euthanasia Program. It’s run through the so-called Charitable Foundation for Curative and Institutional Care.”

  Elise was stunned. “You—you know already? The Church knows?”

  “Yes, the program’s headed by Reichsleiter Philipp Bouhler, head of Hitler’s private chancellery, and your own Dr. Karl Brandt, who you must know is also Adolf Hitler’s personal physician.”

  Licht opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a carbon copy of a letter from a folder. “Take a look at this.”

  Elise read: “I, as a human being, a Christian, a priest, and a German demand of you, Chief Physician of the Reich, that you answer for the crimes that have been perpetrated at your bidding, and with your consent, and which will call forth the vengeance of the Lord on the heads of the German people.” The letter was addressed to Dr. Brandt, and was from Father Johann Licht.

  Elise was shocked. “And how—how did he respond?”

  “He hasn’t. Just as no one has responded to our letters and telephone calls about the fate of the Jews. We’ve fallen into the hands of ‘criminals and fools,’ as Bishop von Preysing says. We’ve heard of what you’ve described happening, but the problem for us is that it’s never been substantiated. Most of the Catholic hospitals, as you know, have been closed. And the nuns who were nurses there have been sent to rural convents. Without absolute irrefutable proof …” He fell silent. “Elise—you are a nurse, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve been telling you. At Charité-Mitte. I’ve also approached Dr. Brandt.”

  “What was his response?”

  Elise shivered at the memory of being pressed up against the wall, guns trained on her heart and head. “Let’s just say that he was not about to let a mere nurse ask questions about anything.”

  “But what about one nurse and a priest—and the Bishop of Berlin?”

  “Bishop von Preysing would come forward?”

  “The problem is, Elise, we in the Church have wanted to come forward, publicly, for some time. But the Concordat that the Vatican signed in ’thirty-three prevents any criticism of Hitler’s regime by the Catholic Church. And, on top of that, we have no proof. And without uncontestable proof, there will only be denial and subterfuge.” He rubbed his beaky nose. “You’re a nurse. A nurse at a hospital where this is happening. With your access to files, you could—”

  Elise gave a grim smile. “Get all the proof Bishop von Preysing would need.”

  “It’s dangerous work, Elise,” Father Licht warned. “If you’re caught …” The warning hung in the air. “Not even your mother could save you.”

  Something crossed Elise’s face. In that moment, she decided she would see this through to the end, no matter what her mother might think, no matter where it might lead. “ ‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.’ Proverbs three-twenty-seven, yes?”

  Father Licht smiled. “I’m heartened to see that someone in our congregation not only has been listening but also remembers.”

  “Besides,” Elise said, “Jesus was quite the troublemaker, after all.”

  The smile disappeared from the priest’s haggard face. “But remember, my child—that’s why He was crucified. You must be careful. Please.”

  Chapter Six

  Early the next morning, Herr Karl pulled up to the entrance of the tile-roofed Hannover Hauptbahnhof station, the requisite red Nazi banners flying, Maggie in the seat beside him. He let the car idle as he pulled her suitcase from the back.

  “Good luck, Fräulein,” he said, handing Maggie her valise. “Let’s not draw this out.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Maggie said, shaking his hand. They parted ways.

  Inside, the station was deserted, except for one lone ticket seller snoring, with a newspaper over his face, behind a glass window.

  Maggie felt like an impostor. Shouldn’t the SS be here at any moment, to arrest me? she thought, her heart thundering in her chest and palms damp. She made sure to think in German, to go over her request, to familiarize herself with the Reichmarks in her purse. Then, she took a deep breath and, with her gloved hand, rapped at the window.

  “Whaa—?” The newspaper fell to the floor as the man started, then blinked, then rubbed his eyes with two fists. “Yes, Fräulein. How may I help you?”

  Maggie feigned nonchalance, even though her heart was beating rapidly. “Ticket to Lehrter Bahnhof in Berlin, please.”

  “One way or round trip?”

  For a long moment, Maggie blanked. Despite her fluency in German, she wasn’t expecting that question. Her jaw dropped, her cheeks turned red, and her eyes widened. She just couldn’t think of what he could possibly mean. Was she going to be found out so quickly? Was it over even before it had begun? How long would it take the SS to arrest her?

  “One way or round trip?” the man repeated.

  Maggie swallowed, looking for escape routes.

  Then he started to laugh, a deep and hearty chuckle. “Gnädiges Fräulein, you clearly need coffee as much as I do in the morning!”

  Maggie forced her stiff lips to smile. “Yes, I do need coffee, too,” she agreed. “One one-way ticket to Lehrter Bahnhof,” she managed finally, fumbling for the Reichmarks to pay.

  “Five past six. Track two.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Here’s a schedule.” The man handed her a printed sheet. As he picked it up, it tore slightly. He reached down to get her a fresh one.

  Maggie, used to rationing, including the rationing of paper, was incredulous. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. It’s still perfectly usable.”

  “Nein!” the man snapped, crumpling up the torn sheet and throwing it into the garbage. “Wenn schon, denn schon!”

  Maggie realized it was the old German expression “If something is worth doing at all, it is worth doing right.” She was silent, absorbing his sudden intensity, and accepting the new and unblemished schedule sheet.

  “Heil Hitler!” the man said, giving the salute.

  “Heil Hitler,” she managed to reply.

  By six A.M., a few more people had arrived, some with suitcases, some with rucksacks, waiting with Maggie on the waxed wooden benches. At exactly five minutes past six, the black train pulled up on the track behind the station with a puff of steam and screech of brakes.

  Once she boarded, it wasn’t hard to find a seat by herself. Maggie opened a copy of Berliner Morganpost she’d bought in the station and pretended to read, trying to calm herself.

  She knew it was propaganda, but what she read was disturbing: 19 RAF AIRCRAFT SHOT DOWN OVER THE CHANNEL was the headline for one article. ENGLAND HAS LOST 12,432,000 TONS OF SHIPPING SINCE THE WAR STARTED, blared another. Maggie turned the page. GREEK FISHERMEN REPORT THAT ROYAL NAVY SAILORS SHOT AND KILLED SWIMMING AND HELPLESS GERMAN SAILORS. TWO SOVIET DIVISIONS AND 156 SOVIET TANKS DESTROYED IN TWO DAYS IN THE BATTLE OF DUBNO. She folded the paper up and looked out the window instead.

  Maggie saw cows grazing in pastures lit by the golden light, interspersed with dark forests of ancient oaks. A man in uniform came by to punch her ticket. Her heart was pounding and her hands sweating inside her gloves; still, she feigned boredom, and the conductor didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

  By the time the police officer reached her, to check her identity card, she felt a little less shaky, and his perfunctory examination of her papers went without incident.

  Maggie took out Mein Kampf and tried to make sense of it. She had read it a few years ago, at her late grandmother’s house in London, when Hitler had invaded Poland. It seemed like several lifetimes ago. “The result of all racial crossing is therefore in brief always the following,” Maggie read.

  “(a) Lowering of the level of the higher race;

  �
��(b) Physical and intellectual regression and hence the beginning of a slowly but surely progressing sickness.

  “To bring about such a development is, then, nothing else but to sin against the will of the eternal creator. And as a sin this act is rewarded.”

  Maggie ground her teeth and put the book away. The day was getting warmer, the sunshine through the glass heating the stale air. She turned to the crossword puzzle near the back of the paper—good practice for her German—and had nearly finished it when she heard the train’s whistle and the screech of the brakes, then felt the train slow down, and finally stop.

  “Lehrter Bahnhof station!” a clipped voice over a loudspeaker announced. “We have arrived in Berlin!”

  Hugh met with John Cecil Masterman. Not at his office, however.

  Masterman had studied at the University of Freiburg and had the bad luck to be an exchange lecturer there in 1914, when the Great War had begun. He was interned as an “enemy alien” for four years in a prisoner-of-war camp in Ruhleben—which was why he hated to be indoors. And why he’d asked Hugh to meet him on the far side of Tower Bridge.

  Hugh was there early, at a quarter to eight. It was a humid morning; gray skies above threatened rain. But in any weather, the scenery was spectacular—across the river Hugh could see the parapets on the great stone walls of the Tower of London, as well as the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the suspension bridge with its two Victorian Gothic towers and horizontal walkways.

  And then there appeared Masterman, with his long sloping nose, thick brown hair, and propensity toward grim-humored smiles. He wore a black Anthony Eden hat on his head and carried a long umbrella under one arm. “You must be Hugh Thompson,” he said without preamble. “Let’s walk, shall we?”

  Together, they began the trek over the bridge. They were alone, except for the sound of intermittent traffic and the rush of the wind. Below them flowed the murky Thames.