His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Clara sang on:

  Odin! I call upon you, Strong One!

  Freya! Exalted One, hear me!

  Bless my deceit and dissimulation,

  so that my vengeance may be successful!

  And, with that, in a heap of chiffon, Maggie crumpled to the hard black-and-white marble tiled floor. “Air, she needs air!” Gottlieb called.

  “I’m a nurse!” Elise called, jumping up from the piano bench and making her way through the crowd to Maggie. She knelt at Maggie’s side, then paused and looked up at Gottlieb, who was cradling Maggie’s head in his hands. “She’s fainted—probably just too much excitement. Let’s get her away from the crowd. Please take the gnädiges Fräulein to my room,” she said to two hovering footmen.

  “It’s all right.” Gottlieb picked up Maggie’s evening clutch and tucked it under his arm, then bent to sweep her up in his arms. “I have her.”

  Elise led the way, back to the vestibule, then up the grand staircase, to a wide red-carpeted hallway. “This way,” she said, walking past gilt-framed oil paintings and tables with marble statues of Roman gods and goddesses. “In here.”

  Gottlieb laid Maggie down gently on the bed while Elise went to the bathroom and soaked a cloth in cold water. “Here,” she told Gottlieb, handing him the cloth. “Put this on her temples.” She went to the window and opened it wider. “I’ll get some smelling salts,” she said.

  The moment she was gone, Gottlieb went through Maggie’s clutch. The microphone was still there. As Elise returned, he closed the little purse with a snap. “Just looking to see if she had any herself,” he lied. “I have no idea what you ladies keep in these tiny handbags of yours.”

  “A Reich secret,” Elise said. “We’ll never tell.” She wafted the tiny glass bottle of smelling salts under Maggie’s nose. “This should do the trick.”

  Maggie reacted with a start. She looked around, taking in the bedroom of a young girl, then Gottlieb, then Elise. My half sister, she remembered. The faint might not have been real, but she was still light-headed from the shock.

  “How are you feeling?” Elise asked in the same soothing tones she used with her patients at Charité. The same voice she had used on the patient she had hidden upstairs in the attic.

  “I’m … fine,” Maggie croaked. “Just embarrassed.”

  “It’s such a lovely party,” Gottlieb told Elise. “And we’re honored to be here. But I’m afraid the excitement—all the famous people—may have been too much for mein feste Freundin.”

  “Probably no dinner and then a glass of champagne on an empty stomach.” Elise grinned. “Or, perhaps you’re not an opera aficionado. I’m not a big admirer of Wagner’s myself.” She winked at Maggie.

  Maggie smiled back, in spite of herself. She and Elise looked nothing alike—while Maggie was pale and slim and red-haired, Elise was rosy and curvy and brunette. But there was something about the set of their mouths and the line of their jaws that betrayed their connection.

  “Let me run down and get you something to eat,” Elise suggested.

  “No, no, I’m fine—” Maggie protested, trying to sit up.

  “I insist,” Elise said. “In my real life, I’m a nurse—so I know these things.” She smiled up at Gottlieb. “Would you make sure our patient stays in bed until I can bring up a sandwich and something to drink?”

  “Of course,” he said, sitting down next to Maggie and clasping her hand.

  The moment Elise was gone, Maggie whispered, “My clutch—”

  “—is fine.” His lips were pursed, disapproving. “A weak thing to do,” he hissed. “Why on earth did they send me someone so green?” He shook his head.

  “Gottlieb—”

  He held up one hand. “Still, as far as I can tell, nothing is broken.”

  “Thank God,” Maggie breathed.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “So, what happened?” He sounded exasperated.

  Maggie felt a flash of annoyance. Gottlieb didn’t trust her. He didn’t think she was competent. If you were any good yourself, Schatzi, you’d at least have considered the possibility that I faked that faint. It’s not my fault you can’t think on your feet as fast as I can. And my shoes are a lot less comfortable than yours. “I did it on purpose. To get away from the crowd.”

  Gottlieb’s eyebrows raised in an expression approximating respect. “Well, we now have an excuse to leave early. Do you want me to do it?”

  “You’d look rather conspicuous carrying a handbag.”

  Gottlieb was not amused. “I can put it in my pocket.”

  Maggie wanted to show the arrogant albino that she was no rank amateur. “Really, I can do it. I want to do it.” She sat up and looked around the room. It was beautiful, with robin’s-egg-blue wallpaper and a silk coverlet. In the corner was a Victorian-looking cage holding a dove, who stared at Maggie with inquisitive eyes.

  “Fine,” Gottlieb told her. “It’s your head on the block.”

  There was a dressing table, with a yellowing Palm Sunday frond tucked behind the mirror, along with several photographs of Elise, Clara, and Herr Hess together—ice skating, skiing, in bathing suits by a sparkling lake. Maggie tried not to feel jealous that Elise had grown up with a mother, even a terrifying Nazi one, not to mention a father. It’s not her fault, after all.

  “Here we go …” she heard Elise say as she reentered the room. She was holding a heavy silver tray, which she set down on the bed. “Just like room service! I didn’t know what you’d feel like eating, so I brought up a few different things.” Elise put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder and laid a linen napkin across her lap. The tray held a plate of hors d’oeuvres, a glass of water, and a delicate porcelain cup rimmed with swastikas, that contained steaming coffee. “Eat!” Elise urged.

  Maggie was suddenly ravenous. “Thank you, Fräulein Hess,” she said, through a small cheese-filled gougère. “This is perfect.”

  She patted Gottlieb’s hand. “In fact, I’m feeling much, much better now.”

  “Shall we go back to the party, Schatzi?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you go?” Maggie suggested, taking a sip of the coffee. After days of ersatz rationed brew, she’d never tasted anything so wonderful.

  “If you’re sure …”

  “I am.” Maggie nodded, then reached for another flaky gougère. “Go! Enjoy yourself!”

  Gottlieb blinked. Maggie had a feeling of smug satisfaction. He finally understood what she was up to. He left.

  “Herr Lehrer is quite gallant,” Elise noted, turning toward the mirror and picking up a tube of lipstick.

  Maggie smiled at Elise, who was painting her mouth. “Want to try?” the other girl asked, holding out a golden tube.

  Maggie blotted her lips with the napkin, set aside the tray and rose. Standing next to Elise, she applied the lipstick, which smelled of violets. The pigmented wax was still warm from Elise’s lips; the act felt dizzyingly intimate.

  “Now, let’s see,” Elise said. “You’ve eaten, that’s good. You have lipstick on, excellent. Let me fix your hair.” She picked up a boar-bristle hairbrush. “Here you go,” she said, brushing the coppery strands into place. “Perfect.”

  Maggie’s heart was racing. She had a sister. A sister who was sweet. A sister who was fixing her hair—a quintessentially sisterly thing to do in Maggie’s opinion, based on books and films. Her sister, who was the daughter of the traitor Clara Hess. Her sister, who was probably a Nazi, too. Maggie took a tremulous breath to clear her head. I have a mission. I will not be distracted.

  She smiled at Elise. “Fräulein Hess, if you don’t think it’s too much of an imposition—especially after all of your kindnesses—I’d love to tour your beautiful home. If you don’t mind.”

  “And here we have Mother’s conservatory,” Elise said, her mind on Herr Mystery. It was a huge room, with a grand piano and an oversized painting of Clara as Brünnhilde in Wagn
er’s Siegfried. What if his temperature’s still elevated? What if one of the maids needs something from the attic? What if he cries out and someone hears him?

  There were many silver-framed photographs of Clara over the years, including her as a young girl. Maggie picked up one. Clara, perhaps two years old, dressed for snow, perched in an ornate carriage with oversized, spindly wheels. From the clothes she realized it was probably from before the turn of the century. She was struck by how innocent Clara looked. How angelic. What had happened to change her?

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” Maggie exclaimed, a lump in her throat.

  “If you’re feeling better now, we should probably be getting back to the party.”

  “You know, I’ve heard so much about your mother—from Herr Lehrer, of course—I’d love to see where she works. She’s such an inspiring woman and has accomplished so much.” She smiled. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Elise hesitated, not wanting to continue the tour but unwilling to displease a guest. “Follow me,” she said, and Maggie did, through an interior door into a library with built-in bookcases and silk-covered walls, dominated by a desk. Here, too, were paintings of Hitler, as well as a reproduction of Rubens’s Council of the Gods.

  Maggie knew what she had to do. “Oh,” she said, stopping abruptly and putting one hand to her forehead.

  “Are you ill?” Elise asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’m fine …” Maggie stumbled. “Oh, dear—I’m afraid I’m feeling a trifle faint again.”

  “Sit down,” commanded Elise. “I’ll run and fetch the smelling salts.”

  “And a glass of water?” Maggie asked, sitting on the tufted black leather sofa. That will buy me a few extra minutes.

  “Of course. Just relax—take deep breaths—I’ll be right back,” said Elise before she left the room.

  Not right back, I hope. Maggie dug in her purse for the microphone.

  Nearest to the desk was the optimal place to conceal it; they’d taught her at Beaulieu. There was a photograph behind the desk, of a younger Clara, taking a curtain call with her conductor. Her husband? Maggie thought as she pulled over the desk chair. Well, technically, he would be her second husband, I suppose.

  Still, her hands were shaking as she tried to secure the microphone and it fell. “Damn,” Maggie muttered, kneeling down to search for it. It must have bounced under the desk. She crawled on her hands and knees, trying to find where it had gone. She spotted a “Feldfu.f” field transmitter–receiver radio. Was Clara eavesdropping on military conversations?

  She heard Elise’s voice. “Margareta?”

  Mein Gott, Maggie thought.

  “Margareta?”

  “Here,” Maggie called weakly.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Elise said, putting the smelling salts and water on the desk, then bending to help Maggie up.

  “So sorry … I wanted to get a look at this beautiful photograph, and then I had another dizzy spell …”

  She stood with Elise’s help, thinking when their hands touched that although they were strangers, they shared more or less fifty percent of their DNA. How very, very strange.

  “Here,” Elise said, holding out the water glass. “Drink this.”

  Maggie took a noisy gulp. “Thank you.”

  Elise watched her face, then nodded. “Good, your color’s coming back.”

  Maggie picked up a framed photograph. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s my father. He’s a conductor for the Berlin State Opera. In this picture, he’s just conducted my mother’s first leading role, in Gounod’s Faust. She’s retired now, but he’s still a conductor. Quite famous, actually, if you follow opera.”

  “Why did she retire?”

  “She developed nodes on her vocal cords—lost part of her higher register. When she sings now, she picks her repertory very carefully, so that the ragged edges don’t show. The piece she picked for tonight is fairly low, and she can manage it, as long as she’s not projecting to an opera house.” Elise gave a crooked half smile. “And Ortrud’s perfect for her.”

  Ortrud, in Wagner’s Lohengrin, was incapable of love. What’s Elise saying?

  There were voices in the hall. Loud voices. A man and a woman. They were arguing. “I know I’m late!” the male voice boomed. “I told you I would come after the performance!”

  “And so you’ve missed everything!” the female voice screeched back.

  “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I, kitten?”

  “Miles, I was humiliated. You deliberately missed my party, because you hate my friends.”

  “Your Nazi cronies? Those common criminals? I despise them—that’s no secret.”

  “We’re high-ranking members of the party.”

  “You’re a high-ranking member of the party. I just happen to be married to you.”

  “Papa und Mutti are fighting again,” Elise whispered to Maggie. Maggie looked at Elise, who seemed to be accustomed to the harsh words. She felt a sudden stab of pity for her half sister. Elise might have grown up with a mother and father—but was her life really any better than Maggie’s with Aunt Edith? From the sound of the shouting, Maggie thought perhaps not. But before she had time to respond, she heard, “What on earth are you two doing in here?”

  Up close, Clara’s face had more fine lines than Maggie had noticed during the performance; more indents around the mouth from pursed lips than around the eyes from smiling. Herr Miles Hess was tall and broad, with thick gray hair and a bushy mustache.

  “Father, Mother, allow me to present—”

  “Margareta Hoffman,” Maggie interrupted, willing her paralyzed legs to move, walking toward them. The microphone would have to wait, at least for the moment. She could only hope that someone didn’t accidentally step on it. “I truly enjoyed your performance, gnädige Frau Hess. And it’s an honor to meet you, Herr Hess.”

  Herr Hess kissed Maggie’s hand. “Likewise, Fräulein Hoffman.”

  “Thank you,” Clara said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it … while you could. Although, I suppose, a fainting spell can’t be helped.”

  She glared at Elise. “Unlike tardiness.” Then she asked, “What are you two doing in here? Why aren’t you at the party?”

  “Fräulein Hoffman wasn’t feeling well,” Elise interposed hastily, “so we brought her to my room to recover. When she was feeling better, I took her on a tour of the house.”

  “This room is off-limits. In fact, it should have been locked.”

  “Clara—” Miles said.

  “It was locked. We used the door from the conservatory,” Elise said.

  “I see.” Clara looked Maggie up and down; then her beautiful eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

  Oh, the things I could say. “No, no—I don’t think so.”

  “Hoffman … I don’t remember your name on the guest list,” Clara continued, taking a step closer, head tilted to one side in contemplation.

  “Mother!” Elise exclaimed.

  “I’m Gottlieb Lehrer’s girlfriend,” Maggie said evenly, although her heart was racing. Her hands were starting to shake; she clasped them behind her back. “He also works at the Abwehr.”

  “Gottlieb Lehrer? Oh, yes, one of Canaris’s men,” Clara said absently. She kept staring at Maggie. “Red hair—it’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”

  Yes, I inherited it from my father—the man you betrayed, Maggie thought. “Oh, it’s darker now, but when I was younger it was bright red—almost orange. I was teased horribly.”

  Clara reached out a hand to touch one of Maggie’s locks. Maggie fought the urge to slap the beringed fingers away. But Clara dropped her hand before it made contact, shaking it as though she’d received an electric shock. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

  she asked again. “You look so familiar. But I can’t quite place your face.”

  Maggie felt her cheeks flush. “No, no, I don’t think so, Frau Hess.”

  Clara gave a dazzling smile. “Well, let’s all get
back to the party then, shall we? I still need to cut the cake.”

  “Cake!” enthused Miles. He winked at Elise. “Guess I came just in time.” He offered his arms, and Elise and Maggie each took one. The three walked out of the study together. Clara used her key to lock the conservatory door, then returned to the hall door and locked that, too.

  Conversation drifted past Maggie’s ears: “After all, our segregation of the Jews is inspired by the United States and her segregation of Negroes …” “Racial hygiene, you know—social Darwinism …” “It all started in Cold Spring Harbor—that’s near New York City…”

  A general, apparently drunk, was shouting, “Blood must flow! Blood must flow!” as he was escorted out to his waiting car by two of the liveried servants. Behind him, a woman in diamonds patted him on the back, saying in soothing tones, “Of course, darling. Of course it must.”

  “Elise, come with me—there are some people I want you to meet,” Clara said, sweeping her daughter in her wake.

  “Let’s talk more later,” Elise whispered back to Maggie.

  “Ah, Fräulein Hoffman,” Goebbels said, walking over to her. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

  “Yes, Herr Goebbels,” Maggie managed. “Thank you.”

  “Excellent! Let me introduce you to a few people.”

  Maggie smiled her brightest, fakest smile, and walked with him. She spotted Gottlieb, but he was in an animated conversation with two men. One was the bloated Hermann Göring, Hitler’s Reichsmarschall and successor, his uniform straining at ostentatious golden buttons. The other was a distinguished-looking white-haired man with bushy eyebrows—Admiral Wilhelm Canaris from the Abwehr, Gottlieb’s superior officer. Maggie recognized them both from pictures she’d studied at Beaulieu. Gottlieb didn’t see her; she was on her own.

  Goebbels led her to a cluster of people sipping champagne and chatting. A thirty-something man with golden hair was at the beginning of a story, blue eyes dancing with mirth. “I saw Wolff Gondrell, the cabaret performer, in the That Speaks Volumes revue last week.”

  “Tell us!” insisted one of the tipsy ladies. Maggie forced herself to continue to smile.