His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Maggie sat, but as far away from him as the sofa would allow.

  “You asked me, in the Tiergarten, if I believed in evil,” he continued. “Ten years ago, I would have said no—that there’s no such thing as ‘evil,’ just the absence of God’s love. However, since then, I’ve changed my mind. I do believe in evil. I do believe in Satan. I believe that we all are in hell here—in Berlin, in Germany—and the reason we are is that we didn’t speak up sooner. There are things going on … It’s not just the invasions, the conquering.”

  “The Jews,” Maggie said. “Yes, we all know. We heard about Kristallnacht.”

  Gottlieb winced. “No, you don’t, or at least you don’t know the half of it. Back in the early thirties, many people saw Nazism as an answer to Communism, to atheism—and thought that, with the Nazis, we could fix the economy and keep our churches. Well, they’ve let us hang on to our churches, but as soon as the war is over, they’ll demolish them, too. They want a pagan, warrior society. With no room for love, for empathy, for compassion.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Maggie swallowed more brandy.

  “No, you still don’t know the full extent of the horror. They’re killing children. They’ve started killing large numbers of German children who are mad or deaf or dumb. Or missing an arm or a leg. Or drooling. Or ‘disruptive.’ They’re sending them to special hospitals and gassing them.”

  “What?” Maggie blinked. She heard the words but couldn’t comprehend them.

  “I’m telling you—they’re killing children. And now they have all these Jews out of Germany, in concentration camps in Poland. What do you think they’re going to do with them? They can barely feed them now—what about this winter?”

  Maggie was silent.

  “There are stories about the Nazis setting up a Jewish colony in Madagascar—more like a police state. But I’ve heard about what’s going on, in the ghettos, in the camps. They’re working them to exhaustion. Then they’re shooting them, rounding them up and shooting them, and dumping the bodies into mass graves. But—if they’re willing to gas children—how long do you think it will take them to start gassing the Jews?”

  “They’re killing …” Maggie finally managed to say, “children?” Her brain felt paralyzed. “Why?” was the only word she could find.

  “Do you know anything about art?” Gottlieb asked.

  “Art?” Maggie made her frozen head nod. What on earth does art have to do with killing children?

  “When the Nazis came into power, they had an enormous exhibit of the so-called degenerate art of the Jews and Communists. It was ugly. The painting, the sculptures were about war, and the brutality of war. The wounds of the injured. The pain of death. About the agony of the living. It was the art of the avant-garde. This art was seen as the violence of the Jews and Bolsheviks—often considered one and the same—against the German people.

  “In the place of real art, they put neoclassical statues, because the Greeks and Romans were untouched by Jews. Sentimental ‘blood and soil’ paintings touting the glories of war, the bravery of soldiers, the valor of wives and mothers, and the value of racial purity and obedience.”

  “Propaganda, in other words.”

  “Bad art.” He spat. “Kitsch.”

  “And who gave them the right to decide for everyone? Who are they to decide?”

  “They see themselves as gods on Mt. Olympus. Protectors of a racial utopia.”

  Maggie gasped. “The hubris! But what does all of this have to do with the children? And the Jews?”

  “What Hitler did to our art, he wants to do with our people. The disfigured, the blind, the Gypsies, the Jews—they’re all parts of our society that he finds ugly. Hitler’s determined to make over Germany in his own vision—a pagan warrior culture, where everyone is racially pure, everyone is strong, everyone is perfect. He’s doing ‘aesthetic’ cleansing, but not just with art and architecture—with human beings.”

  Maggie shuddered. “But,” she said, thinking the metaphor through to its ultimate conclusion, “everyone ultimately gets old. What happens then?”

  “A warrior state doesn’t have room for compassion or pity.”

  “And what about compassion for its warriors? What about the soldiers coming home, maimed and disfigured?”

  Gottlieb shrugged. “I wonder.”

  Maggie felt as though an evil miasma was swirling about her. She longed to go home to London, and to scrub herself in a scalding shower until her skin was raw. But what good would that do? She felt now, more than ever, her need to stay and fight. Just like all the men in Britain who wanted to enlist after seeing their beloved cities bombed.

  “And that’s why I have to stay,” she said finally, resolutely. Gottlieb poured more brandy. Together, they drank in silence.

  Chapter Twelve

  Berlin-Mitte, Monday morning, nine A.M. The New Reich Chancellery was on Vosstrasse, just off Wilhelmstraße.

  It’s designed to intimidate, Maggie realized, looking up at the authoritarian and disproportionately high marble columns of the entrance. Albert Speer’s oversized architecture lacked any relation to the humans who passed through its gigantic doors. It was stern and sterile, pretentious and preposterous. And, for the Thousand Year Reich, perfect.

  After showing her papers to the armed guards, Maggie walked through the marble reception room, also designed to make any and all visitors feel small. There she was met by a stern-faced SS officer, whose loud hobnailed boots heralded his arrival. He was young, with a cleft chin and pale eyes.

  “Heil Hitler!” he cried, clicking his polished black heels together and raising his arm.

  Maggie knew that succeeding in her mission was worth more than her hatred for saluting. “Heil Hitler!” she responded. Her voice echoed in the vast space.

  “You are Margareta Hoffman?” he asked.

  “Ja,” Maggie replied, heart thudding in her throat.

  “Please, gnädiges Fräulein, follow me down the corridor to the third door on the right.” She walked through double doors, almost seventeen feet high, into a seemingly endless mirrored gallery, the thick carpet muffling her footsteps. The air was fragrant from the enormous formal bouquets dotting each gilded side table.

  Maggie found the waiting area. A number of other women were already there, some young, some older, all nervous-looking. She took an empty seat, crossed her ankles, and folded her gloved hands over her pocketbook.

  “Ladies. I am Captain Hocken.” Hocken, white-blond with an unfortunately small chin, cleared his throat and looked down at the assembled candidates. “There are a few things you should know before you begin your typing test. First, you will not be meeting Herr Göring today. Only the top three from today will have that honor. You will compete by taking dictation. But not on a notepad, no—you will type directly. Herr Göring likes to hear the sounds of the typewriter as he speaks—says it helps him think better.” He sniffed. “Second, Herr Göring prefers all typing to be double-spaced, so that he can make notes easily.”

  The women all nodded. Maggie was relieved that she wouldn’t have to interview with Göring yet. She was also relieved when she heard the task. Just like Mr. Churchill, she noted, except he likes a silent typewriter. At least I have plenty of experience typing dictation. Although certainly not on a German machine …

  One by one, the women went into the large office to take dictation. When Maggie’s turn came she made a few mistakes at first, because of some of the unfamiliar German symbols. It soon turned into a complete and utter disaster.

  When she was done, she went back to her seat, cheeks burning. So much for all your grand plans, Hope. Piece of cake, huh?

  “How was it for you?” a young girl asked. Her feet were too fat for her pumps and excess flesh encased in silk squeezed out from her shoes.

  “Terrible,” Maggie replied. “I was nervous. You?”

  “Terrified!” The girl tittered, which turned into a hiccup.

  Hocken reappeared at the door.
Everyone waited, on tenterhooks, to see if she were one of the chosen. “Ladies,” he said, “I want to thank you on Herr Göring’s behalf for your time. Frau Kohlheim, Frau Krueger, Fräulein Oster, Fräulein Hoffman.

  “You may be excused.” Maggie didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The women named rose to their feet, pocketbooks in hand, dissatisfied looks creasing their faces.

  “The rest of you, we will put your paperwork through security check as you progress to the next level of the interview.”

  He looked back to Maggie and the three other women. “I’m sorry, gnädige Fraus.”

  “Not at all,” Maggie managed.

  She walked back through the long corridors of the Chancellery, blind to the marble and mirrors. She was angry with herself for such a poor showing—and on typing, of all things! And yet, part of her was relieved that she was finished, that she would be going back to England. She’d be able to see her friends again, sleep in her own bed, leave the hell of Berlin …

  “Fräulein Hoffman!” she heard echo in the high-ceilinged hallway. Maggie turned. It was the golden-haired man from the party. “Guten tag, gnädiges Fräulein. I am Gustav Oberg. We met at Frau Hess’s birthday celebration.”

  “Oh! Of course. Lovely to see you again, Herr Oberg.”

  “I see you took Goebbels up on his offer. How did it go?”

  “Not well.” Maggie shrugged. “Nerves.”

  “Well, that’s good news—for me, at least.”

  “Really? And why is that?”

  “I’m looking for a—Well, let me start at the beginning. May I take you out for a cup of coffee, Fräulein Hoffman? Real coffee, I promise.”

  Maggie was wary, but still intrigued. She had only one day left in Berlin—what did she have to lose? “Of course, Herr Oberg.”

  Gustav Oberg took Maggie to a café not far from the Chancellery. He ordered for them both, then looked at her with appraising eyes.

  “So, Göring’s loss may be my gain,” he said, as the waiter put down their cups.

  “What do you mean, Herr Oberg?”

  “I’m looking for a … companion.”

  “Herr Oberg!” Maggie rose to leave.

  “No, no!” Herr Oberg said. “No, you misunderstand.” He gestured for her to sit back down, and, after a moment, she did. “Not for me—for my daughter.”

  Ah, thought Maggie. “What’s your daughter’s name? And why does she need a companion?”

  “Her name is Alexandra. Her mother died five years ago. And right now she is … not herself. Nothing contagious, never fear. But she must stay inside the house, in bed or on the sofa, and it’s wearing on her, I can tell. She needs a companion, a young woman, who will read with her, knit with her”—he waved his hands dismissively—“do whatever it is you young ladies do together.”

  “I see.” Maggie’s mind was spinning. Surely she could do that. And if she were hired, she could stay here, in Berlin; maybe she could learn something.

  “Since I am a widower and my daughter is indisposed, I would also ask you to take on some hostess duties. At dinner parties and the like. Just sit at the foot of the table and smile, that sort of thing.”

  And who are your dinner guests, Herr Oberg? And what, exactly, would I be in a position to overhear?

  He took another sip of coffee. “Of course, it’s perfect—because you’ve already been through security.”

  He thinks that I was cleared before the typing test … “Yes, of course, Herr Oberg.”

  “All that red tape with security … I understand the need for it, but I’d hate to have to go through it with someone.” He paused. “I understand you have a boyfriend? The man you came to the party with?”

  She thought of Gottlieb, of his mother and three sisters. If it were at all possible, she must leave him out of this. The dangers were incalculable. “No, Herr Oberg. Not anymore. Things … Well, they didn’t work out.”

  “Good!” Oberg exclaimed. “Er, not good, I mean, I’m sorry—but we are now living in Wannsee, a little outside of Berlin, and it makes things easier. Our house is beautiful—right on the lake. What do you say?” He gave her a wide grin. “You will come and work for me? I will provide room and board and Tuesdays off.”

  “And the pay?”

  “Forty Reichmarks per week.”

  Maggie didn’t want it to seem too easy. “Forty-five.”

  Oberg sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, Fräulein Hoffman. All right. Forty-five per week.”

  Maggie smiled, a Cheshire cat smile. “Yes, Herr Oberg. I would be delighted to come and work for you, to be a companion to your daughter.”

  “Excellent.” He motioned for the waiter. “And now let’s order some oysters and champagne, to celebrate!”

  In a daze, Maggie walked back to Gottlieb’s flat to pack her things.

  “This is lunacy!” he shouted as she threw everything she’d brought to Berlin into her valise. “Absolute lunacy! You do understand that, yes?”

  “I do.” Maggie looked up at him calmly. “It’s a calculated risk. And one I’m willing to take in order to get into the inner circle.”

  “It was dangerous enough for you as a courier!” Gottlieb started to pace, ears flaming red. “If you stay, you’ll be completely on your own! I wash my hands of you.”

  “Are you breaking up with me, Schatzi?” Maggie snapped the catches on her suitcase shut. “I’m devastated. But I have my proof of Aryan identity card. As long as they think I’m a fellow Nazi, it will be fine. I don’t need you.”

  “Fine? Your paperwork will be under intense scrutiny. Intense. SOE does a decent enough job, but I’m not sure that what you have could stand up to it. What will you do then? They’ll hang you, you know—won’t even bother with the guillotine or a bullet. But not before the Gestapo will have tortured you, and you’ve told them everything you know. About everyone you know!”

  “First of all, Herr Oberg is under the assumption that I’ve already been through the background check. And, I have a cyanide capsule. Not that I have any intention of using it.” She pinned on her hat and tugged on her gloves.

  “It’s far too dangerous for a woman,” Gottlieb raged. “And not only are you risking your own life but you’re risking mine as well. Even if we’ve ‘broken things off,’ I’m still the one who brought you to Berlin. I’ll be under a microscope. My entire group will be under intense scrutiny.”

  “I know, and for that I am sorry, truly.” Maggie knew too well what a terrible risk Gottlieb had taken to pose as her boyfriend, to have her in his flat. “But there’s a war on, you know—as we say at home.” The two, face-to-face, were silent for a moment. “Would you do it?” she asked, softly. “If you had the chance?”

  “That’s not a fair question!” Gottlieb spluttered.

  Maggie was losing patience. “Of course it’s a fair question!” She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “And that’s why I have to do it!”

  “No,” Gottlieb said. “What I would do is use my head. I would follow orders. What you are doing is grossly irresponsible. The rules apply to everyone.”

  “One thing I learned from SOE is that rules are meant to be broken.”

  “SOE? ‘Churchill’s gangsters’ is more like it. I’d thought more highly of you.”

  “We’re taught to think on our feet, to press our advantages.”

  “Which might get us both killed!”

  “Now, look,” Maggie snapped. “Blindly following orders is what brought your country into this nightmare in the first place.” She reached the door, then turned and took a breath, meeting his furious gaze resolutely. “I’m afraid this is goodbye—for now.” She extended her hand.

  But Gottlieb refused to take it. “I hope you’ll be back, Schatzi,” he said, shaking his head as she stepped through the door. “I’ll pray for you.”

  Maggie arrived at Herr Oberg’s summer villa in Wannsee by train that afternoon, carrying her suitcase. It was a lovely stone house, set on the la
ke, protected by tall iron gates.

  She trudged to the servants’ entrance and rang the bell. She was met by the housekeeper, Frau Berta Graf, who had gray-blond hair and a bulbous nose red with rosacea. “We’ve been expecting you, Fräulein Hoffman,” she said, as she led Maggie through the kitchen and then the house.

  “It’s beautiful,” Maggie exclaimed. It wasn’t to her taste, but she wanted to make conversation.

  “Oh, Herr Oberg has only recently acquired this house. It belonged to a Jewish department store owner and his family.”

  “What happened to them?” Maggie asked, dreading the answer.

  “Oh, they emigrated. And they’d left all the original furnishings—isn’t it lovely? All of the antlers are Herr Oberg’s, though. He’s quite the hunter and outdoorsman, you know.”

  Maggie found out a great deal from the voluble Frau Graf. That Herr Oberg was married to his work and rarely came home at all. That his seventeen-year-old son, Lutz, had done extremely well in the Hitler Youth, and was now studying at the National Political Academy. And that Oberg’s daughter, Alexandra, was, well, having some problems adjusting to life without her mother.

  “What kinds of problems?” Maggie asked, as they made their way to the top floor, where she was shown to a tiny room with a sloped ceiling and a round window. It was furnished simply, with a twin bed and a worn rug. A framed portrait of Hitler was displayed on a lace doily on the dresser, next to a candlestick in a green glass holder and a box of matches.

  “Oh, you know—young girls. Hormones, boyfriends, and the like. She’s just been unhappy—you certainly have your work cut out for you …” Frau Graf clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’ve done it again! I’ve said too much. You must excuse me, Fräulein …”

  “Of course,” Maggie said, reassuringly. “I heard nothing.”

  “The candle and matches are in case of a power outage—they’re more frequent here these days, with the bombing. And you’ll be taking dinner in the kitchen with the rest of the staff. I will see you at six.”

  Jawohl. “Thank you, Frau Graf.”