His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Come, child,” Licht said. “Let’s go to my office. We can talk in private.”

  Gottlieb Lehrer was already there. He stood as soon as he saw Elise.

  “Elise, this is Gottlieb Lehrer. Gottlieb, Nurse Elise Hess.”

  “Guten tag,” Elise said. She looked at him closely. “Haven’t we—”

  “—we met at the party,” Gottlieb said. “Yes—Clara Hess’s party. You assisted my girlfriend when she fainted. I’m grateful for your help, gnädiges Fräulein.”

  “Of course,” Elise said, taking a seat.

  “You’re Clara Hess’s daughter?” Gottlieb shook his head. “I don’t envy you.”

  “And your escort that night, Margareta Hoffman—is she really your girlfriend, or one of us?”

  Gottlieb smiled thinly. “The less you know, Fräulein Hess, the safer you are.”

  Father Licht put his elbows on his desk and made a steeple of his hands. “Elise, Gottlieb is one of the people I work with on various projects, including transporting Jews to safety in Switzerland.”

  “Really?” Elise said, leaning forward. “How have you been able to manage that?”

  “I’ve been working with Dietrich Bonhoeffer at the Abwehr,” Gottlieb replied. “In short, the German reputation for mistreating Jews has started to get out and Goebbels wants to control Germany’s image. And so, to counteract this, we select some Jews to go to Switzerland, talk about how wonderfully they’re treated, how excited they are to go to Poland and then Madagascar—and then, well, somehow they just disappear.”

  “Disappear?” Elise frowned.

  “Of course we make sure they’re provided with money, papers, safe houses, and so on,” Gottlieb assured her. “We’ve been able to get a number of Jews out this way but not enough. And we can’t keep it up forever.”

  “Well, I have two men I need to get out—what assistance can you offer?”

  “We’re aware of the great sacrifice you’re making, Elise, and we’re looking into different safe houses. A more secure solution than Clara Hess’s attic,” Licht said.

  Gottlieb whistled through his teeth. “You have two hideaways staying with you? Were they there during the party?”

  “One was,” Elise admitted. “Hide in plain sight, as they say. What can you do for them?”

  “We’re looking into various options, Elise. But I also want to talk to you both about the so-called children’s euthanasia program at Charité. Gottlieb,” the priest said. “Nurse Hess has worked with some of the patients at Charité murdered at Hadamar as part of that program. She is an eyewitness.”

  “Ah,” Gottlieb said. He crossed himself.

  Elise did as well. “The horrors I’ve witnessed are burned into my brain and my heart,” she said. “I will never forget—never. And as long as I have breath, I will make sure what these child murderers are doing will come to light.”

  “You saw the actual crime—did you see any of the paperwork?”

  “Some,” Elise said. “They’re quite cagey about it—using the names of fake staff members for letters, lying directly to the parents. I tried to copy some of the more incriminating files, but they’re now under lock and key.”

  “What about the administrative offices?”

  “The administrative offices?”

  “Yes, all the higher-ups are at the Chancellery, part of the so-called State and Party Affairs, located at Tiergartenstrasse Four.”

  “I work at Charité,” Elise said and shrugged. “I think that’s my best bet for access to paperwork. Although now the file rooms are triple-padlocked. The administrators in charge of records seem to have caught on to me. Now they’re going to great lengths to conceal evidence.”

  Licht closed his eyes in silent prayer.

  “I’ll keep trying,” Elise said, realizing that every day that passed, more children would be bused to Hadamar. “And I’ll pray to St. Jude,” Gottlieb said.

  “Why, thank you so much for your vote of confidence,” she replied, hoping her sarcastic tone was not lost on him.

  “Elise, did you know that, before the war, Gottlieb was studying to be a priest?” Father Licht intervened, before the young man could answer.

  “And I was going to be a nun! Still plan on taking my vows after the war is over.”

  Gottlieb scowled. Elise, with her Rhine maiden curves and dancing blue eyes, didn’t strike him as someone likely to become a nun. But she was used to such looks. “Let me guess,” she said to him. “Jesuit?”

  Father Licht permitted himself a small smile, which he hid behind his hand.

  “Why, yes,” Gottlieb said, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “You seem very …” Elise considered her words. “Intense.”

  “Hmpf,” Gottlieb said, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted.

  In the Hesses’ attic, with assistance from Ernst, John’s health continued to improve.

  Every day, he dressed himself in some of Elise’s father’s old summer clothes: linen trousers and soft, frayed shirts. Day after day, in sock-clad feet, he walked the perimeter of the space, first with assistance from Ernst, then on his own, getting stronger and faster. Ernst read the books Elise brought for them from her father’s library—Franz Kafka’s The Trial, Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, Alfred Delp’s Tragic Existence—and tried to help John with the German translations.

  Every morning, before the house was awake or the servants arrived, Elise tiptoed upstairs with a picnic basket of food to last all day—sandwiches, mostly, and fruit and a large Thermos of coffee and a carafe of water. She brought wooden bowls of shaving soap and blades, and pitchers of fresh water and a basin for washing.

  She also procured a wireless radio, which—ear pressed to the speaker—John used to find the BBC. He might be far from home and in enemy territory, but he loved hearing English after so many months, and was heartened that Britain was holding on. And he listened in shock, hearing the voice of Winston Churchill himself, giving his latest speech.

  “We live in a terrible epoch of the human story,” the Prime Minister announced, in sonorous tones, “but we believe there is a broad and sure justice running through its theme. It is time that the enemy should be made to suffer in their own homelands something of the torment they have let loose upon their neighbors and upon the world. We believe it to be in our power to keep this process going, on a steadily rising tide, month after month, year after year, until they are either extirpated by us or, better still, torn to pieces by their own people.”

  John and Ernst looked at each other. “It is for this reason that I must ask you to be prepared for vehement counteraction by the enemy. Our methods of dealing with them have steadily improved. They no longer relish their trips to our shores.…

  “We do not expect to hit without being hit back, and we intend with every week that passes to hit harder. Prepare yourselves, then, my friends and comrades, for this renewal of your exertions. We shall never turn from our purpose, however somber the road, however grievous the cost, because we know that out of this time of trial and tribulation will be born a new freedom and glory for all mankind.”

  John stood, tears pricking his eyes, as the BBC played “God Save the King.”

  Only when the broadcast was over did Ernst speak. “So the Germans have bombed British civilians. Now Britain’s going to bomb more German civilians.”

  The Englishman looked at the German. “Yes.”

  “Do you think those bombings will have anything to do with the eventual outcome of the war?”

  “Maybe.” John shrugged. “Maybe not.”

  “An eye for an eye, yes?”

  John looked uncomfortable.

  Ernst slumped back on his roll-up mattress. “All I can tell you as a doctor is—everyone bleeds the same.”

  As August passed, Maggie learned Alexandra’s schedule. In the mornings, she would read to the girl, in the sunroom. They would have lunch together. Then Alexandra would take a nap. In the evenings, they would knit
for the soldiers.

  To the casual observer, Maggie and her young charge seemed like friends. They often laughed together, shared Kaffee und Kuchen, confided girlish secrets. All the while, Maggie was hiding her dismay at the way Alexandra, a healthy and intelligent girl, had been brainwashed into becoming some kind of breeding machine for the Reich, her own talents secondary to her capacity to produce future Nazi warriors.

  But Alexandra believed that Maggie was Margareta Hoffman, originally from Frankfurt, who’d gone to school in Switzerland and then met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome. She thought it was unbelievably romantic that Margareta had given up so much for her lover, to follow him to Berlin.

  “And then he just—threw you over?” Alexandra said one day as they knitted soldiers’ socks.

  “It’s … complicated,” Maggie said. Oh, you have no idea exactly how complicated.

  “Too bad you didn’t have his baby!”

  Maggie looked up.

  “I’m joking! I can tell you’re the type who wants a proper wedding. But, were you in love with him?”

  St. Gottlieb? Not likely! Maggie exclaimed inwardly. But then she thought of Hugh. “I do miss him,” she confessed. “I do.”

  “Hmmm,” said Alexandra, who had clearly been hoping for more drama.

  “Sorry it’s not romantic enough for you. I should have drowned myself in the Spree instead?”

  “Well, that’s more dramatic. Wagnerian, even!”

  Maggie had to laugh. “I prefer to stay dry.”

  “What was it like in Rome?”

  Maggie had been prepared for this question. “Very hot, very dusty. But we just worked and worked, all the time. We barely had any chance to see the city.”

  “Do you speak Italian?”

  “Not much—they just wanted German girls, to speak and type in German.”

  “And that’s where you met Gottlieb?”

  “And that’s where I met Gottlieb, who was there with the Abwehr.”

  “Was he”—Alexandra looked so young—“your first love?”

  Maggie stared out the window, at the garden and the sparkling lake beyond. “No,” she answered. “Not Gottlieb.”

  “Who was your first love, then?”

  “He was a pilot.”

  “Was?”

  “He—he died. On a mission.”

  “A pilot—I’m sorry for your loss.” Alexandra pressed a hand to her heart. “One of our brave Luftwaffe, defending the Fatherland. Do you miss him?”

  “Very much.”

  The two women knitted together in silence.

  “Have you ever thought …” Alexandra began.

  “Yes?”

  The girl had the grace to blush. “My father?”

  Maggie didn’t see Herr Oberg much, but she was aware of the way he looked at her. “Nonsense!” She smiled, determined to change the subject. “What do you say we play some records while we knit? Bach? Or today, perhaps, Beethoven?”

  Maggie’s effort to get into Oberg’s study was proving difficult. He often didn’t get home until late, and then spent hours and hours working, leaving only a short window between the time he went to bed and when he woke up in the morning.

  Finally, one day late in August, Herr Oberg arrived home early from work and went to bed early. Maggie catnapped, then woke at two. In order not to make any noise on the stairs, she slid down on her bottom, using her hands, one stair at a time. She then crept quietly in stocking-clad feet over the thick carpets on the floor where Herr Oberg’s and Alexandra’s bedrooms were, holding her breath and listening for any sounds.

  Finally, she reached the study. She’d been eyeing the lock and didn’t think it would take much to open. She pulled out a hairpin from her bun and gently inserted it. If it were the type she thought, a gentle push with the pin would release the mechanism and open the door.

  It was not that kind of lock.

  Damn, damn, damn, Maggie raged. All right, I’ve spent enough time in the hallway, she decided, looking around, listening, making sure she was alone. Time to painstakingly make her way back to the safety of her bed, to plan her next attempt.

  On Maggie’s day off, she toyed with what to do. And then, impulsively, knowing it was against all SOE rules, she decided to call Elise. She’s my sister, she rationalized as she picked up the handset of the telephone. And the world’s at war. Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again?

  Maggie felt she couldn’t have a guest to Herr Oberg’s, and she certainly didn’t want to go back to Clara’s house, so she suggested meeting at the beach at Wannsee.

  Elise took the S-Bahn from Grunewald to Wannsee and met Maggie near the sparkling blue lake. She spread out a blanket on the sand, and Maggie opened a large umbrella she had borrowed from the Oberg villa. The air smelled of spicy pine needles. There were a few other people—mothers and their children, building elaborate sand castles under striped umbrellas or splashing in the shallow water. Boys played in sand forts, brandishing toy guns. Birds sang from nearby chestnut trees. The two young women kicked off their sandals and stripped down to their bathing suits.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Elise asked as she slipped on sunglasses and lay back.

  Maggie was pretending to be still mourning after her breakup with Gottlieb. “Every day, it’s a little better,” she said with a smile. The warm sand under the blanket felt good, the sound of the water lapping against the sand was relaxing, and Maggie felt her shoulders drop just the slightest bit for the first time since she’d arrived in Germany. “And how’s Fritz?” Elise had told Maggie about Fritz, her dance partner.

  Elise sighed. “I adore Fritz, but in the same way I adore puppies and kittens. It’s not serious. And he doesn’t believe that, when the war is over, I want to take my vows to become a nun.”

  “Oh, come now, Elise—I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true! I want to dedicate my life to Jesus.”

  “What about, you know, waiting until you’re older? After you’ve lived a little. Fallen in love.”

  Elise shook her head. “I know what I want.”

  “Do you think it’s a kind of rebellion?” Maggie cocked an eyebrow over the tortoiseshell frames of her sunglasses. “Against your mother?”

  Elise’s eyes followed the flight of a black heron. “I never thought of that. It’s possible, I suppose. But it doesn’t change the fact I love God and want to devote my life to Him. And, of course, I’ll still be a nurse. Maybe even a doctor, someday. After this horrible war.”

  “And how does your father feel about your donning a habit?”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind. He’s away so much, with the opera.… But you’re right—my mother, she despises the idea.”

  Elise fingered the tiny cross on the thin chain around her neck. “It even bothers her that I wear this. She’d rather I wear a swastika.”

  Her tone was bitter.

  “She’s, um, quite important in the party, I gather?”

  Elise gave a snort. “Once upon a time, Mutti had everything—beauty, fame, glamour, handsome men, including my father. He was her conductor, you know. Their love affair made them famous. He divorced his first wife for her. Oh, the scandal!”

  Maggie bit her lip.

  “But then she had the surgery. And, as a result, she lost her upper range and retired from singing. As you heard, at the party—although she’s not too bad as a mezzo, as long as she isn’t projecting to a large hall. But one of her greatest admirers was Herr Goebbels. Who brought her to the Abwehr, where she’s become a sort of star. I think working in Intelligence has replaced opera for her.”

  “I see,” Maggie responded. Substituting one stage for another. Although Clara must have been working for German Intelligence long before she officially went to the Abwehr …

  “And she definitely bought into all the propaganda about Hitler. ‘Hitler will save us from the Communists!’ she said. ‘He will restore the glory of Germany!’ I do believe she pictures everything in Wagneria
n terms. And she was a favorite of Hitler’s—he adored her in the role of Elsa. Göring and Himmler did, too. Goebbels—well, I’ve always suspected there was, or still is, something between them. They can be loyal and generous friends to people in their inner circle. And they admired her—she brought the Nazi party glamour and culture. Do you think she could”—Elise lowered her voice—“find anything monstrous in such a party, in such men, when they adore her so? Absolutely not. She thinks they’re brilliant and has swallowed their politics whole.”

  Maggie felt she had to tread carefully. She and Elise hadn’t talked about politics. “And what about you?”

  Elise gave a short, sour laugh. “Well, since my parents ignored me for the most part, I was free to read, free to think, free to make up my own mind.”

  As her companion went on, Maggie gleaned the impression of a beautiful but distant and narcissistic mother, who knew very little about her own daughter. And a preoccupied and famous father. It sounded lonely, and far different from the childhood she’d imagined Elise had enjoyed. Yes, she was a smart and capable young woman with high ideals and morals, but she was also the solemn child, who, despite worldly and wealthy parents, grew up very much alone. Maggie felt a warm rush of love and appreciation for her own Aunt Edith.

  “What do you think of all this?” Elise asked suddenly.

  “I’m … an optimistic agnostic,” Maggie said, knowing she had to be careful. “A secular humanist. And not at all political.”

  She smiled. “Shall we swim?”

  The next night, Maggie tried the study door again, this time with a long, thin knitting needle. Again, she’d failed. Maggie bit her lip and stopped herself from pounding at the door in frustration.

  There was a noise in the hall. Maggie whipped around, hiding the needle behind her back. She knew she could talk herself out of almost any situation, but if not, she knew how to kill with a knitting needle—through the eyeball and deep into the brain, the same technique that could be used with a pen or pencil.

  “Mein Gott,” she heard a deep male voice whisper. “Are you a ghost?”

  Maggie took a ragged breath. “No ghost, Herr Oberg. It is I—Fräulein Hoffman.”