His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Please, please, both of you—just leave me alone …”

  “Watch her, while I get her things,” John told Hugh.

  Maggie wasn’t conscious of much, but she was coherent enough to be glad her growing headache eclipsed her humiliation. “So, that’s John,” Hugh said, finally.

  “Yes,” Maggie managed.

  “I see.”

  Finally, John returned with her hat and gloves and a glass of water. “Drink this,” he admonished. Maggie shook her head. She much preferred to be in pain. Being in pain meant she didn’t have to think. “Come on now,” John demanded.

  Maggie took the glass, but it slipped from her hand, spilling water into her lap. She heard voices, as though from far away. “So is this what you do now? Get drunk and make a spectacle of yourself? Is this what you and Hugh did together, while I nearly died in Berlin?”

  Maggie moaned, “No …”

  “Watch it,” Hugh countered. “It’s only since you’ve broken her heart that she’s been like this.”

  “I?” John spat. “I broke her heart?”

  “Yes, and now she’s broken mine. Are you happy now?”

  “Happy? Who the hell is happy these days?”

  John grabbed Hugh by his tie and punched him in the face. Hugh staggered back against the wall, then regained his footing. Suddenly the two men were grappling with each other in the alley, like boxers in a clinch.

  “Boys!” Maggie tried to rise. “Really now. This is getting ridicu——”

  It felt warm in the alley, so very warm, and the yelling and punches were very loud. Her head hurt. She felt her stomach lurch again, and the alley started to tilt. She knew she was about to faint, and sure enough, she was back on the ground, this time with her cheek pressed to the pavement.

  Before blackness closed over her, she heard John—or was it Hugh?—say, “Bloody hell!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Maggie opened her eyes. This time it was dark. And hot, and stuffy. But at least she was clean, in her nightgown, and in her own bed.

  The blackout curtains were in place, but her door was open, and she could see the light infiltrating the rest of the flat. She had no idea how much time had passed.

  Her head hurt. Her body hurt. Her soul hurt. She tried to sit up, groaned, and sank back down again. A voice said, “Drink this.” She squinted and focused enough to see David perched on the striped armchair, holding out a glass of water for her to drink. Obedient and weak, she took the water, drinking it all down.

  “Good girl,” David said.

  She handed the glass back to him, exhausted by the effort. He had a pot with a cozy over it, next to a mug. He took off the cozy and poured, then handed the steaming, fragrant tea to her.

  Maggie swore never to mock the British penchant for tea again. “Thank you, David,” she croaked. Her voice sounded like she hadn’t used it in years.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Freddie appeared in the doorway and leaned on the frame. “Does it live?”

  Maggie tried to smile. “It does,” she replied hoarsely. “I assume I have you two gentlemen to thank for getting me back here in one piece? Thank you.”

  Freddie blew a kiss and walked on.

  “I must admit, Mags, you gave us quite a scare there,” David told her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that drunk. To be candid, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you squiffy.”

  “I know, I know …”

  “Well, you won’t get a lecture from me, although, in future, I do advise lining your stomach first and then alternating your drinks with glasses of water.” They listened to the faint noises of Freddie rattling dishes in the kitchen. Finally, David said: “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “What happened? John? Hugh? Your mother? Berlin? Your AWOL father? Schrödinger’s cat? Any of it?” He smiled. “Pick one—dealer’s choice.”

  Maggie sank back down into the pillows and pulled the sheet over her head. “No,” she moaned. “I don’t want to talk. I never want to talk.”

  “When you’re ready, then,” David said. “And I think a loud cry would do you a world of good, too.”

  She poked her head back out from under the sheet. “I can’t—I can’t cry.”

  “Maybe not now,” David said, rising and moving to the door. “But you will. And John, however pigheaded and obtuse he might be, isn’t angry with you. He’s just—well, he’s just angry. He’ll calm down in time. He’ll be able to see your side of things, too.”

  “David?” Maggie called, as he left the room. “How did things work out for you? With your parents and Freddie and the apartment and all that?”

  “It appears there’s one happy ending, at least for now. While all my schemes and ideas came to naught, and my parents still disapprove of my relationship—they refer to it as a ‘friendship’—with Freddie, they’ve decided to turn a blind eye, and let things go on as before.”

  “Really?” Maggie said, pulling the sheet down and propping herself up on her elbows. “What changed their minds?”

  “Ernst, actually,” David said, smiling. “As you know, it’s a trifle difficult to get Jewish immigrants into Britain, let alone German Jews. But I was able to pull a few strings—and since Ernst is a surgeon and wants to be an army doctor, the Government has cleared him for medical duties.”

  “But you’re still not married,” Maggie pointed out. “And not in any position to have a child.”

  “Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a states—For this reason was man created alone, to teach thee that whosoever destroys a single soul … Scripture imputes guilt to him as though he had destroyed a complete world. And whosoever preserves a single soul …, Scripture applies merit to him as though he had preserved a complete world.”

  “So, in other words, you saved the world.”

  David shrugged. “I do what I can.” He sat down on the edge of her bed. “You know, Maggie, I’m never going to love women. And while I realize it’s the road less traveled, it’s a great relief to know who I am. And to be who I am. And while it’s still dangerous, at least, as long as I mind my own business in public, Freddie and I should be all right.” He stood. “Oh, and your father rang.”

  “You mean the always-ambiguous father I scarcely know?”

  “That’s the one! I assured him you were recovering.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him. About anything. He warned me not to go—and would just love to be able to say I told you so.” She gave David a grim smile. “I used to think I knew everything. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “It’s been a crazy few years, that’s for sure. With more crazy to come. But we’ll keep buggering on, as the Boss says. And maybe, someday, things will be all right again.”

  “What is it your people say? ‘From your lips, to God’s ears.’ ”

  “When you’re well enough to come out, I’ll make you some toast.”

  “Thank you, David—for, well, for everything.”

  That evening, Maggie took the Tube to Euston Station, where she would catch the overnight train to Fort William, and then on to Arisaig, a small town on the western coast of Scotland. Arisaig was the home of one of the SOE training camps. This time, however, Maggie was returning to be an instructor, not a student.

  The train platform itself was dark, illuminated only by a few blue bulbs of blackout lights. It was a hot, sullen night. The sky lit up every few minutes with flashes of lightning, and she could hear the distant rumble of thunder. Finally, the train pulled up in a cloud of steam and shriek of brakes. She handed her two tagged suitcases to a uniformed porter and climbed aboard.

  The train was crowded—full of new recruits, both men and women, soldiers and civilians, on their way to various training camps. They were loud and their laughter was raucous. She walked the smoke-filled corridors looking for an empty seat, ignoring the occasional whistle or catcall from a man in uniform.

  She found an empty compartment and sat down on the
dusty velvet seat cushion. Then, with a screaming whistle, the train began to lurch forward, on its way to Scotland.

  Maggie startled when the conductor knocked on the door, asking for her ticket, her heart beating wildly, her brain full of images of train journeys in Berlin. But she gave it to him, and he moved on without noticing her trembling hands.

  She blinked, as though to clear the memories, took off her gloves, and rummaged in her handbag for the book she’d brought, one she’d once read in an English class at Wellesley College. She’d memorized the words then, but she hadn’t understood them. But the poem haunted her, and she wanted to give it another chance now. She opened the yellowing pages.

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre

  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

  Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

  The best lack all conviction, while the worst

  Are full of passionate intensity.

  As the urban landscape slipped away into the darkness, she read and reread the words. English class had always scared her. Unlike math, there was never a right answer. Words always seemed slippery, with multiple meanings—impossible to pin down. But now there was an odd relief in that very property.

  Although the words of the poem were bleak, she felt a strange comfort in them. Yeats himself, who’d survived the Great War, had felt as she did. Through the years, through the centuries, many, many people had felt the same way.

  Absently, her hand went to her side, feeling the outline of the bullet there, just beneath her skin. And she braced herself for whatever lay ahead.

  Clara Hess was the new occupant of the Queen’s House at the Tower of London, billeted next door to Stefan Krueger.

  With no makeup on her face, her long hair loose, and wearing her prison-issued jumpsuit, she looked years younger than she had in Berlin, girlish even. She sat at a small wooden desk, writing in a journal.

  When the two guards at her door announced that Edmund Hope had arrived to see her, she didn’t seem surprised in the least. When Edmund entered, Clara smiled, a warm and generous smile.

  One he did not return. He took off his hat but did not sit down.

  “Hello, Edmund,” Clara said, rising and walking over to him, her feet bare on the cold stone floor.

  He did not respond but stared, as if unable to fuse together the pictures in his mind of his late wife with the woman in front of him.

  “Don’t stare, darling,” she said finally. “Or at least blink once in a while. Otherwise it’s rude.”

  Finally, finally, Edmund spoke, almost in a whisper. “There are people here, people in charge, who believe you have turned to our side now, and that you’re willing to work for us. They hold the Machiavellian, and I say cynical, belief that they can use you.”

  Clara opened her mouth to reply, but Edmund put up a hand. “You’ll never see her again. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Oh, Edmund,” Clara said, stretching like a cat. “She’ll return. Wait and see.”

  Biting back unsaid words, Edmund strode out of the room, calling “Guard!” The door closed behind him, and then she heard the series of locks click, one by one, fifteen in all.

  Clara turned back to the window, staring out over the Thames and Tower Bridge, a small smile playing on her lips.

  Historical Notes

  As with Mr. Churchill’s Secretary and Princess Elizabeth’s Spy, His Majesty’s Hope is not a history, nor is it meant to be—it’s a novel, an imaginary tale.

  However, I used many historical sources. Instrumental to writing about Berlin in 1941 were the books Hitler’s Spy Chief: The Wilhelm Canaris Mystery, by Richard Bassett; Berlin: The Downfall, 1945, by Anthony Beevor; Moral Combat: Good and Evil in World War II and Sacred Causes: The Clash of Religion and Politics, from the Great War to the War on Terror, by Michael Burleigh; The Perfect Nazi: Uncovering My Grandfather’s Secret Past, by Martin Davidson; The Ghosts of Berlin: Confronting German History in the Urban Landscape, by Brian Ladd; In the Garden of the Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin, by Eric Larson; Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, by Eric Metaxas; Berlin at War, by Roger Moorhouse; and Hitlerland: American Eyewitnesses to the Nazi Rise to Power, by Andrew Nagorski.

  To research the Children’s Euthanasia Program, also known as Operation Compassionate Death (renamed Aktion T4 after the war), I relied on War Against the Weak: Eugenics and America’s Campaign to Create a Master Race, by Edwin Black; The Origins of the Final Solution: The Evolution of Nazi Jewish Policy, September 1939–March 1942, by Christopher R. Browning; Eugenics and Other Evils, by G. K. Chesterton; Forgotten Crimes: The Holocaust and People with Disabilities, by Suzanne E. Evans; The Origins of Nazi Genocide: From Euthanasia to the Final Solution, by Henry Friedlander; A Moral Reckoning: The Role of the Catholic Church in the Holocaust and Its Unfulfilled Duty of Repair, by Daniel Jonah Goldhagen; The Catholic Church and the Holocaust 1930–1965, by Michael Phayer; Masters of Death: The SS-Einsatzgruppen and the Invention of the Holocaust, by Richard Rhodes; and Into That Darkness: An Examination of Conscience, by Gitta Sereny.

  In researching the Special Operations Executive’s spies and the XX Committee, I relied on the following: Secret Agent’s Handbook: The Top Secret Manual of Wartime Weapons, Gadgets, Disguises and Devices, introduction by Roderick Bailey; The Insider’s Guide to 150 Spy Sites in London, by Mark Birdsall, Deborah Plisko, and Peter Thompson; SOE Agent: Churchill’s Secret Warriors, by Terry Crowdy; A Life in Secrets: Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of WWII, by Sarah Helm; Sisterhood of Spies, The Women of the OSS, by Elizabeth P. McIntosh; Agent ZigZag: The True Story of Espionage, Love and Betrayal, by Ben Macintyre; Between Silk and Cyanide: A Codemaker’s War, 1941–1945, by Leo Marks; Christine: SOE Agent and Churchill’s Favorite Spy, by Madeleine Masson; Operatives, Spies and Saboteurs, by Patrick K. O’Donnell; and How to Be a Spy: The World War II SOE Training Manual, introduction by Denis Rigden.

  To research Bletchley Park, I’m indebted to Bletchley Park People: Churchill’s Geese That Never Cackled, by Marion Hill; and Codebreakers: The Inside Story of Bletchley Park, edited by F. H. Hinsley and Alan Stripp. For an overview of code breaking, I cannot speak highly enough of The Code Book: The Science of Secrecy from Ancient Egypt to Quantum Cryptography, by Simon Singh.

  Many films and documentaries were also helpful with research, including Operation Barbarossa; Legendary Sin Cities: Berlin; Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will; Bonhoeffer: Hanged on a Twisted Cross: The Life, Conviction and Martyrdom of Dietrich Bonhoeffer; and The Ninth Day.

  Father Jean Licht is a fictional character but inspired by a real priest, Father Bernhard Lichtenberg. Father Lichtenberg was a German Roman Catholic priest at St. Hedwig’s Cathedial in Berlin during World War II. After Kristallnacht, he was known for praying publicly for the Jews every evening: I pray for the priests in the concentration camps, for the Jews, for the non-Aryans. What happened yesterday, we know. What will happen tomorrow, we don’t. But what happened today, we lived through. Outside, the Synagogue is burning. It, too, is a house of God.

  Lichtenberg protested against the Aktion T4 by writing a letter to the chief physician of the Reich: 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. He was arrested, tried, sentenced, and sent to Dachau. He died in transit.

  In June 1996, Pope John Paul II, during his visit to Germany, beatified Lichtenberg (meaning that, in the eyes of the Catholic Church, he has entered into Heaven and has the capacity to intercede on behalf of individuals who pray in his name). The process of Bernhard Lichtenberg’s canonization (to declare him officially a s
aint by the Catholic Church) is still pending. His tomb is in the crypt of St. Hedwig’s in Berlin.

  Cardinal Konrad von Preysing and Cardinal Clemens August Graf von Galen (bishops during the war and elevated to cardinals after) were also real people, who both spoke out against the Nazis’ Aktion T4 program, despite intense pressure to stay silent. Cardinal von Preysing was the Bishop of Berlin during World War II and was an outspoken critic of the Nazi regime, saying: “We have fallen into the hands of criminals and fools.” In a homily in March 1941, Bishop von Preysing reaffirmed his opposition to the killing of the sick or infirm.

  Cardinal August Graf von Galen was the Bishop of Münster during the war, and an outspoken critic of Hitler and the Nazis. He also spoke publicly against the Aktion T4 program. In his homily on August 3, 1941, von Galen spoke against the deportation and murder of the mentally ill. These are people, our brothers and sisters, he said. Maybe their life is unproductive, but productivity is not a justification for killing.

  It is a fact that Adolf Hitler was booed by Germans at the Hofbräuhaus, by people enraged by what they’d learned from German bishops, such as von Preysing and von Galen. According to Gitta Sereny in Into That Darkness, it was the only time Hitler was ever booed. He ostensibly shut the Aktion T4 program down soon after the incident, but it continued in secret, with doctors using starvation and overdoses of medicine instead of gas chambers to kill children. The last of the children were killed in a hospital in Bavaria, three weeks after the Germans had surrendered, in an area already occupied by U.S. forces.

  According to evidence presented at the Nuremberg Trials, 275,000 people died because of the Aktion T4 program. It began with killing young children, then expanded to include older children, then the elderly. It also included Mischlinge—mixed Jewish and Aryan children.

  Hitler gave his approval to the Aktion T4 program in 1939, signing a “euthanasia decree” backdated to September 1, 1939 (the official outbreak of war), which authorized Drs. Philipp Bouhler and Karl Brandt to carry out a program of “euthanasia.” The letter states: Reich Leader Bouhler and Dr. med. Brandt are charged with the responsibility of enlarging the competence of certain physicians, designated by name, so that patients who, on the basis of human judgment are considered incurable, can be granted mercy death after a discerning diagnosis.