The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Brynn had grown up with three older brothers, who teased her mercilessly, and she’d always refused to cry back then. Now she dropped her head on her arms and struggled not to burst into tears. Crying was useless. Her throat constricted, as it always did at such moments, before she told herself sternly, Be strong. She started counting in her head, as she’d been taught at Beaulieu, to slow her breathing and heart rate. She needed a chance to think clearly. She was absolutely certain her life depended on it.

  She drew the ragged quilt around her. “Other people have lived in worse places,” she croaked, testing out her voice, which had been silent for so long. It was hoarse and rough, but she continued, finding the sound reassuring. “Right now, there are people in much worse places—in Ravensbrück, and Dachau, and Auschwitz. And I know they’re being brave. People have spent years in the camps, enduring crueler conditions than this.”

  She looked over at her book on the table, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She picked it up and turned to a random page: “If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, she read, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”

  There was the odd smell—familiar now—and then Brynn fell back against the bed, her eyes closed.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, Elise had to wear the slippers to her appointment at the Reich Main Security Office. She stood in the snow on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, looking up at the massive gray stone building. Then, pulling her scarf firmly over her shaved head, she strode—head high—up the main steps and into the building’s lobby.

  The SS officer at the security desk raised his eyebrows at her appearance. “Papers?” he barked. Elise noted there was no gnädiges Fräulein here.

  She handed them over to him. “I’m here to see Captain Alexander Fausten.” Her voice echoed in the cavernous marble space. “We have a nine o’clock appointment.”

  “Regarding what, exactly?” The man’s tone remained insolent.

  “Condition of release,” Elise told him, her voice not betraying the fear she felt.

  The man thrust back her papers, scarcely glancing at them. “Up the stairs. To the right.”

  In the antechamber to Fausten’s office, a buxom, blond, well-coiffed secretary sat at a large desk, her fingers striking the typewriter keys in sharp, precise movements. “You are Fräulein Hess?”

  Elise nodded.

  The secretary looked her up and down, taking in her scarf-covered bald head, her slippered feet. She pursed her lips. “One moment,” she said, pressing down on the switch hook to clear the line, then pushing a red button under the telephone dial. “Elise Hess is here, sir.” She replaced the receiver and thrust out her chin to indicate the heavy double doors. “Go in.”

  Elise knocked, then swung one of the doors open. The room was enormous, with red-and-gold wallpaper, and several small windows covered by heavy damask curtains.

  “Come in!” Fausten called, smiling, rising behind his mahogany desk. There were death’s-heads carved into the legs. “Good morning, Fräulein Hess!” And then he saluted. “Heil Hitler!”

  Elise was taken aback by his energy, his—life force. No one at Ravensbrück was anywhere near as…animated. Fausten didn’t seem to notice her shorn hair. Or her grossly swollen feet in her slippers. “Please,” he requested, gesturing to a leather chair, “sit down.”

  She did as he asked.

  “Did you sleep well, Fräulein Hess?”

  “Yes,” Elise managed. She was not about to thank him for his concern.

  “I have met your father, Herr Miles Hess, one of my favorite conductors, of Wagner’s Ring Cycle especially. He was here several times on your behalf.”

  Elise stared at him blankly.

  “Well, your father went to Himmler himself about you. And your release. Your father was quite…persuasive, shall we say.” He held out his hand. “Now, let me see your papers.”

  Elise handed them over. She knew what asking Himmler for her life must have cost her father, the anti-Fascist who’d hated Clara’s Nazi cronies, who’d referred to Himmler in the past only as “the little chicken farmer.”

  Fausten dropped the papers on the desk in front of him, slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, and read them over. As he did, he lit a cigarette and inhaled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up. “Where are my manners? Would you like one?”

  Elise would have liked nothing better—it had been months since her last cigarette and she knew it would calm her nerves. But she shook her head. She would take nothing from this man.

  He picked a piece of stray tobacco from his lip, then cast his eyes back down to the folder. “Here’s what they say about you. According to the findings of the State Police, Elise Hess endangers, through her conduct, the stability and security of the People and the State, in that she does egregious harm to the interests of the Reich through her subversive activities and collaboration with one of the most critical and harsh opponents of the National Socialist State.”

  He pushed the file away, taking a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “So, you are released from Ravensbrück and are here in Berlin on a nine-day leave to attend the memorial of your mother, opera diva Clara Hess. You are staying in the care of your father, the great conductor Miles Hess. You were arrested for aiding Father Licht in his denunciation of Dr. Brandt and Operation Compassionate Death, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know our Führer has stopped the program?”

  He’s not my Führer. “Really.” Elise didn’t know this, but even if Hitler and his minions had deferred to the bishops and public opinion, she wasn’t convinced the Nazis’ murder of so-called defective children wasn’t continuing in the shadows.

  “He did.” Fausten smiled. “This must please you.”

  Elise was silent. She looked down at her hands, knit gloves stretched tight over the swollen joints.

  “Come now, Fräulein Hess,” Fausten continued, his tone jocular. “You and I—we are friends, not enemies. Our common enemies are the Communists, the Bolsheviks, and the Jews.”

  Elise kept her face impassive but bit the inside of her cheek, hard.

  He rose and walked around his desk to sit on the leather chair next to her. “Please see past the uniform, Fräulein Hess. I studied law, you know—I didn’t choose this career. It chose me.

  “I have to ask you—how were you treated during your arrest, interrogation, and incarceration?”

  “As you must know, I signed a nondisclosure agreement.” Elise trained her eyes on the soot-stained window, where a shaft of light had pierced through.

  “Really. Tell me.”

  Elise met his gaze without flinching. “I’ve been hanged on a cross, knocked to the ground, kicked and beaten, stripped naked, put in solitary confinement, starved, and lunged at by snarling dogs. We—they—we are Stücke. Things.”

  Fausten blinked impassively.

  “Even fellow prisoners—some of whom have positions as guards, policewomen, and barrack chiefs, can—with impunity—insult and revile us, beat us, trample us underfoot, and yes, if the whim strikes them, kill us.

  “As far as anyone in the camp hierarchy is concerned, it’s good riddance—one less ‘vermin’ to deal with.”

  Fausten blinked again. “I see.” He rose and went back behind his desk, as if it offered him some fragile protection from the vile things she had just told him. “I read in your file that, before your incarceration, you were a nurse at Charité Hospital in Mitte. I also read you were planning on taking vows to become a nun.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be surprised to know that when I was younger, I myself wanted to be a priest? Yes, I am Catholic as well, Fräulein Hess. You see, we really are on the same side.”

  I highly doubt it, Elise thought.

  “Jesus was a Jew, of course, but he rose up and overcame his disability,” Fausten continued, crushing his cigarette in a heavy bronze ashtray. “The Aryans overcame Judaism. Overcoming it was, indeed, the work
of the Lord. And now it is our work, Fräulein Hess.”

  “I judge not by race, but by character.”

  He looked at her sharply. “You must judge by blood.”

  “I am a nurse. And I can tell you, this is the truth—everyone’s blood runs red.”

  He kept his gaze on her. “The Jews are different.”

  “And the Poles?”

  He sighed. “The Poles are different yet again.”

  “Because I’ve seen what happens to Polish women in the camp.” Elise couldn’t stop herself, the words tumbling out one after another, hot and ugly. “Do you know what they call them at Ravensbrück? Rabbits. The Polish women are experimental animals, used for septic and antiseptic bone operations, and two types of surgeries on muscles. Incisions on legs filled with gravel, glass, germs, other matter to simulate war wounds. Various new drugs tested for efficacy. Sections of bone or muscle removed, nerve transplants. Without anesthesia and without aseptic treatment. They shout, ‘Long live Poland!’ as they’re taken away to the operating theater.”

  Fausten tilted his head. “Why do they call them rabbits?”

  “Because, after their operations, they hop around on their makeshift crutches. The youngest ‘rabbit’ was ten years old—we called her Bunny. She’d been cut open some half dozen times before she died. And the surgeries were done by a renowned Berlin university professor of medicine.”

  Fausten made a steeple of his fingers. “Yes, it sounds horrible. But please keep some perspective. We are in the midst of a holy war. It is God’s will the Germans win.”

  “I find the words holy and war incompatible.”

  “But even Pope Pius disagrees. The Pope is no fool—he recognized the Bolshevik threat to Christianity. He signed the Concordat.” Fausten pulled out a box of marzipan molded and painted to look like fruit and vegetables from his desk drawer, took off the lid, and slid the box toward her. “Would you like one?”

  Elise’s mouth watered. Marzipan was her favorite treat. But she would not be led into temptation. “No.”

  “We actually have the same aims, you and I.” He picked up one of the candies from its ruffled paper. “We want you to play a role in reconciling the Reich and the Church. A German-Vatican dialogue.” He popped the sweet into his mouth. Outside, a church bell tolled and a horn blared.

  “Captain Fausten, your candy and your words fail to impress me.”

  He plucked out another marzipan, in the shape of a yellow peach. “Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing, Fräulein….” Then, “Do you know where you’ll end up? Do you really want to be a martyr?”

  Elise remained silent, her face impassive.

  “This is all we want.” He lifted a piece of paper from his desk, fingers leaving a smudge of food dye. “We want you to renounce your role in the events at Charité Mitte hospital and exonerate Dr. Brandt. We want you not only to sign it but to take it to your bishop. And then you will be released. For good.”

  Elise held the paper up and read it, then put it down. She chose her words with care. “I will not be your Judas,” she said finally.

  “Jesus and Judas,” Fausten mused. “Flip sides of the same coin, don’t you think, Fräulein? Without Judas, we wouldn’t have Jesus. We all have our roles to fill.”

  “You have no idea what my role is. And I have no desire to discuss theology with you.”

  He pushed the sheet of paper toward her. “Well, you have some time to think about it. Nine days to be exact.” He smiled. “I’m here for you if you’d like to talk.”

  He rose and gestured to the door.

  Elise struggled to rise, wincing in pain, leaving the paper behind on the desk. As he walked her to the door, he said in soft tones, “And know this—if you run away, we will shoot ten of your bunkmates in Ravensbrück. Please keep that in mind. I’ll see you at your mother’s memorial service,” he told her, opening the door. “Oh, wait!”

  He went back to his desk, picked up the paper she’d left, then chose another piece of marzipan. His hand hovered over the box, finally choosing a round red apple in its paper, dusted with sparkling sugar. “Here,” he said as he walked back with his hand outstretched, holding both paper and apple. “Even if you don’t want it now, take it with you. For later.” The apple seemed to shimmer in front of her.

  “No,” Elise said. “No, I will not.”

  He tucked both in the pocket of her coat. “I hope you’ll change your mind.”

  Numb, she turned and left, slowly picking her way back down the stairs. Outside, she took a greedy breath of icy cold air. Snow had fallen and children were playing in the street, the jumping game Heaven and Hell. The church bell chimed again, entwined with the sound of sirens.

  —

  Captain Fausten’s superior, Heinz Gephardt, called him into his office. It was larger and even more imposing than Fausten’s, but featured the same framed photo of Hitler.

  Gephardt sat in a massive leather chair behind a desk carved with swastikas. He was a tall and trim man, almost sixty, with thin lips etched with deep vertical lines. “Did Fräulein Elise Hess show up?”

  “Yes, sir. Right on time, sir.”

  “Good, good. Don’t underestimate her importance. We’re still having…trouble with the German bishops and certain parishes over this Operation Compassionate Death business. We need to mend fences—if only for appearances’ sake.”

  “And the Pope?”

  “Just last week sent greetings and addressed our Führer as ‘esteemed gentleman.’ ” Gephardt shook his head dismissively. “I have no worries about the Pope.”

  “Elise Hess is a good Aryan girl. I hate to think of her back at Ravensbrück.”

  “Oh? She’s being stubborn?”

  Fausten shrugged.

  “Let’s raise the stakes, then. If you can’t get her to sign this letter—you’ll be sent to the Eastern Front.” Gephardt smiled, letting the threat sink in. “No joke this time. And I hear it’s still quite cold in Russia.”

  —

  At the SOE training camp in Arisaig, Scotland, recruits were required to swim in Loch nan Ceall regardless of the weather. In London, Maggie had taken to early-morning swimming at the Ladies’ Pond, an open-air pool off Millfield Lane, on the east side of Hampstead Heath in North London, open every day of the year. The water was freezing, but by swimming in it regularly, her body had become acclimated. She now found it invigorating exercise, as well as a way to clear her mind.

  As she took a last tug on her bathing cap and buttoned the strap under her chin, she heard wolf whistling. Usually at this early hour she was swimming solo in the greenish water, or with one or two other stalwart women.

  But a group of men, still drunk from the evening before, had wandered by to watch, beer bottles in hand. “Hey, nice ass!” one shouted, slurring his words.

  Another bellowed, “Suck my dick!”

  While the third leered and called, “Bottle of whiskey back in the trees—whattaya say, love? Come with us—we’ll show you a good time.”

  Ignoring them, Maggie dove into the water, the shock of cold momentarily clearing her head and chilling her anger. She came up to the surface to hear their raucous laughter as they stumbled away. “I’d love to take a turn with that.”

  “Screw her till her nose bleeds,” said another.

  Maggie spat and began her laps with the crawl—but the peace she usually found under the wide sky eluded her. She knew why the men did it—they were asserting their power to her and also to themselves. They did it to remind her that she, as a woman, shouldn’t forget her place in society—and any outing in public, especially in a bathing costume and alone, was dangerous.

  Why can’t we do something like go swimming, walk at night, cross the bloody street without constantly being reminded our bodies are merely things, ripe for insulting, leering at, and aggressive propositioning?

  She flipped over and switched to the backstroke. Before Jack the Ripper’s time, women were obliged to stay home, be the �
�angels of the house,” with their only outings church or trips accompanied by men. Then, in Victorian times, women had more freedom—to go to the theater, to restaurants. But when the Ripper murders started, women were warned to stay inside. I suppose we could post warnings to women now, to keep off the streets after dark, to walk in groups, to ask a man to be an escort.

  She gave a kick, her angry splash disturbing some nearby ducks. But why should we have to? Maggie thought. Why shouldn’t men have a curfew instead? Then we women could walk the streets—and swim the lakes—in peace.

  When her anger was spent, her limbs exhausted, and her lips blue, she climbed the dock’s ladder to go back to the women’s clubhouse to change.

  —

  Durgin was already in the lobby of Fitzroy Square Hospital when Maggie arrived, tapping one foot, running a hand through his unruly hair. They stood together, waiting for Mark, trying not to breathe too deeply of the air, reeking of alcohol. The pale blue walls were covered in propaganda posters. WOMEN OF BRITAIN—COME INTO THE FACTORIES! urged one poster, showing a woman in blue coveralls and a red head scarf, Spitfires flying high overhead. WOMEN ARE DOING THEIR BIT—LEARN TO MAKE MUNITIONS! boomed another, spotlighting a woman putting on a hairnet and smock. Yet another displayed a woman assembling a bomb: WOMEN IN THE WAR—WE CAN’T WIN WITHOUT THEM.

  One in particular, however, made Maggie’s lips twitch—Winston Churchill’s head mounted on the body of an English bulldog against the Union Jack with the caption HOLDING THE LINE. The P.M. did not personally approve that one, she thought.

  The waiting room was full of people slumped in hard wooden chairs, many pressing handkerchiefs against their mouths. There was such a cacophony of coughing and wailing babies it was hard to think. Maggie winced as she saw one woman pull away the cambric square she’d pressed to her lips. It was stained with bright-red blood.