In the months following James’ death, one thought had returned time and again as she passed others in the street. What secrets did these people hold? What had they endured? She wondered how many people rushing in and out of shops, or on their way to their work, had lost a love, or known deep disappointment or grief, fear, or want, yet summoned the resilience to go on. Those lines across foreheads, those mouths downturned—what were the ruts on life’s road that wrought such marks, those signs of scars on the soul? She knew she might have seemed like any other woman of a certain type—well dressed, hair in place, shoes polished and turned out nicely—but inside it was as if she were being eaten away. She had been in the deep darkness of the abyss, then, and she was lost, even to herself.
Now, with Elaine Otterburn clutching her hand, she thought of those months and years, and then of the job that had led her to Munich—and the words came to her again. I am not what I seem.
The taxicab stopped in the middle of a quiet, narrow street of older houses, each one neatly kempt, with fresh paint and clean windows. Some had empty window boxes, waiting for a spring when they would be filled with seeds and then blooms. But it was still a city street, not a country byway. In the distance Maisie could hear the throb of traffic, though there was a middle-of-the-day laziness in the air.
Elaine opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the pavement, followed by Maisie. She leaned into the window of the taxicab, exchanged words with the driver, and handed him a few coins. Then she smiled, stood back, and waved before delving into her bag for a set of keys with which she opened the front door of a house no different from any of the others, beckoning to Maisie to follow while holding a finger to her lips. As they climbed the staircase in front of them, Maisie heard a shuffling from the door to her right, which she thought might be the entrance to the landlady’s rooms. Elaine took each step on tiptoe, careful not to make a sound.
Reaching the second floor, Elaine pressed a key into the lock of another door and pointed out two doors to her right and one to her left. “Kitty, Pamela, Nell. All English gels, don’t you know!” She put on an aristocratic tone, opened the door, and beckoned Maisie to enter, adding, “And all doing very nicely, thank you—plus having a jolly good time into the bargain.”
Elaine moved a pile of clothing from a chair to the bed, and pulled another away from a small writing table. Maisie sat down as Elaine threw her coat over a screen to the left of the window, where it joined a silk dress with a long tear in the skirt. A needle and thread were hanging from the fabric, as if Elaine had started to mend the dress herself but became bored, or didn’t quite know how to complete the task.
“My entire wardrobe is behind that screen—well, when it isn’t on a chair,” said Elaine. “Our kitchen is just along the landing. Tea? We both need some fortification, and I have a thumper of a headache.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.”
Elaine left the room. Maisie could hear clattering from along the landing, and wondered if Elaine had ever made tea before coming to Munich. The more she thought about Elaine Otterburn, the more she suspected that the young woman experienced something of her own sense of isolation at times.
Elaine had grown up on both sides of the Atlantic. Her clipped English pronunciation sometimes gave way to longer vowels that caused aristocratic matrons to look twice and wonder how the girl ever came out into respectable society. But no experience had been denied either of the younger Otterburns, though it was Elaine who garnered most attention, rather than her somewhat more reserved brother.
“There. As the British might say, ‘A nice cup of tea, my dear.’” Elaine entered, carrying two cups of tea. No tray. No biscuits. Not even saucers. Just cups of tea. “Those ancient Britons probably put a kettle on the log fire to boil the moment they saw the Romans coming at them across the Channel—eh? I can imagine them saying, ‘Never mind the bloody invasion, let’s have a cuppa!’”
Maisie smiled and took one of the cups with both hands. “I daresay you’re right there, Elaine.”
Elaine brushed another pile of clothing from a straight-backed chair onto the floor and sat down, placing her cup on a side table. “We have ourselves a conundrum, don’t we, Maisie?” She reached for a packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter, which had been left on top of a dressing table, its drawers open and silk underwear spilling out. She tapped out a cigarette, opened and clicked the lighter to hold the flame close to the tobacco, and drew on the cigarette while closing the lighter. “I didn’t offer—you don’t smoke, do you?”
Maisie remembered the last cigarette she’d smoked, in Gibraltar before crossing the border into Spain. She had been new to the habit, which gave her something to do with her shaking hands.
“Not anymore, no, Elaine. I don’t—”
“Look, cards on the table,” Elaine interrupted. “You are here to persuade me to go home, to take up the reins of wifedom and motherhood. I am sure you have other things to do here—I suspect you would not have come to Munich just to see if you could drag me back.”
“I have business, yes. And I promised your parents that I would try to find you.”
“Really? Well, that’s interesting, because my father could find me at the drop of his hat if he wanted. They probably thought sending you would do the trick—a sensible woman to escort the wayward child home.”
Maisie wondered where the Elaine in the taxi had gone. It was as if, while making tea, someone else had emerged and taken over from the vulnerable person who had clutched her hand as if ready to confess her sins.
“What’s so much more important than your son, Elaine?”
Elaine’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed a hand across her cheek and looked away. “I’m not exactly maternal material, am I, Maisie? Let’s be honest, now—he’s much better off with Mother than with me. Certainly I knew my husband’s people would not want him—yet. When he comes of age, doubtless they’ll have a sudden need to initiate him into the tweedy ways of his forefathers. With a bit of luck he’ll have no patience with that sort of thing, and will have made something of himself. If he’s under my father’s roof, he’ll be an Otterburn through and through. He’ll probably even like modern art acquired at great expense!”
“To your point about motherhood, Elaine—frankly, I think you owe it to your son to try a bit harder. If you can’t stand the wilds of Northamptonshire, then move in with your parents or get a flat for yourself and your son, and a nanny if you want to continue to be at large in society.” Maisie came to her feet. “I don’t think you’ve been completely honest with me, Elaine, but frankly, I don’t have the time to sit here trying to persuade you to do something against your will. I’ve done what I gave my word I would do—which was find you and speak to you. Now I have to leave.” Maisie began to turn away, then looked back. “Oh, and if by any slight chance you see me again in the next day or so, on no account must you recognize me or show any sign of familiarity. You must not use my name. If you must communicate, a simple ‘Fräulein’ will do.”
Elaine shrugged. “Well, seeing as James’ death—”
Maisie’s movement was quick. She stood in front of Elaine and looked down at the still-seated woman, who had frozen while reaching to extinguish her cigarette in the ashtray. “Do not ever, ever speak of my husband in my presence again. Don’t you dare say his name in front of me. And you know why.”
Elaine Otterburn’s face registered shock, the half smile at the corner of her lips quivering. In that second, Maisie wondered if anyone had ever countered this young woman in her entire life. Stepping over the discarded clothing, she reached the door, then looked back. Elaine reminded her of a Greek statue, her silky evening dress clinging to her body. “Do you know something, Elaine? Do you know what makes me sick about people like you? If an inspector walked into an ordinary worker’s house anywhere in London and saw this kind of state, he would make a report to the authorities. But for some reason, the wealthier a person, the more they can get away with living
in a filthy heap. Pick up your belongings, Elaine, tidy this place—and perhaps you’ll find it easier to pick yourself up from whatever mess you’ve found yourself in.”
Maisie passed two of the “gels” on the stairs, rushing past her, laughing, calling out Elaine’s name. They had not offered even a simple “Guten Tag.”
She had done what was requested of her. She had located Elaine Otterburn, and she had asked her to return to her son. And she had also lost her temper. But other thoughts came to mind, not least her own final comment to Elaine. Yes, something was not at all right with Elaine. In the taxi it had seemed as if the woman had been ready to reveal a confidence, of that Maisie was sure. Was it about a love affair with the German officer? Was it connected to the reason for her flight from England, her son, and her husband? Or was she really in such a state that everything—from the smudged kohl around her eyes to the clothing, shoes, and wine glasses littering her flat—gave away her predicament?
Having made a note of the exact address, and the number scratched at the center of the dial on a telephone on the table in the hallway, Maisie left the building, setting off toward the main street, where she would ask a passerby how to get back to Marienplatz. Soon she was on a tram, the conductor having promised to tell her where to disembark. As she sat by the window, looking out at people once again, it occurred to her that even in girlhood she had watched people, paid attention to them in a way that perhaps others didn’t. Long before James and the child had been lost to her, she had asked herself questions about people, even those she saw on the street, though she suspected her sensitivity to that which ailed other human beings was established after the war, when everyone had sacrificed so much. Maurice had always maintained that not only did individuals reveal the secrets of their inner thoughts and feelings in their everyday demeanor, but the mood of a mass of people was just as evident. Now, in the midst of a journey during which she did not stand out in any way from other passengers on the tram, Maisie knew there was a cloud across this city and that it bore down on its residents. Yes, there was still fun to be had, restaurants to enjoy, and parks to walk on a fine day. But a veil of oppression was seeping into every crevice of life. I am not what I seem. Perhaps that was a cry from Munich itself—yet Elaine Otterburn had spoken those words in what Maisie suspected was an honest confession. And if Elaine was not the dilettante runaway daughter of a wealthy man, a woman who had abandoned her firstborn—then who was she?
CHAPTER 9
Having spent the evening alone, once again choosing to have supper delivered to her room rather than eating in the restaurant, Maisie had fallen into a deep sleep, waking at half past seven. She’d not been besieged by nightmares or slipped into the mystery of her dreams. Before drawing back the covers and taking to bed, she’d meditated on the coming day, allowing her mind to be still and trusting that all would be well. Now, upon opening her eyes, for a moment resting her gaze on the vertical line of light where the curtains met, she knew that by this evening, if the carefully laid plans held, she would be on board a train for Paris, Leon Donat as her companion. She would tell him nothing of note before they crossed the border into France, and even then she would not feel safe until they were met in the French capital. She thought about Donat. It occurred to her that he might never be safe again. He was a wanted man—the British wanted everything that was in his mind. Every new machine he’d ever created with his clever engineer’s brain would have to be drawn again, and then scrutinized against the needs of a country expecting to go to war.
But who were those people, the ones who thought war was inevitable? The populace believed their leaders would maintain a hard-won peace. She had meditated on that peace, had drawn a picture in her mind of claiming Leon Donat, of an easy journey to the station, and then to the train and freedom—for both of them. If they were intercepted, if her true identity was revealed, both she and Donat were as good as dead. And though once, after the death of James Compton, she would have welcomed that release, whatever the pain involved, now she wanted very much to live. It was a welcome revelation.
Readying herself for the day ahead, Maisie once again dressed in clothing that marked her as an unimaginative woman, one with no interest in the latest styles—which was not far from the truth. A dark burgundy jacket, a matching dress, the almost mannish walking shoes, and a black hat and tweed coat. Gilbert Leslie would be waiting in the hotel lobby, no doubt pacing back and forth. Mind you, this was an occasion to feel unsettled, though Maisie hoped Leslie would endeavor to act the part of a man with no undue concerns about the outcome of his day. Together they would walk to the same building, avoiding the same square so they would not have to offer a Nazi salute on their way. And in that cold building, she expected to wait for the documentation pertaining to Leon Donat’s release, before they could depart for Dachau.
But she was wrong on two counts. When she entered the hotel lobby, stopping to pull on her gloves and already cursing the wig that scratched at her hairline, Leslie was pacing, as she predicted. But when she reached his side, he informed her that they would not be walking; a motor car from the consular service would convey them to the headquarters of the Nazi Party. He reminded her that the German officer had stipulated a British consular vehicle should be used to transport Leon Donat from Dachau.
“It’s all been organized, Miss Donat. As soon as you have the authorization to claim your father, we will go immediately to the prison to present our papers, and then to the station, and you will be on your way.”
Maisie nodded. “I have my luggage packed and ready here, Mr. Leslie.”
“All right, then. We’re off.” He picked up the small case and extended his hand toward the door. “Shall we? Let’s get this over and done with.”
The second unexpected deviation from the plan was the presence of Mark Scott. As Maisie and Gilbert Leslie stepped out into the crisp, bright morning, Scott was standing to the side of the entrance, chatting to a porter. Both men were laughing, perhaps at a joke told by Scott, and though the American showed no interest in Maisie, he held out his hand to clasp that of the porter, said a few words, and offered a wave as he stepped into a waiting taxi. Leslie had shown no sign of recognizing Scott as he held open the door of a black consular vehicle for Maisie, but after he’d joined her, slammed the door, and tapped the glass partition between themselves and their driver, he looked over his shoulder out the back window and cursed.
“Those Yanks don’t know when to leave well enough alone!” he said, almost under his breath, though Maisie heard every word.
For her part, she chose not to acknowledge Leslie’s comment. As far as she was concerned, a little attention from Scott might mean the difference between success and failure. He was another person on her side—she hoped.
Once again Maisie showed her identification papers to the guard outside the Nazi headquarters, and once again she was escorted into the cold entrance hall and up the staircase flanked by dark wooden banisters. She almost feared to place her hand on the rail, imagining that another hand would clamp down upon hers and keep her from leaving this building. The very air seemed oppressive.
She was ushered into the same room as before to meet the SS officer who had interviewed her during her previous visit. The conversation was conducted in English. Maisie gave no indication that she understood anything the officer and his underling said to each other in German, but from their words, she knew they would not allow her to take Leon Donat from Dachau that day.
“Now, Miss Donat. Let me see. Yes, the paperwork is in order. Good. Yes.” The man flapped pages back and forth, as if to unsettle her.
“That’s wonderful,” said Maisie, smiling. “I am so very anxious to see my father.”
“Of course. But there are procedures to go through.” He waved his hand, as if such procedures were like a fly to be swatted away.
“Procedures? May I inquire as to the nature of these procedures?”
The man seemed to glare for a second, and then smiled—
a broad smile, a fake smile, a smile that Maisie thought she might see in a children’s book, on the face of a Fagin or a Magwitch. Even the devil himself.
“Those procedures are not your business, Fräulein Donat. Now, I am a busy man.” He pushed back his chair. “Especially today. Yes, it is a busy time.” He gave another sudden, unsettling smile.
Maisie came to her feet. “I would like your confirmation again that everything is in order. Am I assured my father will be released to me?” She looked from the officer to the man she assumed was his junior.
“You may return tomorrow morning, at the same time. You will have your father’s release papers then. Now, as I said, I am a busy man. It is likely you will see another officer tomorrow, as I am honored to be joining the Führer on an important journey.” A split second elapsed before he raised his arm in salute. “Heil Hitler!”
The junior officer repeated the salute, shouting, “Heil Hitler!”
Maisie felt the bile rise in her throat as she closed her eyes and lifted her hand only as far as she needed to effect a response. “Heil Hitler,” she said, without raising her voice. And in that moment, the deeper sense of cold that had enveloped her from the moment she entered the building almost overwhelmed her. She clenched her stomach to stop shivering, and a fingernail scratch of pain across her neck began to torment her. It was as if the very air in the room had changed, and she fought to retain her bearing in front of the German officers.
She lowered her hand and nodded, but the men remained at attention. Only when she turned did she realize that Adolf Hitler had entered the room and was walking toward the desk. He waved a hand as if to dismiss her and began speaking to the officer in a clipped, staccato tone. Maisie did not linger. Another official, stationed by the door, had beckoned to her, and she left the room with as much speed as she could without appearing respectful.