His Majesty's Hope Page 4

  “An empire!” When Ernst smiled, he looked like less of a gaunt old man and more of the dashing young doctor with whom Frieda had fallen in love. Her lips twitched.

  “Now, what do you call one German?” he asked.

  “Stop, Ernst.” She started giggling.

  “A damned fine man.” He held up two fingers. “What do you call two Germans?”

  “Stop!” She clapped her hands over her lips, as though trying to cram the rare laughter back inside.

  “A putsch,” he said, grabbing her by the waist, pulling her close. He held up three fingers. “And three Germans?”

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” she cried.

  “A war!” he thundered, spinning her around in his arms.

  After a few moments of laughter, Frieda began to hiccup. “This is your fault,” she scolded, shaking a finger at him.

  He kissed her. When they broke apart, she looked down at what he was doing. “More letters?”

  He nodded. “Do you know what they call me now? Der Schreckensträger. ‘Carrier of horror.’ It has a certain ring to it.”

  “As long as no letter comes for you. You’ll get through it. All we need to do is survive. I look Death in the face every day and say, ‘Not today, Death. Not today, you bastard.’ ” She took another bite of chocolate. “So, no letters for you, right? Because we’re still married. And I’m having Elise speak with her mother.”

  “Yes, darling,” Ernst told his wife. “Of course I’m still safe.”

  Chapter Three

  Maggie arrived, breathless, at the glossy green door of Hugh’s garden-level flat in Kensington. It had been months since they had last seen each other, and all she knew was how much she wanted to be in his arms again.

  She knocked and the door swung open, as though he had been waiting. They stared at each other, reality piercing memory. Then they embraced, Maggie smelling shaving soap and bay rum cologne as she kissed his warm neck.

  Finally, they drew apart. “Look at you,” Maggie said, as she walked into his flat and set her handbag on the entryway table, then took off her hat.

  “Look at you!” he countered. “All that country air’s been good for you. Would you like a drink?”

  “I’d love one, thank you.”

  Maggie slipped off her pumps and sat down on the sofa, tucking her stockinged feet up under her. Hugh went into his efficiency kitchen and came back with two glasses of gin.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Maggie told him. “I know it’s fast, but it’s almost a full moon, after all.”

  “I can’t ask you what you’re doing.” Hugh smoothed back her hair, then took out the hairpins, one by one.

  “And I can’t ask you about what you’re doing. Although, how’s Frain?”

  Hugh had Maggie’s hair down and was pulling her close. “Can we not talk about my boss for the moment, please?” he murmured against her ear. “You must be starving. Do you want dinner?”

  “Yes—anything, though. Don’t go to any trouble.”

  But Hugh had gone to trouble, lots of it. China and silver were laid out on his dining table. He lit new tapered candles as she watched, drink in hand. “We’re having vegetable turnovers, straight out of the war ration cookbook. Not exactly a Sunday roast, but I’ve been practicing just for this occasion.”

  “I’m honored,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

  “Everything’s done. But you can pour the wine, if you’d like.”

  Maggie watched him through dinner, not sure whether she could trust her vision. They had written to each other, of course, long letters, while she was at the various training camps, where they knew whatever they wrote would be seen by censors, but they didn’t really care. They kept gazing at each other, as though wanting to make sure each was not a mirage.

  At eleven o’clock, Maggie had to leave. In the light of one candle, she gazed down at Hugh on his bed, wrapped in a sheet. She thought about waking him, then decided just to kiss him on the forehead and let him sleep. She found herself not wanting to leave, almost physically unable to put on her hat and open the front door. To stall for time, she wrote a note. Dearest Hugh, Off on yet another adventure. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

  She contemplated writing I love you, then decided on xxoo Maggie.

  Unwilling to deal with the vast sea of humanity settled into the Tube stations for the night to escape the Blitz, Maggie splurged and took a taxi from Westminster to Knightsbridge. In the damp darkness, she realized how much she’d missed London. The people. The narrow, winding streets. Pubs with names such as The Bag o’ Nails and Hat and Feathers.

  When she finally arrived at David’s flat, she let herself in with the iron key she kept in her handbag. Inside, it was inky black. She made sure the door was closed completely, so no light would escape and alert the ARP warden, and only then switched on the foyer light. From the parlor, she heard a soft scuffling. “Hello?” she called, body tense, months of combat training triggered instinctively.

  David Greene appeared in the French double doorway to the parlor, his tie undone, wire-framed glasses askew, shirt unbuttoned, fair hair uncharacteristically mussed. He looked like a guilty choirboy. “Merciful Minerva! What are you doing home?” Then he collected himself and grinned. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, of course, darling Mags,” he said, walking toward her and kissing her on both cheeks.

  Maggie took in his appearance. “Good to see you, too, David.” He had the grace to blush. “Are you … alone?” she asked in a sisterly tone.

  “Well, ah, you see—the strangest thing happened—”

  Another man stepped from the darkened parlor to the French doors. He’d already taken the time to button up his shirt and fix his tie. “How do you do?” he said to Maggie. “I’m Freddie Wright. You must be Maggie Hope. David’s told me all about you.”

  Has he now? Maggie stepped past David and extended her hand. “Lovely to meet you. Now that I know you’re not a burglar.” They shook. Maggie was impressed; it was a good handshake, firm and confident. “Mr.… Wright, is it?”

  She glanced back at David, who shot her a significant look. Maggie smiled back at him. After all, he’d had many, many Mr. Wrongs in his life. Maybe it was time for Mr. Right? Or, at least, Mr. Wright? “From the Treasury?”

  “Call me Freddie, please. And yes, I work at the Treasury.”

  “Freddie. Of course. David’s mentioned you.”

  There was another moment of awkward silence. “Oh dear!” Maggie made herself yawn. “It’s late, and I’m absolutely knackered—so I’m going to turn in. Good night, David. Again, lovely to meet you, Freddie.” She began to walk down the long hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to go to sleep. I sleep soundly,” she added, significantly. “Quite soundly.”

  “Good night, Mags,” David called after her with affection. “It’s good to have you home again—even if you do have terrible timing.”

  “Elise?” Clara Hess called.

  She strode into the lavish master bedroom, dressed in satin and rubies. She flung her beaded evening purse on the dressing table, then sat down on the small stool at her vanity and took off her high heels. Her feet were red and angry-looking, with blood blisters beginning to form. “Elise!” Clara called again, shrill this time.

  Elise appeared in her mother’s doorway, wearing a white cotton nightgown and robe.

  “Oh, there you are,” her mother said, stretching her back like a cat. “Get me some aspirin, Mausi, won’t you? Mutti’s had too much champagne.”

  Elise did as she was bade, going to the large black-marble bathroom and taking out two white tablets from the mirrored medicine cabinet. Then she filled a heavy crystal glass with cold water from the tap and brought it and the aspirin to her mother.

  “And would you fetch me a cold cloth, too?” Clara asked. She began to remove her heavy jewelry. “Oh, it was a wonderful night—but there’s a price for everything, isn’
t there?”

  “Where were you tonight, Mutti?” Elise asked.

  “Out with Joseph. We saw Ich klage an—it’s his favorite, you know.”

  “I read the book.” Elise frowned, remembering how much she’d disliked it. The controversial bestseller was about a woman suffering from multiple sclerosis. The woman had pleaded with doctors to help end her suffering; when they refused, her husband gave her a fatal overdose. He was arrested and put on trial, where he argued that he’d committed an act of mercy, not murder. He had been acquitted. The novel had been denounced by the Catholic Church.

  “What?” Clara said. “Darling, you’re mumbling, I can’t hear you. What have I told you, again and again, about the mumbling?”

  Elise gritted her teeth. “Sorry, Mother.”

  “Only people who don’t trust what they have to say mumble, you know.”

  Biting her lip, Elise went back to the marble bathroom, took one of the thick washcloths folded on the counter, and ran it under the cold water. She wrung it out in the sink, then brought it back into the bedroom.

  “How’s the piano practice coming along?” Clara asked. “My party’s this weekend, after all, and I want there to be fantastic music. A small orchestra, of course, but I’ve chosen a few pieces to sing—just me with piano accompaniment. I’ll have my secretary draw up a list of possible songs for you.” She gave Elise an up-and-down look. “And perhaps we could cut back on the marzipan for the next few days?” she suggested, patting the young woman’s cheek. “Your face is looking a bit full, not to mention your bottom. And I’ve picked out an appropriate dress for you to wear.…”

  Elise’s face crumpled under the weight of her mother’s criticism. It had been a long day. She was worried about Gretel, she was worried about Frieda and Ernst, and now she was worried about how to approach her mother. Tears pricked at her blue eyes and threatened to overflow.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—don’t cry, darling. You’re so sensitive sometimes. I feel I can’t say anything around you. You take everything so personally—really, you must get over that.”

  Elise blinked her eyes, hard. As she often did, she decided to change the subject. “Is Papa coming to the party?” Alaric Hess was one of the Reich’s most famous opera conductors, and often away on tour.

  “I don’t know, Mausi.” Clara unhooked the clips from her silk stockings and, one after the other, rolled them down her legs. “Why don’t you telephone and ask him yourself?” She stripped out of her dress, then out of her girdle, garter belt, and bra. There were red welts where the elastic had bitten into her skin. With a sigh of relief, she slipped on a black silk nightgown. She lay on the bed and draped a slender arm over her eyes. “Where’s that washcloth, Mausi?”

  Elise laid the wet cloth over her mother’s temples. “Ah, that’s better,” Clara sighed. “It’s good to have a nurse in the family. If you recall, I wasn’t too thrilled about it at first, but it does have some perks. As does your piano playing. I do wish you’d take it more seriously, though. Wouldn’t you rather be touring as a pianist, instead of cleaning up God-knows-what at the hospital?”

  “I’ve told you,” Elise said, sitting down on the gray satin duvet covering the bed. “I don’t like classical German music. I like jazz.”

  “Jazz!” Clara groaned. “Why listen to that scheisse?”

  “Well, I can’t, actually—not since you broke all of my records.” Elise spoke in a neutral tone, but her point was made. Clara had thrown all of Elise’s records from her window in a fit of anger when she’d discovered them, then had the gardener toss the broken pieces into the trash. She and Elise hadn’t spoken for weeks after that.

  “It’s not right for my daughter, of all people, to own such things—let alone play them.”

  Elise gave a tight smile. Little did her mother know that she’d replaced all the broken records with exact duplicates—but this time labeled Bach, Beethoven, and Bruckner, instead of Benny Goodman, Dizzy Gillespie, and Louis Armstrong.

  “And where’s your swastika necklace?” Clara asked, lifting the wet washcloth and peering at Elise with one eye. “The one with the diamonds and rubies? Why are you still wearing that pathetic old cross?”

  “I love the cross—and besides, it belonged to Grandmother.”

  Clara lowered the towel back over her eyes. “You’re not still planning on becoming a nun, are you?” She sighed. “Poverty, chastity, and obedience—you were raised for so much more. Extraordinary—I raised you to be nothing short of extraordinary.”

  But this wasn’t the argument Elise wanted to have. Especially now. She took a breath. “Mother, I want to talk to you about something. My friend from the hospital, Frieda, is married to a man named Ernst Klein—”

  “The Jew. Yes. You’ve mentioned. They don’t have any half-breeds now, do they?”

  “No,” Elise said, setting her jaw, “Frieda’s not having a baby. Truth be told, she’s concerned because she thinks Ernst might be called away soon, to a work camp.” The words tumbled out of Elise’s mouth. “He’s a wonderful man—a good husband, honorable, responsible. An excellent surgeon—I used to work with him, at Charité. I know I asked you about this before, but it seems as though being married to an Aryan isn’t enough to keep you in Berlin anymore. And—if there’s anything—anything at all—that you can do …” Her words hung in the air.

  Clara was silent.

  Elise tried again. “Mother, he’s her husband. She loves him.”

  Clara exhaled. “If she loves him, she should be proud of his going to a labor camp and working hard for the Volk.” Clara folded her hands over her chest. “Now, leave me. I’m tired. And I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Elise bit her tongue, wanting to say so much more. But she knew the tone in her mother’s voice all too well. This conversation was finished. “Good night.”

  It’s not over, Elise thought.

  Back in her own room, Elise sat at a dressing table covered with her old porcelain-faced Kessel dolls keeping watch over a well-worn copy of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. She brushed out her braids and curled the loose hair with a hot iron, the way the American movie stars did. She painted a matte cherry bow on her lips and changed from her demure frock to a blue dress with a circle skirt, with ruffled petticoats beneath.

  She gave herself a spritz of Tosca behind each ear and between her breasts. Then she placed her pillows under her bedcovers, to look like a sleeping body, tossed a pair of Cuban heeled pumps out the window, and climbed out and made her way down a rose trellis.

  A voice whispered from a cluster of trees. “What took you so long?” A young man stepped out of the shadows. Fritz Frommel’s long blond hair covered his eyes, and he was dressed in a loose-fitting suit with pegged trousers and two-toned oxford wingtip shoes in beige and black. He carried a cane tucked under his arm, just like an English Dandy. He held out her shoes.

  “You look divine, Fritz,” Elise said, giving him a peck on the cheek, then taking the proffered shoes and slipping them on her feet.

  “Not as glorious as you,” he replied, going for her lips. Finally, they broke apart. “Are you ready?” he said, grabbing her hand. Together, they slipped out of the bushes and ran down the street, to the Grunewald S-Bahn station. He began singing, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing—”

  Together, they ran down the dark and deserted street, singing, “Doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah!”

  The Berlin Swing Parties were never held twice in the same place. The dates and locations were always changing. Only secret whistles and passed notes gave information to those in the know.

  This night’s party was being held in an abandoned art deco theater in Schöneberg. A slim man wearing a top hat and a monocle was taking contributions at the door. However, when Elise and Fritz made it to the front of the line, they realized he was really a woman, dressed in drag and chewing on a cigar.

  Inside,
it was hot, close, and loud. The air smelled of smoke and sweat and sweet ylang-ylang perfume. A swing orchestra—men in white coats and black bow ties—was assembled onstage, playing, “Hep! Hep! The Jumpin’ Jive.” The brass wailed, the cymbals crashed, and drums beat time in a way that shook the floorboards. There were young people sitting on the sidelines at café tables with wrought-iron chairs snapping their fingers and keeping time, but most were up and dancing, jumping, and flying through the air in lifts and twists.

  Across the dance floor, a few couples at a table spied Elise and Fritz and waved. They threaded their way through the crowd. There was only one seat, so Fritz took it and Elise perched in his lap. One of the women took a drag on her Trommler and stared out at the dancers. “It’s like rearranging chairs on the deck of the Titanic,” she remarked in a husky voice.

  Elise took the woman’s cigarette, then realized she was a young man with makeup. “I think it’s brave!” Elise shouted over the noise.

  “Listen to that scat,” Fritz said, leaning back and snapping his fingers. “He might be German, but he sounds just like Cab Calloway.” He gave Elise a gentle slap on the bottom. “Want to dance?”

  She smiled and passed the cigarette back. “Of course!”

  Fritz led Elise into the crowd as the orchestra segued into Louis Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing.” The other dancers were also young: boys with vests and Windsor knots, girls in floral dresses and flowing curls freed from braids.

  It was crowded, so they started out with sugar pushes, skip ups, and side passes. “The King and Queen of Harlem!” someone shouted, and the crowd began to move aside, circling around Elise and Fritz as they started aerials: Lindy flips, candlesticks, Frankie snatches, frogs, and belly cherries.

  “Go! Go! Go!” the other dancers shouted in English as Elise and Fritz kicked, jumped, and spun, her skirt flipping up to reveal her garters as the saxophones sang and trumpets blared.

  When it was done, the crowd applauded, and the orchestra began “Take the ‘A’ Train.” Fritz, breathing heavily, led Elise back to the table, where he pulled out a flask. He opened it and offered it to her. She took a gulp.