She checked the identification. Mark Scott. US Consulate General.
“Trust me?” said Scott.
Maisie shook her head. “No. I don’t. For a start, it says here that you’re with the Consulate. But I do want to know why you’re here and why you’ve followed me.” She gestured back toward the Marienplatz. “There’s a busy pub sort of place back there. Walk alongside me—and remember, you are still at the end of my revolver.”
She let down her guard a little when they entered the pub and found a table. The revolver was consigned to her pocket, though she kept her hand on the grip.
“Now you can tell me what you think you’re doing, Mr. Scott—if that’s your real name.”
“I may have to shout.”
“I’ll lip-read if necessary. What do you want with me?”
Mark Scott raised his chin in warning as a waiter approached their table. He ordered beers for both himself and Maisie. Not until the waiter was halfway back to the bar, and then only after he had surveyed their immediate area, did he turn back to Maisie. “We want to make sure Leon Donat gets out of this country alive, though of course he might not be exactly fine and dandy, given where he’s been. You are his ticket; you have his release papers—or you will have them the day after tomorrow. It is in the interests of the government of the United States of America that Mr. Donat reaches Great Britain in a timely manner. We don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“What has America got to do with this?”
Mark Scott grinned. “Let’s just say we have a soft spot for your boffins.”
CHAPTER 8
Mark Scott stopped a few steps from the entrance to the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten. He turned to Maisie and tipped his hat. “Don’t worry, I’m on your side, Fräulein Donat. I’ve got your six.” He pronounced her assumed name in perfect German, and with a knowing smile.
“And what exactly is my six, Mr. Scott?”
“Sorry about that—I thought you would have heard the saying before. I was an aviator in the war. When you see your pal going in to take on the enemy, you let him know you’re right there, looking after him from the back. That’s having his six. You know, it’s like a clock—twelve is right out there in front, three has the starboard, nine the port, and six brings it up from the rear. You want someone back there at your six when you’re going in, so the bastards can’t come up and take out your tail.”
“Oh, I see.” Maisie nodded, smiling. “Right you are then, Mr. Scott. I daresay I might see you again, if I look over my shoulder toward the six.”
“You can count on it, ma’am. You can count on it.” Scott touched a finger to the brim of his hat and walked away into the night.
Maisie was sure he was who he claimed to be—and that meant Leon Donat was a far more valuable man than she had been led to believe. But then, he would be. Why else would the British government go to such great lengths to get him back onto home soil? And if the German authorities knew how important he was—over and above having so-called friends in high places—would they renege on the deal to release him? Maisie looked around, wondering if anyone else was following her or had seen her in the pub. She could not help but wonder whether she had made a wrong move in apprehending Mark Scott.
Inside the hotel, Maisie bid the porter good evening and collected her key from the desk clerk. She went to her room and closed the door. In approximately thirty-six hours she would be able to claim Leon Donat from Dachau. One more full day in Munich to entertain herself—and perhaps to engineer an encounter with Elaine Otterburn. Was that wise? She weighed up the odds, then remembered the “little man” brought down to meet her, and how it felt when Lorraine Otterburn held out her grandson for Maisie to hold, to take him in her arms. She knew it was a deliberate ploy; the soft vulnerability of a child abandoned by his mother seemed to cling to her long after she had left the Otterburn mansion. And it had worked, strengthening her resolve to find Elaine Otterburn and talk some sense into her.
She also gave thought to the machinations at play in the arrest and incarceration of Leon Donat. How had the Nazis known where to find him, and who had tipped them off? What stood in the way of him proving his innocence? And was there room for doubt? She tried to put the thoughts aside. Her task was clear: bring Leon Donat home to England. It was not her place to question him.
Having breakfasted in the hotel dining room, Maisie once again dressed for a chilly but bright day and set off to board the tram that would take her in the direction of Schwabing. This time she really would be a tourist, first detouring to walk around Marienplatz, admiring the glockenspiel, and looking into shops at will. She wondered if Mark Scott would once more be in the shadows, monitoring her every move.
After a night’s respite, she was once more wearing the wig, and a plain brown hat with a black grosgrain ribbon band. She was dressed in her austere navy-blue jacket and skirt and strong brown walking shoes. Quite deliberately she omitted to leave her key at the reception desk, thankful for a clutch of tourists surrounding the clerks as she made her way out of the hotel onto the street. Within another fifteen minutes she was in the center of Marienplatz. In another time—perhaps just a few years ago—this place might have been so different. Yes, there were people rushing back and forth—mothers with children, people running errands, going into shops—but she felt a certain tension in the air. She suspected that the locals might not have the same experience; the atmosphere had changed at a gradual pace, and she knew people would accommodate even the most troubling situations to avoid recognizing an oppressive development. “It’s not so bad,” or “It will pass,” they might say, and cling to the ways life had not altered—but for some, there would be a call to arms. She knew from experience that many of the more vulnerable, those who knew themselves to be most at risk, had already left Germany. Those who remained believed they were safe because they were German. And she could see why—especially on a beautiful day—they would be loath to leave Bavaria. Tourists came at all times of year. British girls from wealthy families, women younger than Elaine Otterburn, traveled to Bavaria to attend finishing schools and enjoy a year of freedom before a husband was to be found and life as a society matron loomed. Perhaps that was one of Elaine’s problems. She could not leave her girlhood behind; the responsibilities of marriage were too much to bear.
Maisie left the tram at exactly the same place as before, and made her way to the pub where she had seen Elaine Otterburn emerging from the shadowy, smoke-filled interior, her hand draped like fabric across an SS officer’s arm. As she approached the pub, she heard bolts being pulled back inside, and a curse from a man with a gruff voice. She stopped just in time to avoid the bucketful of water thrown out as the doors bounced back on their hinges. Another curse ensued, and a stocky man with a bald head emerged, a cigarette hanging from a thick lower lip, his eyes like those of a bloodhound. His apron was coming loose, and he tried to prop a broom against the wall as he struggled with the ties below his girth. Satisfied, he cursed again and took up his broom to sweep the soiled water into the street. Maisie wondered how wise it would be to approach him. Yet time was not on her side, and this man could well have the information she wanted.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte.” Maisie smiled as she approached, squaring her shoulders and walking with an obvious sense of purpose. She did not want to appear apologetic, or in any way weak.
“Was wollen Sie, gnädige Frau?” The man squinted through reddened hungover eyes.
Maisie’s German was feeling more fluid now, as she continued to converse with the man in his native language. “Sir, I am looking for an old friend of mine—I lost touch with her, but I believe she is living in Schwabing.” Maisie indicated the inside of the pub. “She loves a good party, if you know what I mean. . . .”
The man gave a grudging smile, as if he wished he had avoided the last party.
“And this is just the sort of place she would enjoy.” Maisie leaned closer, as if bringing the man into her confidence. “She’s a bit wild
, you know.” She swallowed as the man’s fetid breath sullied the air between them, but smiled encouragingly as she reached into her bag for the photograph of Elaine Otterburn. “Have you seen her?”
The man continued to squint, then raised his hand and pulled down the skin under his eyes with thumb and forefinger, as if to widen the aperture through which he could view the subject.
“Ah. Ha ha!” He gave a knowing deep chortle. “Yes, she likes a good time.”
“Do you know where she lives? I am very anxious to see her.”
The man cast his gaze toward Maisie and narrowed his eyes as if to focus again, this time to assess her attire.
“You must have been friends a long time ago,” he said.
She shrugged. “Yes, it was. We are very different, which is why we were able to be good friends.” She wondered if the lie would work.
“Yes, I can see that. She needs a sensible friend.”
“Do you know where I can find her?” Maisie pressed.
The man nodded. He held up a finger and rested his broom against the door frame. “Wait here.”
Maisie remained on the street outside the pub, moving a few steps so it might seem as if she were window-shopping in front of an adjacent store. Still, passersby took second glances at her, as if wondering what a good woman was doing outside a destination for the committed drinker.
The landlord emerged, clutching a piece of paper. “Here you are. This is where you will find her.”
Maisie took the small sheet of paper and then looked back at the man. The red rims of his lower eyelids appeared to be sinking toward his cheekbones. “How do you know her address?”
“I did not say it was her address, madam. I said it was where you would find her.”
Maisie nodded. She asked the landlord for directions, and he indicated with one hand that she should follow the street, take a third left and a first right, then another left and right. She thanked him, wished him a good day, and went on her way, knowing she would have to stop another pedestrian at some point to ask for fresh instructions. Though she did not look back, she knew the landlord was watching her as she stepped out along the pavement, her body braced against the cold air.
Some forty-five minutes later, Maisie stood across the street from what appeared to be a plain apartment building, almost severe in its design. She had read about the very plain, simple architectural style that had become fashionable in Germany, a trend which celebrated the union of form and function, akin to other artistic movements in Europe wherein ornamentation was set aside in favor of strength and purpose. This modern sensibility was reflected in the property she’d bought in Pimlico, where Sandra now resided. The flat had been new when she’d purchased it some years earlier, yet the way its glass reflected light on even the most overcast day gave the building a warmth. The overall impression was of a stately ship on the sea, not the square box of a government office.
She thought back to the landlord’s comment. It is where you will find her. But who lived in this building? She crossed the street. The door was locked, so she cupped her hands around her eyes to look through the metal-framed glass door. Two men stood at the back of an expansive entrance hall, as if they had just reached the bottom of the staircase and were finishing their conversation. She had seen those distinctive black uniforms before, when she presented her papers to support the release of Leon Donat. Before they could turn toward her, she crossed the street to gaze into the window of a shoe shop. In the window’s reflection, she saw a black motor car draw up alongside the building, and the men left the entrance hall and climbed aboard. Maisie would have to wait. She walked up and down, stamping her feet to keep warm. She hoped she would not have to linger very long, and attract unwanted attention. She watched as more men left the building, in pairs and individually, sometimes on foot but more often in vehicles. She was about to give up when a younger man pushed open the door, looking both ways and across the street.
Maisie picked up her heel as if to remove a smut from her stocking. The man took no notice of her, but Maisie was in time to see him gesture with his hand, as if to say “Hurry.” Elaine Otterburn ran down the steps, dressed in clothing more suited to a night out on the town. She pulled the officer toward her as if to kiss him, but he drew back. He hailed a taxi, took Elaine by the arm, and all but pushed her in. Instead of joining her, he closed the door and turned back into the building. The taxi set off, but at a slow pace. Maisie was wondering how on earth she would corner Elaine Otterburn when she saw the taxi draw to a halt to allow a line of schoolchildren, holding hands and walking in pairs, snake their way across the road. She ran toward the taxi. It would be her only chance, she knew, to talk to Elaine.
Maisie had not seen John Otterburn’s daughter since that fateful morning when Elaine had failed to report for her promised duty at an airfield in Canada, ready to fly an experimental aircraft. Now Maisie would have to face the woman she blamed for her husband’s death—and do her best to bring her home. She felt her knees weaken as she slowed to a walk. The line of children was almost across the street, but one of them tripped over his untied shoelaces and crashed to the ground, crying out in pain. Maisie watched as the passenger door of the taxi was flung open, and Elaine Otterburn clambered out to go to the child’s aid, kneeling on the ground to press a white handkerchief to a scraped knee. Maisie was close enough to hear her now as she soothed the boy, her arm around his shoulders.
“Weine nicht, Kleine. Weine nicht. Lass mich dir helfen, mit meiner magie Taschentuch.” Don’t cry, little one. Don’t cry. Let me help you with my magic handkerchief.
Maisie was almost alongside the taxi now. A teacher approached and scolded the child for holding up the line, throwing Elaine Otterburn a look that Maisie thought would wither a rose still in bud. She handed back the handkerchief with a curt word of thanks before hauling the child off by the arm. Elaine turned, tears in her eyes. As she stepped back into the taxicab, Maisie gripped the handle of the opposite passenger door, opened it, and stepped in. Elaine was about to scream when she realized who was sitting next to her.
“Let’s go to your flat, Elaine,” said Maisie. “I’ve come to talk to you about going home.”
Elaine Otterburn shook her head, as if trying to disguise her shock at seeing Maisie. “I can’t go home, and you have no business asking me. You don’t understand.”
“Then you’re going to have to do your best to explain.”
Maisie looked at Elaine Otterburn’s hands clutching the blood-stained handkerchief, and a welter of conflicting emotions washed over her. What words of advice would Maurice give her? She knew that he would urge compassion. May I know what it is to feel the weight on another’s shoulders. May I know forgiveness in my heart. May I be given strength to extend my hand across the divide to pull another from the abyss, though that person has wounded me. Maisie knew the abyss; she knew what it was to walk the perimeter of darkness. Though she could never have predicted that she would do such a thing, she reached out and took Elaine Otterburn’s hand, and feeling the younger woman clasp hers in return.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into, Maisie. This is not what it seems. I am not what I seem.” Elaine turned to her with kohl-stained eyes. “Believe me, you should not have come.”
I am not what I seem. In the months following her husband’s death and the loss of her unborn child, Maisie had felt in limbo. It was as if, having been denied a place in heaven alongside her fledgling family, there would be no place for her on earth, no comfort, and nowhere to rest. She went first to America, staying at the home of a friend from the war years, Dr. Charles Hayden, his wife, Pauline, and their two daughters. The family had welcomed her; Hayden, especially, understood that Maisie had suffered a deep psychological shock. But in time she left, making her way back to India, to the place where she had found a measure of solace, of peace and hope years before—to the place where she had at last decided to accept James’ proposal of marriage.
There were those
who wanted to know what had happened in the time between leaving America and taking up residence in a bungalow amid the tea gardens of an estate in Darjeeling. It was as if her family, her husband’s family, and her friend Priscilla needed to color the blank spaces in their knowledge of her. But she had nothing to tell them; in her grief, she was between worlds. She could not even remember ports along the way, or the exact route she’d traveled. It was now a blur. She had engaged in conversations—none lengthy, and all in the interests of maintaining politeness—eaten meals, leafed through newspapers and books; she had even written letters. Yet none of this could she remember. Then it was time to come home, summoned by her stepmother, who was concerned about the effects of Maisie’s absence on her aging father. But as she neared England fear had encroached upon Maisie’s soul, and she realized she was not ready to face the places where she and James had courted, where they had become friends first and then lovers. Both of their homes held cherished memories—of laughter, of companionable moments, of passion and plans. And she knew that others would want to tell her stories about James; of his boyhood and growing years, his struggle to leave the war behind, his success as a man of commerce. Each memory and every story would feel like a knife through her heart—for James was gone, and she was alone.
Once she had disembarked in Gibraltar, a chain of events led her to cross the border into Spain. It was there that she began to be whole again, using her skills as a nurse at an aid station set up by a nun who had remained behind in her convent to minister to wounded warriors fighting Franco’s regime. And it was in delivering a child—a girl—that Maisie realized that she could, if she tried, perhaps be reborn herself. The sharp waves of immediate grief had begun to diminish, like a slow ebbing of the tide. They were not entirely gone; sometimes the seas of pain would crash against her heart again, and she would feel her resolve weaken.