Reading Online Novel

His Majesty's Hope(13)



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.