His Majesty's Hope(21)
Maggie was surprised to find that she had a voracious appetite. She downed everything, mopping up the onion grease with the bread, as well as a good portion of the Himmel und Hölle. What she couldn’t finish, Carl Karl tucked into with abandon.
When they were done, and the table was cleared, Adelwin brought out train schedules and maps, to make certain that Maggie knew where she was going in the morning. Herr Karl would drive her to the station early; there Maggie would take the train to Berlin, where she would meet up with Gottlieb Lehrer.
“There aren’t many SS here in our tiny town,” Frau Karl told her, “but you still need to be careful. Anyone can turn you in for anything, at any time. Always assume you’re being watched.”
Maggie gave an enormous yawn; it was well after midnight. “Excuse me.”
“Come, let me show you to your room,” Frau Karl said.
Maggie bade good night to the men, then followed Frau Karl up the narrow wooden stairs. “Your suitcase is in there,” she said, indicating a guest room. “Schlafen Sie gut. I will see you in the morning.”
The first thing Maggie did was open her suitcase, checking for the radio transmitter crystals and the microphone. She breathed a sigh of relief: both seemed undamaged.
She was able to undress and put on her nightgown before the first wave of exhaustion engulfed her. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her before she was fast asleep.
Downstairs, Frau Karl cleaned up the kitchen, washing the last of the dishes. “Do you think she’ll make it? She’s a woman after all. She might have an advantage. No Nazi would ever believe that a woman could be a spy.”
“I hope so,” Herr Karl said, drinking ersatz coffee. “I certainly hope so.”
Chapter Five
Elise had been shocked to receive the invitation to Gretel Paulus’s memorial service. The card stock was thick and bone-white, the text engraved in black ink.
HERR AND FRAU ODWIN PAULUS
REQUEST RAE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE
AT THE MEMOMAL SERVICE FOR
OUR BELOVED DAUGHTER, GRETEL ADA PAULUS
ON SUNDAY, THE 5TH OF JUNE
AT TWELVE O’CLOCK NOON
KAISER WILHELM MEMORIAL CHURCH
BREITSCHEIDPLATZ 10789
RECEPTION TO FOLLOW
NIEBUHRSTRASSE 27
BERLIN-CHARLOTTENBURG
The day of the memorial service, Elise donned her best black crepe dress, hat, and gloves. It was hot; Elise’s dress stuck to the small of her back. Underneath the hat, her hair was damp.
The service was traditional, and the priest sounded truly sorrowful to have lost the little girl from his congregation. Afterward, Elise, with the rest of the mourners, went to the Pauluses’ nearby home. It was a large and comfortable third-floor apartment in a baroque limestone building. Inside, Bauhaus furniture was juxtaposed against nineteenth-century herringbone wood floors. The wide windows looked out over a courtyard garden, where roses bloomed and a raven croaked in an apple tree. People dressed in black milled about, clutching delicate cups and saucers, speaking in subdued voices.
“Ah, Nurse Hess,” said Gretel’s father, finding her in the crowd. His eyes were blank and his voice was a monotone. “How good of you to come. Gretel always spoke so well of you. Won’t you have something to drink? Eat?” He indicated a plantation table in the dining room, swathed in white linen, piled high with fruit, cold cuts, cheeses, breads, and pastries. A fat black housefly buzzed over the table, finally landing on a sticky, almond-covered zuckerkuchen.
“I’m fine, thank you, Herr Paulus,” Elise replied. “I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t know Gretel for long, but she was a lovely child. She was always so brave and cheerful.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Nurse Hess,” he said, his eyes trying to focus.
Elise wondered whether to press on. The girl was dead, after all. Why upset a grieving father? Then she remembered Gretel holding her little bear, and took a breath. “If I may ask, Herr Paulus, what was the cause of her death?”
“Pneumonia,” he said flatly. “They told us she died of pneumonia.”
“They ‘told you’?” Elise repeated, confused. “Gretel didn’t die at home? I wasn’t aware that she’d been readmitted to Charité.”
Herr Paulus blinked. “No, no—she left Charité and was sent to the Hadamar Institute, for additional evaluation. While she was there, she caught pneumonia. They sent us her ashes in an urn. We didn’t even have time to see her. We don’t even have her body to bury. They sent her away to Hadamar without telling us. It was only later that we were informed. And then it was too late.” He turned to the urn on the mantel, in front of a framed oil painting of Hitler. It was shiny and black, an enameled swastika facing front.