“I understand. Where to, gnädiges Fräulein?”
“Grunewald.”
“Grunewald?”
“It’s where I live.” Elise rolled down the window, breathing in the warm evening air. “Where I fixed up the attic to hide the children. He’s no child, but it looks as though it’s going to come in handy now.”
As Father Licht drove through the streets of Berlin-Mitte, Elise began to drum her fingers on her lap. “I know you’re nervous,” the priest said, “but you’re going to have to hide it better than that.”
Elise stopped her hands. “Terrified.”
Father Licht flicked his eyes up to the rearview mirror, taking in the silent man. “About hiding your taciturn friend?”
Elise gave a nervous bark of laughter in response. “No, about being late. My mother’s having a party. And if I don’t get there soon, she’s going to kill me.”
A driver took Maggie and Gottlieb to Grunewald. In his lap, Gottlieb held an enormous bunch of orchids wrapped in tissue and tied with silver ribbons for their hostess. In the car, they were silent for most of the ride, holding hands and looking at the scenery. Finally, Maggie spoke. “Is the party at”—she struggled with the name—“Clara Hess’s home?”
“Yes,” Gottlieb replied. “Grunewald is a well-to-do suburb of Berlin. Just a bit past Charlottenburg, near the Olympic Stadium.”
“I see.”
“We can’t just go in and go out,” Gottlieb said.
“No, really?” Maggie snapped. Does he think I’m an idiot?
“I know you’re anxious,” he said, keenly aware that the driver could be listening to them, “but don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry,” she echoed. “Of course not.”
Eventually, the long black car began to wind through the tree-lined streets of Grunewald, stopping when the driver pulled up to a high, ornate gate. One guard checked Maggie’s and Gottlieb’s papers, while another peered suspiciously inside the car and the trunk. Maggie feared both men could hear her heart thundering in her chest, but apparently they didn’t, because ultimately they waved them through.
The car pulled into the circular gravel drive of a white neoclassical villa, and they waited in line, behind gleaming Brennabors, Mercedes-Benzes, and Maybachs. They inched their way past a fountain and strutting peacocks, and up to the grand front entranceway, hung with long red Nazi flags and bunting. Is this a party or a rally? Maggie wondered.
A doorman in black livery opened Maggie’s car door and offered a white-gloved hand to help her out.
“Danke schön,” she said. Gottlieb walked around to meet her, bent low to press his lips to her hand, and then offered his arm. He might be pompous, Maggie decided, and have ridiculously big ears, but his manners are impeccable. She took his arm, as well as a deep breath, and together they walked up the marble stairs and through the double doors, into Clara Hess’s home.
“Here!” Elise said, pointing to a large white villa. “But not the front. Pull into the servants’ entrance—there, yes, that’s it.”
Father Licht did as he was told, pulling around the gleaming dark cars waiting in line to be admitted to the front, and going through a different security check—where Elise did all the talking. “Yes,” she said, showing her papers, “I’m Clara Hess’s daughter.”
“Who are these two?” The guard frowned.
Elise gave an impatient exhale. “Well, they’re priests. Obviously.”
“What are they doing here?”
“They’re going to bless the food, of course.”
The guard looked dubious.
“Look, we’re running late, and I really don’t want to tell my mother—Clara Hess—that it was because of a holdup for security …”
“All right,” the man said, waving them through. “Have a good evening.”
Father Licht looked impressed and not a little relieved.
“Park here,” Elise said, pointing. “All the servants will be busy getting ready for the party,” she said. “At least that’s what I’m counting on. Come on, you’re going to help me get him to the door and then up the back stairs. Then you can bless the food.”
She gave the priest a half smile. “After all, I wouldn’t want to tell a lie.”
It’s big, Maggie had to admit when she walked through the doors, looking around as Gottlieb handed the orchids to a maid. They entered a marble great room with a circular stairway. Servants circulated with silver trays holding crystal champagne coupes etched with small swastikas. Hanging over the fireplace was an enormous oil painting of Adolf Hitler by Conrad Hommel—the Führer in full dress uniform under a foreboding sky, gazing over a battlefield. Gottlieb reached for two glasses. “Here you go, Schatzi,” he said, offering her one.