Daphne giggled. “And did you have one of us in particular in mind?”
David gave an impish smile. “The choice would be like poor Paris’s—a man surrounded by goddesses.”
“And the golden apple at stake,” Kay said. She thought for a moment, her ruby lips pursed, then reached over for Daphne’s hand. “We’re in a good place, David. We have a two-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury—of course, one bedroom’s just for show. Our landlady thinks we’re old maids, who are also the best of friends. We have our tribe of like-minded women, go to the theater, go to dinner parties, write, support candidates. We’re ARP street wardens, for goodness’ sake. We have made, against all odds, a life together. A good life.”
“Of course,” David agreed. “And Freddie and I hope to do the same. This … marriage … would be in name only. A few family functions to attend.”
“That’s all?” Kay asked skeptically.
“Well, there would be the conversion, of course …”
“Convert?” Daphne gasped. “To Judaism?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m an Anglican.”
“There’s also the small matter of”—David paused delicately—“an heir.”
Kay and Daphne met eyes, shocked. Without words, the two women came to an understanding. “No,” Kay said finally, turning a cold stare to David. “No. We’re not about to sell our integrity—not to mention even think about bringing another human life into the world—merely to save your precious pocket money.”
She stood and threw her linen napkin on the table. Daphne stood, too. “We may not be as rich as you, but we work for a living, and we’re able to support ourselves,” she said. “We live as we want—more or less. I’d rather have toast and beans at home, with the woman I love, than all the champagne at the Ritz. Come on, Kay—we’re going.”
The two women swept out, leaving whispers and stares in their wake. David and Freddie looked at each other. “Well,” Freddie deadpanned, lifting his champagne coupe to his lips. “That went well.”
David looked up and caught their waiter’s eye. “The bill, please,” he said glumly.
“You have company,” Elise said to John when she and Ernst reached the attic.
John sat up in his bed, taking in both Elise and Ernst. Ernst spoke first. “Ernst Klein. Rogue Jew. Pleased to meet you.”
“John Sterling, injured British pilot. Pleased to meet you, too,” he said in broken German.
“Well then,” Elise said. “Ernst, you take the roll-up mattress on the floor there. I’ll get you some clean sheets and blankets. I’ll also bring up a washbasin and then some dinner.”
“You’re taking too great a risk, Elise,” Ernst warned.
“Mother’s rarely home, and doesn’t pay much attention to me when she is. Neither do the servants. There’s always a lot of food around—most of it goes to waste anyway. You two just rest. I’ll set everything up, and then we can make plans tonight.”
Ernst’s eyes filled with tears. “I can never thank you enough …”
“Yes,” John said, “how can we ever repay you?”
“Let’s just focus on getting you both out,” Elise whispered firmly. “And Ernst, would you please take a look at John’s incision? It seems to be healing well, but you’re the surgeon, after all. And for heaven’s sake—be quiet.”
Frieda was unable to think, unable to breathe. Ernst was at Clara Hess’s home. This was no game; his life was on the line. She loved Elise, but she also thought her friend was naïve, spoiled, and unaware of the terrible danger Jews were in. He would be safe for what—a few days, maybe? And then what? What if a servant heard a footstep, or wondered where all the bread was going? What would happen to Ernst then?
Frieda changed out of her nurse’s uniform in the locker room and dressed quickly, pinning on her hat in the mirror by the door. It wasn’t as if she had a plan in mind. She just walked out of the hospital and then kept walking.
“I’m here to see Frau Hess,” Frieda announced at the Abwehr, after showing her identity card to the guards at the entrance.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.
“Frau Hess will want to see me.”
“What is this concerning?”
Frieda’s voice didn’t waver. “Her daughter. Elise.”
“And who are you again?” Clara Hess was at her desk, going over reports. She looked up as Frieda entered, taking in the younger woman’s worn dress and scuffed shoes. “How do you know my daughter?”