His Majesty's Hope(70)
Father Licht permitted himself a small smile, which he hid behind his hand.
“Why, yes,” Gottlieb said, surprised. “How did you know?”
“You seem very …” Elise considered her words. “Intense.”
“Hmpf,” Gottlieb said, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted.
In the Hesses’ attic, with assistance from Ernst, John’s health continued to improve.
Every day, he dressed himself in some of Elise’s father’s old summer clothes: linen trousers and soft, frayed shirts. Day after day, in sock-clad feet, he walked the perimeter of the space, first with assistance from Ernst, then on his own, getting stronger and faster. Ernst read the books Elise brought for them from her father’s library—Franz Kafka’s The Trial, Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, Alfred Delp’s Tragic Existence—and tried to help John with the German translations.
Every morning, before the house was awake or the servants arrived, Elise tiptoed upstairs with a picnic basket of food to last all day—sandwiches, mostly, and fruit and a large Thermos of coffee and a carafe of water. She brought wooden bowls of shaving soap and blades, and pitchers of fresh water and a basin for washing.
She also procured a wireless radio, which—ear pressed to the speaker—John used to find the BBC. He might be far from home and in enemy territory, but he loved hearing English after so many months, and was heartened that Britain was holding on. And he listened in shock, hearing the voice of Winston Churchill himself, giving his latest speech.
“We live in a terrible epoch of the human story,” the Prime Minister announced, in sonorous tones, “but we believe there is a broad and sure justice running through its theme. It is time that the enemy should be made to suffer in their own homelands something of the torment they have let loose upon their neighbors and upon the world. We believe it to be in our power to keep this process going, on a steadily rising tide, month after month, year after year, until they are either extirpated by us or, better still, torn to pieces by their own people.”
John and Ernst looked at each other. “It is for this reason that I must ask you to be prepared for vehement counteraction by the enemy. Our methods of dealing with them have steadily improved. They no longer relish their trips to our shores.…
“We do not expect to hit without being hit back, and we intend with every week that passes to hit harder. Prepare yourselves, then, my friends and comrades, for this renewal of your exertions. We shall never turn from our purpose, however somber the road, however grievous the cost, because we know that out of this time of trial and tribulation will be born a new freedom and glory for all mankind.”
John stood, tears pricking his eyes, as the BBC played “God Save the King.”
Only when the broadcast was over did Ernst speak. “So the Germans have bombed British civilians. Now Britain’s going to bomb more German civilians.”
The Englishman looked at the German. “Yes.”
“Do you think those bombings will have anything to do with the eventual outcome of the war?”
“Maybe.” John shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“An eye for an eye, yes?”
John looked uncomfortable.
Ernst slumped back on his roll-up mattress. “All I can tell you as a doctor is—everyone bleeds the same.”
As August passed, Maggie learned Alexandra’s schedule. In the mornings, she would read to the girl, in the sunroom. They would have lunch together. Then Alexandra would take a nap. In the evenings, they would knit for the soldiers.
To the casual observer, Maggie and her young charge seemed like friends. They often laughed together, shared Kaffee und Kuchen, confided girlish secrets. All the while, Maggie was hiding her dismay at the way Alexandra, a healthy and intelligent girl, had been brainwashed into becoming some kind of breeding machine for the Reich, her own talents secondary to her capacity to produce future Nazi warriors.
But Alexandra believed that Maggie was Margareta Hoffman, originally from Frankfurt, who’d gone to school in Switzerland and then met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome. She thought it was unbelievably romantic that Margareta had given up so much for her lover, to follow him to Berlin.
“And then he just—threw you over?” Alexandra said one day as they knitted soldiers’ socks.
“It’s … complicated,” Maggie said. Oh, you have no idea exactly how complicated.
“Too bad you didn’t have his baby!”
Maggie looked up.
“I’m joking! I can tell you’re the type who wants a proper wedding. But, were you in love with him?”
St. Gottlieb? Not likely! Maggie exclaimed inwardly. But then she thought of Hugh. “I do miss him,” she confessed. “I do.”