His Majesty's Hope(71)
“Hmmm,” said Alexandra, who had clearly been hoping for more drama.
“Sorry it’s not romantic enough for you. I should have drowned myself in the Spree instead?”
“Well, that’s more dramatic. Wagnerian, even!”
Maggie had to laugh. “I prefer to stay dry.”
“What was it like in Rome?”
Maggie had been prepared for this question. “Very hot, very dusty. But we just worked and worked, all the time. We barely had any chance to see the city.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Not much—they just wanted German girls, to speak and type in German.”
“And that’s where you met Gottlieb?”
“And that’s where I met Gottlieb, who was there with the Abwehr.”
“Was he”—Alexandra looked so young—“your first love?”
Maggie stared out the window, at the garden and the sparkling lake beyond. “No,” she answered. “Not Gottlieb.”
“Who was your first love, then?”
“He was a pilot.”
“Was?”
“He—he died. On a mission.”
“A pilot—I’m sorry for your loss.” Alexandra pressed a hand to her heart. “One of our brave Luftwaffe, defending the Fatherland. Do you miss him?”
“Very much.”
The two women knitted together in silence.
“Have you ever thought …” Alexandra began.
“Yes?”
The girl had the grace to blush. “My father?”
Maggie didn’t see Herr Oberg much, but she was aware of the way he looked at her. “Nonsense!” She smiled, determined to change the subject. “What do you say we play some records while we knit? Bach? Or today, perhaps, Beethoven?”
Maggie’s effort to get into Oberg’s study was proving difficult. He often didn’t get home until late, and then spent hours and hours working, leaving only a short window between the time he went to bed and when he woke up in the morning.
Finally, one day late in August, Herr Oberg arrived home early from work and went to bed early. Maggie catnapped, then woke at two. In order not to make any noise on the stairs, she slid down on her bottom, using her hands, one stair at a time. She then crept quietly in stocking-clad feet over the thick carpets on the floor where Herr Oberg’s and Alexandra’s bedrooms were, holding her breath and listening for any sounds.
Finally, she reached the study. She’d been eyeing the lock and didn’t think it would take much to open. She pulled out a hairpin from her bun and gently inserted it. If it were the type she thought, a gentle push with the pin would release the mechanism and open the door.
It was not that kind of lock.
Damn, damn, damn, Maggie raged. All right, I’ve spent enough time in the hallway, she decided, looking around, listening, making sure she was alone. Time to painstakingly make her way back to the safety of her bed, to plan her next attempt.
On Maggie’s day off, she toyed with what to do. And then, impulsively, knowing it was against all SOE rules, she decided to call Elise. She’s my sister, she rationalized as she picked up the handset of the telephone. And the world’s at war. Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again?
Maggie felt she couldn’t have a guest to Herr Oberg’s, and she certainly didn’t want to go back to Clara’s house, so she suggested meeting at the beach at Wannsee.
Elise took the S-Bahn from Grunewald to Wannsee and met Maggie near the sparkling blue lake. She spread out a blanket on the sand, and Maggie opened a large umbrella she had borrowed from the Oberg villa. The air smelled of spicy pine needles. There were a few other people—mothers and their children, building elaborate sand castles under striped umbrellas or splashing in the shallow water. Boys played in sand forts, brandishing toy guns. Birds sang from nearby chestnut trees. The two young women kicked off their sandals and stripped down to their bathing suits.
“Are you feeling any better?” Elise asked as she slipped on sunglasses and lay back.
Maggie was pretending to be still mourning after her breakup with Gottlieb. “Every day, it’s a little better,” she said with a smile. The warm sand under the blanket felt good, the sound of the water lapping against the sand was relaxing, and Maggie felt her shoulders drop just the slightest bit for the first time since she’d arrived in Germany. “And how’s Fritz?” Elise had told Maggie about Fritz, her dance partner.
Elise sighed. “I adore Fritz, but in the same way I adore puppies and kittens. It’s not serious. And he doesn’t believe that, when the war is over, I want to take my vows to become a nun.”