The “units” were children.
It clicked, the way numbers did when she was solving a maths equation. “And Herr Oberg is in charge,” she said slowly, putting the pieces together. “At least of the financial side of the operation.”
“Herr Oberg?” Elise said.
“Yes,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “He ostensibly works for the State and Party Affairs office. I looked at his papers—they deal in what they’re calling ‘units.’ Units being sent, by bus, to places like Hadamar. He’s in charge of the”—a chill went through Maggie—“the business end of the operation, the bus drivers’ salaries, the buses, the fuel …” Maggie pulled out her handbag and started to unlock the fake bottom.
“There are some of us”—Elise looked at Father Licht, who nodded—“who want to expose these monsters. Father Licht and some of the Bishops have already gone to the Pope. But because the German Catholics signed the Reichskonkordat, we can’t protest. Or at least, we can’t protest without absolute proof. They’ll deny and cover up anything and everything. But if we had proof …”
If they, Germans, could actually expose such atrocities to their own people, the film she had would be far more important to these people than to the British. If the British told people about it, it could be dismissed as war propaganda. But if it came from Germans themselves—and from the clergy …
Maggie made her decision. “Here,” she said, taking the camera out of her bag and popping out the film cartridge. “I was able to photograph some of Oberg’s papers, about the costs and the ‘units.’ I think they might be of use to you.”
Father Licht accepted the film. “Thank God,” he said. “And, thank you.”
Elise took Maggie’s arm. “Now let’s get you into hiding. We need to work on an escape plan.”
Clara Hess returned to her office in a daze. She closed the door and then locked it, shutting out the guards escorting her.
It was time to face facts. Her marriage had long been over. She had only a distant relationship with her daughter. Her looks were fading. And now, the only things she could count on—her work and her status in the Nazi party—were gone. Still, she had friends—powerful friends. And there was the opera tonight …
She poured some schnapps, downed it, and then poured some more. Her lipstick had migrated to her teeth, and her mascara had run, leaving smudges under her eyes. In the haze of alcohol drunk too quickly on an empty stomach, she placed a call to Goebbels’s office. “I’ll see you at the opera tonight, won’t I, darling? Miles is conducting—it’s Lohengrin, after all—your favorite …”
Goebbels cleared his throat. “Clara, I know what happened with Canaris today. And I think it would be best”—he paused, trying to think of a delicate way to phrase it—“if you kept a low profile for a time. Take a holiday. Leave Berlin.”
“What?”
“Please, Clara …”
Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”
“You are—how shall I phrase this?—out of favor with the Führer at the moment. I think the less you’re in the spotlight, the better. You know how capricious he can be.”
He went on. “Your best bet is to be quiet, stay at home. It may be too late for you to have any more children of your own, but you could be of use. Perhaps adopt one of the Liebensborn?”
Clara, who’d always been the beloved, the admired, the feared, was speechless with fury. But she hadn’t risen to where she was by showing her cards too soon. “Well, thank you for your advice, Joseph,” she purred into the phone. “You’ve given me quite a bit to think about. Oh, one more thing—any word on the whereabouts of Margareta Hoffman?”
“Nein,” Goebbels answered. “She disappeared from Oberg’s house sometime in the night. We have our men looking for her. Don’t worry, we’ll find her.”
“And Lehrer?”
“He resisted arrest. Then shot himself.”
“You mean he’s dead?”
“Yes—why so upset?”
“Because he might have been our connection to a larger resistance ring, that’s why!” And, with that, Clara banged down the phone.
She would not hang her head in shame, she would not disappear. She would not adopt a child and chase after the Ehrenkreuz der Deutschen Mutter, the cross-shaped medal Hitler awarded to dutiful German mothers.
She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a small mother-of-pearl-handled gun. Before she left, she had to take care of the unfinished business in the attic.