His Majesty's Hope(89)

“Thank you!” Elise’s mind was whirling with all she had to do. “See you tonight—you’re the best papa ever!”


Once back at the Hess villa in Grunewald, Elise worked quickly and efficiently.

She called the hospital. She was deathly ill and could not possibly come in for the next few days. Then she went through her father’s closet, picking out two formal suits. She did the same in her mother’s enormous wardrobe, choosing one of her gowns, and also a blond wig.

Then, making sure the coast was clear, she went up to the attic and gave the secret knock. Ernst opened the door. “We’re going to the opera!” she announced gaily, passing out clothing. “And then we’re going to Switzerland.”

“What? Tonight?” Maggie asked.

“Now?” added John.

“Yes,” Elise declared. “Are you ready?”

It was dangerous to go, but it was even more dangerous to stay. Maggie considered for a moment. “First we’ll need to find a radio.”


Elise grew pale. That was one thing she’d never bargained for.

“It’s all right,” Maggie reassured her. “Just look for the one under your mother’s desk.”

Elise found the transmitter-receiver and carried it to the attic. Maggie took it from her, set it gently on the floor, and opened it. Even though it was German-issued and different from the ones she was used to, it had the same parts: receiver, transmitter, and power-supply unit. She screwed in the miniature Morse key, plugged in the appropriate wires, and then hung the transmitter out the window.

“My goodness,” John said, impressed. “You really are a spy.”

She patted his cheek and sat down behind the machine. “I told you.” She turned on the power and the bulbs glowed. She put on the headphones and took a deep breath. She thought back to her time with Noreen, at Baker Street, and the “poem” she’d been given, the Declaration of Independence: “equalrightslifelibertyhapp,” and the corresponding alphabet.

The concept of life and liberty, and protected rights for all—let alone the pursuit of happiness—seemed almost impossible to imagine after having spent time in the ring of hell that was wartime Berlin. Still, Maggie tapped out her code, asking for a pickup for three at the Zürich train station in Switzerland the following noon.

“Do you think they received it?” Elise asked. Her face was very pale.

“I hope so,” Maggie said, unplugging everything and putting it away neatly.

“How will we know?”

“The BBC song list. They’ll play ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square,’ to acknowledge receipt.”

“I always did like Vera Lynn,” John said, grinning sweetly as he took Maggie’s hand and helped her to her feet.

“I’m glad,” Maggie said, taking his hand and pressing it to her lips. “Because I think now it’s officially our song.”


“You have similar figures,” Elise remarked to Maggie in her bathroom, handing her one of Clara’s gowns, a draped and flowing white silk Madame Grès. She gave a crooked smile, as she’d always been a bit too curvy to borrow any of Clara’s couture. “You could be sisters,” Elise said approvingly.

Oh, so close, Elise, Maggie thought. So close and yet so far.

Giving Maggie some privacy to wash the ash out of her hair and get dressed, Elise dressed in her own room, in a pink taffeta gown. When she was done, she went to Marthe’s gilded cage. “I don’t know when I’m going to be back, little one,” she told the dove, who regarded her, head cocked.

She opened her bedroom window. “But just in case I don’t make it, it’s time for you to be free.” She unhinged the cage door. “There you go—fly!”

There was an anticlimactic moment as Frieda’s bird continued to sit on her perch, tilting her head to one side, regarding Elise with shining jet eyes.

Then, Marthe hopped down to the cage’s open door. She gave Elise one last, long quizzical look, before flapping her wings and flying off. She landed on a branch of a nearby apple tree and sang a series of trills back to Elise before taking off again, shrinking to a dark speck against the oppressive gray sky.

“Good luck, little bird,” Elise whispered, knowing that Frieda wouldn’t mind, as long as Ernst was safe.


Up in the attic, they tuned the radio to the BBC and pressed their ears against the speaker. Finally, they heard their dedication, thin and crackly, letting them know the message had been received in London. “And this song is dedicated to His Majesty’s Hope.” The flute made its trilling introduction, and then Vera Lynn’s voice sang out: “And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”