Maggie and John turned to each other. “Our song?” he whispered in her ear, grinning.
Maggie closed her eyes, swaying in his arms. “Yes.”
“Then we’ll have to play it at our wedding, darling.”
She smiled and pressed her lips to his neck. “We’re almost home,” she said. They kissed.
The door clicked open. “The servants are here,” Elise whispered, “so we must pretend that they missed seeing you come in, and that we’ve been in my room the whole time. Now,” she said in her best nurse voice, “you are all German aristocrats, having a bit of champagne before the opera. John, you will be silent—and if anyone asks, I’ll tell him or her that you’re a Luftwaffe pilot, suffering from shell shock, which has affected your speech.
“When we’re done, we’ll go downstairs and our driver will take us to the opera. There will be tickets waiting for us at the box office.” She looked at all their faces. “Ready?”
“Jawohl,” Ernst replied.
Chapter Nineteen
Together in the neo-Baroque theater of crimson, cream, and gold, they sat in box seats and watched and listened to Wagner’s ethereal overture to Lohengrin, the story of the Swan Knight. Or, at least, tried to watch. The legions of Nazi SS officers in their dress uniforms proved distracting, as did the armed guards stationed at each exit.
Backstage, Clara paced. If she could not be a singer anymore, if she could not be one of the top Nazis, beloved by the Führer, she would be a turncoat, for the British. They would welcome her and all of the secrets she knew. She would still be a diva. She would be a legend. History would laud her.
“They’ll miss me when I’m gone,” she muttered. “Joseph will regret pushing me out. They’ll all see.”
As a child, she’d been caught between two parents: an abusive lawyer father and an overindulgent former ballerina mother. When they divorced—a scandal—she chose, in court, to live with her mother. Little did she know her mother would soon die from syphilis. With her mother dead and her father refusing to take her in, Clara had been sent to her grandmother’s farm in Austria, where she had barely enough to eat. It was only her voice, her golden voice, that lifted her out of her bleak circumstances, and only her voice that led her to fame and fortune.
When she’d been approached by Sektion during the Great War, of course she had accepted. They needed her. The need to be needed, the need for approval, the need to belong—these thirsts drove her. Spying, plus music, was the drug she needed to put her past behind her. But the past, unconfronted, is never really forgotten.
Backstage, because she was the conductor’s wife, her presence was not commented on, even if it didn’t go unnoticed. “May I get you a chair, gnädige Frau?” the stage manager asked.
“Nein,” she replied absently, waving him off, lost in her own thoughts.
Clara looked through the wings at the audience. There, in her usual box seats, was Elise. And the Jew. And the pilot. Clara’s eyes narrowed. Who was that blonde? It could be Clara’s own doppelgänger—tall, slim, and blond. Clara felt faint, as if she had seen a ghost. And was that her gown? Was that … Margareta? Could it be?
And sitting next to Margareta was Elise. Elise knew Margareta? Who else did Elise know? What else was that foolish, stupid daughter of hers involved with? She’d found the two in her study … Maybe Elise was doing more than Frieda had either let on or knew about. Despite herself, she began to feel a wave of grudging respect for her daughter.
She felt for her gun in her handbag. It was nestled there, ready for the last act.
When, finally, the last notes of the opera faded away, and the house erupted in thunderous applause, Elise whispered, “Come with me.” Together, they followed her down the fire escape stairs until they reached a door. Elise opened it. A ramp led to the backstage area. The cast was there in their costumes and makeup, sweating from the exertion under the hot lights, chatting animatedly, fueled by leftover adrenaline.
Elise spotted one of the stage managers, dressed in black from head to toe. “Hallo, Herr Shultz, do you know where my father is?” she asked. He pointed back toward a closed door. “Come,” Elise told the group.
They reached the rehearsal room, filled with musicians. “What are we doing here?” Maggie whispered.
“They’re packing because they’re taking the train to Zürich tonight. You’ll see,” Elise whispered back. “Trust me.”
And Maggie found that she did.
Elise saw her father, in animated discussion with the first violinist. “Excuse me,” she said, putting a hand on Miles’s arm. “May we use your office for a moment? One of my friends has to make a telephone call.” She indicated Maggie, Ernst, and John.