Journey to Munich

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Wie bitte,” she said. I beg your pardon.

  The men in brown uniforms went on their way, and the porter breathed a sigh of relief. Leslie accompanied Maisie into the hotel to ensure there were no problems when she signed the hotel register and that she was seen safely to her room. As he studied other guests going back and forth, leaving or entering the hotel, and the number of black-uniformed men in the vicinity, he seemed agitated.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Leslie?” asked Maisie.

  “Those thugs in the brown shirts on the street—they unnerve me. They don’t care if you’re a tourist from a friendly country or not, they’ll usually knock you down if you don’t give that salute. An American couple ended up needing medical attention last summer. They were minding their own business on a sunny day in the street, and the next thing along comes a column of those henchmen and they start attacking anyone who does not salute. Of course, if you’re a visitor, you don’t know, do you? But here’s the interesting thing about them—they’re all new recruits, bully boys brought in by Hitler’s regime. They had to get uniforms for them pretty quickly, so a batch manufactured for the desert armies was commandeered—and soldiers in the desert wear those brown uniforms, to blend in with all that sand, I suppose! Now the brown-shirted thugs are a law unto themselves. And Adolf Hitler.”

  Maisie looked away and smiled as the young man returned with her key and her passport and gave directions to her room. Another young man was summoned to accompany her and ensure she knew where the well-regarded restaurant was situated. While he waited to one side, Leslie whispered instructions to Maisie.

  “I will be here for you at nine tomorrow morning. It’s not far to walk to the headquarters, so we might as well.” He paused. “Oh, and it’s likely that you’ll have time on your hands for a day or so afterward—I doubt if they’ll have your final papers ready to collect your father until late Wednesday, so you won’t be able to leave until Thursday. If I were you, I would make sure I confirmed my train ticket for Paris as soon as I had the stamped papers for the release. Get out as fast as you can, before they change their minds.”

  “Do they?”

  “The common wisdom is that no one gets out of Dachau—but there have been instances of men being bought out by relatives. In this case, it’s not only the money involved, but the fact that your father has friends in high places. Hitler likes his associations among the British aristocracy, and your father’s connections in the right strata of society have helped enormously. That letter from— Oh, I’d better go now. Your escort is looking a bit hot around the collar.”

  As Leslie turned to leave, he gave one last reminder. “Nine o’clock. Wrap up warm and wear those shoes—they’re best for walking. Good day to you, Miss Donat.”

  Maisie watched as he made his way out, stopping briefly to exchange a salute with the doorman. The young man snapped his heels together in front of her and reached down for her small leather case.

  “Fräulein Donat? Please follow me.” His English was perfect.

  Soon Maisie was in her room overlooking Maximilian Strasse. There were few people on the street. To a person they executed a perfect salute, arm extended, whenever a man in uniform walked past in the opposite direction. Maisie sighed. She stepped back from the window, kicked off her shoes, and lay down on the bed. On the one hand, she didn’t like the idea of having a “bit of time to kill”—but on the other, it gave her an opportunity to see if she could find Elaine Otterburn, the needle in a haystack. And she realized she was glad she had time, though had she not, she would have reported honestly to the Otterburns that she’d been restricted due to a schedule set by the authorities. She could still make her excuses, if she wanted to avoid any responsibility for Elaine. Yet her thoughts turned to the “little man”—a child who was loved, but without the constant attention and affection of the woman most important to him, his mother. If she could reverse the child’s fortunes, Maisie thought, then it was worth a try.

  As she lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling above, she was intrigued—and yes, troubled—by Leslie’s comment that someone “on high” had spoken on behalf of Leon Donat. If all went well, he would be one of very few prisoners released from a Nazi prison camp because he had money and contacts. She had not been informed of that small detail, and she wondered who the mystery person in such an exalted position might be.

  Following an uneventful evening—she had opted to dine alone in her room—Maisie read through her notes twice more and checked her weapon again, heeding Strupper’s instructions to get to know the revolver, to handle it, to become accustomed to its weight in her hand. She laid out her clothing and had a hot bath before going to bed, but sleep eluded her until the early hours.

  Though she had not rested well, the thought of what was to come during the next twenty-four hours diminished feelings of fatigue in the morning. She was served a light breakfast, again in her room, but could only eat a small piece of warm bread. When she made her way down to the hotel entrance, Leslie was already waiting. It was ten minutes to nine, and he looked as if he had been there for a while.

  Before leaving her room, she had lingered with the revolver in her hand, wondering if she should take it with her. No, not this time, she decided. Even if she had cause to use it, there would be too many heavily armed men around her; she would stand no chance at all. And what could possibly go wrong if all she was doing was presenting papers? Huntley had said the worst that could happen would be a last-minute refusal, but Maisie suspected it might be more serious. She could be incarcerated herself. She was already on thin ice. Leon Donat’s great-grandfather had indeed been a Jewish Italian immigrant to London. And of course, her own maternal grandmother was a gypsy—and there had been reports of Nazi brutality toward gypsies.

  Maisie stood to the side of the reception desk for a moment. Before Leslie saw her, she touched her middle, just at the point of the buckle securing the belt on the soft burgundy fabric of her jacket. She wanted to remind herself to be steady, to be strong from the very center of her being. Maurice had taught her, years ago—in those early days when she was green and young, a sapling next to a mature tree—that there was a connection between the physical being, the spirit, and emotions. He taught her to be aware of her bearing, of the way she entered a room, sat down to her work, or reacted to news, good and bad. Strength in the very center of her body would lend power to every word she spoke, and every thought that passed through her mind.

  She straightened her spine, broadened her shoulders, and walked with a precise, clipped step to meet Gilbert Leslie, who seemed an inch or two shorter than he had the previous day.

  “Ah, good morning, Miss Donat. Ready?”

  “As ready as I will ever be,” said Maisie, reminding herself that she was Edwina Donat, daughter of Leon Donat, currently incarcerated in a notorious prison at the behest of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi regime. She imagined how she would feel if her own beloved father were in the same position. At once the strength in her spine ebbed almost—almost—beyond control; then it returned, stronger than before. She was determined to carry out her assignment to the letter.

  Leslie seemed nervous. He gave a running commentary every step of the way, pointing out various landmarks to her as if he were quoting a guidebook to Munich. After they had passed the grand Residenz and were walking on toward Odeonsplatz, he took her elbow. “We’ll go down this little alley, not across the square.”

  Maisie looked around and noticed other pedestrians making the same detour. “What’s in the square, Mr. Leslie?”

  Leslie stopped. “Just there”—he pointed, then quickly lowered his hand—“that’s where the Führer was almost assassinated in the Beer Hall Putsch. Sixteen men in his party were killed, along with four policemen. They are considered martyrs to the Reich. If you go past that square, you are required to stand and salute the party, to honor those killed. I doubt you want to do that—neither do a lot of people. So we take this little path to avoid the square.”

/>   Maisie stepped out along the alley behind Leslie. Why, she wondered, if the Führer was so fêted, did so many people dodge the requirement to salute his party? She was about to ask Leslie when he began speaking, though his voice was so low she had to move closer and lean in toward him to hear.

  “If you’re wondering how he has managed to garner such attention, it’s twofold. One, he is a very, very powerful speaker. Put him on a stage, and it’s as if he can mesmerize everyone—he’s like a cobra, ready to strike.”

  “All right, I can imagine that—I’ve seen such people in—” She was about to say in my work, but caught herself in time. “What is the other reason for his popularity?”

  “Fear. There was an attempt on his life—an explosion. It failed. But he managed to persuade the population that their lives would be at risk if certain powers—restrictions, if you will, and elements of what I would call surveillance—were not enacted. For the most part, the people went along with it. Fear can be used in all sorts of ways to control people, and that’s what he’s done.” They took a few steps in silence.

  “I think that, for the most part, Britain is hoping that if he has enough rope, he will hang himself.” Leslie coughed. “Now I’m getting a bit beyond myself.”

  Maisie rubbed her hands together as she considered Leslie’s commentary while studying the austere buildings along the street. Perhaps it was because it was the stark end of winter, with shafts of low yet bright sunlight slanting between buildings on a very cold day, but nothing seemed welcoming. People rushed along with their heads down. Though she knew this was probably due to a sharp chill in the wind, she thought that despite the beauty of the Bavaria she had seen from the train, the country held an undercurrent of something very uncomfortable. It was fear, she knew, sprinkled like dust across the landscape. What on earth could Elaine Otterburn have gained from being in such a place?

  Leslie seemed to read her thoughts. “Of course you’re not seeing Munich at its best, Fräulein Donat. We have to get you used to the ‘Fräulein’ now—we’re almost there. Munich is a very vibrant city, you know—beer halls, music halls, theaters, that sort of thing. It’s an interesting place to be stationed for a couple of years.”

  “When do you leave for your next posting, do you think?” Maisie asked as they strode toward the building marked by red flags with the distinctive white circle and black swastika.

  “I’m hoping for the United States, actually, perhaps in a year or so. Washington is the plum in the pudding of our line of work, so fingers crossed!”

  Nazi guards watched their approach. Leslie pulled a clutch of papers and an identification card from an inside pocket of his jacket, giving a half smile to the guard who met them. Maisie followed his fluent German as he addressed the man.

  “My papers and identification. I am accompanying Fräulein Donat, who has come to present documents for the release of her father. All is in order—here is the letter of appointment.”

  Maisie handed over the papers she had carried with her, together with her passport. She said nothing, and lowered her head a little. She worried that her height—she was as tall as Leslie and not much shorter than the guard—might cause the guard to be aggressive. She had seen it happen before.

  The guard returned the papers to Leslie and indicated that they were free to enter the building and proceed to the first floor, pointing as if to an office above the door.

  This part of the procedure was supposed to be a formality. All the hard work had been done; this was the rubber-stamping required for Maisie to take possession of Leon Donat. All the same, she could not wait for the next hour to be over.

  Another guard took the papers Leslie handed him, and they were instructed to wait, seated on a hard wooden bench in the cold entrance hall. Leslie’s hands were shaking.

  “Take some deep breaths, Mr. Leslie. And put your hands in your pockets. This is a nerve-racking place because they want to intimidate people. You have every right to be here, representing His Majesty’s government and as a citizen of Great Britain. And I have every right to bring out my father, who should not have been sent to any prison.”

  Leslie shoved his hands into his pockets and was about to respond, when a man in a black uniform, with shining black boots, appeared in front of them.

  “Fräulein Donat?”

  Maisie stood up, giving a half smile to acknowledge the officer. He smiled in return.

  “Come with me.”

  Leslie stood up to follow.

  “Not you. Only Fräulein Donat.”

  Leslie sat down again. Maisie followed the officer up the staircase and along a corridor to a spacious but unembellished office, with a window looking out onto the street.

  When Maisie entered, another officer of the Schutzstaffel was rocking back and forth on a chair behind a broad desk of dark wood. He did not look up, but continued rocking while flipping through sheets of paper until Maisie was standing in front of him. He allowed his chair to rock forward, the legs meeting the floor with an audible thump, and then stood up and held out his hand, inviting Maisie to take the seat opposite him. The officer who had accompanied Maisie pulled out the chair, waiting for her to be seated before taking up a place behind the man who would be conducting the interview, who was now inspecting her papers.

  “Fräulein Donat.”

  “Yes.” Maisie nodded.

  The officer looked at her, then at her passport. He shrugged. “You have no brothers or sisters?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No. And now my mother is dead, there is only my father and myself.”

  “You are aware of why he was arrested?”

  “I have been given details, yes.”

  “And what do you say to that? Your father was accused of proliferating literature disrespectful to the Führer.”

  Maisie chewed her lip. She had gone through all the questions that would be asked. Time and again, at the house in the Cotswolds, she had been subjected to mock interviews designed to mirror what might be put to her in Munich. Almost every scenario had been anticipated, her answers commented upon and edited each time.

  “I found it most hard to believe,” said Maisie. “My father wanted only to represent the academic books and the professors who write for his company.”

  “He wanted to sell British books to German students?”

  “In the fields that my father’s company publishes—mathematics, physics, chemistry, and so on—British students read many German authors. Those scientists respect each other, so the books my father’s company publishes are read by students in many other countries.”

  The officer nodded, as if she had passed a test. “Then why do you think he was involved in publishing subversive literature?”

  Maisie appeared to give thought to the question, looking pained. “My father has always believed that we must be . . . that we must be . . . a support, I suppose you could say, to young people. It is my belief that my father might have been duped. He would never have knowingly supported any political activism. That was never his desire. He wants only to see students rise to the top, wherever they are and whichever country they come from.”

  “Laudable, I am sure.” The man sighed, picked up her passport again, and looked from Maisie to the photograph. His eyes lingered on her, his stare focusing on her eyes, her mouth, her hair, then down to her shoulders. She did not flinch.

  “Your father knows important people,” he said.

  Maisie felt a bead of sweat trickle under the wig. She reached up and brushed her hand across her forehead.

  “My father has crossed paths with many important people—mainly scientists who author the books his company publishes. Through that work he has met others. He has found that people of a certain status are always interested in new discoveries.” She clasped her hands. Surely these matters had all been addressed during the negotiations with the British government. But Huntley had warned her. They will toy with you—and we have to prepare you for that eventuality.

  “In
deed,” said the officer. His English was perfect. “Do you have a religion, Fräulein Donat?”

  Maisie smiled and shook her head. “My father is not a religious man, sir. He is a man of science. My mother liked to go to church at Christmas, Easter, and for christenings and weddings. So no, I do not have a religion. It was never our way.”

  The man nodded and crooked a finger toward the officer who had brought her into his office. There was some muttering between them.

  “The release of your father has been agreed between the Führer and your government. It remains only for me to ask a few questions and to confirm your identity.” He held out the passport and dropped it on the desk before her.

  Maisie reached for the passport and placed it in her bag. She could barely conceal a sigh of relief. “I am anxious to see my father, sir.”

  The man lifted a large metal stamp and brought it down four times, once on each document. The resounding thumps reverberated across the desk.

  “You will have to wait, Fräulein Donat. Present yourself here on—” He flicked a daily calendar on his desk. “Present yourself here the day after tomorrow, on March the tenth. At the same time. Ten o’clock. You will be given papers, and you must go straight to Dachau to take possession of your father. Your consulate must provide transport to Dachau and then to the station, and your departure from Munich will be immediate. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, that is perfectly clear, sir.”

  “And what will you do in our fine city? You have almost two days to enjoy our hospitality.”

  “Mr. Leslie, from the consulate, has told me that I should not miss the Residenz, and I would also like to visit a few museums. However, as you can imagine, I am very anxious to see my father, so it will be hard to concentrate on other things.”

  The man placed his knuckles on the desk, pushed back his chair, and stood up. He was not as old as Maisie had first thought, perhaps in his mid-thirties, his black hair oiled and combed back. As he held out his hand to her, she noticed how unlined it was—the hand of someone who had been coddled, who was not a worker. His nails were manicured, and when their fingers touched, she thought it was almost like touching the hand of another woman. There was something about that softness that gave her pause. She wondered if his heart had hardened in compensation.