Journey to Munich

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Then what? How did you all manage to escape?”

  “Elaine came to the shop to let us know we’d been betrayed—possibly by a neighbor; you never know who’s watching, and who wants to cover their own back. They all want to curry favor with the Nazis. She’d learned the news through a man she knew, an officer in the SS. She thought we would have time, but Anton tried to save the press and Klaus. It was Klaus who told us to use the old escape route—I’m not sure, but it had been there for years; probably used by smugglers ages ago, I would imagine. So we went in. It was terrifying. There was no air, we were treading all over each other, and it’s a wonder no one heard us. Leon is old and could hardly reach up to the footholds. Then the worst happened—Leon slipped and broke his ankle and wrist. We all managed to escape—except Klaus.”

  “And where is Leon—my father—now?”

  “At a safe house. Someone we know who has a motor car took him, and he’s been moved a couple of times since. It’s best if he’s taken by different people each time, so if anyone’s picked up, they know as little as possible. And it’s hard to move a lame elderly man. Although he seemed robust for his age, the injuries caught up with him, and he became infirm. In fact, he’s quite ill. Now he wants to go home.”

  “I want to see him, and I want to make arrangements to get him out of Munich.” Maisie stood up, as if to underline her intentions with action. “Do you know where Elaine Otterburn is?”

  The men looked at each other as if each thought the other might know. “Probably still living in the same place with the other women, I would have thought,” said Bader. “Elaine is always wherever she needs to be—that’s one thing you can count on.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Maisie.

  “Ah, Elaine—a free spirit to all who think they know her.” There was an edge of sarcasm in Schmidt’s voice. Then his demeanor changed. He stood up, reached for a can of oil and a spanner, and stepped toward the machine again. He turned to Maisie. “Elaine can fly, you know—that should tell you a lot about the kind of woman she is. It takes a lot for anyone to fly an aeroplane, but if you ask me, it takes even more gumption for a woman to do it. She’s a brave girl.” He turned away and began winding the handle on the machine.

  Maisie turned to Bader. “All right. I think I know enough now, and I want to get my father home to England. You must take me to him.”

  Bader and Schmidt exchanged glances again, though neither spoke until Bader reached the doorway to lead Maisie out.

  “I need some words on paper from you, Ulli,” said Schmidt. “There is no Voice of Freedom unless you get to work and give me something to publish. Talk to the others, see what they have.”

  As Bader led Maisie from a tunnel to a flight of stairs, then out onto the street, where he looked in all directions before beckoning her toward another alley that would doubtless lead to another street and another house with a basement, it occurred to her that Anton Schmidt might be in love with Elaine Otterburn. Had they been lovers? It didn’t seem important at that moment—but what if he had been a jealous lover? How might he have felt, if he had tried to tame a free spirit in vain?

  Ulli Bader left Maisie at a street corner where she could board a tram to Marienplatz. Then he was gone. If she’d been asked to lead the way back to the place where the printing press was housed, she would have only had a vague idea, so complex was the route, both above- and underground. In truth, what had felt like long tunnels were probably much shorter; it was as if the changes in level played tricks with the mind, giving the impression that more of the journey was underground. Tomorrow morning they would meet again, at the same place where she boarded the tram. In the meantime, there was still some light left in the day, and Maisie wanted to think.

  She entered the Hofgarten via the Residenz. She craved the peace and quiet offered by a walk in the garden, and there would be just enough time before dusk fell. It might have been faster to walk around, but she did not want to pass the Odeonplatz, where she would be required to give a Nazi salute.

  Maisie found a seat underneath a tree in bud. The Bavarian air was so clear; even within the city, it seemed to bring the promise of finer weather to come. She wondered who had brought Elaine together with Ulli Bader and Anton Schmidt. Perhaps she should not set too much stock in this—Bader had been schooled in England, and Schmidt was British; they were drawn together by a shared experience. She knew from living in Canada, and from her travels, that people away from home seem drawn to others from the same country, as if by magnetic force. As much as people might want to be immersed in life abroad, there was at times a comfort to be found in the familiar, and only too often she would be introduced to someone who would say, “Oh, you must meet so-and-so, she’s British too,” as if by dint of one’s place of birth, you were bound to become lifelong friends. At the time she had often been grateful to hear another accent she recognized, even if the person might lean towards her and say, sotto voce, “They just don’t know how to make a decent cup of tea here, do they?”

  Maisie sighed. She felt at sea with the task she had been given. She yearned for the familiar, wondering if she shouldn’t have just boarded the train for Paris as soon as it was clear that Leon Donat was not in Dachau. But a true daughter would not have done such a thing. If it were Frankie Dobbs, Maisie knew she would have been rattling the prison gates from the moment of his incarceration. And as much as she truly wanted to go home now, she had given her word. She had committed herself to finishing the job, and finish it she would. But it would be good to be in London again. In the sleepless small hours, her thoughts had lingered not only on Leon Donat and how she would get him home to England but on her own life, and what she might do with it.

  A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind. She only hoped she was not pushing the boundaries of fate, and could remain alive to put it into action.

  She rose, and pulled up her collar. It was time to return to the hotel. She knew she should speak to Gilbert Leslie soon—but she would go to the consulate tomorrow, after she had seen Leon Donat. With her plan for the following day made, she stepped out along the path.

  It was as she was walking back toward the Residenz that she stopped, and stepped back into the shadows. On a bench farther along, an SS officer was seated, his eyes closed, as if he were deep in thought. Maisie recognized him; without doubt it was Hans Berger. Had he followed her there? Or was he in the Hofgarten just by chance? Hadn’t he told her how much he enjoyed the peace of the Residenz and gardens?

  Should she approach? No—after all, what could she say? She began to step back, ready to turn around and exit in another direction, when she saw Berger pull a handkerchief from his pocket and draw it across his eyes. Perhaps he was tired. Or a man shouldering a deep and wounding grief.

  As Maisie began to walk away, she realized that the only exit available to her was straight onto the Odeonplatz and the memorial to the martyrs, the men who had died to protect Hitler. Her arms felt leaden as she pressed her hands down into her pockets. She prayed dusk would conceal her deliberate lack of respect.

  CHAPTER 16

  The sound of rain hard against the windowpanes woke Maisie from an unsettled sleep. For a moment she thought she was back in Spain, where the endless spitting of gunfire peppered the night, and bombs and incendiaries dropped from aircraft flying so low, they looked like seabirds descending to snatch prey from calm waters. Her memories snapped back and forth: at the convent, waiting for the wounded to be brought into the makeshift casualty clearing station—and then to Canada, and another aeroplane swooping low over the escarpment, the ack-ack-ack of the aircraft’s gun, and then the long spinning down to earth. Memories streamed over her, and she sat up, images converging in her mind’s eye, the sneaker wave of grief catching her in its riptide pull once again, leaving her washed ashore, bereft, with two deep desires: to sleep forever, or to live life for them both.

  “Oh, James.” She turned her head into her pillow. And even though she continued to qu
estion why she had ever allowed herself to be talked into this assignment, she knew that it was in part an effort to please James, as if he were still alive, as if she could go home and recount everything that had happened, and hear him say, “Oh, Maisie—well done. You’re doing your bit.” As he had done his.

  She dressed, choosing the navy jacket and, this time, not a skirt but woolen trousers with turn-ups. The long coat would do much to disguise the trousers—she had only seen one woman wearing them since she arrived in Munich, but she suspected the ease of movement they offered would be a good idea, especially if more tunnels were involved. She stood in front of the mirror to position and fit the wig. As she pushed and prodded it into place, she saw how much it changed her. For a second she stared at herself. Who am I?

  She lifted her hand and allowed a finger to trace the outline of her face as she watched in the mirror. Other Maisies seemed to be reflected, taking her back into the past before returning her to the present. Maisie, the daughter of a dying mother. Maisie, a girl who keened for hours through the dark night of loss, then steeled herself to become a maid in a grand house, never—she thought—to hold a book in her hands again. But life changed; the girl before her was a student at Girton College. Then war came, and instead of wearing a wig of hair so different from her own, she’d pulled back her hair each day and placed the veil-like cap on the unruly mass, carefully checking the exact position of the white linen points that made her look like a nun. Maisie closed her eyes, as if to push against the images flooding back to her. She’d fought them so many times. She’d almost lost her life when the casualty clearing station was shelled, and then she recovered, choosing to become a nurse in a secure ward for shell-shocked soldiers. But in time she had to move on, into her apprenticeship with Maurice Blanche . . . then her own business, then . . . then James, and marriage, and at last the feeling that she could trust someone with her heart. And all too soon, after the joy, the anticipation of motherhood, she was a widow. In Spain she’d come full circle, a nurse again. She shook her head as if to shake away these thoughts. Picking up a small compact, she began to dab powder on her cheeks, across her nose, and down to her chin, gazing into the mirror as if to see her future. If I am in a circle, then I know what comes next.

  Looking at her reflection, she hoped that, of all the things she was at that moment, she wasn’t a pawn in Huntley’s game. And she remembered something Maurice had said, so long ago. “Never fear going in circles, Maisie. The next time around, you’ll see something you missed before—that’s if your mind is open. And you will be different, and it will be better. Experience, Maisie. Knowledge of yourself. And when you have knowledge, you have wisdom. If your mind is open, and your heart is willing.”

  Maisie met Ulli Bader at the prearranged place. He said nothing to her, gesturing with his hand to remain several paces behind him. He led her to a tram stop, where they boarded the tram—Maisie thought they might be going back toward the Au, alongside the river Isar, but when they stepped onto the pavement, Bader set off along the main street and then detoured into what was little more than an alley. A motor car awaited them. Bader moved with speed; opened the back door and beckoned Maisie to climb aboard, speaking only one word. “Hurry.”

  Maisie was not introduced to the driver of the motor car; she had not expected the formality. She looked out of the window as they made their way along little-used thoroughfares.

  “Don’t look—it’s best you have no idea where you are.”

  “Even when I look, I have no idea where on earth I am, Mr. Bader,” said Maisie. “But I take your point. I’ll forget any landmarks I see.”

  “There are men in Himmler’s Gestapo who could make you remember those landmarks in the time it takes your heart to beat once.” He turned to face forward.

  There was no conversation between the two men—Maisie guessed that Bader was keeping in mind that she had some understanding of the German language, so he was being circumspect.

  Soon city streets gave way to houses with large gardens, and in time the motor car pulled off onto a track running through an area that, while it did not fulfill an image of bucolic Bavarian landscape, seemed more rural. The driver parked the vehicle behind a house on what Maisie imagined was a smallholding. A few goats and some chickens ran around in front; there were a couple of pigs in a pen beyond the house, and a swaybacked mare in a field, with a donkey for company.

  Bader took Maisie into the house, entered through a lean-to with hooks for coats and paper laid out on the floor where wet boots could be left to dry. An old dog, gray at the muzzle, looked up but made no sound. He sniffed at their ankles as they passed and then rested his head, as if his duty for the day were done. A woman working at the sink acknowledged Bader’s entrance with a nod, then turned back to the task of peeling potatoes. Bader opened a door that led to a staircase, pointed up, and beckoned to Maisie to follow him. Neither said a word.

  On the narrow landing, Bader opened the door to a bedroom, where he drew back a curtain to reveal another, narrower door. Maisie was reminded of the cupboard at the back of the tailor’s shop where the press had been housed.

  “It’s not perfect,” said Bader.

  “It’s like an endless game of cat and mouse. Tunnels, curtains, cupboards that become staircases. I feel as if I am caught in a bad dream.”

  “A very bad dream is what it has become, Fräulein Donat.” Bader reached above the door for a key, then turned it in the lock.

  Maisie had prepared herself for this moment, for the time when she would have to make Leon Donat understand that he must accept her as his daughter. She thought of James and how much he would have hated what she was doing in Munich, would have argued against the risk. But why you? Why can’t someone else do it? She had heard it many times before. And she had said those same words back to him. But only once.

  It was clear from her first look at Leon Donat that he was a sick man. He lay on a bed set against the wall in front of her, his head on the pillow, staring out the small window to his right, from which he would have seen nothing more than heavy gray clouds lumbering across a sky so white it seemed to beg for lightning. He began to turn as the door opened, and Maisie saw the droop of his mouth, an eye half closed. She hurried past Bader to his side.

  “Papa, Papa!” She knelt beside the bed and took his hand, then turned to Bader. “Please, Ulli—some privacy.”

  Bader nodded, closing the door as he left.

  Leon Donat lifted his left arm and placed his hand on Maisie’s cheek.

  “Who are you?” He struggled to form the words, but his ability to speak was not as poor as Maisie had at first dreaded.

  She turned toward the only chair in the room, pulling it to her, sat down, and took Donat’s hand. “Mr. Donat, do you understand me—can you hear?”

  Donat nodded. “It’s talking . . .” A thin line of spittle ran from his mouth.

  Maisie took out her handkerchief and wiped Donat’s lips. “I can understand you, Mr. Donat. Now, has your ability to speak improved since . . . since your stroke?”

  Donat nodded.

  “Good—it was a small one, I think. But I must get you to a hospital.”

  “Who are you?” Donat asked again.

  “I cannot tell you my name, but in front of everyone here, you must call me Dina—that’s your name for Edwina, isn’t it?”

  “Dina.” Donat’s eyes filled with tears.

  And as Donat uttered his daughter’s name, Maisie knew that she could not be the one to tell him that Edwina was failing. For now, she would allow him to think her well in England.

  “Mr. Donat, I have been sent from England to bring you home. For that, I had to assume your daughter’s name. The British government negotiated with the Germans to secure your freedom—I cannot give you all the details here and now, but there were stipulations. Edwina coming to Munich to bring you home was one of them, but the government decided not to place her in danger, so they sent me. I’m a little more used to these
situations, you see.”

  “I don’t understand.” Leon began to cough, then added, “But I want so much to go home.”

  “Mr. Donat—let me call you Papa from now on, so we get used to it, and used to each other.” Maisie was speaking close to his ear now, so he could understand what she had to say; she had to keep her voice low so Bader would not hear, if he was standing outside the door. “Papa, can you tell me what happened? Why did you bring money to Ulli Bader?”

  “It was a favor for someone I knew.” He looked into her eyes; his own were purple-rimmed and bloodshot. “You know this, surely you do.” Donat took a deep breath, as if his lungs needed to be filled before he could continue. He coughed, took another breath. “You are aware of these things, if you are working for the government. In any case, I agreed to bring money to Ulli Bader, via Miss Elaine Otterburn. I already knew little Ulli—his father and I had done business together for years. In fact—” He coughed again. “In fact, I knew the boy when he was in short trousers!” His words were slurred, though his thinking was succinct. “His father and mother worried about him, about whether he was wasting his time, as so many of our young seem to be doing these days. They asked me to check on him. I’d suggested I might be able to offer him a job, you know. When I was asked to take the money to Ulli and Elaine, I assumed there had been something between them—goodness knows that Otterburn girl has a reputation. I am glad my Dina is a good woman. I’d only met the Otterburns socially here and there, but it did not seem a strange request, from one parent to the other.”

  “And then you realized what Ulli was up to.” Maisie glanced at the door anxiously. Bader might come back in at any moment.

  “Yes, and I applaud him for it. They are brave young people. Elaine, I think, was just on their coattails—I think she wanted something to get her teeth into. I understand she had been unhappy about something that happened in Canada—probably a lost love. With young women, it’s always a lost love.”