Journey to Munich

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie nodded and thanked her again.

  The hotel was indeed close to the American consulate, on Lederer Strasse. Registration had been completed with speed by the American woman—who introduced herself as Dorothy Blake—so Maisie was able to retire to her room without undue delay. It was not a large quarter by any means. The bathroom was on the landing, and the furniture comprised a bed, a chest of drawers, a narrow wardrobe, and a washbasin in the corner. The towels were clean but thin and rough, and had seen better days. Above the washbasin was a mirror with brown flecks and fading at the edge. In it Maisie’s reflection was muted, as if it were a photograph posed for in a studio and then developed in a way that diminished sharp definition, bringing a softness to the subject.

  After she’d opened her case on the floor and unpinned her hat, Maisie lingered in front of the mirror for a few seconds before pulling the wig from her head, scratching her scalp as if to tear every last vestige of her assumed identity from her being. She looked into the mirror again, ran her fingers through her short black hair, and said aloud, “Nice to see you again, Maisie.” And she realized that from the moment she had assumed the identity of Edwina Donat, it was as if her body had been removed from her spirit, and now the two were beginning to become joined once more.

  She washed her face, running wet fingers through her hair again, then dressed in her nightclothes and climbed into bed, under crisp, clean white cotton sheets, a blanket, and eiderdown. She had pulled back the curtains before getting into bed, and now she stared out into the clear night sky. Tomorrow she would make arrangements for her journey home to England. Once there, she knew exactly what she must do.

  The morning brought a cold snap, yet the sunshine was bright and the streets were busy as Maisie walked toward the nearest Reisebüro, a sign reading “Deutsche Lufthansa” bold in the window. She made her reservation with ease for that same afternoon and was assured that, upon her arrival in Rome, she’d find a room reserved for her at the Hotel d’Inghilterra, a most appropriate place for an Englishwoman to stay. Maisie returned to her room and made sure that her case was packed and ready for her to leave at noon.

  The light was bright enough to warrant wearing dark glasses without attracting undue attention as she walked the streets she had come to know in Munich. She did not tempt fate by returning to stroll past the Nazi headquarters, making her way instead to the Hofgarten. She looked around as she went, wondering how it was that a day out could be enjoyed in such a serene place, when there were those who planned terror just a few streets away. Approaching steps and a low voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Don’t tell me you were thinking of leaving without saying good-bye.”

  Maisie turned. “Mr. Scott.” She smiled and slowed, allowing him to walk in step. “I wasn’t trying to run out on you—but you’re a busy man. I didn’t want to interrupt you. I must thank you again for your help and your hospitality. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it—you came along at just the right time yesterday.”

  “Turning up again like a bad penny, that’s what my ex-wife always said.”

  “Well, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I’m very grateful to you. I might still be walking along a country road looking for Munich.”

  There was a prolonged silence before Scott spoke again.

  “Tell me you’re really leaving soon, Fräulein D, and this isn’t another ruse of yours. You shouldn’t remain in Munich.”

  “You can call me Maisie now. And yes, I really am departing in just three hours, on the Deutsche Lufthansa flight to Rome. I’ll stay there for a few days and then return home. Even if it wouldn’t be a good idea for copper-haired Edwina Donat to visit a country loyal to Herr Hitler, I thought Mrs. Compton could get away with it for a little sojourn.”

  “You’ve done your bit, Maisie.”

  “Have I?”

  Scott nodded. “Leon Donat is now back in—what do you call it? Blighty? And Miss Otterburn is at this very moment in Paris. Enjoying herself, it has to be said. However, I have it on authority that she will not be staying long.”

  “I won’t ask how you know that.”

  Scott seemed to brush off the comment. “Need a ride to the airport?”

  “At this stage in the proceedings, I won’t turn you down.”

  “Let’s grab a bite to eat before you leave, then.”

  “All right—as long as it’s on me, Mr. Scott.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Later, Mark Scott shook Maisie’s hand while the motor car idled against the curb at the Munich airport.

  “Thank you once again for your help, Mr. Scott.”

  “I hope we meet again, your ladyship.”

  “Perhaps we will.” She looked up at the sky as two Luftwaffe Messerschmitt aircraft flew overhead. “It’s going to get far worse, I know.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Maisie nodded. “Take care, Mark.”

  “Is that all I get for my trouble? A handshake?”

  She smiled, stood on tiptoe, and kissed Scott on the cheek.

  “Well, that shows promise, Fräulein D. Maybe I’ll look you up when I’m in London.”

  Maisie smiled. “Good-bye, Mr. Scott.” She picked up her suitcase and turned to walk into the airport building.

  “One more thing, Maisie,” Scott called after her.

  She looked back toward him. “Yes?”

  “Happy landings.”

  She felt herself stand taller as she continued toward the airport building.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Well, I must say, it’s nice for some—getting a little holiday in before gracing us with your presence, Maisie.” MacFarlane was waiting at the bottom of the aircraft steps at Croydon Aerodrome. “They tell me Rome is very pleasant at this time of year, if you’ve the time and the money, and you seem to have enjoyed a few diversions on the way home.”

  “If you’re going to comment on my travel plans, I hope you’ve brought a motor car to take me into London and a taxi for yourself.”

  “Got a destination in mind, your ladyship?”

  “Oh, cut it out, MacFarlane!” Maisie smiled. “I’d like to go to Holland Park—Mrs. Partridge’s home, if that’s all right with you. You know very well where it is.”

  As the motor car threaded its way from Surrey into London, Robert MacFarlane reported on Leon Donat. “He’s going to be in hospital for another week or so, and then to his house in the country, where he’ll have a nurse to keep an eye on him, and a couple of men posted for reasons of security. The good news is that he’s all right upstairs.” MacFarlane pointed to his forehead. “And he’s already at his drawing board, even though he’s in hospital—had it brought in, he did. I can’t say more than that, but the man has proved to be worth his weight in gold. Or at least a good eighteen-year-old malt whiskey.”

  “I’m glad.” She paused and shook her head. “I thought I would never be able to get him out.”

  “I know, lass—but you did a fine job.”

  Maisie shrugged. “I made mistakes.”

  “We all make mistakes, Maisie. We just hope no one dies.”

  “Ah, and there’s the thing. People have died and will die.” She paused, shaking her head. “I—I had to make a quick decision, and I believe I caused someone to endure a tortured death in Dachau.”

  “No, Maisie—only a few have found their way out of that place. I would lay money on the fact that the man would have died anyway. You did what you had to do, and you did your best.” He looked out of the window, and they rode on in silence. MacFarlane spoke only when they arrived in Holland Park. “Here we are. That friend of yours will be on the threshold pushing the housekeeper out of the way any minute now.”

  Maisie laughed. “She probably will.”

  “Couple of small things, lass. A motor car will be here tomorrow morning to pick you up at ten—debriefing with Huntley and all that sort of thing. You know the form.”

  She nodd
ed, and as the driver opened the passenger door for her to alight, MacFarlane spoke again.

  “And before you toddle off, I think you’ve forgotten something, lass.”

  Maisie looked back. “Oh, yes.” She reached into her bag and brought out the revolver. “It’s clean as a whistle, and I’ve kept it safe for you.” She handed it to MacFarlane.

  He inspected the weapon. “You never used it.”

  “Never had to,” said Maisie.

  “Or didn’t want to,” said MacFarlane.

  “I scared an American with it.”

  “I know,” said MacFarlane. “News travels fast among friends.”

  “Maisie! Maisie! Is that you?” a woman called out from the open door of the mansion.

  “You’d better get going and put your pal out of her misery. See you tomorrow, Maisie.”

  Maisie nodded, climbed out of the motor car, allowed the driver to take her case to the top of the steps, and ran up toward Priscilla.

  “My, you’re glad to be home!” said Priscilla as Maisie wrapped her arms around her friend. “I thought you were going to call me from Paris.”

  “I went to Rome instead.” She turned and waved to MacFarlane as the motor car drew away, then brought her attention back to Priscilla. “Come on, let’s have a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  She knew her stories of Rome would be a fiction, for she had walked the streets in a daze, trying to banish images of men clad in brown uniforms on the streets of Munich, of a dark and terrifying prison, and of circumstances that seemed to pave the way for horror to rise up and envelop a humbled humanity. She was bound by a promise of secrecy to her country, so she would never discuss her work or what had come to pass during her absence. And when she’d looked at Priscilla, smiling, reaching out to embrace her, she knew she would never tell the mother of sons what she knew to be true of the future.

  Maisie telephoned early the following morning to refuse the offer of a motor car to take her to Huntley’s office in Whitehall, preferring to travel on the Underground, and then by bus. She wanted to immerse herself in the feeling of being in her own country again, in a city she loved and knew like the back of her hand. She hadn’t been away long, in the grand scheme of things, but she felt as if her absence had dragged on for months. She experienced a strange disconnect in the fabric of time as she approached her destination. Looking back, it seemed as if she had been in Munich a long time ago.

  Once in Brian Huntley’s office, she again chose the seat with a view of the Cenotaph. Huntley and MacFarlane were present for the debriefing, which would last as long as it took to answer a series of questions, to describe everything she had seen during the visit to Dachau, Nazi headquarters, and other places the assignment took her. Photographs were passed back and forth, individuals identified where she could offer a name, until at last Huntley leaned back in his chair.

  “I think Robbie has told you we’re very happy with Mr. Donat’s progress, both in terms of his health and the work he is willing to undertake for us.” Huntley cleared his throat and reached for a glass of water before continuing. “There are, of course, problems with manual dexterity and fatigue—he is, after all, not a young man, and has been through a traumatic time—but we have a draughtsman from the Royal Engineers earmarked to work with him, which will be an enormous help. The situation is extremely promising.” He looked directly at Maisie. “Everything you had to do to ensure the safe return of Mr. Donat to Britain was worth it—everything. Even in the early stages of debriefing, you and Mr. Donat have been able to provide us with a wealth of knowledge regarding what is happening in Munich—which of course reflects events in the rest of Germany.”

  “Thank you,” said Maisie. “Am I free to leave?”

  “What will you do now, Maisie?” asked Robbie MacFarlane.

  “I have several things on my list. Now we’re coming into summer, I want to spend time with my father. And I want to see more of Chelstone, and my home there. To be honest, since my husband’s death, I have avoided my in-laws to some extent, and I must put that right. Then we’ll see.”

  Huntley and MacFarlane exchanged glances.

  “No, gentlemen,” said Maisie. “I can tell you now that I will not be accepting any assignments in the near future, or even the distant future, though I do have what you could call plans of a professional nature.”

  “We might at some juncture ask you to reconsider,” said Huntley.

  Maisie smiled as she stood up and reached out to shake hands with each man in turn.

  “Thank you for your service, Maisie,” said Huntley. “Maurice would have been proud of you.”

  “I forgot to ask,” said Maisie. “Do you have news of Mr. Leslie? I should take all responsibility for his return to London—I felt he should accompany Mr. Donat on the aeroplane.”

  Huntley smiled. “Yes, so he said. Mr. Leslie will remain in London for a month, and then he is taking up a position in Washington. We feel his experience will serve him well in time—and of course the interests of His Majesty’s government.”

  Maisie smiled. “Good. I’m glad.”

  “I’ll see you out, lass,” said MacFarlane.

  The door closed behind MacFarlane and Maisie as they stepped into the corridor. He led the way along the maze of hallways and down stairs that led to the street.

  “Doing anything interesting today? You should go out with your friend and treat yourself—you deserve it, lass.”

  “Funny you should say that—treating myself is exactly what’s on my list.”

  MacFarlane laughed. “And what’s the treat, if I may ask?”

  “A new motor car.” Maisie pulled a brochure from her bag and passed it to MacFarlane. “My friend thought it would suit me well.”

  “Oh, take that away. You’ll have me green with envy.”

  Maisie pulled back the brochure and waved as she stepped out onto the pavement.

  “Don’t be a stranger, Maisie.”

  “Oh, I intend to be just that. Bye, Robbie!” She waved and walked back along Whitehall, looking back once to see Robbie MacFarlane lift his hand to wave before returning to the offices of Brian Huntley’s section within the Secret Service.

  It was as she walked along that she saw a woman she recognized coming toward her. She knew better than to acknowledge Francesca Thomas, but as they drew close, the woman seemed to step in her direction. She did not stop, but as she passed, Maisie saw her almost imperceptible nod as she whispered the words “Good work,” and continued on her way.

  EPILOGUE

  Maisie immersed herself in finding a new London flat, and spending time at Chelstone Manor. At first she found it troubling to stay for even one night at the Dower House—and even more difficult to be in the company of her in-laws, who were still mourning the loss of their only son. And when they learned of James’ death, they had been forced to relive the grief endured when their daughter died in childhood.

  It was Brenda, Maisie’s stepmother, who galvanized her, making it clear that there was something she must do.

  “My suggestion, if you don’t mind my saying so . . .” said Brenda, pouring another cup of tea while they were seated at the kitchen table in the Dower House. “My suggestion is that it’s high time you did your bit to help Lord Julian and Lady Rowan out of the pit of despair they’re in. Look at them—they go about their lives in a terrible gray cloud, and who can blame them? We’ve all lost, Maisie—but we can all help each other, when it comes down to it.” She put her hand up as if to stem any comment. “I know this isn’t easy for anyone—nothing worth doing is ever easy, and it’s certainly not easy for you—but I worked for Mr. Blanche for a good number of years, and some of his understanding of life, God bless him, rubbed off on me. Don’t just go and visit them, Maisie. Every time you do that, it’s like a painful duty, and you do nothing to help each other. No, you’ve got do something to take them out of themselves.”

  Maisie placed her hand on Brenda’s. “You’re right, Bre
nda—I’ll come up with an idea. But there are other things I want to do too, and I must get on with them.”

  Maisie’s stepmother nodded. “Good—you can’t just wait, drifting along until something turns up. It’s nice to see you having a plan or two.”

  By July, Maisie was halfway through executing those plans, starting with the purchase of a new motor car, the one advertised in the brochure she had handed to MacFarlane—an Alvis 12/70 drophead coupe. It was, she knew, an indulgence, but she had fallen under the influence of Priscilla, who gave her the final nudge, almost tearing the checkbook from her handbag and writing the check herself as they stood in the showroom.

  “It’s not as if you’ll be able to drive a motor like that when you’re in your dotage, Maisie. Might as well enjoy it while you can—and at least you’ll be able to fit me and the boys in there!”

  As they were leaving the showroom where the transaction had taken place, the manager took pains to tell Maisie that although there was a new model coming out in just a few months, she would be assured of the very best in automobile engineering. He added, in a low voice, “We’re very proud, you know. I probably shouldn’t say anything, but our engineers are working on designs for the army even as we speak—armored cars, that sort of thing, and we’re also designing aero engines. That should tell you something about the quality of your new motor!”

  Now the shining Alvis was parked outside a flat comprising two bedrooms, a drawing room with French doors leading to a walled garden, a dining room, study, kitchen, and maid’s scullery. Maisie had not purchased the flat, but had instructed her solicitor, Mr. Klein, to lease it with an option to buy after one year. She wanted to see how it felt to be in a flat just one hundred yards from the mansion where Priscilla and Douglas Partridge lived with their three sons. It might be a delightful choice, with the boys visiting to see Tante Maisie, and more time with Priscilla—but the latter could also prove to be somewhat overbearing. Maisie smiled when she pictured her friend tripping along the street toward her door, carrying a bottle of gin and two glasses.