“I’m so sorry,” Elise repeated to Herr Paulus, thinking of the little blond girl with the teddy bear who’d been on the gray bus. Hadamar? Why on earth had Gretel been sent to Hadamar? Elise gave her condolences to Gretel’s mother as well and left, taking the S-Bahn to Charité. Something was wrong.
And she was determined to look at Gretel’s files.
Despite the war, football continued in Britain.
Under a gunpowder-gray sky, Chelsea, in royal blue uniforms, took the grassy green field, representing West London. They were facing off against Sunderland, in red, white, and black.
Peter Frain, head of MI-5, might have looked as though he’d be more at home at the ballet or opera, but he was a lifelong Chelsea fan. The crowd, mostly Londoners, was busy booing Sunderland star footballer Horatio “Raich” Carter, who’d joined the Sunderland Fire Service. Although most of the prominent professional players left in the leagues had already volunteered for or been drafted to the armed forces, the fire service was a reserved occupation, and some thought it was a tactic to avoid military service. As a result, Carter was often jeered by the opposing team’s fans.
Far, far up in the stands, well away from the crowd, Frain and his younger protégé, Hugh Thompson, booed Carter along with the crowd. As the game commenced, Frain lit a cigarette. “Did you see Maggie Hope before she left?” he asked, squinting.
“Briefly,” Hugh replied. “She’d just returned from training. And she was assigned immediately.”
Frain smoked impassively, until one of the Chelsea midfielders lost control of the ball, allowing one of the Sunderland players to move it toward Chelsea’s goal. “Damn it! Come on, boys!”
Hugh had worked with Frain for several years, ever since Winston Churchill had appointed Frain to the post, and had never seen him in any context that was not professional. He was somewhat amused by his boss’s demeanor at the game.
“You and she did well with the Windsor situation,” Frain remarked.
“Thank you, sir,” Hugh replied. He was proud of his work with Maggie at Windsor Castle. They had indeed worked well together—saving the Princess Elizabeth from being kidnapped by Nazis and carried off to Germany. And the experience had made them grow closer.
But that had been months ago. He’d been officially promoted, but still—nothing really had changed. He was itching for another big assignment. And more work to help him keep his mind off things. When he and Maggie had worked the Windsor case, they’d discovered that Maggie’s mother had been a German Sektion agent, one who’d killed Hugh’s father, an MI-5 operative, among others. Hugh didn’t hold what he’d learned against Maggie; after all, she’d never known her mother. Still, he was having a hard time grappling with the truth about his father’s murder, battling insomnia and lack of appetite.
“You know Robertson.”
“Of course.” Lieutenant Colonel T. A. Robertson was the MI-5 agent in charge of finding and turning over German spies captured in Britain.
“Robertson works with a chap named John Cecil Masterman, who’s the chairman of the Twenty Committee. Do you know about the Twenty Committee?”
“No, sir. At least, only rumors.”
“The Twenty Committee is known by the Roman numerals XX—Operation Double Cross, you see.” Frain rolled his eyes. “Masterman thinks he’s quite clever. It’s an anti-espionage operation. Nazi agents in Britain who are captured by Robertson are used to broadcast disinformation to their Nazi controllers. I want you to meet with him.”
“Sir?”
“Tomorrow. Eight A.M., at Tower Bridge.”
Hugh felt a prickle of excitement on the back of his neck. He’d been so depressed for so long. But the Twenty Committee was real, and he’d be part of it. “Meet with John Cecil Masterman tomorrow. I understand, sir.” He beamed.
“Wipe that idiotic grin off your face,” Frain muttered, before turning his attention back to the game. “Oh, Chelsea, you’re breaking my heart,” he yelled. “Get the damned ball!”
It was late morning and Patient No. 1564, also known as Herr Mystery, opened his eyes for the first time since his latest surgery.
He took in his surroundings: the whitewashed ceilings, the gray walls, the glossy wainscoting. He looked up and down lines of narrow beds inhabited by wounded men. Some were sleeping; some were conversing quietly. A few moaned in pain. The air was pungent with the scents of rubbing alcohol and bleach. High windows admitted shafts of yellow sunlight.
Still groggy from pain medication, he didn’t remember where he was—and then, all at once, he did. Terror twisted at his guts. He tried to move and pain washed over him. A groan escaped from his parched lips; he didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.
Flight Lieutenant Eggers turned over in his bed. “Steady there,” he said to the man. “You’ve had a rough time of it.” He looked around and spied Elise passing by in the hallway. “Nurse!”
Elise, still in her black dress from the memorial service, looked in. “Yes?”
“Oh, it is you—almost didn’t recognize you in civilian clothing.”
Elise wanted nothing more than to get to Gretel’s files, but she was nothing if not professional. “Yes, Lieutenant Eggers?”
Eggers pointed to the man in the bed next to his. “Our ‘Herr Mystery’—he’s awake!”
Elise walked quickly to Patient No. 1564, heels tapping on the floor. At his bedside, she checked the size of his pupils and how they reacted to light. “Hello,” she said in soothing tones. “You’re in Berlin, at Charité Mitte Hospital. You were in a plane crash and sustained a number of internal injuries. You’ve had two surgeries to repair them.” Nothing. Just a blank, almost panicked look.
She took his temperature; it was normal. Whatever infection he’d had, he’d fought it off. “Can you tell me your name?” she asked.
His eyes darted around, as though looking for the nearest escape.
“I’ll let the doctors know you’re awake now,” she said, tucking the blanket around him. “They’ll be so pleased. We all are.”
The man blinked, his eyes struggling to focus on Elise’s.
“Don’t let this one get you in any trouble.” Elise indicated Eggers with her thumb. “And I’ll be right back with the doctor.” She patted his shoulder. “Hold tight.”
His hand grabbed for hers, gripping it as his eyes searched hers. It was as if he recognized her. The two locked eyes for a long moment.
“It looks like he knows you!” Eggers was watching avidly. “Do you know him?”
Elise laughed, breaking the tension. “No. Maybe. At any rate, I’ll be back.”
At the nurses’ station, Elise called Dr. Brandt, to tell him that Patient No. 1564 was awake and alert, then hung up the receiver and made a few notes in the chart.
Nurse Flint, sitting next to her, looked up. “Can he talk?”
“No,” said Elise. “At least, not yet. But his temperature’s normal and he seems aware of his surroundings, if a little disoriented.”
Elise finished her notes and then put the chart back in a pile. She turned to Nurse Flint. “By the way, whatever happened to Gretel Paulus?” she asked casually. “I thought she was going to be released.”
Nurse Flint looked heavenward. “I can’t keep track of them all the way you can,” she said, organizing the doctors’ telephone message slips.
“Do you mind if I check her file?”
“You know that’s not allowed.”
“She was such a sweet girl. I just need to know what happened,” Elise said, with her most beguiling smile.
“Neugier ist der Katze Tod.” Curiosity killed the cat.
“Please?” Elise wheedled. “Na Bittchen?”
“The keys are in the top right-hand drawer.” Nurse Flint shrugged. “But I didn’t tell you that.”
Elise grinned. “Tell me what?”
The record keeping in all German hospitals was excellent and Charité’s was no exception. And that was why there were files upon files
upon files, all in perfect order. It wasn’t hard for Elise to find the proper key and pull out the red file on Gretel Paulus.
She noted the treatments for chronic ear infections, lengths of hospital stays, medications prescribed. Nothing out of the ordinary. At the end of the file was the form Dr. Brandt had marked with a red X. Behind this form was a copy of a letter sent to Gretel’s parents.
Dear Herr and Frau Paulus,
We are writing to inform you that Gretel Paulus has been transferred to the Hadamar Institute, for assessment and possible additional treatment in a Special Section for Children.
We will keep you informed of her progress.
Heil Hitler!
Nurse Aloïsa Herrmann
Charité Campus Mitte
How strange, Elise thought. How very, very strange.
To the best of her knowledge, no one named Aloïsa Herrmann worked as a nurse at Charité.
Elise returned the key to the drawer. “What time is the next trip to Hadamar?” she asked Nurse Flint.
The woman didn’t look up from her paperwork. “There’s a bus leaving today, at five o’clock.”
The buses used to transport the children from Charité to the Hadamar Institute were dark gray, with white painted-over windows, like milky blind eyes. At five o’clock that evening, when the bus was ready to pull away from Charité, Elise—who’d now changed into her nurse’s uniform—slipped onto it.
“Are you working this shift now?” one of the other nurses asked. “Do you have your papers?”
“In my bag,” Elise lied, thinking quickly. From the back of the bus, a boy began to wail.
“I’m Brigitta Graff,” the young woman told her. “We can deal with that later; for now, just help me.” Wafting through the bus was the unmistakable odor of urine. Several other children began to cry.
“What can I do to help?” Elise asked.
Together, they looked at the children in their seats, about fifteen in all. Some were drooling, some were moaning, some were waving their limbs spastically. There were children with Down syndrome, neurological diseases, and malformations of all kinds. Some sat quietly and appeared as any other child, but Elise recognized them—they were blind, deaf, or epileptic. And some were mischlinge—mixed Jewish and Aryan, but classified as Jewish according to the Nuremberg Laws of 1935.
Elise began gathering up damp cloths and fresh clothes for the wailing boy, who’d wet himself and was sobbing. She felt a stab of irritation at Brigitta, who seemed slow to help.
“I’d say just let it go,” said Brigitta to Elise, “but it’s a long drive to Hadamar.”
“ ‘Let it go’? Why on earth would you ever do that?”
“As soon as they get there, they’ll be taking a shower.”
Still, Elise felt that was no reason for the boy to have to sit in soiled clothes. She made her way to the back of the bus. The wailing child was about four, with sandy hair and freckles across his nose. Elise recognized him from Charité. He was deaf.
She tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, and he looked up at her. “It’s all right, Friedrich,” she said, enunciating her words carefully so that he could read her lips. “It could happen to anyone.” She smiled, a reassuring smile. “Look, we have clean clothes for you to wear.”
She helped him change out of his wet trousers and underthings and into hospital-issued pajama bottoms. “Thank you,” he said in a thick, hard-to-understand voice—the voice of one who had never actually heard language. Elise rolled up the wet clothes and tucked them into a bag. Then she wiped her hands on a damp cloth.
“You’re welcome, Liebling,” she replied, ruffling his fair hair.
Brigitta remained silent.
The bus traveled southwest, from Berlin to the Hadamar Psychiatric Institute, located in Hadamar, a small town in the Limburg-Weilburg district in Hesse, between the cities of Cologne and Frankfurt. The longer they drove, the more uneasy Elise grew.
Halfway into the journey, Brigitta began distributing small cups of liquid medicine. “What is this?” Elise asked, as she was given some to pass out.
“Just a little something to keep them calm,” Brigitta answered.
Elise gave one to Friedrich, and he rewarded her with a huge grin. When they were done distributing the medicine, Elise took her seat at the front of the bus and tried to look out the window. There was a small crack in the white paint, where she could see through to the darkening sky. She had the disconcerting realization that while they couldn’t see out, no one could see in. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. No one had seen her leave; no one could see her now.
Finally, at almost midnight, they reached Hadamar and pulled up the drive to the institute. Out the driver’s window, Elise could see a series of redbrick buildings. They drove past the main entrance and went to what seemed to be a garage for the buses.
“All right then, stand up, everyone!” Brigitta called, clapping her hands. The children, groggy from their medicine and tired from the late hour, rose to their feet.
Brigitta and Elise, along with some orderlies from the institute, guided the children from the bus garage through what Brigitta called “the sluice”—a narrow, fenced-in path—to a large building. They went inside what looked like a gymnasium locker room in the basement. All of the windows were sealed.
“You’re all going to take showers now,” Brigitta called to the group. “Please find a locker. You will leave your clothes there. Remember the number—you’ll need it to get dressed again. Any jewelry and valuables should be handed over to one of the doctors for safekeeping.”
Friedrich looked at Elise, and she pointed to the other children, then pointed back at him. He smiled and followed the lead of the others.
When the children were naked, they were walked past a long table for registration and a superficial inspection by a doctor in a white lab coat and swastika armband. Each had to open his mouth for inspection. Those with gold crowns were marked with black crosses on their backs. Each child was then photographed, a startled second of flash.
Afterward, they were given bars of soap as they entered the white-tiled shower room. The door closed behind them with a loud bang. The sound startled Elise, and she turned to see one of the SS doctors dead-bolt it closed and twist the lock.
“Where are the towels?” Elise asked. “Where are the hospital gowns?”
“No need.” Brigitta’s expression was impassive.
Elise didn’t understand. “No need?” She walked to the door and slid the peephole cover open. She leaned forward and peered in. Then she pulled her eye away as though it had been burned. “My God,” she whispered. “The children—” She shook her head, unable to process what she had just seen. Brigitta made her way to Elise’s side as she began to pound on the door and try to unlock it. “Friedrich …” Then, louder this time, to Brigitta, “They’re dying in there!”
“I know.” Brigitta lit a cigarette. “Want one?”
In a daze, Elise shook her head.
Brigitta exhaled thick smoke. Then, “Look, if you’re on the bus, you knew what you were getting into. Although it was hard for me the first time, too.”
Elise again reached for the dead bolt, and Brigitta pulled her hand away. A cluster of the SS doctors looked over. “Is there a problem?” one asked.
“Nein,” Brigitta called. “She’s new. It’s her first time.”
“A Jungfrau!” one said, and they all laughed. A virgin.
“What—what do you—we—tell their parents?” Elise demanded. Then, looking at the door, “The bodies …”
“Oh, there’s one letter describing an illness—usually pneumonia. Or appendicitis. And the bodies are cremated, of course. Then the death certificate comes with a nice urn.”
Elise turned away in a sickened daze. Hadamar. Death. Urns. Suddenly it was clear what had happened to Gretel.
“It gets better, after a while.” Brigitta dropped her cigarette butt and ground it under her shoe. “It’s the bes
t thing we can do for these unfortunates. In the long run, it’s better for them—more humane. A mercy death. And the pay is more than we make for our regular shifts.” She put one hand to Elise’s shoulder. “Look, do you want to get a cup of coffee in the lounge while we wait?”
“No!” Elise shrugged Brigitta’s hand away, as if it burned.
“You’re new—you’ll get used to it.” Brigitta spoke in gentler tones. “We all have. It’s a kindness, really. You have to think of it like that.” She turned and walked away.
Elise ran—as fast as she could, as long as her legs would hold up—to the grassy lawn. It was dark, and she ran blindly, not caring. When finally she fell, she vomited until she was unable to breathe, unable to see through her tears. Oh, God, my God, she prayed. Oh, God, help me. Help us all.
When it was time, Elise climbed back on the bus, feeling hollow and numb. Without the children, the bus seemed eerily empty and deafeningly quiet. Brigitta sat down next to her. “Remember—they’re ‘life unworthy of life.’ ‘Useless eaters.’ They take places in hospitals needed for wounded soldiers. The best young men die in war, and then the Volk lose the best available genes. If we don’t step in and do something, their genes will take over. The government must intervene, to save Germany.”
“And what about the fifth commandment?” Elise asked, looking at the painted window, unable to see. “ ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
Brigitta’s brow furrowed. “That’s no commandment of God’s—just a Jewish lie, meant to keep us weak. We don’t need to follow it anymore. Besides, it’s not killing, it’s euthanasia. Kinder-Euthanasie. Operation Compassionate Death.”
“The doctors, the orderlies,” Elise said. “They’re all volunteers?”
“Yes.”
“And what would happen if they wanted to stop?”
“They’d be sent to the Eastern Front, probably. Where the commander in charge of the unit would assign them to a suicide squad.” She put her hand on Elise’s arm. “If you’re smart, you’ll keep your mouth shut. As you know, this is a top-secret program. No reveals will be tolerated.” Then, “I know, it’s difficult to accept at first, but you must get past this. Complaining is only going to bring you trouble from above.”
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