His Majesty's Hope
Page 12
She opened the dressing on his wound. “Ah, that’s healing nicely,” she soothed as she removed the gauze and taped on fresh. “You’ll begin to feel like your old self in no time.” As she said the words, she watched his eyes, his pupils. He understood her; she was certain of it. She could tell by his reactions, even though he pretended to ignore her. Even though he looked afraid.
She lifted his head and plumped his pillow. “There now,” she said, settling him back down. “I’ll ask the doctor when we can have you sit up. Once you can do that, we can get you into a chair and I’ll push you outside. Fresh air and sunshine—won’t that be nice? Certainly nicer than in here.”
Herr Mystery reached out and put his hand on her forearm. He looked into her eyes. Elise could see his gratitude.
“You’re welcome.” She patted his hand. “I’ll be back to take your vitals again in a few hours.”
After work, Elise went straight to visit Father Licht in his office at St. Hedwig’s.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t get the files. I was so close. I was actually making the copies—and then I was caught.” She shuddered at the memory.
“I don’t want you to put yourself in danger,” Father Licht said.
“Well, I’m the one who has to see that bus leave, filled with children, every day,” Elise countered, crossing herself, “knowing full well where it’s going and what’s going to happen.”
Father Licht nodded grimly. “But if you suspect they’re on to you … I know your mother is quite high up in the party, but even she might not be able to help you …”
“My mother has nothing to do with this,” Elise said. “I’m the one who has to live with my knowledge. I’m the one who chooses to do something. I believe it’s what God would want.”
“Then, may God be with you, my child.” He rose and put on his jacket. “And now I’m afraid I must leave.”
“Where are you going?” Elise asked.
He smiled. “Bible study group.”
Father Licht’s weekly Bible study was held at the home of the widow Hannah von Solf.
Secretly, however, it comprised a Berlin-based Nazi resistance circle. They came from all walks of life: barons and shopkeepers, Catholic priests and Lutheran pastors and Communist atheists, factory owners and trade unionists. The disparate men were united by their hatred of Nazism and their desire to end Hitler’s regime. Their membership, which had begun with only a few in 1936, had grown to more than twenty. And they all knew that if they were ever discovered, they would be murdered by the Gestapo—no questions asked.
Father Licht sat down next to Gottlieb Lehrer in Frau von Solf’s salon. The furniture and décor were art deco, all angles and symmetry. Most of the men were substantial, and it looked as if the delicate chairs they sat on would give way at any moment.
There were twelve members present. Frau von Solf motioned for a young maid to put down a tray of Pfannkuchen, dusted with powdered sugar. “I’ll pour the tea, Helga,” the Frau von Solf said to the maid. “You may go.”
After she had served the caraway tea and the men had helped themselves to pastry, she called the meeting to order. “Herr Lehrer,” she said to Gottlieb, “would you please begin?”
Gottlieb looked at the pale faces surrounding him. “I am pleased to say that our friend from Britain arrived safely.”
There was a round of applause.
“And our radio operator now has the crystals he needs.”
“Excellent,” Frau von Solf said, clapping her ring-laden hands together.
“However, we still have to plant the bug in Frau Hess’s study.”
“Isn’t her Fire and Ice Ball tomorrow night?” asked Frau von Solf.
“Yes,” Gottlieb answered. “And I have concerns. She’s inexperienced—”
“She?” said Herr Zunder, a Lutheran minister at the Berliner Dom. “A woman?”
“That was my reaction, too,” Gottlieb replied.
“A woman,” Frau von Solf said drily. “My word.”
The men didn’t pick up on her sarcasm.
“According to our plan,” continued Gottlieb, “she’ll plant a bug in the study at Frau Hess’s villa, then return to Britain the following night. Although, as I’ve said, I have concerns. She’s done one or two minor things in Britain—but this is her first foreign mission. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be there to make sure the microphone is set.”
“I will pray for her,” Licht said. “And you, too—that your mission is successful.”
“I will pray as well,” said Herr Zunder.
Frau von Solf wiped powdered sugar off her lip with a linen napkin. “And Father Licht, what do you have to report?”
“I have a source at Charité Hospital. This person may be able to gain access to some of Dr. Brandt’s files.”
“You’re sure Bishop von Preysing will speak out?”
“If we have irrefutable proof, yes, Frau von Solf,” Licht replied. “As well as Bishop Michael von Faulhaber of Munich, Bishop Clemens August Graf von Galen of Münster, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer of the Confessing Church.”
“Excellent. And Herr Zunder, what news have you?” And so they talked, drinking tea, long into the night.
When Elise returned home to Grunewald, she knew what she had to do. Maybe she couldn’t get the files—or couldn’t yet get the files—but she might be able to save a life or two.
The attic of her home was large and unused, except for storage. No one ever went up there—only the maids, once a year, to retrieve the Christmas decorations. But Christmas seemed a lifetime away. The room could easily be cleaned out and the old trunks and broken furniture moved to one side, in order to make a habitable living space.
When her mother was out of the house and the maids thought she was at the hospital, Elise snuck back upstairs, where she scrubbed and straightened—careful, though, of every footstep. The attic had trapped the heat of the summer days and the air was difficult to breathe. How many can I hide? she wondered as she leaned on her mop. She was tired and dusty, her dress covered by a filthy apron and a kerchief covering her hair.
There was one bed up in the attic already, a double, which Elise made sure no mice were nesting in. So that was room for two. But maybe one more?
She found an old roll-up mattress with navy-blue ticking stripes she’d once used for a camping trip with the Bund Deutscher Mädel. It was thin, and the floor was hard, but still …
There were a few chamber pots, left over from the old days. Well, they’re going to have to do, Elise decided. The children will need fresh sheets and towels. A change of clothes. A supply of water and food …
Am I insane? She remembered all too well how it felt to have the SS men pin her against the wall, while the other two aimed their weapons at her. But then she thought of Gretel. And Friedrich. And the others.
Satisfied the attic was at last habitable, she tiptoed out.
It was late in the evening, but Ernst Klein hadn’t yet finished his appointed rounds. He knocked on the door of Esther Mandelbaum. There was silence, and then he heard slowly shuffling feet. After an interminable pause, several dead bolts were turned with loud clicks.
“Who is it?” came a quavering voice.
“It is I, Frau Mandelbaum—Ernst Klein.”
He heard the scrape of a chair being removed. Then the door opened. “Herr Klein.” The woman who stood before him wore her still-thick hair in a silver chignon. “How lovely to see you. Please do come in. Would you like a cup of what passes for coffee these days?”
Ernst hated himself for what he was going to do.
“I’m afraid no, Frau Mandelbaum,” he replied. “I have—I have a letter for you.” He took it out of his rucksack and handed it to her hastily, as though it burned his fingers.
It was a standard-sized business envelope, bone-white, with her name and correct address spelled out in neat black type. The return address was the Reich Association of the Jews.
“So,” Frau Mandelbaum said impass
ively, “it has finally arrived.” She opened the envelope and took out the letter and read: “The arrested are to gather at the synagogue on Wednesday, 9 A.M. Wear working clothes and bring hand luggage that is easily carried. Also, bring food for two to three days. In addition, take with you your valuables and cash. No matches or candles.”
“It’s not property confiscation, just a work assignment,” Ernst said.
“A work assignment? At my age?” Frau Mandelbaum gave a sniff. “It’s a death sentence. And you and I both know it.”
He was silent a moment, then asked, “What will you do?”
She shrugged. “What can I do?”
They both stood there, at an impasse. Then Ernst dug a clipboard and pen from his bag. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Frau Mandelbaum, but you are required to sign here.”
“Of course,” she said, accepting the pen and signing her name in neat script. “If God lived on earth, people would break His windows.”
Ernst gave a bitter laugh.
“At least you’re still safe,” she told him. “With that shiksa wife of yours.”
Ernst pulled out another letter from his breast pocket. When she saw his name typed in the same black letters and the return address, Frau Mandelbaum’s eyes widened.
Ernst nodded. “Apparently not.”
“Will I see you at the synagogue?”
“Perhaps, Frau Mandelbaum. Perhaps.”
Chapter Nine
David and Freddie lay together in David’s bed, their heads on thick, goose-down-stuffed pillows, staring up at the ceiling, passing one cigarette back and forth, a crystal ashtray between them.
“You know that what you did was wrong,” Freddie began.
“On the contrary—you seemed to like it quite a bit!”
“No, no, I mean asking Rosamund Moser to dinner—that was wrong.”
“I know,” David sighed. “But she didn’t have to be so waspish about it.”
“Well, it’s understandable, no? But, in all seriousness, marrying some poor innocent young girl—that’s wrong. Rosamund—any girl—deserves a man who will love her. Really love her.”
“I know, I know.” David covered his eyes with his hands. “But I was desperate. What else can I do?”
Freddie turned over to face him. “Be honest. Everything aboveboard. Marry someone who knows.”
“Who knows?” David laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “Then no one would marry me.”
“What about Daphne Brooks?”
“Daphne? She’s a lesbian!”
Freddie smiled. “Exactly. And I can’t help but think her parents must want her married.”
“Oh,” said David. Freddie watched him, waiting for all the cogs to click into place. Finally, they did. “Oh! Right! And then we could each go about our business—”
“With no one interfering.”
“Well, she’s not Jewish—”
“Surely she can convert.”
“And I’m not sure she’d want to have children.”
Freddie took David’s hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll set up a dinner party, with her and her girlfriend. We’ll all have a little wine …”
“Wizard!” David exclaimed. “You’re brilliant, my love.”
Freddie smiled. “Well, I can think of a number of ways for you to reward me …”
It was Frieda’s day off.
Since she was married to a Jew, there wasn’t much she could do. She wasn’t permitted to stroll in the Tiergarten. She wasn’t allowed to go to the movies. And she wasn’t even allowed to queue up for food until four o’clock—by which time all the shops would be sold out of rations.
So, Frieda tied an apron around her waist and began to clean the apartment. She swept, washed the floors, scrubbed the windows. And she dusted. Which was why she moved the papers on Ernst’s desk.
It was then that she saw the envelope.
“Mein Gott,” she murmured, her fingers trembling as she picked it up. The typed Doktor Ernst Klein and their address burned her eyes.
Still, Ernst delivered mail for the Jewish Reich Organization. This letter could be anything. It could be nothing. Frieda hesitated, then, with hands shaking, opened the envelope and took out the sheet of paper inside. What she saw made her feel faint, so faint she had to sink down on the threadbare sofa.
Only two days away.
Was Ernst even going to tell her? Or tell her only at the last minute?
A work camp. She held out no hope for decent treatment at any Nazi-run so-called work camp.
Not knowing what else to do, she waited, cold and stone-still on the sofa, as the light changed, the sun went down. And then she sat in the darkness.
When Ernst returned to the apartment, he didn’t realize anyone was home. He flipped on the light switch for the bulb overhead, then gasped.
“What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?” he demanded. Then he saw the letter in her hand. He realized what she had done, what she had seen, what she now knew.
He sat beside her and took her hand.
“I want you”—his voice broke, but he pressed on—“to help me die.”
“What?” It was not what Frieda was expecting him to say. Help him to escape, to go into hiding, to rob a bank and bribe someone—yes. But help her husband commit suicide? No. “I’m a nurse—I’m supposed to help heal people. I can’t help you—or anyone—die. That’s insane. Insane.”
Ernst rose and ran both hands through his hair until it stood up on end. “This whole situation is insane, Frieda! Either way I’m going to die. I’d rather do it myself than let those Nazi bastards get the satisfaction. Do you think what I will face is going to be any better?”
“They’re using that argument to euthanize people. Children from the hospital who are mentally, developmentally ill …” Frieda was trembling. “Elise still doesn’t know, but it’s becoming less of a secret every day.”
“It’s not the same argument! I’m not a child!” Ernst began to pace in the small room. “I’m a grown man, in control of all my faculties. This is my decision. I want to die now, at home, with you. I want to die with my dignity intact. I saw the film Ich klage an. We both did.”
“Suicide is a sin. A mortal sin.”
“I’m a Jew,” he said. “I don’t believe in sin, at least not the way you do. And I don’t believe in hell—unless it’s where we’re living now.”
Frieda put her head in her hands and sobbed. “I can’t do it!”
“Then I will.”
“You?” Frieda looked up. “You don’t have the medicine.”
“It doesn’t take medicine to jump from a roof. It doesn’t take medicine to hang yourself with a cord and kick out the chair. It doesn’t take medicine to—”
“Stop!” Frieda screamed. Then, in a quieter voice, “Stop.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “I need to think about it. I need time to think.”
“Think as much as you want,” Ernst told his wife. “We—or rather, I—have two days.”
It was five P.M. and the corridors of Charité were crowded with staff changing shifts.
Elise needed to leave soon to get back home and dress for her mother’s party. She made her rounds swiftly and efficiently, taking temperatures, blood pressures, listening to pulses. All was well.
Until she reached Herr Mystery. The patient was thrashing in his sleep, moaning. Elise put a hand to his forehead. Fever—he was burning up. No wonder he was having nightmares. “Verdammt,” she muttered. She’d hoped that he was over the worst of the postsurgery infections. Apparently not. She turned him on his back, then began to insert a hollow IV needle into the vein of his inner elbow.
“No!” he moaned suddenly, in English. “No! Don’t! Stop it!” He struggled, then suddenly went limp, back to deep sleep, lashes dark against his pale skin.
Elise recoiled in shock. English? she thought, bewildered. Finally he speaks—and he speaks in English? She looked around—no one else had heard him.
Another death. And for what? Then she remembered the attic. It was already fixed up to hide someone. And an adult might be easier to conceal than a child … Elise gave a crooked half smile. Plus there was the distinct satisfaction of hiding a British refugee right under her mother’s nose—on the very night of her party, no less. Not that it’s about me, God, she prayed. But if I do get a little bit of enjoyment, that’s not horrible, yes? Will you forgive me?
She hung the IV on the frame of his bed. “Come, Herr Mystery,” she whispered as she wheeled the bed out of the room, looking straight ahead, trying to appear as though what she was doing was perfectly normal. Her heart raced. “Let’s find you somewhere more private to convalesce.”
“It’s an emergency,” Elise said into the receiver, her hands worrying at the thick metal cord.
“I’m a priest, not a taxi service,” Father Licht objected. “And I’m celebrating Mass tonight.”
“It’s—it’s important. I’d rather not say more over the phone.
But it’s life and death.”
“The paperwork?”
“Something else. But similar.”
Father Licht took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, where there was a red indentation from their weight. “All right. When do you need me?”
Elise looked out the window, cursing the summer, which brought with it longer days and more sunlight. She would prefer to wait until dusk. But she needed to get back for her mother’s birthday party. She was supposed to accompany Clara on the piano. If she didn’t show up on time …
“Meet me at seven—at Charité’s service entrance. And, Father—please bring a change of priest’s clothing.”
Maggie and Gottlieb were getting dressed for the Fire and Ice Ball. “Feuer und Eis?” Maggie asked, dabbing on perfume in Gottlieb’s bedroom. “You know, there’s a Robert Frost poem about fire and ice: