His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “No,” Frieda whispered, her voice shaking. “It’s for Ernst. Ernst has asked me to … help him die.”

  “What? You can’t!”

  “What choice do I have? If I don’t, he’ll do it himself. Elise, you know that because I’m a nurse, I can do it for him with far less pain than he ever could.”

  “No,” Elise insisted. “No. There has to be another way.”

  Frieda looked close to death herself, her face drawn. Her eyes were dull and unseeing.

  “I need to do something right now,” Elise told her, “but meet me on the roof in ten minutes, all right?”

  Frieda gave a reluctant sigh. “All right.”

  Satisfied that no one was around, Elise went to the medical records room. But the door was locked. Not just locked but triple padlocked. She said a silent prayer to St. Jude, the patron of lost causes.

  Another nurse in gray and white passed. “What happened here?” Elise asked her.

  The nurse stopped, frowning. “Another of Dr. Brandt’s rules.”

  “But how are we supposed to get to patient files when we need them?”

  “There’s a new form—it must be signed by Dr. Brandt before you can be let in. And even then, you’ll be supervised by Nurse Flint.”

  “I see,” Elise said. The other nurse walked away. Great, just great, Elise thought, realizing that three iron locks would be impossible to pick. She needed to find out where Dr. Brandt kept the keys.

  But first, there was Frieda.

  Up on the roof of the hospital, in the harsh midday light, Elise and Frieda shared a cigarette.

  “Maybe it really is a work camp,” Elise said, inhaling. “Maybe it’s just for the war, and then, after, he’ll be able to come home …”

  She stopped, realizing how inane she sounded.

  “I know the propaganda films all show the Germans marching unopposed into Poland.” Frieda frowned. “All the Jews looking happy and healthy in their ghettos. Everyone thrilled to be there, before being shipped off to Madagascar, or whatever final destination they’re talking about this week …” She brushed hot tears from her cheeks. “But do you seriously think that the Nazis, who are willing to murder children—Christian children, Nazi children, for God’s sake—are really going to waste their time and money taking care of Jews?”

  Elise was silent, remembering the gas chamber at Hadamar. “No,” she said, dropping her cigarette and crushing it under the heel of her shoe. “No, you’re right.” She crossed herself.

  “And Ernst would rather kill himself than die at their hands.”

  Elise knew that Frieda would know how to administer the correct dosages of morphine and phenobarbital. Ernst could die in his own bed. With dignity. Without pain.

  No! something inside of Elise screamed. No, we haven’t come to that—not yet, at least. Not only was suicide a mortal sin but it would somehow signify that they were lost, that Germany was lost, that their humanity was lost.

  “Frieda,” Elise said, thinking fast, “telephone Ernst—have him meet us at the hospital after work.”

  “But the curfew laws …”

  “He’s just going to have to make sure not to get caught.”

  “Bastards took our telephone.”

  “Then go!” Elise gestured toward the stairwell. “I’ll cover for you. Bring him back here.”

  “What then?”

  Elise put her arm around her friend. “I have a plan. Now go!”

  Elise and Frieda set Ernst up as a corpse for the day, draped in a sheet to hide him, in Charité’s basement morgue. His instructions were to lie as still as possible, hour after hour, until they came to get him.

  When it was finally time, the two nurses had him sit in a wheelchair. They made their way to the back entrance, where Father Licht was waiting in his car. It was late afternoon, with sunshine slanting and burning. A hot breeze had picked up. The air smelled of spilled oil and car exhaust.

  Two doctors appeared, their white coats flapping around their legs in the wind, red and black bands around their arms. “What’s going on here?” demanded the first one, squat with gray hair and glasses.

  “Special day pass,” Elise lied. Frieda looked as though she might faint, while Ernst gritted his teeth.

  “On whose orders?” said the other, also gray, but tall and thin, with a beakish nose.

  “Dr. Brandt’s,” Elise replied without hesitation.

  Father Licht opened the door of the car and stepped out. With his priest’s collar and wide-brimmed cappello romano, he carried a quiet authority. “It’s for a special religious service, Herr Doktors.”

  “Really,” the second doctor said. “And which service would that be?”

  “The feast of St. Drithelm.”

  “And which church?”

  “St. Hedwig’s. I’m the priest there.”

  The first doctor turned to Elise. “And who are you?”

  “Nurse Aloïsa Herrmann.”

  “And where is the patient’s paperwork?”

  “Ach du lieber Himmel!” Frieda said, finally recovering her voice. She clapped one hand to her forehead. “I must have left it back at the nurses’ station. Shall I get it?”

  “Nein, nein,” the first doctor said, waving a careless hand.

  “Enjoy your saint’s day,” the other said.

  “Thank you, Herr Doktors,” Father Licht called, getting back into his car.

  Elise and Frieda helped Ernst into the backseat. “No time for a long goodbye,” Elise warned.

  Frieda kissed her husband’s lips, then pulled herself away. He leaned back and she raised the blanket up over his head, covering his face. She stepped back, hand over her mouth, as though trying to force down screams. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, darling,” Ernst whispered.

  “It’s the only way,” Elise said to her, slamming the door shut and slipping into the passenger seat. “We’ll keep him safe.”

  Father Licht turned the key in the ignition, pressed down on the clutch, and shifted into reverse.

  “I’ll find you …” Frieda whispered as the car rolled away. Then she doubled over, clutching her abdomen in pain, willing herself not to cry.

  David and Freddie were at the Ritz Hotel for dinner, with Daphne Brooks and her girlfriend, Kay McQuire. David and Freddie looked dapper in their dinner jackets and black tie, Daphne in a sunny yellow gown that set off her blond ringlets, and Kay in trousers with a white silk blouse with the collar open at the throat and cuff links at the wrists. Her short brown hair was glossed back with Brylcreem.

  “Another bottle of fizz, if you please,” David called to one of the waiters hovering nearby, as yet another cleared their dishes.

  The waiter removed the empty bottle from the stand, dripping with the melted ice. “Yes, sir.”

  “A girl could get used to this.” Daphne leaned back in her velvet chair and sighed with contentment. In the formal dining room of the Ritz, with its thick carpets, heavy draperies, and glittering chandeliers reflected in panels of mirrors, the war seemed—at least for the moment—worlds away.

  David and Freddie exchanged glances. “Well,” David said, as the waiter returned with a newly opened bottle of champagne and began refilling their glasses, “that’s actually one of the things we wanted to talk to you about.”

  Kay raised an eyebrow and took out a cigarette. Freddie reached for his Evans lighter and lit it for her. “Thanks, darling,” she said, taking a long drag.

  David cleared his throat. He reached for his champagne, raising the glass to his dry lips and taking a nervous swallow. “We … have a business proposition for you.”

  The two women looked at each other. “Well, you certainly have our attention,” Daphne said.

  “You see,” David continued, “there now seems to be a little issue about my trust and my inheritance. Where once everything seemed quite straightforward, now there are … strings attached.”

  Kay shrugged. “How could that possibly have anythi
ng to do with us?” Daphne asked.

  “Good question! Here’s the thing—”

  Freddie sighed. “Would you get to the point, please?”

  “Oh, merciful Minerva!” David glared at him. “In a nutshell, ladies, unless I get married, I’ll forfeit my trust and my inheritance. As you well know, the blessed state of holy matrimony was never something I ever aspired to—” He stopped, looking over at Freddie.

  “Stay on topic,” Freddie admonished.

  “And so I was wondering—hoping, that is—that one of you two ladies might consent to enter into it—as a business arrangement—with me.” David took a deep breath. “Wherein one of you would agree to marry me and pose as my wife. All the while free to live her own life, of course. Just as I would mine.”

  Daphne giggled. “And did you have one of us in particular in mind?”

  David gave an impish smile. “The choice would be like poor Paris’s—a man surrounded by goddesses.”

  “And the golden apple at stake,” Kay said. She thought for a moment, her ruby lips pursed, then reached over for Daphne’s hand. “We’re in a good place, David. We have a two-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury—of course, one bedroom’s just for show. Our landlady thinks we’re old maids, who are also the best of friends. We have our tribe of like-minded women, go to the theater, go to dinner parties, write, support candidates. We’re ARP street wardens, for goodness’ sake. We have made, against all odds, a life together. A good life.”

  “Of course,” David agreed. “And Freddie and I hope to do the same. This … marriage … would be in name only. A few family functions to attend.”

  “That’s all?” Kay asked skeptically.

  “Well, there would be the conversion, of course …”

  “Convert?” Daphne gasped. “To Judaism?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m an Anglican.”

  “There’s also the small matter of”—David paused delicately—“an heir.”

  Kay and Daphne met eyes, shocked. Without words, the two women came to an understanding. “No,” Kay said finally, turning a cold stare to David. “No. We’re not about to sell our integrity—not to mention even think about bringing another human life into the world—merely to save your precious pocket money.”

  She stood and threw her linen napkin on the table. Daphne stood, too. “We may not be as rich as you, but we work for a living, and we’re able to support ourselves,” she said. “We live as we want—more or less. I’d rather have toast and beans at home, with the woman I love, than all the champagne at the Ritz. Come on, Kay—we’re going.”

  The two women swept out, leaving whispers and stares in their wake. David and Freddie looked at each other. “Well,” Freddie deadpanned, lifting his champagne coupe to his lips. “That went well.”

  David looked up and caught their waiter’s eye. “The bill, please,” he said glumly.

  “You have company,” Elise said to John when she and Ernst reached the attic.

  John sat up in his bed, taking in both Elise and Ernst. Ernst spoke first. “Ernst Klein. Rogue Jew. Pleased to meet you.”

  “John Sterling, injured British pilot. Pleased to meet you, too,” he said in broken German.

  “Well then,” Elise said. “Ernst, you take the roll-up mattress on the floor there. I’ll get you some clean sheets and blankets. I’ll also bring up a washbasin and then some dinner.”

  “You’re taking too great a risk, Elise,” Ernst warned.

  “Mother’s rarely home, and doesn’t pay much attention to me when she is. Neither do the servants. There’s always a lot of food around—most of it goes to waste anyway. You two just rest. I’ll set everything up, and then we can make plans tonight.”

  Ernst’s eyes filled with tears. “I can never thank you enough …”

  “Yes,” John said, “how can we ever repay you?”

  “Let’s just focus on getting you both out,” Elise whispered firmly. “And Ernst, would you please take a look at John’s incision? It seems to be healing well, but you’re the surgeon, after all. And for heaven’s sake—be quiet.”

  Frieda was unable to think, unable to breathe. Ernst was at Clara Hess’s home. This was no game; his life was on the line. She loved Elise, but she also thought her friend was naïve, spoiled, and unaware of the terrible danger Jews were in. He would be safe for what—a few days, maybe? And then what? What if a servant heard a footstep, or wondered where all the bread was going? What would happen to Ernst then?

  Frieda changed out of her nurse’s uniform in the locker room and dressed quickly, pinning on her hat in the mirror by the door. It wasn’t as if she had a plan in mind. She just walked out of the hospital and then kept walking.

  “I’m here to see Frau Hess,” Frieda announced at the Abwehr, after showing her identity card to the guards at the entrance.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

  “Frau Hess will want to see me.”

  “What is this concerning?”

  Frieda’s voice didn’t waver. “Her daughter. Elise.”

  “And who are you again?” Clara Hess was at her desk, going over reports. She looked up as Frieda entered, taking in the younger woman’s worn dress and scuffed shoes. “How do you know my daughter?”

  “Frau Hess, my name is Frieda Klein, and I work with your daughter, Elise, at Charité Hospital.”

  “I’m an extremely busy woman, Fräulein Klein—what is this about?”

  Frieda took a tremulous breath. “Has Elise ever … ever spoken about me? Or my husband?”

  Clara blinked. She put down her silver pen and looked Frieda in the eye. “You’re the nurse who married the Jew,” she said, putting the pieces together. “I’m sorry, but I work in Intelligence—I have nothing to do with deportations.”

  “I’m not here to talk about my husband,” Frieda insisted. “Or, at least not directly. I’m here to talk about Elise. What she’s been doing.”

  Clara’s eyes narrowed. “My daughter? What has she been doing?”

  “Something that—if it were found out—would bring great embarrassment to the Abwehr. And to you, in particular.”

  Clara leaned back in her leather chair. Her gaze was cold. “I’m listening.”

  “I will tell you everything I know,” Frieda continued. “But only on the condition that Ernst won’t be hurt in any way. That he won’t be sent away. Save him—and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “My dear,” Clara said with an icy smile. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  That night, Maggie and Gottlieb had another argument.

  “You’re still here?” he asked, coming back to the apartment at the end of the day. He’d been to Mass at St. Hedwig’s and then to the Berlin Boxing Club, to take his anger out on their heavy bags and several unfortunate sparring partners.

  Maggie met his gaze. “Yes, I’m staying to do the interview. And if I get the job, I’ll be staying indefinitely.”

  “You,” he said, stabbing a finger at her, “are a reckless fool!”

  His rising temper caused his face to turn red. Even his oversized ears were red.

  Maggie was stunned by his intensity. “No, I’m not,” she countered. “It’s exactly what I was trained to do. Appraise a situation and act accordingly.”

  “Those are not your orders!” Gottlieb exploded. “You’re supposed to follow orders!”

  Maggie was becoming frightened, but knew she couldn’t show it. If she showed any fear or uncertainty, she’d be on the next SOE plane to England. “My orders have room for improvisation,” she retorted. “I’ve already given word I won’t need a pickup tomorrow, and that I’ll send word on Tuesday.”

  “Every day you stay here, every message we transmit, puts us all in danger!”

  Maggie’s temper finally snapped. She’d had it with Gottlieb, with the Nazis, with all of Germany, with its stupid protocols, cruel rigidity, and endless rules. How could anyone with any sense have let it get this bad? “It wouldn’t be necessar
y for me to be here at all if you people had stood up to Hitler in ’thirty-three.” There, it was ugly, and she’d said it. It was out.

  Gottlieb looked as stunned as if she had slapped him. “They wouldn’t just hurt us, you know. They’d hurt our families first. I have a mother and three sisters. Do you think I want to see them questioned by the Gestapo? Tortured? Beheaded?”

  Maggie instantly regretted her impulsive outburst. Of course it wasn’t just Gottlieb at risk. She was jeopardizing all the people he cared for, the people he loved. “I’m sorry, Gottlieb. I’m sorry that your family’s in danger. I’m sorry your country has been led astray by these monsters.”

  “Germany’s not the only country with monsters,” he countered, enunciating each word furiously. “You in America have the Ku Klux Klan, Henry Ford, and Father Coughlin—it’s not as if the United States is a utopia of any sort. And let’s not forget the MS St. Louis.”

  Maggie flushed. He was right, of course. “But that’s why we need to act—why I need to act. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gottlieb. To the men in those positions, we secretaries, janitors, cleaning ladies, receptionists—we’re all invisible. They simply don’t see us. We’re there to be used, no more human than a telephone, or a typewriter. And because they think we’re the same as furniture, they let slip all kinds of things around us.”

  “Not Germans.”

  “Germans, too,” Maggie countered.

  Gottlieb stood and went to the kitchen cupboard. He reached for a bottle and two glasses. “You are not doing this. You’re not putting yourself, and the few members of the resistance we have, in danger.”

  “Gottlieb—I’m smart, I’m trained, and I have the courage to do this.”

  He sat down on the sofa and poured brown liquid into both of the glasses. “Brandy,” he said, holding one glass out to her.

  Maggie accepted it. She and Gottlieb both swallowed. Maggie’s throat burned. But she did feel a tiny bit better.

  “Sit down,” he ordered.

  “No.”

  Gottlieb finished his own drink, then poured another. “Sit down. Please.”