His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Papa!” She ran to him, like a little girl.

  “Have you come to join me for lunch, mein Engel?” he asked, packing up his score. Around them, violinists were chatting and joking, putting their instruments back into their cases.

  “Nein, Papa—I have a request for you. A few requests, really.”

  “Anything, Engel.”

  “First, I would like to come see tonight’s performance.”

  He flourished his baton like a magic wand and gently tapped it on her head. “Your wish is my command!”

  “And I would like to bring three friends.”

  “Of course. I will have four tickets waiting for you. Box seats.”

  “And I would like to come with you to Zürich.”

  “What?” Hess was surprised. “You mean tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight,” Elise replied. “I need—” How much should she tell him? “Well, let’s just say I need a little distance from Mutti. And the hospital. I think the change of scene and mountain air would do me a world of good.”

  “Of course, Engel. I’ll arrange for your train ticket. You will come with me in first class—very fancy. Nothing but the best for my little girl.” He kissed her on the top of her head.

  “Thank you!” Elise’s mind was whirling with all she had to do. “See you tonight—you’re the best papa ever!”

  Once back at the Hess villa in Grunewald, Elise worked quickly and efficiently.

  She called the hospital. She was deathly ill and could not possibly come in for the next few days. Then she went through her father’s closet, picking out two formal suits. She did the same in her mother’s enormous wardrobe, choosing one of her gowns, and also a blond wig.

  Then, making sure the coast was clear, she went up to the attic and gave the secret knock. Ernst opened the door. “We’re going to the opera!” she announced gaily, passing out clothing. “And then we’re going to Switzerland.”

  “What? Tonight?” Maggie asked.

  “Now?” added John.

  “Yes,” Elise declared. “Are you ready?”

  It was dangerous to go, but it was even more dangerous to stay. Maggie considered for a moment. “First we’ll need to find a radio.”

  Elise grew pale. That was one thing she’d never bargained for.

  “It’s all right,” Maggie reassured her. “Just look for the one under your mother’s desk.”

  Elise found the transmitter-receiver and carried it to the attic. Maggie took it from her, set it gently on the floor, and opened it. Even though it was German-issued and different from the ones she was used to, it had the same parts: receiver, transmitter, and power-supply unit. She screwed in the miniature Morse key, plugged in the appropriate wires, and then hung the transmitter out the window.

  “My goodness,” John said, impressed. “You really are a spy.”

  She patted his cheek and sat down behind the machine. “I told you.” She turned on the power and the bulbs glowed. She put on the headphones and took a deep breath. She thought back to her time with Noreen, at Baker Street, and the “poem” she’d been given, the Declaration of Independence: “equalrightslifelibertyhapp,” and the corresponding alphabet.

  The concept of life and liberty, and protected rights for all—let alone the pursuit of happiness—seemed almost impossible to imagine after having spent time in the ring of hell that was wartime Berlin. Still, Maggie tapped out her code, asking for a pickup for three at the Zürich train station in Switzerland the following noon.

  “Do you think they received it?” Elise asked. Her face was very pale.

  “I hope so,” Maggie said, unplugging everything and putting it away neatly.

  “How will we know?”

  “The BBC song list. They’ll play ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square,’ to acknowledge receipt.”

  “I always did like Vera Lynn,” John said, grinning sweetly as he took Maggie’s hand and helped her to her feet.

  “I’m glad,” Maggie said, taking his hand and pressing it to her lips. “Because I think now it’s officially our song.”

  “You have similar figures,” Elise remarked to Maggie in her bathroom, handing her one of Clara’s gowns, a draped and flowing white silk Madame Grès. She gave a crooked smile, as she’d always been a bit too curvy to borrow any of Clara’s couture. “You could be sisters,” Elise said approvingly.

  Oh, so close, Elise, Maggie thought. So close and yet so far.

  Giving Maggie some privacy to wash the ash out of her hair and get dressed, Elise dressed in her own room, in a pink taffeta gown. When she was done, she went to Marthe’s gilded cage. “I don’t know when I’m going to be back, little one,” she told the dove, who regarded her, head cocked.

  She opened her bedroom window. “But just in case I don’t make it, it’s time for you to be free.” She unhinged the cage door. “There you go—fly!”

  There was an anticlimactic moment as Frieda’s bird continued to sit on her perch, tilting her head to one side, regarding Elise with shining jet eyes.

  Then, Marthe hopped down to the cage’s open door. She gave Elise one last, long quizzical look, before flapping her wings and flying off. She landed on a branch of a nearby apple tree and sang a series of trills back to Elise before taking off again, shrinking to a dark speck against the oppressive gray sky.

  “Good luck, little bird,” Elise whispered, knowing that Frieda wouldn’t mind, as long as Ernst was safe.

  Up in the attic, they tuned the radio to the BBC and pressed their ears against the speaker. Finally, they heard their dedication, thin and crackly, letting them know the message had been received in London. “And this song is dedicated to His Majesty’s Hope.” The flute made its trilling introduction, and then Vera Lynn’s voice sang out: “And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”

  Maggie and John turned to each other. “Our song?” he whispered in her ear, grinning.

  Maggie closed her eyes, swaying in his arms. “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll have to play it at our wedding, darling.”

  She smiled and pressed her lips to his neck. “We’re almost home,” she said. They kissed.

  The door clicked open. “The servants are here,” Elise whispered, “so we must pretend that they missed seeing you come in, and that we’ve been in my room the whole time. Now,” she said in her best nurse voice, “you are all German aristocrats, having a bit of champagne before the opera. John, you will be silent—and if anyone asks, I’ll tell him or her that you’re a Luftwaffe pilot, suffering from shell shock, which has affected your speech.

  “When we’re done, we’ll go downstairs and our driver will take us to the opera. There will be tickets waiting for us at the box office.” She looked at all their faces. “Ready?”

  “Jawohl,” Ernst replied.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Together in the neo-Baroque theater of crimson, cream, and gold, they sat in box seats and watched and listened to Wagner’s ethereal overture to Lohengrin, the story of the Swan Knight. Or, at least, tried to watch. The legions of Nazi SS officers in their dress uniforms proved distracting, as did the armed guards stationed at each exit.

  Backstage, Clara paced. If she could not be a singer anymore, if she could not be one of the top Nazis, beloved by the Führer, she would be a turncoat, for the British. They would welcome her and all of the secrets she knew. She would still be a diva. She would be a legend. History would laud her.

  “They’ll miss me when I’m gone,” she muttered. “Joseph will regret pushing me out. They’ll all see.”

  As a child, she’d been caught between two parents: an abusive lawyer father and an overindulgent former ballerina mother. When they divorced—a scandal—she chose, in court, to live with her mother. Little did she know her mother would soon die from syphilis. With her mother dead and her father refusing to take her in, Clara had been sent to her grandmother’s farm in Austria, where she had barely enough to eat. It was only her voice, her golden voice, that lifted he
r out of her bleak circumstances, and only her voice that led her to fame and fortune.

  When she’d been approached by Sektion during the Great War, of course she had accepted. They needed her. The need to be needed, the need for approval, the need to belong—these thirsts drove her. Spying, plus music, was the drug she needed to put her past behind her. But the past, unconfronted, is never really forgotten.

  Backstage, because she was the conductor’s wife, her presence was not commented on, even if it didn’t go unnoticed. “May I get you a chair, gnädige Frau?” the stage manager asked.

  “Nein,” she replied absently, waving him off, lost in her own thoughts.

  Clara looked through the wings at the audience. There, in her usual box seats, was Elise. And the Jew. And the pilot. Clara’s eyes narrowed. Who was that blonde? It could be Clara’s own doppelgänger—tall, slim, and blond. Clara felt faint, as if she had seen a ghost. And was that her gown? Was that … Margareta? Could it be?

  And sitting next to Margareta was Elise. Elise knew Margareta? Who else did Elise know? What else was that foolish, stupid daughter of hers involved with? She’d found the two in her study … Maybe Elise was doing more than Frieda had either let on or knew about. Despite herself, she began to feel a wave of grudging respect for her daughter.

  She felt for her gun in her handbag. It was nestled there, ready for the last act.

  When, finally, the last notes of the opera faded away, and the house erupted in thunderous applause, Elise whispered, “Come with me.” Together, they followed her down the fire escape stairs until they reached a door. Elise opened it. A ramp led to the backstage area. The cast was there in their costumes and makeup, sweating from the exertion under the hot lights, chatting animatedly, fueled by leftover adrenaline.

  Elise spotted one of the stage managers, dressed in black from head to toe. “Hallo, Herr Shultz, do you know where my father is?” she asked. He pointed back toward a closed door. “Come,” Elise told the group.

  They reached the rehearsal room, filled with musicians. “What are we doing here?” Maggie whispered.

  “They’re packing because they’re taking the train to Zürich tonight. You’ll see,” Elise whispered back. “Trust me.”

  And Maggie found that she did.

  Elise saw her father, in animated discussion with the first violinist. “Excuse me,” she said, putting a hand on Miles’s arm. “May we use your office for a moment? One of my friends has to make a telephone call.” She indicated Maggie, Ernst, and John.

  “Of course, mein Engel,” Miles answered, distracted. “Here’s the key.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” Elise gestured to the three. “Come!”

  Miles Hess’s office in the opera house was opulent, with thick carpets, oil paintings, and velvet-covered furniture. A window overlooked the Gendarmenmarkt. Elise turned on the light, then went straight to his desk. “Ah, it’s here!” she exclaimed.

  Maggie, John, and Ernst exchanged looks.

  Elise sank to her knees, opening a large leather Rimowa trunk with strips of molded wood, covered in colorful travel stickers:

  LANGHAM HOTEL, LONDON; MENA HOUSE HOTEL, CAIRO; HOTEL TRIANON, PARIS.

  “It’s where he keeps his orchestral scores when he’s traveling,” she explained, lifting the heavy lid, taking out bundled scores and piling them under the desk. “It’s a big trunk, because he always wants the score for every single instrument’s part, in case he needs to look something up. Well, come on—help me take all these out!”

  “But this trunk will fit only one of us,” Maggie objected.

  “You, to be specific,” Elise said to Maggie, “as you’re the smallest.”

  It took a few precious minutes, but the trunk was finally empty. “Wait,” Maggie said. She took a pen from her handbag and punched a number of holes in the side of the trunk. Then she took a bunch of newspapers and dropped them inside. She colored. “At spy camp they said I had an iron bladder. Let’s hope they were right.”

  Elise studied Maggie. “Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” Maggie replied resolutely. “If—when—we get to Zürich, I want to talk to you. We need to talk.”

  “About what?” Elise looked confused.

  As much as Maggie wanted to tell Elise the truth, this wasn’t the time. “Nothing that can’t wait—we all have enough to think of now.” She and John kissed, and then she folded her body inside the trunk.

  Elise’s lip touched her cheek. “Good luck, dearest Maggie. I’m going, too, so as soon as we’re all onboard the train and moving, I’ll check on you.”

  And with that, she closed the lid.

  Back in the empty rehearsal room, Elise repeated the process with John and Ernst. The two men opened the cases, punched airholes in them, then placed the instruments in a supply closet. Elise locked the door. She had John fit himself into the harp case, and Ernst into a timpani case. Both cases had wheels.

  The first part of the mission accomplished, Elise went to see her father, now chatting with a man she recognized. Herr Wallfrid Bauer was a prominent arms manufacturer. Elise slipped up beside her father, smiling brightly.

  “Ah!” said Herr Bauer. “And here is your charming daughter, all grown up now!”

  “Yes.” Miles nodded with pride. “And I’m pleased to say she is a nurse, at Charité.”

  “If I ever have a medical emergency, I know who to call!” Herr Bauer chortled at his own cleverness. Elise didn’t join in. Then there was the sillage of Chanel No. 5 perfume, and Elise turned to see her mother appear.

  “Hello, kitten,” Miles said, kissing one of his wife’s gloved hands. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

  “Frau Hess, you look as beautiful as always,” Herr Bauer said as he bent to kiss her other hand. “I only wish it had been you tonight, singing the part of Elsa. Although you were wonderful as Ortrud, at your party.”

  “Thank you.” Clara’s scarlet-painted lips twisted into a smile.

  “Hallo, Mutti.” The color had drained from Elise’s face. She hadn’t counted on her mother being there.

  “Mausi.” Clara turned to her husband. “And now, my darling, shall we go?”

  “Go?” Elise’s breath caught in her throat. “You’re coming with us?”

  “Of course, Mausi,” she crooned, reaching out a hand to stroke the younger woman’s cheek. “I wouldn’t miss this trip for the world.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Hess family sat in the first-class train compartment on red velvet seats. Over the door was an SS Death’s Head insignia. Clara pulled down the window shade and turned on the dim light.

  Elise had seen soldiers patrolling outside; now she swallowed hard. She folded her gloved hands in her lap and concentrated on holding them still as the train started its engines, then pulled away from the station with a screech of wheels and hiss of steam. She crossed herself and closed her eyes to pray for the three hidden in the baggage compartment. She hoped the porters had been gentle with the cases. She thought that the odds were good that the cases had been moved carefully—while they might not necessarily treat human beings well, Germans could be counted on to care for the instruments used to play Wagner with respect.

  “I see you’re still wearing your cross, Mausi,” Clara said over the rumble of the engine, pushing back the veil of her hat. The blackout curtains made the air in the compartment feel stifling. “Where’s your swastika necklace? I paid a fortune for it, you know.”

  “It didn’t go with the dress,” Elise managed. Why was her mother smiling that Mona Lisa smile? Why was she here?

  “Pity,” Clara murmured.

  There was a knock at the compartment door. “Maestro! Gnädige Frau Hess! Gnädiges Fräulein Hess!” The conductor bowed. “I am at your service. May I bring you something to drink?”

  “I would like brandy,” Clara decided.

  Miles considered. “Coffee.”

  “A bottle of Fanta, please,” Elise said, thinking of the thre
e in the luggage compartment and how they must be thirsty.

  When the conductor left, Clara said with a wicked smile, “You’d better watch yourself. Soda can get you in trouble.”

  “What?” Elise said, startled. Was her mother reading her thoughts?

  “Relax, Mausi,” Clara said, patting the girl’s knee and smiling. “I mean your waistline. All that sugar in soda … Don’t you think that dress is fitting a bit snugly? I think a little slimming is in order.”

  Elise found she could breathe again. “Of course, Mutti.”

  Trapped in the silk-lined trunk, Maggie tried to relax and breathe slowly. At Beaulieu, they’d been taught to count when they needed to calm down in a dangerous situation. And so she counted, to a hundred, to a thousand, then started over again at one. She tried not to think about her legs cramping up, or her lips getting dry. She tried not to think about the increasing pressure on her bladder. Why did I have to drink so much water today? She calculated pi—getting up to almost a hundred decimal places before her memory gave out, and then began to reiterate Fermat’s theorem.

  The porters had been rough with the case, but she hadn’t been injured, and for that she was grateful. And although she couldn’t hear much, she could feel the train’s engines start up. Next stop, Switzerland, she thought. I hope John and Ernst are all right—didn’t get too banged up in the move. Or worse.

  It was dark and close in her trunk, which felt disconcertingly like a small coffin. Stop it, Hope. Back to Fermat for you. Let’s see, no three positive integers—a, b, and c—can satisfy the equation an + bn = cn for any integer value of n greater than 2. So …

  Second by second, minute by minute, the hours ticked away and the miles flew by as the train rolled on through the German countryside in the dark.

  Miles had soon leaned his head back against the white lace headrest and begun snoring softly.

  Clara had removed her hat and shoes and tucked her stocking-clad legs up under her, like a cat. “Try to get some sleep, Mausi,” she urged, closing her eyes. “Lots of shopping to do in Switzerland, after all.”