Journey to Munich (7 page)

Maisie stood to the side of the reception desk for a moment. Before Leslie saw her, she touched her middle, just at the point of the buckle securing the belt on the soft burgundy fabric of her jacket. She wanted to remind herself to be steady, to be strong from the very center of her being. Maurice had taught her, years ago—in those early days when she was green and young, a sapling next to a mature tree—that there was a connection between the physical being, the spirit, and emotions. He taught her to be aware of her bearing, of the way she entered a room, sat down to her work, or reacted to news, good and bad. Strength in the very center of her body would lend power to every word she spoke, and every thought that passed through her mind.

She straightened her spine, broadened her shoulders, and walked with a precise, clipped step to meet Gilbert Leslie, who seemed an inch or two shorter than he had the previous day.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Donat. Ready?”

“As ready as I will ever be,” said Maisie, reminding herself that she was Edwina Donat, daughter of Leon Donat, currently incarcerated in a notorious prison at the behest of Adolf Hitler's Nazi regime. She imagined how she would feel if her own beloved father were in the same position. At once the strength in her spine ebbed almost—almost—beyond control; then it returned, stronger than before. She was determined to carry out her assignment to the letter.

Leslie seemed nervous. He gave a running commentary every step of the way, pointing out various landmarks to her as if he were quoting a guidebook to Munich. After they had passed the grand Residenz and were walking on toward Odeonsplatz, he took her elbow. “We'll go down this little alley, not across the square.”

Maisie looked around and noticed other pedestrians making the same detour. “What's in the square, Mr. Leslie?”

Leslie stopped. “Just there”—he pointed, then quickly lowered his hand—“that's where the Führer was almost assassinated in the Beer Hall Putsch. Sixteen men in his party were killed, along with four policemen. They are considered martyrs to the Reich. If you go past that square, you are required to stand and salute the party, to honor those killed. I doubt you want to do that—neither do a lot of people. So we take this little path to avoid the square.”

Maisie stepped out along the alley behind Leslie. Why, she wondered, if the Führer was so fêted, did so many people dodge the requirement to salute his party? She was about to ask Leslie when he began speaking, though his voice was so low she had to move closer and lean in toward him to hear.

“If you're wondering how he has managed to garner such attention, it's twofold. One, he is a very, very powerful speaker. Put him on a stage, and it's as if he can mesmerize everyone—he's like a cobra, ready to strike.”

“All right, I can imagine that—I've seen such people in—” She was about to say
in my work
, but caught herself in time. “What is the other reason for his popularity?”

“Fear. There was an attempt on his life—an explosion. It failed. But he managed to persuade the population that their lives would be at risk if certain powers—restrictions, if you will, and elements of what I would call surveillance—were not enacted. For the most part, the people went along with it. Fear can be used in all sorts of ways to control people, and that's what he's done.” They took a few steps in silence.

“I think that, for the most part, Britain is hoping that if he has
enough rope, he will hang himself.” Leslie coughed. “Now I'm getting a bit beyond myself.”

Maisie rubbed her hands together as she considered Leslie's commentary while studying the austere buildings along the street. Perhaps it was because it was the stark end of winter, with shafts of low yet bright sunlight slanting between buildings on a very cold day, but nothing seemed welcoming. People rushed along with their heads down. Though she knew this was probably due to a sharp chill in the wind, she thought that despite the beauty of the Bavaria she had seen from the train, the country held an undercurrent of something very uncomfortable. It was fear, she knew, sprinkled like dust across the landscape. What on earth could Elaine Otterburn have gained from being in such a place?

Leslie seemed to read her thoughts. “Of course you're not seeing Munich at its best, Fräulein Donat. We have to get you used to the ‘Fräulein' now—we're almost there. Munich is a very vibrant city, you know—beer halls, music halls, theaters, that sort of thing. It's an interesting place to be stationed for a couple of years.”

“When do you leave for your next posting, do you think?” Maisie asked as they strode toward the building marked by red flags with the distinctive white circle and black swastika.

“I'm hoping for the United States, actually, perhaps in a year or so. Washington is the plum in the pudding of our line of work, so fingers crossed!”

Nazi guards watched their approach. Leslie pulled a clutch of papers and an identification card from an inside pocket of his jacket, giving a half smile to the guard who met them. Maisie followed his fluent German as he addressed the man.

“My papers and identification. I am accompanying Fräulein Donat,
who has come to present documents for the release of her father. All is in order—here is the letter of appointment.”

Maisie handed over the papers she had carried with her, together with her passport. She said nothing, and lowered her head a little. She worried that her height—she was as tall as Leslie and not much shorter than the guard—might cause the guard to be aggressive. She had seen it happen before.

The guard returned the papers to Leslie and indicated that they were free to enter the building and proceed to the first floor, pointing as if to an office above the door.

This part of the procedure was supposed to be a formality. All the hard work had been done; this was the rubber-stamping required for Maisie to take possession of Leon Donat. All the same, she could not wait for the next hour to be over.

Another guard took the papers Leslie handed him, and they were instructed to wait, seated on a hard wooden bench in the cold entrance hall. Leslie's hands were shaking.

“Take some deep breaths, Mr. Leslie. And put your hands in your pockets. This is a nerve-racking place because they want to intimidate people. You have every right to be here, representing His Majesty's government and as a citizen of Great Britain. And I have every right to bring out my father, who should not have been sent to any prison.”

Leslie shoved his hands into his pockets and was about to respond, when a man in a black uniform, with shining black boots, appeared in front of them.

“Fräulein Donat?”

Maisie stood up, giving a half smile to acknowledge the officer. He smiled in return.

“Come with me.”

Leslie stood up to follow.

“Not you. Only Fräulein Donat.”

Leslie sat down again. Maisie followed the officer up the staircase and along a corridor to a spacious but unembellished office, with a window looking out onto the street.

When Maisie entered, another officer of the Schutzstaffel was rocking back and forth on a chair behind a broad desk of dark wood. He did not look up, but continued rocking while flipping through sheets of paper until Maisie was standing in front of him. He allowed his chair to rock forward, the legs meeting the floor with an audible thump, and then stood up and held out his hand, inviting Maisie to take the seat opposite him. The officer who had accompanied Maisie pulled out the chair, waiting for her to be seated before taking up a place behind the man who would be conducting the interview, who was now inspecting her papers.

“Fräulein Donat.”

“Yes.” Maisie nodded.

The officer looked at her, then at her passport. He shrugged. “You have no brothers or sisters?”

Maisie shook her head. “No. And now my mother is dead, there is only my father and myself.”

“You are aware of why he was arrested?”

“I have been given details, yes.”

“And what do you say to that? Your father was accused of proliferating literature disrespectful to the Führer.”

Maisie chewed her lip. She had gone through all the questions that would be asked. Time and again, at the house in the Cotswolds, she had been subjected to mock interviews designed to mirror what might
be put to her in Munich. Almost every scenario had been anticipated, her answers commented upon and edited each time.

“I found it most hard to believe,” said Maisie. “My father wanted only to represent the academic books and the professors who write for his company.”

“He wanted to sell British books to German students?”

“In the fields that my father's company publishes—mathematics, physics, chemistry, and so on—British students read many German authors. Those scientists respect each other, so the books my father's company publishes are read by students in many other countries.”

The officer nodded, as if she had passed a test. “Then why do you think he was involved in publishing subversive literature?”

Maisie appeared to give thought to the question, looking pained. “My father has always believed that we must be . . . that we must be . . . a support, I suppose you could say, to young people. It is my belief that my father might have been duped. He would never have knowingly supported any political activism. That was never his desire. He wants only to see students rise to the top, wherever they are and whichever country they come from.”

“Laudable, I am sure.” The man sighed, picked up her passport again, and looked from Maisie to the photograph. His eyes lingered on her, his stare focusing on her eyes, her mouth, her hair, then down to her shoulders. She did not flinch.

“Your father knows important people,” he said.

Maisie felt a bead of sweat trickle under the wig. She reached up and brushed her hand across her forehead.

“My father has crossed paths with many important people—mainly scientists who author the books his company publishes. Through that work he has met others. He has found that people of a certain status are always interested in new discoveries.” She clasped her hands. Surely
these matters had all been addressed during the negotiations with the British government. But Huntley had warned her.
They will toy with you—and we have to prepare you for that eventuality.

“Indeed,” said the officer. His English was perfect. “Do you have a religion, Fräulein Donat?”

Maisie smiled and shook her head. “My father is not a religious man, sir. He is a man of science. My mother liked to go to church at Christmas, Easter, and for christenings and weddings. So no, I do not have a religion. It was never our way.”

The man nodded and crooked a finger toward the officer who had brought her into his office. There was some muttering between them.

“The release of your father has been agreed between the Führer and your government. It remains only for me to ask a few questions and to confirm your identity.” He held out the passport and dropped it on the desk before her.

Maisie reached for the passport and placed it in her bag. She could barely conceal a sigh of relief. “I am anxious to see my father, sir.”

The man lifted a large metal stamp and brought it down four times, once on each document. The resounding thumps reverberated across the desk.

“You will have to wait, Fräulein Donat. Present yourself here on—” He flicked a daily calendar on his desk. “Present yourself here the day after tomorrow, on March the tenth. At the same time. Ten o'clock. You will be given papers, and you must go straight to Dachau to take possession of your father. Your consulate must provide transport to Dachau and then to the station, and your departure from Munich will be immediate. Is that clear?”

“Yes, that is perfectly clear, sir.”

“And what will you do in our fine city? You have almost two days to enjoy our hospitality.”

“Mr. Leslie, from the consulate, has told me that I should not miss the Residenz, and I would also like to visit a few museums. However, as you can imagine, I am very anxious to see my father, so it will be hard to concentrate on other things.”

The man placed his knuckles on the desk, pushed back his chair, and stood up. He was not as old as Maisie had first thought, perhaps in his mid-thirties, his black hair oiled and combed back. As he held out his hand to her, she noticed how unlined it was—the hand of someone who had been coddled, who was not a worker. His nails were manicured, and when their fingers touched, she thought it was almost like touching the hand of another woman. There was something about that softness that gave her pause. She wondered if his heart had hardened in compensation.

L
eslie was waiting outside, along the street well away from the guard, who appeared to have been keeping an eye on him, looking over his shoulder as he marched back and forth. The man came to attention and gave a short bow as Maisie passed, inclining her head in acknowledgment. Leslie joined her, though they did not speak until they had turned the corner, beginning their walk back along the route they had taken to the Nazi headquarters.

“What did they say?” asked Leslie. “Did they give you a day to claim your father?”

Maisie smarted at the word
claim
. It was as if Leon Donat were a coat discarded as one entered the theater, left with the girl who waited at the cloakroom. Perhaps she should expect to press a few pfennigs into the hand of each guard when she reached Dachau, a thank-you for taking care of the man she would call “Papa” until they reached the seclusion of the train to Paris.

“They said the papers would be ready on Thursday, and they bid me an enjoyable time in Munich.”

“Longer to wait than I hoped. And not good.”

“Why?” asked Maisie. “It seems we expected a delay of a day at least—that some sort of game-playing might be on the cards.”

Leslie clapped his hands together as if to beat the cold from his fingertips. “Yes, we did—but I had hoped for it to be quicker, especially now.”

“What's happened? Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure, though I believe I'll find out when I get back to the consulate. There was a bit of a buzz as I left, and I heard someone mention Austria. I think something new has come up with Austria, and you never know with this lot—they might have all sorts of clampdowns just because something has happened somewhere else. That maniac Hitler—you've no idea where you stand, and it's not as if we haven't been expecting trouble across the border. With any country neighboring Germany, in fact—we're very concerned about Czechoslovakia, and Poland.”

Maisie said nothing. She wanted only to reach the next hill she had to climb, complete the ascent, and go home. She had been reflecting upon the circumstances of her recruitment for this mission. What had made her agree? Was it the need to be useful? To do something of worth? She could have said no, and now she was wishing she had. This was not her work. She was an investigator, a private inquiry agent. Yes, she had proved herself in other areas, and Maurice clearly thought she might—in fact, should—be called to service if Huntley saw fit. But now she realized that if she were to work again, it would be her own work. When this assignment was complete, when she had discharged her duties, she would give more thought to what she would do next.

“Miss Donat?”

“I'm sorry—I was miles away. Did you ask me a question?”

“Yes—I just asked if you would like company during the next day or so. What would you like to do in Munich? Despite all appearances, it is a very colorful city, and of course Bavaria is quite lovely.”

“I think I will consult my Baedeker, perhaps go for a walk in the English Gardens, visit the Residenz, and then spend most of my time
at the hotel. And please don't worry—I can manage on my own from now on.”

“I will of course accompany you again to Nazi headquarters to obtain the papers, and then we can go to Dachau from there. I'll have a consular motor car ready for us to proceed directly to the station.”

“All right. Then telephone me at the hotel tomorrow evening.”

“Are you sure you don't want company tomorrow?”

“Positive. I am used to being on my own in an unfamiliar country.”

“Right you are. We started to see women traveling alone or in pairs and small groups a few years ago. I suppose it was to be expected, what with fewer men to go around. I must say, you bachelor girls are all very brave when it comes to just going off on your own.”

They had reached the end of the narrow street, taken to avoid saluting Nazi heroes.

“I know my way from here, Mr. Leslie.”

“Are you sure you'll be all right?” Leslie looked at his watch.

Maisie smiled. “Oh, yes, I'll manage—I am one of those brave bachelor girls, after all.”

Leslie blushed. “I'll be in touch, then.”

I
n her hotel room, Maisie pulled off her coat, threw down her bag, and went straight to the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face, leaning over the sink and holding her hands to her eyes as the facecloth dripped water back into the sink. She had not known what to expect during the visit to the austere Nazi headquarters that morning, but she knew the tension would not leave her until she was in Paris, Leon Donat at her side. She raised her head and looked in the mirror. It was something she'd found herself doing more in the past months, as if she wanted to see who she had become, to monitor change. She
wanted to see if she looked like a widow, whether something in the way she carried herself revealed a woman who had lost a dear husband. Or did she resemble the young woman she had become after the war—one of so many “bachelor girls” who had, perhaps, lost a first love, spinsters for whom there would be no husband or family? She had been one of the lucky ones; her loss had been repaid, and she had loved again. That her husband had been killed and their child stillborn seemed to her a most unfair fate—as if a much-cherished promise had been rescinded, leaving an aching void.

She shook her head, reached for the towel, and made sure her wig was in the correct position. She would be glad to see it consigned to the dustbin as soon as she could divest herself of Edwina Donat. She put on her coat, hat, and gloves once more and checked the time. It was not even one o'clock. She could spend half a day today and much of tomorrow looking for Elaine Otterburn. At that thought she gave a sigh of relief. This was work she knew, even if it was in a different country.

There was one last element of preparation before she made her way back to the reception desk to ask directions to Schwabing. She reached into the leather case, unwrapped a cashmere cardigan with mother-of-pearl buttons, and removed a velvet pouch that looked as if it should contain toiletries. She slipped her hand inside and took out the revolver given to her by MacFarlane. With a deft hand she checked her weapon, used a cloth to remove any dust, and made it ready with ammunition. Running her fingers across the metal one more time, as if she were gentling a racehorse before a gallop, she slipped the Enfield into her bag. She could not have said why she thought she might need the revolver with her on a visit to Schwabing—an artists' enclave of bookstores, cafés, and nightclubs, on the face of it a benign place. But she knew she did not want to venture out without it this afternoon.

T
he desk clerk took Maisie's Baedeker guide, opened the map inside, and lifted his pencil. “May I?”

“Of course,” said Maisie. “I need to know where I'm going.”

Flourishing the pencil, the clerk marked the place where Maisie could board a tram and the point at which she should step off. He told her where to walk, and made a note in the margin of his favorite coffeehouse, where he informed her that she could buy a slice of the very best apple strudel. Maisie thanked the man and set off.

As the tram rumbled along the streets to Schwabing, Maisie watched people going about their afternoon—women running errands, children who looked as if they should be in school, and a couple she suspected were tourists, for they held a map and stopped a man in the street. He looked at their map, and pointed in the opposite direction to the one they had been walking. And men in uniform, usually in twos, or groups, receiving the inevitable acknowledgment from passersby, a salute to honor the chancellor.

Soon the conductress tapped her on the shoulder to let her know she had arrived; this was her stop.

“Danke. Guten Tag,” said Maisie as she moved toward the door.

The woman lifted her chin as she turned to another passenger to issue a ticket.

Stepping off the tram, Maisie looked up and down the street, taking stock of her surroundings. When the tram had moved off, she glanced across the road. She had no idea where she should start. How would she ever find Elaine Otterburn? The task seemed ridiculous—it was as if she had been asked to go to Chelsea and locate a person. But she had to start somewhere. She scratched her forehead where the wig had chafed her, causing a rash.

Elaine was a woman who liked society. She liked going out, and she liked to be noticed. It was mid-afternoon. Where would such a woman
go, if she was not at home? Where might a woman who liked to be the center of attention be found? Maisie began to walk along the street, pondering the question. She suspected Elaine was not a shopper, but would accompany her women friends on an expedition to look at new clothing if it meant a chance of laughter, of company. And of course she might be in a restaurant, or a bar—what did they call them? Beer halls? Maisie wondered if Elaine would go to a beer hall. She realized she could just imagine it. Leslie had described the beer halls to her—they'd been the chosen venue for Adolf Hitler to address the crowd in earlier years. On those occasions, most of his audience had been drinking for some time, and many harbored an opinion about their situation—a job or lack thereof. The man who was now the chancellor took advantage of the situation, his rhetoric mirroring the temper of the times, reflecting the mood of the people and milking it for all it was worth. According to Leslie, Hitler's eyes would almost pop out, sweat would pour from his brow, and spittle would fly as he barked out each syllable. The crowd devoured every word, more inebriated with drink and hyperbole as the minutes passed. “And he goes on for a long time,” added Leslie.

Maisie took a photograph of Elaine Otterburn from her bag and prepared to cross the road in the direction of what she thought looked like a very good women's clothing shop. It was next to the café recommended to her on one side, and a gentlemen's tailor on the other. Along the street were other shops—a hardware store, a grocer's, then another store selling general goods. There was a shop selling artists' materials, a bookseller's, another clothing shop, a pub, a restaurant, and another café. She turned around again. From the look of streets close to the shops, it appeared to be a nice area—what Priscilla might call “bohemian,” certainly, but not a slum. Not top-drawer, either. It seemed a place that would attract those who liked a bit of color in their
days—and nights. She could see a couple of shuttered music halls and a nightclub. Leslie had told her there used to be more, but many had closed down. And there were once a good number of small publishers in the area, selling magazines, broadsheets, opinion papers, books—though most had closed now, and the people who had worked on them had all but ceased to exist. There were, he said, “underground” presses, daily or weekly news and opinion from those opposed to the Nazi regime, published by people who railed against the loss of freedom in the name of keeping the country safe.

As she crossed the road, Maisie felt a whisper of cold air across the nape of her neck—a familiar sensation, where a scar ran just below her occipital bone. A shrapnel fragment had caught her flesh when the casualty clearing station where she was working in France, in 1917, had come under enemy fire. The same attack had almost taken the life of Simon Lynch, her former fiancé. The scar was barely visible now, yet it served her in its way, giving a warning when there was something close that demanded her attention. It was all but calling to her now.

She turned around. A man had stopped to look in the tailor's window before stepping inside, the bell over the door clanging as he entered. Maisie watched as a woman crossed the street behind her; she was walking toward the grocery shop. There were others in the vicinity—it was not a deserted thoroughfare—but nothing she saw explained the sense she had that someone was following her.

Entering the recommended café, Maisie took a seat. When the young waitress approached, she ordered a coffee with hot milk and some apple strudel. She was very hungry. Soon the waitress returned to the table, using the palm of her free hand to smooth out the white embroidered tablecloth. She placed the coffee and strudel on the table and dipped as if to curtsy. Maisie smiled at her and held out the photograph of Elaine Otterburn.

“I wonder, have you seen this woman in your café?” she asked in German. “She is the daughter of one of my oldest friends, and though I know she lives here in this area, I have lost her address. I know I'm hoping for a miracle, but your café is just the sort of place she loves!”

The waitress looked at the photograph, shook her head, and apologized. No, she did not know the woman. Maisie thanked her and continued to enjoy her coffee, which was rich with creamy milk and hot. When she had finished, she gathered up her gloves and bag, left a few pfennigs for the waitress, and made her way back out onto the street.

She moved on to the dress shop. No one had seen Elaine. Then to the grocery shop—which she thought was rather a stretch; she couldn't imagine Elaine cooking anything. But it was here that there was a glimmer of recognition as Maisie paid for an apple and then repeated her story. The man smiled and wiped his hands on his brown apron before taking the photograph, squinting as he studied the image. The abrupt change from helpfulness to a sudden interest in the next customer was almost imperceptible.

“Nein. Ich habe noch nie diese Frau gesehen.”
No, I have never seen this woman before.

Maisie thanked the man, who was already addressing the next customer with a cheery smile. She left the shop, certain that the man had indeed seen Elaine Otterburn. Why had he lied to her? And something else was bothering her. The person waiting behind her, to whom the shopkeeper had turned when he claimed he did not know the woman in the photograph, was the same man she had watched enter the tailor's along the street.

The general store held nothing of interest for her, though she thought she might buy some souvenirs. Purchasing a couple of postcards might not be a bad idea; at least it demonstrated an interest in the local attractions. The bar—a wood-beamed pub—was still a few
yards away. Maisie imagined a darkened interior, with brown paneling and gravel-voiced daytime drinkers in corners, furtively caressing a glass of schnapps, or a rowdy crowd ready to move on to another venue for afternoon entertainment. She sighed. Yes, she would have to go in, though she dreaded it. On the other hand, she was well versed in entering dark, dingy places in the interests of gathering information. Still steps away, she heard the volume increase, with even louder laughter, shouting, teasing. The doors of the bar seemed to crash open to more giggling as a motor car came from along the street and pulled up parallel to the open doors. Three officers of the Schutzstaffel emerged from the pub, accompanied by three women. It would seem they were all enjoying the afternoon, each woman dressed in expensive clothing, one with a fur collar, the others with coats draped around their shoulders. High heels clicked along the pavement, and a woman's laughter punctuated the air, like champagne bubbles rising in a fluted glass.