His Majesty's Hope (17 page)

As Father Licht drove through the streets of Berlin-Mitte, Elise
began to drum her fingers on her lap. “I know you’re nervous,” the priest said, “but you’re going to have to hide it better than that.”

Elise stopped her hands. “Terrified.”

Father Licht flicked his eyes up to the rearview mirror, taking in the silent man. “About hiding your taciturn friend?”

Elise gave a nervous bark of laughter in response. “No, about being late. My mother’s having a party. And if I don’t get there soon, she’s going to
kill
me.”

A driver took Maggie and Gottlieb to Grunewald. In his lap, Gottlieb held an enormous bunch of orchids wrapped in tissue and tied with silver ribbons for their hostess. In the car, they were silent for most of the ride, holding hands and looking at the scenery. Finally, Maggie spoke. “Is the party at”—she struggled with the name—“Clara Hess’s home?”

“Yes,” Gottlieb replied. “Grunewald is a well-to-do suburb of Berlin. Just a bit past Charlottenburg, near the Olympic Stadium.”

“I see.”

“We can’t just go in and go out,” Gottlieb said.

“No,
really
?” Maggie snapped.
Does he think I’m an idiot?

“I know you’re anxious,” he said, keenly aware that the driver could be listening to them, “but don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry,” she echoed. “Of course not.”

Eventually, the long black car began to wind through the tree-lined streets of Grunewald, stopping when the driver pulled up to a high, ornate gate. One guard checked Maggie’s and Gottlieb’s papers, while another peered suspiciously inside the car and the
trunk. Maggie feared both men could hear her heart thundering in her chest, but apparently they didn’t, because ultimately they waved them through.

The car pulled into the circular gravel drive of a white neoclassical villa, and they waited in line, behind gleaming Brennabors, Mercedes-Benzes, and Maybachs. They inched their way past a fountain and strutting peacocks, and up to the grand front entranceway, hung with long red Nazi flags and bunting.
Is this a party or a rally?
Maggie wondered.

A doorman in black livery opened Maggie’s car door and offered a white-gloved hand to help her out.

“Danke schön,”
she said. Gottlieb walked around to meet her, bent low to press his lips to her hand, and then offered his arm.
He might be pompous
, Maggie decided,
and have ridiculously big ears, but his manners are impeccable
. She took his arm, as well as a deep breath, and together they walked up the marble stairs and through the double doors, into Clara Hess’s home.

“Here!” Elise said, pointing to a large white villa. “But not the front. Pull into the servants’ entrance—there, yes, that’s it.”

Father Licht did as he was told, pulling around the gleaming dark cars waiting in line to be admitted to the front, and going through a different security check—where Elise did all the talking. “Yes,” she said, showing her papers, “I’m Clara Hess’s daughter.”

“Who are these two?” The guard frowned.

Elise gave an impatient exhale. “Well, they’re priests. Obviously.”

“What are they doing here?”

“They’re going to bless the food, of course.”

The guard looked dubious.

“Look, we’re running late, and I really don’t want to tell my mother—Clara Hess—that it was because of a holdup for security …”

“All right,” the man said, waving them through. “Have a good evening.”

Father Licht looked impressed and not a little relieved.

“Park here,” Elise said, pointing. “All the servants will be busy getting ready for the party,” she said. “At least that’s what I’m counting on. Come on, you’re going to help me get him to the door and then up the back stairs. Then you
can
bless the food.”

She gave the priest a half smile. “After all, I wouldn’t want to tell a lie.”

It’s big
, Maggie had to admit when she walked through the doors, looking around as Gottlieb handed the orchids to a maid. They entered a marble great room with a circular stairway. Servants circulated with silver trays holding crystal champagne coupes etched with small swastikas. Hanging over the fireplace was an enormous oil painting of Adolf Hitler by Conrad Hommel—the Führer in full dress uniform under a foreboding sky, gazing over a battlefield. Gottlieb reached for two glasses. “Here you go,
Schatzi
,” he said, offering her one.

Maggie accepted the glass and took a tiny sip. She forced a smile, fixing her lips in an approximate curve of merriment. “Thank you.”

The next room was even grander, with Ionic columns and a marble fireplace large enough to roast a wild boar. Partygoers milled about—men in dress uniform or white tie with Nazi pins and medals, women in long gowns of black or white silk, with long buttoned gloves. The room was scented with beeswax candles and
vases and vases of flowers—white roses and greenery dotted with tiny white blooms. A string quartet played Bach. Gottlieb remarked, “Edelweiss is the Führer’s favorite flower.”

“How lovely.” Maggie’s tone was flat.

They passed through room after room, each with its presiding painting or bust of Hitler. They came to a library, where Maggie was confronted with a massive portrait of a young Clara as Elsa in Wagner’s
Lohengrin
. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed; she needed to clear her head and stop her hands from shaking. “Let’s go outside for a moment,” she said to Gottlieb, gesturing to the French doors that opened to the villa’s gardens.

He took their empty glasses and gave them to a servant. Then he clicked his heels together and offered his arm. “Your wish is my command.”

The gardens were extensive, grand and symmetrical, with marble statues of gods and goddesses and burbling fountains. Blue-green peacocks with iridescent tails strutted over the velvety grass, their imitation eyes keeping careful watch. Wide paths wound through banks of roses, and the entire space was ringed with birch trees, glowing white in the setting sun.

“Bosco sacro,”
Maggie said.

“Sacred wood?” Gottlieb said.

“Yes, a grove of trees in an Italianate garden, inspired by groves where pagans worshipped.”

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “We have company.”

Maggie turned to see another couple strolling toward them. Gottlieb obviously recognized them. He stopped and gave a smart salute.
“Heil Hitler!”

The man responded with a salute, as did the woman with him. Maggie recognized them from photographs—Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels and his wife, Magda. Goebbels was a tiny man, cadaverously thin, with a long, pinched face and a
clubfoot. Yet there was a strange appeal to him: dark, shining eyes, graceful hands, a deep baritone voice. Magda Goebbels was handsome, not beautiful, and wore glittering swastikas fashioned from diamonds, jet, and rubies.

“You remember Gottlieb Lehrer, from the Abwehr?” Goebbels looked to his wife. “He works with Clara Hess.”

“
Guten Abend
, Herr Lehrer,” Magda said.

“
Abend, gnädige
Frau Goebbels,” he responded, kissing her gloved hand.

Goebbels looked at Maggie. She felt a tremor of fear. “And who is this?”

“Dr. Goebbels,
gnädige
Frau Goebbels,” Gottlieb responded, “may I present Fräulein Margareta Hoffman,
mein feste Freundin.
”

Maggie noted that he called her the equivalent of “my serious girlfriend.”

“Delighted to meet you,
gnädiges Fräulein,
” said Goebbels, kissing Maggie’s hand. “What a beautiful creature,” he remarked to Gottlieb. “How did you two meet?”

Despite the warm evening breeze, Maggie began to shiver.

“In Rome, Dr. Goebbels,” Gottlieb said without hesitation. “I was there for the Abwehr conference with the Vatican. Fräulein Hoffman was assigned to me for various secretarial duties. When the conference was over, she graciously agreed to have dinner with me. By the end of my stay, I had not only fallen in love but convinced Fräulein Hoffman to visit me in Berlin.”

“But you
are
German, yes?” Goebbels probed. His eyes locked on Maggie’s.

“Yes, sir,” Maggie said, her palms damp in her long gloves. She remembered her cover story. “I grew up in Frankfurt, and went to school in Switzerland, at Château Mont-Choisi.”

“Ah, that explains your accent.” Goebbels nodded.

“And how are your little ones, madame?” Gottlieb asked
Magda, changing the subject—the Goebbels had six adorable blond children.

“All are quite well, thank you.”

At the French doors, a butler rang a silver bell for everyone to come inside. Both couples made their way through the garden, allowing for Goebbels’s limp.

As the older couple went inside, Gottlieb and Maggie lingered for a moment. “There’s a joke,” Gottlieb whispered in Maggie’s ear, “about the Aryans.”

Maggie was pale. “Really,” she managed.

“The Aryans—athletic like Goebbels, slim like Göring, and blond like Hitler.”

Maggie gave a grim smile. “Shall we?”

Gottlieb offered his arm. “We shall.”

Agonizing over every footfall on the stairs and each creak of the floorboards, Elise and Father Licht managed to get Herr Mystery up to the attic and onto the bed. She carefully opened the window a crack, peeking out to see a young couple walking in the garden below.

She turned back to her patient and tucked him in, then put a hand to his forehead. “You’re still warm,” she murmured. She reached into a bag she’d brought from the hospital that contained needles and tubes, bags of saline and bottles of antibiotics. “I’m going to start you on another round.” She cleaned her hands with a cotton pad soaked in alcohol, then inserted the IV line into his inner elbow. As she hung the bag from the bed’s headboard, Herr Mystery closed his eyes and began breathing deeply.

“What now?” whispered Father Licht.

Elise checked the hands on her tiny gold watch in the light from
the setting sun. “Now I need to get dressed.” She looked at the sleeping body in the bed, then tiptoed to the priest and flung her arms around him impulsively. “Thank you so much for your help, Father,” she whispered. She let go; the priest’s face was red.

“Shhhhh,” he reminded her.
“Wände haben Ohren.”
Walls have ears.

“You’re right—we must go. I will take you to the kitchen, where you can bless the food. If anyone asks, it’s a personal favor for me.” She winked. “That way I don’t have to say I lied in confession.”

All of the party guests were crowding around the grand staircase. Maggie overheard snatches of conversation:
“I really don’t see why the British don’t come to their senses—it’s not like they can win, after all …”

Goebbels went partway up the stairs, then turned to face his enraptured audience, mesmerizing them with his black eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried,
“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!”

“I’m pleased—no, delighted—to be here to celebrate the birthday of the eternally young, eternally beautiful,
gnädige Frau
Clara Hess.”

Maggie, braced for her first sight of her mother, noticed the sour look on Magda Goebbels’s face. Was Herr Goebbels just a bit too enthusiastic for his wife’s taste?

Goebbels continued, “Who is not only the epitome of Aryan womanhood but an integral and important part of the Third Reich. I am proud to present … 
Clara Hess!
” With a flourish, he gestured to the top of the stairs.

A figure emerged on the landing, tall and slim with white-blond
hair and the regal posture of a Valkyrie. Unlike the rest of the women at the party, she wore a gown of gleaming crimson. It was impossible to look away from her.

Maggie began to tremble.
No—no, this can’t be happening …
Gottlieb noticed and put his arm protectively around her shoulders.
This can’t be happening. I can’t believe this is happening
. Maggie had known this moment would come, she’d gone over it countless times in her head. But no rehearsals could have prepared her for the reality. She swayed, unsteady on her feet, as Clara descended.

Clara Hess swept down the curving marble stairs to join Goebbels, a Mona Lisa smile touching her crimson-painted lips. When she reached him, he bent and kissed her black-gloved hand.

“Thank you, Joseph,” she said, turning to the assembled throng. “And thank you, everyone. How kind of you all to come here, to celebrate my birthday. I ask for no present but your presence.” Her smile widened. “As some of you may remember, I used to be an opera singer, a lyric soprano. Of course, I have more important work to do now, but I do like to remember my roots, as well as celebrate our shared Germanic culture. Tonight, I beg your humble indulgence, while I sing. I may be more of a mezzo now, but my passion for music remains the same.”

The crowd parted before her as she walked through the vestibule and into the great room amid another swell of applause. In front of the marble fireplace was a grand piano. Clara stood in its wing and turned, her crimson train swirling about her feet.

She gestured to the piano bench. “Ladies and gentlemen, my accompanist—my daughter, the beautiful and accomplished Elise Hess.”

A sister? I have a half sister?
Maggie gave an involuntary gasp.

But the bench was empty.

Then, red-faced and breathless, a young woman in white
dashed in through a side door and slid into place in the glow of the silver candelabra. She took a shaky breath, then opened the score to
Lohengrin
as Clara glared her disapproval.

There was polite applause as Elise raised her hands, poised over the keyboard.

Maggie bit the inside of her lip and tasted blood. She heard a faint buzzing in her head.
No, this can’t be happening. It really can’t. It’s like a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon, yes, I’m sure of it …

Elise lowered her hands to the keys and began to play the minor-key opening chords. Clara took a breath and sang Ortrud’s aria: