His Majesty's Hope (6 page)

“Not as glorious as you,” he replied, going for her lips. Finally,
they broke apart. “Are you ready?” he said, grabbing her hand. Together, they slipped out of the bushes and ran down the street, to the Grunewald S-Bahn station. He began singing,
“It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing—”

Together, they ran down the dark and deserted street, singing,
“Doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah!”

The Berlin Swing Parties were never held twice in the same place. The dates and locations were always changing. Only secret whistles and passed notes gave information to those in the know.

This night’s party was being held in an abandoned art deco theater in Schöneberg. A slim man wearing a top hat and a monocle was taking contributions at the door. However, when Elise and Fritz made it to the front of the line, they realized he was really a woman, dressed in drag and chewing on a cigar.

Inside, it was hot, close, and loud. The air smelled of smoke and sweat and sweet ylang-ylang perfume. A swing orchestra—men in white coats and black bow ties—was assembled onstage, playing, “Hep! Hep! The Jumpin’ Jive.” The brass wailed, the cymbals crashed, and drums beat time in a way that shook the floorboards. There were young people sitting on the sidelines at café tables with wrought-iron chairs snapping their fingers and keeping time, but most were up and dancing, jumping, and flying through the air in lifts and twists.

Across the dance floor, a few couples at a table spied Elise and Fritz and waved. They threaded their way through the crowd. There was only one seat, so Fritz took it and Elise perched in his lap. One of the women took a drag on her Trommler and stared out at the dancers. “It’s like rearranging chairs on the deck of the
Titanic
,” she remarked in a husky voice.

Elise took the woman’s cigarette, then realized she was a young man with makeup. “I think it’s brave!” Elise shouted over the noise.

“Listen to that scat,” Fritz said, leaning back and snapping his fingers. “He might be German, but he sounds just like Cab Calloway.” He gave Elise a gentle slap on the bottom. “Want to dance?”

She smiled and passed the cigarette back. “Of course!”

Fritz led Elise into the crowd as the orchestra segued into Louis Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing.” The other dancers were also young: boys with vests and Windsor knots, girls in floral dresses and flowing curls freed from braids.

It was crowded, so they started out with sugar pushes, skip ups, and side passes. “The King and Queen of Harlem!” someone shouted, and the crowd began to move aside, circling around Elise and Fritz as they started aerials: Lindy flips, candlesticks, Frankie snatches, frogs, and belly cherries.

“Go! Go! Go!” the other dancers shouted in English as Elise and Fritz kicked, jumped, and spun, her skirt flipping up to reveal her garters as the saxophones sang and trumpets blared.

When it was done, the crowd applauded, and the orchestra began “Take the ‘A’ Train.” Fritz, breathing heavily, led Elise back to the table, where he pulled out a flask. He opened it and offered it to her. She took a gulp.

“
Mein Gott
, there’s only one thing better than dancing,” Elise said breathlessly, pushing back damp hair and giving Fritz a significant look.

He winked at her. “I’ll go now. Meet me in five minutes.”

In the alley behind the theater, Elise gave a contented sigh and pulled her panties back up and her skirt back down.

“Someday, I’d like to do it with you in a bed, not just a wall job,” Fritz said, leaning against the postered brick wall.

“Oh stop!” Elise protested, flushed and laughing. “Someone will hear us!”

Fritz pulled off the condom he was wearing and began to pee, hitting the soldier in black featured on an SS recruitment poster square in the face. “Swing Heil!” he shouted, as he shook his penis and zipped up his trousers.

“Fritz!”

“What! You weren’t so shy a few minutes ago.”

“Well, that was different.”

“For a girl who wants to be a nun, I’ll say.”

“I haven’t taken any vows yet, remember,” Elise said, straightening the seams on her stockings. “And, until I do, I see nothing wrong with enjoying life.”

The metal doors of the theater were flung open as people ran out. “H.J.!” one girl shouted. Elise gasped. The
Jugend
—Hitler Youth—often stalked the swing parties and shut them down for being “un-German.” They were violent and unpredictable, like the leaders they followed. More people poured out as Elise and Fritz watched in shock.

They heard shouting over a megaphone from inside. “We are closing this club! Give your names at the door!” A group of H.J., dressed in black, swarmed out into the alley to corral people back inside. Through the open doorway, Elise could see fights had broken out between the H.J. and the swing dancers as the
Jugends’
hard rubber batons met flimsy umbrellas.

“Come on!” Elise called, grabbing Fritz’s hand. “We must go!” The two ran as fast and as hard as they could away from the H.J. and the club, finally finding an open church, St. Michael’s.

Once inside, they slammed the doors shut. Then, breathless,
they took seats in hard wooden pews, a still and silent world away from the riotous dance club. The church smelled of incense. An organist was practicing Bach’s
“Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme.”
A priest, preparing the altar for the next day’s Mass, shot them a baleful look but said nothing.

Then the doors banged open—the H.J. with their red swastika armbands. Elise turned in the pew, waiting, ready. Fritz stood, holding his umbrella. The air felt charged, the way it did before a thunderstorm.

The priest, an older man with silver hair combed over large ears, looked up and assessed the situation. “This is a place of worship,” he intoned to the boys in uniforms, his voice filling the soaring space as it did on Sunday mornings. “This is no place for you.”

“This is no place for you!” one of the older boys rejoined, spitting on the floor with contempt. “The Germans are God’s chosen people and Hitler is our Savior! We don’t need churches and priests and ministers telling us what to do anymore.” He looked back to his comrades and began chanting: “Hang the Jews! Put the priests against the walls!”

One by one, the other boys joined in. “Hang the Jews! Put the the priests against the walls! Hang the Jews! Put the priests against the walls!”

“Stop!” the priest thundered from the altar. The ugly face-off was interrupted by the menacing howl of an air-raid siren.

The H.J. boys looked at one another, then back to the priest.
“Heil Hitler,”
they said in near unison, saluting.

“Gute nacht,”
he replied.

The head H.J. boy took one step toward the priest, then another. The siren wailed. “Say
‘Heil Hitler.’ ”

The priest held his ground. “Good evening.”

“Say
‘Heil Hitler,’
old man!”

The priest didn’t flinch.

The boy reached behind the priest and pulled off his skullcap, throwing it to the floor. He spat on it, then ground it under his black boot. As the other boys cheered and the sirens continued their wail, he turned and left, the rest following after.

The priest nodded to Elise and Fritz, leaving the defiled skullcap on the floor. “You can come with me—we have a crypt that doubles as a bomb shelter.”

Elise and Fritz followed, meeting up with him at the altar. The organist, a stout older woman with large hands perfect for bridging octaves, came, too.

As they walked together, Elise said, “You didn’t say
‘Heil Hitler’
to them. Weren’t you afraid of being arrested?”

“My dear,” the priest replied, opening the door behind the altar that led down into the crypt and letting them all enter first. “I made the decision a very long time ago not to say
‘heil’
to anyone but God.”

The next morning, Maggie cornered David in the dining room over his breakfast and newspaper. It was dim, so she pushed aside the blackout curtains and opened a few of the windows, letting in lemony sunlight and warm morning air.

“Mr. Wright, hmm?” she teased, sitting down and pouring herself a cup of weak tea.

“Jumping Jupiter, stop—just stop!” David said, turning red. It was one of the few times in their four years of friendship that Maggie had ever seen him blush.

“When did all … this … happen?” she asked.

“While you were off—doing, well, whatever it is you’ve been doing for the last few months.”

Maggie spread margarine on a piece of toast. “And is it serious?” she asked. David had had numerous romances and love affairs, flirtations and flings—including one with a British traitor at Windsor Castle—but never had anyone serious in his life.
Perhaps he’s growing up?
Maggie wondered.
Goodness knows, living through these last few years has changed us all
. Maggie was one of the very, very,
very
few people who knew David was homosexual, and she took the responsibility of keeping his secret seriously.

“It is, actually,” David said, through a large mouthful of toast.

Maggie looked down at her nightgown and ratty plaid flannel
robe. “He’s not still here, is he?” she asked, patting her disheveled hair and glancing to the doorway.

“Oh, goodness, no. He took off before dawn.”

“Well, congratulations to both of you. I think it’s absolutely wonderful.” Maggie stood to give David a huge embrace, causing him to choke on a crumb.

“Careful there, Mags. It would be a shame to survive all those air raids, only to be taken out by an overenthusiastic flatmate and a wayward piece of toast.”

Maggie returned to her seat, beaming. “I’m just so happy for you, David.”

“Well, it’s not all hearts and flowers, you know.”

“Really? Why on earth not?”

“Oh, nothing at all to do with Freddie.” David sighed. “It’s my parents, you see. They think it’s high time I should get married. To a nice Jewish girl. Have babies and suchlike things. I blame the war for it. Before, I might have managed my bachelor existence. Now, they’re suddenly quite concerned with their potential progeny.”

Maggie took a sip of tea. “Well, can’t you just put them off?”

“That’s the sticky part. They’re not religious at all, just go to temple on the High Holidays. One of my father’s favorite foods is bacon, for heaven’s sake. But ever since the Nuremberg Laws passed, they’re twitchy. And now they’ve given me an ultimatum. Find a bride and get married by my thirtieth birthday, or be completely cut off. In case you don’t remember, I’ll be thirty on—”

“September third. Yes, of course I know when your birthday is, you lout.” Maggie contemplated David’s parents’ ultimatum. It was horrible, of course, but still just a bit funny. She snorted a little. David did love his luxuries so. The idea of his making do without seemed … interesting. “You know, the rest of us seem to survive without vast sums from rich relatives.”

“I’m cursed with exquisite taste, Mags! Cursed, I say! Plus, this flat is in their name. I’d have to find somewhere else to live.” He leaned in toward her. “We’d
all
have to find somewhere else to live,” he said pointedly.

Maggie did still own her late grandmother’s house on Portland Place in Marylebone, but there were too many ghosts there, so she had rented it out. “I understand.” She put on her best serious face. “So what do you plan to do?”

“No idea.” He took an enormous bite of toast. “Speaking of love, how’s what’s-his-name?”

David had been best friends with Maggie’s late almost-fiancé, John Sterling. They had all worked together at Number 10 for Mr. Churchill, before John joined the RAF. His Lancaster had crashed somewhere near Berlin and he was officially classified as “missing and presumed dead.” His family had held a memorial service a few months ago; Maggie had taken the train from Scotland to London to attend and mourn, along with David. Loyal to the core to his late friend, David wasn’t enamored of Maggie’s current beau, Hugh Thompson. “What’s his name again? Stew? Lou? Prue?”

Maggie frowned. “You know perfectly well what his name is. And
Hugh
is fine, thank you. In fact, I was coming from his flat last night. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“You’re right, Mags.” David had the decency to look ashamed. “You’re a grown woman—you have the right to live your life.”

“David, I loved John,” Maggie said. “I did. He was my first love. And it nearly killed me to find out his plane had been shot down. To have Nigel write to me to say that they’d given up hope. I was at the memorial service if you recall, holding up his mother.” Maggie raised her chin. “But life
does
go on.”

“I know, I know,” David amended. “So—how is
Hugh
?”

She smiled. “
I
don’t kiss and tell. Besides, it’s the last time we’ll see each other, for a while.”

“Really?” David didn’t know exactly what Maggie was up to, but as Winston Churchill’s head private secretary, he had a fair amount of clearance; he knew she’d been training with SOE. “Off so soon? No rest for the weary, apparently.”

“You know I can’t give details.”

“Well, I hope I still have the flat whenever it is you return. If I can’t figure anything else out—” David stood and walked over to Maggie, then dropped down dramatically on one knee. He took her hand in both of his. “Maggie, my redheaded shiksa goddess, would you do me the supreme honor of marrying me?” He grinned. “After you convert, of course.”

Maggie nearly spat out her tea. “I’m, ah, very flattered, David, and will keep it in mind. But as one of the ‘overlooked people’—and a Jeffersonian agnostic at that—I’m not sure marriage to me specifically would do the trick. Not that I don’t appreciate the lovely offer, of course.”

David looked serious as he stood up. “Far safer to be one of the overlooked at this point, I should think. By the way, give ’em hell, Mags.”

She gave him a tight smile. “I certainly intend to.”

Hell was just what Maggie Hope had trained for.

When she returned to the SOE office later that morning, she was directed to Noreen Baxter, a woman about Maggie’s age, with pale skin, rosebud lips, and crimped brown hair. “Don’t be nervous, darling,” she said, slipping her arm through Maggie’s as they walked the corridors of 64 Baker. She drew close and whispered in Maggie’s ear. “You’re the first woman to be dropped—we’re all rooting for you.”