The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(38)
Elise had a moment of panic as she looked out the window. No one on the streets bothered to look up, let alone meet her gaze. Anything could happen in here, she realized. Of course, anything could happen out there, too—and no one would lift a finger, either.
“Welcome back to Berlin, Fr?ulein Hess. You will meet with me tomorrow, nine A.M., at the Gestapo headquarters.” It was not a request. “There is paperwork to be done.”
Elise stared straight ahead. In front of her, the driver’s thick neck looked like a raw red sausage. “My paperwork is in order, Captain Fausten.”
He smiled once again. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Elise closed her eyes and gave a quiet sigh.
The sleek black car drove through Berlin, past grim-faced pedestrians who hid their eyes under hats and huddled into their coats, stalled cars giving off noxious exhaust fumes, rusty bicycles, and the occasional horse-drawn cart. It was, perhaps, not the most beautiful city in the world, especially now—but it was hers.
But Berlin had altered since she’d seen it last. In only a few months, old men were selling matchsticks on street corners. Gaunt women were searching the gutters for cigarette butts. In the Tiergarten, covered in dirty snow, shanties made from cardboard boxes shivered in the icy wind. Sullen women with too much makeup and hollow-eyed young boys beckoned from windows and alleys.
There was fear, too—Elise could smell it, metallic. It hung in the air like poisonous gas. No one met anyone else’s gaze. Everyone walked as fast as he could. They all practiced the “Berlin look”—glancing to check each way before they entered and exited their apartment buildings.
They drove down Pariser Platz and under the Brandenburg Gate, covered in red Nazi flags and crowned by the triumphant Quadriga sculpture, which looked to Elise more like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse than the symbol of victory. As the Opel pulled up to the Adlon, a doorman in gold epaulets and white gloves opened the door. Another went to retrieve Elise’s suitcase.
Fausten put a hand on Elise’s arm. She started at the touch. “Fr?ulein Hess, I have read your files. I can see you’re a good girl,” he said. “A good German. An Aryan woman of the finest blood. I will do everything I can to help you.”
Elise shook him off and got out of the car, waiting for the driver to bring her suitcase. Without warning, two Brownshirts in an alley across the street forced an old man into the back of an unmarked car behind them, its exhaust pipe choking out thick smoke as it sped away.
She stared at Fausten, who had rolled down the car window. “And I will pray for you,” she told him.
Now the smile was gone. “Tomorrow. Nine A.M. Don’t be late.”
Elise passed through the entrance of the hotel and into the lobby, a bellhop following with her suitcase. It was like entering a dreamworld. With its palm court, fountain, and leather club chairs, the marble space was soaring and grand. Huge cut-glass vases of red roses and edelweiss—known to be the Führer’s favorite flowers—adorned every gleaming surface. A harpist in the corner played over the genteel murmurings of the staff and guests.
Her father stood waiting for her in the petal-scented lobby. “Engel,” Miles Hess cried, opening his arms, oblivious to the stares of the other patrons.
Elise ran to him. “Papa,” she gasped, burrowing her shorn head into his chest.
—
“Not too fast, Engel,” Miles Hess warned as she inhaled cheeses, meats, seeded bread with honey, and hard-boiled eggs. Elise hunched over, eating with her hands, like an animal.
Her father stared, then looked away. “Slowly, darling. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I don’t care,” Elise mumbled through a swig of hot coffee—real coffee—still chewing. “I don’t think I’ll ever be full again.” She smeared bread with gooseberry jam before stuffing it into her mouth. She wrapped up all the food left in her napkin and hid it on her lap under the table when she was done. Her father pretended not to notice.
“I still can’t get over how you look….”
“I heard about Mutti.” She took a gulp of coffee. “They told me at the camp.”
Miles sat down next to her. Gently, he asked, “What did they tell you?”
“That she was killed defending the glory and honor of Nazi Germany.” Elise gave a twisted smile. “My mother died a ‘hero.’?”
“Your mother…” Miles began. Then he put up one hand. “Wait.”
He rose and walked over to a table with a Victrola and selected a record—a version of Mozart’s Don Giovanni he himself had conducted. He turned up the volume, then came back to the table. He whispered into her ear, “Your mother isn’t dead.”
“What?” Elise’s brain began to spin. She knew her mother had disappeared in the chaos, along with her half sister.
Miles put a finger to his lips to silence her. “She turned herself over to the British authorities. She’s probably working with them as we speak, providing them with information only she knows from the Abwehr.”
Elise tried to follow what her father was saying, but she was tired, she was so weary….Once again the objects around her seemed unreal. Bread, she reminded herself of the words. Knife. Cup.
“Of course, the official Party line is she died in a great act of patriotism. We will, at some point, need to be photographed leaving flowers on her grave at Friedhof Heerstra?e, in order to keep up the charade.”