“Yes, sir,” she replied in Parisian-accented French.
Philby contemplated the duo. “Hubert Taillier and Sabine Severin,” he intoned, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Sarah and Hugh gave each other shy smiles.
“Let me clarify,” Philby stated. “Your mission is to go to Paris. You will pose as a married couple. We’ve been working on your cover story for quite some time. Madame Severin—yes, you use your stage name, not your married name—you are a French ballerina who’s been dancing in Monte Carlo. There will be an opening at the Paris Opéra Ballet, and you will join the company.”
“There will ‘happen’ to be an opening?” Sarah asked.
Philby raised a hand. “Let us worry about that part. And Monsieur Taillier—you are Madame’s husband, a cellist, exempt from military service because of a heart defect. You will play the cello in the Opéra’s orchestra. You are both noted Nazi sympathizers.”
“But the dance world is small.” Sarah knit her brows. “Whether it’s Britain or France. They’d know us, know of us—at least by reputation.”
Hugh nodded. “The music world is small, too. If we’re supposed to be good enough to perform with the Paris Opéra Ballet, they would at least have heard of us already.”
“We’re taking care of this. Our contact at the Opéra is émile Charron. He’s been talking you both up to the artistic directors and the management. We’ve created some false newspaper reviews of your performances from Monte Carlo, so he can show them your photographs and your reviews. We’ll take care of all the details.”
“Except—I haven’t been practicing,” Sarah admitted. “I haven’t been dancing. Running, jumping, shooting, throwing hand grenades, yes—ballet, no.”
Philby leaned back in his chair and eyed her. “Isn’t it like riding a bicycle?”
“There’s a saying in ballet—Miss one class, you know. Miss two classes, your fellow dancers know. Miss three classes, the audience knows.” She sighed. “And I have missed months and months of class.”
Hugh looked down at his hands. “And I haven’t played the cello seriously in years.”
Philby quirked an eyebrow. “Then I suggest you both get to work.”
As Hugh blanched, Sarah asked, “And, once we’re there, in Paris?”
“We will let you know your mission when we’re sure you’re going. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
They waited.
“Remember, you’re a married couple—you’re going to have to practice relating as man and wife as well. You must be convincing.”
Sarah and Hugh looked to each other, then both dropped their eyes. Hugh flushed.
“How much time do we have?” Sarah asked.
“We’ll let you know,” Philby replied, handing Hugh a heavy iron key. “In the meantime, I’ll let you two lovebirds settle in.”
—
Elise reached Berlin, the train’s brakes screeching and steam hissing. It was still daylight, and weak winter sun shone through the arched glass skylights of the terminal’s roof.
Elise summoned every shred of her remaining strength, took her suitcase, and walked from the train to the platform. Swarming everywhere were men in uniform, infinite variations on brown, gray, and black. The crumpled front page of the V?lkischer Beobachter blew by; if her feet hadn’t hurt so much, she would have stomped on it.
Outside, she made her way to the S-Bahn. A long black Opel Admiral, with curving fenders, chrome headlights, and stiff Nazi flags on the hood glided in front of her, blocking her path. The passenger door opened, and a man in a black SS uniform got out. He was young, certainly not older than thirty, with light brown hair, hazel eyes, and the short but powerful build of a wrestler. He was carrying a bouquet of forced narcissus blooms.
Elise tried to step around him.
To her astonishment, he snapped the heels of his polished black leather boots together and bowed. “Fr?ulein Hess? Fr?ulein Elise Hess?”
Elise was wary. “…Yes.”
“My name is Captain Alexander Fausten,” he told her, trying to hand her the flowers. “I am to be your liaison here in Berlin. I am to escort you to the Adlon Hotel, where your father is waiting for you.”
Else waved away the blooms. She wanted nothing from anyone in a Nazi uniform. And she certainly didn’t want to get into a Nazi car. Where would it take her? What horrors awaited? She clenched her jaw and started to walk. “I can get there myself, thank you.”
He stepped in front of her. “Please, Fr?ulein, get in the car.” His face was serious, but not cruel.
“No.” Elise walked past him, through the dirty slush around the car. The cold wet seeped into her slippers. Her feet burned.
He followed with long steps. “Fr?ulein Hess, if you don’t come with me”—he stepped ahead of her and into her way once again—“I’m afraid my superiors will send me to Russia. And I hear it’s very cold there, this winter.” He gave a winning grin. “You wouldn’t want my frostbitten toes on your conscience, would you?”
As if I care.
But she was exhausted. Her feet were numb. Was there any use in arguing? She was in Berlin. She turned and limped back to the car.
He savored his victory with a smile, then took the suitcase from her hand.
Elise gasped with pain as the weight was removed. Fausten looked down at her hands, and his face paled. “I’ll have a doctor come and look at you.”
“No!” Elise wanted nothing to do with Nazi doctors. Then, in a softer tone, “No, thank you. I’m a nurse. I can take care of myself.”
The driver opened the trunk. Fausten put in the suitcase, along with the flowers, then turned back to Elise.
“You’ll see—this is much nicer than the S-Bahn,” he said, motioning her inside, where it smelled like leather and pipe tobacco. When they were settled in the luxurious, plush warmth, the driver pulled away.
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.”