She dreamed that night of James, of their apartment in Toronto, and of sailing on Lake Ontario. It was a strange dream, as if a moving picture were being shown in her subconscious mind. Upon waking, she thought she could recount the conversation they’d had as they prepared to go out for the day. James had asked if she felt well enough, if she might strain herself in some way. She was carrying their child and, because she was not in the first flush of youth, had been advised to take care. The dream seemed to leap from the apartment to the lake, and the point where she felt buoyed along by the gentle lapping of small waves alongside the yacht, a sound that reminded her of thirsty dogs taking water. In the dream James decided to go for a swim, and soon she was alone on board, looking toward him as the vessel moved away—not with any speed, but as if the water itself were slowly bearing her back toward the harbor. She had called to him, but he had only waved and said, “Don’t worry, Maisie. You’ll be all right. I’ll see you later.” And then he was gone, and she was awake, the side-to-side motion of the train willing her to fall asleep again. She turned on her side and felt tears seep onto the pillow.
The knock was not urgent, but it woke her immediately.
“Madame. Madame!”
She stepped from the narrow bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and wrapped a towel around her head—she had removed her wig before getting into bed—before opening the door.
A waiter with blond hair and blue eyes, his uniform immaculate, gave a short bow. “Madam, we arrive in Stuttgart in three quarters of an hour. You ordered coffee and a croissant. May I offer you something else—a little fruit, perhaps?”
Maisie shook her head. “No, thank you. Here, I’ll take the tray.”
The man seemed put out that he was not able to discharge his duty properly by setting the tray on the small table, but he acceded to Maisie’s wishes with a brief nod and closed the door. She placed the tray on the bed before reaching to open the curtains. As the train clattered along, Maisie looked out, wondering when the villages, fields, forests, and then factories flanking the route would give way to the beauty she expected to behold when they entered Bavaria. She shivered. Yes, it would indeed be beautiful, but she knew she would see little of that majesty as the next few days unfolded. She would see the darker side of Bavaria from the moment she arrived in Munich.
The coffee was good and strong, reminding her of Maurice, and the croissant was light, with flakes that dropped onto the napkin in her lap as she took a bite. She dipped it in her coffee and took another bite. She would have to hurry—it would take her a good ten minutes to get the wig in place. The clock was ticking; her countdown had begun. This time next week, she thought, she’d be back in England, safe and sound. In just an hour she would be in Munich, and then in a few days her journey would be over. She would be safe in Paris, then London. As that last thought occurred to her, she heard the echo of words unspoken. God willing. And she remembered her dream, and James calling to her. Don’t worry, Maisie. You’ll be all right.
The final part of the journey, through Stuttgart and on to Munich, passed with ease. Soon the train was slowing, entering the railway station. Steam obscured Maisie’s view from the window. People who had made the long journey were already anxious to be on their way, perhaps to be met by family or friends not seen for a long time—a woman reuniting with her lover, parents with their child. Maisie knew one man would be waiting for her: Gilbert Leslie, a foreign service official from the British consulate. To him she was simply Miss Edwina Donat.
Stepping off the train, Maisie tried to hide her discomfort. Guards wearing the uniforms of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Party patrolled the station. Her papers had been checked as the train passed from France to Germany, and now she showed them again before moving out into the waiting throng. A young man—she thought he might only be about thirty years of age—approached her there. He wore a gray mackintosh and a darker gray hat, the brim still dripping from sleet outside.
“Fr?ulein Donat?” He smiled when she nodded and came closer. “I thought it was you, Miss Donat. My name is Gilbert Leslie; I’m from the British consulate here in Munich. Do you have everything?” He nodded to a porter behind Maisie, took the case, fumbled in his pocket for a coin, and pressed it into the man’s hand. Turning back to Maisie, he added without waiting for a reply, “Right, come this way. I’ve a motor waiting, and we can take you to your hotel straightaway.”
The man did not speak again until they were in the backseat of a black motor car. “I am here to brief you before you go to the headquarters of the Nazi Party. You are expected to present yourself and your papers tomorrow morning at ten o’clock on the dot. I will accompany you, representing His Majesty’s government, and to see that our claim to secure the release of one of His Majesty’s subjects is free and clear of any impediment. Much work has already been done, Miss Donat; otherwise your father would not be anywhere close to release.”
“Thank you, Mr. Leslie.”
“It should be fairly smooth, though these boys are a bit intimidating, all leather boots and black uniforms. And of course they are running torture chambers and calling them prisons.” He looked at Maisie. “I tell you this so you know that your father will likely not resemble the man you last saw, though I am sure they will have tidied him up a bit.”
Maisie was careful to look suitably crestfallen.
“Miss Donat,” added Leslie, “I have to ask you one question. Please do not be offended. But your coloring . . . Your father has a British passport, British papers, and was born in Britain—but are you of the Hebrew faith?”
Maisie shook her head. “My father comes from Italian stock—our name was, according to my grandfather, originally Donatello. It was my great-grandfather who came to England and set up a business. We are most definitely British.”