Maisie looked around and noticed other pedestrians making the same detour. “What’s in the square, Mr. Leslie?”
Leslie stopped. “Just there”—he pointed, then quickly lowered his hand—“that’s where the Führer was almost assassinated in the Beer Hall Putsch. Sixteen men in his party were killed, along with four policemen. They are considered martyrs to the Reich. If you go past that square, you are required to stand and salute the party, to honor those killed. I doubt you want to do that—neither do a lot of people. So we take this little path to avoid the square.”
Maisie stepped out along the alley behind Leslie. Why, she wondered, if the Führer was so fêted, did so many people dodge the requirement to salute his party? She was about to ask Leslie when he began speaking, though his voice was so low she had to move closer and lean in toward him to hear.
“If you’re wondering how he has managed to garner such attention, it’s twofold. One, he is a very, very powerful speaker. Put him on a stage, and it’s as if he can mesmerize everyone—he’s like a cobra, ready to strike.”
“All right, I can imagine that—I’ve seen such people in—” She was about to say in my work, but caught herself in time. “What is the other reason for his popularity?”
“Fear. There was an attempt on his life—an explosion. It failed. But he managed to persuade the population that their lives would be at risk if certain powers—restrictions, if you will, and elements of what I would call surveillance—were not enacted. For the most part, the people went along with it. Fear can be used in all sorts of ways to control people, and that’s what he’s done.” They took a few steps in silence.
“I think that, for the most part, Britain is hoping that if he has enough rope, he will hang himself.” Leslie coughed. “Now I’m getting a bit beyond myself.”
Maisie rubbed her hands together as she considered Leslie’s commentary while studying the austere buildings along the street. Perhaps it was because it was the stark end of winter, with shafts of low yet bright sunlight slanting between buildings on a very cold day, but nothing seemed welcoming. People rushed along with their heads down. Though she knew this was probably due to a sharp chill in the wind, she thought that despite the beauty of the Bavaria she had seen from the train, the country held an undercurrent of something very uncomfortable. It was fear, she knew, sprinkled like dust across the landscape. What on earth could Elaine Otterburn have gained from being in such a place?
Leslie seemed to read her thoughts. “Of course you’re not seeing Munich at its best, Fr?ulein Donat. We have to get you used to the ‘Fr?ulein’ now—we’re almost there. Munich is a very vibrant city, you know—beer halls, music halls, theaters, that sort of thing. It’s an interesting place to be stationed for a couple of years.”
“When do you leave for your next posting, do you think?” Maisie asked as they strode toward the building marked by red flags with the distinctive white circle and black swastika.
“I’m hoping for the United States, actually, perhaps in a year or so. Washington is the plum in the pudding of our line of work, so fingers crossed!”
Nazi guards watched their approach. Leslie pulled a clutch of papers and an identification card from an inside pocket of his jacket, giving a half smile to the guard who met them. Maisie followed his fluent German as he addressed the man.
“My papers and identification. I am accompanying Fr?ulein Donat, who has come to present documents for the release of her father. All is in order—here is the letter of appointment.”
Maisie handed over the papers she had carried with her, together with her passport. She said nothing, and lowered her head a little. She worried that her height—she was as tall as Leslie and not much shorter than the guard—might cause the guard to be aggressive. She had seen it happen before.
The guard returned the papers to Leslie and indicated that they were free to enter the building and proceed to the first floor, pointing as if to an office above the door.
This part of the procedure was supposed to be a formality. All the hard work had been done; this was the rubber-stamping required for Maisie to take possession of Leon Donat. All the same, she could not wait for the next hour to be over.
Another guard took the papers Leslie handed him, and they were instructed to wait, seated on a hard wooden bench in the cold entrance hall. Leslie’s hands were shaking.
“Take some deep breaths, Mr. Leslie. And put your hands in your pockets. This is a nerve-racking place because they want to intimidate people. You have every right to be here, representing His Majesty’s government and as a citizen of Great Britain. And I have every right to bring out my father, who should not have been sent to any prison.”
Leslie shoved his hands into his pockets and was about to respond, when a man in a black uniform, with shining black boots, appeared in front of them.