Once she had disembarked in Gibraltar, a chain of events led her to cross the border into Spain. It was there that she began to be whole again, using her skills as a nurse at an aid station set up by a nun who had remained behind in her convent to minister to wounded warriors fighting Franco’s regime. And it was in delivering a child—a girl—that Maisie realized that she could, if she tried, perhaps be reborn herself. The sharp waves of immediate grief had begun to diminish, like a slow ebbing of the tide. They were not entirely gone; sometimes the seas of pain would crash against her heart again, and she would feel her resolve weaken.
In the months following James’ death, one thought had returned time and again as she passed others in the street. What secrets did these people hold? What had they endured? She wondered how many people rushing in and out of shops, or on their way to their work, had lost a love, or known deep disappointment or grief, fear, or want, yet summoned the resilience to go on. Those lines across foreheads, those mouths downturned—what were the ruts on life’s road that wrought such marks, those signs of scars on the soul? She knew she might have seemed like any other woman of a certain type—well dressed, hair in place, shoes polished and turned out nicely—but inside it was as if she were being eaten away. She had been in the deep darkness of the abyss, then, and she was lost, even to herself.
Now, with Elaine Otterburn clutching her hand, she thought of those months and years, and then of the job that had led her to Munich—and the words came to her again. I am not what I seem.
The taxicab stopped in the middle of a quiet, narrow street of older houses, each one neatly kempt, with fresh paint and clean windows. Some had empty window boxes, waiting for a spring when they would be filled with seeds and then blooms. But it was still a city street, not a country byway. In the distance Maisie could hear the throb of traffic, though there was a middle-of-the-day laziness in the air.
Elaine opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the pavement, followed by Maisie. She leaned into the window of the taxicab, exchanged words with the driver, and handed him a few coins. Then she smiled, stood back, and waved before delving into her bag for a set of keys with which she opened the front door of a house no different from any of the others, beckoning to Maisie to follow while holding a finger to her lips. As they climbed the staircase in front of them, Maisie heard a shuffling from the door to her right, which she thought might be the entrance to the landlady’s rooms. Elaine took each step on tiptoe, careful not to make a sound.
Reaching the second floor, Elaine pressed a key into the lock of another door and pointed out two doors to her right and one to her left. “Kitty, Pamela, Nell. All English gels, don’t you know!” She put on an aristocratic tone, opened the door, and beckoned Maisie to enter, adding, “And all doing very nicely, thank you—plus having a jolly good time into the bargain.”
Elaine moved a pile of clothing from a chair to the bed, and pulled another away from a small writing table. Maisie sat down as Elaine threw her coat over a screen to the left of the window, where it joined a silk dress with a long tear in the skirt. A needle and thread were hanging from the fabric, as if Elaine had started to mend the dress herself but became bored, or didn’t quite know how to complete the task.
“My entire wardrobe is behind that screen—well, when it isn’t on a chair,” said Elaine. “Our kitchen is just along the landing. Tea? We both need some fortification, and I have a thumper of a headache.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.”
Elaine left the room. Maisie could hear clattering from along the landing, and wondered if Elaine had ever made tea before coming to Munich. The more she thought about Elaine Otterburn, the more she suspected that the young woman experienced something of her own sense of isolation at times.
Elaine had grown up on both sides of the Atlantic. Her clipped English pronunciation sometimes gave way to longer vowels that caused aristocratic matrons to look twice and wonder how the girl ever came out into respectable society. But no experience had been denied either of the younger Otterburns, though it was Elaine who garnered most attention, rather than her somewhat more reserved brother.
“There. As the British might say, ‘A nice cup of tea, my dear.’” Elaine entered, carrying two cups of tea. No tray. No biscuits. Not even saucers. Just cups of tea. “Those ancient Britons probably put a kettle on the log fire to boil the moment they saw the Romans coming at them across the Channel—eh? I can imagine them saying, ‘Never mind the bloody invasion, let’s have a cuppa!’”
Maisie smiled and took one of the cups with both hands. “I daresay you’re right there, Elaine.”
Elaine brushed another pile of clothing from a straight-backed chair onto the floor and sat down, placing her cup on a side table. “We have ourselves a conundrum, don’t we, Maisie?” She reached for a packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter, which had been left on top of a dressing table, its drawers open and silk underwear spilling out. She tapped out a cigarette, opened and clicked the lighter to hold the flame close to the tobacco, and drew on the cigarette while closing the lighter. “I didn’t offer—you don’t smoke, do you?”