She had done what was requested of her. She had located Elaine Otterburn, and she had asked her to return to her son. And she had also lost her temper. But other thoughts came to mind, not least her own final comment to Elaine. Yes, something was not at all right with Elaine. In the taxi it had seemed as if the woman had been ready to reveal a confidence, of that Maisie was sure. Was it about a love affair with the German officer? Was it connected to the reason for her flight from England, her son, and her husband? Or was she really in such a state that everything—from the smudged kohl around her eyes to the clothing, shoes, and wine glasses littering her flat—gave away her predicament?
Having made a note of the exact address, and the number scratched at the center of the dial on a telephone on the table in the hallway, Maisie left the building, setting off toward the main street, where she would ask a passerby how to get back to Marienplatz. Soon she was on a tram, the conductor having promised to tell her where to disembark. As she sat by the window, looking out at people once again, it occurred to her that even in girlhood she had watched people, paid attention to them in a way that perhaps others didn’t. Long before James and the child had been lost to her, she had asked herself questions about people, even those she saw on the street, though she suspected her sensitivity to that which ailed other human beings was established after the war, when everyone had sacrificed so much. Maurice had always maintained that not only did individuals reveal the secrets of their inner thoughts and feelings in their everyday demeanor, but the mood of a mass of people was just as evident. Now, in the midst of a journey during which she did not stand out in any way from other passengers on the tram, Maisie knew there was a cloud across this city and that it bore down on its residents. Yes, there was still fun to be had, restaurants to enjoy, and parks to walk on a fine day. But a veil of oppression was seeping into every crevice of life. I am not what I seem. Perhaps that was a cry from Munich itself—yet Elaine Otterburn had spoken those words in what Maisie suspected was an honest confession. And if Elaine was not the dilettante runaway daughter of a wealthy man, a woman who had abandoned her firstborn—then who was she?
CHAPTER 9
Having spent the evening alone, once again choosing to have supper delivered to her room rather than eating in the restaurant, Maisie had fallen into a deep sleep, waking at half past seven. She’d not been besieged by nightmares or slipped into the mystery of her dreams. Before drawing back the covers and taking to bed, she’d meditated on the coming day, allowing her mind to be still and trusting that all would be well. Now, upon opening her eyes, for a moment resting her gaze on the vertical line of light where the curtains met, she knew that by this evening, if the carefully laid plans held, she would be on board a train for Paris, Leon Donat as her companion. She would tell him nothing of note before they crossed the border into France, and even then she would not feel safe until they were met in the French capital. She thought about Donat. It occurred to her that he might never be safe again. He was a wanted man—the British wanted everything that was in his mind. Every new machine he’d ever created with his clever engineer’s brain would have to be drawn again, and then scrutinized against the needs of a country expecting to go to war.
But who were those people, the ones who thought war was inevitable? The populace believed their leaders would maintain a hard-won peace. She had meditated on that peace, had drawn a picture in her mind of claiming Leon Donat, of an easy journey to the station, and then to the train and freedom—for both of them. If they were intercepted, if her true identity was revealed, both she and Donat were as good as dead. And though once, after the death of James Compton, she would have welcomed that release, whatever the pain involved, now she wanted very much to live. It was a welcome revelation.
Readying herself for the day ahead, Maisie once again dressed in clothing that marked her as an unimaginative woman, one with no interest in the latest styles—which was not far from the truth. A dark burgundy jacket, a matching dress, the almost mannish walking shoes, and a black hat and tweed coat. Gilbert Leslie would be waiting in the hotel lobby, no doubt pacing back and forth. Mind you, this was an occasion to feel unsettled, though Maisie hoped Leslie would endeavor to act the part of a man with no undue concerns about the outcome of his day. Together they would walk to the same building, avoiding the same square so they would not have to offer a Nazi salute on their way. And in that cold building, she expected to wait for the documentation pertaining to Leon Donat’s release, before they could depart for Dachau.
But she was wrong on two counts. When she entered the hotel lobby, stopping to pull on her gloves and already cursing the wig that scratched at her hairline, Leslie was pacing, as she predicted. But when she reached his side, he informed her that they would not be walking; a motor car from the consular service would convey them to the headquarters of the Nazi Party. He reminded her that the German officer had stipulated a British consular vehicle should be used to transport Leon Donat from Dachau.
“It’s all been organized, Miss Donat. As soon as you have the authorization to claim your father, we will go immediately to the prison to present our papers, and then to the station, and you will be on your way.”