She turned to Leslie, then to the two officers. Time had become suspended, so still she could hear her heart beating, the blood coursing through her veins, the reverberation in her ears. Beyond herself, she was aware of the pleading of a frail man who was now taking her hand, placing it on his shoulder as if to persuade her to hold him, to give him comfort. She was aware that only one second, then another had passed, yet she knew she must speak her truth—if only for Leon Donat and his daughter.
Maisie turned to Gilbert Leslie, then to the two officers who waited. “This man is not my father,” she said. “This is not Leon Donat.”
And then she put her arms around the man and held him to her as she wept. “Es tut mir leid. Wahrlich, ich bin so sehr traurig.”
Her German was perfect.
I am so sorry. Truly, I am so very sorry.
Two guards dragged the man from the room, and Leslie—the white pallor of fear now gone from his complexion, replaced by heightened color—stepped forward to gain the officer’s attention.
“On behalf of His Majesty’s gov—”
Maisie raised her voice above the cries emanating from the corridor as the man was dragged away.
“Sirs, as you can imagine, I am very distressed—and I want to know where my father is. But, please, show clemency toward that man. He really does not know what he is doing or has done.”
“Fr?ulein Donat, this is a very serious matter,” said Acker. “We must establish what has happened, how this man has been successful in appearing to be your father, and indeed locate your father, dead or alive. I say again, this is a most serious matter.” He nodded to Leslie as if dismissing him, and along with him, the issue of a British citizen who was now unaccounted for.
“Gentlemen!” Maisie felt herself on the verge of shouting. Leslie reached out to place his hand on her arm, as if the movement would stop her speaking. “Gentlemen, as I was about to say—show some clemency, for I believe the man who was brought to me is indeed a man who fought for your country in the war, and now has a . . . a . . . compromised mental capacity.” She felt herself hesitate, as if her lips could only fumble over her words, which she spoke in English. Leslie translated. Maisie continued, making up the details with each second, melding her own experience with a new story for Edwina Donat. “I . . . I . . . my father, during the war, insisted I help in some way, so I visited men who had been shell-shocked, just to talk to them, read to them, to bring some comfort. So, you see . . . so you see, I know what I have seen. That man has, I think, been used by someone and, because he knew no better, was a willing puppet. You have given him new clothing, so he knew, somewhere in the outer reaches of his mind, that someone must be coming from beyond the prison. And that was I—so he called me ‘daughter’ not because I am his child, but because it was a safe word to use.” She paused, looked at Leslie, then at the officers. “This I believe. And now I must ask—do you know where my father is, or is this as much a shock to you as it is to me?”
Leslie intervened. “Miss Donat, let us deal with this through diplomatic channels. I am sure the gentlemen will observe protocols with regard to the identification of the man we have just seen, and get to the bottom of why he is here—and why your father is not here.” He looked toward the officers, who were both standing at attention.
“You will leave now,” said the Kommandant. He turned to Maisie. “As stated, we will conduct an investigation.” The men turned and left the room, and were replaced by guards who accompanied Maisie and Gilbert Leslie to their motor car.
Maisie watched Dachau grow smaller and smaller as the vehicle drew away, beyond the bounds of the camp. The two guards were still standing to attention, watching them depart. They did not move, even when the motor car began to turn to join the road once more.
“For goodness’ sake, Miss Donat, what the hell just happened in there? Are you absolutely sure that man was not your father? Because he looked like every photograph I have seen of Leon Donat since I was handed this case.”
“That man was not—I repeat, not—my father. Mr. Leslie, my father would not have greeted me in German. He might be proficient in the language and able to conduct business, but we’re British—we speak English. I don’t know how you can question me—I thought it was obvious. Yes, he was of the same height, the eyes are similar, and at one point he would have had my father’s build. But please do not assume I would not know my father because time has passed while he has been incarcerated in one of the most terrible places on earth.”