Another piece of the jigsaw dropped into place as she retraced her steps. It was speculative, of course, but it was a thought inspired by experience. When she had worked as a nurse among shell-shocked men during the war, a doctor had advised giving the men a purpose, something to do—learning a new trade, perhaps. One of those trades was tailoring, learning to wield a needle and thread, and later, if the mind could bear the noise, a sewing machine. It was a job that could be done in solitude, that demanded one work only at one’s own pace. There was much to recommend it. What if, she wondered . . . what if the man at Dachau had learned his trade following the war—or returned to it once his battles were over? What if he had allowed a press to be set up at the back of his workshop—and what if he had either volunteered to be the scapegoat or had been instructed in his role? What if he had believed that his army service on behalf of his country might save him? She closed her eyes, the what-ifs coming and going, as if stepping forward for consideration, then vanishing when they didn’t hold water in the face of scrutiny. What if the young Ulli Bader had known of the old soldier’s affliction, and taken advantage of it? Perhaps the man was lonely, after all. And perhaps the man did not reveal everything to those who imprisoned him, because he’d forgotten. Perhaps his mind had cordoned off the workshop because it was a place where men with guns and a brutal way about them only sparked images of battles that were still too close. Maisie had known the man at Dachau had suffered a trauma to the mind—had speculated that he was shell-shocked. Now she was sure he had played a role in helping the others escape. Had Leon Donat been among them? He was not a young man, but not an old man either. He was not slim, but fear could have helped lever him up the notched ladder in the wall. Now she wondered if Donat had known exactly what he was doing, and taken the risk anyway.
As she took one more look around the basement, another thought struck her. It had been assumed that Leon Donat was an innocent caught up in the propaganda war against the Führer. But what if he wasn’t? What if he had known exactly what he was doing, and come to Munich specifically to assist those who published the Voice of Freedom? What if . . . what if . . . Maisie’s mind raced.
What if Leon Donat was not who she had thought him to be?
She’d allowed herself to imagine him as a somewhat avuncular character, a sort of father figure to workers and customers alike; a sharp but ethical self-made man, a man of commerce, but with something of the absentminded professor about him. An inventor with a touch of genius.
If Donat was not who she had believed him to be, he might well have heard about her, and known she was not who she’d claimed to be when she arrived in Munich. It was an unsettling thought. She might be in far graver danger than Brian Huntley had led her to understand.
CHAPTER 15
It was a strong hand that took a firm hold of Maisie’s arm, dragging her into a doorway. The cold metal pressing into her neck took her to the edge of fear, as if she were looking over a precipice, not knowing what was below. The voice was thick, guttural, as if uttered through clenched teeth. Now the man—for surely it was a man—had her arm twisted behind her back.
“Do not cry out, do not try to summon help—no help will come.”
Maisie felt nausea grip her, but without a second’s delay, with no conscious thought, she twisted her heel into the man’s foot and brought back the elbow of her free arm. Though she did not connect with the man’s body, the unexpected movement was enough to loosen his grip. She took her chance, pounding on his foot harder with her heel as she turned. Her arm came free, and taking hold of his hand, she twisted his little finger backward. Not three seconds had passed since he first uttered a word.
“You speak very good English, sir,” said Maisie, facing her attacker. She did not have the advantage over him, but he was subdued and did not fight back.
“Who in hell’s name are you?” he asked.
“You first.”
“Ulli. My name is Ulli.”
“Ulli Bader?”
“How do you know?”
Maisie loosened her grip on the man’s little finger. He shook his hand and grimaced.
“Where did you learn to do that? It hurts.” Bader put the side of his hand into his mouth, as if to suck away the pain.
“Never mind that. Your finger is only strained. Don’t be a baby, Mr. Bader.”
Bader had been slouching against the wall, but now straightened. He wore what appeared to be a shabby black suit underneath an overcoat a good size too big for him, threadbare at the elbows. His leather shoes were cracked and worn, and he had not shaved in a day or two. A black fringe of hair flopped across his forehead, and his eyes were red-rimmed and sunken.
“So how do you know who I am, Fr?ulein?”
“It was your illegal press that my father was supposedly imprisoned for supporting.”
“You’re Leon’s daughter?”
“Yes, and I have come to take him home.”
“What were you doing in that building?”
“I was searching for anything that might help me find him. I expected to collect him from the prison at Dachau, but another man had been incarcerated in his place.”
There was no indication that this news was a surprise to Bader—no flicker of the eyes, no lifting of the chin or shrug of the shoulders. He looked both ways, then up to the windows of the nearby houses, seeming satisfied that no one had seen them. Maisie wanted to look around too, but dared not take her eyes off Bader.
“So where is he, Mr. Bader? I understand I have you to blame for my father’s disappearance, and for the fact that our Nazi friends believed him guilty of supporting you, and then imprisoned a man they thought was Leon Donat. Another innocent man took his place, either willingly or because he’d been set up—and I would hazard a guess it was the latter.”
Bader shook his head. “Not quite, Miss Donat.”
“You speak English very well—where did you learn? In England?”
The man nodded. “I was schooled there for a while.”
“Where’s my father, Mr. Bader?”
The man looked to the left and right again and stood up straight. He crooked an elbow for Maisie to take, but she shook her head.
“It might serve you to have it seem as if we are a couple on a Sunday afternoon walk,” she said. “But I would rather depend upon my own sense of balance, if you don’t mind. And wherever we’re going, we must take care—I was not followed here, but someone may be looking for me.”
“The SS?”
“And a few other people.”
“They’re looking for me too—but come, make haste. I will explain, though not here.”