“What do you mean?” asked Maisie.
“Ah, Elaine—a free spirit to all who think they know her.” There was an edge of sarcasm in Schmidt’s voice. Then his demeanor changed. He stood up, reached for a can of oil and a spanner, and stepped toward the machine again. He turned to Maisie. “Elaine can fly, you know—that should tell you a lot about the kind of woman she is. It takes a lot for anyone to fly an aeroplane, but if you ask me, it takes even more gumption for a woman to do it. She’s a brave girl.” He turned away and began winding the handle on the machine.
Maisie turned to Bader. “All right. I think I know enough now, and I want to get my father home to England. You must take me to him.”
Bader and Schmidt exchanged glances again, though neither spoke until Bader reached the doorway to lead Maisie out.
“I need some words on paper from you, Ulli,” said Schmidt. “There is no Voice of Freedom unless you get to work and give me something to publish. Talk to the others, see what they have.”
As Bader led Maisie from a tunnel to a flight of stairs, then out onto the street, where he looked in all directions before beckoning her toward another alley that would doubtless lead to another street and another house with a basement, it occurred to her that Anton Schmidt might be in love with Elaine Otterburn. Had they been lovers? It didn’t seem important at that moment—but what if he had been a jealous lover? How might he have felt, if he had tried to tame a free spirit in vain?
Ulli Bader left Maisie at a street corner where she could board a tram to Marienplatz. Then he was gone. If she’d been asked to lead the way back to the place where the printing press was housed, she would have only had a vague idea, so complex was the route, both above-and underground. In truth, what had felt like long tunnels were probably much shorter; it was as if the changes in level played tricks with the mind, giving the impression that more of the journey was underground. Tomorrow morning they would meet again, at the same place where she boarded the tram. In the meantime, there was still some light left in the day, and Maisie wanted to think.
She entered the Hofgarten via the Residenz. She craved the peace and quiet offered by a walk in the garden, and there would be just enough time before dusk fell. It might have been faster to walk around, but she did not want to pass the Odeonplatz, where she would be required to give a Nazi salute.
Maisie found a seat underneath a tree in bud. The Bavarian air was so clear; even within the city, it seemed to bring the promise of finer weather to come. She wondered who had brought Elaine together with Ulli Bader and Anton Schmidt. Perhaps she should not set too much stock in this—Bader had been schooled in England, and Schmidt was British; they were drawn together by a shared experience. She knew from living in Canada, and from her travels, that people away from home seem drawn to others from the same country, as if by magnetic force. As much as people might want to be immersed in life abroad, there was at times a comfort to be found in the familiar, and only too often she would be introduced to someone who would say, “Oh, you must meet so-and-so, she’s British too,” as if by dint of one’s place of birth, you were bound to become lifelong friends. At the time she had often been grateful to hear another accent she recognized, even if the person might lean towards her and say, sotto voce, “They just don’t know how to make a decent cup of tea here, do they?”
Maisie sighed. She felt at sea with the task she had been given. She yearned for the familiar, wondering if she shouldn’t have just boarded the train for Paris as soon as it was clear that Leon Donat was not in Dachau. But a true daughter would not have done such a thing. If it were Frankie Dobbs, Maisie knew she would have been rattling the prison gates from the moment of his incarceration. And as much as she truly wanted to go home now, she had given her word. She had committed herself to finishing the job, and finish it she would. But it would be good to be in London again. In the sleepless small hours, her thoughts had lingered not only on Leon Donat and how she would get him home to England but on her own life, and what she might do with it.
A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind. She only hoped she was not pushing the boundaries of fate, and could remain alive to put it into action.