Looking at her reflection, she hoped that, of all the things she was at that moment, she wasn’t a pawn in Huntley’s game. And she remembered something Maurice had said, so long ago. “Never fear going in circles, Maisie. The next time around, you’ll see something you missed before—that’s if your mind is open. And you will be different, and it will be better. Experience, Maisie. Knowledge of yourself. And when you have knowledge, you have wisdom. If your mind is open, and your heart is willing.”
Maisie met Ulli Bader at the prearranged place. He said nothing to her, gesturing with his hand to remain several paces behind him. He led her to a tram stop, where they boarded the tram—Maisie thought they might be going back toward the Au, alongside the river Isar, but when they stepped onto the pavement, Bader set off along the main street and then detoured into what was little more than an alley. A motor car awaited them. Bader moved with speed; opened the back door and beckoned Maisie to climb aboard, speaking only one word. “Hurry.”
Maisie was not introduced to the driver of the motor car; she had not expected the formality. She looked out of the window as they made their way along little-used thoroughfares.
“Don’t look—it’s best you have no idea where you are.”
“Even when I look, I have no idea where on earth I am, Mr. Bader,” said Maisie. “But I take your point. I’ll forget any landmarks I see.”
“There are men in Himmler’s Gestapo who could make you remember those landmarks in the time it takes your heart to beat once.” He turned to face forward.
There was no conversation between the two men—Maisie guessed that Bader was keeping in mind that she had some understanding of the German language, so he was being circumspect.
Soon city streets gave way to houses with large gardens, and in time the motor car pulled off onto a track running through an area that, while it did not fulfill an image of bucolic Bavarian landscape, seemed more rural. The driver parked the vehicle behind a house on what Maisie imagined was a smallholding. A few goats and some chickens ran around in front; there were a couple of pigs in a pen beyond the house, and a swaybacked mare in a field, with a donkey for company.
Bader took Maisie into the house, entered through a lean-to with hooks for coats and paper laid out on the floor where wet boots could be left to dry. An old dog, gray at the muzzle, looked up but made no sound. He sniffed at their ankles as they passed and then rested his head, as if his duty for the day were done. A woman working at the sink acknowledged Bader’s entrance with a nod, then turned back to the task of peeling potatoes. Bader opened a door that led to a staircase, pointed up, and beckoned to Maisie to follow him. Neither said a word.
On the narrow landing, Bader opened the door to a bedroom, where he drew back a curtain to reveal another, narrower door. Maisie was reminded of the cupboard at the back of the tailor’s shop where the press had been housed.
“It’s not perfect,” said Bader.
“It’s like an endless game of cat and mouse. Tunnels, curtains, cupboards that become staircases. I feel as if I am caught in a bad dream.”
“A very bad dream is what it has become, Fr?ulein Donat.” Bader reached above the door for a key, then turned it in the lock.
Maisie had prepared herself for this moment, for the time when she would have to make Leon Donat understand that he must accept her as his daughter. She thought of James and how much he would have hated what she was doing in Munich, would have argued against the risk. But why you? Why can’t someone else do it? She had heard it many times before. And she had said those same words back to him. But only once.
It was clear from her first look at Leon Donat that he was a sick man. He lay on a bed set against the wall in front of her, his head on the pillow, staring out the small window to his right, from which he would have seen nothing more than heavy gray clouds lumbering across a sky so white it seemed to beg for lightning. He began to turn as the door opened, and Maisie saw the droop of his mouth, an eye half closed. She hurried past Bader to his side.
“Papa, Papa!” She knelt beside the bed and took his hand, then turned to Bader. “Please, Ulli—some privacy.”
Bader nodded, closing the door as he left.
Leon Donat lifted his left arm and placed his hand on Maisie’s cheek.
“Who are you?” He struggled to form the words, but his ability to speak was not as poor as Maisie had at first dreaded.
She turned toward the only chair in the room, pulling it to her, sat down, and took Donat’s hand. “Mr. Donat, do you understand me—can you hear?”
Donat nodded. “It’s talking . . .” A thin line of spittle ran from his mouth.
Maisie took out her handkerchief and wiped Donat’s lips. “I can understand you, Mr. Donat. Now, has your ability to speak improved since . . . since your stroke?”
Donat nodded.
“Good—it was a small one, I think. But I must get you to a hospital.”
“Who are you?” Donat asked again.
“I cannot tell you my name, but in front of everyone here, you must call me Dina—that’s your name for Edwina, isn’t it?”
“Dina.” Donat’s eyes filled with tears.