“My dear Fr?ulein D, make no mistake. There will be many more innocents taken down before Herr Hitler is done.”
Maisie nodded. “I know, Mr. Scott. I’ve also been keeping my eyes open since I’ve been in this country. But try not to let Elaine be one of them. She has a son—and I believe that, contrary to what people might think, she loves him very much.” Maisie paused. “She is just trying to be worthy of him.”
“A son?”
“Didn’t your teachers ever tell you to do your homework, Herr Scott? Now then, this is my stop—and I think it’s yours too.”
Maisie and Scott stood up, shuffling along with other passengers leaving the tram. When they were on the street, she turned to the American and held out her hand. “I think this is good-bye, Mr. Scott. Oh, and by the way—if you want to keep anyone in your six, or whatever you call it, make it Elaine, please. I can look after myself, and she has so much to lose.”
Maisie had taken a step away from Mark Scott when he tipped his hat to her and spoke. She came to an abrupt stop when she heard his parting words.
“I take my hat off to you. Not everyone would be so magnanimous, considering what she did to you.”
For a moment Maisie thought she would ignore the comment, ignore the fact that Mark Scott knew so much about her. But then she realized she had something to say.
“You know, Mr. Scott, my old mentor, a man named Maurice Blanche, once cautioned me about the fact that I was delving into every book that came within reach. My hunger for education, for learning everything that I could possibly digest, might not always serve me as well as I imagined, he told me. He said I must endeavor to strike a balance, and he gave me a piece of advice I have never forgotten. All the books, all the lectures, all the pages of . . . of information, are as nothing against the measure of our experience—and by that he meant the experience we take to heart, that we go back to, trying to work out the why, what, and how of whatever has come about in our lives. That, he said, is where we learn the value of true knowledge, with our life’s lessons to draw upon so that we might one day be blessed with wisdom. I may not be there yet, but the better part of me is doing my utmost, and one of the elements of life I am learning the hard way is the wisdom to be found in forgiveness. It’s what is setting me free. In that regard, Elaine has been a very good lesson. Now then”—Maisie craned her head to check the stop—“I’ll be on my way. You’d better be too—you’ve a lot to report to your superiors, and I have a lot to accomplish in a short time.”
“One thing, Fr?ulein D—did you find your ‘father’?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
Maisie set off, not quite knowing whether she was walking in the right direction, or if another tram might take her there faster. She was anxious to make haste. That she had a lot to accomplish was an understatement.
As she approached the British consulate, she once again reflected upon Maurice. He had never told her that she should not lie.
CHAPTER 17
“Miss Donat. How are you?” Gilbert Leslie approached Maisie across the reception area of the British consulate. “We have been liaising with the authorities here regarding the search for your father. Come with me, and I’ll let you know what they are saying—though, I might add, their efforts to find him have not met with much success.”
“Mr. Leslie, I wish to have a secure line to London to place a call, if I may.”
Leslie stopped. “Miss Donat, really . . . I—”
“Please, I don’t have time for a delay. Would you make arrangements for a call to be placed to the office of Mr. Brian Huntley?”
Leslie looked at Maisie over half-moon glasses. She had never seen him wearing them in the past. The effect was to press his chin down toward his chest, making him seem more like an overbearing headmaster rather than an official in a sensitive position within the British consulate.
“Right you are. Come with me—to the same room we used before.” He led her along a corridor and into the room whose walls were adorned, somewhat incongruously, with paintings of the English countryside, and a recent portrait of the king above the fireplace. It felt like a room in the squire’s manor house in a small village, a room in which a British visitor might feel at home.
Leslie lifted the receiver on a black telephone on the table at the center of the room and pressed it to his ear. “Ah, yes,” he said to an operator. “Secure line, please. Thank you.” He replaced the telephone receiver and waited for the second telephone in the room to ring. He took a key from his pocket, placed it in the lock at the side of the telephone, lifted the receiver, and handed it to Maisie.
“Thank you, Mr. Leslie,” said Maisie. She waited for him to move, but he remained in place. “I can place the call—and I would like privacy, if you don’t mind.”