“It’s ready for you,” he said in German. “Your papers?”
Maisie gave him her own and Elaine’s passports, and Donat’s letters of transit from the consulate.
“My father is ill. I must get him to Zurich for treatment,” she explained.
The man blew out his cheeks. He did not seem interested in anything more than the necessary details.
“Who’s the pilot?”
“I am.”
It was a man’s voice. Maisie turned around and paused only for a second before extending a welcome.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Leslie. Very good. Now we can get going.” She looked at Elaine and pointed to the door. “Help me with Papa.”
In perfect German, Gilbert Leslie presented his papers. The man stood up a little straighter, as if the appearance of a man who appeared to take over had rendered his job more important—better at least than dealing with women. Maisie suspected the process of logging their details and proposed route would proceed with greater speed now.
She looked at the black windup telephone on the wall and at the clock. “We must be in Zurich in time for Papa to eat again. Let’s go now.”
As she helped Leon Donat limp toward the aeroplane, she heard the motor car that had brought them to the airfield rumbling along the road. She did not ask who had brought Leslie, but assumed he would have taken the precaution of being dropped at a distance, and then walked the rest of the way. And she thought of the woman in her farmhouse kitchen, wringing a dry cloth while the man she’d risked her life to harbor and care for prepared to leave. Now, as he leaned on her, that man was in turn wringing out every last ounce of his will to reach and board the vessel that would bear him home.
Elaine clambered into the pilot’s seat, passing her coat to Maisie. As if each person had practiced for a performance, their movements seemed to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Leslie helped Donat into the rear passenger seat, then stepped back for Maisie to climb aboard. She leaned forward to tuck Elaine’s woolen coat around Donat’s shoulders and legs, and folded his mackintosh to use as a pillow.
Now the engines were running; the man who had taken their details had started the propellers, without appearing to notice Elaine’s position in the pilot’s seat.
“Your turn,” said Leslie. “I’ll sit up front, if it’s all the same to you.”
Maisie looked at him, and at Leon Donat, his eyes now closed, waiting for the journey to commence. And she met Elaine Otterburn’s eyes as the aviatrix turned to see why there was some delay in her passengers boarding, why she had not heard the door slam shut.
“No,” she said. “My work here’s not over. Go without me. Go on.”
“But Miss . . . Miss Donat, I—damn and blast!” Leslie looked beyond Maisie to the road alongside the aerodrome.
Maisie followed his gaze.
“You have to leave, Mr. Leslie. Don’t worry about me. Now go!”
Leslie took one last look at Maisie, climbed into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and gave Elaine the thumbs-up. Elaine did not look back, but steered her aircraft toward the runway. As Maisie felt her legs begin to move, carrying her into the shadows at the side of the hut, she heard the Messerschmitt rumble along the stretch of concrete. Then the reverberation changed and soon, with her back against the wall so she could not be seen, she looked up into the sky. Her eyes misted and her cheeks felt hot as she watched the aircraft become ever smaller, making its way toward the horizon and into passing clouds, like a vessel hidden by whitecaps on a rolling sea.
“Godspeed, Elaine Otterburn. Godspeed.”
CHAPTER 18