Nest of the Monarch

PART I

AN UNCHRISTIAN WAY TO DIE

1

ASCHRIED, A VILLAGE IN THE BLACK FOREST, GERMANY

FRIDAY, APRIL 24, 1936. A silver light painted the faces in the cinema’s audience. The villagers sat expectant and rapt as the MGM theme song boomed out. Watching from the back of the theater, Hannah Linz counted heads in the audience: Forty-six! And only moments before she had despaired of a decent house for the German-dubbed version of The Great Ziegfeld, very dear to rent in Deutschmarks and Nazi disapproval.

She wished her father were here to see the number of people daring to entertain themselves on a Saturday evening. But Mendel Linz had gone to Stuttgart after receiving a summons from the Propaganda Ministry to take delivery—at exorbitant rates—of a few proper German films. Otto is here to help you, her father had told her. Otto, who ran the projection booth. "Three days. I will be back on Sunday, mein rotes Mädchen." My red girl, as he called her, for her flame-red hair, like her mother’s.

Just before Hannah closed the velvet drapes leading to the lobby, Frau Grober came through with her daughter Klara, Hannah’s closest friend. As Hannah shone the light of her flashlight on the nearest empty seats, Klara whispered to her, I’m sorry we are not on time!

No, don’t worry, Hannah said. Otto began the film late. Everyone there tonight had risked Nazi displeasure to attend a film from the West, and for that, Hannah was grateful. But wasn’t it absurd to be moved by such small acts of courage?

With her father, Hannah owned and managed the Oasis, a cinema built for the Black Forest Retreat and Spa that had gone out of business during the Great War, and now, under her family’s refurbishment, had ambitions to present a summer cinema festival. It would bring filmmakers, actors, tourists, and their money to Aschried.

But the cinema committee had split on the question of whether to include films showing infidelity, cripples, homosexuals, or women working—all contrary to German ideals. The new German ideals. At the screenings, the committee took notes of objectionable scenes. In the end, they compromised: a sprinkling of heavy, Nazi-approved films to placate the officials of the Propaganda Ministry’s film division. Give them a little, and they will be happy, Mendel Linz had said.

But they were not happy. She and her father learned this one day last month from a man with a too-long face.

When she had opened the door of her home to the knock, she had found an SS officer standing before her. He wore a black uniform with a red armband, and beneath the peaked hat, a pallid face bearing a dueling scar that bisected his right cheek from eye to chin.

Yes?

Lieutenant Becht would speak with Herr Linz. Since she had no choice, she opened the door and led him into the parlor, feeling his eyes on the back of her neck, as though she had left the door open and a bear had padded in.

Her father, who had been reading the newspaper, stood at the library door holding that day’s edition of the Aufbau. Removing his spectacles, he took in the unlikely view of an SS officer in their sitting room.

Lieutenant Becht sat on the divan, her father in the best armchair. A silence fell upon them. The curtains were closed against the bright afternoon, leaving the parlor in murk.

Hannah faced them, standing behind a chair, gripping the carved back. Tea, Papa?

Becht flicked a hand to dismiss the offer, as though it were his house. The parlor, overwarm, imposed an odd, forbidding drowsiness. As Hannah looked at their visitor, she tried to grasp what sort of man this was. The black uniform and red armband proclaimed his SS status, but this officer had a strange appearance: his pale skin and the pronounced scar, a prominent chin, long and rounded, as well as a very high forehead, revealed when he took off his hat and placed it on the divan.

You are a widower, Herr Linz? Your wife died during the war?

Influenza.

Becht nodded. And you have lived in Aschried how long?

Five years. Her father lifted his gaze to Hannah, then pulled back, as though hoping Becht would not notice her.

Previously you were employed at a university, were you not? The officer crossed his legs, getting comfortable.

Cologne. But I am retired from the position now.

I think retirement was not your choice, however. It was a profession not suitable for a Jew.

Some deemed that so.

A disappointment for you, naturally.

I do not complain, Lieutenant.

No? But perhaps you thought that, so far from Cologne, you could protest with impunity. Using the cinema.

The Oasis, you mean?

Certainly. It is the only movie house in town. Therefore it has a certain cultural significance, you see. We have become aware of matters regarding it.

Hannah was preoccupied with the crocheted antimacassar draped along the back of the divan. She must try to pay attention. What had the SS officer said? Something about the cinema. A lethargy had fallen upon her, a feeling that she at first mistook for sleepiness. But how could she feel drowsy with an officer of the SS sitting in their living room?

Her father seemed to be receding into his chair. He was not a large man, and he now became smaller, quieter. Hannah felt a great need to throw open the drapes, open a window.

Becht went on. Matters such as the showing of degenerate films, decadent movies from the West. Inappropriate for German citizens who should be viewing our own films, celebrating patriotism and the fatherland. He paused, inviting comment, but one could not disagree with the SS, nor really could they bring themselves to agree.

And then we have the name, the Oasis. And the mural in the foyer, where you have palm trees and pyramids. These are not German scenes. He shook his head. Camels.

This was too much for her father, who had grown unnaturally still but now seemed to jerk awake. What would you have us do? The Oasis has been here for thirty years.

Becht drew out a paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Here is a list of approved films. You will want to conform to higher cultural standards.

Her father sank back into his chair to read the document. At last he looked up. I do not know these filmmakers. Who are they?

Becht leaned forward. You mistake me, Herr Linz. Your approval is not required. Your ownership of the theater is not recognized.

Not recognized? He frowned, and in the long pause that followed he seemed to have forgotten what he was saying. I have papers, he finally whispered.

I will take those papers. For review, in Stuttgart. Becht made a sweeping motion with his hand. Get them now. I will wait.

It took some time for her father to absorb this order. At last he stood, looking stooped and far older than his fifty-five years. He shuffled from the room.

Becht stood, turning to Hannah. He was quite thin, his tailored uniform emphasizing a narrow waist. He regarded her with an expressionless stare. What did he see? she wondered. Not a person, not even an enemy, but someone utterly dispensable.

Living with your father, Fräulein Linz, you have no need of a job, is that not correct?

She struggled to pay attention. He had asked her a question—what was it?—about employment. It was imperative to remain alert, but the whole atmosphere of the room felt heavy with confusion. She struggled to gather her wits. He . . . he lost his pension, she managed to say. My father could not take his pension. Under your rules.

He smiled, causing the long scar on his cheek to bend. You are bitter. Your father will conform, but you—

I manage a cinema . . . I do not go to university. I do not live near my friends in Cologne. I have no prospects. Her hands, slick with sweat, curled around the chair’s wooden scrollwork. On his collar the curious insignia of a bird with a long, curved neck, and wings swept back like a cloak. It was a vulture.

So many curtailments, he said. But even here—Becht gestured to embrace the house, the village—"even here, we take notice how things are done. Even in the Black Forest! You see, there is no place where you can poison us, where we will not . . . notice."

She shrank back from this attack, a wave of heat rolling over her skin. Time slowed, the room thickened. What should she say?

Her father returned with the bill of sale. They learned that he was to consider himself a temporary manager, not owner.

Did Herr Linz understand? Lieutenant Becht watched her father, a pleasant expression on his face, a demeanor that could quickly change, Hannah knew. Her father nodded, mumbling his understanding, his agreement.

To Hannah’s relief, Becht seemed content and gave her a small, flat smile as she accompanied him to the door. The smile was mocking, and she did not return it.

Waiting by the Mercedes, the lieutenant’s driver opened the door for him, and he departed, the tires spitting gravel as the car sped off.

In the cool night air, Hannah’s lethargy evaporated. Closing the door, she turned to her father. Papa! We own the cinema. Why did you give him the papers?

He asked for them. The words soft, self-explanatory: Because he asked for them. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing as if waking from a nap. I could say nothing.

But to give them away!

Looking at the door where Lieutenant Becht had been standing, her father said, "He has the Talent. Mesmerizing."

Ah, now she put it together: how when Becht entered, a fog of unreality had descended on them.

Her father went on. It was the strongest demonstration I have ever witnessed. Yes, he would know, Talent research having been his specialty at Cologne. But why does he waste this Talent on the likes of us? Hannah asked. He could have taken the papers in any case.

Because, her father said, he wanted to enjoy our fear.

Perhaps it was enough for Becht and his superiors in Stuttgart that he had taken the cinema. They would still have a small stipend to live on. Aschried was very far to come just to terrorize two Jews.

That had been a month ago. The disturbing memory lingered, casting its shadow over the happiness of a good reception for The Great Ziegfeld. The film was not on the list. They had ordered two propaganda films to satisfy the ministry, but Ziegfeld had already been rented.

In the projection booth, Otto made a seamless transition to the second reel. Hannah watched in the back of the house near the drapes screening off the lobby. The whirring of the projector, a faint susurration from the booth. On the screen, William Powell was charming Myrna Loy into joining him, promising her the publicity she had always dreamed of. So handsome, William Powell, the ill-fated promoter, young and self-assured—

The film snapped. A groan went up from the audience. Fortunately Otto was a master at splicing celluloid and would soon have it up and running.

Someone came through the drapes. It was Frau Sievers, who tried to give Hannah her ticket money. Hannah waved it away, since she had missed much of the film, but Frau Sievers insisted on paying. Finally Hannah accepted a few Deutschmarks and helped her to find a seat in the crowded middle, where Frau Sievers preferred to sit.

A loud thud came from the booth, then a crash. Something had fallen. Hannah slipped from the auditorium. If Otto had dropped the second canister, it would mean a tangle of film and an awkward delay. As she pushed through the drapes into the lobby, she noted a man just leaving through the main door. A black leather coat. A bloodless, long face.

He didn’t see her as he strode away. But she recognized him. Becht.

She rushed up the stairs. The projection booth door lay ajar as it should not be during the program. She could hear the film up and running again and whirring on the reel.

Entering the booth, she found Otto on his hands and knees struggling to get up.

Screams erupted from the audience. Leaving Otto sitting upright, she rushed to the aperture to look into the house.

There, on the screen, a scene that was not from the programmed film. A birch woods, with fog drifting, snow remaining in patches on the ground like scabs. And there, some fifteen meters away, a man—what was this?—a man tied against a tree. The movie camera zoomed in closer.

Hannah gasped. It was her father who was bound against the trunk, ropes around his chest and legs. No, no . . . it could not be. But yes, he was roped to a tree, his shirt stripped from him. And oh, the blood gushing from his torn neck . . . It could not be, it could not. Papa! came her strangled cry.

A close-up of the knife as a figure walked into the frame. The knife stained red. Held in the hand of the man with the too-long face, the man who had just left the cinema.

Was it her own screams or was it the people in the theater? She could not tell. People jumped from their seats to flee, while others sat rooted in place. She forced herself to watch the screen, willing it to be gone, to be a dream, a nightmare, but no. There was the birch woods, the tree, her father. So much blood, still pumping, the life leaving him. Still the film ran, the camera coming ever closer to his stricken face, until his head dropped down to his chest.

The film flickered off, the end of the spool slapping against the reel again and again.

She staggered from the booth into the corridor outside, her mind black, her breaths harsh and loud. Down the darkened stairway to the foyer. The crowd pushed past, slamming against her in their rush to the exits. She fell to her knees. A moment of stunned immobility overtook her as she stared at the carpet, sandy brown, studded with palm trees and popcorn.

Klara rushed up to her, kneeling at her side. Men were leading Otto down the stairs. He staggered over to Hannah and she held him as he wept. What is happening, he cried. What is happening!

But she knew what was happening. The National Socialists had taken notice of Aschried and its cinema.

She held Otto, comforting him. Thank God she could think of someone else at this moment, because if she thought of her father . . .

He had left for Stuttgart, but it was unlikely that he had been called by the Ministry. She felt certain that he had been lured away and stopped along the road. Her thoughts became stone, as though the world had solidified, never to change after this moment.

Klara helped her outside, away from the theater lights, into the darkness. People were shouting, some clumped into groups, consoling each other. In the cold April night, Hannah’s tears turned icy on her face. Then Hannah and Klara were walking along the pavement toward home. Her friend would stay with her. She must have tea, Klara said.

But when they got to her house, she saw the windows shattered, and inside, the furniture upended and ripped.

Klara was aghast, but Hannah looked on the chaos without reacting. How could she care about upholstery and china when her father had died, died alone in the deep woods, tied to a tree?

The SS had come for Hannah and her father and life could never be the same. She must leave here. Tonight. Glass crunched under her feet as she climbed the stairs to her room.

Packing a small suitcase, she dressed in trousers and a sweater and her father’s leather jacket with ivory buttons. He had been a small man, and the jacket fit her.

An hour later she left Aschried. Some people had not been afraid to help her. She drove Klara’s father’s truck, to be picked up tomorrow at the railhead. Driving to the station, she held to one thought: that she would not be solicitous, passive, or silent again. Klara had given her the names of friends in Leipzig. At the station window she bought her ticket, but it was not for Leipzig. That city was not the source of this horror.

It was Berlin. Where they would notice Hannah Linz.

SIX MONTHS LATER . . .

2

BAD SCHANDAU, GERMANY

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1936. Seated beside Alex Reed on the bench at the railway platform, Kim Tavistock stole a close look at her husband, a man she had only known for eleven days. She had to admit that he was handsome, fair-haired and fit, dapper in his travel coat and tie, hair slicked back, emphasizing his fine profile. He exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke as he looked down the tracks for the train to Dresden.

Turning his blue-eyed, mischievous gaze on her, he said, Oh, do sit closer, Elaine, using her cover name.

He pulled her toward him, in a casual, husbandly way. She couldn’t protest. They were supposed to be on their honeymoon. Actually, she rather liked pretending to be in love with him. Her last love affair—good Lord, had been back in the States. That long ago.

Are you going to take the baths while I’m gone? he asked. Bad Schandau was known for its homeopathic waters.

I don’t swim.

"Baths, darling. No swim cap needed."

Yes, but they’re enormous. How do you bathe with thirty other people?

"Well, it could have been two people if you weren’t such a prude."

She smirked. We were too occupied in the bridal suite to bathe. They had taken to trading suggestive comments. It helped to make them believable as a couple, in case the Gestapo was watching.

Alex dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. Tell me, did I enjoy myself?

I have no idea. But I enjoyed myself immensely.

He laughed, cinching her closer.

Most of what she knew of the husband the head office had chosen for her came from the dossier she had read and then burned in her fireplace. Alexander Reed was thirty-six, well-heeled, public school, the usual pedigree for the Foreign Service. His appointment as second secretary for trade in Berlin was viewed as a nice promotion after his posting in Lisbon. His father, a provost at Eton; his mother, from the right tribe, active in charities in South Cambridgeshire.

She twisted the heavy ring on her left hand. It was, she knew, a real diamond. Everything else was complete fabrication.

Alex had studied her dossier as well. He understood that his wife was undercover as Elaine Reed, the former Elaine Fraser. But he didn’t know much more than that she was on special assignment from the Foreign Office, which he might assume, but not know for certain, meant the Secret Intelligence Service. Doubtless he was curious about her mission, but he didn’t need to know.

In case anyone should pry, key details of Elaine Fraser’s life were backed up with false documentation in the United States and in Great Britain, most recently at the Chelsea Registry Office, which would document the recent marriage. Alex’s parents had been quietly brought into the picture, but since they were the right sort of family, they could hold a secret. They stoically agreed to bear the disappointment of the marriage annulment when it came.

Kim’s marriage to a diplomat was how she could credibly be in residence in Berlin, where she could mingle with highly placed Nazi officials. But even as Alex’s wife, she would not have diplomatic immunity. If she were caught in possession of product relating to military intelligence, the host country would be free to make a terrific fuss, an outcome that would strain relations with the German government, and cause consternation in the Foreign Office, where they preferred the roles of diplomacy and espionage to be clear and separate. On the surface, anyway.

The train to Dresden approached, huffing and clanking. I shan’t be gone long, just a day, Alex said, picking up his suitcase. Kiss me, darling. He pulled her close, noticing her stiffness, and whispered, Oh, let yourself go.

She put a hand up to his chest. The English don’t in public, do they?

Pressing his hand into the small of her back, he lifted her toward his lips and held the kiss for rather too long.

I shall miss you desperately! he said, loud enough to make a few people on the platform smile. And with that, he boarded the train, waving cheerfully and a bit too long. He would make a terrible stage actor.

This was not the way Kim had imagined herself being married. At thirty-three, never engaged, she sometimes dreamed of a conventional life. There might be a time for that someday, when the world righted itself. How strange it was that most people seemed to believe that the world was right enough at present, even though Germany had begun a massive military buildup and had retaken the Rhineland, a clear threat to Europe.

Yet people did nothing. They must not provoke the Germans, a desperate people with a fanatical leader. Everyone had lost someone in the Great War. In a grief that had not faded, she and her father had lost a brother and a son: Robert. People were afraid of another cataclysm, and who could blame them? But fear was not the only reaction to loss. There was also resolve. With SIS, she and her father, Julian, had made a certain choice. It might not change the world. But it wasn’t nothing.

Since the jitney had left for the spa, Kim decided to go to the village on foot. Her plan was to take lunch somewhere and keep her tourist cover by shopping for gifts. Walking to der Marktplatz, she silently named things in German, practicing this very difficult language. Above the red mansard roofs of the town hall and hotels rose the distinctive tower of St. John’s Church, its dark turret purple in the October light. On the pavement outside, two policemen narrowed their eyes, scrutinizing her as she passed. It conveyed the distinct impression of suspicion and unhelpfulness, something she had noticed already in Bad Schandau. It was odd that a spa village, so far from Berlin where one heard of increased police surveillance, would not be more welcoming.

There were nights when the thought of being undercover in the heart of Nazi Germany kept sleep at bay. But SIS had intelligence reports on a special German weapon, and His Majesty’s Government was keen to know what it was. A new development in rocketry could put London at risk, even if it was six hundred miles from Germany. And then there was the much darker prospect of atomic weapon development. It was years away, unless a highly rated hypercognition Talent achieved a breakthrough. England would love to have such a person. Pray God the Nazis did not have one.

So far not even the British mole in the German military intelligence, the Abwehr, had uncovered references to a new weapon. Of course Kim would not be the only spill artist, mesmerizer, or hyperempathy Talent trying to penetrate the operation.

For lunch, she decided to join the crowd at a charming beer garden with picnic tables outside overlooking the Elbe River. The tables were nearly full, but as Kim stood, lunch tray in hand, surveying the tables, two women waved her over.

Please join us, the one in a shawl said in German, smiling and moving over to make room. Kim sat down, thanking them in halting German and nodding at the woman across from her, heavyset, with her blond hair rolled into a helmetlike do.

As Kim unwrapped her bratwurst sandwich, the one in the shawl said in English, So, I make a guess: American?

Ellie! the blond woman said. Her German is not so bad.

No, Sophie, I mean nothing, the other said, tucking into her pastry. They were speaking English now, as a courtesy.

Well, that was a good guess, Kim said to Ellie. I was raised in America, but I have been in England the past few years. German is a big challenge to learn!

"Oh, ja, we have many consonants! Ellie remarked. But you can catch on."

The river caught the sun as a ferry cut across the water, leaving a swath of molten gold. All was bright and normal, with friendly locals and an excellent sandwich.

You know, Sophie said, digging for something in her tote, it is so much easier to read than to speak. Handing her a folded newspaper, she said, Here. For practice.

Kim nodded her thanks. It was a local broadsheet. A small heading mentioned local murders. She frowned at the phrases that spoke of violent deaths.

Ellie leaned in, noting the article. Terrible. They say the two were . . . ripped, do you say? And blaming that it was a bear! She snorted.

Kim looked askance at her food. Oblivious to the disturbing talk over luncheon, Ellie went on, To ask me, Jews murdered them. They use the blood in their religious rites, you know.

Kim was chagrined to hear this woman express such an opinion in modern times. Blood libel, the bizarre accusation made against Jews, that they slaughtered Christians for unholy rituals.

"Nein, Sophie said, wiping pie crumbs from her mouth. They were Jews that were murdered, so no Jew would do it."

But the blood nearly drained away from them . . . , Ellie argued.

A mother who shared their table and had been tending to her children’s meal frowned at them.

Sophie bent forward over the table, lowering her voice. My cousin in Wiesbaden, he said the same thing happened there, a Jewish shoemaker. The throat cut open, the blood drained. She nodded with dark solemnity. "It was a Teufel. A word Kim didn’t know. So it does no good to bury them. She flicked a gaze at Kim. They will come back."

It says that in the paper? Kim asked.

Sophie smirked. "Nein, nein. It is the bear, you know."

Kim folded the sandwich back in its paper.

Now look, Sophie! Ellie said. You have disturbed our guest.

Kim shook her head. Oh, not at all. I will save this for later, but I must be going. How kind of you to share your table.

You may keep the paper! Sophie said, turning back to her pie.

Our last night in Bad Schandau. In the spa restaurant, Alex held his champagne flute up.

Kim drank the toast. Tomorrow, Berlin.

Tell you what, let’s celebrate! He gestured for the waiter. Another. The waiter nodded, pouring the last of the bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Dresden went well, then? Kim asked. His meeting had been something to do with war bond repayments on which the Nazi Party had been threatening to default.

It did, rather. I have Herr Eckert’s promise to bring a new repayment schedule to Göring. Not full repayment, but I dare say a long way north of half.

The new bottle arrived. Kim covered her glass with her hand and the waiter put it on ice.

Oh, come now, Alex said as the waiter retreated. Our last night. Tomorrow is soon enough for business. Whatever your business is. He winked at her, his mood so buoyant, she let him pour. He was being a good sport about not prying into her mission, probably assuming it was garden-variety spying. She had to admit that Alex was a rather good companion, and champagne with a handsome man was never a complete mistake.

There was an odd thing in the village yesterday, she said, twirling the champagne in its flute. Some women were talking about local murders.

People are being murdered in Bad Schandau? He sat back, waiting to be entertained.

Yes, and the blood drained from them. It’s not just here but in Wiesbaden, and they can’t be buried if a fiend has taken them. Teufel. Fiend, the word she had looked up in her German-English dictionary.

He widened his eyes in mock alarm. Well, we shall certainly double-lock our doors tonight. He tucked into his portion of rack of lamb. So who was murdered by this fiend?

Two, maybe three Jews, at the very least. Don’t you think it’s strange they’re talking of blood being drained from bodies?

A village like this is full of superstitions. It’ll be different in Berlin.

They were talking about rising from the dead.

He topped off her glass. How Bram Stoker of them! Did they actually say ‘rising from the dead’?

No. They said you can’t bury them because they come back.

I dare say that explains why Germans are never the life of the party. He leaned in, lowering his voice. Perhaps some of them are dead.

She smiled in appreciation.

After dinner he ordered dessert for her and port for himself. Somehow he knew that she liked apple torte. So married of him. It was a good touch and she went along.

But she did not go along with the idea that she should leave the door to the adjoining suites ajar that night.

He stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up to show very nice forearms, his tie cast aside. I didn’t mean it, anyway, he said when she demurred.

Despite her refusal, she found herself disappointed. At any one moment she couldn’t quite tell if his flirting was just an act.

Unless he spilled to her. Which was the surest way to end a relationship, when someone thought they had just had words pried out of them. The very reason she had never gotten past brief courtships with men. Not that she and Alex were having a courtship.

He smiled. Goodnight, Kim.

Goodnight.

Fancy a swag of garlic for over the bed?

She laughed and softly closed the door.

3

TIERGARTENSTRASSE 44, BERLIN

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29. Kim slammed shut another drawer. Where would a maid have put her LNER train timetable? Her bedroom was stuffed with dark mahogany dressers, chests, and armoires, all with their drawers and compartments. When she and Alex had arrived that morning, her trunks had already been unpacked, their contents put away by Bibi. The maid had had plenty of time, since the main luggage had arrived five days ago, straight from the steamer at Hamburg.

Now, having been driven from the S-Bahn station down the Wilhelmstrasse past the Nazi government buildings, Kim was in need of her LNER timetable to calm her nerves.

Good God, it had only been German bunting, but the banners were everywhere: the red background, the white circle with the broken black cross, or Hakenkreuz, which some called the swastika. It was a powerful symbol, meant to intimidate. Effective too.

She opened the armoire where her clothes hung, checking the high shelf. No timetable. Just as she was about to close it, she saw that one of her dresses had fallen off the hanger. When she picked it up, she noticed that it wasn’t hers, but rather a lovely satin gown with seed pearls on the bodice.

Bibi ducked into the room. Is anything needed, madam?

Kim smiled at Bibi. She guessed her to be straddling fifty. Her hair, black and curly, framed a pleasantly lined face.

Come in, Bibi. When the maid stepped in, she went on, This cocktail dress isn’t mine. It must have belonged to the previous tenant.

Oh, Bibi said. Those people left things. I will take it, madam, and dispose of it.

It’s such a fine gown. Can you return it?

A worried look crossed Bibi’s face. It won’t be necessary, madam. They were . . . Well, they have left Berlin.

Kim let her take the dress. Bibi, I would prefer that you not call me madam. Mrs. Reed or ma’am will do. Second, I would like to communicate in German, so I can practice, if you wouldn’t mind helping me a bit.

But Mr. Reed made clear that he wished me to speak English.

Yes, and do so around Mr. Reed, but between the two of us, German, please. If you wouldn’t mind correcting me when I get it wrong?

Well. Bibi considered this. I could try.

Thank you. I speak poorly, so just make suggestions on the most important lapses, all right?

Yes, madam.

Kim let that go. It might take awhile. And now, I have a question, she said in German. Where is the little orange book? I put it with my . . . um, underclothes in the suitcase. She didn’t have the word for trunk, so she held wide her arms to show what she meant.

Bibi nodded. She crossed over to one of the thousand drawers and produced the London and North Eastern Railway booklet. Here it is, she said slowly in German, as though speaking to a child.

When Bibi left, Kim climbed onto the bed and propped herself up with pillows. She had greeted the three servants, the tall and commanding cook, Mrs. Grunewald, spry Bibi and her formal, quiet husband Albert, who in his midsixties handled duties as Alex’s valet and the mover, on occasion, of heavy Weimar Republic mahogany from room to room. Bibi served at table and did light housekeeping; then there was someone named Maria who was to come twice