“Herr Colonel Stauffenberg,” she said in a whispery voice. He immediately smiled, a broad and beautiful smile. He clasped her hand in a strong grip, between the stump of his wrist on his right hand and the three remaining fingers on his left. She was surprised by the strength. Her first thought was of the warmth that emanated from that beautiful face. He wore a patch over his missing eye, but the other was deep blue. He had dark hair, high elegant cheekbones, and a straight nose.

  In Germany’s eyes, he was not simply a hero, but an idol. Idols are idolized for their remarkable beauty or the mesmerizing spell they can cast on people. But true heroes, Alice thought, were models for bravery and decency. The man who stood before her was simply a decent man. So what she was seeing was the handsome exterior that encased something even more dazzling inside. The Gentleman Warrior in front of her was definitely an enigma, as much as the Enigma code they were trying to decipher at Bletchley, where her sister wanted to work.

  “Kleines Fräulein Schnaubel, it is so nice to meet you. Just thought I’d stop in for a chat with your mother while your father works on my automobile. Fuel injector problem.”

  “Oooh!” Alice opened her eyes wide.

  “You know about fuel injector issues?”

  “Yes, a series 89654800?” Alice replied.

  “My goodness!” the count replied, clearly impressed.

  “She is the daughter of a mechanic, Herr Colonel, and has a gift for mechanical things.” Posie Winfield offered.

  “Well, I’m sure you will do very well at your school, Hermann von Haupt. Although I’m not sure if they teach the young ladies auto mechanics.” He chuckled.

  Seven

  The Higher Daughters

  “Heil Hitler!” Alice jumped to her feet, along with the nineteen other girls in her classroom, as she raised her arm in a slant. This was only her third period at the Hermann von Haupt school, but each time classes changed and a new teacher entered, this was the practice. The teacher would then reply, “For the Führer, a triple victory.”

  Alice slid her gaze toward Birgit, her guide sister. “Which class is this?”

  “Racial awareness. Or RA, we call it,” Birgit whispered as the teacher, Frau Mueller, pulled down a canvas from a map rod. It showed a black-and-white photograph of two dozen or more people. She then turned to the class.

  “I understand that we have a new student among us today.” She took a small piece of paper from her pocket. “Fräulein Ute Schnaubel. Welcome, and please come forward.”

  Alice stood up and walked to the front.

  “Ute, can you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

  “I . . . I come from Swabia, a small village near Augsburg.”

  “It might be small, but I hear that you achieved the highest level in your Jungmädel group.”

  “Yes, that is true, but I must now be tested here. . . .”

  Frau Mueller whisked the air in a gesture of dismissal. “I know . . . I know. I think it is silly. It is as if they are saying that because you are from a small village, somehow this doesn’t count. But it does. You are a big strong Aryan girl, and now we shall prove this.”

  From a desk drawer she took a set of calipers, an L-shaped metal device with two hinged legs that was used for measuring the circumference of one’s head or the length of one’s nose.

  “What if she has a Jewish nose?” someone giggled.

  “Hardly,” Birgit hissed.

  “No talking, girls!” Frau Mueller said sternly. “We don’t make jokes about Jews. We just try to restrain or deport them.”

  “Along with others,” someone added.

  “Of course,” Frau Mueller said, and then broke into a huge smile. “Well, my goodness, Fräulein Ute Schnaubel has the measurements of an angel. I have never seen such perfection.”

  “Thank you,” Alice murmured. She supposed she should indicate joy or relief or some positive emotion, but she only felt a bit nauseous. This kind of “education” was too much to stomach.

  And for the first time since she had arrived in Germany, she wondered about her sister, Louise. How was she doing in England without them? A message had come through to Posie on a brush contact the day before, that Louise had indeed been admitted to Bletchley. The message was in deep code, of course. But Posie knew what it meant. And naturally it gave none of the details that Alice longed for. Did Louise miss them—at all? What was she doing now with her new face? Had she met anyone? A beau? Was she in the arms of someone who would remember her through a day? A week? Perhaps a lifetime? Would she and her mum and dad ever see Louise again?

  Frau Mueller suddenly looked slightly stricken. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I just forgot your name!”

  “Ute, Ute Schnaubel.”

  “Of course.” Frau Mueller clapped her hands delightedly. “Silly me.”

  Stupid you!

  “And now, students,” Frau Mueller continued. “I would like you to study the sheets that I shall pass out. They show diagrams displaying the differences between Aryans and other races’ skulls. You shall see immediately the differences in brain capacity.”

  Alice was dying to mention Anatole France, one of her mother’s favorite French writers, who had published many books and poems. He was known to have an exceptionally small head. But if there was one thing that Alice had learned, it was to keep her thoughts to herself. For Alice . . . or for Ute . . . it was a matter of life or death.

  There was no class that was quite as dismal as the racial awareness one. However, the teachers always managed to put a peculiar Nazi twist on everything. Herr Dorfmann welcomed her with a brief explanation of how history was taught: “Fräulein Schnaubel, in this class you shall learn that the purpose of history is to teach young people like yourself that life is always dominated by struggle. At the very center of this struggle are race and blood.” His words were almost identical to those of Wilhelm Frick, creator of the Nuremburg Laws that led to the persecution of Jewish people in Germany.

  Even in literature, Fräulein Gross managed to describe Shakespeare’s melancholy Hamlet as the perfect hero for their times, for his struggle. How she could use the words “resolved” and “resolute” and “fierce” with that dithering prince was unimaginable. But none of this was imaginary. Alice realized that she was sitting in these classes and learning nothing about literature or biology or history. Instead she was dissembling, disguising her true feelings.

  An A-level mission was not all about parachuting out of airplanes piloted by handsome young pilots. Nor was it mapping the heavy water plant in Norway, as Louise had done. Spycraft at its highest level required becoming one of “them.” Becoming the enemy, becoming a Higher Daughter, and seamlessly blending in.

  After school Alice found herself with three of the Higher Daughters, who had invited her to join them at the Bachmann Café, or the Bach, as it was called. Not as fancy as the Café Kranzler across the street, but very nice. She sat between Birgit and Margret, a rather mousy-looking girl, and Lena, a beautiful girl who looked like a younger version of the famous German movie star Marlene Dietrich—except for the pimple on her nose.

  “I just can’t believe this. It came overnight. Blossomed!” Lena whined.

  “Think of it then as a rose!” Birgit said.

  “It’s not a rose,” Margret said. “It’s full of pus, and if it fills up any more your nose will get bigger and turn into a Jewish nose.”

  Alice was sick. She looked at Birgit and Margret. They were giggling at this awful and disgusting “wit.” Alice knew she should laugh along with them in order to blend in, but perhaps she could say something else instead.

  “Put a hot wet facecloth on it when you get home, and it might pop. Don’t squeeze it, though. It might leave a scar.” Then she paused. A trace of a smile fled across her face. A joke she could make. “After all, Lena, better a red rose on your nose than a White Rose.” All the girls broke out laughing. The White Rose was the name of the resistance movement against Hitler.

  “Now that is what I call clever, very clever!” Lena exclaimed. “Thank you, Ute. And the suggestion for the hot cloth is very helpful, and not nasty.” She glared at Margret. Then turned to Alice. “So that is too bad that you have to go through the Jungmädel competitions all over again.”

  “Oh I don’t mind,” Alice replied.

  “What’s your favorite contest? You get to choose, you know.”

  “I like track. So I’ll probably choose that and maybe gymnastics.”

  “You know Ilse Kranzler?” Margret nodded to the very fancy Café Kranzler across the street. “Yes, those Kranzlers. Well, she’s a star gymnast. But not anymore! So you might have a chance.” All the girls burst into giggles.

  “What’s so funny? Why isn’t she a star anymore?”

  “Because she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh no! And not married or anything?” Now Alice was genuinely shocked.

  “Nope,” Birgit said. “Ilse would have been your sister guide.”

  “B-b-b-but. How old is she?”

  “Oh, fourteen, maybe almost fifteen.”

  “And she’s having a baby?”

  “Yes.” Margret nodded solemnly.

  “But isn’t that too young?”

  “A bit,” Lena said. “But you know the Führer wants all of us to have babies.”

  “Not quite that young. I know my mum wouldn’t like it one bit if I had a baby,” Birgit said.

  “Nor mine,” Lena said.

  “Not mine either,” Margret said. “But you know, if it happens, it happens.”

  If it happens, it happens! Alice thought. The conversation was becoming increasingly bizarre. “After all, when we get to be seventeen, we’ll be eligible for the Faith and Beauty Society of the girls’ league. And just think, Lena, they’ll give you all sorts of tips about spots.”

  Alice glued a benign smile to her face, as if this was all perfectly normal. But really she felt as if she had entered an alternate reality. Still, she joined in, saying, “So you think I might have a good chance for a first medal in gymnastics, now that Ilse Kranzler is out of the running?”

  “Definitely!” Margret said. Alice couldn’t help but think that things couldn’t become any stranger . . . but then they did. “You know, I just had a great idea for my report in RA,” Margret said brightly.

  “What?” Birgit said.

  “I’m going to do my report on earlobes.”

  “What are you going to say about earlobes?” Lena asked.

  “I’m going to start by measuring all your earlobes and sketching them. You know, showing the difference between the hanging earlobe, the creases, and the attached ones. You know, comparing them by race.”

  “But where will you find other races?” Alice asked. “They’ve all been locked up.”

  “My dad has a friend of a friend who works at Ravensbrück. It’s not that long a drive from Berlin. I bet he can get me in.” Alice squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and tried to imagine this mousy girl going into the women’s concentration camp, measuring the prisoners’ earlobes. “But if that doesn’t work, I can always use photographs and measure.”

  “But Margret.” Alice sighed, trying to conjure up a sympathetic tone. “How are you going to use photographs of the other races?”

  “Oh, Frau Mueller has lots of those. You only saw a fraction in her class today.”

  “Okay, but still,” Alice persisted. She noticed a little frown creasing Margret’s brow. “How can you compare the measurements of a photo to the measurements you take of our actual ears? I mean, the scale will be different.”

  The three girls looked at Alice in wonder, as if she was a veritable genius.

  “Oh!” Margret inhaled sharply. “Scale. You do have a point. I guess I’ll have to think about it.”

  Yes, thought Alice, you take that wee brain of yours and have a good think. Idiot.

  But they really aren’t idiots, are they?

  The question danced through her mind. They were products of this insane culture. They had been brainwashed. How did a person wake herself up from such a brainwashing? How could one hang one’s brains out to dry in fresh air? Watch it, Alice, she counseled herself. The last thing a spy needed to do was empathize. If she did, it would be her undoing, and in a very short time she would be dead.

  “I just want to get high marks,” Margret was saying. “If I do well in the Jungmädel games I might have a chance at an RP.”

  RP? Alice spun through her memories of all the pages of soft materials she had read. It eluded her. Reich. Reich, that’s what the R was for. But Reich what?

  “Honestly, Margret, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Jutta Engels has a better chance,” Birgit said.

  “Not necessarily,” Margret snapped.

  “I don’t think we had the RP in Swabia.”

  “Oh no! It’s only in Berlin. It’s the Reich Praktikum. Whoever has the highest grades in both the Jungmädel athletic contests and academics gets a chance to work right in the New Reich Chancellery. You’d have a chance to work in the offices of someone very important—like say Herr Goebbels, the minister of propaganda and enlightenment. Inge Hausmann got to work in the architectural office of Albert Speer.”

  Alice’s eyes opened wide in amazement. She now remembered the mention of this in her soft materials. The words came back to her. If you perform with consistent excellence, you will become eligible for a part-time position after school in the New Reich Chancellery, the headquarters of the Greater German Reich.

  “Yes, isn’t it thrilling?” Margret said. “Just imagine if one of us got such an opportunity.”

  Alice suddenly knew what her mission was. She was to win the RP, and then be inserted right into the heart of the Reich, under the guise of being a model student. She had no doubt she would win it. Between the Rasas, or the Company, and MI6, the official British secret intelligence service, it would be achieved, even if she didn’t qualify.

  But she would. After all, she was a Rasa, and endowed with extreme academic talents and athletic ones. Perhaps if the competitions had been in the Beauty and Faith division of the older girls’ league, she might have been more challenged. She was no beauty. Besides that, no one could remember her face.

  And as for faith? She was just good old Church of England, and that had nothing to do with faith in the god Hitler—she imagined that was what the faith part of that older division was about. Nazis were not particularly concerned with the kinds of faith one practiced at church, except if one went to a synagogue. At the opening assembly of the day, all the students gathered in the auditorium and were required to recite the morning prayer.

  Führer, my Führer, given me by God,

  Protect and preserve my life for long.

  You rescued Germany from its deepest need.

  I thank you for my daily bread.

  Stay for a long time with me, leave me not.

  Führer, my Führer, my faith, my light,

  Hail my Führer.

  That was the Church of Adolf Hitler. And it frightened Alice to her core.

  Eight

  The Prince of Darkness and Weasel Head

  “So, meine kleine Maus, how did your first day go today with the Higher Daughters of the best school in Berlin?”

  “Mum, don’t call me your little mouse. One of my classmates is very rodenty looking, though. More rat than mouse, but she’s tiny. And mean.”

  “No, Ute, here’s your first lesson for A level. You really never know. Sometimes the meanest in behavior are total cowards. Not to say that they are less dangerous, but they are often less able to act. And the sweetest can be the most deadly and clever. But how did your classes go? And the teachers?”

  “Somewhat weird. How about your first day over there?” Alice tipped her head toward the brand-new office buildings where the high command of the German army offices was located. Alice and her mother had met up there after school and were walking back to the Bendlerstrasse garage together. It was actually safer to discuss certain things in a public space. Though the apartment was theoretically clean, there was always the chance that someone could sneak in and plant bugs. Her father checked at least once a day, but one could never be too cautious.

  “My day? Well, let’s just say working with a bunch of Nazis is not exactly a walk in the park,” Posie replied.

  “This girl Birgit that I met, she’s my sister guide, and her mum works in the same building as you. She’s in the race and settlement office.”

  “What a euphemism for the concentration camps!”

  “Mum . . .” Alice slowed her pace and turned toward her mother. “I think I know what my mission is.”

  Posie’s eyebrows seemed to leap like minnows. “I told your father you would catch on immediately.”

  “I’m to do well in the Jungmädel games on the Führer’s birthday and make the highest marks in school. Then I can earn a Reich Praktikum.”

  “Indeed. It’s always better if one uncovers their mission themselves. It means you bring a freshness to it. Unprejudiced.”

  “Did Louise discover her missions as quickly?”

  “Oh, goodness, child, I can’t remember. It’s not a contest.”

  Not anymore, thought Alice. Just as she was finally catching up with her sister, Louise had quit the game. Neither Alice nor Posie ever referred to her as Louisa anymore. She was just plain Louise. And although Alice tried to forget her sister’s new face, she wasn’t very successful. Most times it would simply blend in with her old face in her memories.

  “It’s always better to let one discover their mission,” she said as they walked on. “If we turn here, there’s a shortcut to a very good bakery, I’m told. Almost in the Tiergarten, the beautiful park. No flour shortage here yet.”

  Five minutes later they turned into a narrow street and immediately saw the bakery, Zeiberg Bäckerei.

  As soon as they walked through the door, Alice felt as though she was dissolving into a sweet dream of cakes and pastries. There was the scent of anise swirling through the air. “How does one decide?” she gasped.