“Did he remember you?”
“Of course not. I’ve been in there at least three times now. Never even a glimmer of recognition. Each time he welcomes me and gives me something free. I feel guilty now. He’s given me too much.”
“Well, not me. I really love those cookies.”
“All right, run along.”
Ten minutes later she walked into the shop. She stopped short. There was a new scent, and it was not anise, nor anything that went into a cookie or a cake. It was perfume. And not just any perfume, but Laurel Bright, the perfume that Louise sometimes wore. An inexpensive British perfume. One could buy it at the chemist. But why would that scent be trailing through the Zeiberg bakery? Alice felt momentarily disoriented.
“Aah.” Herr Zeiberg greeted her with delight. “You new to the neighborhood?”
“Uh . . . yes, more or less. Just out for a run.” She sniffed. Immediately she knew she shouldn’t have. But she felt completely discombobulated. This would not do. Spies could not feel discombobulated, flummoxed, or anything else.
“Oh, practicing for Jungmädel games?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered crisply.
“My daughter too. So what can I do for you?”
“Ah . . . some of those cookies maybe—the anise ones?” she said, pointing to the glass case.
“Of course, but let me get you some kleine Kuchen for you as well—fresh out of the oven.” He went through a door and came back a few seconds later with a tray of hot little cakes.
“Thank you, sir. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. A welcome gift. Pick out some cookies too.” As he was packing up the cookies and cakes, the bell on the door jingled, announcing a new customer.
“Ah, Frau Goebbels, what a treat to see you again. How is the minister?”
“Gut . . . gut . . . never better.”
Alice froze. Would the woman recognize her? Her tunic had the name of her school. She knew that Frau Goebbels’s husband had finally recognized her father, but never outside the garage. That was usually how it worked. A Rasa was most often recognized when he or she was in the context of their own workplace. Five minutes after that, a Rasa could be in the street and the person would not recall having seen them. At most, the person might think, if they bumped into each other, that perhaps he or she had met them some time before but couldn’t identify where or when. The Rasa would be just a vaguely familiar face.
Alice turned now to leave, trying her best to avoid a direct confrontation, but just at that moment Magda’s attention was drawn to her by the fragrance of the freshly baked little cakes.
“Ummm! That smells divine. What have you got there, dear?”
“Uh . . . just some cakes, kleine Kuchen . . . ,” Alice answered.
“May I have a peek?”
“Of course.” What could she do? She set the box on the counter. Her hands were trembling as she untied the box. She tried to smile. Frau Goebbels sniffed the open box. She raised her head and looked Alice directly in the face. Weasel head!
“Lovely, I think I’ll ask for some myself, Herr Zeiberg.” Then she turned back to Alice. “Thank you, child. What pretty blue eyes you have. And I think you look just a little bit like that very young actress Elizabeth Taylor. I just came from the cinema. That wonderful film Lassie Come Home. Her hair is very black, almost like a Jewish child’s hair, but her eyes are nearly violet. Yes, really like Elizabeth Taylor. I believe she is about your age.”
“Yes, madame. I mean, I don’t know how old she is. But I hear she is very pretty.”
Clutching her bag of cookies and her box of little cakes to her chest, Alice dashed out the door. Between the scent of the perfume and the encounter with Frau Goebbels, she was more than agitated.
Frau Goebbels was real, but the scent of that perfume could not have been real. Did they sell that perfume here in Germany? She stopped for a moment and shut her eyes. Her mind spun backward. It was as if she was watching a movie in reverse—the frames flashing backward. The sound of the mirror shattering in their cottage back in England when Louise furiously slammed the door. Then the preceding frame in the film—the argument that had started when she’d come across Louise primping in the mirror, dabbing on the new perfume. The harsh exchange with their words cutting like glass fragments: . . . one question before you slam me out . . . You’re being dramatic . . . Am I now? Oh, that’s rich . . . I think you’re the dramatic one. You look like an actress trying out expressions for an audition. . . .
Alice knew she had to push all these thoughts out of her mind—the words, the scent. It was ridiculous. More than one person could wear that scent. It wasn’t as if it was Chanel No. 5. It was cheap. Chemists carried it. You could buy it if you went in to buy a packet of gum, Band-Aids, cough syrup, and yes, a bottle of Laurel Bright, please. It cost less than a pound. A few shillings, maybe. Countless women might be wearing that scent. She was just being foolish. It was a needless distraction. And needless distractions had no place in the superior minds of Rasa spies.
She had something more important to do. Sgudail. Yes, the old Rasa term her mum had used. Trash picking . . . considered an excellent source of intel. She needed to deliver these cakes and cookies to . . . to . . . the shadow . . . lurking in the rich people’s garbage.
Taking the shortest route to the whipped-cream house, she stopped suddenly on the corner diagonally across from it. A very official-looking auto had just pulled up in front of the mansion. The door opened and a man stepped out. Alice inhaled sharply. He wore the gray-green uniform of the SS, the Schutzstaffel, which was the military unit charged with enforcing Hitler’s racial policies.
And this man was no mere officer. There was a scramble of gold brocade on the shoulder boards of his uniform indicating that he was a general, and not simply any general. The oak leaves on the notched lapels meant he was an SS Oberstgruppenführer, a highest-command general. No wonder there were all those champagne bottles and caviar jars in the trash bins. But how did that explain the shadow? Who was the shadow, and where had it come from?
Dare she creep into the alley now and leave the cookies in the bin? Her own shadow was lengthening. She waited until the general entered the house and the government auto pulled away, then began to walk calmly toward the alley. She had the oddest feeling that she was being watched. Was the shadow near?
The trees that bordered the backyards of the houses rustled in a light breeze. Their leaves seemed to whisper to her, beckoning her. She realized that she had begun to tiptoe down the alley. How ridiculous! Tiptoeing in her gym shoes toward the trash bin. She looked around and, as quietly as possible, removed the cover from the bin and put the entire bag of cookies and the box of small cakes on top of some coffee grounds. There was a moment, as she placed the bag and box, that she actually thought she could feel the shadow’s hunger. She almost heard a gasp, but it was just the shiver of the linden trees’ leaves in the breeze. Replacing the lid as quietly as possible, she hurried away to the corner of the alley.
She decided to wait to see what might happen. Would the shadow appear? She was uncertain if he—or possibly she—might be glimpsed. She walked a few steps to a larger bin, which she could crouch behind and peek out. She could see various lights begin to flick on in the whipped-cream house. She figured that the kitchen in the house was downstairs, on the basement level. This was often the case in these large mansions. As much space as possible was put between the kitchen and the dining area, as servants were to be rarely seen. Food was delivered on dumbwaiters to the upstairs pantry, and the staff of butlers and footmen would then serve.