“I have no doubt that you will be called up early for your mission. So be prepared to start soon.”
“I think I’ll go for a run in the Tiergarten.”
“Don’t be long, dear,” her mother said.
Alice purposely avoided the street, or rather the alley, of the whipped-cream house and cut to a less direct route to the park. She began to run down the bike trail toward the Lion’s Gate bridge that crossed a wide stream. Splitting off from this trail, she headed toward the Blumenbeete, the flower beds that would be in their full glory this first week in June. She was sweating profusely by the time she stopped at a curved bed crammed with flowers in full bloom. So beautiful, she thought. Almost as beautiful as English gardens. Alice bent over to brace herself on her knees and take a few deep breaths. An explosion of pink and violet petunias appeared to be bickering for space.
“I’m the prettiest.”
“No, I am. But look at those gaudy marigolds.”
“Who would plant those garish showgirls by us?” another stately white delphinium seemed to sniff from its tall stalk.
But of course it was all in Alice’s head. She loved to think of flowers conversing. They all had different personalities. She felt as if she could write a book or maybe a play—preferably a musical where all the actors would be flowers.
“Psst!” A hiss came from a dense hedge of yews just behind the delphiniums. “Ute!”
A face peeked through. David? He recognizes me! A wonderful feeling flooded through her. It had taken her classmates weeks upon weeks to remember her face, her name, anything except the fact that that she was the new student.
How had he recognized her? She was tempted to tell him to hide from the haughty delphinium.
She made her way toward the hedge and saw a squashed cluster of petunias, but they seemed to spring back up, and then she heard a kind of popping sound. Two white delphiniums crashed to the ground, their stems broken. Die Invasion kommt, she thought. The invasion is coming.
“You . . . you . . .” Alice was gasping. “You know me?”
“Of course, how could I not know you? I’m most likely alive because of you.” A perplexed look crossed his face, casting it in a sad shadow. “And do you always talk to flowers?” A trace of a smile crossed his face, brightening his sallow complexion. “You did. Calling the marigolds garish showgirls. I couldn’t quite make out the rest of your mutterings.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That you recognized me.”
She felt a panic begin to well up inside her. This was completely contrary to the second chapter of the L.F. guide, the Leabhar Folachte, old Gaelic for hidden book. It served as a kind of guide for the Rasa. The book no longer existed, but the lessons had been passed down from generation to generation since the sixteenth century. The book was said to have been the creation of William Morfitt and a Gaelic monk. It stated in the first chapter that outside of the familiar setting in which a non-Rasa might encounter her or his subject in the context of their mission, they would be unrecognizable. That state was often referred to as OC, short for out of context. Now David Bloom had just defied over five hundred years of Rasa history. He had recognized her!
“Are you saying you’re not Ute?”
“Not exactly.”
“You either are or you’re not. But I say you are. I know you, Ute.” Fear flooded her. How could he know her? Was this boy a double agent of some sort? She clasped David’s hand. It was cold despite the warm weather. “Your hand’s so cold.”
“Are you trying to change the subject?” he snapped.
“No, no.” She took a deep breath. “There is just so much I can’t exactly explain right now.” She leaned closer to him. “Look, David, I have to go away for a while. I won’t be able to bring you food. But I’ll try when I can.”
“I was wondering why I never saw you in the alley lately. You must be coming when I’m inside the house, in the cellar.”
“Yes, so your hiding place is still working?”
He nodded. “They drink a lot—the servants. Draining every wineglass that is left with anything in it at all. The butler often filches a whole bottle. Schmelling never notices. He’s drunk half the time too. And his wife takes laudanum. You know what that is?”
Of course she knew the painkiller. It was prepared with morphine and opium. But she didn’t want to appear too knowledgeable. In Rasa camp chemistry labs, they had learned how to prepare it. It was sometimes essential for their work. Louise had told her that she learned more chemistry in Rasa camp than she ever learned in high school. She said that one of the hardest things for a Rasa kid was to disguise one’s knowledge of chemistry.
Down the path from where Alice and David both crouched, they heard some voices rising in excitement.
“Nicht Pas de Calais!”
“Nein, Normandie. Utah Beach.”
Both Alice and David froze as the voices approached. Then there were more voices, panicky voices and running feet.
“What is it?” David asked.
A smile broke across Alice’s face. Die Invasion kommt. “Yes, they’re talking about the invasion, but it’s not where they expected it to be in France. Another part—it’s Normandy instead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They were deceived by FUSAG.”
“F-f-f-f . . . what?”
“FUSAG—the fictitious First US Army Group. Those Americans are very smart!”
“Where is . . . this place they’re talking of? Ute Beach?”
Alice nearly laughed out loud. “No, not like my name, Ute. You-tah Beach.”
Fifteen
While Hitler Slept
Alice raced home after giving David a hug. All through the garden there were small clumps of people who talked in hushed voices, as if speaking out loud would somehow expedite the invasion. On street corners it was the same. They all knew it was coming, but they didn’t know the real location: Normandy. According to the Germans, that was not where it was supposed to happen.
When Alice burst into the Bendlerstrasse garage, she found the mechanics standing about in stunned disbelief as a radio crackled reporting the invasion news. Walter, a top mechanic much favored by her father, turned around.
“Your papa is upstairs.”
She paused a moment and looked at the car he was working on. It was Goebbels’s Mercedes. She was sure. “He’s not here,” Walter replied. “Herr Goebbels is at the Berghof with the Führer.”
“That’s where the Führer is? Now?”
“Ja . . . enjoying the mountain air.” If a voice could be said to have a smirk, Walter’s did. Was he perhaps a double agent? No time to wonder. She rushed to the spiral staircase that led to the apartment.
Bursting in the door, she found her parents huddled by the wireless. Her father was turning the knobs to better tune the news. Both her parents looked up at her as she entered, their faces beaming. Alice slid into a chair.
“Kuschelwelpe hat geschlafen.” The Cuddle Pup slept. Cuddle Pup was the Winfields’ own code name for Hitler. They didn’t know that for Alice the code name was different—Starling.