Hedwig had melted out of the birch forest onto the path like a woodland sprite. Blond and spindly, yet a bit tall for her nine years. On the path she walked alongside Alice for perhaps ten seconds before taking her hand. “Mama said you’d watch me while I swam. I like to swim to the deep part. I’m a very good swimmer.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Alice replied.
“Yes, advanced level five.”
That was the highest level one could attain for her age.
And so the two had met, and in that fleeting conversation had established their basic credentials.
It was not, of course, until they were several yards from shore that Hedwig uttered the word “feallmharú.” Assassination.
“And when?” Alice asked casually.
“Five days after St. Morfitt’s Day.” The Rasa celebrated Thomas Morfitt’s birthday, spymaster to King Henry VIII and the founder of the Rasas, on July 15. So July 20 was the date of the assassination.
“Here?”
“Nein, Úlfabælið,” she replied in Icelandic. The language of Iceland was often used as a code language between agents.
The Wolf’s Lair! Hitler’s military headquarters on the Eastern Front near the town of Rastenburg.
They swam back to shore together. On the beach, Hedwig’s mother was waiting. She waved to the girls as they came ashore.
“Good swim?” she asked her daughter, and wrapped her in a towel. Then she turned to Alice and smiled broadly. “You are a good girl to look out for Hedwig. She is an excellent swimmer, but she likes to swim far, and I don’t want her to go out to the middle of the lake by herself. Thank you.” She paused a moment. “Thank you for everything.”
“Ah, think nothing of it.”
Alice took the towel, dried off, and began to walk back.
“Good luck!” the woman said softly.
“Bye-bye,” Hedwig called.
Alice had only been back ten minutes when there was a knock on her door.
“Yes?”
“Fräulein, may I come in? I have an urgent message.” It was Frau Kalhammer, the head housekeeper.
“Yes, of course.” Alice opened the door. She had a towel wrapped around her wet hair. “Just back from the lake, swimming.”
“Oh, that’s nice, but I’m afraid it’s your last one for a while. You are to head back to Berlin within the hour. You will have a few days there.” She made a slight grimace. “No opera there, just serving the officers and perhaps working to assist Frau Traudl Junge.”
“Who?”
“The Führer’s private secretary. Oh! You haven’t met her yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Traudl is the Führer’s principal secretary. Very nice woman. But now, of course, Fräulein Braun is in a twit, as she is not going to Rastenburg, but Traudl is and so are you!”
“Me?” Alice asked innocently.
“Yes, he asked for the girl who played Brünnhilde. He couldn’t quite remember your name or, for that matter, that you are a Reich Praktikum scholar. But then again, he has a lot on his mind.”
“First I have to go in advance and make sure all is ready.” She sighed.
Good! thought Alice. She would have time to see her parents, and David and perhaps see the girl who she had mistaken for her sister. She remembered the exact corner. It was a popular stretch with cafés and shops. But of course, since the Allied bombings, who knew if the cafés were still there? There were always throngs of troops striding about in their tan uniforms and red swastika armbands. Not a pleasant thought. But if she could get a glimpse of that girl, it would be worth threading her way through those thugs.
Alice was assigned to ride in car number eleven of the motorcade that would convey the Führer, his closest officers, and perhaps a dozen others from the Berghof household to the special train that would take them to Berlin.
Flanking the motorcade on either side were BMW R75 motorcycles.
She sat between other girls, who were chatting amiably about how cute the motorcycle soldiers were. One leaned across Alice to look out the window.
“Try to see their badges?” She began to lower her window.
“Nein! Nein!” shrieked Hans. “That is not permitted!”
“But we’re sweltering back here,” Hannah said.
“Sorry, young ladies. I’ll turn on the air fans. Wouldn’t want your pretty faces to get sweaty.”
“Aaach!” The two girls made disgusted sounds.
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, old man,” Hannah said.
“Farty head,” muttered Ulla. “Oh, I can see this fellow’s sleeve.” The car had slowed as they wound through a village. “My, my, what a strange symbol on the badge.”
“What does it look like?”
“Sort of like an anchor,” Ulla replied. “Maybe the navy?
Hannah now leaned across Alice for a better look. “Pardon me, but what’s your name again? I feel I should know you.”
Of course she should. They had stood side by side as Rhine maidens onstage.
Alice smiled slightly. “I was Flosshilde in the first act we did.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Both girls giggled.
“How stupid of us,” Ulla said. “I think you just have one of those faces.”
“Oooh, look, we’re stopping! I can get a really good look now.” Ulla emitted a small gasp. “Not an anchor. It looks like an animal trap. My father hunts. He has traps like those.”
“A Wolfsanker.” Hans, the driver, chimed in. “A meat hook.”
“Oh ja . . . ja,” the two girls muttered. They had all seen parts of that symbol incorporated into many badges. Often it had been like a crescent moon shape or sometimes wings. But now it just looked like a cruel trap.
Three or four minutes had passed without the motorcade moving.
“Why have we stopped?” Ulla asked.
Then they heard a bark. Ahead, a door slammed and a dog on a leash jumped out with an officer following.
“Uh-oh!” Hans said as Eva Braun followed. She was screaming at the top of her lungs while a small woman with her hair skinned back in a bun began to mop her skirt with a towel.
“Jesus Christus,” Ulla moaned. “Blondi threw up again.”
A minute later Liesl Ostertag stuck her head in the open door.
“Hello, ladies. I’m afraid the honorable Fräulein Braun and I shall be riding with you the rest of the way to the train station.”
“Oh noooo!” they all three moaned.
“Don’t worry, she doesn’t stink. I poured lavender water on her skirt.” She then turned to Alice. “And who is this lovely young lady?”
“Ute Schnaubel. I brought Fräulein Braun the magazines.”
“Oh yes, of course, Now I remember. You are the RP scholar. I haven’t seen you around lately.”
“She was Brünnhilde in the performance the other night,” Hannah offered.
“Yes, of course. But you’re not wearing your braids now.”
Eva Braun climbed into the car. Her face was tearstained. “He makes my little darlings, Stasi and Negus, ride in crates, and yet it’s Blondi who vomits all over everything. It’s not fair.”