But, of course, words like “permanent” were not spoken. It was rumored that his top aides, including Bormann and Göring, urged Hitler to go to the Berghof. Nevertheless, a message was delivered to the garage that a Ring cycle performance was planned, and Ute’s presence might soon be required.
“Mein Gott!” Alan Winfield slapped his forehead in dismay as the messenger left. “This is crazy!”
“I don’t want her to go, dear.”
“No, no. She should go. She’ll be safer there in the Führerbunker when they start to bomb.”
“How are the bikes coming?” Posie asked.
“I’ve rescued five wrecked ones. Between five, I think I can get at least three new ones out of their parts.”
“Well, if you can’t do it, nobody can.”
“With half a meter of snow on the ground, we’re not going to get far. We’ll have to wait until it melts and the roads are passable.”
“So they called you back!” Frau Weissmann was obviously upset. “Simply ridiculous!”
“What is ridiculous, Frau Weissmann?”
“The city is doomed, and what is the biggest tempest in the Führerbunker teapot?”
“What is it, Frau Weissmann?”
“It seems that the Führer wants his collection of original scores of the operas, which Wagner’s son had given him, transferred to the bunker. Winifred Wagner is objecting, and so is her son, Wieland Wagner, the director. Imagine arguing about such things at a time like this!”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“I knew you would, you’re such a smart girl.” She sighed. “Your costume is ready, of course.”
“And when is the performance?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know which scenes?”
“I’m not sure, but those fellows are being brought in to install the scenery.”
“What fellows?”
“Oh, you know. The wolfies.”
“The Werewolf. Yes, I saw a lot of them in the courtyard when I arrived.”
“Well, you know the way to your quarters. I’m sure there’ll be a rehearsal called soon.”
“Who else is playing the roles?”
“Let’s see, Marta from the pastry kitchen, as well as Gerda or Margot, one of the tasters. I get them mixed up.” She shook her head and made a soft clicking sound of disapproval. “What a terrible job they have. And yes, some of the Goebbels children. The entire Goebbels family has moved in with all their furniture, so it seems.” She sighed. “I wish I could remember which of the operas it is.” She tapped her head as if trying to jostle her brain just a bit. “Oh! I believe it’s the last one of the four, Götterdämmerung.”
“Oh!” Alice exclaimed softly. The Twilight of the Gods. The collapse of all things. For that was the translation. Seems appropriate, she thought. However, they had never staged that one before. Of course it was the one where the Valkyrie Brünnhilde rides her horse into the flames of the funeral pyre of Siegfried, the lover who betrayed her. But Alice had never played the role of this last act. She had to admit it gave her a slightly queasy feeling.
Ten minutes later, she felt more than just slightly queasy as she turned a corner in the labyrinthine passageways of the Führerbunker and nearly bumped into Fritz.
“Ooop! Pardon me,” he said quickly. And then said, “Wait a minute! Don’t I know you somehow?”
“No, no. I don’t believe so.”
He tipped his head slightly to the side and studied her. Her heart was racing. “Weren’t . . . you . . . the . . . the dancing girl?”
“I . . . I don’t dance.”
“Oh, sorry. Maybe I’m wrong.” He turned and walked off.
Alice felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She stopped and leaned against the wall. How could he have recognized her? This had never happened before. Then a very disturbing thought slithered into her mind. The only person who had always known her face and never forgot it was David. She hated to think that this evil person, this Werewolf, shared anything with David.
For the next two weeks she wrestled with telling someone. But she was not sure who. She didn’t want to tell her parents about this. It would worry them too much. Berlin was full of spies. MI6 ones, and those from other British agencies like the Special Operations Executive. Her primary fios, Stauffenberg, was gone. But dead drop contacts must still be around. She never really knew who they were. She’d just leave the chalk mark, then leave the coded message at the dead drop site. It was always tempting to hang around and see who the person was who picked it up, but she knew it was risky. She should never do it. In an emergency, she could get a message to him—a crust of bread, an apple peel—and set up a meeting. It only took her a split second to decide that in fact this was an emergency. She could be in grave danger with Fritz almost but not quite recognizing her.
There was a new dead drop spot now. The signal site near the Palace Bridge had been blown to bits, as well its dead drop site, the telephone booth on the corner.
A message had come through a week before that the new signal site was at the Charité hospital, and the dead drop site at a bench in a small park across the street. Not the easiest place to get to. But she had finally decided to go make the mark and then the drop, requesting to meet there the following day. She clenched the chalk with one hand in her left pocket, and in her right, a crust of bread.
The following day Alice got there early. She had wedged the bread just beneath the bench footing at the far end, with the note of the time stuffed into the thickest part of the bread. It was gone, but she began to think of all the things that could have dislodged it—a city rat? There were plenty. A bird looking for crumbs? There was precious little to eat in the city. A park attendant picking up trash—would they really be that diligent to pick out a crust of bread? Or that hungry?
She sat with a schoolbook and pretended to study. But this was impossible. She had been waiting at least thirty minutes when she saw a slender man approaching in what looked like work clothes. Dusty overalls and a workers’ cap with fur-lined earflaps. There was something slightly familiar about the way he walked. He came up to the bench.
“Walter!”
“Ja.”
“So you’ve known all along about us?”
“Ja.”
“Does Papa know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And you’re not Rasa?”
“No. Not at all.” He chuckled softly. “Not MI6 either.”
“What are you?”
“SOE—Special Operations Executive.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“So what’s your problem?”
“I think it’s a problem. Not sure.”
“Just say it.” He bent his head as he sat down and rested his elbows on his knees. She bent over as well. They appeared to be talking to the ground.
“Well, I think someone . . . uh . . . how should I put it . . . recognized . . .”
“Remembered your face?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A fellow in the Führerbunker.” She paused. “A Werewolf.” She whispered the word. The word felt hot on her lips.