Authors: John Anthony Miller
Amanda left York’s room and walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She glanced in both directions, saw no one, and started for the back entrance. Just as she turned the corner, the door to a nearby room opened and a man stepped out. It was Manfred Richter.
She stopped short, leaning back against the wall. There was nowhere to hide. He was only six meters away.
He paused in the corridor, the door to the room still open, his back to Amanda. He didn’t turn around.
“Are you coming, Anna?” he asked, focused on the room.
“Yes, darling, just give me a minute,” a female voice called.
A slender blond emerged, kissed him lightly on the lips, and then wrapped her arm in his. They strolled down the hallway, oblivious to Amanda Hamilton standing in the shadows behind them.
Amanda stood motionless, shocked and stunned. She stayed in the corridor, hiding in a darkened recess used for storage, struggling to cope with yet another of Manfred’s mistresses. She stayed there for almost ten minutes, until she was sure they were gone.
She left the hotel, dazed and distraught, blind to traffic and pedestrians. As she crossed the street she was almost hit by a bicyclist, even though he shouted a warning. But she didn’t care if he hit her or not. She ignored the Nazi flags that dominated every aspect of Berlin life, and kept walking, her eyes seeing nothing, her mind knowing the way. When she entered her front door, she barely remembered how she got there.
No one was home when she arrived, not even Hannah. She went to her sanctuary, the music room and photography studio where she spent her private moments, and sat in a plush leather chair. Her violin sat untouched on a stand beside her while she stared vacantly at the wall. Minutes became hours as the last ten years of her life drifted through her mind, the days and weeks jumbled and confused, images distorted and disjointed. She wondered just how many other women were in his life. There was this blond named Anna, the redhead during the winter, the bank manager, Greta Baumgartner. Who else? How many more?
Her life was a farce. She had convinced herself that she had a good marriage, even though she now realized she never did. She had thought her husband was a great man; she now knew he wasn’t, and never was. She was sure he was in love with her; she now suspected he never was.
She had changed her whole life for him, surrendering who she was and all she had become. She had transformed into a German wife, living in a strange land, learning a new language, becoming everything he wanted her to be − and losing herself in the process.
Yet she had still excelled musically, even in a strange place, taking center stage and becoming the most popular violinist in Germany. It had been difficult. As a foreigner, she had always been viewed with suspicion and mistrust, although it waned with the passing years. But now she wondered what she might have become if she had stayed in Edinburgh, or gone to London or New York instead of Berlin. She would never know.
She wondered how she could have been so foolish. When had Manfred turned into such a monster? Had it been gradual, so she hadn’t noticed? Or had he always been that way? Was she the one who had changed, once blinded but now given the gift of sight? If so, what had made her change? Was it actually seeing what she had always suspected, again and again?
Each flaw in their relationship seemed almost normal while Kurt was there. He had been the glue that held the household together, keeping the fantasy family alive. And only a few weeks after his departure, it had fallen apart.
As she reflected on the past, she realized Manfred had been home less and less as the years whirled by. Once the war started, he was barely home at all. But now that was better. She wouldn’t have to look at him.
It had been six years since she had visited Scotland. She wondered what had changed, what was the same. Edinburgh was an ancient city; she couldn’t imagine it looking much different. She could see herself back there, walking the winding city streets past the Craigleith sandstone buildings: the University of Edinburgh, the Royal Museum, St. Margaret’s Chapel, Holyrood Palace, and St. Giles Cathedral. How would it feel to live with the Allies as opposed to the Nazis? There were so many things that she hadn’t really thought about. But she did now.
There was no reason to remain in Germany. There was nothing left for her in her adopted home. But she had no idea how to get out, especially now with the world at war. She would ask Michael; he would help her. He was a good man, sensitive and sincere.
She contrasted him with Manfred. Michael was gentle, Manfred was rough. Michael was an introverted intellectual, thrust into a dangerous world because of unique abilities. He was comfortable alone, in his study by a fire, reading a book. Manfred was boisterous and extroverted, a man who enjoyed attention and loved crowds. Both were capable and talented. Both were handsome, Michael in a brooding sort of way, Manfred dashing and outgoing.
Manfred always sidestepped tragedy. He was constantly prepared, cunning and careful, never surprised. He was calculating, somehow able to predict the future and be ready for it. She thought of the escape routes and safe houses and finances he was staging to support the Fourth Reich. What did Manfred know that she didn’t? Was Germany losing the war? Or was Manfred part of a plot to overthrow Hitler and rule in his place? Did Hitler know about the escape routes? Was he planning to flee, also? There were many unanswered questions.
She had never found politics very interesting. Now she struggled to remember her discussions with Manfred, or conversations she had overheard. What was he doing? She shivered while assessing him. He was planning, evaluating, and calculating, like he always did. But what was even more alarming, he was waiting patiently. But for what?
There was a time when she thought she understood him, although his motives were always a mystery. She wondered what role he had for her. Was the blond in the hotel a diversion or her replacement? Was it lust or love? What about the bank manger? Who was his favorite, the bank manager or the blond, or someone else? Manfred seemed like a stranger, and she felt like she studied him from afar, even if under a microscope.
Michael was different, so calm and supportive and reassuring. She smiled, remembering how interested he was in her photographs. And she winced, remembering the painful moments they had shared. He was so sad that he had lost contact with his daughter. Maybe someday Amanda could help him find her. She smiled. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Suddenly she realized just how much she enjoyed the stolen moments in Michael’s hotel room. It felt good to be with someone who admired her, shared her interests, and enjoyed her company. When she really thought about it, she realized that they met much more frequently than her stolen bits of information really required. The photographs delivered were rarely reviewed anymore; they just talked instead. Michael gave them to someone who got them to London. But she didn’t know who.
She was fortunate to have him in her life, especially now. He would get her out of Germany and she would return to Scotland, or maybe to London, and start her life again. She was getting excited. Instead of being what Manfred wanted her to be, she could be what she wanted to be. But she was happy and sad at the same time: she could be whatever she wanted to be, but she had no idea what that was.
She looked in the mirror that hung on the wall. She saw a good person, kind and compassionate. Not much effort was made to improve her looks, but she could be attractive if she wanted to. Maybe change her hair style, or use more cosmetics. She wasn’t unattractive, just a bit ordinary. But she had a good heart. And she had a good head. She may have been weak for the past ten years, but she could be strong. She had to take one day at a time, plan carefully, maintain the charade until her escape could be meticulously arranged and executed. Then she would find a freedom she had never known in the last ten years: new adventures, new horizons, and a new life.
She picked up the violin, holding it under her chin, her fingers caressing the neck, coaxing the strings, the bow massaging and manipulating, and she escaped, drifting into a world of dreams to avoid a life of nightmares.
York planned to arrive at Savignyplatz thirty minutes before Amanda did. He wanted to walk the park’s perimeter before she got there, making sure nothing looked suspicious. He was anxious and uneasy; there were too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions.
He couldn’t understand why the wanted posters for Max appeared for a day or two and then vanished, the intense manhunt evaporating. Supposedly the Gestapo apprehended someone that looked similar, or maybe Max resembled the man that the Gestapo was seeking, York wasn’t sure which. He just thought it odd that the British spy and any potential accomplices were never mentioned again.
He also wondered if Kaiser and Klein were more than musician and manager, especially if they had served together in the last war. If so, what could it be, what roles could they be playing? Maybe Klein observed the string quartet constantly, not just during trips. Maybe Kaiser did, too, posing as a father figure while watching every move the others made. York knew there were countless possibilities and endless scenarios, each more dangerous than the last.
He walked towards Savignyplatz, approaching Kantstrasse. Max’s rooming house was a few blocks away, to the east, on Fasanenstrasse. On the far corner was a café, blue umbrellas open on the outdoor tables, shading patrons from the summer sun. Trees lined the curb, sheltering the sidewalks, beds of scarlet chrysanthemums at their trunk.
As York crossed Kantstrasse he gazed at the café, searching the faces at the tables. There were a few foreign workers, probably French, and a German soldier sitting with an attractive lady, maybe a wife or girlfriend. A group of middle-aged women shared another table. In the far corner, away from the street, he saw a familiar face.
Max was sipping a cup of coffee, facing Kantstrasse. A man was at the table with him, his back to York. He was older, white wisps of hair crowning his head, but York couldn’t see his face or venture a guess at who he was. But he really didn’t want to.
He quickened his pace, hobbling on his cane. Max ran other networks; he had contacts throughout the city. His companion was probably providing information. York didn’t want to jeopardize the operation. He hurried from view, continuing down Savignyplatz, moving north and then west.
Once he had traveled the entire perimeter, he walked through the park. He saw nothing unusual, only pensioners enjoying the summer day, or mothers with their children. He stopped to watch two boys kicking a football, and a mother pushing a stroller, the infant sleeping soundly. He made his way to the bench where he was to meet Amanda, strolling casually down the walkway.
She arrived fifteen minutes later, her camera around her neck. She had a smile on her face, but it didn’t consume her or light her eyes like her smile normally did. Her walk wasn’t as buoyant, her face not as bright. She paused a few feet away to take a photograph of a bird on a limb above. Then she sat down, not leaving any space on the bench between them.
“How did the concert go?” he asked.
She shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”
His eyebrows knitted with concern. “Is everything all right?”
She turned, her eyes on his, and then blurted everything that had happened. She told him she had found Manfred in the arms of another woman at the hotel, and how she had hidden in the hallway, shocked and stunned. She told him about Manfred’s affair during the winter, the reconciliation, and the bank manager she also caught him with. She described the hours of soul searching, mourning the missing years of her life, and all that she sacrificed, including her identity, until she didn’t even know who she was. Minutes passed as she talked, sometimes not even making sense, her thoughts colliding in a rush to be expressed. It was like a catharsis, and the more she said, the more she needed to say.
York only listened, not interrupting, his face showing compassion, his heart feeling her pain. He knew what it was like to be betrayed, and he fingered the photograph in his pocket, remembering the daughter he couldn’t find. When tears dripped from Amanda’s eyes, starting as a mist and then rolling uncontrollably down her cheeks, he wiped them away.
When she finished talking, he hugged her. Although it was meant to show compassion and support, she held him closely, clinging, not letting go, her head buried in his shoulder. He could hear soft sobs, feel her body jerk slightly. Minutes passed with neither moving, safe in each other’s arms.
“I feel like a fool,” she said. “I gave him the best years of my life.”
York gently pulled away, his eyes trained on hers. “I would argue that the best is yet to come.”
She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Thank you, you’re very sweet. But I can’t stop thinking about what a horrible mistake I made.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” he said. “We all make mistakes, but we learn from them and do better. We become stronger. That’s life. That’s what makes us who we are, determines how we cope and combat, defines what choices we make or don’t make. What if you never found out about Manfred? You would have wasted your entire life with a man that doesn’t care about you. At least now you can move forward.”
He could tell she was afraid. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. It was hard, facing the unknown.
“I have to start all over again,” she said.
“Think how exciting that will be. You’ll be walking a path that has never been traveled before.”
She shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”
He put his hand over hers. “I will help you,” he said softly.
She smiled, her eyes brighter. “I knew you would.”
“Have you thought about what you want to do?”
She paused, for the first time voicing the plan she had spent the whole weekend developing. “I want to leave Germany. There’s nothing left for me here.”
“And go back to Scotland?”
“Or London. Even Switzerland, if that’s as far as I can get.”
He sighed, thoughtful, knowing he could get her out. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it. And maybe he could help Erika Jaeger, too.
“We have to plan this very carefully,” he said, drawing the escape route in his mind. “It’ll be dangerous and difficult. You’ll have to convince Manfred that nothing is wrong.”
“That should be easy. I never see him.”
“Start thinking about what you want to take with you. It can’t be too much. We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
“I already know what I’m taking,” she said. “My violin, my camera, and all the negatives from my photographs.”
“How much space will you need?”
“I can fit it all in a large canvas bag.”
He was pensive, envisioning what was needed. He looked around the park. The same innocent faces were milled about, no one seemed suspicious. But he didn’t want to take any chances. “We should probably go,” he said reluctantly.
She hesitated, shades of disappointment crossing her face. As they stood to leave she hugged him tightly. “Thank you for everything.”
He smiled gamely, knowing the way forward would be challenging. “You would do the same for me.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re right. I would.”