Chapter 13 Hiding Places
HIDING PLACES
The others had all gone downstairs, and I was about to follow them from the kitchens with my bulging rucksack and the bag of precious flour when Father said, “Marguerite.”
One word, but with a tone so full of meaning, I trembled. He was going to tell me the truth. I could feel it, and part of me—most of me—didn’t want to hear it.
“Yes, Father?”
“I have something I need you to do for me.” His eye so intent on me.
“I’ll do anything,” I said. “At least I’ll do my best to.”
His face softened. “I know you will. You’re young and small, but you’re strong and intelligent, too.
Remember that. You’re afraid right now, I know.
I’m afraid, too. That’s where the courage and the strength lie—in pushing past the fear.
Listen, then. There’s another way down to the old cellar, the deep cellar. ”
“I thought that was closed off years ago,” I said. “Because it was dangerous.”
“No,” he said. “Come with me.”
I followed him through the kitchens, then along passages filling with smoke and choking ash that burned my eyes, to the hundred-meter length of the Long Corridor.
The cases to either side of us held the palace’s armaments collection, and I hurried past hundreds of rifles and pistols, swords and shields, and thought, And yet nobody has taken these away from Father.
They probably don’t even know they’re here.
Father’s stride was long, and I nearly had to run to keep up with him.
At last, he turned into an unprepossessing room near the end of the corridor, an office of sorts for the cataloging of the collection.
He aimed his flashlight at a bookcase, then crouched and reached along the lowest shelf.
“People look for things at eye level,” he told me.
“They may look up, but they almost never think of checking lower down.” A click, and the bookcase opened an inch.
He pushed it open, and we were met by a rush of cool air.
I hadn’t realized how hot and smoky it was until I felt that fresh air on my face.
“The stairs spiral,” Father said. “I’ll go first, but you need your own flashlight. Leave the flour here.”
He waited for me to take off the rucksack and fumble around in it. It seemed to take forever to find the flashlight, and he said, “When you feel yourself panicking and hurrying, stop and take a breath, then proceed with deliberation. Haste kills.”
It worked, or I finally looked in the right place for the flashlight, for I pulled it out and switched it on, then stepped through the door behind Father.
He said, “The latch on the other side is normal, you see, and easy to find even without a light. Up the stairs, one hand on the wall, and when the stairs end, you feel for the latch, which will be exactly where you expect it, and no need for panic.”
“Yes,” I said. “But what—”
“Not now,” he said. “Follow me.”
Down we went. Down, and down, and down the steep, narrow, endlessly winding steps into what felt like the bowels of the earth.
There had been prison cells down here in the past, I vaguely knew, though no true dungeon.
I’d been told it was unsafe, that the tunnels had caved in, but I saw no indication of that.
We came to the bottom at last, nothing more than a landing with a door at the end.
Father said, “Locked,” and pulled out a key.
It was a huge old thing, and the locking mechanism was equally large, requiring some strength to release the bolt that extended deep into the door frame.
The door itself must have been five inches thick and who knows how heavy, probably made of oak and hardened with age.
We pushed it open together, and Father stepped through behind me, said, “It bolts from the inside without the key,” and shoved the huge bolt home.
I said again, “What—” Which was when I heard the vibration. “What is it?” I asked. It wasn’t a noise, or not exactly. It was a feeling. “Is it the fire? The others—”
“Your mother knows where we are,” Father said. “And that’s another bombing raid. We’re being attacked again, it seems.” Still sounding so dreadfully calm.
“What?” I asked. “Why? It’s ruined already! It’s all—”
“There’s no point in asking why,” Father said, “not in the moment. In the moment, we act.”
“Why didn’t we hear the sirens? Will Mother know? Will—”
“The sirens are electric. The fire has taken out the electricity. No time to waste now. Keep your right hand on the wall as we go. Twenty paces across, and now we turn left with the wall, all the way to the door.”
“I don’t see a door,” I said.
“Here,” Father said, and crouched down. I followed suit, training my light on the huge blocks of stone. “Under this one, one up from the bottom. Feel for it, and press.”
I did, and felt something give. “Press on these two stones now,” Father said. “Put your back into it.” And the stones swung inward.
Father called out, “It is I, Anton von Sachsen.”
A man’s voice, then, as calm as Father’s. “We’re over here, near the cistern. The electric light has stopped working.”
“Don’t use your flashlight,” Father said. “Save it.” He shoved the block door back into place and walked toward the voice. I couldn’t see anything beyond the beam of his flashlight, so I merely followed his back.
I saw a child first. It was so unexpected, I blinked. A boy of perhaps eight or nine, with a pale face and a shock of dark hair. He put a hand over his eyes, and I realized I was blinding him with my light and swung it sideways.
It found a girl. Same pale face, same dark hair, maybe twelve years old. She was sitting with her back against a low stone wall, and next to her were trouser-clad legs. I moved the beam of my flashlight and saw him.
“Herr Dr. Becker,” I said, “isn’t it?” I knew him well, for he’d treated our family since I could remember.
“Princess Marguerite,” he said. “Guten Abend.”
Father said, “No time to waste. We’re under bombing attack, and the palace is on fire.
There’s a firestorm building outside, and—” As he spoke, the stones vibrated around us.
“And they’re bombing us again,” he went on.
“A second wave. Quickly—I’ve been summoned to the Gestapo in the morning, but my wife and Marguerite, now, know where you are.
No telling what this fire will do. Perhaps offer a chance to escape, for there will surely be many more refugees after this, and fire burns important documents, after all, requiring their replacement in some distant neighborhood where you’ve fled for safety.
You must wait to leave, though, until the bombing stops. ”
“Thank you,” Dr. Becker said.
“How will they get out, though?” I asked. “Without being seen?” Dr. Becker was Jewish. That must be why he and his—children?—were here.
“There’s another way out,” Father said. The explosions were louder now, the very ceiling seeming to shake.
“A tunnel. Herr Dr. Becker knows the secrets of it. Quickly, now, let me show this to you.” He walked around to the other side of the—cistern?
An enormous circular thing, from what I could see, much larger than an ordinary well. There was a pipe coming down into it.
Oh. That was why it was smoky in here, too.
Father coughed and said, “No help for the smoke, I fear. You must move into the outer room, Dr. Becker, or it may overcome you. And here, Marguerite. The second stone from the bottom, as before. It is difficult to find, as there’s no marking, so you must feel underneath for the catch. Go on.”
I didn’t ask why this time. My urgency was too great for that.
The smoke was like a physical being, weighing on my lungs, and Father was coughing again.
All I wanted was to get to safety with him, so I began pressing at the bottom of the stones.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty, and Father was coughing constantly now, his silk handkerchief pressed to his mouth.
At last I found it. A click, as before, but that was all. Father said, “Now you can pull the stone out. See, there are indentations at the side to allow you to grasp it.”
I did as he said, and set the heavy stone on the floor beside the cistern. Father said, “Reach inside.”
There were four worn purple velvet pouches inside: two small and two large. I knew exactly what they were. Mother’s parure.
“I thought the jewels were all sent to Konigstein,” I said.
“Your mother wanted to keep these close,” Father said.
“One never knows, in war. Close it up again now.” As I did, he said, “If things should go badly tonight or in the days ahead, if your mother and I are not with you, you must run as soon as you get the chance. Take the parure and go. Tell the officials that you lost your documents in the fire, but don’t destroy your Kennkarte.
You may need it later to reclaim your birthright, but your name is too dangerous now.
Hide it under the insole of your shoe or sewn inside your clothes. ”
“Alone?” I quaked at the thought. “Where would I go, though? To Konigstein, maybe? That’s the strongest place.”
“No!” he said. “Not east, and not north. The Russians are coming—in a week or a month, who knows—and they won’t be kind.
If I’m not with you, you must leave quickly and stay ahead of them.
Go west. The British are in the north, and you are, after all, a relation of their King, but it’s likely to be too far and too difficult to reach, and who knows what welcome you’ll receive?
Go west and south instead, where the Americans are advancing.
Give a false name, tell nobody your true identity, and hide the parure.
Take this now—” He pulled a notecase from his pocket and shoved the contents into my hand—“and sell the jewels if you must.”
He was all but shouting now between fits of coughing, because the explosions had increased even as the smoke thickened.
“You must leave, Your Majesty,” Dr. Becker said. “You and the princess must go back to your shelter while you can.”
“I’m going,” my father said, “but Marguerite isn’t.”
“What?” I said. “Father—you can’t—”
“Listen to me,” he said sternly as my entire mind screamed out the need to leave now, now, while we could still get back through the palace.
“You will stay here tonight.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the enormous key.
“Take this and come with me.” He dipped his handkerchief into the cistern to wet it, then told Dr. Becker, “You and the children must go now to the outer room. It’s not safe here. ”
Dr. Becker had already shouldered his heavy rucksack. Now, he picked up two buckets of water and said, “Children, bring your rucksacks.” They followed Father and me out of the room, where we closed the stone wall behind us once more and breathed the sweet relief of clearer air.
“Through the big door and up the stairs,” Father told me. “Hurry. Leave the door unlocked for now.”
The farther up we went, the warmer the air grew, and the louder the sound of explosions. There was something else beneath, too, like a roar from some mighty beast. A dragon, perhaps. I didn’t know what the sound was, but it made me tremble.
At the top of the stairs, Father said, his voice urgent and punctuated by coughing fits, “Use the key when you go back down. Lock that door and keep it locked, and confer with Dr. Becker about when it’s safe to leave again.
Then you can come find us, either this way or through the tunnel and around the outside of the building. ”
“But why?” I wanted to wail it. “Please don’t leave me, Father. Please let me …” I was crying now, hard as I tried not to.
Father put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re safer here.”
“Then bring everybody here,” I begged. “If it’s safer, why didn’t you bring them here?”
“Nobody outside of the family can know about this place,” he said. “Dr. Becker and his children would be in grave danger if people knew they were here.” A crash from overhead, and he said, “I must go.”
“It’s too dangerous!” I cried. “Stay here instead. With me.”
“I must go.” He bent and kissed my forehead. “God bless you.” He stepped through the door and pushed it closed behind him.
I have never, before or since, felt so alone.