Journey to Munich by Jacqueline Winspear Page B

walked with a precise, clipped step to meet Gilbert Leslie, who seemed an inch or two shorter than he had the previous day.
    â€œAh, good morning, Miss Donat. Ready?”
    â€œAs ready as I will ever be,” said Maisie, reminding herself that she was Edwina Donat, daughter of Leon Donat, currently incarcerated in a notorious prison at the behest of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi regime. She imagined how she would feel if her own beloved father were in the same position. At once the strength in her spine ebbed almost—almost—beyond control; then it returned, stronger than before. She was determined to carry out her assignment to the letter.
    Leslie seemed nervous. He gave a running commentary every step of the way, pointing out various landmarks to her as if he were quoting a guidebook to Munich. After they had passed the grand Residenz and were walking on toward Odeonsplatz, he took her elbow. “We’ll go down this little alley, not across the square.”
    Maisie looked around and noticed other pedestrians making the same detour. “What’s in the square, Mr. Leslie?”
    Leslie stopped. “Just there”—he pointed, then quickly lowered his hand—“that’s where the Führer was almost assassinated in the Beer Hall Putsch. Sixteen men in his party were killed, along with four policemen. They are considered martyrs to the Reich. If you go past that square, you are required to stand and salute the party, to honor those killed. I doubt you want to do that—neither do a lot of people. So we take this little path to avoid the square.”
    Maisie stepped out along the alley behind Leslie. Why, she wondered, if the Führer was so fêted, did so many people dodge the requirement to salute his party? She was about to ask Leslie when he began speaking, though his voice was so low she had to move closer and lean in toward him to hear.
    â€œIf you’re wondering how he has managed to garner such attention, it’s twofold. One, he is a very, very powerful speaker. Put him on a stage, and it’s as if he can mesmerize everyone—he’s like a cobra, ready to strike.”
    â€œAll right, I can imagine that—I’ve seen such people in—” She was about to say in my work , but caught herself in time. “What is the other reason for his popularity?”
    â€œFear. There was an attempt on his life—an explosion. It failed. But he managed to persuade the population that their lives would be at risk if certain powers—restrictions, if you will, and elements of what I would call surveillance—were not enacted. For the most part, the people went along with it. Fear can be used in all sorts of ways to control people, and that’s what he’s done.” They took a few steps in silence.
    â€œI think that, for the most part, Britain is hoping that if he hasenough rope, he will hang himself.” Leslie coughed. “Now I’m getting a bit beyond myself.”
    Maisie rubbed her hands together as she considered Leslie’s commentary while studying the austere buildings along the street. Perhaps it was because it was the stark end of winter, with shafts of low yet bright sunlight slanting between buildings on a very cold day, but nothing seemed welcoming. People rushed along with their heads down. Though she knew this was probably due to a sharp chill in the wind, she thought that despite the beauty of the Bavaria she had seen from the train, the country held an undercurrent of something very uncomfortable. It was fear, she knew, sprinkled like dust across the landscape. What on earth could Elaine Otterburn have gained from being in such a place?
    Leslie seemed to read her thoughts. “Of course you’re not seeing Munich at its best, Fräulein Donat. We have to get you used to the ‘Fräulein’ now—we’re almost there. Munich is a very vibrant city, you know—beer halls, music halls,