Helga pushed the soup to one side. "Let's think about this," she said, in a low voice. "Marya said she sent Hochstetter on a wild goose chase to Stalag 13. But instead he turns up here, at her hotel. So either he didn't fall for her story..."
"...or she lied to us," Hilda finished. "She could have arranged for him to meet her here."
"After already talking to her in town? Why would they need to meet again at the hotel?" Helga considered, then shuddered. "No, not that. Even a Russian wouldn't stoop that low."
"It could be a set-up. She told Hochstetter that Tiger is coming here, so that he can arrest her when she arrives." Hilda's cheeks flushed with indignation.
"Maybe. But..." Helga paused, frowning slightly. "On the other hand, Marya could have been telling us the truth. From what she said, she seems to know a lot about Colonel Hogan. She could have informed on him any time she wanted, but she hasn't, yet. Maybe she really did try to trick Hochstetter, and he didn't fall for it."
"I suppose that's possible," admitted Hilda.
They both fell silent, trying to work out what to do.
"I have an idea," said Hilda eventually. "What if I go into the hotel, find out what room she's in and...and I don't know what good that will do," she finished up helplessly. "I can't go and talk to her, in case she really is working with them."
Helga was still gazing at the Gestapo. He had changed into civilian clothes since his meeting with Marya, but if he thought it made him less noticeable he was deluding himself.
"If she was in on it, wouldn't you think they'd wait in her room for Tiger to arrive, instead of lurking outside where they might be seen?" said Helga.
"I guess so," replied Hildegard, biting her lower lip as she considered the problem.
They both watched as Hochstetter and his men took up surveillance positions around the hotel. Hochstetter retreated to one of the benches scattered around the square, and became engrossed in the evening newspaper.
"If she's working for the Gestapo, then I'm already in trouble," murmured Hilda. "Once they know what's going on at Stalag 13..." She trailed off, unwilling to follow the thought to its conclusion. But Helga knew exactly what she meant.
"I guess we're both in trouble," she said. "They'll be looking at everyone who ever worked there. So what do we have to lose? Only perhaps I should be the one to go in there. I'm less likely to meet someone I know."
"With no shoes on?" remarked Hilda. "You won't get past the doorman."
"I'll borrow yours...no, I won't." Helga blushed. Never would she admit out loud how sensitive she was about the size of her feet; but there was no chance at all that Hilda's dainty pumps would fit her.
"They may not even let me in," Hilda went on, glancing down at the hound's-tooth patterned skirt and little black sweater she was wearing; pretty and neat, but hardly swanky enough, and her overcoat was no better. "I should have gone home to change, instead of coming straight from work. I look more like the help than a guest. They're very exclusive at the Grindelwald." She paused, thinking. "Maybe I should go in through the staff entrance."
The idea made sense. Gestapo men would be watching there, too, but Hochstetter, who would recognise Hilda on sight, had taken up his surveillance post within sight of the main entrance. Avoiding his scrutiny, as well as that of the doorman, seemed like a good plan. Helga gave it some thought, and agreed, although reluctantly.
"I'll wait outside," she added. "And if anything goes wrong, I'll find some way to let Colonel Hogan know."
Hildegard smiled tightly. She knew exactly how much chance Helga had of managing that; it didn't make her feel any better. "You should stay in here," she said. "It's too cold to stand in the street with no shoes, and it's getting late."
But Helga wasn't having it. "I'd rather be where I can watch for you," she said, her chin lifting. "I can put my shoes back on. I just can't walk in them."
She was not going to back down; and Hildegard, behind her objection, couldn't help being glad of it. Somehow, against all common sense, she felt safer knowing that Helga had her back.
They left the restaurant, and set off towards the tram stop at the end of the square, trying to look as if they had no interest beyond getting home before the rain set in again; but on reaching the corner, they quickened their steps until they reached the laneway which ran behind the buildings on the square. The staff entrance to the Grindelwald would certainly open onto this alley.
Within sight of the hotel, Helga drew back, taking refuge in the doorway of the neighbouring building, further sheltered by the railing which surrounded the steps leading to the cellar door. "Good luck," she whispered. "And be careful."
Hilda nodded, raised her chin a little, and set off towards the hotel, where two of Hochstetter's men were already on guard.
"Halt!" one of them barked. "What is your business here?"
Hilda stopped in her tracks, gazing at him with the wide-eyed panic which inevitably accompanied an encounter with the Gestapo. "I...I work here," she stammered, after a few moments. "In the kitchen. I'm on the night shift."
He peered at her in the yellowish light. "Is it...it is...Hildegard?" Then, as she stared blankly at him, he went red, and gave a little, nervous laugh. "You don't remember me, of course you wouldn't."
He paused, regarding her with wide, hopeful eyes; and a vague memory stirred, of a short, pudgy pre-adolescent with a stutter. "Udo?" she said uncertainly.
A brilliant smile broke over his face. "Ja. Udo Schneider." He turned to his companion. "We were at school together. She remembers me." Apparently his crush on her was as strong as ever. "I am in the SS now," he added, proudly, pointing to his insignia. "I am an Unterscharführer, see?"
"That's nice, Udo," replied Hilda, trying to look as if she meant it. Poor little Udo, who everyone had picked on, or ignored; of course he'd ended up as one of the bully boys.
Udo beamed again. "You can go in. I will vouch for her, Geisler. We are old friends."
The young private with him seemed uneasy. "We should see her papers, Herr Unterscharführer."
He broke off with a nervous hiccough, as the amiable Udo turned a sudden icy glare on him. "I will vouch for her." Then he stood aside to let Hilda pass.
She paused, on her way in, and put a gentle hand on Udo's arm. "Udo, if you could do something for me. I don't want anyone to know I'm working here. I could lose my day job, if my boss finds out. So please, if you could keep quiet about it...after all, we are old friends, aren't we?"
Udo's chest expanded. "I understand, Hildegard. Not a word, to anyone." He hesitated, then added, with a return of the old familiar stammer, "M-maybe we could catch up some time, over a drink...or a meal..."
"That would be nice," she said hastily. "But I must go now, I'll be late." And she went quickly into the hotel.
Once inside, she stopped to catch her breath, get her bearings, and work out her next move. The entrance had brought her into a corridor, long, high-ceilinged, and dimly lit, though partially illuminated by a bright electric glow from a large doorway on the left. The sound echoing from the room beyond left no doubt; it was the hotel kitchen, and very busy. As she hesitated, a man dressed in chef's whites emerged, wiping his hands on his apron. He stopped in his tracks as soon as his eye fell on Hilda.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I...I..." Hilda faltered, unable to think of an acceptable response.
The chef grunted. "Let me guess. As usual, Gretchen can't work her shift. What is it this time? Let me guess - is her goldfish sick again? Did she break a finger while she was knitting socks for her brother on the Russian Front? Or has yet another grandmother died?"
"Yes," replied Hilda, desperate to stem the flow.
"Oh, well, at least she remembered to send a replacement," the man sighed. "Pinafores are in the closet, you can leave your purse in there as well. Don't just stand there, girl, the work's piling up."
Under his stern glare, Hilda didn't dare refuse. She opened the closet, pulled out one of the shapeless white pinafores, and quickly enveloped herself in it. One size fits nobody, she thought.
The kitchen proved to be a long, narrow chamber. One wall was taken up by a row of massive cooking ranges; facing them, a series of workbenches and a couple of deep, broad sinks. Two assistant cooks were hard at work; they dashed back and forth with scant regard for the elderly woman who hobbled between, pushing a broom from one end of the kitchen to the other, and back again. Copper pans and oversized ladles hung overhead, and the atmosphere was heavy with cooking smells.
"You can start on those," the chef said, gesturing to a stack of dishes. "And be quick. We're understaffed as it is. Just because the dining room is closed, doesn't mean we can relax. We still have room service orders to fill."
There was no help for it. Hilda rolled up her sleeves, and set to work.