Pending Approval

Munich, August 1938

Margaret Spencer's fountain pen hovered over the document, a drop of ink threatening to fall onto the Ministry of Foreign Affairs letterhead. The transfer request before her seemed straightforward enough—a lateral move from her current post as a junior translator in the British Consulate to the newly formed Cultural Exchange Division.

"Do sign it, darling," urged Vivian from across their cramped office. "Cultural Exchange sounds far more glamorous than decoding tedious diplomatic cables."

Margaret frowned. "It's rather vague, isn't it? 'Specialized translation services for Anglo-German cultural initiatives.'"

"It means sherry receptions with handsome German diplomats instead of being trapped in this basement." Vivian reapplied her lipstick without a mirror. "Besides, your German is impeccable."

That much was true. Margaret had spent her childhood in Vienna, where her father served as a banking attaché until his death forced their return to England. Those years had gifted her with native-level German and a lingering fondness for Sachertorte.

"The timing seems odd," Margaret mused. "Requesting transfers now, when everyone says the Chancellor is making eyes at the Sudetenland."

Vivian waved dismissively. "Politics, darling. Always so dreary. Prime Minister Chamberlain says Hitler's reasonable, just misunderstood."

Margaret's gaze drifted to the newspaper. The headlines had grown increasingly alarming, though everyone insisted war was unthinkable after the Great War's devastation.

Her father would have advised caution. He'd always said, "Mind the details, Maggie. Devils hide in them." But he wasn't here, and this opportunity might finally let her use her language skills for something meaningful.

She signed with a decisive flourish.

The transfer notice arrived three weeks later, bearing not the British diplomatic seal Margaret expected, but a German eagle clutching a swastika.

Her heart thudded as she translated the formal German text:

Fräulein Margaret Spencer,

Your request for participation in the Sonderinitiative für kulturellen Austausch has been processed and approved. Your language proficiency evaluation classifies you as Grade A (native equivalent), qualifying you for Document Classification Level 3.

You will report to Abteilung K, Munich Office (Königinstraße 27) at 09:00 on 3 September 1938 for orientation.

Failure to report as instructed will be documented as a voluntary withdrawal from British Diplomatic Service, with attendant consequences for future employment possibilities.

Heil Hitler, Dr. Heinrich Vogel

Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda

Margaret stared at the paper, then read it again. Somehow, her interdepartmental transfer within the British Consulate had been processed as an application to work for the Reich's Ministry of Propaganda.

She burst into Sir Robert's office without knocking.

"Sir Robert, there's been a catastrophic error." She thrust the letter toward him. "I've somehow been transferred to the German government."

Sir Robert Fraser, Munich Consul General, adjusted his spectacles and scanned the document. His bushy eyebrows rose incrementally.

"Most irregular," he murmured, reaching for his pipe. "Most irregular indeed."

"Irregular? It's preposterous! I requested a transfer to our Cultural Exchange Division, not to become an employee of the Reich!"

"We don't have a Cultural Exchange Division, Miss Spencer. We have a Cultural Affairs Office, but no dedicated division."

Margaret sank into the chair opposite his desk. "Then what was I signing?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" He examined the letter again. "This bears the signature of Dr. Vogel himself. Quite influential in Goebbels' ministry."

"But I didn't apply to anything German!"

Sir Robert's expression softened slightly. "The situation in Europe is... delicate. Chancellor Hitler makes new demands daily. The Prime Minister works tirelessly to maintain peace." He leaned forward. "This program—this Sonderinitiative—may provide valuable insights for His Majesty's Government."

A cold realization crept over Margaret. "You want me to go."

"I'm merely observing that sometimes administrative errors can yield unexpected opportunities."

"You want me to spy for you." She kept her voice low.

Sir Robert looked pained. "Such theatrical language. Let's say we'd appreciate regular updates on the... atmosphere within Dr. Vogel's department."

"And if I refuse?"

His tone chilled. "These are unusual times, Miss Spencer. The Foreign Office is reviewing staffing at all European stations. Budget constraints, you understand."

Margaret stared at him, seeing for the first time not her father's old friend who'd secured her this position after Oxford, but a calculating civil servant weighing her value.

"May I have until tomorrow to consider?"

"Of course." His smile returned too quickly. "Though I'd advise against mentioning this to anyone. Particularly your office mate."

Margaret nodded stiffly.

"Miss Spencer." His voice stopped her at the door. "Your father would be proud, I think. He understood sacrifice for King and country."

The mention of her father felt like a physical blow.

"You're being transferred to Berlin? Without notice?" Vivian's voice carried across the café. "That's positively medieval!"

"Munich, not Berlin," Margaret corrected, stirring her tea. She'd fabricated a story about an urgent translation project. "And it's an opportunity, really. Six months at most."

"But your flat! Your things!"

"The consulate's arranging accommodations."

Vivian reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "I'll miss you terribly. Who'll listen to my romantic disasters now?"

Margaret managed a smile. "You'll have to save them up for when I return."

"German men are supposed to be quite disciplined," Vivian said with a suggestive arch of her eyebrow. "Though I hear they click their heels rather a lot."

Despite everything, Margaret laughed. "I'll be working, Viv. Not conducting research for your next tawdry novel."

"Life should be tawdry now and then." Vivian's expression grew suddenly serious. "Be careful, won't you? There's something in the air lately. Father says we should prepare for the worst."

"The worst?"

"War, darling." Vivian said it casually, as if mentioning rain. "Father says Hitler won't stop until someone makes him."

Margaret felt a chill despite the August heat. Vivian's father was a retired general whose opinions carried weight.

That night, Margaret wrote two letters. One to her mother in Dorset, explaining her "special assignment" in vague terms. The second to her aunt, containing sealed instructions to be opened only if she failed to make her monthly telephone call.

She slept fitfully, dreaming of her father trying to tell her something important, his voice drowned out by marching boots.

Königinstraße 27 proved to be an imposing limestone building with classical columns. Flags bearing the swastika hung limply in the still morning air. Margaret climbed the steps on September 3rd, her heartbeat keeping anxious time with her footfalls.

Inside, a efficient blonde woman directed her to Orientation Room B, where four other foreigners waited: a Frenchman examining his fingernails with elaborate boredom, an Italian woman nervously arranging papers, and two Scandinavian men conversing in low tones.

A portrait of the Führer dominated the room, his eyes seeming to follow Margaret as she took a seat.

At precisely nine o'clock, a thin man in wire-rimmed spectacles entered. Though he wore civilian clothes, something in his bearing suggested military background.

"Welcome to the Sonderinitiative," he began without preamble, speaking German with the precise diction of a radio announcer. "I am Dr. Heinrich Vogel. You five have been selected based on your exceptional language skills and your countries' commitment to improved relations with the Greater German Reich."

Margaret kept her expression neutral, though her mind raced. Had the others also arrived through bureaucratic "errors"?

"The Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda serves a vital function in correcting international misunderstandings about National Socialist Germany," Dr. Vogel continued. "Your role is to ensure accuracy in materials intended for foreign audiences."

"You want us to translate propaganda," the Frenchman said flatly.

Dr. Vogel's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We want you to ensure cultural nuance is properly conveyed, Monsieur Rousseau. Translation is mechanical. Understanding requires... humanity."

He distributed leather portfolios containing identification papers and work schedules.

"You'll note that your assignments are individualized. Fräulein Spencer, you'll be working primarily on Anglo-German youth exchange materials."

Margaret glanced at her schedule—"material familiarization" and "ideological orientation."

"The current European situation requires accelerated production," Dr. Vogel continued. "You'll each work with a German counterpart for guidance and... consistency of message."

His gaze lingered on Margaret for a moment too long.

After he left, silence fell over the room. The Frenchman lit a cigarette with deliberate slowness.

"Well," he said in English, exhaling smoke toward Hitler's portrait, "it seems we are all now in the business of making wolves look like sheep."

Margaret was saved from responding by the arrival of a young woman in a crisp blue dress, her blonde hair arranged in an elaborate crown of braids.

"Fräulein Spencer? I am Helga Weber, your department partner."

Helga led her to a small office with two desks facing each other. The walls were bare except for Hitler's portrait and a map of Europe where German territories were shaded in red.

"Your work station," Helga indicated the smaller desk. "I've prepared your first assignment." She handed Margaret a folder. "Youth sports exchange promotional materials."

Margaret opened the folder to find glossy photographs of Hitler Youth members engaged in various athletic activities. The accompanying text praised the physical and moral development of German youth, inviting British schools to participate in summer programs.

"These are to be distributed in Britain?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Helga nodded. "With appropriate cultural adjustments. Direct translations often miss subtle cultural nuances."

Margaret skimmed the German text, carefully crafted to emphasize camaraderie while downplaying militaristic elements obvious in the photographs—boys with wooden rifles, marching in formation.

"I see," she said finally. "And what sort of adjustments would you suggest?"

Helga's smile was practiced. "Whatever will help British parents see the value of such exchanges. We're building bridges for the future. Young people free from the prejudices of the past."

Margaret thought of her landlady's son, transformed from a cheerful boy to a miniature soldier in less than a year.

"I'll do my best," she said. "Though British parents can be rather protective."

"As they should be," Helga replied smoothly. "But surely they want their sons to be strong, disciplined? To know how to defend themselves?"

"Against whom, I wonder?"

The question slipped out before Margaret could stop it. Helga's smile flickered but held.

"Against weakness, primarily. Against moral decay." She leaned forward slightly. "We're not so different, Fräulein Spencer. Germany and Britain are natural allies against Bolshevism. The Führer has said so many times."

Margaret nodded noncommittally and turned to the materials. She would need to find a way to copy some of these documents. The risk made her stomach knot, but returning to Sir Robert empty-handed seemed equally dangerous.

At half past four, a knock interrupted them. A young man in uniform appeared at the door.

"Fräulein Weber, Herr Doktor Vogel requests these be delivered to the British Consulate today." He handed Helga a sealed envelope.

"But it's nearly the end of the day," Helga protested.

"They're time-sensitive. Something about the Czech situation." His eyes flicked to Margaret. "He suggested Fräulein Spencer might accompany you, as she knows the consulate procedures."

Margaret kept her expression neutral, though her pulse quickened. A test—or an opportunity?

"Of course," she said before Helga could respond. "I'd be happy to help."

Twenty minutes later, they were walking through Munich's streets, the sealed envelope in Helga's leather case. Margaret noted how people stepped aside as they approached, eyes averted from Helga's party pin.

"You must find Munich changed since your childhood," Helga remarked as they passed a shop with "Juden" painted across its windows.

Margaret carefully measured her response. "Every city changes with time."

"But Germany changes with purpose." Helga's voice carried a fervent undertone. "We move toward a glorious future, not merely away from the past."

"And yet history has a way of repeating itself," Margaret murmured.

"Only when people fail to learn its lessons." Helga smiled suddenly. "But listen to us, so serious! Tell me, what do you miss most about England?"

The shift to personal conversation caught Margaret off guard. "Proper tea," she answered honestly. "And rain that doesn't feel obliged to become a thunderstorm."

Helga laughed. "I visited London once, before... well, before things changed. It rained every day, but so softly! And the parks—so green!"

For a moment, Margaret glimpsed the woman beneath the ideology—someone close to her own age, with dreams and preferences that might not align perfectly with state doctrine.

At the British Consulate, Margaret took a calculated risk.

"Sir Robert asked to see me when I arrived," she told the receptionist. "Is he available?"

Five minutes later, she was with the Consul General, explaining her situation while he examined the documents she'd extracted from the envelope.

"Youth exchanges," he murmured. "Quite insidious, using children as cultural ambassadors." He glanced up. "And your impressions so far?"

"They're preparing for something," Margaret said quietly. "There was talk of the 'Czech situation' being time-sensitive. And this—" she indicated a paragraph about expanding exchange infrastructure. "They're creating mechanisms to track British youth with German language skills."

Sir Robert's expression darkened. "The Prime Minister meets with Hitler in two weeks. These cultural initiatives may be leverage."

Margaret returned to Helga, anxiety and resolve warring within her.

"Successful delivery?"

Margaret nodded. "Though they seemed confused about the urgency."

"Bureaucracies are the same everywhere," Helga said with a shrug. "Always requiring explanations for the obvious."

As they walked back, Margaret noticed a newsboy with bold headlines:

HITLER DEMANDS CZECH TERRITORY

SUDETEN GERMANS "MUST RETURN TO REICH"

CHAMBERLAIN CALLS FOR RESTRAINT

Helga followed her gaze and sighed. "Politics. So tedious, isn't it? Best to leave such matters to those who understand them."

"And who might that be?" Margaret couldn't keep an edge from her voice.

Helga's eyes narrowed slightly. "Those appointed by destiny, of course." She gestured toward a café. "Shall we take some refreshment before returning?"

They chose a table on the terrace. After they'd been served coffee and cakes that reminded Margaret painfully of Vienna afternoons, Helga leaned forward.

"May I speak frankly, Fräulein Spencer? Woman to woman?"

Margaret nodded, wary but curious.

"This work we do—it's not what either of us might have chosen in a perfect world. But we serve a greater purpose. You understand this?"

"I'm not sure I do," Margaret replied carefully.

Helga's voice dropped lower. "There are forces at work beyond what ordinary people comprehend. Germany rises, yes, but not merely for itself. A new order approaches for all Europe." Her eyes held a zealot's gleam. "Wouldn't you prefer to be positioned advantageously when it arrives?"

A chill ran through Margaret. "Are you suggesting I—"

"I suggest nothing," Helga interrupted smoothly. "I merely observe that clever women recognize shifting winds before others feel the breeze." She sipped her coffee, then added casually, "Dr. Vogel holds you in high regard. Your reports could carry significant influence."

"My reports?"

"On British consulate activities, of course." Helga's smile didn't waver. "Why else allow you such convenient access to both worlds? A translator moves between, belongs to neither fully."

The trap revealed itself with brutal clarity. Margaret had been placed deliberately, not through administrative error. She was being recruited as a double agent—or being tested to see if she already was one.

"That's quite an assumption about my loyalties."

"Loyalty," Helga mused, breaking a cake into precise halves. "An interesting concept in changing times. To whom does one owe primary allegiance? Country? Ideals? Self-preservation?" She pushed half the cake toward Margaret. "History judges harshly those who choose poorly."

Before Margaret could respond, distant thunder rumbled. Both women glanced upward at gathering clouds.

"A storm approaches," Helga observed, settling their bill. "We should return before it breaks."

As they hurried back, Margaret's mind raced. She had been maneuvered into an impossible position—suspected by Germans of being a British agent, which she was, and now invited to become a German one as well.

She glanced at Helga, striding purposefully beside her. Behind the ideological certainty, she sensed something else—desperation, perhaps. A recognition that the coming storm would sweep away those who hadn't secured proper shelter.

The first heavy drops began to fall as they reached the ministry building. In the marble foyer, Helga turned to her with an unreadable expression.

"Consider our conversation, Fräulein Spencer. There's still time to choose wisely." She smoothed her dampened hair. "But not much, I think."

As Helga walked away, Margaret stood motionless, rainwater pooling at her feet. Through the open doors, she could see Munich's streets emptying as people hurried for cover, newspapers abandoned to the strengthening downpour.

One headline, already blurring in the rain, caught her eye:

EUROPE AT THE CROSSROADS: PEACE OR WAR?

Margaret closed her umbrella slowly. She had signed a simple transfer request, seeking change within familiar boundaries. Instead, she found herself at the center of forces that would reshape continents, asked to choose sides in a conflict few yet acknowledged was coming.

A mistake, a mixup, a momentary carelessness with bureaucratic details had placed her here. How many other small errors, she wondered, were accumulating across Europe, building toward catastrophe through nothing more than carelessness and misunderstanding?

Thunder cracked overhead, closer now. Margaret squared her shoulders and turned toward the interior of the building, toward choices that would soon allow no middle ground.

Behind her, rain washed away the headlines, leaving only sodden pulp on the pavement.