“Sehr gut,” Irene said and reached into the case for Billie’s chocolate donut. The perky girl with blue eyes and dimples was the Glaser’s newest employee. She was absent-minded but pleasant and appeared to be no more than sixteen years old.
After taking Billie’s money, she slammed the cash register drawer and asked, “Miss Bassett?”
“Yes?”
“You are a photographer for The New York Times, is that right?”
“Yes, I am.”
Mr. Glaser looked up from arranging a tray of cookies. “Now, Irene, not again.”
“But Mr. Glaser, I’m truly interested this time. I have always wanted to be a photographer. Please?” the girl pleaded.
“You are the limit,” he replied, wiping his hands on his apron. “Last week, she wanted to be a nurse,” he said to Billie. “The week before that, a writer, now a photographer.”
“But interviewing is the best way to decide on a career path,” Irene argued.
“But I cannot have you bothering the customers.”
Billie smiled. “It’s no bother at all. How may I help?” she asked.
Mr. Glaser chuckled and walked away, muttering.
“The bakery closes in fifteen minutes. Is there any chance I can talk to you after work? My father bought me a camera for Christmas, and I have been thinking about photography as a career choice ever since. It sounds ever so glamorous.”
“Glamorous it isn’t, Irene. It’s hard work. You’re often dirty, frustrated, and it’s physically demanding. But I’ll have my donut in the park across the street, and when you get off work, I can tell you more about it. That is if you’re still interested.”
The girl’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. “Oh, I most certainly am, Miss Bassett. Thank you, Miss Bassett,” she exclaimed.
A half hour later, Irene emerged from the bakery and joined Billie on the park bench. When she sat down, Billie was startled. The pert, young girl was gone and in her place was a different Irene. In her place was a serious adult, sitting erect and frowning.
Billie watched her scan the park. Children were playing. People were walking their dogs, and couples were strolling.
“Miss Bassett,” she said, “I work for United States Army Intelligence.”
Billie stared at her, dumbfounded.
“The Glasers are unaware of my true identity. I am here in Yorkville for several reasons: to monitor the activity of Fritz Krugh’s organization, to gather information about the Germans in this community, and to make useful contacts.”
Billie ran her eyes over Irene. “You must be joking.”
“I assure you this is no joke, and it goes without saying that I am substantially older than the role I play. Telling anyone the true nature of our meeting today will result in severe consequences. Do you understand?”
“What do you want with me?” Billie asked, swallowing hard.
“We believe you would make an excellent candidate for intelligence work in Germany.”
“Germany!”
Suddenly, Irene cocked her head, raised the pitch of her voice, and blurted, “I hope to own my own studio one day. Where do I start?”
A couple was passing by. When they were gone, Irene continued, “We know that you are fluent in German and that you are of Indian Heritage.”
“That’s correct,” Billie replied, feeling a sudden chill.
“You were brought to our attention when you were working for the Resettlement Administration. When we found out about your father, we knew instantly we had the right candidate.”
“My father?”
“Yes, his work in the war.”
“My father was a radio operator.”
“Yes, and one of our best Choctaw code talkers.”
Billie stared at Irene with her mouth open. “What?”
Irene chuckled. “Oh, of course, he never told you. They were sworn to secrecy.”
“A code talker? What’s that?”
“They are soldiers, usually American Indians, who mix their native language with code as a means of secret communication during wartime. It was first done during The Great War. It was most effective. Germans were unable to decipher the code, and it helped turn the tide of the war. Your father was one of these men.”
Billie chuckled skeptically and shook her head. “My father? I’m sorry, but you are mistaken.”
“We are not mistaken. Please take a minute to recollect, Miss Bassett. Some things may start to make sense.”
Billie forced herself to think back, staring across the park. Memories slowly returned: her father’s incoherent babbling, his sudden mood swings, his words, “I must not speak the language. Go to prison.” She put her hand to her forehead, her heart hammering. “You are asking a lot of me within a few short moments.”
“I realize that.”
Irene sat quietly as Billie continued to sort through everything. At last, she asked, “Why does my father’s role in the war have anything to do with me?”
“I’m getting to that, but there is one crucial piece of information we are missing. Can you speak Chippewa?”
“Yes, but it’s been years.”
“Good, we will help you become fluent once more.”
“Why?”
“So you are ready to go to Berlin and send back messages in Chippewa code.”
“What!”
“Will you do it?”
“My God, right under their noses? Can it be any more dangerous?” Billie exclaimed.
“You know what these people are capable of. You were at the rally. There is no question that it is dangerous but well worth it. We ask no more of you than we asked of your father.”
Billie thought back to the disabled man who returned from the war. “Have you any idea what he was like when he came home?”
Irene ignored the question. “Miss Bassett, you are one of the few people perfectly suited for this assignment.”
“What sort of information will I be transmitting?”
“I am here to approach you only. The content of your code is unknown to me.”
Billie searched Irene’s face. Who is this person really? This could be some outrageous prank put on by the guys at the office. Billie scanned the park. Perhaps Gus and Harry were standing behind some trees laughing. She turned back to Irene. “So, pretending to search for a career, you make contacts with people all over this neighborhood?”
“That’s right,” Irene replied, standing up. “I’ll expect an answer on Monday. Come by the bakery at closing, and we will meet again under the pretense of a mentoring session.”
As she started to walk away, Billie grabbed her arm. “How do I know you really work for the government and that you are not playing some sick game?”
“Because, if you say yes, arrangements will be made for you to go to Germany within the next month.”
“Who will make these arrangements?”
“Again, I am not a party to that information.”
Billie rose to her feet, but her knees felt weak.
“Remember,” Irene murmured, “speak of this to no one.”
“I understand,” Billie replied. In a daze, she started back to her apartment, the reality of it slowly sinking in. Nevertheless, she peeked behind every tree looking for Gus and Harry.
* * *
Irene’s proposal was most certainly no joke, and after two sleepless nights, Billie reluctantly gave her consent. Three weeks later, Mr. Canfield called Billie into his office. “I think you need some time off,” he said.
Her eyebrows shot up. “I do? Why?”
He stole a look at her and then went back to shuffling papers on his desk. “Your work has suffered since word of your grandmother’s illness. I think you will feel better if you go to Minnesota and see her.”
Billie stared at him. Her grandmother wasn’t sick. Then it hit her. Here it is, the beginning of the undercover work, and her stomach twisted. She looked down and nodded.
“I want you fresh and rested for your a
ssignment in Berlin for the Olympic Games.”
“I thought Derwood Perkins was going.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Now let’s talk about this first trip you are taking. There is a train ticket waiting for you at Grand Central, a bus ticket to Pemmican Falls so you can see your grandmother, and one to Little Falls where you will be staying.”
Billie frowned. “There must be some mistake. Little Falls is too far─”
Mr. Canfield held up his hand. “These are the arrangements. Follow them. There must be no telegrams sent to your grandmother or to anyone regarding your journey. You leave tonight.”
* * *
Billie’s head was still spinning when she stepped off the train in Minneapolis a few days later. Things were happening so fast she had no time to think. She picked up her bag and walked to the bus station, where she boarded a bus heading north to the reservation. Two hours later, she was standing at the trading post in Pemmican Falls. Little had changed here. Old men were still sitting on benches smoking. The sign over the store still read “Gas, Groceries and Trading Post” in faded blue letters, and the fresh scent of the lake still drifted up from the shore. The only thing that was different was the height of the gas pumps. Billie had remembered them as massive, but then, of course, she had been much shorter.
She could feel the men watching her as she walked into the trading post to leave her bag. Billie offered to pay the elderly clerk for her kindness, but the woman refused. “I remember you when you was a little girl selling your wares on a blanket right out there.” She pointed to a spot down the road. “It’s the least I can do for one of our own.”
“Thank you,” Billie said. A warm feeling washed over her. It felt good to be home.
Crossing the highway, she started down the dirt road toward the house where her grandmother was staying. She tucked the bag containing a hat under her arm and buried her hands in her coat pockets. Although the sun was out, the April breeze still held a chill.
Billie thought back to the day her father picked her up from the bus so long ago. How small she felt walking next to him. Where is he now? Is he still alive?
“What do you think, Papa?” she said out loud as she walked. “I’m going to be a code talker too.”
She didn’t think he would like it. He would be afraid for her.
Billie could see her family home in the distance, the black tarpaper shack with the crooked stovepipe, the grove of maples surrounding it, hayfields in the back. There were children playing in the yard, but Billie did not recognize them. She longed to ask if she could go inside and savor the warmth and security of home again, lose herself in memories of flapjacks on Sundays and Saturday night baths by the woodstove, but she walked on. She tried hard not to feel melancholy. She missed her mother.
Around a bend, she surprised a flock of geese that had been bobbing on the marsh and shaded her eyes, watching them fly away. They rose into the air and spiraled off, honking.
She had never appreciated the beauty of her home until now. She had been too young to enjoy the quiet splendor of the wetlands filled with loons, the white spring trilliums, and the fireflies at night in July.
The road crossed a little brook, and Billie knew this is where she turned for the Duchene house. The raspberry bushes were still there, and the yard was still filled chickens, barking dogs, and a clothesline full of laundry. Much larger than the Bassett home, the Duchene residence had five rooms, a front porch, and painted wood siding. When Billie was young, she thought it was the height of luxury, and she could never understand why Grandmother didn’t want to live here. But when Aunt Helen looked out the window with a scowl on her face, she remembered. Helen was cold, judgmental, and had a sharp tongue.
“Wilhelmina Bassett, can it be you?” the woman said, coming out onto the step. She had skin like the face of an apple doll and a flabby figure under a drab housedress.
“Yes, it’s me, Aunt Helen.”
“What on earth do you want with your poor relations here in Minnesota?” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, I know. You want to take our pictures for Mr. F.D.R. Show him what poor Indians look like.”
Billie did not laugh. “I came to see Grandmother. That’s all.”
Helen wiped her hands on her apron and turned inside. “Well, come in, but there’s not much left of her after the last fit.”
Billie followed Helen through the kitchen. The large oak table was covered with flour, along with a bowl and rolling pin. Grandmother was on a bed in the back room, staring at the ceiling. Her lips were moving, but she made no sound.
Billie was stunned. She had grown so old. Gone was the fast-moving, sharp-witted family matriarch, replaced by a frail, helpless old woman. “Hello, Nookoo,” she murmured.
Helen saw the look on Billie’s face and crossed her arms. “What did you expect, Wilhelmina? Time marches on.”
Billie ran her eyes over her grandmother. She was in a clean, white nightgown with bits of lace sewn on the bodice, and on her head was an old fishing hat. She mustered a smile. “She still wears her hats?”
“I put a different one on her every day,” Helen said. “Stupid things.”
Billie looked up at the wall. Hanging on nails were all the hats Grandmother had ever collected, including every hat Billie had ever sent.
“I suppose you brought another one,” Helen said, looking down at the bag.
Billie nodded.
“Let me go get the hammer.”
Grandmother appeared well-fed. The room was clean and cheerful with fresh flowers and spotless linen. She realized then that Aunt Helen may be gruff and judgmental, but she had a kind heart. For that, she was grateful.
“Thank you, Aunt Helen,” she said when she returned to the room. “Thank you for everything.”
The woman’s eyes softened. “Anyone would do it,” she said brusquely. Clearing her throat, she started nailing.
Billie handed Helen the hat. It was a men’s formal top hat, threadbare and dented on one side, but the black satin was clean. After hanging it up, Helen said, “Now, you two visit. I have work to do.” She went back to the kitchen to roll dough.
Speaking in Chippewa, Billie sat down on the bed and told Grandmother about her travels, her months with the carnival, and her job at The Times. The old woman continued to stare at the ceiling and move her lips the entire time. Even though the conversation appeared one-sided, Billie had the feeling she was listening. Several times, she caught a smile flickering on her lips.
After almost an hour, Billie kissed Grandmother and said goodbye. Even though she wired money regularly, she left an envelope with cash on the nightstand. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she stepped into the kitchen. “Have you heard anything from my father?” she asked her aunt.
“Not a word,” Helen replied as she pulled a pie from the oven. “When your mother died, that finished him. Two days after the funeral, he disappeared.”
“And my siblings?”
“Nothing about them either. Scattered to the four winds. Your Uncle George will be home soon,” Helen said, walking to the sink. “You’re welcome to stay for supper.”
“I have to catch the bus for Little Falls. It leaves at 4:05.” She walked over and took Aunt Helen’s hand. “But thank you, again.”
“You’re welcome. You are lazy about writing, Wilhelmina. You could improve that.”
Billie chuckled. “I’ll try.” She looked back at her grandmother and left. She knew it would be the last time she would see Nookoo alive.
Chapter 21
Billie was exhausted by the time she checked into the Hayes House in Little Falls. It was a sturdy red brick hotel with large arched windows and a musty-smelling lobby. Once in her room, she threw herself down on the bed and slept until morning.
The entire trip here was an enigma. She knew she was here to work on her Chippewa, but why send her all the way to Little Falls? Perhaps someone would send a note or contact her in some way, so she waited in her room all morning, read
ing, drinking coffee, and pacing. By noon, she had had enough. The sun was shining, and she refused to waste the entire day. She made arrangements to take a cab out to visit the Hofmanns.
She was excited to see her old friends. Through correspondence, Billie knew Mr. Hofmann had been ill, so she worried that maybe she would find only Mrs. Hofmann running the farm now. After yesterday, she was ready for anything.
“Do you stay busy?” Billie asked the cab driver as they rumbled down the dirt road to the Hofmann farm.
“Naw,” the middle-aged man replied. He was in dressed overalls and wearing a flat cap. “I’m the only cabbie in Little Falls. Not much call for it in a town this size. But it gives me a little extra cash, since farming ain’t paid too good lately.”
He looked at Billie. “Where are you from?”
Billie had deliberately tried to dress down, so she wouldn’t stand out in the rural community, but her short, permed hair and stylish coat gave her away.
“Here originally. I’m going out to see some old friends. Do you know the Hofmanns?”
“Can’t say that I do. My farm’s on the other side of town.”
They took several turns, and at last, Billie recognized the road. She remembered the night she ran away from St. Matthews and hid in the ditches. And they passed the spot where the farmer picked her up when she started riding the rails. Happy memories were here too, rumbling down the road in the wagon to the library, delivering eggs to the neighbors, and all the photographs.
Billie could feel herself getting excited to see the Hofmanns once more. They had been her family as much as the Bassetts. But she swallowed hard. She must prepare herself in case something had happened.
When they pulled up to the farmhouse, something indeed had happened. No dogs bounded out to greet them; chickens did not scatter. There were no curtains in the windows, and the pickup was gone.
The driver turned off the motorcar, and Billie stepped out. The only sound was the wind blowing through the trees. The barn door stood open, and Billie could see that it was empty. The chairs were gone from the front porch, and the flowers along the house were dead. The clothesline remained, but it too was empty.
The Image Seeker Page 20