“No wine then, I’m guessing,” Billie replied.
“No ma’am. You would go upstairs for “dessert.” That’s where you got the good stuff. One night we were up there drinking hooch when we heard the alarm.”
“A raid?” Max asked.
“It certainly was, but management had us trained. The moment the buzzer went off, we knew to drain our drinks and fill our glasses with water from pitchers left on the table. When the Feds came up, we were all innocent little lambs, smiling and eating our desserts.”
Max laughed. “I’m sure they knew.”
“That’s right, and they couldn’t do a damn thing about it,” Corky said.
After the waiter brought their eggplant parmesan, Corky asked Billie, “So when do you leave for Berlin?”
“In a month,” Billie said, and she darted a look at Max. “He doesn’t want me to go.”
“You know it’s not safe, Bassett. You’re crazy.”
“This is what reporters do.”
Max turned to Corky. “She has a false sense of security surviving all those years riding the rails.”
“Max, you’re overreacting,” Billie interrupted. “There are much worse places. Besides, the Nazis are going to be on their best behavior. They want the world to see how efficient and civilized they are for the Olympics.”
“Well, I don’t like it. My brother said everyone is on edge. Something is about to happen.”
“Is Frank going back?” Corky asked.
“Yes, in a few weeks. He has some good leads now.”
Just before dessert, the waiter called Max to the phone. “Are you on-call tonight?” Billie asked him.
“Yes, Canfield has me watching a big story. I’ll be right back.”
Max left to take the call, and when he returned, the color had drained from his face. “Frank’s been in an accident.”
“What!” Billie exclaimed.
“He was hit by a car.”
“Oh, my God!” Corky cried.
“Is he okay?” Billie asked.
Max shrugged. “I’m going to the hospital.” He started fumbling in his pockets, looking for his wallet.
“Quit with the money, Max!” Corky barked. “We’ll pay. Get down to the hospital.”
An hour later, the phone rang at Billie’s apartment. It was Max. “He’s alive,” he said.
“Thank God.”
“But he’s unconscious. He’s all banged up.”
“Do they—do they think he’ll pull though?”
There was a long pause as Max tried to find his voice. “They don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I’m on my way to Bubbe’s now. Witnesses said he was crossing the street and a car deliberately hit him.”
“Dear God.”
* * *
Weeks passed and Frank did improve, but it was slow. He regained consciousness but remembered nothing about the incident. His brain was uninjured, but the pain killers kept him confused and in a dream-like state; he had suffered broken bones all over his body. The police had no leads about who hit him.
“Let’s stop in this bookstore,” Max said one afternoon after work. “I want to pick up something for Frank.”
“Can he hold a book now, Max?” Billie asked, following him inside the small shop crammed with books, racks of magazines, and candy.
“He can.” He walked over, pulling a Raymond Chandler book down from the shelf. “He likes detective stories.”
“Has he read The Big Sleep?” Billie asked, reaching up and grabbing a copy. “I thought it was good.”
“I wish I knew.” Max took it from her and said, “Let’s get that. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll blame you for recommending it.”
At the counter, while they were waiting to be checked out, Max picked up a children’s book on display by the register. “Pollyanna,” he said, reading the title. “That’s his pet name for Elise.”
“Why that?” Billie asked.
“Didn’t you read this when you were a kid?”
“No.”
“Pollyanna is a girl who always looks at the bright side of things. He calls Elise that because she always tries to be optimistic.” Max added a copy to his purchase.
They stepped out of the bookstore to a rumble of thunder.
“Oh boy, rain,” Billie said.
“Let’s wait it out with a drink. I’ll pop for a cab ride home if it’s still pouring,” Max offered.
“Not tonight. I have to get over to Glasers Bakery and pick up a cake.”
“A party I’m not invited to?”
“That’s right. It’s for someone in my building, and no, you can’t come. Then I have to start packing.”
Max put his hands up. “I don’t want to hear anything about this Berlin trip. See ya tomorrow, Bassett,” he said, walking away.
“See ya tomorrow,” she called and strode off at a brisk pace. She had to hurry to meet Irene. She needed final instructions for Germany.
Billie hated leaving town with Max so worried about his brother. She had the sickening feeling the attempt on his life had something to do with the search for Elise. She knew Max suspected it too, but they didn’t discuss it.
Billie looked at her watch; she had to hurry.
When she finally arrived, the bakery was closing. Billie watched Irene say goodnight to the Glasers and cross the street into the park. The moment she walked up to the bench, it started to pour. Pushing up umbrellas, they walked side by side, the rain pelting loudly on the fabric.
“I have your final instructions,” Irene said. “You will be at the Adlon Hotel in Berlin with the American Press. It’s set up as the International Press Center for the Olympics, so there will be hundreds of languages spoken there. You will not stand out when you are wiring and calling in the information.”
“Is my contact staying there too?”
“Contact?” Irene asked.
“Yes, guide.” Billie chuckled. “Chief spy, if you will.”
“There is no guide. You’ll work alone.”
“What?”
“You’ll be working alone. The agents know who you are. They will approach you at random and give you the text to send. When you consider it safe, you will take it to the phone center, translate it, and make the call.”
Billie’s heart jumped. “I’ll be carrying sensitive information on pieces of paper?”
“Yes, of course. Did you think they’d whisper it in your ear?”
She gasped. “I thought they would come with me to the Press Center, where they would dictate it to me, and I would send it on the spot.”
“Of course not. Our agents come from all walks of life. We could never get them clearance for the Press Center. That’s where you come in.”
Billie swallowed hard. “Will it—will the information be obvious in its content?”
“Maybe, maybe not. My sources tell me the agents are restricted to less than a paragraph, so that should help,” Irene said.
“I don’t know about this,” Billie mumbled.
Irene stopped and grabbed her arm. “Changing your mind now is not an option, Miss Bassett.”
They locked eyes, the rain splashing around them. Billie felt a chill of horror wash over her. “If there was at least one person to guide me.”
“You are fully capable of doing this alone, Miss Bassett. Believe me, we have researched you well. I’ve read your file, and not only do you have the background for the job but the intestinal fortitude.”
Billie clutched her stomach. “Well, I feel that intestinal fortitude about to come up.”
Irene started walking again. “Just carry on with your photography assignment as you would normally, and you’ll be fine. Take all your directives from your boss at The Times and do your work as usual. It is the responsibility of our field agents to find you, and they will. Send the information at a safe and logical time.”
Billie said in review, “And the Nazis will think I am updating family and friends on the reservation about the Games. That’s w
hy I’m calling and speaking in Chippewa, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. It stands to reason, after Thorpe’s showing in the Olympics years back, the Indian community is excited about one of their own in an event again.”
Billie knew she was speaking of Felix.
Irene reached into her pocket and handed Billie a slip of paper with a number on it. “There is the number you will be calling. When the National Socialists check it, which they will, they will find it goes directly to the reservation. We will have a code talker there at all times to translate your words for us. Do you have any more questions?”
Billie searched Irene’s face, feeling panicky. “Um, no, not now, but what if I think of something?”
“I’m scheduled to work at the bakery every day from now until Saturday when you leave.” Irene held out her hand. “If I don’t see you again, thank you and good luck, Miss Bassett.”
Billie’s mouth was so dry she could not speak. She shook Irene’s hand and turned for home.
* * *
Max knew he couldn’t say goodbye to Billie in person. He would give himself away. He had tried and tried to forget her, but nothing worked. Dating Lucille had been a welcome diversion; the attractive socialite vaguely resembled Billie, but in the end, it only reminded him of her more. He missed their talks, drinking coffee at the diner, their laughter, and their sparring, so now he was back.
He had to bury his feelings again, and it was torture. When Billie flashed a smile at him or moved across the room with that hint of a sway in her hips, he remembered how damned sexy she was. It was at those moments he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that he adored her. But he couldn’t do that. She didn’t love him.
So, to be safe, the night before she left, he called her from a phone booth on 65thth Street and said goodbye. He told her that he was out on a story and couldn’t get away. There was disappointment in her voice, but he had no choice. The charade was better than living without her.
All that night, Max tossed and turned. Maybe he would never see Billie again. What if war broke out while she was there? What if the Nazis targeted foreign correspondents or there was a riot at the Opening Ceremony? The Nazis were capable of anything. He knew without question they were behind the disappearance of Elise and now the attempt on Frank’s life. Maybe Billie was next.
Max didn’t trust her judgement. Even after years of riding the rails, he believed she was naïve, particularly about the state of affairs in Germany.
In many ways, she too is a Pollyanna.
He rolled over, yanking the covers with frustration.
She’ll be fine. I’m sure she will.
But what if, what if…
When the sun started to rise, he dragged himself out of bed to make coffee. He had a big day ahead with a deadline to meet. Somehow, he would get through it. He knew it, but every muscle in his body ached, and his eyes burned. As he was making coffee, he started ruminating again. What if something does happen? What if this is my last chance to see her?
Suddenly, he slammed down the pot, dashed to the bedroom, and pulled on his shirt and pants. Tearing down the stairs and out of the building, he hailed a cab. All the way over to Billie’s place, he sat forward in the seat, barking at the driver to go faster. When they arrived at the building, he threw money down and ran up the stairs to her apartment, banging on the door. “Billie,” he roared. “Billie?”
Silence.
He slammed on it again. “Bassett! Are you in there?”
He stared at the door, panting. When he tried the knob, it was locked.
She was gone.
Chapter 23
Billie didn’t think she’d ever get to Berlin. The ship’s crossing was comfortable. Her cabin was furnished nicely. The other members of the press were witty and fun, and the food was excellent, but she could not enjoy herself. She was too worried about everything.
Initially, she was dazzled when she stepped onboard the massive ocean liner. She had no idea these vessels were so beautifully appointed. There were four restaurants, ranging from casual to elegant, three lounges, a small indoor pool, a theater, and a ballroom. Her room was cozy with a soft bed, and she had a private bath furnished with plush towels and toiletries.
Yet, she felt guilty. She had seen less fortunate passengers boarding below, hunched over, wearing threadbare clothing and shapeless hats. Passengers jammed in steerage, traveling cheek to jowl with crying babies, hungry children, inadequate sanitation, and substandard food.
The prospect of her upcoming mission plagued her too. There was a permanent knot in her stomach, and dark rings formed under her eyes. She felt so alone and vulnerable. She knew she was on an assignment that demanded months of training, but she had been thrown into it in a matter of weeks.
If only Max were here. He would make her feel better, even if he didn’t know the truth about her mission. But Germany was not the place for Jews right now. It was far too dangerous.
If there was only someone in whom to confide, but she had no one. She had colleagues onboard, but she must stay aloof from all.
Every prominent newspaper in the country had journalists traveling to Berlin to cover these Olympics. Along with Billie, The New York Times had sent two reporters. They were young, ambitious men, recent college graduates who were filled with enthusiasm and energy, but they spoke little German. Billie was worried they may try to cling to her for translations, but they barely noticed her. They were more interested in late nights filled with liquor and girls.
Every afternoon, the American press would meet in the Brizzo Lounge to swap stories. Frequently, Billie attended these gatherings if only to pass the time. She contributed little but observed much. She knew most of the banter was bombastic tale-telling, but when they spoke of the Nazis, she listened.
The club was filled with comfortable leather chairs, inlaid card tables, and potted palms. Oriental rugs lined the floors, and the air was always blue with smoke.
One afternoon, as the group filed in, lighting their cigars and ordering cocktails, Bertram Douglas, a journalist from Los Angeles, announced, “Well, I just got a wire from my editor. He said in no uncertain terms that I am to focus on the Olympic Games and the Olympic Games only. I am to make no references to politics of any kind.”
“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” a bald reporter from Atlanta replied, taking a pull of his drink. “Straight from the mouth of Joseph Goebbels.”
They all laughed.
“You know, there are a few reporters doing just that,” Rupert Ingram from Atlantic City added. “Charles Woolrich and Donnie Albright for example.”
Billie noticed them nod and mutter.
Ingram continued, “They think Herr Hitler is doing a fine job. In fact, Albright just started his own radio program in Berlin extolling the virtues of The Third Reich. His target audience are Americans. He calls himself Ethan Allen. The Germans love him.”
Turning to one of Billie’s colleagues from The Times, Ingram exclaimed, “Hey, Harvard boy! You aren’t in the ‘Hasty Pudding Club’, are you?”
The young man snapped his gum and replied, “The name’s Freddie, and ya, I was.”
“One of The Hasty Pudding Club members is a big shot in Der Fuhrer’s inner circle now. Ernst Hanfstaengl, you know him?”
“Heard of him. He’s a lot older than me, though.”
The reporter turned back to the group. “Hanfstaengl was just appointed head of the Foreign Press Bureau in Berlin. So, heads up, a Harvard boy is watching you assholes.”
“A Harvard boss, so what else is new?” one of them roared.
Billie took a gulp of her scotch. She was going to need several of these before bed tonight. It was disturbing hearing that so many Americans were Nazi sympathizers. She had even heard rumors that Wallace Simpson, the King of England’s American mistress, was one and Charles Lindberg. Had they lost their minds?
Nightmares plagued her the rest of the crossing, and by the
time they docked in Warnemünde, she was exhausted. She thought she’d collapse when she heard there was still a three-hour train ride to Berlin. And it was brutal. Every car was crammed with Olympic visitors drinking, smoking, and laughing. Since there were no open seats, she had to stand the entire journey, enduring jostling and groping. By the time she reached the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, she collapsed into bed, frazzled and weary.
After sleeping for twelve hours straight, she awoke bleary-eyed but refreshed. . Her room was large and beautifully decorated with a blue and white satin bedspread, a matching divan, a comfortable reading area, and a vanity. The view overlooking the city was breathtaking. The plush down bedding was like sleeping on a cloud, and after a hot bath and a breakfast of hard rolls and coffee, she was ready to strike out. Although she was still on edge, the good night’s sleep gave her strength, and she knew it was time to get her bearings
When she walked down the large sweeping staircase, she was stunned at the opulence of the lobby. She had been so tired the night before she had noticed nothing. There were marble columns, painted ceilings, and plush carpets. A light scent of lavender wafted through the air. A gift shop and hairdresser flanked the wide entrance.
After stopping at the front desk to change her money, Billie stepped outside. She was surprised again. Berlin was a busy cosmopolitan city with motorcars, buses, and street cars. It had been quiet and dark when they arrived last night, and now throngs of people dressed in business attire rushed up and down the street. Cars honked, and policemen directed traffic. It reminded Billie of Manhattan, except for the bicyclists, who were everywhere.
She started down the sidewalk. Tall, elegant buildings lined either side of the street, but hanging from each one were huge, red banners emblazoned with black swastikas. Everywhere she looked there was a banner. They were on flagpoles, hanging on buildings, and displayed in shop windows.
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