She looked at the note and frowned, such an odd assortment of words. It had been difficult translating it, especially when the content had no meaning. Not every word would translate properly into Chippewa, but she had tried her best.
She swallowed hard and picked up the receiver. The operator answered, and Billie gave her the number. Perspiration soaked her blouse. Her hands were shaking.
It seemed like an eternity before the call connected, and a man on the other end said, “Hello?”
She repeated the number to make sure it was accurate, and after a long delay, he replied that it was indeed the correct number.
As best she could, she carefully and slowly said the words she had translated into Chippewa. “Bring to a standstill. Commit control by compliant.”
She waited. There was no response. Billie’s stomach jumped. They had been cut off! “Hello?” she blurted.
“Is that all?” he asked after another delay.
“Yes.”
“I will repeat the message,” he replied.
She listened, taut as a bowstring, while he repeated the words back to her.
“That is correct,” she replied.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you and good night.”
“Good night,” he said.
When Billie hung up the phone, she slumped back in her chair and sighed. She had done it! She had sent her first message. Suddenly, she remembered that she had said goodnight to the man. It was afternoon in The States. “Scheisse!” she exclaimed loudly. The men at the table looked at her.
She stifled a laugh. Of all the things that could go wrong, and I’m worried about that.
Back in her room, she flushed the note down the toilet, undressed, and flopped into bed.
* * *
The next day, the pace was slower for Billie. After a leisurely breakfast in the hotel dining room, she met Howard at the stadium. Today, they were photographing track and field events, commonly called “Athletics.”
Howard bought them access to the field once more. When Billie thanked him, he replied, “Thank old man Hearst.”
Although the day was more relaxing, getting decent shots was a challenge for Billie. Usually, her subjects were stationary, but here at the Olympics, everyone was in motion. First, she was down on one knee getting a shot, next leaning over a barrier at a difficult angle or running to get a wide shot. There were all kinds of competitions, sprints, pole vaulting, long jumps, as well as discus, and javelin throw.
She was relieved at the end of the day when her subjects were more stationary and she was able to photograph the medal winners and take staged pictures during interviews.
The second day was another busy day in Athletic Events and a momentous one for the Americans. A young man by the name of Jesse Owens took the gold medal in the 100-meter dash. Everyone was overjoyed. But he was far from finished. The following day, he placed first in the long jump and took two more gold medals after that, one in the 200 meters and the 4X100 relay.
“Der Furher ist not happy a Negro beat his Aryan sweethearts,” Howard said in a mock-German accent that night in the Press Lounge.
Billie looked over her shoulder. “Hush, Howard!” she said, giggling. “They’ll haul us in.”
“You’re right, toots,” he conceded, lowering his voice. “But that asshole thinks his blond boys are so superior.”
“I know. I know. It’s sort of a war by proxy for him here. And he thinks the Americans are a flabby, decadent lot. I would absolutely love it if Felix won gold,” Billie said, sipping her scotch.
“Your Indian buddy? Hitler would throw a clot. When’s the marathon?”
“August 9th, not for a while.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“No, I’ve sent notes to the dormitories, but there have been no messages in return.”
Speaking of messages, there have been no messages from army intelligence today, Billie thought. She scanned the Press Lounge. She saw journalists, bartenders, and waitresses. Any one of them could be field agents. Who were these people, really? Were they ordinary German citizens dedicated to a cause, soldiers disguised as workers, spectators, or businessmen?
Suddenly, she noticed Howard waving his hand in front of her face.
“Hello!” he barked. “You haven’t heard a word I said.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I asked if you wanted another drink.”
“No, thank you. I’m going to head back to the hotel.”
“Alrighty, doll face.”
Although it had been a long day, Billie decided to stop and shop for a while. In no time, she found gifts for Corky and Lillian. Leonard and Max were more difficult.
After dining in a small café on roulade and a glass of wine, she decided to browse in the hotel gift shop.
“Good evening,” the young clerk said when she walked in. “May I help you?”
“No, thank you,” Billie replied.
The store was crammed with cuckoo clocks, beer steins, baby lederhosen, and Christmas ornaments. She knew Leonard liked to cook, so she stepped over to a table filled with kitchen supplies. She picked up a decorative bowl to check the price, and someone said in German, “Aren’t these adorable?” It was a tiny elderly woman wearing an expensive suit and diamond earrings. She held up a set of salt and pepper shakers and smiled at Billie. “If you are looking for souvenirs, these would be the perfect gift.”
Suddenly, she removed the cap of the salt shaker and slipped a note inside the container, handing the set to Billie. “I think your friend would love them.”
Billie mumbled, “I think so too.” She took them from her.
The woman browsed a moment longer and then left. Billie tried to act casual as she walked to the cash register, but she knew her hands were shaking, and her movements were wooden. What if the young clerk found the note? She seemed innocuous, but she could be in league with the Nazis. After all, Irene looked innocent too and look at her true identity.
After paying, she hurried to the elevator. The elevator operator had to stop on every floor for passengers, and Billie wanted to scream. When she got to her room at last, she dropped her bags and sat down on the bed. Popping the top off the shaker, she removed the note. It read, “Meet Mozart, Munich train station at 1 pm, August 12th Read Photoplay in cafe.
She bit her lip, her heart pounding. At least this message was easier to decipher. She looked at the clock. It was hard to say if the Press Room would be busy at this hour. She started downstairs again.
This time, the Press Room was quieter. She remembered that the Olympic Committee was hosting a dinner for foreign correspondents this evening, something she was not interested in attending. Everyone must have been there. Only a handful of men were at the typewriters, three were on the phones, and a group smoking in the corner was having an animated argument in French.
She sat down at the end of one of the phone tables and placed her call. She didn’t notice a tall middle-aged gentleman with a mustache walk into the room.
“Yes, hello,” Billie said once she was connected and started speaking in Chippewa.
The gentleman turned abruptly and came closer, puffing on his pipe and listening.
As usual, her call was brief. She delivered her message and hung up.
When she looked up and saw him standing there, she jumped.
“Steady, old girl,” he said in a British accent. “Sorry to startle you,”
Billie smiled and ran her hand over her hair self-consciously. “Oh, I’m a little on edge. It’s been a long day.”
“I understand completely. The pace here is positively grueling. The name’s Barnard,” he said, holding out his hand. “Archie Barnard. I’m with The Belfast Gazette.”
“Wilhelmina Bassett, The New York Times,” she replied. She stuffed the note inside her pocket and shook his hand.
“May I?” he asked, pulling out a chair.
“Of course,” she replied, her heart h
ammering in her chest.
“The reason I was lurking about was nothing sinister. It was curiosity, part of being a reporter, I suppose.” He puffed on his pipe. “Here’s why I was interested. Was that an American Indian language you were speaking just now?”
“Yes, Chippewa.”
“I say!” he said with delight. “Are you Chippewa?”
“Yes, I am. I call the Indian reservation back in the States and give them updates on the Olympic events.”
He smiled. “I imagine they are hoping for another Thorpe.”
“Yes, indeed.”
He studied her face and shook his head. “My whole life I’ve never met an American Indian, and now I’ve met two in one day.”
“You met another Indian here in Berlin?”
“Yes, but this chap was-” he puffed again on his pipe, “let’s see, the Sauk tribe. He’s one of the athletes, a marathon runner.”
Billie straightened up. “You met Felix Welles?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I most certainly do! He’s an old friend. I have been sending notes to him at the Olympic Village, but he doesn’t reply.”
“Oh, they’re too busy training. No time even to look at a note.”
“How did you manage to meet him then?” she asked.
“My editor arranged an interview with him weeks ago. This sort of thing has to be done well in advance. You didn’t know that?”
Billie frowned. “No, I was thrown into this assignment at the last minute.”
“Well, let me see what I can do. Maybe I can arrange a meeting for you.”
“Really?” Billie said, perking up.
“Most certainly. Are you staying here at the Adlon, Miss Bassett?”
“Yes.”
“Jolly good. I’ll drop a message at the desk the instant I know something.”
They stood up and shook hands.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnard,” she said and left the Press Room.
“Good night,” he replied.
Barnard watched Billie as she walked away, still puffing on his pipe.
* * *
Billie returned to her room and started to undress for bed. The prospect of seeing Felix elated her. They had so much to talk about, so much ground to cover. She wanted to know everything about his journey to the Olympic Games, and maybe he would have news of Luther. She could tell him about her cross country travels as a photojournalist and about seeing Olive.
Her stomach fluttered with excitement.
She must tell Max. As with everything good or bad in life, her first impulse was to tell Max. Oh, how she missed their talks. How she missed the laughter. Corky was good company; there was no question about that, but with Max, it was different. There was something special about the two of them when they were together. Sometimes she missed him so much it was painful. She would start to ache inside, like being homesick when she was a child.
Tomorrow, she would call him. Overseas connections were bad, conversations severely delayed, but she needed to hear his voice. Gosh, it was almost like she was in love with him, and she chuckled.
Before pulling back the covers, Billie unwrapped the mint on her pillow. Housekeeping put it there every day after making her bed. It was a luxury she loved. As she was about to toss the wrapper in the trash, she noticed something written on the inside of the paper. It said, “Proceed with Chameleon.”
Her eyebrows shot up with surprise. Now a message inside a wrapper. What next?
She looked at it again and frowned. She had no idea what the Chippewa word was for chameleon or if there even was one. She would have to say it as written.
“Back to the Press Room again,” she grumbled, grabbing her clothes.
* * *
Billie heard nothing from Mr. Barnard for the next few days. She had little time to think about it though; she was too busy photographing competitions. Mr. Canfield had given her a list of the events to attend. Howard had been elsewhere. He had instructions to get footage of the basketball games.
Billie made sure to attend the finals in rowing, and she was glad she did. The eight-man American team had taken gold. It had been a difficult shoot and far from her best work, but she did get good photos of the boys passing the victory wreath to one another. She wished Max had been here to write the article. He loved an underdog story such as this and would have written it well. Instead, Freddie James Bryant was by her side, snapping his gum and looking at his watch.
After a quick lunch at a bratwurst stand, Billie decided to attend equestrian events. Even though these competitions were not on Mr. Canfield’s list, she had to get away from Freddie. Without question, the young man was a good reporter, but his arrogance grated on her.
The Americans were not favorites in Equestrian, but Billie didn’t care. She just wanted to see it. She loved the grace of beauty of the horses and their riders. She marveled at how they seemed to move as one.
After showing her press pass, she was allowed down in front. She noticed that many of the spectators here and at the rowing competition were a well-heeled set. The women had perfectly coifed hair, and the men, although dressed casually, looked like they just stepped off a yacht.
She stayed most of the afternoon, watching jumping and dressage. Billie felt like she was attending the ballet.
At the completion of the events, as she was filing out amid throngs of people, a woman walking in front of her dropped her glove. Billie bent down and picked it up.
“Excuse me, you dropped this,” she said, touching the woman’s sleeve.
Billie was surprised when the young woman turned around. She looked like she had just stepped out of Vogue. She was wearing a filmy, floral gown, had green eyes framed by dark lashes, red lips and was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, cocked to one side. She raised her eyebrows and said with surprise, “It wasn’t me! Look, I have both gloves, but thank you.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Billie replied, confused. “I thought this was yours,”
The woman held her eye a moment, turned, and walked on. Billie looked down at the glove. Something was inside, a piece of paper. She knew immediately what it was. Stuffing it into her purse, she returned to the hotel.
Back in her room, she pulled the paper from the white kid leather glove. “18.34.678.019 extraordinary supreme,” the note said.
Another note in code. Very well, Billie thought with a sigh. She noticed her palms didn’t perspire any longer, and her stomach didn’t flutter. She was getting used to it. If only she’d known it would be this easy, she wouldn’t have spent so many sleepless nights and anxious days worrying about it.
She wondered what sort of messages her father sent during The Great War. Were they field coordinates? Orders from officers? Was he in an office somewhere in France code-talking, or was he on the battlefield facing gunfire, tanks, and mustard gas. She guessed the latter. Wherever he was, she knew he was under intense pressure. He came back a changed man.
“There’s so much I’ll never know about you, Papa,” she said, and tears filled her eyes.
Wiping her cheeks, she stood up. She decided to call Max after she sent this message. That would make her feel better. It was Saturday, late morning in New York, so maybe he would be home.
After sending the coded message, Billie had the operator call Max. She was smiling before he even answered the phone. But it rang and rang, no answer. She would have to try later. Now she missed him even more.
That night, she dined with several reporters at a rathskeller. It was what she had always imagined. Located in the basement of an old building, it had low ceilings, dark woodwork, lots of alcohol, and the smell of heavy cooking. After consuming too much beer and schnitzel, she decided to return to the hotel, slipping out quietly.
The streets were busy with tourists from around the world, dining, shopping, and strolling. Strains of music floated on the air from outdoor cafes. Billie soaked up the festive atmosphere. It was hard to believe Germany had suffered such privation afte
r The Great War.
A large group of young tourists with American accents stepped out of a restaurant and started to hail cabs. They clustered on the sidewalk, talking and laughing. Billie was weaving her way through the group when someone grabbed her arm. The man leaned in, staring at her face. “Billie?” he asked.
It was Felix.
“Felix!” she cried and embraced him. “Felix, Felix! I’ve been hoping to see you.”
Holding onto her, he exclaimed, “Can it really be you?”
“It’s me.”
Felix was still handsome with his square jaw and dazzling, white smile set against dark skin. His head wasn’t shaved like the old days, but his hair was short. He was even thinner than Billie remembered; she knew it was due to his training.
“What in God’s name are you doing in Berlin?” he asked.
“I’m a photojournalist with The New York Times.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “No! This is unbelievable! We have to travel all the way here to find each other again.”
“It looks like we’ve both realized our dreams,” Billie said. “Congratulations, you made it to the Olympics, Felix. Remember when you used to run with Hazel on your back?”
“I do!” His smile faded. “I think about those girls so often.”
“I do too. But good news!” Billie exclaimed. “I saw Olive. She is alive and well, living with some good people in Kansas.”
“Oh, that is good news.”
“What about Luther?” she asked. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Oh, I was so hoping you did. Can you get away to talk?” she asked. “We have so much to cover.”
He looked over his shoulder at the group. “Not tonight. Our coach has a curfew. But how about after the race?”
“That would be wonderful. I’ll be there cheering you on and taking photographs.”
“Good, shout loud. It’s encouraging.” He ran his eyes over her face. “Oh, it’s good to see you, Billie. You’ve realized your dream too. You look so different, so—well—you look so sophisticated.”
She chuckled. “It’s been a long road for us both.”
The Image Seeker Page 24