“Coffee and cookies?” Miss Dinkelman offered, gesturing to a table where there was a tray of ginger snaps and a coffee pot.
They sat down as she poured.
With a smile, Mr. Dinkelman said, “Our English is not perfect─”
“No, no, German is fine,” Max said. “I lived here as a boy, and Miss Bassett is fluent.”
“Where were you raised?”
“Trier.”
“Ah, a beautiful part of this country.”
“Then German it is,” the little man replied. He shot a look at his sister. “I know we are not what you expected.”
Billie could see they were uncomfortable. “In America, we read too many detective stories,” she said. “We expect everyone to look like William Powell and Myrna Loy.”
“Ja, ja!” Miss Dinkelman laughed. “The Thin Man, I know!”
“Any news of Miss Meyer?” Max asked.
“We know she has not yet delivered her child, but that her health is good,” she said.
Max sighed. “That’s a relief.”
“She was to be your sister-in-law, ja?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Dinkleman shook his head. “We are so very sorry to hear about your brother.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know Miss Meyer?”
“Not personally.”
“May I ask then how you have become involved?”
“Of course,” Mr. Dinkelman said. “We are part of an underground organization dedicated to helping German scientists, writers, engineers escape Nazi oppression. We want to keep great German minds free.”
“So, you risk your lives,” Billie said.
Mr. Dinkelman shrugged. “It is as we would have it.”
“So how do you propose we get Miss Meyer out of Germany?”
“There are staff members inside the institution sympathetic to our cause. Together, we will go inside the asylum, and they will help us smuggle Miss Meyer to freedom.”
Billie nodded. “And we can expose Zweig for the recent experimentation on patients as well.”
Miss Dinkelman looked at her brother. “My God, they do this now too? We did not know.”
Max added quickly, “Just another reason to get Miss Meyer out.”
“Regarding the contact in the institution, how will we get the name? From you? From another obituary?” Billie asked.
“No, someone will approach you with a note. The procedure will be similar to when you were working the Olympic Games,” Miss Dinkelman explained.
Billie’s eyebrows shot up. “You know about that?”
She reached over and squeezed Billie’s hand. “Of course, we do, dear. Remember the young bellhop with the note about Pollyanna?”
“Oh, yes,” Billie said, smiling. “What was I thinking? That was your organization.”
Max continued, “All we have is a brochure to help us navigate the grounds. Any chance you have a blueprint of the facility?”
“Blueprints won’t be necessary, Mr. Rothman,” Mr. Dinkelman said. “Miss Dinkelman--Agna was a nurse at the institution for thirty years. She will be our guide.”
* * *
Again, Max and Billie waited, but this time, they had little trouble amusing themselves. After their meeting with the Dinkelmans, they returned to Max’s suite and spent the rest of the afternoon exploring their new relationship. To give the contact from the asylum an opportunity to message them, they had drinks in the hotel bar and supper in the restaurant that evening. But nothing happened. Early the next morning, as they dressed, Billie said, “I wish we could stay here.”
Max was standing in front of the mirror shaving. “I do too, but we must be available for that note.”
“What shall we do?”
“It’s a beautiful day. I was thinking we could tour Berlin. The concierge gave me a few ideas.”
They spent the morning happily wandering in Tiefwerder, a historic neighborhood aptly called “Little Venice.” It was filled with canals, picturesque cottages, little bridges, and boardwalks. There was a quaint market where vendors were selling vegetables, fruits, and flowers. Arm-in-arm they strolled.
By midday, they were getting hungry, and Max asked, “I saw a little open-air restaurant on the canal back there. Should we eat?”
“I’m ready,” Billie replied.
As they walked across a bridge, a woman with a baker’s tray strapped to her shoulders approached them. “Fresh pastry, fresh rolls?” the young woman inquired.
“No thank you,” Billie said.
“They are delicious, madam, I assure you.”
This time, Max smiled and said, “I’m sure they are, but no thank you.”
The young woman would not give up. “Most unusual, there are fortunes baked inside, like the Chinese cookie. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”
They turned around. The vendor winked. “Have you reconsidered?”
“Why, yes, we have,” Max said. Reaching in his pocket, he handed her the money, and she gave him a pumpernickel roll.
They sat down on a bench, and immediately, sparrows and pigeons landed at their feet.
“Feed them,” Billie suggested.
“Good idea,” he replied and started gently pulling the bread apart, throwing crumbs to the birds. When he came to the paper, he discreetly slipped it into his pocket.
They continued on to have lunch at the café on the canal where they sat at a table overlooking the water.
Reaching into his pocket, he took out the note. “Dr. Greta Bergstrasser, chief medical officer,” he read quietly to Billie. “Come for Pollyanna. Meet in main kitchen, 23:00, 24 August.
The waitress approached, and Max slipped it back into his pocket.
The rest of the day was peaceful and pleasant. They didn’t have to watch for a message any longer, so they could relax. But everything changed as their taxi pulled up to the hotel. Coming through the revolving door of The Adlon was Archie Barnard, the man masquerading as the journalist from The Belfast Times.
“Oh, my God! That man, the one coming out of the hotel!” Billie exclaimed.
Max leaned forward. “What about him?”
“I must catch him.”
The traffic was heavy, and the cab had not yet pulled up to the curb. Billie lunged for the door handle, and Max stopped her. “Stop, you’ll be killed!” he said.
When they pulled over, Billie jumped out and raced down the street after Barnard, but he was gone.
“Oh Max,” she exclaimed, breathlessly. “I have been all over looking for him.”
“Why? Is he a courier?”
She shook her head. “No, I think he’s working with the National Socialists.”
Once back in the room, Billie told Max about Archie Barnard.
“Why didn’t you mention him before?”
“I thought he was long gone. When my mission was done, I thought he was done too.”
Max stood up and walked to the window and looked out. “I have an idea. Let’s dine at the Taverne tonight.”
“That place where the foreign corps congregates?”
“Yes.”
“Are you thinking of asking them about Barnard? Because I must have asked thirty reporters about this guy already.”
Max shrugged. “This group is assigned to Berlin permanently. You never know.”
An hour later, they were at the Taverne, an Italian restaurant known for attracting journalists. It was a small café run by a rotund German and his attractive wife, who served good food and freedom of speech, at least for the time being.
“Well, well, it’s Max Rothman!” someone roared when they walked in. “I heard you were in town.”
A tall, middle-aged man with wild hair and shaggy brows jumped up and shook his hand.
“Hello, Kandinsky,” Max said.
Robert Kandinsky said to the other journalists at the table, “Boys, you can say you met him here, the legendary Max Rothman.”
They greeted him heartily.
“Legendary?” Max said to Kandinsky. “Thanks for making me feel like I’m a hundred years old.” He took off his hat. “This is Billie Bassett. She’s with The Times too.”
Kandinsky held a chair for her, and they sat down.
“So, what the hell was Canfield thinking sending you over here?” Kandinsky asked.
Everyone knew he was referring to the fact that Max was Jewish.
“I had a chance to travel with her.” He nodded toward Billie. “It’s worth the risk.”
They laughed again good-naturedly.
“I’ve seen your work in Life Magazine,” a dark-haired reporter from San Francisco said to Billie. “Impressive stuff.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “It was a long road getting there.”
After ordering a drink, Max started asking questions about Barnard. No one seemed to know anything about him.
“I don’t know this guy from The Belfast Times, but I overheard you the other day when you were asking about Zweig,” the San Francisco reporter said to Max. “That company is─”
Suddenly, Kandinsky elbowed him, and the table grew quiet.
A handsome young man with blond hair and glasses walked up. “Greetings everyone,” he said.
The group mumbled a reply.
“Room for me?”
“I guess,” someone said.
The young man didn’t seem to notice the cold reception and sat down next to Billie. Nobody offered any introductions, and the topic changed to baseball.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re Billie Bassett, aren’t you?”
She raised her eyebrows and shook his hand. “Yes, I am.”
“I can see you are surprised I recognized you. I’ve only seen one photo of you, but I remembered the face.”
She laughed. “I’m usually on the other side of the camera.”
“I’m Donnie Albright, a great admirer of your work.”
“Thank you, your name sounds familiar.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard of my radio show for American expats, “The Bell Ringer”? I use the pseudonym Ethan Allen.”
Now Billie understood the cold reception at the table. They had spoken of him on the ship. American reporters despised him and his popular radio show extolling the virtues of The Third Reich.
“Indeed, I’ve heard of your broadcast, although I’ve not yet listened to it,” she replied.
“It’s nothing compared to your work,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Your photography, Miss Bassett, is outstanding journalism. I’ve done a little photography myself.”
Billie did not want to talk, but the young man seemed determined to dominate her attention.
“You have?” she asked politely.
“Yes, I tried my hand at landscapes but failed miserably. I have much to learn.”
“Don’t we all.” She turned away, trying to join the larger conversation.
“I believe we have many things in common, Miss Bassett,” he continued.
Reluctantly, she looked back at him.
“This is of a more personal nature, but I have heard a rumor that you rode the rails.”
“Yes, I did, but it is not something I advertise.”
“I too rode the rails,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. He removed a pen from his pocket, took a cocktail napkin, and made a quick drawing. “I’m guessing you are familiar with hobo code.” He pushed the napkin over to her. He had drawn a square with a dot in the middle.
Billie’s lips parted. This meant, “You are in danger.”
She looked up at him.
“Do you enjoy this game?” he said with a smile. “Here’s another.”
He took the napkin again and made another drawing. This time, it was an upside-down triangle, which meant, “Road spoiled.”
“Hey!” Kandinsky shouted. “What are you two doing over there, passing love notes?”
Albright chuckled and held up the napkin. “Hobo code. I’m trying to stump my new friend.”
No longer interested, the group went back to politics as Albright drew a bolt of lightning. In hobo code, this meant “Blaze a new trail.”
Billie swallowed hard and asked, “I would love to reminisce with you tonight about our days on the road, Mr. Albright. May we meet somewhere later?”
He picked up the napkin and stuffed it in his breast pocket. “I would love to, Miss Bassett, but duty calls. I’m far too busy to speak with anyone, ever.”
Downing his drink, he nodded to the group and left.
Chapter 28
“I’m telling you, Max, we need to change our plan,” Billie said that night back in the room.
“How are we supposed to do that?” he said, loosening his tie. “We don’t have the slightest idea what he’s talking about. Hell, we don’t even know if we trust him. After all, look at his pro-Nazi radio show.”
“That could be a ruse.”
“Maybe, but have you thought of this? He was just playing the game with you for fun, and he happened onto those words randomly?”
“That’s unlikely,” Billie snapped, pulling her earrings off and throwing them on the vanity.
“All right,” Max conceded. “Let’s say he is on the up and up and truly warning us. What can we do differently?”
She thought a moment and sighed. “Probably nothing. I don’t know. I’m wondering if this has something to do with that damned Barnard lurking about. He scares me, Max.”
Max put his arms around Billie. “I understand. This whole thing unnerves me too, but I can’t think of anything else we can do.”
She put her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
* * *
All night, Billie was up and down pacing. At last, near sunrise, she fell asleep. Rather than waking her, Max dressed quietly and left a note saying he had gone to the Dinkelmans.
An hour later, the phone rang. Billie was groggy but answered it.
“Miss Bassett?” a woman’s voice said in German. “Did I wake you? This is Agna Dinkelman.”
“Oh, yes,” Billie replied, pushing herself up.
“Your Mr. Rothman is here going over things for tonight, and they suggest we go out to the hospital so you can become familiar with the grounds.”
“Very well,” Billie mumbled. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What time?”
“There is a train to Saxonburg at 10:05. Could you meet me at the Anhalter Bahnhof?”
“Yes, where will you be?”
“In the depot café by the south entrance. I will purchase the tickets for us. See you around 9:45?”
“I’ll be there.”
The moment Billie hung up, her stomach jumped. Had they given anything away over the phone? She didn’t think they had. One never knew if the National Socialists were listening.
Quickly, Billie bathed, dressed, and was out the door.
Stepping out of the taxi, she looked up at the Anhalter Bahnhof. When she had first arrived in Berlin weeks ago, she had been too tired to notice the station, but today, she was amazed. A massive structure, the Berlin depot was not only functional but beautiful. With a sweeping stone portico across the front, the façade of the station was adorned with zinc sculptures and a large clock above the entrance. Designed to serve large numbers of passengers, the interior was vast and offered every kind of service from shoe shines to haircuts, book stores to cigarette stands. It even had a reception room for royalty. But what Billie found the most dramatic was the train shed, with its huge iron and glass roof that arched grandly overhead.
She found Miss Dinkelman in the small café on the south side of the building. She had just finished a hot fudge sundae.
“Oh, hello, my dear,” she said, wiping her mouth and signaling to the waiter for the bill. “The best hot fudge is found right here in this little eatery. Who would have thought in a train depot?”
Miss Dinkelman enjoyed culinary delights, and as a r
esult, she had a corpulent figure. Billie was finding out that food was her favorite topic. After paying the bill, they started out into the train shed to board. There were passengers everywhere, conductors and porters, as well Nazi soldiers patrolling with guns.
“You’ll find the pastries onboard the train exceptional,” Agna said breathlessly as they walked along the platform. “Are you hungry, dear?”
“Not yet, thank you,” Billie replied.
“Here we go,” she said brightly and handed the conductor their tickets.
Most of the journey, Miss Dinkelman spoke of her favorite eating establishments, telling Billie about all the good eating in Berlin. The trip was short, and after twenty five minutes, the conductor announced Saxonburg Asylum. “The hospital has its own station, and the next one is for the town,” Agna said. “Here we are,” she observed as the train slowed to a stop.
It was a gray morning, and when they stepped off, a light mist was starting to fall. They walked past the tiny depot and up the hill toward the hospital.
“You see, they grow all their own food here,” Miss Dinkelman said, sweeping her arm to show Billie the fields all around them. “The institution is self-sufficient. There is even a dairy farm, and there’s the hospital.”
Billie looked up. Saxonburg Asylum was an imposing red brick structure perched on a hill. On either side of the main building, there were two large wings that thrust forward like burly arms guarding a grass-covered courtyard with large oak trees. Clustered around the property were numerous outbuildings. Except for the green courtyard, the facilities were stark and impersonal, and seeing it sent a shiver up Billie’s spine.
They walked up the driveway. Broad concrete steps led to a wide main entrance with heavy brass doors. Staff in white coats were coming and going in and out. Occasionally, one of them would be escorting a patient or pushing someone in a wheelchair.
“Ordinarily, patients would be outside in the courtyard getting fresh air, but the weather is not good today,” Agna said, and then she lowered her voice. “Tonight, we will enter the facility through the service entrance. Let’s take a stroll over there now so you can see it. If anyone approaches, tell them you are considering bringing your sister here as a patient.”
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