Dear Miss Kopp

by Amy Stewart

  We’re held over in Chicago for another week as there was a cancellation at this theater and they hired us as the replacement act. The eastern camps are over-subscribed with entertainment anyway, so it hardly matters to them when we arrive. A bit more hotel living suits us all. May Ward even managed to smile at me once, but I think it was only because she’d forgotten, momentarily, what I’d done wrong.

  Also, her husband, Freeman, is due to pay us a visit this week-end, which she finds cheering, as they seem to be reconciled for the moment.

  I hope that you’ve had a word from your father and that the boys are behaving themselves.

  Love to all of them, and to you—

  Fleurette

  Constance

  Paterson, New Jersey

  Bielaski to Constance

  September 10, 1918

  Dear Miss Kopp,

  Your report on Mrs. Wilmington and her ceramic figurines raises intriguing questions, but it is of course the words she muttered in German that concern us the most.

  My office has nothing on Mrs. Wilmington apart from the record of her immigration with her husband. We recorded her as a British citizen, not German, at the time. My counterpart in London reports the same: she claimed to be British-born on her certificate of marriage, which is the only other official document, apart from her British passport, that they can find in connection to her.

  Proceed along this new line of inquiry and forget about her husband and the printing shop. Watch her house, learn her daily routine, find out where she goes, get to know her associates, etc. It’s a shame she’s seen you already. Have you any sort of disguise?

  Or, if you’d rather, I have a whole raft of eager League men at the ready. I would even allow you to hold auditions and choose the one most suitable.

  Yours very truly,

  A. Bruce Bielaski

  Constance to Bielaski

  September 12, 1918

  Dear Mr. Bielaski,

  Disguise not necessary. I have a better idea.

  Yours very truly,

  Constance Kopp

  Constance to Miss Bradshaw

  September 12, 1918

  Dear Miss Bradshaw,

  The word from Washington is that you’ve made yourself useful at the War Department and they hope to keep you on. There’s quite a bit of room for advancement if you wish for a career. From my recollection of our first meeting, I believe you do.

  My assignment has grown more complex, and I could use your help. You wouldn’t be returning to the print shop—I suspect you’ve lost interest in doing so anyway. Instead, I’ve a far more important role that requires discretion and a sharp eye. I can arrange for time away from your desk at the War Department if you’re willing.

  And if I’m wrong—if you’d rather finish your assignment and go back to the print shop—you’ll have the opportunity within a few weeks. It’s entirely up to you.

  I don’t want anyone working for me who isn’t volunteering wholeheartedly, so think on it and please give your honest answer at your earliest convenience.

  Yours very truly,

  Constance Kopp

  Constance to Norma

  September 12, 1918

  Dear Norma,

  You asked once if every American child is required to write letters to France. In fact, it appears they are. Bessie has been busy at Frankie and Lorraine’s school for the last month, preparing for an ice cream social meant to raise money for the Red Cross. A new project this year was to have the students write letters of friendship to French children, to be delivered by the relief organizations. I suspect they get quite a bit of assistance from their teachers, but the sentiments are stirring. Frankie’s letter said:

  “The war has brought us little hardship and as yet no real suffering, and for a time we could not realize how terribly it has altered the lives of the children of France. But now that our own fathers, brothers, and friends are fighting side by side with yours on the battlefields of France, it has become OUR war, and we are proud and glad it is!”

  Lorraine’s letter suggested that she had a much longer memory than would be expected of a girl of thirteen, but it was nonetheless quite well put and I thought you’d appreciate it:

  “We have never forgotten and can never forget how your country helped us in the days of our first great struggle for that same liberty which we are fighting for now, and we only wish we could do much more than we are doing to show our gratitude. Please think of us as your friends.”

  They wanted so much to write letters to the children in your village, and were quite disappointed to learn that you’re too far removed from the fighting to be served by the groups leading this effort. Bessie pulled them aside after and whispered in their ears a promise to let them write their own letters, at home, to the children of your village.

  Here, then, are six letters, all nearly identical to the above, for you (or Aggie, I suspect it will be Aggie!) to distribute as you see fit. Your letters haven’t mentioned any children in this village, but you must have some.

  Frankie and Lorraine wanted Francis to help them translate the notes into French, but he continues to pretend he’s never spoken anything but good American English in his life. It didn’t matter—I sat with them after dinner on Sunday night and wrote each of their notes in French for them to copy. I think they did a fine job, don’t you?

  Francis, by the way, has a new project. When I arrived on Sunday, he’d come directly from his American Protective League meeting and settled into a corner with his notes, a pencil, and a Paterson directory. He didn’t want to tell me what he was doing, but I coaxed it out of him eventually.

  “We’re starting a drive to collect pictures of occupied territories,” he said.

  “What sort of pictures?” I asked—a natural enough question! But he was so secretive about it.

  “Does it matter what sort? Drawings, paintings, photographs.” He turned back to his city directory, making little marks in the margins. I swear, Norma, he was holding his hand over the book, as if to shield me from seeing what he was doing.

  “I understand what you mean by a picture,” I said, trying to remain calm, but you know how Francis can get to me when he’s like this, “but are you after any particular subject matter? And what do you intend to do with them?”

  Oh, how he sighed and rattled his paper and tried to ignore me, as if it simply wasn’t women’s business! But if it was a matter of government secrecy, he could’ve taken it into another room. I suspect he wanted me to see it, if only so he could tell me it was highly important and none of my concern.

  “Bridges,” he said, at last. “Bridges, roads, buildings, towns, in any place occupied by the Germans in France, Belgium, or Luxembourg, or any part of Germany west of Hamburg. We’re conducting this drive at the request of the War Department, in case you’re about to accuse me of running off half-cocked on a phony mission.”

  “I wasn’t going to accuse you of anything,” I muttered. I was feeling awfully deflated by then. He hates it that I’m working for the government, while he puts in his time at a basket importer. The Army has no use for baskets, and no use for him—at least, that’s how he sees it. I tend to forget that, and to forget that he needs a little shoring up from his family.

  “It’s a fine idea,” I told him, “and sure to be of use. Are you going around to businesses, or schools, or how do you intend to collect the pictures?”

  He muttered something about approaching newspaper offices, lecture bureaus, and art schools, but I could see he didn’t really want to tell his sister anything more about it.

  At least he’s found something worth doing! I don’t suppose we have any old pictures of European bridges back at the farm, do we?

  There’s so little I can tell you of my assignment, but I will say this: Mr. Bielaski seems to like having a lady agent so much that he wants another. I’m about to bring on my first recruit, and train her myself. I’d be perfectly happy to have a dozen under my command, if I could find
them, but this is an awfully good start. The Bureau’s reach is only going to grow after the war. We might investigate any sort of Federal crime, from liquor smuggling to gambling to kidnapping. I can’t think of a single Bureau function that a female agent couldn’t handle.

  There’s a change here, Norma, and you’ll feel it when you come home. Women go to work in all the factories, and you see them in the streets, carrying their lunch pails like any working man. You see them in offices, bent over columns of figures, and even running elevators. I saw a woman operating a railroad crossing yesterday—really! No one seems to give it a second thought. The jobs must be done, and so they are.

  Yours,

  Constance

  Miss Bradshaw to Constance

  September 13, 1918

  Dear Miss Kopp,

  Thank you so much for your letter. It’s been a thrill to have anything at all to do with the workings of the War Department, even though I spend my days filing correspondence in triplicate and maintaining a cumbersome index to the correspondence so that we might find it again someday if we ever need it. Although I read the papers and try to inform myself about the daily machinations of the war and our role in it, I simply never could’ve imagined the armies of secretaries (and we really could be an army) required to maintain any sort of order. The sheer volume of supplies and equipment being sent overseas is extraordinary—five hundred crates of egg powder one week, ten thousand boxes of matches the next, and requisitions for a thousand more canteens every time I turn around, each of them demanding a better design and slightly larger capacity, for our men cannot fight on the little pouch of rations we were giving them at the start of the war.

  The girls I work with have been nothing short of astonishing themselves. So many of them are away from home for the first time as I am, missing their old friends and their old diversions, but they put in twelve hours a day at their desks quite willingly, eager to do anything at all that might help to ensure that their brothers and beaus return home in one piece.

  They’re offering an examination next week for women who’d like to work in the finger-print department. It might not sound terribly exciting, but there is an element of detective work to it. All the men give their finger-prints when they register for service. It’s the task of the finger-print clerk to assign a classification number to each print according to its shape and whorls and ridges and so on.

  Then, when the police pick up a deserter who refuses to give his name, they take a finger-print and send it in. The clerks classify it according to the same characteristics, and search the files for a match using only their numbering system. Would you believe they can find one in five minutes? They do hundreds of searches every day—not only for deserters, but also, I’m sorry to say, for dead bodies that can’t be identified.

  Well. I was thinking of taking the test myself, until I had your letter. The finger-print department can wait. I have been thinking often of you, and wondering how you managed to land the assignment you now have, and what it would take for a woman to advance up the ranks, so to speak, as you have done. I suppose you didn’t start as a secretary. It’s led me to wonder if perhaps I started in the wrong place. Now that I’ve had a taste for work at the War Department, I’m eager for more.

  This is my way of saying “yes” to whatever you might ask of me. I apologize for taking six paragraphs to do it, but after long days of typing and tallying inventories, I find that my heart just spills out onto the page. I’ll meet you at the time and place of your choosing.

  Yours very truly,

  Anne Bradshaw

  Constance to Mrs. Bailey

  September 14, 1918

  Dear Mrs. Bailey,

  The Bureau will require Miss Bradshaw’s assistance for what I hope will be an assignment of only a few days. Please excuse her until such time as you hear from me again.

  Yours very truly,

  Constance A. Kopp

  Constance to Miss Bradshaw

  September 14, 1918

  Dear Miss Bradshaw,

  I’ll see you Tuesday at noon, in front of Robertson’s on Lexington Avenue. All is arranged with Mrs. Bailey.

  Yours very truly,

  Constance A. Kopp

  Constance to Bielaski

  September 17, 1918

  Dear Mr. Bielaski,

  I’m pleased to report that Miss Bradshaw has the makings of a fine agent. I met with her today to give her the broad outline of her new assignment. I’ll tell you exactly how the conversation went so that you might be assured that she’s both sharp and eager.

  I asked her to meet me in Manhattan, near her office. We met in front of Robertson’s on Lexington. I was pleased to see that she arrived early and was looking in the window, as any passer-by would, while she waited for me.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come, and I’d be staring at bottles of iodine for an hour,” she said when I arrived.

  “It would’ve been a good test,” I said, “because what you’ll be doing for me involves quite a bit of waiting around and pretending not to look at what you’re looking at.”

  “It sounds riveting,” she said with good cheer, “although I wouldn’t have thought anything could be more exciting than filing correspondence in triplicate.” She took my arm and we walked up Lexington together as old friends, talking over the mission in low voices.

  “You know that I was sent in to keep an eye on your boss and to watch for any sort of suspicious activity,” I said.

  “Yes, and I certainly hope you’ve found nothing amiss,” she said. “I wouldn’t like it if you discovered he was conspiring with the Germans and I never noticed it.”

  “Then you’ll be relieved to know that there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary at the print shop,” I said. “It’s the most mundane operation I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes, he’s the very picture of mundane,” Miss Bradshaw said with a sigh.

  “It’s the wife who has come to my attention,” I said.

  She looked at me with interest. “The wife? I never met her, but she was always such a cold fish on the telephone.”

  “Has she any friends?” I asked. “Did Mr. Wilmington ever mention her having a group over for cards, or going out to meet anyone?”

  “If she has a friend in the world, I never heard of it,” Miss Bradshaw said.

  “But you spoke to her on the telephone? What would you say about her accent, if you had to describe it?” I asked. (I was testing her powers of observation, and I was also interested to hear what she could recollect with a little prompting.)

  Miss Bradshaw didn’t hesitate. “It was a straightforward British accent, always proper and forthright, and very steady. Her voice never rose in greeting the way a woman’s might, and she never spoke in a quieter, confiding tone, either. Of course, she had no reason to, when she was addressing her husband’s secretary.”

  “And did she sound like a Londoner?”

  “I wouldn’t know enough about London accents to make a guess.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t want you guessing. When you don’t know, admit it without any shame or apology. A spy should never invent or assume.”

  She gasped and squeezed my elbow. “Am I to be a spy?”

  “Something like it, if you want the job. You’re to continue collecting your paycheck from the War Department, but you’ll report to me. I’ve reason to believe Mrs. Wilmington is not British at all, but German.”

  She glanced at me quickly, then looked very seriously ahead. “Mr. Wilmington never said a word about that. Surely he would know.”

  “Oh, he certainly would,” I said. “She let a word of German slip when she thought I was out of earshot, but there’d be no hiding it from her husband. Her British accent isn’t perfect. Any Londoner would mark her for a foreigner.”

  “But—what has she done? It’s no crime to be born in Germany, is it?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But there’s quite a bit more than that.”

&
nbsp; I told her about the figurine with the suspicious rattle. She recalled several such packages arriving during the time she worked for Mr. Wilmington, but naturally she never opened the boxes and couldn’t have known what was inside.

  Miss Bradshaw was more than willing to join the operation. Her instructions are to disguise herself as much as possible, and to station herself near the Wilmington residence and observe. (I’m not taking on this role myself because, as you rightly point out, Mrs. Wilmington has seen me, and my height makes me too conspicuous. Miss Bradshaw can more easily disappear into the street-scape and only has to avoid Mr. Wilmington’s gaze when he leaves for the shop in the morning and returns home at night.)

  I’ve told her to make a careful note of any visitors, and to follow Mrs. Wilmington when she goes out. I hope, within a few days, to have a better idea of her activities.

  I don’t expect Miss Bradshaw to need my help, but if she does, she’s been instructed to stop into a hotel lobby or a train station, where she may telephone Hudson Printing. As I usually answer the telephone, we have some hope that she might summon me on short notice. We also worked out a code in case I’m unable to answer and she has to leave a message with Sam Archer.

  It’s a better plan than putting a gang of overzealous League men on the corner, wouldn’t you agree?

  Yours very truly,

  Constance A. Kopp

  Bielaski to Constance

  September 20, 1918

  Dear Miss Kopp,

  Run this one as you see fit. You have the makings of a good supervisor if you know when to put your agents on the more interesting jobs. You’re right to see that as a spy your value is diminished as soon as you’re recognized. We like our agents to be inconspicuous, and there’s no avoiding the fact that you’re known to both the Wilmingtons and will be noticed and remembered.