by Ed Ifkovic
At first, watching the men, I was nervous, my heart racing, but as I contemplated my own dish of food and the silent men, something shifted within me: an overpowering sea change. My nervousness dissipated. One minute I quivered, the sacrificial lamb at the aviator’s feast, the next—a perfect wash of serenity.
Because I knew, in that delicious burst of epiphany, that I held control. These three men were boys playing a game, huddled earlier as they strategized and schemed and assembled an agenda. A war plan. Now, perforce, they realized they forgot to bring the ball to the playground. They’d simply assumed their words would flow naturally, the game easily scored. But Edna Ferber faced them, and my few comments had alerted them to the dangers of an unexpected player. Perhaps they understood that I was not a woman to be trifled with.
Schwarzkopf cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you’ve been a thorn in our side.”
Wide-eyed, thrilled. “Me?”
Lindbergh broke in, still smiling, albeit dumbly. His lips were thin, drawn. “Miss Ferber, I agree with what you said in one of your recent columns. The circus atmosphere, the rich ladies in furs in their limousines, the…”
I finished for him. “The packed crowds outside the jail, yelling ‘Kill Bruno.’”
He winced. “That, too. Yes.” Still smiling. “Mankind at its worst. I don’t want a lynch mob.”
“I’ll say.”
He closed his eyes for a second. “My fame in the air brought me notice I could have done without. People always at me, demanding. When I built the house in Hopewell, I chose a secluded spot, hoping, but…”
Schwarzkopf was speaking over him. “We all agree it’s a zoo in Flemington. That can’t be helped. But”—a long pause as he caught my eye and held it—“your last column talked of the bungled investigation, the way police and reporters trampled on the evidence, a thousand hands on that ladder, on rumors that Hauptmann was beaten severely by the New York cops, all the rumors that can only enflame.” He stopped because Lindbergh was making a clicking sound, like a small child who was unhappy with his present.
“Colonel Lindbergh,” I started, “I assume you understand that in America—in a democracy—it’s crucial to have an intelligent opposition—questioning, vigilant.”
His snarl surprised me. “I know what it means to be an American, Miss Ferber.”
“I wonder about that.”
He caught his breath. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just that I believe any citizen has the right to probe, question, demand. Just as every citizen deserves a fair, unbiased trial.”
He threw out, “Bruno Hauptmann is an illegal alien.”
“Yet he is being tried in an American courtroom with American jurisprudence.”
The lawyer laughed. “Miss Ferber for the defense.”
I went on, heated. “All we need to do, sir, is look at Germany today.”
Lindbergh sat up. “What?” A quizzical smile.
“Hitler and his band of thugs. Surely you’ve been paying attention to what’s going on there. These days I don’t believe Germany, led by that bellowing madman, would grant a soul a fair trial. Bruno Richard Hauptmann would not have his day in court in Germany—he’d be standing before a firing squad.” I added loudly, “I don’t want to see the equivalent of a firing squad in the country I love.”
Lindbergh reflected, “You need to be careful of propaganda, Miss Ferber. I think Germany and Italy, for that matter, are the two most virile nations in Europe these days—the decency and morality of the Germans outdistances our values. In Germany I witnessed the efficiency and lovely symmetry of the Luftwaffe, an air command that…”
“And the current treatment of the Jews?” I said. “Certainly you…?”
Lindbergh made a face, unpleasant. “Yes, that is a problem. But you know, a few Jews add strength and character to any country, I buy that, but too many create—chaos.”
“Do we have too many in America?”
He shrugged. “Well, they are, well, other—not really American.”
Enough of this madness.
“There can be no good that comes of Hitler,” I said.
Schwarzkopf frowned. “Germany has nothing to do with us. Nothing to do with America.”
I tapped my foot. “Not yet. Tomorrow.”
Charles Lindbergh grinned. “A pessimist, Miss Ferber?”
“A realist, sir.”
Breckinridge fussed. “But to the matter at hand, Miss Ferber. Your articles suggest”—He struggled for the right words—“suggest a hidden story, a…a conspiracy.”
Lindbergh sucked in his breath. “Violet Sharp.”
Two words: explosive, raw, hanging in the rarefied air like a death sentence.
Breckinridge went on. “‘Violet Sharp: A Cautionary Tale’ was an inflammatory piece.”
The reason for this visit, I knew: my column on Violet Sharp—yes, the column had garnered considerable attention—and anger. A storm of irate telephone calls and heated letters to the Times office.
And yet I’d said nothing untoward, a simple recapitulation of the questioning, suspicions, and ultimate suicide of the sad British girl. All I’d attempted to do was to remember a life lost in this whole tragedy. No accusations, no summations, no connection with—with her cousin Annabel Biggs and that woman’s murder. I’d left all that out. A memorial to a casualty of the drama. Violet Sharp, an exemplum of how a simple life, lived quietly, suddenly exploded in the shrapnel of a wartime blast.
“I made no accusations.”
Schwarzkopf hissed, “Yet bringing up her name in such a way can only start tongues wagging.”
“Her name will be part of the trial.”
Schwarzkopf bit his lip. “Your columns are a distraction. Listen to Winchell—you he’s talking of. Do you believe there should be sympathy for—for Bruno?”
“I want sympathy for Violet Sharp.”
“Of course her name will be mentioned, Miss Ferber,” said Lindbergh. “But hasn’t my wife’s family suffered enough? I never wanted those servants questioned”—Schwarzkopf shot him a mean look—“but it had to be done. I trusted them all. The focus must now be entirely on Bruno.”
Something happened as he delivered that plaintive line. For a second that innocuous smile had the ah-shucks bumpkin demeanor so beloved by Americans, the bashful boy aviator I remembered Time magazine named the 1927 Man of the Year, so wholesome and nice. But then it was as though a switch had snapped on: the lips became razor-thin, hard and white, a look of utter contempt covering his features. That face closed in, angry. I fairly lost my breath.
“Colonel…”
His voice cracked. “Violet Sharp had nothing to do with the horrors I’ve been through. As I’ve said, I’d expressly told the authorities”—he glanced again at Schwarzkopf—“not to bother the servants at the Morrow estate.”
“I made no accusation.”
He spoke over my words. “But you do, Miss Ferber. We’re not stupid. To bring up the dead girl now—to suggest a secret. She was an hysteric, you know, a gal given to fits of spleen, of…”
“Surely you know reporters want to probe all aspects of your…your tragedy.”
“Yes, and damn them.”
“Colonel…” Breckinridge began.
But Lindbergh raged on. “What exactly do you want to know, Miss Ferber?” But it wasn’t a real question, spoken as it was through clenched teeth.
A lock of his blond hair fell onto his brow and he threw back his head.
I chose my words carefully. “Violet Sharp liked to go to speakeasies.”
He looked puzzled at my sentence. “I know, I know. And so she lied to my mother-in-law, something of a prude, so she wouldn’t know about her running around.”
“Rumor has it that she was taken with Blake Somerville.”
Silence at th
e table.
“Who?” asked Breckinridge.
“What are you talking about?” From Schwarzkopf.
Only Lindbergh didn’t flinch. “From the nearby Somerville family?”
“Wealthy neighbors, no?” And then, “A close friend of your brother-in-law, Dwight.”
He deliberated what to say. “I’m not talking about this. Violet Sharp was the help. Dwight and this…this Blake…”
“You know him?”
“Actually I never met him. I heard of him. If you must know, the Morrows and the Somervilles are not close and, I gather, Blake is a black sheep, someone Dwight probably met at Amherst College. I understand he’d visited Dwight at New Day Hill, the Morrow mansion, but Mrs. Morrow stopped it.” He looked dazed. “What are you getting at?”
Schwarzkopf broke in. “Enough, Colonel. Miss Ferber is searching for tabloid fodder for a column. Why tell her anything?”
He shot back. “Violet Sharp was a servant. She had nothing to do with Dwight—or this…this Blake Somerville.”
“Dwight found her body,” I noted.
“She fell at the foot of the stairs after poisoning herself. Someone called for help.”
Breckinridge interrupted. “I’m not following this. No more, Charles.”
But I saw something in Lindbergh’s face. “Rumor has it Violet was seen with Blake at a speakeasy.” I purposely omitted Dwight’s name.
No one said anything.
The maid tiptoed into the room and began clearing dishes. She looked at Lindbergh. “Sir?”
He waved her off. “Not now.” A coldness in his voice.
She rushed away.
I waited a heartbeat. “I gather that Blake is a troubled man. He spent some time with Dwight at an asylum.”
Lindbergh stood. His fingers drummed the table. “My brother-in-law has some emotional problems that have nothing to do with Violet Sharp.”
Breckinridge said at the same time. “Miss Ferber, if you pursue this line of thought in a future column, you’ll be in trouble. Not only that, you’ll hurt an already grieving family.”
“This is just conversation,” I offered.
Colonel Schwarzkopf slammed his fist down on the table. “Like hell, lady.”
I jumped.
Breckinridge motioned to Lindbergh. “Sit, Charles.”
Lindbergh debated what to do, but finally sat back down.
Calm now, I watched the three men who’d planned an inquisition at luncheon, but I’d refused: I hadn’t planned on introducing—hinting at—the stories that Violet Sharp had written about to her cousin Annabel, but…so be it. Out there. Purposeful. Deliberate.
For a few seconds we watched one another. Lindbergh relaxed, though his eyes were hard.
A phony laugh. “Miss Ferber, you are a fiction writer.”
I nodded. “I am that. But I’m also a journalist.”
His lips quivered. “Bruno Hauptmann stole and killed my baby boy, Miss Ferber.”
I said nothing.
“Charles…” Breckinridge began.
Schwarzkopf snapped at me. “Charles is my friend, Miss Ferber. There is nothing I would not do for him. There is no oath I would not break to help him.”
“Would that include lying?” I asked, and smiled.
Lindbergh held up his hand, his chin quivering. “Can you imagine what it is like to stand outside the cemetery wall and hear that monster call to Dr. Condon, ‘Hey, Doctor’? That miserable German accent. Two and a half years ago, and I hear it echo in my head every day. Every night. ‘Hey, Doctor.’ ‘Give me my money.’ And he knew my son was already dead. People say to me—how can you identify a man, send him to the chair, based on two words? ‘Hey, Doctor.’ I wasn’t close by, they say. It was night, they say. I was in a car with the windows closed.” His voice seethed with fury now. “They are etched on my heart, Miss Ferber.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I mean no…”
A bitter laugh. “Oh yes, you do. Look. I want it all over. Over. Done with. For me and for my poor wife. Over.”
“Of course.”
“Do you really understand? Over. My wife, my new son, my family. Over. I want him dead and out of memory. I want to leave this country and hide away with my wife and son. Exile from a land that claims to love me.”
“Charles…” Breckinridge said softly.
Lindbergh shook his head. “You’re not out for justice, Miss Ferber. I’ve read all your columns. Every one. You’re out for sensation. You write romantic novels about heroines who fall in love with ne’er-do-wells. My wife told me that. She warned me. You’ve taken Violet Sharp, that pitiful girl, and turned her into one of your heroines. And who will be the villain, Miss Ferber? I ask you that.” His voice roared across the room. A vein on his pale neck jutted out.
He stood. Schwarzkopf signaled to me. I stood.
Lindbergh’s hand fluttered in the air.
“Goodbye, Miss Ferber. Do your dirt as you will.”
“Colonel Lindbergh.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared down at me. Six feet tall, towering over five-foot me. “Ferber.” He waited a heartbeat. “A Jewish name, no?”
“Charles,” said Breckinridge.
“You’re Jewish.” A smile that broke at the edges.
I stepped away from the table.
Chapter Twenty-four
The trial was almost over.
The jury was out, deliberating.
The final summations were over. Edward Reilly pleaded that the jury use “horse sense,” “motherly intuition”—how could one man do this foul deed alone? He blamed Isidor Fisch, Betty Gow, the butler, and—Violet Sharp. “Colonel Lindbergh was stabbed in the back by those who worked for him.” Bruno was a “mastermind” one minute—gloves and no fingerprints in the nursery—and in the next—a “dumb man who talked face-to-face with Dr. Condon.” “Servants Slew Baby, Defense Charges”—a headline. “Turns Guns on Violet Sharp”—another.
Prosecutor Wilentz screamed out that Hauptmann was “a fellow that had ice water in his veins, not blood, the filthiest and vilest snake that ever crept through the grass, lower than the lowest form in the animal kingdom, Public Enemy Number One of the world.” Hauptmann killed the baby in the cradle. “Money, money, money.” He pointed at Hauptmann. “Murderer! Animal! Evidence, evidence, evidence, mountains of evidence, evidence which shrieks to heaven and this murderer of a baby cries, ‘Lies!’”
Judge Trenchard had given his final instructions—seventy minutes long—to the twelve men and women, a lengthy summation of the evidence and, it seemed to me, wonderfully skewed to convict the hapless Hauptmann. Over and over he stated one bit of evidence, followed by a dramatic pause and stressed: Do you believe that? That struck me as undercutting the work of the defense. Translated, in my mind: Can you believe the defense would try to offer such twaddle as evidence? In earshot Damon Runyon mumbled, “He just strapped Bruno in the chair.”
Bruno was led out, his face pale as a ghost, his deep-set eyes hollow. Bloodless.
The watch was on, reporters lolling in the rooms, cigarettes and cigars stinking up the corridors.
At one point Aleck Woollcott sidled by me and hissed in my ear, “Hangman, where is thy noose?”
A jibe that was made worse by Marcus as he drove me late that morning into the city. “Mr. Woollcott demands my services at five this afternoon,” he announced as I sat in the backseat and we sped out of Flemington.
“What fresh new hell is he planning tonight?”
Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror. “You don’t sound happy, Miss Ferber. I thought you two were close.”
My voice snippy. “You thought wrong, young man.” Then I relented. “We’ve had a falling out. We have them periodically, our celebrated feuds that delight the tabloids. He can be—acerbic.”
Marcus chuckled. “And you?”
“Insightful.”
“I thought so.”
We shared a soft, welcome laugh, and I was grateful my leisurely drive into Manhattan wasn’t provided by the garrulous Willie. Marcus would talk quietly, if asked to. Silent, if demanded. I watched his attractive profile as he turned to check an intersection: The hint of a new moustache, very dashing and manicured, very John Garfield. He removed his chauffeur’s cap and placed it on the seat next to him, a gesture not allowed. But I approved—he was telling me something about his ease with me. I liked that.
“The jury is out,” I said to his back.
He nodded. “Not for long.”
I smiled. “You know the verdict.”
“So do you.”
“Well, that’s true. Bruno is doomed.”
“Probably not justice but a form of justice.”
His words surprised and intrigued. “What do you mean?”
He waited a long time, his head tilted to the side as though unsure of his answer. Finally, softly, he avoided my question. “This was a spectacle I would not have missed.”
“A circus, really.”
“If you will.”
“Do you think he’s guilty, Marcus?”
“I’m not on the jury.”
“But everyone else has an opinion. I’ve heard from Willie over and over. He…”
Marcus swung his head back. “Willie believes whatever the newspapers tell him.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’m a driver.” A chuckle. “For important people like yourself.” A flip of his hand. “I hear what important people say in the backseat of this car.”
“And they all say the same thing?”
He gripped the wheel tightly, leaned forward. “All except you.”