by Neil Maresca
“I wish I could help, but I really don’t know any more than I was told, and all of that was in the newspapers. And, honestly, Anke, if I were a spy, I couldn’t tell you anything anyway.”
“I know. I know you are not a spy. This is all so stupid.”
“Would you like to run away to America with me?’ Peter joked. “That would fix him.”
Peter’s attempt at humor had its intended effect. Anke relaxed, even allowed herself a small smile.
“Running away to America sounds good,” she said.
“But not with me, I take it.”
“No, Peter, not with you.”
“Now I am truly devastated,” he joked. “But wait. Let me take a picture of you, so I’ll always have a memory of the girl who broke my heart.”
Anke smiled and waited patiently while Peter took a camera from his desk and snapped her picture.
“That’s a nice camera,” she said.
“Yes,’ Peter responded enthusiastically. “It’s the newest Leica—a gift from my parents. They want me to take a lot of pictures of East Germany. Everybody at home has heard so much about it. Look here,” he said, handing her the camera. “It has a special lens that lets you take pictures from far away—no more getting up in someone’s face. With this camera I can take pictures of people and they won’t even know I am doing it.”
He let Anke play with the camera for a little while, until he was certain she had seen enough. “Take my picture,” he said, and when she had, he placed the camera back in his desk.
“I guess I shouldn’t play with it. I understand it’s quite expensive.” Then he added, changing his tone, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be of any help.”
“No matter,” she sighed. “But do you mind if I stay a while longer? We’re supposed to be…you know.”
“Of course not. Stay as long as you like. What will you tell him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell him about your fancy new camera. That might keep him happy.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Chapter 42
February 10, 1957
Ereveld Loenen
Leiden, the Netherlands
Lucas and the Janssons walked quietly along the tree-lined pathways of the Ereveld Loenen, burial site for nearly 4,000 victims of the Nazi occupation, most, like the Jansson’s son, Nicolaas, members of the Dutch resistance. The trio meandered leisurely through a forest along a path lined with small, slightly-elevated, rectangular stones that might have been mistaken for decoration except for the simple, poignant, inscriptions carved into each. Unlike traditional cemeteries, there were no upright stones or crosses. The tranquility of the place suited Lucas; quiet and introspective by nature, he found the park, despite its mournful contents, somehow comforting. As he walked alongside the Janssons, his mind wandered back to his father, and his final resting place in the family mausoleum in Budapest. He wondered if it were still standing, or if the Communists had destroyed it, along with all other examples of “bourgeois decadence.” He hoped his father still rested in peace.
Lucas’ musings were interrupted by the Janssons, who had stopped walking and were looking down at one of the grave markers. Lucas, who had gone a few steps ahead, wrapped, as he was, in his own thoughts, turned and went back to stand next to his hosts.
The marker was identical to all the others in the park. Only the inscription was different. This one read:
Nicolaas Frederik Jansson
CS-6
September 11, 1922—October 1, 1943
Lucas knew, because the Janssons had told him, that their son was only 21 when he died, but seeing his name and the dates of his birth and death inscribed on the small stone marker made the words real for Lucas, who for the first time since he had moved in with the Janssons began to see their son as a real person, and their loss as real as his own.
‘What is CS-6?” he asked.
“It was the resistance group he belonged to,” Mr. Jansson answered.
“He wasn’t a big, strapping lad like you,” Mrs. Jansson added. “He was studying philosophy at the university. He was a shy, quiet boy. But he was so brave.”
“His philosophy teacher Theodor de Groot was one of the leaders of the group, and he got him involved.”
“Any relation to Professor de Groot?”
“His younger brother. He and Nicolaas were executed on the same day. His grave is a little further on.”
“They were betrayed?”
“Yes, The Nazis rounded up 18 of the CS-6 group on the same day, and took them to the sand dunes near Zandvoort on the North Sea. They shot them all, and covered their bodies with sand. After the war, the government dug them up and brought them here.”
“Any idea who betrayed them?”
“Most people blame Antonius van der Waals. He was a devil to be sure, but he operated in the Rotterdam region, and I don’t believe he could have been responsible for the CS-6 betrayal.”
“Josef believes it was somebody local,” Mrs. Jansson added.
“I still believe that, but I have no proof, and it would be wrong to make accusations without proof. The reprisal would be vicious; even today, the wounds are not healed.”
“Who do you suspect?”
“There were, I am ashamed to say, many collaborators in Leiden.”
“Pietr Roosa, for one,” Mrs. Jansson said, pronouncing his name as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.
“You don’t know that, Maria,” her husband responded.
“I can’t prove it, that’s true, but he’s a mean man with no morals. I don’t know how his wife stayed with him for as long as she did. And there were rumors about him during the war.”
“Rumors, Maria, gossip and rumors. You can’t hang a man on such nonsense.”
“Is this is the same Roosa that is hosting Peter Cameron?” Lucas asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Jansson replied, “and to tell you the truth, I don’t understand it. Roosa is a communist. Placing an American student in his home doesn’t make sense to me.”
“A communist?” Lucas was dumbfounded. What were de Groot and Strickland thinking? Lucas couldn’t believe that they didn’t know. If Jansson knew, then de Groot knew for sure. Did Peter know? And what about Anke? Was she a communist too? In all the discussions that had taken place between him and Anke, he was sure he had made known his distaste for communism, and his love for America and democracy.
“Are you alright?” Mrs. Jansson asked the obviously shaken Lucas.
“Yes, yes. I’ll be fine. It’s just a lot to take in. I can’t understand it.”
“We thought you knew,” Mrs. Jansson said. “Everybody in Leiden knows the Roosa family story. We just assumed you had been told.”
“No, I hadn’t, but I should have been. I hope Peter knows.”
“Do you want to go home—so you can talk to your friend?”
“No. no. It will keep. I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin the day. Why don’t we walk on to de Groot’s gravesite, and you can tell me more about your son and the CS-6.”
Chapter 43
February 11, 1957
A Coffee House
Leiden, Netherlands
Lucas looked at his watch. It was five minutes before noon, two minutes later than the last time he had looked at it. He had arranged to meet Peter at noon, had arrived 20 minutes early, and glanced at his watch every two or three minutes since. He had called Peter as soon as he had arrived back at the Jansson’s house, and asked for this meeting. Peter could tell immediately that Lucas was upset, and readily agreed—but, as Lucas knew, that didn’t mean he would arrive early. Lucas, however, had arrived early, too upset to wait around doing nothing. News of Roosa’s communist affiliation had upset him more than the Janssons’ suspected. He had tried to hide it from them—he had intended the visit to Ereveld Loenen to be a special day for them, but the combination of assassinations, betrayals and communism had overwhelmed him, bringing back terrible images of his father’s death, and reviving his h
atred for anything communist. It also reminded him of something that his mother had drilled into him. “Trust no one,” she had told him when they had escaped the Nazis, arriving in Switzerland alone and almost penniless, and he had always followed her advice. Even though he had made friends in America, he always remained wary, never certain that he or his mother were safe. But in his euphoria over being selected as a Student Ambassador, he had become complacent, and in regard to Anke, he had become absolutely careless, sharing with her feelings that he had never shared with anyone before. Now, he felt the truth of his mother’s advice. He wasn’t sure where anybody’s loyalties were. De Groot was a war hero—or was he? How was he able to survive the CS-6 roundup? He had been tortured, that was certain, but had he given up his friends to the Nazis? He wouldn’t be the first to crack under torture. And what about Anke? His mind kept coming back to her. How could he trust her now? He even had questions about Strickland and Peter, and he was determined to get some answers—starting now. Peter had just entered the café.
“Lucas,” he said, “What’s the matter? You sounded upset on the phone, and you look terrible.”
“I am upset. I heard some disturbing news yesterday.”
“Nothing wrong at home, I hope.”
“No, nothing like that. Everything at home is fine.”
“Thank God for that. But what is it? Anything I can help with?” Peter was barely six months older than Lucas, but he couldn’t help but think of him as a younger brother. His natural instinct was to protect him. So now, seeing that Lucas was very troubled, he shed his customary smile, and studied Lucas from across the table.
“What do you know about Pietr Roosa?” Lucas asked.
“Pietr Roosa is a crude lout and a communist.” He said. “I don’t know much beyond that. Is there more?”
Maria Jansson believes he was a collaborator during the war.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Why are you there? Why would Strickland allow it? De Groot was a leader in the resistance, and is supposed to be a friend of the U.S. Why would he let Pietr Roosa, a man who is suspected of informing on his resistance group, and who may be responsible for de Groot’s brother’s death, be a Student Ambassador host? None of it makes any sense to me, Peter, and it makes me wonder just what we are doing here and who we, that is; who I can trust.”
It was no accident that Strickland had selected Peter for the CIA. Hidden beneath the pleasant, cosmopolitan exterior that he showed to the world, was a very sharp mind, and Peter was applying it now, trying to determine how much he could tell Lucas. Despite his affection for Lucas, and his belief that he was one of the good guys, he couldn’t escape the truth—there was something Lucas was holding back, something in his past that he didn’t want anyone to know about. That was what Strickland wanted Peter to find out. That was why he had Peter assigned as Lucas’ roommate, and why he had instructed Peter to watch Lucas and report back to him anything he found out about this mysterious young man—which, up this point, was nothing at all. Peter knew that Strickland had a file on Lucas, but he was not privy to it, so all he had to go on was his own evaluation and his gut, which told him, regardless of what secrets Lucas may have, he was OK. He was secretive, Peter decided, but not dishonest.
Peter decided to gamble. This was completely contrary to his instructions and his training, but he went ahead anyway. He was convinced that Lucas was trustworthy, and that he could even be an asset. So he told him the truth, most of it anyway. He did not, however, mention his East German assignment.
Lucas had listened in silence while Peter explained the situation to him, and he remained silent and unemotional when Peter made him pledge to keep what he had been told secret. Lucas had no doubt that there was more to the story, but he was not worried about it. He was, however, worried about one thing.
“What about Anke?” he asked with the same apparent lack of emotion that he had shown throughout Peter’s long explanation. “Is she a communist too?”
“I don’t think Anke is political,” Peter responded, “But she does what her father tells her to do.” He did not think it necessary to tell Peter what her father wanted her to do.
“Can she be trusted?”
Peter thought a long time before answering. “I would hope so. I think she’s a sweet girl…”
“But?”
“But she’s a Roosa, and completely under the thumb of her father. I like her, but I think it’s best to be wary. Why? What’s your interest in Anke?”
Now it was Lucas’ turn to tell the truth. “I like her too,” he said.
Peter was surprised, puzzled, and for some reason, delighted. “Like her? I didn’t even know that you knew her.” He couldn’t repress a smile.
“I met her one day when I was out exploring the city,” he lied. “On the Beestenmarkt,” he added.
“Really? She never mentioned it.”
“Does she tell you everything?”
“No, of course not. But it’s the sort of thing I would have expected her to talk about, you know—‘You’ll never guess who I met on the Beestenmarkt today,’—something like that. I wonder why she didn’t tell me.”
“Maybe she thought it was none of your business.”
“Did she mention me to you?”
Lucas didn’t respond. She hadn’t, but then he was happy that she hadn’t. He didn’t want to talk about Peter when he was with her. He had wanted to forget that Peter was in her house, sharing her meals, sharing her. Now, however, her failure to discuss Peter with him appeared in a different light. She seemed dishonest, and it bothered him—deeply.
Peter could tell that Lucas was troubled. “I think you more than like her,” he said.
“I like her a lot,” Lucas responded.
“After one meeting?”
“No. I’ve met with her several times in the past week.”
“Then I think I ought to tell you something, even though I know you will not want to hear it.”
Peter described, as kindly as he could, Anke’s attempt to seduce him on his first morning in the Roosa household, hating himself as he did so, even though he knew that Lucas had to hear it.
“But, to tell you the truth, her heart wasn’t in it. Her father was behind it, and I believe she was relieved when I turned her down.”
“I find it hard to believe you turned her down,” Lucas said somewhat bitterly. “She’s no Marilyn Monroe, but she’s attractive, and she’s female. I’ve never known you to turn down an offer like that before.”
“I know,” Peter quipped, his customary smile returning, “I had to get psychiatric help.”
“Does Strickland know about this?”
Peter took a deep breath. This was getting harder and harder. “He knows, and he wants me to sleep with her so I can funnel misinformation through her to her father.”
“Good God! He’s no better than Roosa.”
“Anke and I worked out a plan. I lied to Strickland, and she lied to her father. Like I said before, I think she’s a nice girl.”
Lucas was having trouble processing all of this. It was clear that Anke had not been truthful, neither to him nor to Peter, nor, even, to her father. The girl had spun a web of lies and deceit that contrasted sharply with the image he had of her.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said, seeing the impact his revelation had made on Lucas.
“It’s OK. You were right to tell me. I can’t say I’m happy about it. It’s possible she’s using me just as she attempted to use you.”
“That’s what I am afraid of. That’s why I decided to tell you about her.”
“Just out curiosity, why didn’t you take her up on her offer? I would have jumped at the chance.”
“And how would that have played out? I can see the headlines, ‘American Student Ambassador seduces host family’s underage daughter.’ That would have been a great start to a diplomatic career. Besides, there was….”
“Was what?”
“Not what, Who”<
br />
“Oh my God! Don’t tell me you’re in love. I can’t believe it. Peter Cameron in love? Who is the unlucky girl?”
“Kate.”
“Kate Porter?”
“Yes, Kate Porter, and I didn’t say I was in love with her. I’m not sure what I am. She confuses me.”
“Have you told her?”
“I tried to once, but I think she hates me—we have some history. I screwed up, and now I don’t know how to straighten it out.”
Lucas rose from his seat and dropped a few coins on the table.
“Where are you going?” Peter asked.
“A coffee shop is no place to have a conversation like this,” Lucas replied. “We have to find a bar. I need a drink.”
Van der Wefpark
Professor Washburn sat in his usual place, on a bench facing the lake. He came every day to the same spot; most times he read his newspaper for a while before meandering off along the quiet park lanes. Sometimes he brought a small brown bag which he placed next to him on the bench, and into which he methodically and rhythmically dipped his hand and extracted small chocolate sweets. He was in the process of savoring one of these delicacies when a well-dressed, middle-aged woman approached him, and asked if he would mind sharing the bench with her.
The Professor politely agreed, half-rising as she sat—as far away from him as possible without falling off the end of the bench. Washburn continued to read his newspaper and eat his chocolates. He did not offer any to his bench-mate, who also sat quietly reading from a small book, which she held up very close to her face. They never glanced at each other, and you would have to have been very close to see that they were talking to each other behind their book and newspaper.