Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Is that so?” Cabby glued her eyes to the envelope. Louise obviously considered the professor a great scholar and his wife a living doll, but what did she really know about them? She’d only been on the case a few days, and this soft-hearted southern belle was surely naïve in the extreme. Cabby, on the other hand, knew that smoke signaled fire. With what she’d learned from McKenna and Halper, she suspected a four-alarmer. She forced her gaze away from the tantalizing envelope. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Well, I talked to Alicia. She’s arranged for one of her law professors to help the Oakleys and he’ll need this information. He’s up on everything about civil liberties Did you know that for the past year or so the FBI’s been keeping dossiers on a lot of people, not just Japanese but Germans and Italians, too?”

  “Uh-oh. Germans, too?” For a few seconds, Cabby forgot the notes. “You think they’ll come after Helda?”

  “Who knows? Alicia says they’re looking at anyone they think will constitute a threat to the nation’s peace and safety.”

  “Nah. Not Helda,” Cabby said, twisting her paper napkin into a bow. “Now, a Jap I can see. This may sound cynical, but, hey, it’s easier for the government to nab someone who looks like an alien than someone who looks like your neighbor.”

  Louise slapped the envelope on the table. “Masako Oakley is no security threat. She’s an artist, for crying out loud.”

  “Well, they must think they have something on her. They’ve detained about four-hundred Japanese from Manhattan alone, but I can’t imagine they’d bother over nothing.”

  Shredding the napkin, Cabby thought about Helda. Would G-men actually arrest the landlady because she’d been born in Germany? What would happen to that cute kid, Howie? As a matter of fact, what would happen to the boarding house? Would it have to close? Oh, no! She couldn’t move back home—where would she live? Cabby coughed to dislodge a lump that had suddenly blocked her throat.

  Louise picked up her fork and trailed it through congealing gravy. “Mrs. Oakley told me her father was a diplomat for the Japanese government.”

  Abruptly, Cabby glanced up. “That would certainly be a reason to monitor her.”

  Louise frowned. “Masako has had nothing to do with her family for…years.”

  “Hmm.” What a story! If only Cabby could get a peek inside that envelope.

  Louise slid the notes into her purse, which she set back on the empty chair between the two women. She felt her neck muscles relax, then her tight shoulders. Cabby might be brash to the point of being annoying, but she was trying to help. Louise considered a second cup of coffee. A slice of pie might hit the spot, too. She glanced toward the dessert dispensers.

  But, first, “Cabby, I want that reporter’s name.”

  “Uh—so.” Cabby leaned forward, eager to squeeze something more out of her roommate before Louise caught onto her. “That painting they found the corpse beneath? ‘Lion After the Kill’? A pretty vicious title for a piece of artwork. What’s the dirt on that?”

  “The dirt?” Louise froze, appetite gone. She didn’t like the avid look on her roommate’s face.

  Then it struck her.

  “You wrote that story! That’s why you don’t want to give me the name of the reporter! You…you…You don’t care about helping Mrs. Oakley. You think she killed that man!”

  Cabby glanced around. They were drawing curious stares. A sailor in dress whites stopped at their table, grinning. She scowled at him, and he moved on. “Louise, don’t you realize what great material this is? There’s obviously a link between Masako Fumi and Arthur Shelton’s murder. Could she have been upset about—”

  As angry as she’d ever been in her life, Louise jumped up and grabbed her bag. “Cabby, I can’t believe I trusted you.” She turned on her heel and hurried toward the exit.

  Cabby followed, pulling on her tweed coat. At the revolving doors they stared at each other for a frosty moment as the Automat’s patrons pushed in around them. Then Louise spun her way out onto the now-snowy sidewalk.

  Cabby was right on her heels.

  Louise jerked her gloves on, and yanked the straps of her unwieldy purse over her shoulder. Then she pivoted and stared Cabby straight in the eye. “I’m simply furious with you. I’ve never known a girl so determined to make it in a man’s world—whatever the cost. To tell you the truth, I find that kind of ambition highly unattractive.”

  Cabby went rigid with anger. Just as Louise turned to walk away, the string-bound envelope fell from her purse to the pavement. Automatically Cabby swooped it up and held it out, but her roommate was already ten paces ahead.

  “If you don’t watch out,” Louise threw over her shoulder. “You’re going to turn into one of these horrid career girls no man will ever want to marry.”

  Stung, Cabby stuffed the envelope into her own bag. Her heart hammering in her chest, she caught up with Louise.

  Businessmen hurried past them in wool topcoats and dark fedoras. Secretaries who’d forgotten their rubber overshoes skidded on the slushy pavement. Someone jostled Louise so hard she staggered and almost fell. She looked around, expecting an apology, but everyone just hustled on by. That’s right—she was in New York now.

  Suddenly sirens wailed from every direction.

  “Oh, no,” she said, “not a fire. Not in this terrible cold.”

  “This is no fire,” Cabby responded, wide-eyed. The blasts repeated themselves. One long, one short. Pedestrians halted, some confused, some terrified. Then the sirens’ wail was joined by the whooo-whooo of fire trucks and the oooga-oooga of police cars. Cacophony. For an endless few seconds the Times Square crowd was absolutely paralyzed.

  A man in a helmet and a khaki trench coat shouted, “Air Raid! Everybody seek shelter!” But very few people moved. They just stood there, en masse, faces shocked, looking up at the overcast sky.

  It sounds like the end of the world, Louise thought. Although newsreels had shown horrific scenes of bombing raids in London and Paris, she hadn’t realized the sheer panicked terror the warnings would bring. The immediacy of it in her body. Her heart was cold in her chest. She could hardly breathe. Was she going to die right here on Broadway?

  But Cabby just stood there listening, staring up at the sky. She shrugged. “Looks okay to me. Must be a drill.” She started walking again, keeping her bag tucked under her arm.

  Then the continuous blast of the all-clear sounded, and everyone snapped back to normal.

  New Yorkers! Louise thought, and raised her arm to hail a taxi.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Sun Rose lipstick, Tangee compact, wrinkled handkerchief, roll of wintergreen Lifesavers, bank passbook, three keys, change purse, notebook, address book, black knitted gloves, ticket stub from “Unfaithfully Yours” at the Paramount, two unused bus transfers.

  As Louise’s cab sped down Broadway toward the Brooklyn Bridge, she had the entire contents of her bag spread out on the back seat. But she couldn’t find the envelope with the notes she’d made about the FBI raid. Darnation! She remembered stuffing it in her bag as she’d walked out of the Automat with Cabby. After that, nothing. She groaned—she’d probably lost it in the air raid drill.

  Oh, wait! Just before the alarms sounded, someone had jostled her—hard. She remembered stumbling—almost falling. Could that have been a deliberate shove rather than just some random bump?

  Then she had a wild thought—could an FBI agent have been following her? Could he have overheard her tell Cabby about the notes? Did the FBI not want any details of Masako Oakley’s arrest recorded?

  No. She was being paranoid. She’d been clumsy, that’s all, and the notes had fallen to the pavement. They’d probably been kicked into the gutter by now.

  But, damn. She’d need them when she met with Abe Pritzker. If all went well, Louise would accompany h
im to Ellis Island to “monitor Mrs. Oakley’s emotional wellbeing,” as Mr. Pritzker had told Alicia he intended to phrase the need for the nurse’s presence. “Don’t worry,” Alicia had soothed her on the phone, “the Great Man will get you in. He knows the ropes.” She laughed. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t find himself hung with one of them someday.”

  The “Great Man” wouldn’t be very impressed if Louise had failed to follow his instructions. They passed City Hall. She rubbed her stomach, absolutely sick. Professor Oakley was too ill to relive that night again—she’d simply have to reconstruct the notes from memory. Thank god she’d perfected her recall in anatomy drills in nursing school. If she could still name the twenty-seven bones of the human foot, she ought to be able to at least summarize notes she’d written only that morning.

  Louise plucked the pen and notebook from the heap of items, then tumbled everything else back into her handbag. Fortunately, she had a silent taxi driver for a change. She sat back against the cushioned seat and began to write.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Helda was annoyed. It was already dark, and Howie hadn’t come home from school. The cake had been iced, the meat loaf was in the oven, the cans of peas open, and where was that boy? She paid her son fifty cents a week to stoke the furnace, serve the boarders, peel the dinner potatoes, and complete other chores. He usually did as he was told. But here it was a quarter to five, and no potatoes peeled.

  Ach! Every day she worked her fingers to the bone to support them both. If that boy thought he was going to run the sidewalks with his school friends he’d have to think again.

  She snatched up a large bowl and pushed out of the door onto the small kitchen porch. The potatoes were low in the barrel, beginning to sprout. Enough for dinner, though. She heaped the bowl high, reentered the kitchen, clicked on the radio, and began to scrub the spuds with a stiff brush.

  She was halfway through the pile when the newscast came on. Both potato and brush splashed into the sink. “Government officials today announced the detention of German residents nationwide. In New York, the arrests ranged from Yorkville pretzel makers to an engineer and his family living at the Waldorf Astoria.”

  Ach du lieber! Howie! Was that why he was late? He was arrested? Panicked, Helda rushed from the kitchen. Miss Rosen was in the parlor reading a thick textbook. “Have you seen my Howie? He does not come home from school today, and now I hear the police pick up Germans all over the city.”

  Alicia jumped up, thumb buried in the book to hold her place. “I’ve been sitting here for at least an hour, and he hasn’t come in.” Her tone was sober. “What would Howie do if he was stopped on the street? He’s a hot-headed young man—”

  “He is not a young man—he’s a boy—fourteen years old, mein Gott!” Helda’s hands fluttered, and she twisted the skirt of her apron. “It must be his…he can’t be punished for his…for his father’s…” She suddenly felt lightheaded and choked on her words.

  Miss Furnish, the girl the others called die Maus, poked her head around the entrance to the parlor and stood there, staring round-eyed.

  Alicia said, “If the G-men have Howie, they’ll be here after you—”

  A sudden heavy pounding at the door and the three women gasped.

  “Run, Helda,” Alicia whispered, giving her a little push with her free hand. If they found the landlady gone, maybe they’d just move on to the next poor soul on their list. She’d tell them Helda was out. She didn’t mind lying. Her parents had told her time and again—in bad times, do what you must to survive.

  But Helda wasn’t moving.

  “We’ll cover for you. Out the back—quick.” Alicia nodded toward the kitchen, but Mousie stumbled into the parlor and blocked the landlady’s way. What a dope!

  The fierce banging came again. Helda felt as if her feet were buried in concrete. This must be just like the Gestapo raids back home! She took a deep breath and pulled away from die Maus. Resolve straightened her spine. “No, Miss Rosen. Running is no good. That’s coward’s way. Whatever it is, I must face it.”

  She pulled off her apron, flung it on the sofa, crossed the floor in determined strides, and yanked the door open.

  Patrolman Drury, the local beat cop, held an agitated Howie by the arm. “Is this little hero yours?”

  “Jah!” Helda exclaimed, flabbergasted. She grabbed the boy in a fierce embrace. “This is why you come? Where was he?”

  “Get off, Ma!” Howie struggled in her arms, but she held him tight.

  Alicia drew close to Mousie. She whispered, “What the hell were you doing? Trying to get Helda arrested?”

  “It’s only a Brooklyn cop,” Mousie replied.

  “But we didn’t know that.”

  Mousie tugged at her baggy sweater. “Guess I’m just clumsy. I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”

  The friendly cop was rubbing a meaty thumb over Howie’s hairless jaw. “He was trying to enlist over at the Bushwick recruiting center. Good try, lad, but you can’t pass for eighteen.”

  “Enlist?” Helda looked horrified. “You’re just a boy.”

  Howie glared at her. “You lied, Ma.” He shoved her away.

  She stumbled. His words were a knife in her heart.

  Drury grabbed the boy’s arm, serious now. “Now, see here, son…”

  Howie shook him off and jumped back. Helda couldn’t believe it. This child—her son—defying a police, facing down his mother, holding back tears, shouting, “You’ve been lying ever since Papa left.”

  “What you say?” Helda’s hand drifted to her fevered cheek.

  Howie balled his hands into fists, breathing hard. “You told me Papa went to California—but he didn’t! He went with the Bund—”

  “Halt die Schnauze!” she barked. Then she slapped him.

  Howie went dead white and silent.

  A nightstick appeared in Drury’s hand. He beat it into his palm and nailed both Helda and Howie with an icy stare. It was as if, with those three words of German, they had both become the enemy.

  Alicia spoke up. Somebody had to calm this crisis down. “Officer, this is a family matter. Helda can take care of it, I’m sure.”

  Helda swallowed hard, then stepped between Howie and the patrol cop. “Yes, I take care…Please.”

  “Well…” Drury said, slowly lowering his stick. He fixed Howie with a withering gaze. “You mind your mother, son. I don’t want to find you at any Brooklyn recruiting center again.” He slapped the stick in his hand and transferred his gaze to Helda. “And don’t forget I’m keeping my eye on…both of you.”

  “Howie will do right. I promise no trouble here.” Helda nodded vigorously. Then she jerked her chin at the boy. “Go to your room. Now.”

  “But, Ma, I gotta do the potatoes.”

  “Raus mit du!”

  Howie started toward the stairs, head down, dragging his feet. “I don’t care,” he muttered under his breath. Only his mother was close enough to hear. “Nobody’s gonna keep me from joining up. Krauts, Japs—I’ll kill ’em all.”

  Helda’s heart turned to lead.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The Coast Guard ferry bounced off the choppy harbor waves. Across the strip of dark water, the lights of Ellis Island came on one at a time. Louise knew that several hundred “enemy aliens” had been transported there. So far, the word “imprisoned” was not being used. The official term was “detained,” as if the inmates were merely inconvenienced, something akin to being slowed by slushy streets in rush-hour traffic.

  Louise braced her feet and shrank back against the ferry’s wooden bench, grateful that she wasn’t prone to seasickness; the godawful New York cold gave her enough to contend with. The blustery wind cut right through her coat and threatened to send her pork-pie hat flying at any moment.

  Her companion did
n’t seem at all fazed by the rough crossing. Abe Pritzker was a tall, rangy man who looked nothing like the sort of miracle worker he’d proven to be so far. Louise associated miracles with the flawless, floating-on-clouds Jesus pictured in the family bible back home, but the only thing Mr. Pritzker had in common with Jesus was that he, too, was a Jew. Though hatless, he leaned over the ferry’s railing with harbor spray freezing on the tips of his shaggy hair, grinning like a lunatic as he gazed at the rapidly approaching brick walls and pepper-pot domes of the detention center. His only concession to the raw wind was the overcoat collar turned up around his ears.

  Abruptly, Louise snatched her hat off and stuck her icy hands inside. Then her hair caught the wind and beat against her cheeks like frozen twigs.

  She sighed. She’d never been so cold in her life. The temperature had plummeted with the sun. Tomorrow—for certain—she’d make time to buy herself some real Yankee winter clothes.

  Abe Pritzker wasn’t a type of man Louise knew anything about. His broad features, leathery skin, and unkempt dark locks wouldn’t have inspired confidence if she didn’t know he’d bullied Agent Bagwell into allowing him an interview with Masako Oakley. She’d been amazed when he’d followed that trick with screwing an immediate meeting time out of the notoriously unaccommodating immigration authorities who were in charge of the internees’ confinement.

  Now the attorney joined her on the bench. Above the combined din of the boat’s engine and the rhythmic crashing of its hull on the waves, he yelled, “Where are you from, Nurse Hunter?”

  Surprised by the question, Louise gulped in a blast of frigid air. “Louisville,” she stammered. “That’s in Kentucky.”

  He laughed. “‘Mistah Pree-it-zkeh,’ you said when you knocked on my office door. I could tell right off you were a Southerner. But I mean your family. Everyone in this country has roots somewhere else, and last time I checked, Kentucky was still part of the U. S. of A.” He waved a large, reddened hand. “We came from Lithuania. My parents first stepped on American soil right there on Ellis Island, in 1909.”