The Radio Operator

by Ulla Lenze

  Then he had an idea. A radio that fit inside a suitcase would make them mobile, much less easy to track down—and he would finally get the two of them out of his apartment. The delivery truck was perfect for it.

  He saw various places in his mind. Brighton Beach, the street right by the boardwalk, good for transmitting, no obstacles. No. Coney Island was too busy. The parking lot in the Bronx outside the nationalists’ headquarters. Red Hook in Brooklyn. These thoughts reassured him, blotted out the fear for a time.

  Treason. Electric chair. He had read an article in the newspaper about the victims’ eyes bursting, about them wearing diapers because they would shit themselves when the thousand volts were sent surging through their bodies.

  18

  New York, May 1939

  IT WAS THE FIRST DAY WHEN THE AIR OUTSIDE WAS WARMER than the air inside. When he opened the door to leave his building, he felt summer pouring over him and winter at his back. He took the subway downtown, got out a stop early, walked down 96th Street to the East River and then south along the Rhinelander Reef to Carl Schurz Park. He had a date with Lauren.

  Lauren had called him. “I figured you would have to be back in New York by now, and look at that, I was right. You answered the phone. I’m talking to you.”

  Confident laughter.

  He joined in, laughing quietly. He had never been gone. He had been living in a state of numbness for two months. Over time he had gotten used to it.

  Carl Schurz Park stretched from the entrance at East 86th Street over a hill and down to the shore promenade. The evening was bright. A warm, salty wind blew in from the East River and played in the clothes of the dog walkers, sailors, and couples.

  Yorkville had been Lauren’s idea. Maybe to prove that his German origins didn’t bother her. Not wanting to argue, he had said yes to Lauren on the phone in an almost drunkenly overexuberant tone of voice: “Yes, my dear. Yes. Yorkville. If you wish to see some krauts, yes.”

  Max had warned him about Yorkville. The GIs had started to set their sights on the neighborhood, he said. It had to do with that movie. Confessions of a Nazi Spy had started playing at the Strand Theatre on Broadway a short while back. Josef had read an article about it. The wind had shifted: Before, he read, Hollywood had been careful not to run afoul of the German market; they had even removed Jewish names from the credits. But now that the situation in Germany had worsened and war was in the air, Hollywood was choosing confrontation for the first time. The film was based on a true story: a German spy ring in New York had been uncovered last year.

  He felt like he’d been living on the far side of the moon.

  He had put an exclamation point next to the showtimes, torn the page out, and taken it home with him.

  He wore his new suit and felt a confidence that seemed to pass directly from the expensive material to his skin. On a bench sat a young woman pushing a stroller back and forth, in her free hand a cigarette. He took a deep breath and waited. Ships sailed past, leaving long bright trails of wake behind them like the train of a wedding gown. Every time he saw ships he thought of Europe, thought of home, a home that didn’t exist anymore, was only preserved in his dreams.

  “Hello, W4, I’ve tracked down your coordinates!”

  He turned around. Lauren was walking toward him, beaming. She wore a dark dress with white polka dots, espadrille pumps. This time her blond hair flowed down in an Olympia roll under the small hat that she wore cocked sharply to one side. She had just rubbed moisturizer on her hands; he felt a greasy moist layer on his. In her small handbag was a New York travel guide. He tapped it with his finger. “Who was Carl Schurz?” he asked in a mock teacher’s voice.

  She laughed. “A German revolutionary. Came to New York in the middle of the last century, campaigned for Lincoln, and became the first German senator. His wife founded the first kindergarten in America.”

  “Excellent, Miss W2.”

  They walked to the park entrance and then down 86th Street toward Park Avenue. He could barely follow the conversation at first. She spoke at a frantic pace, telling him all about her stressful night shifts. She had the hardest job in New York, she said—talk about backbreaking labor. There was a note of amusement in her voice, as if, on the other hand, she didn’t take any of it seriously. They passed the Rathskeller, Café Hindenburg, and Der Schwarze Adler. He would have liked to find her pretty, but she wasn’t today either. She had an inharmonious face with a small, short chin and slightly bulging gray eyes. But he liked her voice. He felt himself putting on his crooked grifter’s smile, which women said made him look attractive. That’s how he knew that he wanted her to like him.

  How was his trip? Where did he go? He waved his hand dismissively and gave a brief shake of his head. “I’ll tell you later.” Was everything all right? she asked. Her directness shook him. He froze, his throat tight. Then he took a deep breath, told himself she had no idea what she was asking. She was young. She was simply trying everything out, just like her backbreaking job and just like this city. She was trying him out.

  They went past the Berlin Bar and the Old Heidelberg. The anti-fascists’ protests were having an effect; only occasionally could a defiant little swastika flag be seen in one of the shop windows.

  Lauren told him that she had applied for a spot in a scholarship program and had been rejected. Just what was it she wanted to study? “American history and literature.”

  “And why these particular subjects?” he asked, unsure of himself, and as they passed another restaurant he peered in the open door. From inside came the smell of roasted meat.

  “I actually want to be a journalist,” she said quietly.

  “A journalist?” he said.

  In response, she went down a list of famous women journalists: Frances Sweeney, Nellie Bly, Dorothy Day, Dorothy Thompson. All names he had never heard. She seemed to take note. Thompson had interviewed Hitler in Germany years ago, she told him. And now she was collecting money for refugees at different charity events in New York. A fantastic person. He nodded agreement and tried to come up with a response. His mouth was dry.

  “No rain this time,” he said finally and noted her look of bewilderment.

  They went past the Yorkville cinema. Lauren read off the German titles with great effort and the wrong pronunciation. “Fünf Millionen suchen einen Erben.” He said it properly for her—Five Million Look for an Heir—and also “Olympia, Fest der Völker”—Olympia, Festival of Nations—by Leni Riefenstahl.

  He took a closer look at the poster. So that was Heinz Rühmann, the regular-guy type that he was supposed to resemble?

  They passed a large construction fence behind which a building was being torn down to make room for a taller one, then a bookstore that boasted of carrying books that were banned in Germany. On the corner of Park Avenue was the genteel Amalfi. He held the door open for Lauren. “Here?” she asked, astounded, and he nodded quite casually. Inside, it smelled of lobster, of cocktails and perfume. The air hit his face like a spray. White-tiled walls, chandeliers, and real silver. He saw with equal parts terror and triumphant bliss that only the wealthy upper crust dined here.

  A white-gloved waiter blocked their way. “Good evening. What name, please?”

  “What name?” Josef repeated the question, trying to win time, like he used to do when he didn’t understand something.

  “Do you not have a reservation?”

  “Reservation?”

  “You need a reservation.”

  “But there are a few empty tables over there.”

  “They’re reserved.”

  Now he could feel Lauren’s hand on his arm. The hand was pulling him away.

  “There are so many restaurants around here, Joe. We’ll find something,” she said when they were back outside. Her eyes were already scanning the different signs with dishes advertised in chalk: Schnitzel, Kalbsbraten, Klöße, and Rotkohl. “I’d much rather eat German food anyway,” she said as a waiter in knee-length lederhosen stepped
outside a restaurant.

  Why he didn’t want to go to the first restaurant she pointed out, and no, not to the Old Heidelberg or the Berlin Bar either, this he couldn’t explain to Lauren, who by now had gone quiet in a mix of disappointment and unease. He said no to every place, acting as though he was very concerned about quality. Finally he pulled Lauren into a pastry shop. There he bought a small bag of Windbeutel—cream puffs.

  “So this is my dinner?”

  He laughed. The golden dough crumbled onto her dress. At this moment the sun was shining red in the street. A look of relief spread across Lauren’s face, a relief that he also felt the moment he tasted the cream filling.

  “Now I’m full.”

  “Then I guess this evening was a bargain for me,” he said.

  The next moment she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away.

  “What’s wrong, Lauren?”

  “Ignore it, please.”

  Now he heard it. “Kraut!” The shout was coming from behind them. “Hey, you Nazi! Stop right there!”

  He turned around. Thank God Schmuederrich wasn’t wearing the Bund’s military uniform today. “I know that guy. He’s just someone I know who likes to mess with me.” Schmuederrich caught up with them. Now here he stood before them in all his girth and with his mouth open.

  “I find such jokes tasteless,” Lauren told Schmuederrich.

  “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, miss. I’ll make a note of it.”

  He shook her hand and held it, Josef thought, far too long. “Your idea isn’t bad,” he said to Josef in German. “We’re just waiting for the green light. Then you can get started.”

  Schmuederrich meant the mobile radio. Josef had finally told Max his idea, but now he regretted it. Regretted that he was handing them good ideas now too.

  “What an unpleasant person,” said Lauren after Schmuederrich had walked off into the crowd. He told her he agreed, and he was happy—apparently Schmuederrich’s special charm didn’t work on women like Lauren, and that spoke in her favor.

  He had never taken a woman back to Harlem with him. They usually wanted to go out in brutal Times Square, or to see a show on Broadway. The shows in Harlem didn’t appeal to them. They flashed defensive smiles when he told them that the rich white people who lived on Park Avenue had been driving up to the Cotton Club in their limousines for years, a club where Negroes worked as waiters or as performers but weren’t allowed in as patrons. What he meant, however, was the normal Harlem in which he lived, where in summer people set up tables on the sidewalk and played chess. Maybe the women he went out with feared that they themselves were in some way part of the exoticness when the appeal continued to escape them. Better to go to Times Square. To Coney Island. To Broadway.

  The streets were packed, a taxi would take too long. He decided to take Lauren on the subway. There he looked at her without inhibition, almost as though she were his possession. For four stops this possession pitched and swayed back and forth before his eyes. She smiled at him, and for a second time he noticed the age difference, her smile impossible for him to read—was it bold or just friendly?

  Back aboveground on 116th Street she called out a bit too loudly, “Oh, how beautiful it is here!” People turned and looked at them, smiling. The street was lined with stately brownstones. Once more he felt how some muscle within him relaxed whenever he returned to Harlem from the window-display glamour of Midtown.

  “The Dutch used to live here. Then the subway was built, and it was easier for them to get downtown, and once they started going often enough they finally decided to pick up and move down there for good. They left their buildings here.” He knew all of this from the museum.

  She looked at him attentively. He went on. “But did you know, Lauren, that the rents for Negroes are higher than they are for the few white people here? It’s because they can’t find apartments anywhere else. The landlords take advantage.”

  Harlem in the last light of day. A veil descended, steadily draining all the color from the streets. He now saw everything through Lauren’s eyes, as if in a kind of double vision, but it seemed to go over well with her. The Abyssinian Baptist Church and the Harlem Alhambra got a favorable look; a red neon sign announced a film, Paradise in Harlem, featuring an all-black cast. They passed by a shop advertising fur coat storage, photo stores, cafés, barbershops, newsstands, food carts selling bacon, eggs, hot dogs. Suits with padded shoulders. Knit ties. The signs advertising the prices usually larger than the item for sale. More and more people on the street, always more than anywhere else. From the buildings came the hum of sewing machines. Floral-print dresses drying on clotheslines. They walked next to each other as if their destination were clear. Soon they had reached his building.

  “Should we go to the Savoy Ballroom? I can’t dance very well, but they have the best orchestras around. Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Chick Webb!”

  “Couldn’t we go to your place instead? I’d really like to see your radio setup,” said Lauren.

  He did a walk-through of the apartment in his head. No, everything was put away. Just as Max had instructed him. He had thrown away the pamphlets from the print shop. He always hid the tables of call numbers and frequencies behind the radio equipment. He took a deep breath, then he let her up.

  19

  New York, May 1939

  SHE DIDN’T SEEM THE LEAST BIT SELF-CONSCIOUS. HE ASKED himself if that bothered him, if he didn’t prefer a little female nervousness. Or was this really only about the radio? His street was plain—boring redbrick tenements, a tire shop, an auto repair shop—but here too Lauren directed her keen, alert gaze at all of it. He thought of her home: A hotel with many rooms. Forty rooms. Five suites and two cottages in the garden. He saw Lauren going in and out, laughing and making conversation with families, with married couples, with honeymooners. She saw pajamas wrinkled with sleep, toothbrushes with crooked bristles. She saw the traces of strangers’ love lives; she said hello and goodbye and thank you; she spoke her friendly lines as daughter of the house. Was this the reason she could follow a man she barely knew into the lobby of his building and act like it was the most natural thing in the world? Meanwhile he was looking around to see which of the neighbors were at their windows, ready to poke fun.

  On the top step he asked her to wait for a moment. Her face vanished as the light in the stairwell went out, but he could still see her nod. Since the two German agents had started coming around, the apartment was tidy in a way it had never been before. He always got rid of everything, even the cigarette butts, and washed the cups and glasses. The only exception was his bed, which was unmade, the imprint of his body visible on the sheet. He closed the door. It was unlikely that Lauren would enter this room today.

  “You can come in. The coast is clear.”

  She kept a firm grip on herself, her hands crossed on her shoulders, while she inspected the apartment. Princess sniffed at her legs.

  “This is unbelievable!” she cried every now and then. “The way you live! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  A girl. No, a woman. A young woman, who, after she’d taken off her shoes, was the same height as he.

  She looked around, clearly intent on trying to understand something about him based on his apartment. “You live very simply,” she said finally. “You don’t even have pictures on the walls. How come you don’t have any books?”

  He pulled Thoreau out from under a stack of amateur radio magazines and heard a long sigh. He didn’t dare ask what it meant—appreciation?

  “My mother idolizes him.”

  “There was a time when he was very important to me,” he said, attempting to play down the fact that he actually had nothing here but Thoreau.

  “Gandhi got his ideas from Thoreau,” Lauren said pensively. And then shook her head. “That might work in India maybe.”

  “Isn’t Gandhi in prison?”

  “Not at the moment. But he was just fasting again. With success. Then they do eve
rything he wants.”

  “You don’t seem to like him.”

  “He suggested to the Jews in Germany that they should practice nonviolent resistance. Some people think their idea of reality is more real than reality itself.”

  He showed her another book, Der Radio-Amateur by Dr. Eugen Nesper. “This book was published fifteen years ago in Berlin. Back then amateur broadcasting was just starting to take off. People thought it was a miracle!”

  She flipped through the book, smiling. Stopped on a page with a drawing of a log cabin in the mountains. A man stood outside, with headphones on, a cable ran from the headphones back into the cabin.

  “Could you translate this for me?” Lauren asked and pointed at the caption.

  “‘With arms outstretched, his gaze directed at the stars, he receives, in the dark of night, far from the cultural centers of man, the news of the world, as if it were the music of the spheres.’”

  “That’s like me in the Catskills. Completely cut off from any kind of culture. And what’s this here?”

  He was certain that she had more culture there than most people in New York City, who were so caught up in the daily struggle to survive that they couldn’t look left or right. His eye fell on an issue of Social Justice, and he pushed the paper under the coffee table with his foot as he continued to translate.

  “‘At this point the printed newspaper has become widely established as a medium for conveying information. Its disadvantage, however, is the impossibility of disseminating information immediately, in statu nascendi so to speak; it can only ever do so with a certain temporal delay. Thus, in actuality, a newspaper is never completely current.’”

  “Newspapers will die out at some point because the radio is faster.”