by Susan Isaacs
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Could it be, Norman, that he suspected—or suddenly discovered—that one of the people in his own secret circle, perhaps one of the few he trusted, a seemingly devoted anti-Nazi, is a traitor? And the traitor had to silence him? Could that be why he was killed?”
“It’s your theory, Ed.”
“But it is safe to assume that the manner of his murder was rather swift and brutal?”
“I gather it was,” Norman said coldly.
“You talk about my theory. But tell me, have you given any thought at all to the possibility that your network may not be inviolate?”
“I resent your tone.”
“And I resent your passing this off as just another nasty little wartime mess. You listen to me, Norman. Both of us have been around a long, long time. And both of us know there has to be a double agent operating in your network. And if I can hazard a guess, you realized it the moment you heard of Mr. Eckert’s sudden death.” Norman’s six men looked away or cleared their throats. “Someone found out your dressmaker was onto them. And so they quickly passed the word and—no more messenger service.” Edward paused. “Do you have any idea who the rotten apple is?”
“No,” Norman said.
“Not even a guess?”
“Not even a guess.”
I couldn’t get Alfred Eckert out of my mind. All that afternoon, while John sat in Edward’s office, I sat in the little vestibule right outside, trying not to hear them. “Calamity.” “Disaster.” “Catastrophe.” “Terrible blow.”
The strange thing was, normally my ears would have been positively throbbing in an attempt to absorb every syllable. This wasn’t just an Ivy League war; it was Grover Cleveland High School’s too. I was always right in there, having to know what was going on. Over the months working for Edward, I’d mastered homing in on the low pitch of his voice, so—nearly all the time—I could hear his end of telephone conversations even if I was busy typing away. And when his door was closed for a meeting, I’d file; I’d learned to save up my S through Z correspondence, and at those times, squatting to insert letters in the bottom-drawer folders, I could listen in on at least seventy-five percent of what was being said.
But that afternoon I just wanted silence, so I could reflect on Alfred. Because right away, I was on a first-name basis with him. And I could see him: tall, with too-thin eyebrows, probably plucked; blond, marcelled hair; and a fairyish, fuss-budgety walk—like Edward Everett Horton in The Gay Divorcee.
Sure, I knew it was all in my mind. For all I knew, he could have been short and fat and resembled a fire hydrant. But his picture came to me over the ocean, and even if it wasn’t accurate, it was real. I could see him riding through Berlin in his dark green roadster, wasting gasoline. He kept an alligator or a crocodile—whichever was better—briefcase on the seat beside him, with some sketches of evening gowns and his pincushion.
God knows I’d heard enough about Berlin from Olga. And I’d stood before enough open maps of the city, seen enough photographs, while refugees pointed out this Gestapo house to Edward, that armory, that new pipeline. I knew the streets, the neighborhoods, and I could see Alfred being admitted to the villa of the important foreign office official, kissing the lady of the house on the cheek, standing by a window in her dressing room, letting out or taking in some darts under her bosom, then, later, sipping tea with her. Her husband would come in and be delighted to see Alfred: such a delightful, amusing fellow, always welcome. Then the official would go to his study, and then—somehow—Alfred would figure out a way to get in.
And I saw him parking his roadster, getting out for his twice-a-week walk in the Grunewald, the forest on the edge of Berlin, humming some tune about champagne. He’d pass a chestnut tree with a knothole in it, and he’d keep strolling along so casually that even someone spying on him would probably have missed seeing him slip the message inside the hole, to be picked up the following day by someone Alfred would never meet. Then, still humming, he’d return to his car and put the nosegay of wildflowers he’d picked on his walk on top of the dashboard.
Alfred wouldn’t be as fascinated with me as I was with him. In fact, he probably wouldn’t give a girl like me two minutes. I didn’t hold it against him, though. I wasn’t his type. I would never go Ooh! over a bolt of silk shantung—although he might be a little intrigued with me when he saw John, because that would make me special. If he met me, he’d probably say, Delighted, although he wouldn’t be. I spoke with the accent he’d been trying to hide since he was fourteen.
Still, Alfred meant so much to me. It was as if I knew him. Somehow, I felt for him in a way that I’d never felt for all the refugees we’d interviewed: all the Jews—shoe store owners, movie directors, bus drivers, labor union organizers, even a butcher, like my father and grandfather—and all the others who had to get out: Catholic priests, Communists, intellectuals, financiers, journalists.
All that day I’d put Alfred in different places, driving along Unter den Linden, walking along the beach, the Strandbad Wannsee. I’d dress him in different outfits and watch him puffing out sleeves and being a spy.
It wasn’t until I was in bed late that night that I realized my newfound friend, the man who had become so alive to me so fast, who was doing the work I admired most in the world, was dead. Murdered.
18
The fourth of July fell on a Saturday, and for the first time since we’d been married, we actually took a vacation. It was just for the weekend, to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, but at least I got John to take me somewhere. I wasn’t exactly subtle, either. I called him at his office on the third and said, “Hey, you owe me a honeymoon.”
“Hmm?” he said. He was probably reading a report.
“John, can’t we get out of town this weekend?”
He muttered, “I think Ed said he wanted to work straight through.”
“But I don’t. Please. Don’t you think I’m entitled to two days?”
And he actually sounded guilty when he answered, “Yes. All right. I’ll try to figure out something.”
We stayed at a country inn that was decorated in Early Duck. There were carved ducks—decoys—on every mantel. There were duck doorstops, duck designs on curtains and wallpaper. The innkeeper, who must have been in his eighties, had ducks on his tie, to say nothing of duck designs on every plate, soup bowl, cup and saucer. From our room, we could see over the treetops, to Chesapeake Bay.
“I see a lot of fishing boats,” I said Sunday evening, as we were getting dressed after a last time in a too-soft bed that was probably stuffed with duck feathers.
“Any ducks?” John asked.
“No. Not a single one.”
“I haven’t, either. But I think I heard some quacking in the middle of the night.”
“It was probably me, talking in my sleep. The atmosphere gets to you after a while.”
He smiled, then came over and put his arms around me. He was so sweet that weekend that at first I thought he might have me confused with someone else. But then I thought: Getting out of the office has done wonders for both of us. We took ferry rides, ate every form of oyster and crab known to man, went for long walks, and even talked. I told him all about Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, and he told me all about Long Island Sound, and how Port Washington, where he’d grown up, had once been called Cow Neck. Okay, so it wasn’t “My darling Linda, I love you madly.” But it was still time together. And it wasn’t like weekends at home, when he was editing a brief or reading the paper or listening to Mozart with his eyes closed. I had his full attention, even with my clothes on, and on Saturday night, when we saw The Pride of the Yankees, with Gary Cooper and Teresa Wright, we held hands, and he gave me his handkerchief before I even thought to ask for it.
So that Monday afternoon, when John unexpectedly walked into the anteroom outside Edward’s office, where I worked, I was still so full of honeymoonish happiness that it didn’t occur to me to wonder why he was there. It wa
s just a pleasure to see him. After two days in the sun, his skin had a bronze glow. His fair, silky hair was streaked with pale platinum. He came over, sat on the edge of my desk and took my hand between his. I mumbled something like, “Ed’s over at the War Department,” even though I sensed, with a sudden flush of joy, that he’d come to see me.
“Linda.” His voice was gentle: not caressing, but compassionate. And that minute I understood he’d come to see me for a reason. Something was wrong. “I had a call from New York.” He squeezed my hand. “Your mother’s nurse…”
“My mother?” I asked. It was a real question. I’d spoken to her right before we’d gone off to Maryland. Her voice had been so feeble it shook. She wouldn’t let go of the idea that I was still pregnant, but she’d joked about being too young to be a grandmother, and told me to get smart with John and have him buy me a mink stole in the summer, when furriers are desperate for customers and you can pick up a good buy.
John squeezed my hand harder. “I’m sorry.”
“She died?”
“Yes. In her sleep. The nurse—”
“Cookie.”
“Cookie thought it would be better if I broke the news to you.”
I sat back in my chair, it squeaked. “I’ve got to get this thing oiled.” I said to myself, My mother is dead. It made sense, but it didn’t mean anything. “What do I do now?” I asked him.
“I’ll take you home so you can pack.”
“Where did they take…where is my mother?”
“The doctor arranged for her to be brought to a funeral home, Linda.” John’s voice was so sympathetic that for a second I wanted to say, Oh, come off it! It’s not like someone died or anything. “Did she go to a church where she’d want the minister…” I nodded. “We ought to call before we leave, to give him some time.”
“I forgot the guy’s name. But all the Johnstons get buried in Brooklyn.” I swiveled around in my chair, but it started squeaking again, so I sat still. “Did you know my mother’s maiden name was Johnston? They all have brown eyes—and they’re very good looking. A little short. I guess I never told you about them.” I thought: You never asked. “The men work on the subways. Maintenance men, conductors, but one cousin was a motorman. They looked up to him like he’d gone to Harvard. ‘Jim’s a motorman!’”
Again he said, “I’m sorry, Linda.”
“It’s okay. They’re not such a close family, and they’re kind of dumb, but they always show up for funerals. I’ll have to call one of them.” That’s when I started to shake. My whole body started to shiver as if I’d climbed out of a hot bath into a cold room. I hugged myself and rubbed my arms to try and control it, but it only got worse. “I can’t remember any phone numbers,” I said. My voice sounded screechy. “Do you know where my address book is? The little one, with the alphabet tabs?”
He helped me up and led me toward the door, one hand around my waist, the other steering me by my elbow. “We’ll find it when we get home.” He was so soothing.
I jerked my elbow out of his grasp, went back to my desk and started piling up the folders I’d been working on. John came up beside me, as if to stop me, but I snapped, “Classified documents. I have to put them in the safe.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t have to say ‘Of course.’ I’m not going to get hysterical!” I wasn’t hysterical, but I was trembling so hard by then that I could barely stand, much less walk. I grabbed up the papers and tried to cross the room. I banged into the safe. “Oh, damn it, John.”
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice patient, tolerant. “I’ll take care of everything.”
And he did. Well, for the next three days, because, as he explained, he couldn’t stay away from Washington that long, but he got me home, packed, called Edward to explain I’d be gone, eased me into a cab to Union Station, where—despite the mobs of soldiers and sailors pushing to the ticket windows—he got us a private compartment on the next train to New York. He would even have been willing to talk to me the whole trip. How are you holding up? he’d asked, sitting back, obviously prepared for four hours of hearing the answer, but I’d said, “Okay, I guess,” and then I fell asleep. When I woke up, the train was in Newark, New Jersey.
In New York, in a hotel that overlooked Central Park, he spoke to the minister again, arranged for a burial service Wednesday morning, and then asked me, very gently, if I wanted to see my mother. When I said yes, he didn’t even blink; he took me in a taxi to Hannemann’s Funeral Home in Ridgewood.
I gazed down at my mother. The heavy funeral parlor makeup job, with its crimson bow lips and bright rouged cheeks, did nothing to disguise the fact that she had died a sick, wasted woman. Other than the dress Cookie had picked out for her—one of my mother’s typical choices, a ridiculous pink gingham pinafore suitable for a fourteen-year-old—there was no sign that this old woman had been a beautiful, sweet-natured, not-too-bright goodtime girl. Her blond hair had turned a dingy white.
She lay in a coffin that had obviously been her son-in-law’s choice: a dark, costly wood, but with simple brass handles and plain white satin lining. A casket for a proper citizen; she would have chosen something decorated with gold cherubs and lined in lilac velveteen. And if it had been up to my mother, the coffin would have been covered with a blanket of flowers more appropriate for the winner of the Kentucky Derby. John had chosen a perfect wreath of white flowers that looked like it had been made up by the Leland family florist and probably had been. I didn’t ask.
John stood right beside me the entire time, waiting, I guess, for a moan of despair or a shriek of anguish to break out of me, so he could do something—hold me in his arms, lead me away and say, There, there. Once he glanced down at me and said, You’re very pale; he may have been expecting a swoon or a faint. But I just stood straight and still, and thought about my mother and father and Olga—and for some reason about Alfred Eckert too. And I asked myself, Who do I really have in the world who loves me?
At last I said, I’m ready, and John led me outside, but not before Mr. Hannemann, Jr., came rushing out of his office to hold the door open for us. His voice was thick with respect and courtesy: So sorry for your loss, Mrs. Berringer. If we can serve you in any other way, I do hope you’ll call on us. He made it so much worse for me, because his was the tone people in Ridgewood took with important people, and all of a sudden I felt even lonelier. I’d lost the last of my family. I’d become a rich lawyer’s wife in expensive shoes, an outsider.
The taxi was waiting outside, meter running, and I asked John, Do you want to see our house? And he said, I really would like to, but we have to get back to Manhattan. You need a dress for the funeral, and I have to go over your mother’s papers. I stared at him and he explained, I called Russ Weedcock at the firm and had him send over one of the secretaries to get your mother’s papers together. I asked, Which secretary? and he shrugged, with a what-does-it-matter offhandedness. I looked down at my twenty-five-dollar black-and-white spectator pumps, which I now knew should only be worn between Decoration Day and Labor Day, and I thought: Where do I belong?
When we got back to the city, John said, I think you should rest. I’ll have Saks send over a few things to the hotel so you don’t have to deal with salespeople.
You’re being so nice, I said. John, thank you. I appreciate everything you’re doing. You’re really a wonderful husband. He said, Please…Don’t be embarrassed, I told him.
John put through a long-distance call to my Aunt Annabel in Seattle. The Johnstons were a little vague about family ties. Forget Christmas cards; my mother had completely lost touch with three of her four sisters. I got on the phone: Aunt Annabel, this is Linda. Betty’s daughter. She started crying, and for a minute I thought she’d heard. Then she told me her husband, a navy man, had been killed in June, at Midway. She said, He was on the Yorktown, Linda. You hear about it? She cried some more and said her older boy was 4-F, but the younger one was a midshipman on the U.S.S. Saratoga. His
name’s Lester, she said, and then, without taking a breath, she asked, Did Betty die? Yes, I told her. She told me she was sorry and to send her love to everybody when I saw them at the funeral.
That night we had room service. Um, John said, your mother didn’t leave a will. I answered, Estate planning was never her strong point. He went on: Her only assets were the house and a very small bank account. I looked up from my steak: You thought you were marrying an heiress? No, he said. I just wanted to keep you informed…as your attorney. Actually, I’ve asked Russ to handle whatever has to be handled. Is that all right with you? I told him, sure it was fine.
The bad part of being a working girl—and an old maid—is that you learn to do things for yourself, so when a husband finally comes along, you forget to be fluttery and helpless. This was the first time John had really done anything for me.
When we got into bed I said, You’re so good at everything. He said, You don’t have to if you don’t want to, and then I realized he thought I was talking about sex. I pressed up against him. No, I want to, I said. But hold me for a while first. He put his arms around me, but since neither of us was wearing anything, it took much less than a while. He climbed on top of me and I ran my fingers down his back, over his behind and then lower. Oh, Jesus, he groaned. You do it to me every time. Linda, I can’t take it. I moved my hand away and let my fingers drift down the backs of his thighs.
Want me to stop? I asked.
No. Oh, Christ, do it some more.
I love you.
Do it more.
Okay. “Do it more” wasn’t French for “I love you.” But that night I went to sleep with more hope than I’d ever had since my marriage. John had been so tender, so decent. Not just since my mother died; even the biggest crumb in the world can manage to act appropriately for a couple of days when there’s a death in the family. But he’d been so wonderful during the weekend in Maryland.