Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

‘What?’ Guttman tried to control his sudden interest. ‘So where is Werner now?’ All Guttman knew was that Werner had once belonged to the Detroit chapter of the Bund and been mentioned mysteriously in one of Ambassador Luther’s cables. Just who the hell was he?

  ‘He came to this country from Austria almost twenty years ago; he took citizenship here after a while. He lived all over America, I gather, until he settled in Detroit near his sister, who had by then married Herr Schultz. As for his whereabouts now, even this sister doesn’t know. He disappeared two years ago: people thought he was going to Germany – the Olympics were on at the time. But Kuhn and the others never saw him in Berlin.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘Schultz has an assistant named Beringer. More than an assistant really.’ Bock hesitated. ‘We have become friendly. He seems keen to establish closer relations with an emissary of the Reich.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know the Reich has expressly forbidden that kind of contact?’

  ‘That makes him all the keener. He assumes my overtures must have approval from the highest level of the German government.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t let him know that’s not true.’

  A sly expression crept across Bock’s face. ‘Of course not. There is one problem, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I have nothing of practical value to offer them. Moral support only goes a certain way, does it not? If they are going to trust me completely, they would have to see a commitment on my part, as a representative of the Reich.’

  Guttman saw at once what Bock was driving at. If his plan to put somebody in undercover could get him in hot water, what Bock was asking him to do would get him fried in oil. But he couldn’t see an alternative.

  ‘How much money do you need?’

  Bock was ready for him. ‘A thousand dollars to start with would find me most welcome with Herr Schultz.’

  I bet it would, thought Guttman, already thinking how to divert the funds from other parts of his budget.

  It was a month after this that Guttman had travelled to Chicago. Now, thanks to Bock’s discovery, Guttman knew where he wanted Nessheim to go. The only problem was, he needed Bock to help him do that, and he wasn’t sure he could trust the diplomat. Trust him? He’d never trust Bock. No, he just needed to feel confident that Bock wouldn’t reveal what he was doing to his Nazi superiors back home.

  Curiously, it was Bock himself who allayed his worries, although at first Guttman was made even less confident of Bock’s true colours when in mid-October of 1938 the man announced he was going back to Germany on leave. He’d be gone for eight weeks, he told Guttman, who couldn’t help wondering if he would ever come back.

  But he had, and he’d returned thoroughly shaken. He had arrived in Berlin just in time for Kristallnacht, the orgy of destruction unleashed by Goebbels against the Jewish community after the murder of a German Embassy official in Paris. Bock gave Guttman a first-hand account of what he’d seen himself: the Jewish stores burned and vandalised, the broken glass everywhere (hence ‘Glass night’), the torching of synagogues, and worst of all the physical attacks – he had seen an old Jewish man beaten half to death. The outrages had been widely reported in America, and Roosevelt had been swift to respond, immediately ordering Dietrich, the new German Ambassador (and Luther’s successor) to be recalled. Now the embassy held the status of a mere consulate. Perhaps that was increasing Bock’s agitation.

  But he wasn’t just shocked, Guttman realised. Bock was also deeply frightened. Why?

  ‘It was terrible what they did to the Jews,’ Guttman ventured softly.

  ‘It’s not the Jews I’m worried about,’ said Bock. ‘Other kinds of people are being put in camps as well.’

  Guttman tried to look sympathetic. He had heard about the rough treatment of the Roma, the gypsies of Germany. Though they were not the people Bock had in mind either.

  ‘A friend of mine was sent to Dachau. He had to wear a pink star. Can you imagine – a pink star? He was lucky – they let him out after two months. He’s in Holland now, where people are more civilised. Germany has changed,’ said Bock, shaking his head. ‘You know, when Hitler first came to power there was a new spirit in the air. People felt optimistic.’

  ‘And they don’t now?’ asked Guttman sceptically.

  ‘They feel confident – even arrogant perhaps. But it’s on the surface. There are too many soldiers around to feel at peace, too many marches and banners. A militaristic society is never a trusting one, that much I have learned. Even private citizens are encouraged to spy on one another.’

  ‘So not a happy visit home?’

  ‘No.’ Bock squared back his shoulders and inhaled deeply. ‘Tell me, if I chose not to return to Germany, would I be allowed to stay in the United States?’

  Guttman felt his heart start to beat rapidly. ‘I wouldn’t think so. Especially if things get even worse between our countries.’

  Bock seemed to expect this. ‘But if I had help from the authorities. Perhaps someone from the FBI? Like yourself, Herr Guttman.’

  ‘If our relationship continued to be beneficial to American interests, then, Herr Bock, we might be able to swing it.’

  And he saw a satisfied smile flicker momentarily on Bock’s face. Gotcha, thought Guttman.

  Now they were meeting in a small park in Bethesda, a newly planted construct of the CCC. It was hot, over 90 degrees, the air misty with nectar drops of heat. A small pond with a concrete surround lay at the park’s heart, its water level down to mere inches after two months without rain. Birches had been planted randomly across the three or four acres of yellowing grass, and several were looking perilously parched.

  Guttman sat next to Bock on a bench. They were out in the open, sacrificing shade for security, though the park was almost empty in the late morning. Only one woman, tall in a sleeveless pink summer dress, slowly walked a terrier near the pond. She wore high heels, which couldn’t have been comfortable on the rough asphalt paths.

  ‘What did you tell them about Rossbach?’ asked Guttman.

  ‘What I’d said before, of course.’ He looked mildly affronted. Bock wore a suit but had taken off his tie, while Guttman kept his on, a striped number he now loosened at the knot. ‘That I didn’t know this young man, but his relatives in Germany were friends with my own family there.’

  ‘Did they want to know anything else?’ These people were more thorough than their Bund colleagues elsewhere.

  Bock finished the last peanut, chewing it slowly. ‘They wanted to make sure he wasn’t a Jew.’

  ‘Rossbach?’ It was hard to believe – to Guttman Nessheim was the goyische German incarnate.

  ‘It was because he worked at that Jewish resort. Someone tried to infiltrate the Bund in New Jersey who turned out to be both a Jew and a Communist. He was lucky not to be killed.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘They examined your Mr Rossbach very carefully. Physically, I mean.’

  Guttman shook his head in puzzlement, and then he understood. ‘What, you mean they looked at his putz?’

  He blushed as he remembered Bock’s own proclivities, but the German did not react. Guttman tried to picture the scene at Camp Schneider but couldn’t. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so serious.

  Bock remarked mildly, ‘There are plenty of circumcised Gentiles, but I’ve never heard of an uncircumcised Jew, so Rossbach passed that test.’

  Guttman thought it was best to move on. ‘Anything else to report?’

  ‘Nein. But there may be in two weeks’ time. I am going to New York again.’

  ‘Aren’t they all in Vermont?’

  ‘Beringer is coming down for a day.’

  Just to see you? Guttman wanted to ask, but he refrained.

  Bock asked, ‘Is there any news from your immigration authorities?’

  Guttman noticed the woman with the terrier had come slightly closer. She looked at her watch, and even from a distance Guttman noticed it had a big
face – a man’s watch. He turned to Bock. ‘I’ll chase them up – you know what bureaucracy’s like.’

  ‘Not really. In Germany it is very efficient. I would like to think there would be progress soon.’

  Guttman stood up to go. ‘I’ll see you in two weeks. Same place, same time.’

  ‘Mr Tolson’s looking for you,’ said Marie, Guttman’s secretary. She was a red-headed French-Canadian divorcée whom he had pulled out of the downstairs typing pool, earning him her gratitude and loyalty – and discretion.

  ‘Is he happy? Or are the waters troubled?’ One of the nice things about Marie is that he felt he could speak this way.

  ‘More puzzled, I’d say.’

  And ten minutes later when Tolson stuck a big pinstriped shoulder through the doorway, his face still held a look of bemusement. ‘So how’s life down here in the ghetto?’

  Guttman gave a little grimace. It was a stale joke by now, if it had ever been funny. Tolson clearly thought it was – it had been Tolson who’d first come up with the tag of ‘Guttman’s Ghetto’, his soubriquet for the suite of corner offices and small space of open floor Guttman had claimed for himself and his immediate staff.

  ‘How’s Sidney getting on?’ Tolson asked.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What you got him doing?’

  Guttman tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Oh, this and that. Deliveries, messages, that sort of thing.’

  Tolson nodded. ‘It will be nice when he gets his licence back. Mr Hoover doesn’t like the replacement driver. Heavy foot on the gas, he says.’

  Guttman wanted to ask if Tolson agreed with this – since everybody knew Tolson rode to work each day with the Director.

  ‘I had a call from Accounts,’ Tolson said mildly. Unlike Hoover, he never raised his voice, and his tones were soft and high-pitched. People who’d only talked to the man on the telephone were always surprised by his big athletic frame when they met him in the flesh.

  ‘Oh?’ said Guttman, trying to sound helpful while remaining non-committal.

  ‘Yeah, it seems you had a guy transferred into your department here.’ He consulted a yellow legal pad he was holding. ‘Came all the way from Frisco. Name’s James Nessheim.’ He looked up quizzically from his pad. ‘Why’s that familiar?’

  Guttman shrugged. ‘Beats me,’ he said.

  ‘Anyhow, Accounts say he didn’t pick up his last pay cheque.’ And before Guttman could say anything – his mind was racing to pick a plausible explanation – Tolson added, ‘Or the one before that. They just wanted to know if this guy’s got any objection to being paid.’

  He chuckled, so Guttman gave a forced laugh. ‘Nah, he needs the dough all right. But he had to go home – death in the family, so I gave him some leave. He’s from the Midwest.’

  ‘Two pay cheques’ worth?’ There was the first hint of steel in Tolson’s voice. Hoover was notoriously impatient with the concept of compassionate leave. They said when his own adored mother had died, the Director had taken just the morning off.

  ‘No, he was only home a couple of days. I sent him to Milwaukee after that, following up some reports we’ve had of Communist activity in one of the breweries.’

  Tolson gave an understanding nod. ‘Chicago office know he’s there?’

  The question hung like a hook in the air between them.

  ‘No.’ Guttman added quickly, ‘They’ve reopened the Milwaukee Field Office, remember?’ He didn’t add that he hadn’t told them either.

  Tolson slapped a paw against his forehead, in a vaudeville mime of stupidity. ‘How could I forget? I’ll tell Accounts to lay off.’

  ‘Have them send the cheques to me,’ said Guttman, purposely looking down at a report on his desk.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Tolson, already out the door.

  Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies, thought Guttman, but he was nervous about this encounter. As he’d long ago learned, Hoover (and by proxy Tolson) loved to poke his finger into the smallest pie, indeed was famous for showing up in the most remote field office and scrutinising everything from the resident SAC’s shirt colour to the number of personnel who knew the combination of the office safe. In a saner organisation, Guttman thought angrily, Accounts would have called him first. After all, Nessheim was his agent.

  But was he really? He considered the matter for a moment. He liked the kid, though he didn’t know if this was because of Nessheim’s air of innocence, or despite it. Either way, he wondered if it wasn’t a front for a more sophisticated take on things. After all, Nessheim had shot dead Danny Ho, though by all accounts he’d come within an ace of getting plugged himself. That would have sent Guttman’s grand scheme down the drain, and he’d had Morgan switch Nessheim to the relative safety of Fraud right away. The kid had done well there, according to the SAC, and developed into a pretty competent interrogator. So whatever his demeanour, Nessheim couldn’t be that green.

  As for Nessheim’s German roots, they made him ideal for placement in the ranks of the Bund, but they also made Guttman uneasy. It wasn’t that he suspected Nessheim of hidden Nazi sympathies. Guttman simply worried that if there was a choice to be made between duty and some family allegiance, the kid might hesitate. That was one reason why he hadn’t told Nessheim most of what he knew. He hadn’t mentioned Werner to him, in particular, and didn’t plan to.

  The following day Marie came to find him down in Files. ‘You’re wanted on the Fifth Floor, Mr Guttman. The Director’s office.’

  Oh, shit, he thought. Maybe Tolson hadn’t accepted his explanation for Nessheim after all.

  Guttman took the elevator up to give himself time to gather his thoughts – and damp down his rising anxiety. For there was no way he could explain Nessheim’s presence in Vermont without it being clear that he was working undercover – in strict contradiction of Hoover’s explicit orders.

  He thought idly of what career he might have to pursue next. Would anyone give him a job after he’d been given the heave-ho by J. Edgar himself? He pictured Isabel, sitting in their Arlington home, relying on him. He couldn’t afford enough help as it was, not with the additional drain made on his salary by his ageing mother, living alone in her walk-up flat in Hester Street. His father hadn’t left a dime when he died. Not even a will; just a bill.

  Pull yourself together, he admonished himself, as the elevator opened and he walked down the hall, where Helen Gandy, Hoover’s executive assistant, motioned him to go through. Hoover was already at the corner table, po-faced, with Tolson sitting next to him, also looking sombre. Oh, well, Guttman told himself, I can always run security at some department store, spend my days managing floor dicks chasing shoplifters, and leave the Nazis to someone else.

  ‘Ah, Harry,’ said Hoover. ‘Thanks for coming. We’ve got a visiting fireman and I thought you could help make up the numbers.’

  Guttman realised how worried he had been, for he had to struggle not to show his relief. He sat down, while Tolson drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. There was a knock on the open door, and when Guttman turned he saw Miss Gandy in the doorway with a stranger. ‘Mr Stephenson,’ she announced, and the man came into the room.

  He was slim, with a crumpled pleasant face, high cheekbones and a long straight nose, with brown hair that rose back from a high forehead. His expression was tentatively friendly, as if he were waiting to see if you’d be friendly, too. He wore a suit but it wasn’t orthodox wool – it was tweed, the colour of dusty sage, beautifully cut, worn with a cream shirt and a bright vermilion tie. The clothes said this was a man who ran his own affairs.

  ‘Thanks very much for seeing me,’ he said as he sat down, giving an affable nod. To Guttman’s surprise, the accent was American – well, pretty damn close at least. Stephenson explained, ‘I’m here on behalf of the British government. I’m Canadian by birth myself, but a British citizen.’ He took an envelope out of his jacket and passed it over to Hoover.

  The Director opened it, and quickly scanned the l
etter inside. Reading aloud he declaimed, ‘The Home Secretary asks that we “extend you every courtesy” … You “have the full authorisation of His Majesty’s Government to conduct discussions with our government”.’ He looked over at Tolson with mild amusement.

  ‘Here’s another note you’d better see,’ Stephenson said coolly.

  The Director looked at this less tolerantly, probably expecting more embossed stationery from London. But his eyes widened slightly as he read this note, and when he had finished he said stiffly, ‘Very well, Mr Stephenson, how we can help you?’

  Stephenson looked around the table, as if searching for a friendlier face. ‘Gentlemen, I am sure you are as aware of the gravity of the situation in Europe as I am. Given the renown of your intelligence activities,’ he added, nodding respectfully, ‘possibly even better informed. The recent spate of German aggression seems to many of us on the British side of things very likely to continue. At best, there will be serious confrontations coming; at worst, there will be war. Personally, I fear the latter.’

  Hoover said, ‘That could be the case, Mr Stephenson, though it’s not a conflict I hope we’ll get involved with. You’ll appreciate that much as we are dismayed by the prospect of war in Europe, it is a different continent.’

  ‘Of course. But we’d like to think that the distance between our two countries is geographical rather than emotional. That in fact there are special ties between us, which mean our involvement in a war would be of more than usual concern to the United States.’ He added a little heavily, ‘I wouldn’t say this if we had not had indications from your government that this was the case.’

  He means Roosevelt, thought Guttman, since the President’s sympathies were well-known. He had been vocal in his condemnation of the Nazis at every opportunity, to the fury of those who worried he was egging Americans into a fight they didn’t have to have.

  Hoover was unmoved. ‘America is a country of many constituencies, many faiths, many nationalities. The Founding Fathers may have been of English stock, but I think you’ll find that there are as many people of German descent in this country as Anglo-Saxons. So naturally, there are differing points of view about what’s happening in Europe.’