The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  “Here?” asked Wils, flushing. “I thought we were meeting at four thirty at my flat. My attorney is scheduled to attend.”

  The short officer shook his head. “Can you come with us? This will only take a few minutes.” He reached for Wils’s arm.

  “Why?” asked Wils, pulling his arm back.

  Helen saw the muscles twitch in Gordon’s jaw. But Wils drew himself up to full height. He was tall and his chest was broad from rowing. “My attorney made an appointment, which I intend to keep. I insist on having counsel.”

  “We want to talk with you, not your attorney. As a foreigner, you have no right to one.”

  Morris walked closer to the officer and spoke softly. “This man has more friends than just his attorney.”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Perhaps you’ll talk to President Lowell,” offered Helen. The officer looked down at her. “He’s a relative.” It’s only a half lie, she thought. It would be true after Ann and Peter were engaged. She would discuss that matter of timing with God later that evening.

  “President Lowell, you say.”

  “I do,” said Helen.

  Morris clenched his fists and refused to move. The short officer put his thumbs in his belt and glared at him. Gordon set his jaw, stepped back, and nodded.

  “I’ll see you in a half hour then,” he said. O’Hara and Gordon walked off, the hall crowd parting for them.

  “Thank you, Miss Brooks,” said Wils with a nod. “I should go now. But thank you,” he said quietly. He seemed less sure of himself as they looked at each other. His eyes, behind his glasses, wanted to smile.

  Helen caught herself wishing to comfort him.

  Perhaps this was yet another price that country’s citizens paid for their king’s hubris. She shook her head as she walked along the wooden planks outside of Boylston. Halfway back to Longworth Hall she stopped to adjust the books in her arms. She looked back in the direction of Wils Brandl, puzzled by a country that could produce such a gentleman scholar and a warmonger like the kaiser.

  * * *

  Wils was not reassured by the presence of the lawyer his mother chose to confront the police officers he’d just met. Robert Goodman was a slight, bespectacled attorney from old New England stock. Could he stand up to City Hall?

  The two met at Wils’s flat, and were talking when a knock sounded at the door. Wils turned to see the two detectives he’d met only a quarter hour earlier standing on his threshold.

  “Walter Gordon and Kim O’Hara here. May we come in?”

  “Please,” said Goodman, offering seats at the living room table, which they immediately claimed.

  “Mr. Goodman, a few questions for your client.”

  Wils took a chair beside Goodman and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Mr. Brandl, why did you call the Crimson about Arnold Archer’s alleged involvement in the von Steiger suicide?”

  Goodman said, “He called because—”

  “Let the boy speak,” said O’Hara in a wheezy tone.

  “People should know that a murderer is in their midst,” declared Wils.

  “You told them he may have killed von Steiger.”

  “He may have,” said Wils. “That’s why your department arrested him, isn’t it?”

  “Our chief gave the order, and we follow orders. And when the chief told us to let him go back to his family, we unlocked the door and let him out.”

  “He’s out?”

  “On bail. He was released this morning to his family. Did you tell the Crimson anything else?”

  “No.”

  Gordon leaned forward. “Archer says Max gave him your watch to pay a gambling debt.”

  “I have no knowledge of debts.”

  “Were there reasons for the fight between Archer and von Steiger at the Spee other than politics?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Mr. Brandl, did you gamble with Mr. von Steiger?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you go with him to Plymouth? I understand you drove by the Charlestown Navy Yard on your way down there.”

  “Plymouth? How did you know about that?” asked Wils curtly. The officer sat back, stone-faced.

  “Max wanted to see the USS Constitution,” said Wils. “He likes old ships. And he also needed to send a package home from one of the civilian wharves.”

  “What was in the package?” asked Gordon.

  “I didn’t rummage through it. Books, clothes. The usual things, I’d guess.”

  “Why did you choose that day to go?”

  Wils couldn’t recall the details. “I don’t know. Let me get my diary,” he said, walking back to his bedroom to collect a small leather notebook from his desk. “It says here we went because Max was feeling down. We shipped a crate home for him as well as looked at an old ship.”

  “Who paid for the shipment?” asked Gordon.

  “I did. Max was short on cash and I ended up paying. But it seems silly to try to bill him for it now.”

  The officers exchanged looks.

  “Is there anything else?” asked Goodman tersely.

  “No, except the diary,” said O’Hara. “We’ll take it.”

  “No.” Wils resisted the order.

  Goodman leaned toward him. “Your diary is part of an investigation now. Please turn it over.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Let me see it,” said Goodman. Wils handed it to him, open at the August entry.

  Plymouth with Max. Stopped over at the Charlestown Navy Yard to see the USS Constitution—pathetic sight, all leaks right now. Dropped off Max’s crate at Long Wharf; mother must transfer 50 to my account to cover the shipping draft. The naval yard was an ugly place, full of concrete and shabby buildings and with three new hulking gray ships. The letters Pennsylvania were being painted on the largest. Plymouth Harbor, in contrast, is open and has beautiful sailboats skimming along it.

  The Pilgrims knew what they were doing when they landed here. Terribly sad history. Even the natives took pity on the settlers. Fabled Plymouth Rock is small. Burial Hill is impressive in its foreboding qualities—and the stones tell tales of such sorrow—children died in horrendous numbers. These Pilgrims were grim. Almost as grim as Max, who is still distraught about Felicity. I wish to God that woman had never met my friend! But the Pilgrims had tenacity which saw them through. These Americans are an impressive lot. Just a few bad apples (Felicity).

  “That’s hardly anything of use,” said Goodman with a frown.

  “The ship—”

  “The notation about that ship doesn’t mean a damn thing, and you know it. You’d need a lot more on my client to make any kind of case. Wils needs a few moments to copy down his assignments.”

  The officers still insisted. Wils glared at the trio, jotted some notes, then handed the diary over. He felt ill as Gordon pocketed it.

  “Did you know Archer’s mother was German?” Gordon said.

  “No,” said Wils coldly.

  “A barmaid from Bavaria who married a rich politician. She hates the kaiser.”

  That explains a lot, thought Wils. Bavarians did often hate Prussians. They were Catholic, Prussians were Protestant. They produced beer festivals instead of manufacturing. How Wils’s own Bavarian father ever fell in love with his Prussian mother, he never could fathom. Rebellion? Forgiveness? Whatever it was had probably not reached Mrs. Archer or her offspring.

  The world is a prejudiced place, thought Wils, happy to see them leaving.

  “When will Wils see his diary back?” asked Goodman.

  “It will be a while,” said O’Hara. “You’ll be around?”

  “Of course he will.”

  When they were gone, Goodman turned to him and instructed him in a brisk tone. “Stay put until this is resolved
, but once it is, my sincere advice to you is to return to Germany.”

  “They think that Max is a spy?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “And they think I am involved?”

  “Your diary is incriminating. If you had wanted to, you could have told the German military that new ships—and just how many—were in the shipyard. It could give the kaiser some kind of military advantage.”

  “But I didn’t! And Arnold is the one who committed—”

  “And Arnold was arrested. Apparently the Archers have enemies in City Hall too. Now Arnold’s apparently provided enough information on you that they’re investigating you for helping your friend spy on a U.S. shipyard. You are not to go around any shipyards until you walk up the gangplank to board a civilian ship for Germany. Am I clear?”

  “How did he know what was in my diary?”

  “I don’t know. Does anyone besides Riley have a key?”

  “Harvard’s entire housing office.”

  “Burton?”

  “Of course. As well as my Irish maid and French laundress.”

  “And now your Italian security guard. You employ most of Europe here, it would seem,” Goodman said with a thin smile. “My office will contact your mother, Wils. This is a serious matter. It may take a few weeks to sort out,” he said.

  “Weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To clear your name.”

  Wils swallowed hard.

  “Wils,” said the dour lawyer, “I cannot stress to you how serious this matter is. They’re not deporting Germans, they’re sending them to internment camps down south—and not the part you’d wish to be in. I’m going to try to find you a boat and get you on it, but it’s going to take some time. They’re not letting many ships go in and out right now. Once your name is clear it would be best for you, until the war is over, to return to Germany.”

  “I’ll miss my final year,” Wils protested.

  Goodman nodded. “Do seniors even attend class at Harvard?”

  Wils shrugged.

  “Well, that settles it, Wils. I need your word of honor if I’m going to negotiate these terms. The minute you are cleared to leave and I find a ship, you will be on it. Do I have your word?”

  Wils nodded. “You think it is the best course?”

  “It’s the only course. Boston is not where I’d wish to be right now if I were German. Your mother’s right.”

  “Then I give you my word to leave when you call.”

  “I’ll get to work on it,” said Goodman, putting his notes into a scarred leather briefcase.

  “How exactly will you negotiate this?” Wils asked as Goodman walked to the door.

  “These issues have a legal side and a political side to them. I’ll have a few members of the city council call the police chief.”

  “I thought the Archers had the city council’s support.”

  “My wife is the governor’s daughter. We’re not without friends.”

  “Oh,” said Wils. A bit of the tension left his shoulders. Perhaps his mother knew what kind of lawyer to hire after all.

  Wils closed the door behind the lawyer. He tugged at his tie and sat down on the settee across from the fireplace, feeling restless and angry. He was no threat. All he wanted to do was finish his studies. After that, who knew what the world had in store for him?

  He’d thought of starting a school on the Baltic Sea where he vacationed in the summer. He’d work with the fishermen’s children, teaching them and recording their stories. In his mind he saw laughing children pulling a bell with a thick length of rope, dismissing school for the day and running off to the harbor. He saw his dog, Perg, chasing after seagulls as he walked along the beach in warm wool sweaters in the autumn twilight.

  Instead of this dream he’d found himself entangled in a friend’s debts, and under suspicion from local burghers. He shook his head. It felt as if a vise were wrapped around his temples.

  He walked over to his bedroom window and opened it. He looked out mutely, staring for a long while at the street, hoping for a gust of fresh air to pour through. He felt like a prisoner, with a guard at his door and the angry mob of Cambridge outside his window ready to strike.

  Just like Helen, he suddenly thought. When they’d first talked, she had been all prickles and sharp edges as soon as she figured out he was German. Perhaps he could have lied about her poetry, flattering her with false words to woo her. But certainly she would see through that. She’d seemed more intelligent than that.

  He smiled. Intelligent—she’d placed in Copeland’s class. And then she’d stood up for him today to a police officer. Not many these days would have done so.

  And for the next few moments, try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate on revenge or assignments, or Max, or even leaving for Germany. He instead found it impossible to shake the image of Helen Brooks sitting in class looking terrified.

  Poor girl, he thought, stepping back from the window. This is how we learn humility.

  Chapter Seven

  Longworth Hall

  Radcliffe College

  Monday, August 31, 1914

  “Did you say Jackson Vaughn is in your class?” asked Ann, setting her knitting needles on the parlor table. “Are you sure?”

  Helen looked up from her desk, where she’d been staring at a white page for the better part of an hour trying to think of what to write for Professor Copeland’s class.

  “Yes. He, Wils Brandl, and Morris Rabin tried to give me advice after class. Do you know Jackson Vaughn?”

  “Oh yes,” said Ann, moving aside a skein of thick yarn on the sofa where she sat. “He’s a very romantic figure. He’s been at death’s door since being jilted.”

  “He did look pale,” offered Helen.

  “Death’s door,” Ann repeated. “His family is in shipping down in Alabama.”

  “Alabama?”

  “Yes, from the same plantation that Uncle Tom was supposed to have been killed at.”

  “I thought that was in Louisiana,” said Helen.

  “No. Alabama. I’m sure of it.”

  Helen shrugged. “The sins of the fathers. But Peter said Jackson actually tried to kill himself.”

  “Oh yes. He got very drunk and swam out to sea. But he’d left a note and when Morris and Wils found it, they took a boat out and fished him out of the water.”

  Good night, thought Helen, turning back to her work. Her father had often warned her about southerners and their extreme views on passion.

  “Helen, you could write your poem about Jackson.”

  “I don’t think Jackson would appreciate that, as dramatic as it might be.” She put down her pen. “This poem has to be about something I know about, and I’m finding out that I know nothing about anything.”

  “That’s nonsense, Helen. What are others writing about?”

  “One wrote of his dog, and one wrote about something so obscure I couldn’t be expected to tell you what it was. That was Wils Brandl, Riley Spencer’s cousin.”

  “And do you like this Riley?”

  “Perhaps,” Helen said weakly. “But did Peter tell you that he thinks Riley is engaged?”

  “Really? After he danced with you? I’d be surprised if it were true. You know how protective Peter is of you. He didn’t like Frank Adams either.”

  “He shouldn’t have worried,” said Helen. “I apparently had no chance with Frank even before Mother’s arrest.”

  “Did Riley say or do anything that would make you think he was attached?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, perhaps he’s not. Maybe Peter was wrong.”

  “I will ask Riley about it.”

  “Please don’t,” Ann said quickly.

  “Why ever not?”

  Ann s
tarted to speak and then stopped, several times. “Helen, men do not like being asked to consider that they may have done something wrong. I think it would make Riley angry if you were so forthright.”

  “Some might say that an engaged man who doesn’t act engaged with another party should have his integrity questioned and perhaps even get it in the neck.”

  “Is that the lesson you learned from your dealings with Frank Adams?”

  Helen winced. “But men speak plainly! Wils Brandl told me to my face he didn’t like something I’d written, and Father said that even though we don’t like what is said we must listen for the content of the message.”

  “And how did you receive that news?” asked Ann.

  Helen nodded slowly. “I see your point.”

  “You are just like your brother,” said Ann with a warm smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Impulsive. You remember that day in July when we saw the Jewish wedding on the Maine beach?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, late that afternoon Peter said he would row me over to my uncle’s new cabin, and instead he rowed to the cove. As he was about to declare himself, the sky turned dark. Peter thought he would row back, get the automobile, and come for me. So intent was he—the captain of the Harvard crew team—on speeding back to get me to safety that at the edge of the cove he turned the wrong way. That was the last I saw of any human for three hours.”

  “Another victim of a Brooks family member’s impulses. I hardly see that as a good lesson.”

  “Helen, being in love is completely lost on you. I adore your brother’s impulsiveness. But it’s only good in moderation. Now I am off to bed. Good luck with your assignment.”

  Helen watched Ann as she stood up and carried her knitting back to her bedroom. Her long blond hair flowed down her back in soft curls over the white lace of her dressing gown. Ann never looked unkempt.

  As the door closed, Helen picked up her pen, reinvigorated by this new line of thinking.

  That image of the beautiful summer morning in Maine had stuck with her. Raphael himself couldn’t have painted the sky any bluer. There was a crowd of dark-haired Jewish men with their caps, all smiling and clapping each other on the back. A tiny girl with a veil who let out a laugh when they lifted her up in the chair. The man seated on a chair across from her was laughing as they raised his too. He seemed so happy as he stared at his wife—filled with a joy as deep as he was tall. Some danced in circles around the lifted chairs while others clapped. A few children kept running to the water, their nursemaids chasing after them.