The Incidental Spy

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Irving nodded earnestly. Although he wasn’t aware of it, he had played his part perfectly. He was by turns the eager scholar, the wise teacher, the ardent suitor. Lena was sure no woman had ever paid him this much attention, and she felt a stab of guilt every time she flashed him a smile or brushed his hand with her fingers, as she did now.

  He launched into an explanation of how plutonium could theoretically be separated from irradiated uranium.

  “Is that what you’re doing in the Pile?”

  “That’s part of it. You see if we can successfully do that, we can then manufacture as much as we need. And then…” He frowned. “You know, I’m not supposed to talk about it with anyone. Including co-workers.”

  She looked over. “Of course, you’re not. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—.” She let her voice trail off.

  “What?” He asked.

  She lifted a shoulder, then shook her head. “Nothing.”

  His expression softened. “What is it, Lena?”

  “I—I would love to see the Pile. Is it safe to go in?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “No chance of people getting irradiated, is there?”

  “None whatsoever.” He laughed. “Tell me, Lena, why is the Pile so important?”

  She looked down. “It’s—it’s just that we—you and I and all the others—will be a part of history. What you are doing will change the world forever.”

  He folded his arms.

  “I— guess I just wanted to share a tiny little part of it. I long to see it. Even just for a few seconds.” She flashed him a sad smile. “Still, I understand. You can not compromise security.”

  Irving let out a sigh. He looked left, then right, as if he thought someone might be watching. “I would love to show it to you,” He said. “But I can’t take the chance.”

  Lena nodded, as if resigned to his decision. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, it’s after seven. I really must get home. Max and Mrs. M will wonder what has become of me.”

  Irving leaned over the table and kissed her cheek. She brushed his cheek with her fingers. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said.

  “You don’t mind that I’m an old woman?” She teased. She was three years older.

  “Are you kidding? The rest of the guys are jealous.”

  “You’ve told them about us?” She tried to make herself blush. “Oh no.”

  “Was I wrong?” A worried frown came over him.

  She didn’t reply for a moment. Then she smiled prettily. “I—I guess not.”

  They both rose from the table. He clasped her hand in his. “Come. I will walk you home.”

  “You do not have to.”

  “I know.”

  But outside the restaurant he turned west, not east, which was the way to Lena’s apartment. She pulled on his arm. “We should be going the other way, Irving.”

  He took her hand again. “Where we’re going you must never speak of. Ever. Do you understand?”

  Her stomach flipped. “I understand,” she whispered. “It never happened.”

  They walked the few blocks toward Stagg Field.

  CHAPTER 20

  They arrived at the stadium and walked around to the western corner. The evening was hot and humid; within minutes, sweat ringed Lena’s neck. She wiped a handkerchief across her brow.

  “Stay here,” Irving said and ducked inside.

  Lena gazed at the field’s brick exterior, much of it covered by ivy. At each corner, a turret rose above the structure like a well-guarded castle. Windows above the first floor were shaded with awnings, while bars covered the windows at ground level. If she walked through the gate, she would eventually find herself in the middle of the field, the seats in the open like the bleachers at Wrigley.

  The lack of protection made for icy football games, and she’d never attended one. She never understood why Americans thought a group of burly young men attacking each other and hurling them to the ground was sporting. It was barbaric, not at all like the civilized football—or soccer, as they called it in the US—she’d known in Europe.

  Irving came back out, jogged across the street, and reached for her hand. “Come quickly.” He sounded out of breath.

  “Are you sure?”

  He reached down and kissed her.

  She returned it. “You will not get into trouble?”

  “If I do,” he smiled, “it will have been worth it.”

  They walked through the entrance, down a flight of stairs, and around a corner to a closed door. There was no one outside.

  “Where’s the guard?”

  Irving raised his palm in a gesture that said to keep quiet and fished a key out of his pocket. Unlocking the door with one hand, he ushered her inside with the other.

  Lena wasn’t sure what she’d expected. From her memos and letters, she knew the Pile contained 771,000 pounds of graphite, 80,590 pounds of uranium oxide and 12,400 pounds of uranium metal. It cost one million dollars to build. The Pile was described as a flattened ellipsoid, constructed on the lattice principle with graphite as a moderator and lumps of metal or oxide. They were the reacting units and were spaced through the graphite to form the lattice. Instruments situated at various points in the Pile or near it indicated the neutron intensity, and movable strips of absorbing material served as controls.

  But that was the abstract definition. What she saw was a room, once a squash court, about twenty-five feet wide, its ceiling twenty feet high. At one end was a contraption that rose from floor to ceiling. Most of it was built out of bricks, with a brick wall in the center and what looked like terraced “piles” of bricks above it, each recessed more than the pile below. The ceiling above the Pile looked like it was made out of cushions, although Lena knew that wasn’t the case. Behind the bricks, she knew from the letters she’d typed, were the tons of graphite, uranium oxide, and uranium metal.

  Something resembling a long faucet protruded from the lowest pile, but again, Lena didn’t know if water came out from it. A ladder leaned against the brick wall. To the right of the contraption was a set of stairs; on the other side, a thick curtain that might have been lead, which separated the Pile from the rest of the room. Adjacent to that was a series of cubicles about twelve feet high, each containing odd looking pieces of equipment, none of which she could identify.

  Irving watched her gaze at the contraption with wide-eyed amazement. “So what do you think?”

  “I—I don’t know. I didn’t know what to expect. It looks rather benign, actually. What do you call it? I mean, besides Pile Number 1? Is it going to be a bomb?”

  “This is a nuclear reactor. It’s very different from a bomb,” he said with a touch of pride.

  Lena furrowed her brow. “Then why build it? I mean, what does it do?”

  “It would take a semester to explain it to you,” he said, “but basically, a bomb requires a huge amount of fissionable material. So that’s what we’re trying to do—create a lot of fissionable material quickly.”

  “How do you do that?” She asked, becoming interested in spite of herself.

  “That’s what we’re working out. We think it’s by creating a chain reaction that will essentially ‘cook’ uranium and produce energy. While it’s cooking, it forms plutonium, which we need for the bomb. Once it’s cooled, we will try to separate the plutonium from the uranium. But the plutonium will be highly radioactive, so we have to build machines that can do all this by remote control.”

  “I had no idea.”

  Irving grinned. “Yes. But you see, there are other scientists around the country experimenting with other materials. It’s almost a race to see which team produces results first. Of course, we think it will be us,” Irving said with a hint of pride.

  The sound of footsteps clattered outside the door to the reactor room. Irving’s eyes went wide. “The guard is coming back. We have to get out.” He grabbed her arm, and they sprinted to the
stairs in the corner of the room. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  Back home twenty minutes later, after a long goodnight kiss, Lena drew a sketch of the reactor. She searched her memory to make sure she included all the details. She was nearly finished when the phone rang.

  “Lena? It’s Ursula.”

  “Hello. Are you all right? Is Reinhard?”

  “We’re fine, but I have some bad news.”

  Lena stiffened.

  “We received a letter from friends back in Berlin. They said your parents were rounded up last year and resettled in the East.”

  Lena squeezed her eyes shut. “Where?”

  “Who knows? The rumors are somewhere in Poland.”

  Lena nodded to herself. She’d gone to an occasional service at KAM Isaiah Israel where the rabbi told congregants what was really happening to the Jews in Europe.

  Ursula paused. “I think you need to prepare yourself, liebchen. You have no doubt heard about the Nazis’ Final Solution. There is little doubt about their future. I am so sorry.”

  Lena didn’t reply for a moment. “I understand. Thank you, Ursula.” She replaced the receiver quietly, as if any additional sound would break the telephone into pieces.

  She went back to her sketch of the Pile. She wanted to tear it up, tell Hans she hadn’t been able to complete the mission. Then she had a better idea. She stared at the drawing. She couldn’t change it too much; Hans had told her she wasn’t their only asset. Still, she was probably the only asset who’d actually been inside the Pile. She altered the sketch just enough, removing the faucets, the “booths” on the side of the Pile, and the cushiony material on the ceiling.

  * * *

  The next morning on her way to work, she sought out a crevice in a waist-high stone wall on Dorchester. It was the primary dead drop for her rolls of film, but the sketch, which she’d slipped into a white envelope, was too large for the space, and the envelope was clearly visible. Flicking an imaginary spot off her jacket, she glanced in both directions. No one was coming. She casually dropped the envelope back in her purse and returned home. She opened the curtains in the living room, raised the window, and moved the flowerpot filled with pansies to the other side of the sill.

  Hans dropped by her apartment after work. The thick summer sun was still so punishing that even the shadows held no relief. Rings of sweat stained Lena’s blouse under her armpits, but when Hans arrived, he was wearing a wool jacket. She was about to ask why he was torturing himself, but when she watched him tuck the envelope into his inside pocket, she understood.

  The next day as she walked to work, she started to think about breaking it off with Irving. Her job was done, but, of course, Irving didn’t know she’d been using him, and he’d summoned up all his courage and asked her out to the movies. She’d politely declined, claiming she needed to spend more time with Max, which was true. Her son was the love of her life. Isn’t that why she was doing this in the first place? She’d just have to tell Irving she wasn’t ready for a relationship—the mourning period for Jews usually lasted a year anyway. She was practicing what to tell him when a strange sensation came over her.

  Someone was following her.

  She turned around and saw a black sedan, crawling along 57th Street a few yards behind her. Her gaze went to the license plate, which was supposed to be bolted to the fender, but there was none. Adrenaline flooded through her, and every sense went on alert. She tried to remember what Hans had told her about losing a tail. Fortunately, an alley lay just ahead. She ducked into it, then spun around to get a look at the car and driver. The driver, a man, was wearing a straw boater and sunglasses, which effectively disguised his face. Yet there was something familiar about him. The set of his head. The shape of his face. Still, she couldn’t place him. She stared after the sedan, but it turned right at the next corner and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 21

  August-September, 1942

  In August some of the physicists at Met Lab isolated a microscopic amount of plutonium. It was a major development; the entire department buzzed with the news. This meant that it was possible to separate plutonium from uranium and thus produce a supply of it for the bomb. Met Lab was on the right track. In the meantime, Enrico Fermi and his team continued with experiments that would produce a chain reaction in the Pile.

  Lena fed the information to Hans. He’d been elated with her sketch of the Pile, and he seemed fascinated by every new development. She also passed him the news that construction of the bomb and its materials would not be in Chicago. Production would relocate to the Clinch River in Tennessee and would be turned over to a private firm reporting to the Army. An experimental pile would be built in the Argonne Forest Preserve just outside Chicago, but the Met Lab scientists were just that, scientists and researchers, not facility operators. Compton had wanted to keep everything at the University, she told Hans, but he was overruled. People were fearful of an accident in such a heavily populated area.

  In September, the Army appointed Colonel Leslie R. Groves to head the production effort, which was now called the Manhattan Project. Groves, a former West Pointer with the Army Corps of Engineers, had supervised the construction of the Pentagon building in Washington. When Groves took command, he made it clear that by the end of the year, a decision would be made as to which process would be used to produce a bomb.

  Lena dutifully reported the news to Hans. Occasionally Hans would meet her in a black Ford, and they’d drive around the South Side. Other times they met in a coffee shop, always a different one. This time he drove to a diner where they sat at the counter. A fresh-faced boy with a white peaked cap took their order of iced tea for Lena, a chocolate milkshake for Hans. Leaning her elbows on the counter, Lena watched the boy make the milkshake.

  “Do you have another car, a black sedan of some sort?” She asked.

  Hans frowned. It took him a moment to reply. He shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Someone was following me in a black car. I did not know the make.”

  “When?”

  “Perhaps a week or so ago.”

  “Where?”

  “On 57th Street. In the morning. I was on my way to work.”

  Hans arched his eyebrows. “Did you see who it was?”

  She shook her head. “He was wearing sunglasses and a boater.”

  Hans splayed his hands on the counter. “I have no idea.”

  Lena looked over. “The man looked familiar. But I couldn’t place him.”

  Hans shrugged. “Perhaps he just wanted to follow an attractive woman.” He smiled, but it looked forced.

  The boy behind the counter brought their drinks. Lena reached for a straw and sipped her tea. Hans hadn’t made the slightest move towards her in the months they’d been working together. He’d been totally professional, although he clearly knew she’d been using her womanly charms on Irving. For a moment she wondered why he kept her at a distance, especially when he told her more than once how attractive she was. Then she decided it was better this way. Not only was he a Nazi, her something else to worry about.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lena was at work one evening in late September. The door to the Department was closed, but a breeze with just a hint of fall wafted through a window. She was glad summer was over; the heat and humidity had seemed particularly harsh this year. She’d just finished photographing the latest batch of letters and documents and was putting the originals back into the file cabinet when she felt a draft. She spun around.

  A man in an army uniform stood at the door to the Department, his gaze locked on her. The stripes on his shoulders said he was an officer. He had short bristly gray hair, pale blue eyes that were a touch rheumy. Frown lines etched across his forehead. He’d once been fit, she thought, but a large belly indicated those days were over. In the short sleeves of his summer uniform, his arms and the back of his hands were covered with heavy dark hair, which gave him a slightly simian look.

  Lena froze. How long had
he been there? Why hadn’t she heard the door open? What had he seen? Panic crawled up her spine. Her arms and legs felt like they had suddenly detached from her body.

  The man folded his arms. “And just what are you doing, young lady?”

  The blood left her head in a rush. She wanted to look down to see if her hands were shaking but she didn’t dare. This was it. She had been caught. Then she recalled one of Hans’ rules of tradecraft. If she was ever cornered or caught, the best defense was a good offense. She’d told Hans at the time she didn’t know if she could. He’d chuckled and said,

  “You will. You’ll see.”

  Now, she realized he was right. There was no other option. She drew herself up, not sure where her courage was coming from. “I should be asking the same of you.”

  The officer’s brows shot up. “Do you know who I am?”

  Lena mustered what she hoped was an intimidating scowl. “I have no idea. So I will call security. This is a protected facility.” She started toward the telephone on her desk.

  He took a step forward. “I am Colonel Charles Collins.”

  Lena continued to her desk and slipped behind it. Her purse was on the floor, and as she got to it, she unobtrusively kicked it further under the desk. Then she lifted her gaze, as if she’d just made the connection. “Collins? You were here a few years ago.”

  “I was. And now I’m back.” His expression bordered on arrogance. “Who are you?”

  She eyed him warily. A wave of trepidation rolled through her, but she was damned if she’d let him see it. “The Department is closed, Colonel. In fact, I am obligated to report your unauthorized visit. How did you get this far? Our security is first-rate.”