Lipstick and Lies

by Margit Liesche

  Beth took my insights for granted. “Uh-huh, they fill the entire center of the room.”

  It went without saying the drawers would always remain locked. “Are there special circumstances under which an engineer can check out a master?”

  She laughed. “No, it’s not a lending library. The originals are kept under guard and can never leave the Loft. That’s why it’s so congested.”

  How then had Renner removed the plans to borrow them overnight?

  “What about managers? Are they governed by the same rules?”

  “Of course. But managers supervise the modifications. They don’t actually do the drawing.” Beth came to a halt. She nodded to the door in front of us. “Except for Mr. Renner. He’s old school. Insists on doing the department’s high-level drawings himself.”

  Goose bumps skated across my shoulders. “Aaah…”

  She opened the door and we stepped smartly into a small anteroom. Mrs. Kovacizki stood in an open doorway on our left.

  “Why, Beth,” she said. “Good morning.”

  Mrs. Kovacizki was a short dumpling of a woman, with a rounded face, delicate nose, and rosy circles blooming on full cheeks. Her light hair, threaded with silver, was pulled off her face, then braided and secured in a coiled crown atop her head. She wore a brown cotton sack dress with a leaf motif in muted fall tones. The frock made her look motherly, rather than professional, as she folded her hands over her rounded middle.

  “I was about to get some dictation Mr. Renner left for me last night in the say-ay…” Her eyes darted and she hesitated.

  My heart sank. She had been about to say safe.

  “But what a nice surprise,” she continued. “And who did you bring with you?”

  Beth grinned. “Pucci Lewis, the reporter who’s going to write about Wanda.” She was referring to Wanda Sands, the subject of my purported interview.

  Proper introductions followed with Mrs. Kovacizki insisting that I call her “Mrs. K,” like everyone else. “Oh, but this is wonderful,” she beamed. “Otto’s, er, Mr. Renner’s report will have to wait.” With a swoosh of her hand, she dismissed her boss, her assignment, and the location of the safe.

  “No, please. Get that dictation tape you were after first. I don’t want to interrupt.”

  The ends of Mrs. K’s desk and typewriter stand had been pushed together to form an L, with the typewriter stand abutting the door to Renner’s office. Circling her desk and dropping into her secretarial chair, she acted as though she hadn’t heard me.

  “It’s a zoo out there,” Beth said. “I have to get back to my station.” On her way out, she reminded me I would need an escort when I wanted to leave. “Call me when you’re ready.”

  Mrs. K gestured to a pair of wooden chairs across the desk from her. “Have a seat.”

  A window in the wall behind her stretched from waist to ceiling. Venetian blinds, which could be shut for privacy, had been pulled up. I selected the chair affording a panoramic view inside her boss’ office.

  I squared my satchel on my lap. Mrs. K’s eyes were a vivid blue, nearly the same hue as Beth’s sapphire, and if I read the twinkling in them correctly, she was bursting to share something with me.

  “Beth’s like a daughter to me,” she said. “This may be a big place, but with some it’s like we’re family.”

  She was being coy. “Uh-huh.” I smiled, inviting her to continue.

  “Well, we are family. What I mean is Beth is my daughter’s best friend. One of my daughters, that is. The one you’ve come to interview.”

  My spine straightened. “Your daughter is Wanda Sands?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. K chortled, clapping her hands.

  A sinking feeling had begun settling over me. Mrs. K was in favor of my writing the article. Was it possible the interview would actually be arranged? Dante had been so sure of Renner’s opposition that we hadn’t bothered discussing such a scenario. Now the possibility loomed before me. And I had done nothing to prepare.

  “You might want to read an article I brought along to assess my writing style first,” I said, unzipping my pouch, fumbling for the article about Mad Max.

  Mrs. K dismissed the idea with a limp-wristed wave, claiming someone from “upstairs” had already sent along one of my stories for review. “It was a fine piece. You’re an excellent writer.”

  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled modestly, although I remembered being impressed by the true author’s talent as well. “What about Mr. Renner? He needs to bless the interview before I can actually start, right?”

  “Well, of course. But that’s merely a formality. Otto will agree.”

  “How do you know?” I swallowed. “I mean that’s wonderful, but how can you be so sure?”

  “Women deserve more recognition for the way we’ve stepped up to the line.” She giggled. “Assembly line, that is. Otto is always saying so himself. And Wanda is an inspiring example. She quit working once she married, but when Ted was shipped overseas, she needed a distraction. She applied here. In our family we try to sidestep unpleasantries by keeping busy rather than dwelling on them,” she explained. “Especially when it comes to matters over which you have no control. Like war. Once Wanda got over the shock of working full-time again, well, she wanted to give it her very best. So she enrolled in a factory course.”

  “At the airplane school?” Searls, my pimply-faced escort, had pointed the facility out to me. Built adjacent to the plant, it was nearly as large as the Administration Building. The school’s tuition-free curriculum, developed for the factory’s mechanics and other technicians to help them keep up to speed, was also open to any other interested employees.

  She nodded eagerly. “Yes. The sessions are staggered to accommodate all shifts. Wanda took every engineering drawing class offered. She was only a draftsman when she started but after nearly two years of specialized courses—” Mrs. K paused, practically shivering with pride, “she was one of only two women selected for Tool Design. Now she’s designing long drill jigs for parts of our B-24s’ wings and hulls.”

  “She’s accomplished a lot. Think she’ll stick with it once her husband comes home?”

  “It’s the education that’s valuable. After all, there’s no way of knowing what will be in store when her Teddy comes home.” She slumped a little in her chair. “If he does.” Silence followed.

  “You said you have another daughter, Mrs. K?” I asked, filling the awkward gap.

  Her bosom swelled. “Yes. Gisela is an assembly-line inspector.”

  “Here at Willow Run?”

  “Yes. At first she thought of being a riveter but, ugh, that’s noisy, dirty work. And Gisela is small, like me.” She smoothed the front of her dress, pulling the leaf-print fabric taut over her globe belly, and laughed. “But not so round. It was Otto, in fact, who encouraged her to try for the position.”

  “Hmmm.” While Mrs. K rattled off the preparatory courses Gisela had taken, mathematics, precision instruments, rivet theory, care and use of various metals and so on, I began committing the layout of Renner’s office to memory.

  Mounted on the wall straight ahead was an oversized blueprint of the plant floor, color-coded to identify production and non-production areas, including offices. Nearby, a large drafting table faced two tall exterior windows. To the left, I could see an edge of his desk. The rest of it, as well as the rest of the room, was blocked by the section of wall housing the office doorway.

  Mrs. K had paused as if awaiting my response. I had only been half-listening.

  “So, Gisela has a unique job as well,” I said. “What does she inspect, exactly?”

  “Because she’s small and can get into places other inspectors can’t—to put a testing gauge on a part, for example—she’s usually on the wing sections.”

  “With the dwarfs?”

  Mrs. K blinked. “Why, yes. Their size makes them invaluable for working inside the main wing on the final assembly phase. Gisela spot checks their work.”

  I nodded.
“I saw one of them on my way here. Blond, bowl cut…”

  “Chaplin,” Mrs. K said. “He works with Gisela. Actually, for her.” Mrs. K smiled. “Drops by here now and then. Surprised me more than once. I’m small, he’s smaller.” She hesitated. “Say…maybe you could interview Gisela, too. Write a story highlighting sisters who are employed in unique but different positions in the same plant.”

  The angle had potential. I was back to stalling. “Hmm…”

  Mrs. K’s thumbs began to twiddle. “Such visibility would help distinguish my girls from the other women employed here.”

  So that was it. Willow Run offered plenty of opportunities for women, but competition was stiff. A factory stage-mother of sorts, Mrs. K wanted to give her girls a leg up.

  “Willow Run is a big place, but we’re family. I’ve known Otto since the day he arrived in Detroit.”

  The stakes for molding her daughters’ futures had doubled. Her will to convince me of the good rapport she had with her boss doubled with them. The history of their relationship spilled out in a rush.

  It turned out Mrs. K and her daughters lived next door to the Renners. Clara’s father had passed away some time ago and to help make ends meet, her mother began taking in boarders. Otto Renner had moved in two years ago, when he took the job at Willow Run, intending to stay only temporarily. But then romance began to blossom between him and Clara. They married and, sadly, Clara’s mother died unexpectedly shortly afterwards.

  “Oh, my goodness, look at the time!” Mrs. K exclaimed, springing from her seat. “Otto will be here soon. I need to type his report. We don’t want him in a bad mood when we present your request, now do we?”

  “Bad mood?” I observed, teasing. “Judging from your description, Mr. Renner will be canonized one day.”

  Mrs. K smiled, but something in her expression wasn’t right. She began fingering the chunky string of amber beads resting on her ample breasts. “Otto has not been himself lately.” She was very solemn.

  I thought of the stress he must be under, spying. “Too much pressure from the job?”

  “Something with his stomach, he says.”

  “Ulcers?”

  She frowned. “He won’t say. And that’s what worries me.” She strode to the threshold of Renner’s office, hesitating before going in. “Perhaps you’d like to sit over there while I get the dictation tape.” She nodded in the general vicinity of where she expected me to go.

  I didn’t need to turn around to know there was a waiting area with two chairs and a small table, holding a fan of magazines, behind me. The chairs were strategically positioned so their occupants could not peer into Renner’s office. I’d noted the arrangement, and its shortcoming, when I’d arrived. “I’m comfortable where I am, thank you.”

  Mrs. K raised her pencil-thin eyebrows and I shifted deeper into my seat. I removed my compact from the zippered pouch and, opening it, lifted the case to my face. My nose was shiny, I noted, studying its mirror. I lifted the velvety pad and swabbed on some powder. In the corner of my eye, I could see Mrs. K still immobilized by indecision. I knew what would get her moving.

  A fine line of sweat had gathered above my upper lip. “Need to look my best,” I said, tackling it with a few quick pats. “Especially if I expect to convince Mr. Renner to let me do two interviews.”

  Mrs. K let go of whatever it was she had been wrestling with. She sashayed into Renner’s office, and I thought I heard her humming. Keeping the open compact in front of my face, I watched her pause in front of the plant blueprint on the wall across from me.

  She looked over her shoulder. I had removed the cap from my lipstick tube and was holding the stick to my mouth. I began coating the imitation cherry-red gloss over my lips. The greasy product was revolting. Really! With all their expertise couldn’t the lab boys come up with something better for our spy kits? But then why would they? They didn’t have to wear it, I thought, fighting to keep the slick stick from skidding from my lips. Or maybe, I speculated more generously, the skimping left extra funds for inventing sophisticated weaponry and gadgets. Like the twist-off lower portion of the tube, for instance. Inside was a tiny ampule of “Who Me?” the potent smelly substance introduced in F school training for emergencies. Then there was the miniature camera-compact I held in the palm of my hand…

  My concentration shifted from applying cosmetics to peeping through the compact’s mirrored lid. The camera’s zoom lens, built into the lid of the thin powder case, was so powerful that it brought everything on the far side of Renner’s office close up. Dante and Connelly had been skeptical when I’d suggested bringing a secret camera along. I persisted, only to learn the FBI, having no women agents, had no female-friendly devices. At my suggestion, we contacted OSS and requisitioned a specially tailored kit from them.

  Mrs. K, her back to me, appeared to be studying the schematic drawing. Keeping the mirror close to my face, I stared through the tiny lens at its center, my heart pounding in my ears as she slipped her fingers under the drawing. The blueprint was tacked onto cork board and had been cut vertically. She pulled and the floor plan parted, the two halves coming away from the wall like cupboard doors. I held my breath and pushed one of the microscopic buttons along the edge of the compact’s lid. The lens zoomed, bringing the large dial, formerly hidden by the blueprint, into closer view.

  The dial was set into a corrugated metal door. Mrs. K spun it a few times then stopped. My finger found another tiny button. I pushed. There was no click, but I heard the hushed whir of the shutter inside. Even looking through the lens, the arrow and numbers were not perfectly distinct and I could not be sure I had captured the number where the dial’s arrow had been pointed. The film would need to be developed and the image blown up back at FBI headquarters before we would know for certain what, if anything, I had recorded.

  Mrs. K spun the dial quickly two more times. With each pause, I fired the camera’s button. Her hand left the dial and my finger left the button. I pulled the compact away from my face. I sensed her furtive backwards glance as I continued primping and staring, now from a normal distance, into the mirror.

  Presumably convinced that I was totally narcissistic, she turned back to the wall. Gripping a handle, she yanked upwards and the section of corrugated metal, operating like a dumbwaiter door, pleated as it vanished into the wall. A safe with a fireproof metal door had been installed into the drywall behind the covering. Beneath it were two broad, shallow drawers, set in a metal facing. The drawers were Renner’s private flat files, used for storing blueprints and drawings, I surmised, snapping a couple of quick shots.

  My nose remained buried in my compact as she gripped the safe’s sturdy handle. Poised to capture what was hidden behind the door, I held my breath.

  “Mrs. Kovacizki, what are you doing?” a strong male voice barked behind me.

  Adrenaline coursed through me and I felt its hot path. Otto Renner!

  Mrs. K whipped around and I clamped the compact shut, nearly taking off the tip of my nose and sending a tiny cloud of powder floating through the air.

  My visit to Willow Run had been set to coincide with a time when Renner would be outside the office at a meeting. Yet here he was. And I’d been so preoccupied with keeping Mrs. K focused in the camera’s lens, I hadn’t heard him enter. Had he seen what was in my hand? Could he guess what I’d been doing? Without turning to look at him I palmed the thin powder case, slowly lowering it to my lap. I slipped it into my pouch, aware that my hand was trembling.

  Renner’s question had been polite, but the anger in his voice was obvious. In his office, on the other side of the window, his secretary appeared unruffled. “Otto,” she said, her folded hands held demurely over her tummy. “You’re early.”

  This time Renner spoke in a stern tone, like a parent addressing a truant child. “I repeat, Mrs. Kovacizki. What are you doing?”

  I’d been watching him out of the corner of my eye. He continued to ignore me and my breathing came a little ea
sier. I turned slightly to get a better look.

  I half-expected an aging engineer, one who’d spent his entire career working in a factory, to have gray hair and a doughy physique. Perhaps even a paunch. But Renner’s hair was completely brown and he was thin, in fact quite slender. He wore a dark suit and dark tie. The suit fit loosely and his white shirt gaped at the neckline in back. For a moment I thought maybe Mrs. K was right to worry, that he had suffered a sudden weight loss. Then I noticed the suit’s fabric. It had a slight shine and looked cheap. His stance was sturdy, his pallor normal, and ultimately I concluded the coat’s slouchy fit had more to do with what he paid for it than any problems with his health.

  Again, Mrs. K ignored her boss’ interest in her activities. She lifted her eyebrows and gestured toward me. “We have company. Did you notice?”

  “The raised blinds suggest you are the one who did not notice,” he retorted.

  Acknowledging me with a slight nod, he breezed into his office. He moved so quickly there wasn’t time to detect any sign of a leg brace. I barely noticed a limp. On the other side of the window he tugged at a cord and the horizontal slats clattered noisily, diving to the sill.

  My mission was technically over. Anxious to leave and deliver the film in my compact to the lab, I considered calling out an excuse and bolting. But an abrupt departure might raise Renner’s suspicions. Besides, I needed an escort.

  The office door was partially open and I could hear the duo speaking behind the drawn blinds.

  “You know better than to expose the safe to a stranger’s eyes,” Renner said, his voice low and tight.

  Mrs. K was uncowed. “It could not be avoided.” A sudden silence was followed by an unaccountable change in her deportment. Her voice choked, then shook, as though she were on the verge of tears. “I am only one person. One secretary juggling too many balls. You won’t allow me to have an assistant. I do it all on my own.” She sniffled, then her nose honked loudly.

  “Forget it, Edith,” Renner said, his voice gentle now. “We’ll take this up again later.”