Irish Linen

by Andrew M. Greeley

  She was wearing dark blue slacks and a matching jacket, very much a former code clerk at an embassy. That reminded me of one last item. I rushed upstairs to retrieve the rings from my safe. I had to spin the combination three times before it opened. I put the rings in my watch pocket.

  I returned to the door. Annalise was waiting patiently.

  She opened her purse and showed me all four documents. I nodded briskly.

  “There’s one more point I have missed. I note that you are not wearing your wedding ring.”

  “I put it in the candle box at a church in Charlottenburg. I will always feel grief for Paul. But the mourning is over.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “These rings are part of the fiction and nothing more. However, they were purchased in Dublin as any expert jeweler would realize immediately.”

  “They are quite lovely, Herr Ridgewood, but I cannot wear them. I will not wear them.”

  “Then our pretense that you are my wife and enjoy the privileges of a diplomat’s wife will collapse. We will find it difficult to escape from Germany without a plausible sign of marriage.”

  She looked at me, searching my face.

  “Very well, Herr Ridgewood. I will wear them.”

  Yet her lips were reduced to a thin line, as if the very act of putting on rings was abhorrent.

  “Go for the car now, please.”

  It would be a difficult, perhaps impossible journey if these spats recurred often. Our worst enemies were not the Gestapo or the SS. The strains between us could destroy us. I was an eejit, as the Galway woman would have said, for dreaming of such a scenario. Once we crossed the bridge at Basle, the fiction would come to an end, a permanent end. I loaded the trunk and the backseat of the car, paid the garage owner three months in advance, and said that it was not unlikely that I would be back in Berlin by the end of September. Summer vacation in Ireland, I explained. He wished me good luck and said he and his wife would pray that my trip would be safe.

  I threw her dress and wig in a dustbin.

  I fastened the canvas cover in place. It would protect us partially from the hot sun and a pounding summer rain.

  I felt like a rat leaving a sinking ship.

  I was not a Berliner, I told myself. I had no obligation to stay here and die with the others. Besides, I had another life to protect.

  I drove by the embassy to make sure there were no obvious surveillances. The Gestapo’s most skillful gumshoes would be after bigger fish, though if they knew who the young woman whose hair was concealed by a green scarf was—nice touch—they would never let us out of Berlin. I went around the block past several smoking ruins and stopped in front of the former Irish embassy.

  Without the slightest sign of haste, the young woman walked down the steps towards the car, as though she were going for an afternoon ride in the Tiergarten. I opened the door for her, she bowed slightly and settled into the front seat. I closed the door.

  23

  SO WE exercised and slept through the alarm and went into panic mode to prepare for our distinguished guests.

  “Should we invite his family?” I was asked when I brought tea and toast up to our bedroom after I’d led the kids and the pooches over to the school. Daffodils were beginning to pop up in Nuala’s garden and the grass was turning green two weeks after Easter.

  “Why would we ever do that?”

  “They are his parents. Still.”

  “Not in my house,” I insisted. “Let them work it out by themselves if they ever work it out.”

  “Do you think he told Jenny he’s coming home?”

  “Maybe, but that’s none of our business either.”

  “He should have told his ma and da where he was going, shouldn’t he?”

  “They would have stopped him. They’ve had him arrested before. If he was convinced that he should go to Iraq, the only way he could have done it was to run away from them. They brought it on themselves.”

  She nodded, her maternal conscience not completely satisfied, but she knew that I was right, though this time she didn’t admit it.

  Blackie called in early afternoon.

  “Our monk is safely out of Iraq and on the way to Germany. He escaped one step ahead of the bailiffs. The defense department wants to hold him for questioning on matters of national security. I have already alerted the good Cindy Hurley. She plans to seek relief, as she describes the process, by requesting an injunction in the Federal District Court here in Chicago on the morrow. Needless to say, I will appear there.”

  “Will they pick him up at the airport in Germany?”

  “The CIA has diverted the plane—it belongs to them, not the Air Force, to another airport, location unspecified, where they have a safe house. They hope to get him on the plane tomorrow afternoon before the defense department finds out where he is. They may have to smuggle him on the plane.”

  “Bastards!”

  “Well, yes. We have one more weapon in our arsenal which I plan to invoke before the day is over.”

  “How ultimate is it?”

  Blackie sighed.

  “Pretty ultimate.”

  I went to the kitchen to report to my wife.

  “You mean they might try to arrest Des up above at O’Hara? Them friggin’ gobshites!”

  My wife shares with the late Mayor of Chicago the propensity to call the airport by its wrong name.

  “Sure, it ought to be called O’Hara!”

  Which settled the matter.

  Ethne, Danuta, and the woman of the house were bustling frantically on the preparation of a meal which would put a massive Christmas dinner to shame.

  “How many can we expect, Dermot love?”

  “You and me, the Cardinal and Blackie, Cindy and Tom, Des, and Steffan—eight altogether.”

  “Sure, isn’t that a brilliant crowd for a dinner party? You must remember, Dermot Michael Coyne, not to talk too much!”

  “Woman, you are full of shite!”

  She thought that was funny.

  “I’d better call Cindy and make sure that Tom knows he’s invited.”

  As we were about to begin our “tea”—pretty lean fare compared to the planned meal for the morrow, Blackie called again.

  “I have here in my hands, Dermot, a restraining order from the United States Court of the Seventh District enjoining the United States of America or any and all of its offices or agencies from interfering with the return of Desmond David Doolin to the said United States. We know, however, that some of the officials of the federal government believe firmly that they are not bound by such orders in a time of war. Thus there is the possibility that there will be some contretemps at O’Hare when American Flight 83 lands tomorrow afternoon. I believe that the good Hurleys will have some United States marshals present to enforce the restraining order. Also some private security, ah, assets, arguably the employees of Mike Casey’s Reliable Security. The Chicago Police Department is hardly likely to be deterred by the Department of Homeland Security or the Department of Defense.”

  “Messy,” I said.

  “Indeed. Your valiant sister has prepared what she calls a writ of habeas corpus and also a citation for contempt of court for any and all agencies and officials who violate the original court order—including if necessary some of the highest officials in our battered but resilient democracy.”

  “Didn’t the United States Attorney appear against the restraining order?”

  “He did not. He is apparently too busy hunting for political scalps.”

  “He’ll certainly be in court tomorrow morning.”

  “Perhaps, but he will have to contend with the good Cindy. Also my ultimate weapon is now in play. Incidentally, Father Des, soon I suspect to be assigned to the Cathedral staff, is safe in the safe house, at least for the moment. The CIA plans to sneak him on the plane in such a way as to avoid the American Military Police who may be searching for him. It is not beyond belief that the MPs may try to remove him forcibly f
rom the plane. I fondly hope not. It could be a national scandal.”

  “A point that Cardinal Sean will make at the highest levels in the land.”

  “Oh he won’t bother with the vice president … You will inform your valiant and virtuous wife of these developments, letting her draw her own conclusions.”

  I did.

  “The Cardinal will speak to the Secretary of Defense, the vice president, and the president,” she said, as if she knew it all along. “On second thought, he won’t bother with the vice president.”

  The doggies were well aware that something unusual was happening in the house. They paced around nervously, sniffing and snooping. The kids demanded to know why they couldn’t sit at the dinner table. Nuala explained that they would meet the guests and after that they would find the conversation BORING! She also promised Nelliecoyne that she would ask if the Cardinal objected to a quick portrait by a very talented young photographer.

  At eight the next morning Des was on the phone.

  “Hi, Dermot! Good to talk to you!”

  “Likewise, Des. Where are you?”

  “Admiral’s Club at Frankfurt. Some odd things happening. Apparently the DOD wanted to arrest me at the airport. We evaded a dozen MPs coming in with the help of some of the CIA friends here. But then they tried to force their way into the boarding lounges and the German police stopped them. For a moment it was like Checkpoint Charlie then our guys backed off. Just like the Russians did at Checkpoint Charlie.”

  “After a secret agreement with us.”

  “Really! Gosh, you know a lot of history, Dermot.”

  “That’s why I didn’t graduate from Marquette. Now let me tell you about the drill at O’Hare when you get here. There’ll be a reception committee, including Archbishop Ryan, my sister Cynthia Hurley and her husband Tom. They have court orders restraining any and every American agency and official from preventing your entry. There will be a band of Irish pipers and an Irish dance group to pipe you in … That was me wife’s idea …”

  “Won’t she be there to sing!”

  “No because she’ll have been busy the better part of the last two days preparing tea for us all tonight, that’s tea in the Irish sense of the word, meaning supper, though actual tea will be available. This will all be at our cottage on Sheffield Avenue. Steffan is invited …”

  “That’s a good idea. He really has taken good care of me.”

  “The Cardinal will be here too. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s at the airport.”

  “Gosh!”

  “Have you talked to Jenny?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she knows you’re coming home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your parents don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  “She’ll tell them tomorrow. She says that it will take time for them to get used to it. Mom especially. Then we’ll see. I would have told them what I was doing, but they would have tried to stop me by force. They have to accept that I make my own decisions. I have to take the chance that they never will. I have to find a place to stay tonight.”

  “There’s a room waiting for you at the Cathedral rectory … You still planning on going to the seminary in the autumn?”

  “If they’ll have me.”

  “Then the room at the Cathedral is yours till then. I’m sure they’ll find plenty for you to do with our Middle Eastern immigrants.”

  “Gosh, Dermot, I can hardly believe it. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

  “’Tis herself you should thank. I just carry the spear for her.”

  I went downstairs and demanded breakfast from my wife. She produced bacon, English muffins, tea, orange juice and a waffle.

  “’Tis time to be good to Dermot again.”

  She kissed me.

  “I tell the kids that we must always be good to poor Da … Was that your man on the phone?”

  “It was. Apparently Cardinal Sean’s clout worked again. The MPs in Frankfurt were ready to storm the plane and then they backed down.”

  “Good on them! Call Blackie and tell him.”

  I did just that.

  “Arguably it worked the way it should. I will hear the full story eventually. However, you can depend on it. They didn’t do it because they are nice guys. In any case we will deploy all our assets at O’Hare just the same. My information is that the plane will be airborne shortly and will arrive at O’Hare on time.”

  24

  I made the sign of the Cross as we drove down the Friedrichstrasse, as the Galway woman had insisted we do when we were beginning a trip.

  “An American force has landed in southern France near Marseille,” she said. “If one is to believe Radio Berlin, German and French troops have driven them into the sea.”

  “Just as they did in Normandy.”

  “Herr Ridgewood, I’m sure that Claus did not expect you to be responsible for a foolish little child. You should drop me at the Potsdamer Platz and I will take the U-Bahn back to Charlottenburg.”

  “No, I will drop you off only when we cross the Rhine at Basle.”

  “I deserve to be punished like an unruly child.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve endured a terrible event.”

  “I said I trusted you and I meant it. Then I became juvenile. I am wearing the fictional rings and wear them with real pride. They are quite lovely. Please forgive me.”

  “Whatever there is to forgive, I have forgiven. I should have been more sensitive.”

  “All the documents are in my purse. You will inspect them at the next traffic light.”

  “All is in order.”

  We drove south, by the Schloss Schoenbrunn, which would become later the city hall of West Berlin where my friend Jack Kennedy would give his famous “Let them come to Berlin!” speech, just west of the Tempelhof airdrome where the Berlin airlift saved the city, and then out of the city across the Teltow Canal and on to the Autobahn to Nuremberg under a blazing summer sun. It was not an easy drive. We were stopped frequently by southbound Panzer traffic. The Fuhrer was pulling troops out of the Eastern Front to cope with the American invasion of southern France, which, according to Canaris, the Americans had scheduled to coincide with the Normandy landing. The two forces were supposed to junction near Tours and cut off the German army in southern France. By now, however, there were only garrison forces in the south. They would be cut off and the Reich would lose more manpower, even if they were not the best of troops. Presumably the Führer still adhered to his conviction that German soldiers never retreat. There was no such thing as a strategic retreat.

  American B-17s flew over us in massive numbers, headed perhaps for Wiener Neustadt. German fighters doggedly attacked them. American escort planes, which looked like the Me-109, destroyed many of the German planes. It was a terrifying battle in the sky—cowboys and Indians chasing each other at three hundred miles an hour. The Indians were falling out of the sky. Germany was losing again.

  “Everyone of those falling planes has a pilot whom someone loves,” Annalise sobbed next to me. “It is madness.”

  Suddenly, a plane skimmed just above us with a terrible roar and a slash of wind. It seemed that it was only a few feet above us, a bird of prey about to snatch us into the sky. It exploded into the fields, not fifty meters away from us. Our car seemed to jump off the road and into the air. It then landed again in a jarring bump. Only when the burning plane disappeared in our rearview mirror did I worry about our extra petrol tanks.

  Well, if they were going to explode, they would have exploded by now.

  “A man died in that plane,” Annalise cried out.

  “Maybe he was able to bail out.”

  “Please, God.”

  We did not make it to Nuremberg that day which was a good thing because the RAF attacked it that night. We stopped at a small Gasthaus on a side road which bypassed Nuremberg and would lead us eventually to the Autobahn towards Munich. We were given a room
with twin beds, which was a relief to me. I did not want to have to sleep next to Annalise, not that night, not ever. She had been, however, a self-possessed traveling companion save for the time we encountered the crashing Me-109. It could have been an American P-51. But they don’t have Iron Crosses painted on their fuselages.

  It was a difficult night for both of us. We were both grieving for our losses. We were worn-out from the heat and the travel. We were tense from the strain of sleeping in the same room. The distant explosion of bombs seemed to rock our beds. How could we last four more days?

  Annalise woke first in the morning. She came back to our room with a cup of hot chocolate and some “good, German bread, with butter.” She was wearing a brown skirt and white blouse with sandals instead of shoes and bare legs. She had somehow found time to bathe and use perfume.

  She looked cool and lovely and rested. I would not be able to keep up with her.

  “I must bathe and shave before we leave,” I said. “Diplomats shave every morning.”

  She merely giggled.

  The proprietor of the Gasthaus told us that there had been a terrible raid on Stuttgart, that the Gestapo was still hunting down the conspirators, all of whom would pay a terrible price for their crimes, and that the Americans were falling back in both the north and the south of France and that there was no more talk of blood vengeance.

  “Do you believe all those reports?”

  Our host said that he never believed anything on the radio and that it was too bad they didn’t kill the madman.

  One of their sons had died at Stalingrad and another had been wounded in Normandy. In their judgment Count Stauffenberg was a great hero.

  That day was long and hot, though there were no air battles above us. We had enough food, enough water, enough petrol. We said the Rosary several times in both the morning and afternoon. But sadness dominated our ride. We were realizing now for the first time that Claus was really dead, that we would never see his smile, never hear his laughter in this world. We were overcome with frustration and guilt. If only we had done more, if only we had more faith in him, perhaps the outcome would be different. At least that’s what I thought. I could only surmise that Annalise was thinking the same thing.