Louise's Dilemma

by Sarah R. Shaber

  We regained the state road and started back towards Washington.

  ‘We need gas,’ Collins said. ‘Let’s stop at the filling station in St Leonard.’

  I weighed whether or not to speak. ‘We should stop at the next town over,’ I said. ‘We don’t want the folks in this town to notice us again.’

  He didn’t answer me, but we drove past the St Leonard filling station. In fact we didn’t speak until he asked me what I wanted on my hot dog when we stopped at a hot dog stand before we crossed the Anacostia River into Washington.

  I was fine not talking to Collins. I resented being asked to babysit him without even being told that’s what I was doing, but at the same time I was glad I was with there to run the conversation with the Martins.

  I was sure Collins’s report would say that the postcard was harmless, and that the Martins had explained its content adequately. I wasn’t so sure. The reference to ‘Mother’ still worried me. Why would Richard Martin mention his mother in such a pointed way to people who had never met her, and whom he had only met himself once?

  And it seemed to me that the Martins, and more than a few people in the lunchroom, weren’t exactly New Dealers.

  I asked Collins to drop me off on a corner a couple of blocks from home so I could walk the rest of the way. I didn’t want anyone in my boarding house to see me in a government car with an Army lieutenant and ask me a bunch of questions I couldn’t answer.

  Joe opened the door when he heard my key in the lock.

  ‘Good lord!’ he said. ‘You didn’t walk all the way home from work!’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘a friend dropped me off on the corner.’

  He cupped my face in his hands. I was so numb from the cold that I could barely feel them.

  ‘You’re frozen,’ he said. ‘Come into the sitting room. We’ve got a fire.’

  He helped me take off my coat, and I unwound the scarf from my neck. The heat from the fire felt wonderful on my legs.

  ‘How was your day?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Same as always,’ I answered.

  FOUR

  ‘Back so soon?’ Ruth asked as I passed her file cart on the way to my desk.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it was a small errand.’ And although I was glad to be done with Collins, I dreaded seeing what had accumulated in my inbox during the day that I was gone.

  It was stacked high, of course. There were two documents to read, index, and catalog and several research requests that needed to be completed. I settled in to work, ready to put in a very long day. I didn’t want to come in on Saturday if I could help it. I’d promised Joe I’d go see the houseboat. Just thinking about Joe and that houseboat made the heat rise in my face! I angled my chair so that I faced the wall. Desperate as I was to spend time alone with him, I was grateful that I still had more than a week to get used to the idea.

  A Negro messenger tapped me on the shoulder, startling me. ‘Mrs Pearlie?’

  ‘Yes?’ I said.

  ‘Ma’am, Mr Egbert would like to see you. Right away.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. What now?

  My boss, Lawrence Egbert, wasn’t alone in his office. Collins’s boss, DeWitt Poole, head of the Foreign Nationalities branch, was with him.

  I put up my guard immediately. What had Collins told them? Had he tried to blame me for the mistakes he’d made yesterday?

  I sat down in a desk chair in front of the two men, determined to protect myself. I was not going to take the blame for anything Collins said or did! I didn’t care if I was a file clerk, and therefore expendable.

  ‘We have Lieutenant Collins’s report here, Mrs Pearlie,’ Poole said, ‘and I’d like to ask you your opinion of his conclusions.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. Poole handed me the report, and I read it quickly. It was only a page. He didn’t mention me at all! And the report was so terse that it just barely covered the facts of the day we spent in St Leonard. Collins had done his best to avoid admitting his mistakes.

  Egbert folded his arms. ‘What did you think of Lieutenant Collins’s handling of this inquiry, Mrs Pearlie?’

  I took a deep breath. I was not going to cover up for him. ‘Lieutenant Collins didn’t have a cover story prepared. He had a beer with lunch. He seemed to lack training on how to proceed in the field. But his questioning of the Martins was suitable and elicited the information we needed.’

  Poole nodded in agreement, thank God!

  ‘I have to accept some responsibility for Lieutenant Collins,’ Poole said. ‘We are so short handed. Do you agree that the postcard mailed to the Martins wasn’t a covert message?’

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to incriminate the Martins if they weren’t guilty of anything, but then again …

  ‘I don’t think the questions we have about the postcard were adequately resolved,’ I said. ‘The Martins appeared to barely know the sender, Richard Martin, and the wording of the postcard still concerns me. Why the emphasis on “Mother”? The Martins didn’t know Richard Martin’s mother. And why is Anne’s birthday date mentioned in such a clumsy way? It could be simply that the writer wasn’t corresponding in his native tongue, but still, it puzzles me.’

  Poole nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But we have had an unfortunate complication. Apparently, Collins’s behavior in St Leonard caused a commotion, and someone complained to the Office of Price Controls, which was Collins’s improvised cover. The OPA called the FBI, since they’d never heard of Collins. The FBI maintains a list of our employees, and now the FBI has wind of our inquiry. As you know, the Hatch Act gives the FBI the authority to search for spies inside the United States. They have assigned an agent to investigate this postcard and the Martins.’

  ‘Of course the Foreign Nationalities Branch would like to keep tabs on the FBI in case the agent discovers something. Otherwise we might never know,’ I said, agreeing with him. My own limited experience with the FBI had been less than favorable. Hoover wouldn’t share intelligence with the OSS if he could avoid it.

  ‘We’d like you to act as OSS liaison with the FBI agent assigned to this case,’ Poole said. ‘Mr Egbert has agreed to release you from your current assignment as long as necessary.’

  I’d been around OSS long enough to know I shouldn’t be too flattered. I was just a file clerk. I’d shown I was observant, and I had some field expertise. File clerks were a dime a dozen, and they could do without me. My job would be to make sure that if the FBI found anything interesting OSS would know about it. It was clear to me that Egbert and Poole didn’t attach much importance to this matter. Still, it would get me out of the files for a while longer!

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Poole slid off the edge of the desk. ‘The FBI agent you’ll be working with is outside, let me introduce you.’

  Poole opened the door, and a man in his late thirties entered the room. He was dressed conservatively, in suit and tie, like all G-men, but his grey fedora sported a small yellow feather stuck in the hatband.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie,’ Poole said, ‘this is Special Agent Gray Williams.’

  I knew his name. We had met before.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie,’ Williams said, ‘it’s nice to meet you.’

  The man didn’t remember me! Thank God!

  His handshake was firm and dry. I hoped mine wasn’t damp!

  ‘Special Agent Williams,’ I responded. ‘Good morning.’

  Special Agent Williams was the FBI agent who’d paid a terrifying call on me at my OSS office last summer. He’d gotten a report from a guest at the Wardham Hotel that I had been behaving in a ‘loose fashion’ with a foreigner, a Frenchman, in the bar. And that I’d made a ‘spectacle of myself’ at the Shoreham the following Saturday evening. The FBI had investigated me! Williams had then informed me that since I appeared to have an exemplary record, he wanted to warn me that it wasn’t acceptable for a government girl with Top Secret clearance to socialize with foreign nationals.

  The Frenchman was Lionel Barbier, cultura
l attaché at the French embassy, and, dear God, if the FBI had discovered what we’d actually accomplished that Saturday night I might be whiling away long cold and lonely hours at the Women’s Federal Prison in West Virginia right now!

  Of course, I’d apologized for my behavior, blaming my inexperience with champagne, and promised to be more circumspect when choosing my friends.

  And now I had my very own FBI file, along with thousands of other Americans.

  What were the odds that I would ever see Agent Williams again, much less be assigned to work with him? I couldn’t work with him, I just couldn’t! What if he remembered me? If he did he’d watch my behavior, professional and otherwise, like a hawk.

  Of course, my appearance had changed since then. I wore my hair pinned up at work. I’d exchanged my harlequin eyeglass frames for new rimless round ones. And I’d lost weight. Not intentionally, but the shortage of sugar had forced me to cut down on Coca Cola, Hershey’s chocolate bars, and dessert. And I suppose that the few minutes we’d spent together in an empty conference room at OSS were not seared into his memory the way they were in mine!

  Domestic intelligence was the FBI’s job, and they did it very well. Although our assignment would be to investigate the Martins, and the postcard I now wished I’d never set eyes on, he’d be working with me daily and might still remember me.

  And then there was Joe. He was a ‘foreigner’. What if Williams found out about us?

  I needed to think of a way to refuse this assignment.

  Mentally, I reviewed excuses. I was just a woman, a research assistant. I wasn’t trained for this. Blood made me faint. I had a heart murmur. I racked my brain for a way out.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie,’ Williams said, ‘I saw the commendation in your file. It seems you’re wasted in the Registry! I look forward to working with you.’

  Wasted in the Registry! Yes, I was indeed. And this assignment would get me away from the files, even if only for a couple of days. The more work I could do that distinguished me from most file clerks, the more likely it was I might get another promotion and keep working after the war. How would Williams find out about Joe and me? Discretion was my middle name.

  ‘Thank you, Agent Williams,’ I said. ‘I look forward to working with you, too.’

  FIVE

  ‘I don’t know,’ Joan said. ‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.’

  We edged our way through the crowd in the OSS cafeteria toward the only two seats we could see before someone else got there. I had to lift my tray over the head of an Air Force officer wearing an OSS patch and an arm sling, and Joan, who was a large woman, used her hips to clear a path. It was a miracle that we found two seats together.

  Of course, we shouldn’t have discussed my new assignment, but I trusted Joan like a sister, and we were within the OSS campus. And the noise level in the room added another layer of protection. We had to lean close together to be heard.

  ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I am so frustrated working in those damn files every single day. Who knows when I might get another chance to work in the field.’

  ‘I know,’ Joan said, ‘but you understand the FBI looks at every single foreigner as a potential enemy. What does this man friend of yours do, anyway?’

  I had told Joan very little about Joe, and I couldn’t blow his cover. ‘He’s teaching Slavic languages at Georgetown University,’ I said.

  ‘Good God,’ Joan said, tucking into her jellied ham loaf, ‘he could be a Bolshevik!’

  I knew she was teasing, but I still defended Joe. ‘He is not. Actually, he’s lived in England most of his life. He went to university there, then taught at London University.’

  ‘Even better. British universities are hotbeds of Socialism.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I said, pushing macaroni and cheese around my plate. I wished I had selected the tuna casserole. Joan seemed to be able to eat anything, no matter how unappetizing, but if I wasn’t careful I’d lose so much weight that I’d need new clothes, and I couldn’t afford them! I spread the despised oleo over a hot roll, generously, to add calories.

  ‘Dearie,’ Joan said, ‘that is how the FBI thinks, you know that. If this FBI agent partner of yours learns you’re more than boarding in the same house with this man you could be fired. Or at least lose your security clearance!’

  If only Joan knew this particular FBI agent was the same man who’d warned me off spending time with a foreign national just a year ago!

  I couldn’t turn down this assignment. Williams wouldn’t find out about Joe. I’d just keep my head down for the few days it would take to clear up the postcard issue.

  Betty, a ninety-words-per-minute typist, eased into the chair that opened up next to us. I hadn’t seen her much since the OSS reorganization, she was stuck in a typing pool somewhere now, so I gave her a quick hug around the neck. She’d changed so much in the last few months! Once so khaki-wacky she’d gotten into serious trouble, she now seemed almost staid. She’d stopped rinsing her hair platinum and it had returned to its natural ash blonde shade. She’d moderated the color of her lipstick and nail polish too, from fire engine red to a softer pink. All because of a DC Metropolitan policeman in his forties named Ralph.

  She fluttered her left hand toward us, and we admired her engagement ring, a modest silver circle set with a blue stone.

  ‘How nice!’ I said. ‘When is the wedding?’

  ‘In the spring,’ she said, ‘when the cherry blossoms are blooming. Won’t it be pretty? My parents are coming, and Ralph’s brother and his family.’

  ‘I am so excited for you,’ Joan said. She was envious, too. Despite her wealth and a posse of friends, Joan didn’t have a beau. She was thirty-two years old and face-to-face with spinsterhood. Over six feet tall with a booming jolly laugh, she just didn’t seem to attract men interested in romance. It was their loss in my opinion.

  Betty poked her fork around the food on her plate. ‘I don’t think this was a good choice,’ she said about the macaroni and cheese. ‘I am sick of cheese. Who said it was a good substitute for beef? I would so love a steak again.’ She set her fork down. ‘At least I’ll look wonderful in my wedding dress. I’ve set two aside at Woody’s. When the weather clears, Joan, would you come help me decide? And help me pick out my trousseau? I can’t afford much, and it will have to last me the rest of the war. You have such lovely clothes.’

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ Joan said. She’d be a sport and go, even if her teeth were clenched with envy.

  Betty started and grabbed my arm. ‘Oh my God!’ she said, softly.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘John Wayne!’

  ‘Where?’ Joan asked. ‘Are you sure?’

  Betty nodded at a table behind us, and Joan and I swiveled in our chairs.

  The actor sat with John Ford, the famous director who headed OSS’s Field Photographic Unit. Ford had directed Wayne in Stagecoach. Wayne was so handsome, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Female heads swiveled all around him, but he and Ford seemed oblivious, deep in conversation.

  ‘God, he is luscious!’ Joan said.

  ‘He’s tall enough even for you,’ Betty said. ‘He must be six foot four!’

  ‘Six-six, I’ll bet,’ Joan said.

  ‘Joan, you could get General Donovan to introduce you!’

  ‘He’s married,’ Joan said.

  ‘Not any more,’ Betty said. ‘He’s separated from his wife. I read it in Photoplay. He does have four children, but you could hire a nanny when they visit.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous!’

  ‘Is he joining Ford’s unit? He must be,’ I said. ‘Why else would he be here?’

  ‘Imagine having John Wayne wandering the halls,’ Betty said. ‘I wouldn’t have any trouble getting to work in the morning, no matter how cold it was.’

  ‘He’d be in the field most of the time,’ I said.

  ‘Hush,’ Joan said, rolling her eyes. ‘I happen to know he won’t be joining us.’

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p; ‘Tell all,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  Joan leaned in and whispered to us. We could just barely hear her over the noise of the crowded cafeteria.

  ‘There aren’t any officer slots left in Ford’s unit. And the government doesn’t want Wayne enlisting as a private. They don’t think that pictures of him peeling potatoes, or God forbid bleeding on a stretcher somewhere, would be good for the country’s morale.’

  ‘So what is he going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Stay on the USO circuit,’ Joan answered.

  ‘The press will be all over him,’ I said.

  Joan shrugged.

  Two strapping Army officers appeared behind us, glaring. They needed our seats, and we’d been ogling the Duke long enough.

  ‘Time to go,’ Joan said. But I caught her taking one last long look at the man who was tall enough for her.

  ‘So,’ Joe said, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I love it,’ I said. And I did. The houseboats I remembered from the Cape Fear River were more like floating wooden shanties. This one was a modern motorboat. Powered by an Evinrude engine, the driver could stand on the deck and steer it with a wheel mounted on the cabin. If he had any gas, of course! The name Miriam was painted in silver on the hull.

  The Miriam had a metal hull painted bright white trimmed in aqua, round portholes and a front porch that would seat four, with a rooftop sun deck reachable by a ladder, though it was hard to believe that it would ever be warm enough to sunbathe again.

  The chill wind off the Potomac rattled the rigging of the sailboat moored nearby. Ice coated the piers and handrails of the dock and froze boats in their moorings. The bright sun seemed to give off no heat at all, just reflecting off the water and ice so brilliantly that I had to shade my eyes.

  ‘It’s got a good heater,’ Joe said, anxious to please me. ‘Let’s go inside.’