Louise's Dilemma

by Sarah R. Shaber

  Egbert saw me and raised his eyebrows at his secretary, who sat outside his office.

  ‘This is Mrs Pearlie, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he answered. ‘Come in please, Mrs Pearlie.’

  Egbert leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. ‘I found your report to be informative and professional,’ he said, ‘and I quite appreciate your conclusion that the questions we and the Foreign Nationalities Branch had about the postcard from Mr Richard Martin to his cousin in Maryland have not been answered. But it’s not possible for me to continue your assignment.’

  That was short and sweet. I had expected it, but still was disappointed.

  ‘You are one of our best indexers,’ Egbert said. ‘Do you know how many documents we received last month that needed to be read, summarized, and indexed?’

  ‘About ten thousand, sir?’

  ‘Over twelve thousand. If they aren’t indexed quickly, competently, and filed, they aren’t available to the agencies that need them. We have only fifty-seven indexers to handle this volume. More help just isn’t coming anytime soon.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. I did. I knew the Registry’s work was critically important.

  When I sat down at my desk again, before I set about summarizing and indexing the stacks of raw intelligence piled on my desk, I took the time to scribble some notes to myself about our aborted investigation into Richard Martin’s postcard from France, from very near where the Allies were concentrating their efforts to damage what they could of Nazi submarine warfare capability.

  I still had the same questions about Martin’s postcard I’d had when I first read it. Why spend the money to send such an unassuming epistle to a relative who barely remembered you? Why mention Anne Martin’s birthday? Who was ‘Mother’?

  Then it hit me. I had never verified Anne’s birthday!

  Yes, it was mentioned on the postcard. Yes, she had affirmed that February thirteenth was her birthday. But had I ever seen documented proof that it was her actual birth date? If it wasn’t, would that mean the date had some strategic significance after all?

  Not verifying the date of Anne’s birthday was a dreadful mistake on my part. I was in charge of the initial research into the postcard. If anyone, for any reason, read this file and noticed this omission, I would look incompetent! I had to find verification of Anne’s birthday before I closed the file. If there was no verification, I must inform Egbert immediately.

  Perspiration drizzled down my spine and my head spun. I had to put my head down on my desk and think.

  Everything would be okay. Here I had access to documents from around the world. I could find the proof I needed. At the worst, Anne herself could probably help me. I didn’t want to ask her, though – the fewer people who knew about my negligence the better!

  I tore up my notes into tiny pieces and dumped them in the metal trashcan at my feet. The contents would be incinerated at the end of the day. I focused on my regular work.

  Later, as dusk dimmed the light coming through the tall glass windows of Registry, I returned to the files of the Foreign Nationalities Branch, where I’d first found evidence of the Martins – Anne’s letter identifying herself as foreign born but a naturalized American citizen due to her marriage to Richard Martin.

  And here her letter was again, attached to the FNB form that briefly stated she was of no strategic value to the Branch. I was correct. Anne had attached a copy of her marriage license to her letter, but there was no copy of her birth certificate. That didn’t mean she didn’t have proof of her birth, just that she hadn’t sent it with her letter to FNB. With my magnifying glass and the full light of my lamp directed on the license, I could just see a word in the birthdate space on the license, but couldn’t decipher it.

  Maybe some proof of Anne’s birth date was filed with her marriage license application, which I assumed she completed at the courthouse in Prince Frederick, the county seat of Calvert County. I’d driven through it several times on my way to and from St Leonard. I remembered the courthouse well. It was an imposing brick building with white pillars and a cupola that stood in the middle of a square dominated by elegant oak trees.

  How could I search the marriage license records there? No way I could leave OSS, and the courthouse would only be open during regular business hours.

  ‘You’re about a million miles away,’ Ruth said, pushing her file cart, which must feel like part of her body by now, next to me.

  I squeaked and jumped, my hand over my heart.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ruth said, ‘but I’ve got to get this load done before I can leave. And I’m tired. As it is I’ll miss my quarter-of-a-pound hamburger patty shaped like a T-bone at my boarding house tonight, and have to fill up on mashed potatoes.’

  Ruth looked less and less like the Mt. Holyoke girl she was, except that she still wore her pearls every day. Instead of silk she dressed in serviceable suits and a wardrobe of oxford shirts.

  She pulled open a file drawer and with gloved hands and taped fingers flew through her filing.

  ‘So how was your time away from the office?’ she asked.

  ‘Not very productive,’ I said. ‘And Egbert said he needed me here. But there are a couple of leads I’d still like to follow up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else of you,’ she said.

  ‘I need to get into the records of the Calvert County Courthouse,’ I said, ‘but I know I can’t get off work again any time soon.’

  Ruth stretched, bending backwards with her hands on her hips. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Louise,’ she said. ‘Just call the clerk of court in Calvert County on the telephone. Marriage licenses are public records.’

  Of course. I must be more tired than I realized.

  I glanced at the twenty-four-hour Navy clock that hung on the wall. Six o’clock. The courthouse would be closed now.

  ‘I’ll call first thing in the morning,’ I said.

  I sat on the edge of the Reflecting Pool, which stretched between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, waiting for Joe. The Pool was two thousand feet long and almost a hundred and seventy feet wide, but not an impressive sight, certainly not what its designers had planned. Temporary government buildings from World War One, ugly structures which should have been demolished years ago, squatted on the north side of the Pool, where a parking lot had once stood. Newer buildings nicknamed ‘tempos’, dormitories and offices, had been built for this war. They ranged around the south side of the Pool. Roosevelt was said to have ordered them to be so flimsy and unattractive that they would have to be bulldozed after the war, rather than left to ruin the area as the World War One buildings had. Two covered pedestrian bridges spanned the pool to link the World War One and World War Two buildings. The buildings were separated from the pool by tall chain link fences with gates, the sort you would find surrounding a factory.

  The best place to get on the ice was from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, where I now sat waiting for Joe. Enough light leaked from the ‘tempos’ despite blackout curtains and from a quarter moon to illuminate the scene. Lincoln himself sat in shadow. Figures silhouetted against the ice moved gracefully – well, some of them were graceful – across the length of the Pool. The scene, if you ignored the ‘tempos’, was really quite lovely, like watching a waltz under the night sky.

  Joe sat down next to me, ice skates dangling from his hands. He immediately took me in his arms and kissed me, and I felt the warmth of him all the way into my toes.

  ‘Two more days,’ he whispered into my ear, and I knew he meant that on Friday night we’d be alone together in his friend’s houseboat. Completely alone. Not just somewhere where no one recognized us, but alone. In bed.

  I felt myself shudder, and buried my head in his shoulder. I sniffled back tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Joe said. ‘Did I embarrass you?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

  ‘Here,’ he said, quickly changing the subject, ‘try the
se skates on. I rented them from that fellow over there on the bottom step of the Memorial.’

  I looked at the fellow. He stood bundled up like an Eskimo, with dozens of pairs of ice skates piled at his feet.

  The skates Joe picked out for me appeared to fit. Joe laced his up, then mine, so snugly that I had no wiggle room at all.

  ‘They’re so tight,’ I said.

  ‘They have to be, to hold your ankles rigid.’

  Joe helped me stand, and I’ve never felt so clumsy in my life. My feet splayed in all directions. Joe had to hold on to me to keep me from falling flat.

  ‘My God,’ I said. ‘I’ll never be able to do this.’

  ‘Sure you will,’ he said. ‘Sit for a minute and watch me.’

  I sat and watched. He skated in a simple figure eight in front of me, his hands behind his back, smiling, and I again thought of how little I knew about him. He could be anyone. But wasn’t that part of what attracted me to him? Where I grew up we knew everyone’s kin for generations back. Here in Washington we were all strangers.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, stopping in front of me and reaching out for my hands. ‘Let’s go. If we can make it all the way down to the Washington Monument I’ll buy you a hot dog at the Park Service concession.’

  ‘What better inducement could there be?’ I asked.

  Joe wrapped his arms around me, and I held on tightly. Slowly, we skated toward the Monument. I only fell once. And eventually I learned to enjoy the smooth, gliding sensation of my ice skates moving over the ice, and the romantic feel of moving in tandem with Joe. We passed couples, groups of laughing government girls, soldiers trying to pick them up, and the occasional park ranger policing, looking for drunks.

  ‘Lots of people here tonight,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the last night the Park Service is keeping the Pool open for skating,’ Joe said. ‘It’s warming up again.’

  Thank God. When we’d opened the vent between floors last night, Ada and I were both able to bathe without chattering.

  We reached the Washington Memorial end of the pond. I noticed a crowd gathered around the concession stand. The sizzle of hot oil filled the air.

  ‘How many dogs do you want?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Two, with relish and onions,’ I said.

  ‘Sit down and rest your ankles,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  My ankles burned with the unfamiliar stress of balancing on ice skates. I’d need to take aspirin in the morning for sure. I rubbed them hard.

  ‘First time skating?’ a man said to me, skating up and stopping expertly on the toe kick of one figure skate. It was Art Collins from the Foreign Nationalities Branch, my first partner in the mystery of the French postcard. It sounded like a Nancy Drew novel now.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered him.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘how did things turn out in St Leonard?’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about that here,’ I said. ‘You can find my summary in the files at work.’ I felt my heart catch. What if Collins noticed I hadn’t verified Anne Martin’s birth date? I was sure he would report it to Egbert.

  ‘You know,’ Collins said, sitting down next to me, ‘you could have been kinder when you reported on our inquiry to Egbert. You knew I was inexperienced.’

  I chose my words as carefully as I could. I didn’t want Collins to be my enemy. ‘I wasn’t unkind,’ I said. ‘I just stated the facts as I saw them.’

  ‘And I went back to my desk and you went back into the field with an FBI agent,’ he said.

  ‘Your boss said he couldn’t spare you,’ I answered.

  Collins pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one with a standard GI black crackled Zippo lighter. ‘Would you like one?’ he asked, gesturing with the packet.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I thought you came from tobacco growing country.’

  ‘I do, but smoking makes my throat sore.’

  Collins shrugged, inhaled, and exhaled smoke and cold vapor.

  Joe sat down on the other side of me, his hands full of a brown bag with grease spots and two cups of hot coffee.

  ‘I could only get us one hot dog each,’ he said, ‘they’re beef, so they’re rationed. But I’ve got French fries with lots of catsup for you and vinegar for me.’

  The steam from the hot food filled the air with the odor of meat and potatoes cooked in oil.

  I introduced the two men. ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘this is Lieutenant Collins. We work in the same office.’

  ‘Glad to meet you,’ Joe said, reaching out his hand.

  The sound of Joe’s accent had brought Collins instantly to the alert, and he looked at me with speculation in his eyes.

  ‘You’re not an American,’ Collins said to Joe, though his eyes were fixed on me.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Joe said. ‘I’m Czech, but I have a British passport.’

  ‘Really. Why aren’t you in the British Army, then?’

  No one else but me would have noticed Joe stiffening.

  ‘I was too old when the first soldiers were conscripted. I came to the United States to teach Slavic languages at George Washington University.’

  ‘I see,’ Collins said, climbing to his feet easily, despite still wearing ice skates, and pitched his cigarette stub onto the marble of the Monument.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,’ he said to me.

  ‘Maybe.’

  He turned and gracefully skated back down the Reflecting Pool towards the Lincoln Memorial.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said to Joe. ‘We worked together on a project, and he didn’t like what I said about him in my report. He’s inexperienced, and my being a woman wasn’t helpful to his ego I suppose.’

  I had a feeling that Collins would like to get back at me somehow.

  The hot dogs and French fries tasted wonderful. I loved homemade French fries with the skins still on. We didn’t have those in North Carolina often. Our potatoes were usually mashed or mixed with Duke’s mayonnaise and onions in potato salad.

  After finishing our hot dogs Joe dumped the trash into a flaming incinerator.

  ‘Can you skate back down the length of the Pool?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘as long as you hang on to me.’

  As we glided – well, Joe glided, I staggered – back down the Reflecting Pool, I saw Joan surrounded by a group of friends, including the Scot from the cafeteria, having a swell time. I suspected it wasn’t hot cocoa in their paper cups. She caught sight of me and waved, but when she saw Joe, her brow furrowed. Damn it! Joan too. I was getting tired of this. Washington was full of foreigners and refugees. Why should Joe be treated any differently?

  We reached the end of the Pool, and I sat gratefully down on the edge. Joe unlaced his skates and then mine, returning them to the entrepreneur who’d rented them to him. After the skates were off my feet I felt strangely shaky when I stood up, so Joe put my arm through his.

  ‘Let’s get a taxi,’ Joe said. ‘Your ankles are going to hurt more than you know in the morning.’

  ‘It’s so expensive, though!’

  ‘It’s not far,’ he said.

  Back home everyone was already upstairs in their bedrooms, though it wasn’t quite ten o’clock yet.

  ‘Shall we warm up in the lounge before we go upstairs?’ Joe asked.

  Ordinarily, I would have jumped to spend time alone with him. Instead I recoiled – not visibly, thank God, but emotionally. I was so surprised by my response that I had to grip the stair banister for support.

  ‘It’s late,’ I said, glancing up the staircase.

  A flicker of disappointment showed in Joe’s eyes, then disappeared. ‘You must be very tired,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Hand in hand we went up the staircase until we reached the first landing, where we’d part: me to my second-floor bedroom, and Joe to climb another flight to his third-floor attic room.

  He leaned over and kissed me, his soft beard caressing my che
ek.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll be together all night,’ he said softly into my ear. ‘I’m living for it.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, as my knees turned to jelly. Oh my God, it was tomorrow! Our first weekend in the houseboat!

  Later, when I lay awake in the deep cold dark, clutching my pillow as if it was a life preserver, I faced the truth. I wasn’t just nervous about having an affair with Joe. I was afraid.

  Despite Joe’s affection for me, and mine for him, I was alone in this little escapade. No one would care that he was shacked up with me. But I … I was terribly vulnerable.

  I depended on my job for everything that had become vital to me. My independence, my own money, never living in my parents’ back bedroom ever again.

  I never had to marry again if I didn’t want to. I made my own decisions.

  But I was a government girl with Top Secret clearance at the Office of Strategic Services, America’s spy agency, involved, even if sometimes my work seemed deadly dull, with critical espionage documents. If it was known that I was having an affair with a Czech refugee I could lose my job.

  Joe’s work with the Joint Distribution Committee, a Jewish charity that struggled to help European Jews survive and escape the tragedies that overwhelmed them, had once been legitimate and overt. But since war had been officially declared, all Allied companies and organizations had been forbidden to operate in Europe. So the JDC was now a covert agency too.

  If Collins decided to ‘report’ my relationship with Joe to OSS, I couldn’t help but think my new life would be over. I could probably explain a friendship with a fellow boarder, but not an affair. Sex and love raised the possibility of pillow talk, blabbed secrets, or even blackmail.