by Lyn Cote
Bette worried her lower lip. “I didn’t realize people could be so stupid.”
“Well, when men are confronted by a pretty, flirty blond, they often lose their good sense.”
Bette stared at him, still not able to take him seriously. “But I’m not a blond.”
Ted chuckled and winked at her. “A very pretty brunette will do in a pinch.”
Bette’s eyes widened. She wondered if she should call Mr. Hoover when they stopped and tell him Ted’s comment about flirting. And winking didn’t seem appropriate between agents.
“Don’t you know how lovely you are?”
Bette fumed and let it show. So this is how the next two weeks are going to be. She didn’t like men making comments about her looks. She didn’t think she’d ever become inured to men who thought a young woman was just hanging around waiting for a smooth-talking man to sweet talk them.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Flattery?” Ted cocked his head to watch her while driving. “Doesn’t that fiancé of yours tell you how beautiful you are? No wonder you don’t flirt—you obviously don’t have a clue of the effect you could have on men, will have on men. So let’s get started. Now I’m going to teach you how to flirt and later, as we stop at restaurants and gas stations, I want you to practice until you get really good at it.”
“You’re nuts.” She folded her arms. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for.
“I’m the senior agent on this assignment and you’ll do what I say, got that?” Ted’s voice hardened. “You were chosen for this job because you’re an eyeful and you are going to become an artful, flirty eyeful.”
Bette bristled. “Mr. Hoover said he wanted me for this assignment because I notice things.”
“Yeah, that’s because he’s too straitlaced to come right out and say that he wants you to become a modern Mata Hari—who notices things. But that was implied when he talked about the blond’s part in the espionage. If you didn’t get it, I did.”
Bette looked away, recalling Mr. Hoover’s measured words to her. Ted was right; the chief had implied she would be the FBI’s “blond.” Knowing that disappointed her slightly. And worried her. But she recalled Mr. Hoover’s approval of her uncovering the espionage at the War Department. He didn’t think she was stupid. But flirting? What next?
“Okay, first lesson, unbutton the top three buttons of that blouse and tuck it farther in your waistband. You’re too buttoned up.”
Bette glared at him.
“Now. You’re doing this for your country, remember?”
She unbuttoned the top two buttons. “That’s as far as I’m going.”
Ted reached over and grabbed for the third button.
“Stop that!” She batted his hand away.
“You undo the third button or I will,” Ted ordered. “Most girls undo the top one or two. But if you are a flirt, you have to go one more button.”
Bette wrestled with herself. Finally, averting her eyes, she undid the third button. Her face flamed.
A few miles down the road, Ted pulled into a small-town gas station with one pump. “Okay, get out and do your stuff,” he said in a low voice.
Bette gave him a sultry look. “Aren’t you going to get the door for me?” She made her voice teasing and sugar-sweet.
Ted chuckled. “Good start,” he whispered. “Sure thing,” he said louder. He hopped out and around the car and opened the door for her.
She reached up and patted his cheek. “Thank you.” She made her voice lower in her throat, a la Ted Gaston’s coaching.
The young gas station attendant came out, rubbing greasy hands on a soiled, gas-smelling rag. “Fill her up?”
Bette gave him a big smile. “Well, hi there, handsome.” She felt like she was imitating Mae West. Surely no man would fall for this act.
Suppressing a grin, Ted walked toward the restroom sign.
“Fill it up, please.” Bette followed the attendant to the pumps.
“Where ya headed, lady?” he asked as he inserted the nozzle into the car’s gas tank.
“North.” She batted her eyes at him. “You fix the cars, too?”
“Sure do.”
“I’ve always admired a man who’s good with his hands.” More Mae West.
The young man glowed and then his mouth slipped into a conspiratorial smile. “Who you traveling with?”
“Oh, that’s my boss. He likes me to travel with him.” She smiled. “He likes to dictate stuff to me while we drive along. It’s boring, but it pays well.”
She went on mouthing the kind of drivel Ted had taught her. Finally, Ted returned, paid for the gas, and off they went.
“How’d it go?” Ted asked.
“When I turned to follow you to the passenger’s side, he had the nerve to pinch me.” Bette glowered at Ted.
“Well, I guess J. Edgar is right. You are a quick study.” And then he had the nerve to laugh out loud.
Three days later in New York City, Bette had the evening off. Ted had just dropped her a block away so he wouldn’t be seen with her. An evening off from being flirtatious felt wonderful. She knocked on the door of the brownstone. Mr. Lovelady opened it wide.
“Bette’s here!” Before she could respond, he had pulled her into a loose hug, bringing her inside and closing the door behind her. “We’re so glad you called us. We would have been angry if we found out you’d come to New York City without letting us know.”
Looking farther inside, Bette saw Gretel and Jamie, who’d also been invited, come into the front hall to greet her. Ilsa came down the staircase, carrying Sarah in her arms. “Bette, welcome!” It was hard to believe that nearly a year ago, Ilsa and Sarah had been half-starved refugees. They both glowed with health now.
The brownstone was decorated in clean, modern lines and bright, clear colors. Bette felt welcome and relaxed, ready to enjoy being with family and with friends as close as family. Soon, they were all seated around the dining room table. At its head sat Mr. Lovelady, who insisted she start calling him by his first name. “You’re not a little girl anymore,” he explained. “And how’s that exceedingly fortunate boyfriend of yours?”
“Curt’s fine.” It felt good to be herself again. “He graduates in early June. We’re planning our wedding for August.”
“Oh, you will make a beautiful bride,” Ilsa said from her place at the foot of the table, “won’t she, Gretel?”
“Of course.” But Gretel didn’t smile. In fact, she looked a bit pained.
“I’m sorry, Gretel,” Ilsa said with a sigh. “I don’t keep a Kosher kitchen here. But I asked the cook not to serve any pork or dairy with meat—”
“It’s all right,” Gretel said, sounding like it wasn’t all right at all.
Bette looked around the table, confused. During her first week at Ivy Manor, Gretel had found it difficult to eat with her family. But she’d finally accepted that she’d have to adjust to the fact that not all American Jews observed the Jewish dietary laws.
Then Gretel made a sound of disgust. “I’m sorry, Ilsa. I am. It’s just that I am Jewish and I refuse to apologize for being Jewish.”
“I am not ashamed of being Jewish,” Ilsa spoke up. “But I don’t think that observing dietary laws is the only mark of a Jew. Drake has agreed that Sarah will go to Hebrew school as well as attend church with us. I go to synagogue and to church with Drake—mainly to please his mother who has been so kind to me. But our children will learn about both cultures and religions. This is America, Gretel. We don’t have to cower here.”
“Tell that to the American Bund,” Gretel snapped.
Bette had heard of the Bund—Americans who supported Hitler. She’d always wondered why didn’t they just go to Germany, then.
“This conversation may,” Jamie slipped in mildly, “ruin my normally excellent appetite.”
Gretel looked at him for a moment, obviously nonplussed, and then she laughed, her good humor restored. “Yes, the Bund should take any
person’s appetite away.”
“Then let’s not discuss it”—Jamie waved his soup spoon—“until we’ve finished this fine dinner, which may not be Kosher, but which smells delicious.”
To go along, Bette sipped her salty beef bouillon. “Gretel, have you found a dress you’d like to wear as my bridesmaid?”
“You still want me to stand up with you and Curt?” Gretel asked, watching Bette.
“Yes, of course. You’re my best friend.” That Gretel would ask this shook Bette. Did Gretel think she would forsake a friend? “I’ve chosen my gown from a bridal magazine and Mother is having it made for me. If you can find a picture of what you want, we’ll have it made for you.”
“No, I will buy my own dress and I can easily find one at my shop. Street-length or evening-length?”
“Street-length. We’ve decided to have an afternoon wedding and a cake-and-punch reception immediately afterward at the church. Curt’s parents, of course, will host a rehearsal dinner the evening before and Mother will host a wedding brunch for out-of-town guests that morning.” Bette turned to Drake. “You and Ilsa will be coming, won’t you?”
“It depends on whether I’ve had enough time to recover from this one.” Ilsa patted her rounded abdomen, looking so happy that it made Bette want to cry. Ilsa appeared reborn. Bette remembered the way the other woman’s face had looked a year ago—closed, lifeless. She recalled how Ilsa had at first refused to marry Drake. Now Ilsa’s unmistakable love for her husband radiated from her like golden sunshine. It lit up the room. “If not, Drake and his mother will come without me.”
“Everything will work out and,” Drake said, “it sounds like you have everything under control. Have you and Curt decided on a honeymoon?”
Bette couldn’t stop herself from blushing. “Curt hopes to have a teaching job by then, but he may not. He might have to do substitute teaching at first. So we aren’t planning on a honeymoon until the following summer.”
“You can always count on Curt to have everything planned out,” Jamie inserted slyly.
Bette gave him an exasperated look. She liked that about Curt, didn’t she? Who wanted to marry a man who didn’t shoulder such responsibilities? Still, a familiar, yet vague uneasiness slid down Bette’s spine. “Ilsa, when is your exact due date?” This comment drew the conversation away from herself, Curt, and Gretel.
When the evening was over, Jamie, Gretel, and Bette refused Drake’s offer of rides home and insisted on taking the subway. Bette didn’t want anyone to—by chance—see Ted, her “boss.” So Jamie escorted them to the nearest subway stop and the three of them boarded a train together. Sitting beside Gretel and across from Jamie, Bette eyed the people on the subway. The whine and vibration of the subway train seemed to put up a barrier between them. And she wanted to talk to Gretel about the wedding but Gretel sat in grim, silent thought.
Finally, Bette touched her hand. “What’s upsetting you?”
Jamie replied before Gretel could, his voice harsh. “She doesn’t like it that Ilsa married Drake. Because of the Nazis, Zionist Gretel doesn’t like us Gentiles anymore.”
“That’s not true,” Gretel snapped, folding her arms. “You don’t understand how I feel. The war in Europe has stopped the escape of refugees. My parents can’t get out of Germany now. My last two letters have been returned to me. Jews are being sent to work camps. I hear terrible rumors.” Gretel’s voice cracked. “I’m frightened for my parents, for Ilsa’s parents.”
Haunting images from the night of Ilsa’s rescue came to Bette. She reached out and took Gretel’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry. You didn’t tell me—”
“I couldn’t write it.” Gretel looked away as if trying to hide her distress.
“Is it because you somehow blame us for your parents’ troubles?” Jamie barked.
“No,” Gretel snapped. “Never.”
Bette watched this conflict in helpless dismay.
“This war isn’t our fault,” Jamie said, looking away from Gretel. “And you know it. But every time I call, you’re busy. You can’t be busy every time.”
Because of the subway speeding—humming and creaking—they’d all raised their voices. People around them, forced into eavesdropping, fidgeted, glancing at them and then away. Bette tried to figure out what was happening between Jamie and Gretel. She looked from one to the other.
“Jamie, you are a good person, a friend,” Gretel said kindly, “and I have no desire to lead you on.”
“Going to a movie, that’s leading me on?” Jamie jabbed the words at her.
“Yes, it is.” Gretel sat up straighter. “I don’t know if I will marry or not. But if I do, it won’t be to a non-Jew. I couldn’t do what Ilsa has. I couldn’t.” She stood up and swept over to the door as they slowed to a stop. She turned back, but no smile lifted her expression. “I will find a dress, Bette.” And then she left them—the screeching of the subway coming to a halt and the swish of the doors making it impossible for them to respond.
Confused, hurt, Bette looked to Jamie. When had Jamie fallen in love with Gretel? And when had her friend become so . . . She couldn’t think of the right word. But Gretel was no longer the sweet, gentle friend who’d slept in her trundle bed at Ivy Manor. And what was a Zionist?
Jamie looked away, folding his arms in front of him. “Don’t ask,” he growled. “This is a stupid time to fall in love anyway. They’re debating the draft right now. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll be in uniform by the time your wedding rolls around. I just hope Curt won’t be.”
By the end of the week with Ted, Bette had her role practically memorized. She and Ted had visited four plants on Long Island, New Jersey, Boston Harbor, and Mitchell Field. All manufactured weaponry or airplanes for the American military. They had one more to do and then they’d head back to report to Mr. Hoover at his home. The chief didn’t want anyone but Ted to know about Bette’s unofficial role in this undercover assignment. The FBI did not hire female agents. Bette would be paid, but her name would not appear on any payroll or employee list.
Ted pulled into the final plant’s parking lot on the outskirts of Baltimore. He paused to give the grim industrial area a once-over. The loud grinding noises of many types of machinery filled the grimy, humid air. “Okay, I don’t have to tell you what to do.”
“No, you don’t, honey,” she drawled and fluffed the back of her shoulder-length hair.
Within a few minutes they were met by a gray-uniformed security guard at the factory entrance. Ted showed the man a fake press card that identified Ted under another name as being a reporter for an aviation trade magazine. He began the routine. “Hello, I’m here to take a tour of your facility as scheduled.”
“We don’t have no tour scheduled today.” The broad-shouldered guard looked at a clipboard on a stand beside him.
Ted turned to Bette and snapped, “I thought you said that you called ahead.”
Bette was still amazed at how quickly she could call up tears. “I’m sure I did, Mr. Gray. I just know I did.”
His hands on his hips, Ted did not look convinced. “I don’t have time to make another appointment,” he snapped, glaring at her. “And I warned you about making mistakes, Miss Lansing.”
Bette took a hankie out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “I know—”
“Hey,” the guard said, looking at Bette with alarm, “I’ll just call the plant manager down here. I don’t know why you shouldn’t get that tour.” Giving her a sympathetic look, the guard dialed a dusty black phone on the wall behind him and talked for a few moments. Then he turned to Ted and Bette. “He’ll be right down. Everything’s okay.”
Bette gave the man a “You’re my hero” look of gratitude and nearly broke cover by chuckling when the man’s face turned bright red. Men were so easy. Why hadn’t anyone told her that before Ted Gaston? In spite of the dismal fact that every plant they’d visited had been woefully insecure, the week had turned out to be both revealing and exciting. At one plant the
y’d just walked in and started taking pictures. And for thirty minutes, no one had even asked why they were photographing equipment.
And Ted had proven a fun companion, one who had given her credit when she’d often been able to elicit more indiscreet information on site than he did. But she’d been very careful to keep her distance from him. Now that she was an accomplished flirt, she recognized Ted as a “lady-killer.” But she was in love with Curt. And in no danger.
The plant manager hustled toward them. “I don’t understand this. We just had a couple from Aviation Times here less than a week ago. A reporter and his secretary.”
Ted began to speak. But with sudden inspiration, Bette cut in, “Was the secretary a blond?”
“Yes, and she was very young, I thought.”
Ted’s eyes met Bette’s. He’d got it, too. “Do you have a phone I can use? I need to call my editor and see what the mix-up is.”
“Sure, sure.” The plant manager, a Mr. Harding, waved for them to join him. “You can use my phone.”
Ted whispered to Bette, “Keep him busy. I need to use the phone in private.”
Bette nodded and hurried to catch up with the plant manager. “While Mr. Gray is telephoning, could you and I get something to drink? I’m so dry I’m spitting cotton.”
“Of course, glad to.” The manager looked down at her top three undone buttons and Bette knew that, just like all the others, she’d have no trouble with this man.
When Bette and Mr. Harding returned to the manager’s office, Ted was looking grimly satisfied. “Please close the door, Mr. Harding. I need to enlist your aid.”
Looking puzzled, Harding closed the door. When he turned, Ted produced his FBI badge. “My real name is Ted Gaston and this lady is Miss Bette McCaslin. We’re with the FBI.”
Harding goggled at them. “The FBI?”
Ted nodded. “Yes, I just talked to J. Edgar Hoover and he’s still on the line. He wants to ask you for your cooperation.” Ted spoke into the phone: “Chief, here’s Mr. Harding.” Then he handed over the phone.
Mr. Harding looked more and more poleaxed as he listened. He nodded and kept saying, “Yes, sir, of course, sir.” Finally, white-faced, he handed the phone back to Ted.