Bette

by Lyn Cote

  Ted said good-bye to the chief and then turned to Bette. “Would you please go out to the car and bring in my briefcase from the trunk? I have the photos of our list of possible Nazi agents in it. Mr. Harding, we’re hoping you will help us identify the agents who were here just days ago.” Ted handed her his keys.

  Bette took the ring of keys and hurried out. Would this pan out big? As her heels clicked down the concrete steps, she allowed a dash of hope. Had they hit their first real lead?

  Four hours later, Harding slumped in his chair with one head in his hand. “I can’t believe I let them look at the plans for the new four-engine Fighting Fortress.”

  Ted was glancing over his notes from the interrogation of Harding. He’d taken Harding over the tour time after time until he was satisfied that he’d gotten all he wanted from or could possibly get from the man. “I thank you, Mr. Harding. And what’s more, your country thanks you.”

  “But I feel like a fool.” Harding looked up, defeated. “Why did I do it?”

  “We’re not used to thinking about spies in this country,” Bette replied for Ted. “You’re an honest man so you think others are, too.”

  It suddenly hit her that this evening when she returned to D. C., an exciting interruption in her boring everyday routine would end. For the very first time in her life, she resented that there were some paths women were prohibited from following.

  “Well, I’m going to be thinking different from now on.” Harding straightened up and looked determined. “Security around here is going to be beefed up starting today.”

  Bette admitted to herself that she’d have loved being an FBI agent. But there were no G-women. Why can’t I do this instead of spending my days filing?

  Ted rose from where he’d been perched on the man’s desk. “I think that is advisable. And though I can’t give anything away, don’t worry, I think we can find a way to keep the information you let slip from ever reaching Germany.”

  “You can? How?”

  Ted grinned. “Can’t tell you. Just believe that the FBI takes national security very seriously.”

  “I’m glad.” Harding stood and shook Ted’s hand. “You don’t know how glad. Thank you for all your work.”

  “Thank you for all your help.” Ted headed toward the door and then looked back. “Whatever sins you committed were paid for when you identified the two Nazis who toured your plant last week. We needed that . . . badly. Now, one more thing—you have to forget we were ever here. You can tell the company’s president. The chief plans to call him personally. You cannot tell anyone else of our visit. Not your wife. Not anyone. This is a matter of national security.”

  After swearing not to divulge anything to anyone, Harding escorted them out to their car. They watched him march back toward the plant.

  “I’ll bet some changes will be made today,” Bette observed, pushing away her turbulent feelings over the ending of this investigation—or at least, her part in it.

  “Let’s get back to D.C. fast. The chief wants us to meet him at his home. He’s got something to discuss with you.”

  “Me?” Bette stopped in her tracks and stared at Ted.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  June 1940

  At the end of her first week at her new job, Bette sat at her polished maple desk in Senator Lundeen’s office. As she typed a press release, the rapidly clicking keys cheered her. Each day, in her tailored two-piece suits, she tried to appear the perfect discreet secretary—an illusion, of course. Her days at the War Department had ended, at Mr. Hoover’s request. And her job here had come at his behest—though she was the only one, other than Ted Gaston, who knew this. She still had trouble believing that a US senator could be consorting with an Abwehr agent right in the Capitol offices. And that the FBI would investigate a US senator. But that was her real job.

  “Good morning, Miss.”

  Bette looked up from her typewriter and smiled perfunctorily at the well-dressed, middle-aged man standing on the thick navy carpet. “Mr. Viereck, back again so soon?” To do your dirty work?

  “There is much to be done.” The man had no humor in him. “I must do everything I can to stop America from making the mistake of becoming entangled in a second foreign war.”

  Then talk to Hitler. He started the second war. She gave the man another false smile. Mr. Viereck had been the first person she’d reported to Ted as a possible Nazi agent. Then she’d overheard him speaking to the charge d’affaires at the German Embassy in this very office on her phone. His brazenness had shocked Bette, but had made it certain that he had ties to Germany. The German Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue was a hotbed of espionage. Bette had wanted to see some action taken against Viereck. But, of course, his actions weren’t illegal, just suspicious. What was her boss thinking of having anything to do with a man who was so obviously tied to German interests?

  “Is the senator in?”

  She nodded and pressed a button on the newly installed intercom at her desk. “Senator, Mr. Viereck is here.” At the senator’s response, she waved the man into the inner office, but she did not turn off the intercom. After the door closed, she lowered the volume on the intercom, so she could eavesdrop without anyone, who might pass by, guessing what she was doing. Though it was much less incriminating than listening at the keyhole, the eavesdropping made her pulse quicken. She couldn’t afford to be caught. The FBI didn’t recognize she existed—officially.

  “I think I’ve solved our problem,” she heard her boss’s distinctive baritone, though only a whisper to her. “You can use Hamilton Fish’s office.”

  “He’s the head of the National Committee to Keep America Out of Foreign Wars, isn’t he?” Viereck asked.

  “Yes, and he’s quite willing to send out reprints of my latest speeches in that cause.”

  “Excellent.”

  Bette noted Fish’s name, but no doubt the FBI were aware of his sympathies. Outside the office door, a congressman and his secretary walked by. Keeping up appearances, Bette tucked a new piece of paper into the typewriter.

  “And since my speeches are included in The Congressional Record,” the senator bragged, “you can get free reprints of them from the Government Printing Office.”

  “Excellent.” Viereck’s voice radiated with enthusiasm. “And can we use the congressman’s franking privilege, too?”

  Bette felt her temperature rising. So the American taxpayer would foot the cost of printing and postage for Nazi propaganda!

  For the first time in her life, she wished she knew some colorful curses and that she had the nerve to voice them. The real question was, however, did the senator have a clue of whom he was dealing with? Didn’t it ever occur to him that his agenda was aiding Hitler? That his speeches amounted to Nazi propaganda? She tightened the paper in the typewriter with a snap.

  During their last phone call, Bette had reported to Ted that Viereck had already sent out copies of Hitler’s recent speech offering peace—if England would surrender. How could anyone believe the same line Hitler had used to seize the Sudetenland?

  “We have to stop Roosevelt before he drags us into this war,” the senator said. “What did we get out of the first war over there?”

  “Nothing but death, debt, and George M. Cohan.” Both men chuckled at the popular isolationist line. “Also, Senator,” Viereck continued, “I think I will be able to further our cause at the convention—”

  From the corner of her eye, Bette saw movement. She switched off the intercom and bent as though picking up something on the floor. When she looked up, she smiled at the congressional aide who’d come to deliver something to the senator. Her heart raced, but she’d had the volume so low that she’d been barely able to hear it herself and the young man looked as if he’d noticed nothing. He departed and Bette was left wondering what Viereck was planning for the Republican Convention in Philadelphia in a few weeks.

  Later that week, Curt and Bette walked hand in hand under the Sycamore trees of the quiet Georgeto
wn street. Another Sunday afternoon together. In short sleeves, Curt carried the jacket to his white linen suit folded over his arm. Bette wore a casual red-and-white dotted Swiss blouse and dirndl skirt. It was too steamy for gloves or silk stockings.

  For the first time ever, Bette had a hard time concentrating on Curt. Her latest meeting with Ted, still her FBI contact, kept floating around in her head. Thousands of Nazi dollars were being funneled into and through the isolationist congressmen and committees. Constituents were being flooded with Lundeen’s speeches. Still, no one had broken the law. Was it always like this in a free country? Did the bad guys always use the Bill of Rights for their own nasty purposes?

  “I still don’t like all this traveling you’re doing,” he snapped, interrupting her thoughts. “I thought it was only supposed to be one trip.”

  His sharp words pushed Bette into irritation with him. But he doesn’t know. And she realized that was the crux of the matter. I’m leading a double life I can’t reveal even to the man I love. What had she gotten herself into? Is this what she really wanted?

  Her mind still wouldn’t switch to Curt. Photographs of Nazi agents flashed in her mind. Ted was preparing her for the GOP convention, to watch for these men and women, these spies and traitors. “Curt, it’s just part of my job. I—”

  “First,” he interrupted again, sounding aggrieved, “you’re gone for nearly two weeks in May and now a week in Philadelphia. Isn’t there anyone else in the senator’s office who can go to the convention?”

  “The senator wants me to go.” And so does Mr. Hoover. The purpose for Bette’s attendance at the GOP Convention was twofold: her surface one, to help the senator and George Viereck continue stoking the isolationist frenzy; her hidden one, to keep tabs on Viereck and other Abwehr agents for the FBI. So far they’d done nothing illegal. But she was to be on the lookout for any direct payoffs or bribes. Or any new faces.

  Curt drew her to a shady park bench and they sat down side by side. “Maybe we should move up our wedding date.”

  “No.” Bette’s denial came so swift and urgent that she shocked herself. I’m in too deep, Curt. I can’t back out now.

  Curt looked as startled as she felt. “Does this job mean more to you than us?”

  Bette struggled to bring up words. What explanation could she give? She couldn’t tell him the truth. She had been sworn to secrecy. The biggest question was why did she want to go on with this type of work when it separated her from Curt? Was it being trusted to do something bold and important for her country? Or what? “It’s hard,” she spoke the truth at least, “for me to put this into words.”

  “Try me.”

  Why am I doing this? Even if I told Curt, he wouldn’t believe me. Spying on people isn’t like me at all. And according to Ted, that’s why I’m so good at it. She searched for the real reason she wanted to do this.

  Curt watched her, not touching her, frowning.

  Finally the images from the freighter on the night when they rescued Ilsa poured through her mind. The pale, defeated, hopeless faces in the gray dawn never failed to move her. “I think . . . I think it has to do with Gretel and Ilsa.”

  “What could they possibly have to do with your trip to Philadelphia?” Curt searched her face. He looked angry with her.

  Bette found herself mangling her purse straps. Everything she did that strengthened the US weakened Hitler, and Hitler had targeted Gretel’s family, her race, and finally, the rest of the world. How to phrase this without giving herself away? “We can’t ignore what’s happening in Europe.”

  “But the senator you work for is a blind isolationist,” Curt exclaimed in frustration. “What can working for him do to help Gretel?”

  “You’re right, I know.” She pursed her lips, groping for words, for a plausible explanation. “I’m hoping that I might be able to do something to change his mind.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” Curt’s disgust sounded clear.

  He was right. But it was the best she could come up with. “I’m worried, Curt, so worried. I don’t think we can stay out of what’s happening.”

  This changed Curt’s expression, softened it. He took her hand. “On our Sundays together, you and I’ve always tried to ignore what was happening overseas.”

  Yes, we’ve tried to have a private life. I love this man so much. How can I help him understand what I can’t tell him? Please. She nodded and squeezed his hand. The contact brought back that reassuring connection she always felt with him. “But we can’t anymore.” On this, they agreed. She tightened her hold on his hand. “Germany now controls Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and northern France. And just think how much of middle Europe Hitler grabbed before he attacked Poland. Do you think he’ll stop there?”

  “No.” Curt’s denial was flat and harsh.

  No wonder their words were stirring up emotions, even anger. We can’t stop it. She stretched her tight neck. “Now there’s a bill proposing a peace-time draft. Sometimes, I sympathize with my boss’s trying to keep us out of war. A draft . . . It’s too close to . . .”

  Looking away as if he didn’t want to face her words either, Curt caressed her hands within his, his thumb stroking the sensitive flesh of her palm. “We’re just two people in love. And the world’s gone crazy.”

  They both fell silent for a time. The blazing sun beat down. Shafts of it from between the glossy green leaves overhead heated Bette’s shoulders. The sound of cars motoring by, of pigeons cooing to each other and flapping their ineffectual wings, of a girl giggling nearby—just ordinary Sunday afternoon noises.

  What did a bomber sound like when it soared overhead? What did buildings blowing apart sound like? Were flamethrowers silent? What about a machine gun? Did it sound like the ones in the movies? Or worse?

  Bette felt sick, shaken. But she knew it was inevitable: what would come, would come. She’d made her choice already. She’d do anything to see Hitler crushed. Even keep things from the man she loved. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against Curt’s firm shoulder. “We’re an ocean away from what’s happening, Curt. But that isn’t far enough now that the Nazis have high-powered bombers and submarines. It’s like being in a waking dream. We’re on the beach watching a tidal wave coming straight at us. And we’re frozen in horror—we can’t get away from it.”

  Curt put his arm around her. “I’m happy I’m not marrying an ignorant woman”—his voice was rough, low—“a woman who hasn’t a clue about what’s happening all around her. But we must go on anyway. We are going to go on with plans to marry in August—despite the war in Europe and even with the possibility of the draft.” He kissed her cheek, keeping her tight against him, as if protecting her. “It might still be voted down.”

  Bette nodded, but didn’t believe a word he said about their wedding. World and national events could separate them at any moment. Why hadn’t they married two years ago when she’d first asked him why they shouldn’t? They could have had two years together before this . . .

  For some reason, she suddenly thought of home, of Ivy Manor, on this summer afternoon. Her mother and stepfather would be sitting in the summer house discussing the Sunday paper, kissing when they thought no one would see them.

  Bette sighed. She’d always loved the story of her mother’s elopement with her father just days before he’d been shipped overseas to France. Now she glimpsed how it must have felt, the torture her mother must have endured. The runaway marriage sounded romantic twenty years later, but at the time, her mother must have suffered in a way Bette was just beginning to realize, to share.

  I could lose Curt. He could die like my father did. She wanted to weep, felt the tears gathering in her throat. She forced them down. Their time together might be short and shouldn’t be spoiled by tears.

  She would face the present, go to Philadelphia for the FBI while continuing with her wedding plans. She would continue her double life for a while longer. But now she admitted silently that Curt and she—just as her paren
ts had been in 1917—were unwilling passengers on the roller coaster that was 1940.

  GOP Convention, Philadelphia, June 1940

  “I will fight to the last ditch to foil interventionists,” the senator from South Dakota shouted, pounding the podium, “the rabble rousers, the deceptionists in their high-financed campaign to start this country shooting!” Applause swallowed up the rest of the Republican delegate’s words.

  Amid the raucous, perspiring crowd, Bette sat still, watching, listening. Before she’d left D.C., Ted had dropped over and given her photos of more suspected Abwehr agents and Nazi sympathizers. She was on the lookout for them here at the GOP National Convention. Today was the day they would most probably make appearances.

  Today the Republican Party was to vote on whether or not to pass legislation urging isolation from the European war. The War Debts Defense Committee, the Islands for War Debts Committee, the Make Europe Pay War Debts Committee and finally, the whole hog organization, the No Foreign Wars Committee—Bette was sick to death of them. But she kept smiling and saying, “Yes, sir,” to her boss, even as she noted down his activities with Nazi sympathizers.

  Right now, she wished she were almost anywhere else than sitting here between her boss and Viereck. Her gaze roamed the swirling, bunching mass of people gathered in the convention meeting hall. The men wore straw hats with red, white, and blue hatbands and buttons declaring the candidate they were supporting.

  Viereck had been buzzing around the GOP Convention like the King Bee. He always had a bright smile for her, his favorite senator’s secretary. She smiled, but did not flirt. So far that ploy hadn’t been suggested and she didn’t feel like flirting with a Nazi.

  In her lap, today’s newspaper sat opened to a full-page ad, paid for by Viereck and others: “Delegates to the Republican Convention and to American Mothers, Wage-earners, Farmers, and Veterans! Stop the War Machine! Stop the Warmongers! Stop the Democratic Party, which is leading us to war!” All around her, murmurs swelled at the speaker on the platform. To applause, the congressman from South Dakota finished his diatribe against becoming involved in the war in Europe and started gathering up his notes to leave the podium.