Hank did not like lying, so now he was going to make good on the excuse he had made to Greta. He shut the darkroom door and turned on the red light. In the darkroom he was alone and he could think, and right now he needed to think. The darkroom solitude helped reveal clarity in his thoughts and, like pictures, they were allowed to develop. How could such a sweet girl be mixed in with a crime against the United States? Was she going to carry the documents to Switzerland, or were her brothers playing with him? Good God, they were security guards at a classified facility. They could get him deported as a spy. If they were truly stealing technical plans, joining them was unthinkable. Or was it all a trap to see if he was a Nazi? He sang their damned song at dinner, and they could use that as circumstantial evidence. Most important of all, what were they going to do to him? Those guys were a real pair of goons.
There were no threats in the darkroom. Hank found Shel’s envelope and pried open the first cassette. There were five rolls of film to load onto the reels. He felt the film load neatly onto the spokes, and dropped the reels into the tanks. Once the negatives were hung out to dry, he made himself a cup of tea.
O’Brien and Hicks had suggested that he continue seeing Greta, and they hinted that there would be protection available. Easy for them to say. What was there in this for him, other than every opportunity for a disaster? If he were implicated with her and her family, he would lose his visa, and if he didn’t cooperate with his newfound friends in the FBI he would lose his visa. The Feds could pull it at any time and now they were pulling him like salt water taffy. He set up the photo enlarger. Time to work. Good grief, did Shel want prints or did he just want a contact sheet? Darn it. He didn’t say. Hank decided to run a contact sheet. Images of girls popped into view.
What in heck were they wearing? Oh right, Shel certainly needed to see if they had nice legs. Apparently when the girl stood straight, her thighs, knees and ankles had to all match up evenly, and all the girls needed to be about the same proportions. Gorgeous, but no one had ever mentioned anything about exposed breasts. Two ladies were not covered up, they were in their tap pants with boas, but no blouses, not even camisoles. Hank whistled. That’s what men do, right? He practiced his American wolf-whistle again.
A pretty Spanish shawl appeared, but the brunette was wearing nothing else. Wait a minute – Rosenbaum’s didn’t do this kind of thing. And obviously Rosenbaum trusted him implicitly – even with the accounting and inventory for all the materials. As nice as these girls looked, this was lewd and immoral. Now the censors would be in line to deport him for moral turpitude. What was old Rosenbaum thinking? He shut his eyes and took a deep breath wondering what Greta would look like without her blouse. There might not be a wedding night to find out. Thoughts about Greta did not belong in this room, not with these women who had stripped for Shel’s camera. He needed air.
Outside, newsboys were yelling on the corner and he picked up a paper to hide behind at lunch. A black headache was forming. The Woolworth’s lunch counter reeked of fried food, burgers on the grill and the slightly rancid odor of hot dogs. A sandwich plate arrived in front of him. What made him think he wanted egg salad? At least the egg salad should be easy to digest if he could gag down the mayonnaise.
Digesting the news was something else. Events of the past two days whirled around him: lovely Greta, an awkward walk by the river, and two brothers who expected that he would join them as Nazi sympathizers. They assumed that it was only a matter of time until the U.S. joined their glamorous nationalist vision. Hank blinked back tears of rage.
Why was the United States remaining neutral in the face of all this? God knows what had happened to the Amsterdam dry goods business. He really should write his mother with an update on all his successes in the U.S. Maybe she would like to see a photo of him with his fiancée, once the problems with Greta’s brothers were behind them, or a special art photo of his American beauty. Oh! Those photos. The negatives and contact sheets were hanging in the dark room at Rosenbaum’s and he needed to get back to work.
Hank filled the tanks of the enlarger and began to print. The contact sheets full of nude women weren’t as disturbing as they had been earlier. Now they were just black and white celluloid images. Each frame revealed positive and negative space and maybe a lighting pattern here or there. He was an artist, and the images were now an abstraction.
If only life would come into focus like photos. Is a marriage doomed if there is no brotherly love? Or do you just marry the girl and ask her to stay away from her family? If he married Greta right away, then worries about his visa would be over. He would be on the track to becoming a naturalized citizen. What an irony to have his ticket to citizenship in the hands of Nazi sympathizers.
***
By lunchtime Wednesday Greta was back at her station at Woolworth’s. Her friend Emily commented, “Hey, I thought Hank was going with you to your folks last weekend. Instead he was in here on Monday, reading a newspaper and nibbling at a little egg salad sandwich. You need to take better care of that boy. He looked exhausted.” Instead of worrying, Greta took a breath of relief. Apparently Hank really did have a huge client order. He must have been preoccupied with the work. Now she could tell her brothers to lay off.
She carried the coffeepot to Hank. “I bet you would like some tea?”
“No, it’s OK, coffee is fine.”
“Since when did you start drinking coffee?”
“Since I started dating a real American girl. I know you like coffee, so I’m willing to drink it.” He smiled at her, a luminous engaging smile with the twinkling blue eyes that she had come to love. “I’m awfully sorry about the extra work.” He eyed at the top buttons of her blouse, and the outline of her camisole underneath. “Um, Greta, the client gave us an entrance card for the Arcadia Club. Would you like to go dancing Saturday? I know it’s short notice.”
Greta stared at him, then smiled. “But that’s really high society. Are you sure?”
“Well, he’s an important client and he liked the work.” Hank paused, “Look, I need to make this up to you. And it’ll be a chance for me to get out of the darkroom. How about you put on a snazzy dress and I’ll pick you up at 7:00 for dinner and dancing? Let’s celebrate just a little bit.”
“What’s your idea of a snazzy dress?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a little daring, something your mother would not want you to wear?”
“Do I look like my mother to you?” She pursed her lips into a little pout.
“Oh good heavens, I just was thinking, you’re prettier than any of those showgirls.”
“So you just want to show me?”
He wanted her to flirt, but teasing confused him. “No, no— Please, I’m just hungry. Is there any meatloaf today?”
***
The parlor of Mrs. Foster’s rooming house was centered around the large uncomfortable Victorian sofa, covered in black horsehair. A baby grand piano stood in the corner, but Hank had never paid any attention during his seven years of weekly lessons at the conservatory. He couldn’t play. Two overstuffed chairs with down cushions were separated, one under each window, probably because the high windows offered enough light to read by during the day. A jungle of small tables with doilies and plants were scattered through the room.
A hall ran past Mrs. Foster’s room, leading to the creaking stairs that led up to the four young women’s rooms on the second story. Mrs. Foster greeted all young men in her parlor, and left her own door ajar late at night until she heard each of the four girls enter the house, and a single set of footsteps ascend the stairs. Young men were only allowed into the parlor, and no visitor was to spend more than half an hour there. Hank walked down Maplewood Drive at 6:55, because he knew that Greta would take a few moments before coming downstairs. It wasn’t proper to be too eager to meet with a young man.
She came down the stairs in a lovely wine red dress, draping softl
y against her figure, and pulled low on her shoulders. With it was a black shawl, covered with a field of spring blooms and long fringe. A new lipstick brightened her blonde features. He practiced his wolf whistle and grinned. “You look absolutely beautiful, like a rose in full bloom!” He also wondered what she would look like without the dress.
“One of the gals helped me. She even lent me her shawl. Is it too much?”
Thinking of the pictures he had developed over the past weekend, he gazed at her. “Just right.” Her new high-heels had open toes, so he decided to splurge on a cab. The dainty straps were just the thing for kicking up her heels and she had been admiring those shoes in the shop window for weeks. His pleasure at her happiness was tinged with worry. Her brothers appeared to be very serious about their intention to steal the bombsight plans. Obviously they planned to control her, and he didn’t want a wife who would be controlled by her brothers. Then again, who wants a wife who rebels against her father and brothers? Either way, he didn’t see how he could spend his life with a family of Nazis. Greta chattered away about the pretty summer evening. His mind whirled as the cab meandered through streets toward downtown.
Hank had planned an evening of dinner and dancing to remember. No matter what happened, he desperately wanted to do things right. The exclusive Arcadia dinner club had awnings across the front. Candlelight glinted in the dark room illuminating white shirtfronts, and sparkles of jewelry. He had never been in there. When he ordered the Chateaubriand from an expensive club menu, Greta looked at him, puzzled. Her Hans had always been frugal, if not downright stingy. Tom O’Brien had told him that the FBI would be picking up the tab. “My God, Hank, what is the occasion?”
His hands shook imperceptibly as he unfolded the napkin, but a hawk-like glance was circling the room to either protect her or to claim her. He wasn’t sure how he felt about involving the FBI in his personal affairs. Then he grinned, gazing at her. “Oh, I just wanted to treat us to a special evening. I’m so sorry I had to work overtime last weekend. The least I can do is spend the bonus on you.”
He wasn’t sure he had been convincing.
So, once again he was not going to propose. Greta had her own silent dialogue, the one where Hank would take her away from her family. She kept waiting for the proposal. School would be ending in three months, and she would be sent to Geneva if she didn’t have a wedding to plan. Oh, dear God.
He tried small talk. “So how is your family? I’m so sorry I had to leave them. I’d really looked forward to going fishing with your brothers.”
She fiddled with her napkin, picked up her glass of Cabernet and gulped, hissing out the words. “The last people I want to talk about right now are those two stupid brothers of mine.” A quick swipe with the napkin removed the droplet of wine hanging from her lip.
This was one heck of a mixed message. She took him home to meet the family, and now she didn’t want to talk about them. Was she a Nazi or were they assuming she was just along for their ride, like they had assumed about him? It was a little late for him to investigate the options.
“Well, at least I didn’t take you out for spaghetti. It looks like Italy is joining the war. Or, maybe we should have. We may not be able to get spaghetti after they do. They can keep their tomatoes and eggplants, but I do really like a great Fettucini Alfredo.”
“Hank, are you talking about food or politics?”
“Um, food, I guess.”
She wiped her mouth and stifled a sigh. “Do you mind leaving the war out of it?”
“Well, may I ask you just one question and then drop the subject?”
Hank looked around the room then twisted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. Greta interrupted his internal commentary. “Look Hank I really can’t answer any questions about politics. I don’t know and I don’t care. Hitler and Mussolini just want to be movie stars, and put on pageants. You are a cameraman. Certainly you can see that.”
“Let’s kick up these new heels. I didn’t put them on to hide them under a tablecloth.”
He grabbed her arm, and led her onto the dance floor, holding her tightly around the waist. Other couples were swaying back and forth, ebbing and flowing with the music. The big band was playing a Duke Ellington favorite, “Don’t Get Around Much Any More,” and a sax solo echoed the sadness that he was studiously avoiding. Across the floor he spotted Mike Hicks seated with a plain brunette, and turned away from them. They had a pair of martini glasses on the table already and didn’t look particularly worried.
There was a sudden tap on his shoulder. A tall red-headed man reeking of gin bumped into them. “Can I cut in?” He tried to grab Greta’s hand.
Greta shook her head and placed her arms around Hank’s neck. “No, thank you!” A moment later the same hand tapped him. O’Brien was not a person to hide on a dance floor.
“Buddy, I said I want to cut in. I’ll give you the dame back in one piece.”
“She is not a ‘dame,’ she’s my….” O’ Brien practically lifted Greta out of Hank’s arms.
“And I don’t want to …”
“That’s a sweet dress, honey.” O’Brien grabbed her hands and began to spin her around. She gasped in panic, looking as if she were about to cry. O’Brien snapped his head toward the men’s room, and Hank followed his eyes in that direction while O’Brien tried not to step on Greta’s new shoes.
Mike Hicks was in the lavatory, washing his hands with a sink turned on full blast. “So what have you learned?”
“She doesn’t care for politics. She thinks it is all posturing and show.”
“I’m not sure we care what she thinks. We are investigating her brothers. And if she’s neutral she is more of a threat than they are.”
“That can’t be right. The United States is not at war. We have businesses all over the world that would be lost if we entered a war.”
“You mean like your family business in Holland?”
“What?”
“Come on Hank, we had to do a full background check on you. It came out clean. You are the real McCoy.”
“The what?”
“You’re okay, Mr. Bernsteen. Not sure why you changed your name. We have to get you back out on that dance floor. This is the last refrain on that song and your girl will be waiting. O’Brien hates to dance. We will talk more, Ontario Beach Park, near the carousel, tomorrow morning at 11:00. Skip church.”
“But …”
“Tell her you have a headache. Women use that one all the time.”
***
Hank put his arm around Greta and led her to the standing taxis. She smiled appreciatively, knowing that he was not going to risk being accosted by the red headed man again. Her feet hurt, and soon they would be in a softly lit parlor saying good night. But somehow, she needed to get into his rooms, and quickly. She wasn’t even quite sure of the address. She snuggled into him. “If only these evenings did not end.” Her face tilted up to his, and he kissed her nose. She grabbed his collar and pulled his mouth to hers, a buttery soft kiss full of intent.
He opened his eyes, astonished. “Do you want to stay out a little longer?”
“Well, if only we had somewhere to go, somewhere a little more comfortable. I can’t have men into Mrs. Foster’s parlor after 11:00 and it’s almost that now. Do you have the same rules where you live?”
He laughed softly. “No, not really, just more of a gentleman’s understanding. We don’t bring immoral women into the house. The family lives downstairs, and another gentleman and I live in the two wings of the house upstairs. It’s very pleasant, I have a porch overlooking the river, and there was a closet that I made into a darkroom. I plan to stay there until…”
“Until you get married?”
“Um, I haven’t given much thought to marriage yet. I would want to buy a house of my own for that.”
“You don’t have to own a house to be
a husband!”
“Well, it would be best, don’t you think? I would want my wife to be comfortable.”
“Any candidates?”
Hank bit his lip. The taxi pulled up and Hank quickly unlocked the right side of the duplex. A narrow staircase went up to a dark sitting room and a brightly lit kitchen area. The two gentleman’s rooms were down a dark hallway. “I can make a pot of tea. Would you like that? The kitchen is away from the family bedrooms.” Hank started the teakettle and pulled some bread and cheese out of a cabinet. “May I make you a toasted cheese sandwich?”
Dear God, he was hungry again. Did the man have no interests other than food and cameras? She was stuffed from dinner, but she had to report to her brothers.
“Could I just have a bite of yours? It sounds tasty, but I’m full.” He made two sandwiches and dove into his with a knife and fork, fastidiously peeling the drips of melted cheese away from the edges. She picked hers up, took a bite out of the center, and set it back down on the plate.
“Hank, you don’t really talk about your family. You’ve met mine. Will I ever be able to meet any of yours?”
Hank tried to think of a response. He had not written a letter since he arrived in New York nearly two years ago. “I am writing a letter to my mother and sister. In fact, I want to take a special photo of us together to send them.”
“You have taken hundreds of photos of me.”
“Yes, but I want one of us so that…”
“So that they know you are not alone?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Which is your room?”
He looked at her, quite puzzled. “You don’t want to go into my bedroom, do you?”
She looked down, embarrassed, “Oh no, I just wanted to think about you in your home sometimes when we are not together.”
He smiled, “It’s the second one down on the left, the one with the porch.”
***
Islands of Deception Page 10