The Image Seeker

by Amanda Hughes

  “There’s my girl,” the bald detective said, looking up from his drink. His eyes were bloodshot, and Billie noticed his speech was thick. “Are you still working?” he asked.

  “No,” she said and ordered a beer. “I was just taking a walk and came upon a rally at The German American Center.

  “Oh, ya? I forgot. That was tonight.”

  “What do you know about this Fritz Krugh?”

  Bud curled his lip. “The guy’s trouble. He gives the good Germans who live here a bad name.”

  “What’s his background?” Billie knew Bud was a walking encyclopedia, and he often sounded like one.

  “He’s originally from Munich, a mechanical engineer. Came here in ’28, naturalized in ’33. Back in Albany, he quickly moved up in the ranks of the U. S. branch of the Nationalist Social Party. It was called ‘The Alliance for New Germany’. The government didn’t like the organization and pressured it to disband.”

  “But they obviously didn’t.”

  “No, they just gave it a different name and moved their base down here.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “I dunno. A bit of a megalomaniac like his idol, Herr Hitler. Krugh thinks he’s the new American Führer.”

  “Do you think any trouble could come of this?”

  “On a local level, it’s possible. There are plenty of residents opposed to his views.”

  Billie’s sleep was fitful that night. Something was about to change, and she could feel it. She watched the snow falling outside her window. She thought of all the people out there cold and hungry, slapping their arms and stomping their feet to stay warm. They were ready to grasp at any ideology just to survive.

  But what really plagued her was the nagging feeling that something was about to change in her own life, something big. She sighed and rolled over. She could still see the snowflakes falling, but this time, they were shadows from the streetlight outside her window.

  * * *

  One morning, on her way to work, Billie noticed a handbill nailed to a telephone pole, announcing another German American Bund Rally.

  She headed right to the precinct.

  “Hey there, Miss Billie,” the desk sergeant said when she walked inside.

  “Is Bud here?”

  “Ya, back at his desk,” he replied, jerking his head. “But he’s up to his ears in a new homicide.”

  “Alright, I won’t keep him.”

  He was hanging up the phone as Billie walked up.

  “Hello Bud,” she said. “Do you know anything about that Bund rally tonight?”

  He sighed. “Just that it’s a pain in the ass. The desk is getting calls from all kinds of people who are pissed off.”

  “You think there’ll be trouble?”

  “There’ll be heckling. But I don’t think there’ll be enough action for a Times story if that’s what you’re looking for.” Just then, the phone rang. “Hey, listen, toots, I can’t talk. I’m up to my balls in work here.”

  “I understand. Thanks, Bud.”

  Billie pushed open the huge doors of the precinct, stepped outside, and stood on the steps biting her lip. An hour later, she was knocking on the door of Mr. Canfield’s office.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of them,” he said after she told him about the rally. “There was a little press about the group upstate, but do you have any idea how many crackpot groups are out there promoting their views? They know that, when people are desperate, they’ll listen to anyone who promises a better tomorrow.”

  “I know, Mr. Canfield, but this one has an entire community in an uproar.”

  He tapped his pencil then said, “All right. If you think it merits attention, I’ll put Corky on it with you.”

  When they arrived at the rally that night, the numbers were three times the size of the first gathering Billie had witnessed.

  “Jesus, there must be over three hundred people here,” Corky said, thrusting her hands into her pockets.

  The two women were bundled up in long coats, wearing felt cloches and boots. Snow was falling, making the streets slippery. An American flag and a Swastika, as well as a large banner of George Washington, were hanging in front of the German American Center. Two torches illuminated a raised platform. Seven boys were on the steps of the building dressed in identical black jackets and holding snare drums. They stood at rigid attention.

  Billie scanned the street and saw two mounted police officers in attendance.

  “I don’t like the feeling here tonight,” she mumbled to Corky.

  “It feels strange. Is it worse than last time?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, the boys started a military beat. A tiny man wearing a Nazi armband stepped onto the platform to direct everyone in the song, “Die Fahn Hoche.” After a brief introduction, Fritz Krugh mounted the steps to thunderous applause.

  Pausing for a moment, he scanned the crowd and then said “Fellow patriots, if you are here tonight, you know who I am. As you can see, I do not have cloven hooves and a long tail. The Jews in New York have attributed those characteristics to me.”

  Laughter.

  “I am here tonight to tell you that we do not have to stand by and watch the Democrats, Republicans, Communists, and Jews destroy this country.”

  Corky looked at Billie with pursed lips. “There most certainly is a story here.”

  They turned back as he continued, “The National Socialist Party has the answer.”

  “I’m going up,” Billie said, screwing a light bulb into her camera. She pushed toward the stage, showing her press pass. When the men dressed as storm troopers stepped aside, she was surprised. That was easy, she thought. The Bund must want exposure.

  Krugh talked about the suppressed rights of German Americans, the Constitution, and the Jews being at the center of a conspiracy. Billie took pictures of him, the drummers, the storm troopers, and the crowd.

  Suddenly, a slight young man with dark hair and a baggy suit pushed her aside and rushed the stage. Before anyone could act, he slammed Krugh to the floor of the platform. There were screams and shouts. Immediately, storm troopers swarmed the man with nightsticks and started to pummel him.

  There were more shouts, and people started to push toward the stage. The surge pinned Billie against the platform, her camera crushing her chest. It was hard to breathe.

  Someone in the crowd hollered, “Kill the Jew boy!”

  “Go to hell!” someone roared back.

  Several scuffles broke out, and the mob started moving in every direction. Billie broke free.

  There were screams and cries of, “God damn all Jews!”

  And another, “Death to all Nazis!”

  A storm trooper swung a stick with all his might into the head of a woman who spit on him.

  Men were kicking and punching each other.

  A young man threw a rock through the window of Bernstein’s Stationery Store, glass shattering everywhere. His companion grabbed one of the torches and threw it into the store, the window display bursting into flames.

  Frantically, Billie put bulb after bulb into her camera, taking photographs and trying to stay safe. Fights broke out between the Anti-Fascists and the Nazis as the two mounted police tried to restore order. Their horses pranced around desperately on the snowy streets, trying not to step on anyone.

  It was pandemonium. One man was kneeling on the chest of another, repeatedly smashing him in the face, while a group of men nearby were trying to turn Krugh’s motorcar over.

  Corky dashed up to Billie. “Thank God I found you!” she panted.

  Just as they started to run, shots were fired. Instinctively, they dropped to the ground and crawled under a truck. Waiting, they watched and listened. More shots were fired. After a few moments, Billie said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  When they slid out, Corky struggled to stand up. “Damn, I must have fallen on something,” she muttered, clutching her waist.

  Billie saw blood staining Corky’s blouse. “M
y God,” she gasped, pulling back her coat, “I think you’ve been shot.”

  Corky laughed. “Oh, I have not. I just fell on glass or something. Let’s go.” She took a step, and the color drained from her face.

  “Corky?” Billie asked, alarmed.

  Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped to the ground in a swoon.

  Chapter 19

  Luckily, the bullet missed Corky’s vital organs. Nevertheless, she was in the hospital for almost a week.

  “Will you quit beating yourself up, Bassett?” Corky barked.

  Billie was sitting on the bed in her hospital room, twisting her gloves, tears in her eyes. She had come every day, worried sick.

  Corky was pale, and her waist was bandaged, but she was making a rapid recovery.

  “I’m a journalist, Billie. It comes with the territory. No one forced me to go with you that night. This is what we do.”

  “But two people were killed. The third could have been you.”

  “Well, I wasn’t,” Corky said dismissively. “Say, I read the story. Harry did a good job covering it for me. Will you tell him?”

  Billie nodded.

  “Tonight’s New Year’s Eve,” Corky said, changing the subject. “What you are doing?”

  Billie wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “A group of us are going to The Stork Club.”

  “No date?”

  She shook her head. “Chip Elliot asked me out, but I want to go stag tonight. It’s more fun.” Billie smiled. “I’m fixing up Pauline with Max, but he doesn’t know it yet.”

  Corky frowned. “Billie, I wouldn’t─”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Billie argued. “He’s got a lot of girlfriends, but Pauline is perfect for him. She’s smart, fun, and has great legs.”

  A nurse stepped in and announced, “The doctor is on his way, ladies.”

  Billie jumped up and kissed Corky. “I have to go. Is Lillian coming tonight?”

  “Yes,” Corky whispered in her ear, “and she’s bringing champagne.”

  * * *

  Billie opened the door to her closet and pushed her clothes aside. Tonight was New Year’s Eve, and it called for something special. She reached to the back and pulled out her best full-length gown, a sleek, silver satin, backless dress. It set off her skin and hair color dramatically.

  Stepping into heels and grabbing her evening bag, she was out the door. She was late and still had to pick up Pauline.

  Pauline Hendricks was waiting outside her brownstone apartment building, frowning. She had short, toffee-colored hair and a slim figure. Her long, cherry gown peeked out underneath her coat. She hopped into the cab and exclaimed, “I damn near froze to death!”

  “Sorry, I was running late.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said, recovering quickly. She opened her clutch and lit a cigarette. “My engines are running hot thinking about seeing Max tonight.”

  Pauline smiled, showing straight but tiny teeth. Although she was attractive, her face seem hard. It was a characteristic Billie failed to see, but it was apparent to others.

  “I was running late myself,” Pauline continued, arranging her bracelet. “Mr. Lloyd had extra papers for me to type. Imagine that, on New Year’s Eve, making your secretary stay after hours. How do I look?”

  “Wonderful,” Billie replied.

  “I can’t believe Walter Grayson got us a table at The Stork Club tonight of all nights.”

  “Writing the gossip column helps. Everyone, even the already famous, want press.”

  The cab pulled up to The Stork Club, and they got out under the awning.

  “Now, remember,” Billie said as they walked inside, “Max knows nothing about the set-up,”

  “I’ll remember.”

  They swept past the doorman into the nightclub. It was awash with silver and gold decorations for the New Year. Streamers, balloons, and bells dangled from the ceiling, catching the glow of the amber lighting. It was only ten o’clock, but the crowd was already wild. Revelers sported party hats and blew tin horns, laughing, drinking, and generally getting an early start on the midnight celebration. Men were in tuxedos, and women were in shimmering gowns every color under the rainbow.

  Billie and Pauline were escorted back to a large, circular booth, where Max, Harry Johnson, Walter Grayson, and his wife Irma were sitting. The men stood up.

  “Have you met Pauline Hendricks?” Billie asked, sliding in.

  They all nodded and greeted her, sitting back down.

  “So, ladies, do you like Cole Porter?” Walter asked. He peered at them over his glasses. Tall and skinny with curly dark hair, Walter Grayson knew everyone in New York, at least everyone that mattered in high society.

  “Is he here?” Billie and Pauline both said at the same time.

  “Yes, with Linda, of course.”

  “I saw Gertie Lawrence at the bar,” Irma, his well-groomed wife, stated, taking a sip of her drink.

  “Anyone from Hollywood?” Pauline asked.

  “I haven’t seen anyone yet,” Walter replied. “They may be up in the Cub Room. There’s a private party up there tonight.”

  She sighed. “I was hoping we would be up there tonight.”

  Max chuckled. “Sorry that we couldn’t provide the Snub Room for you, Pauline.”

  “Oh, no, Max. This is just dandy, just dandy,” she said, leaning in and flashing a smile at him.

  Max looked startled.

  After the waiter brought drinks, Harry asked Billie to dance.

  When they stood up, Walter took his wife’s hand and said, “Let’s cut a rug too, darling.”

  Max looked at Pauline, smiled weakly, and asked, “Dance?”

  “Love to!” she replied.

  The dance floor was jammed, but Max managed to maneuver Pauline over to where Billie and Harry were dancing. He chuckled when he saw them. Harry’s leathery skin and arthritic posture seemed more suited to the deck of a ship than the dance floor. He was in stark contrast to Billie, who stood almost a head taller than him, looking sleek and polished in her satin gown and high heels. Silver earrings stood out against her thick, dark hair.

  “You two make quite a pair,” Max called over to them.

  Harry winked a bloodshot eye and swung Billie off.

  When the song ended, Max tried to free himself, but Pauline clutched his arm. “How about another?”

  He looked around for Billie, but she had disappeared. Reluctantly, he consented to another dance with Pauline, but he was getting the distinct impression she was pursuing him.

  The evening passed quickly. After they ate supper, everyone started circulating. Max dashed to the other side of the club to have a drink with some old friends, while Billie and Pauline accepted dance invitations.

  “Shall I come on a little stronger with Max?” Pauline asked Billie when they finally sat down. “He keeps wandering off.”

  “Maybe,” Billie replied and looked down at her watch. “It’s almost midnight. If we find him soon, you can let him know exactly how you feel.”

  “Let’s go,” Pauline said, grabbing her clutch.

  They pushed their way through the crowd, looking for Max. When the band announced it was the final song for 1935, they still had not found him.

  “I’ll go this way,” Pauline told Billie. “You go that way.”

  Billie wound through the throngs of revelers, refusing dances and getting groped by drunks. At last, she spotted Max, smoking and leaning against one of the small portable bars. He was standing alone, watching the crowd with an amused look on his face.

  Billie hadn’t realized how dashing he looked. Although all the men were wearing tuxedos, Max stood out from the rest. His broad shoulders and slim frame were ideal for the cut of fine clothing.

  She broke through the crowd and started over to him.

  When he saw her, he straightened up. “Why hello,” he said.

  “Just in time!” she exclaimed, breathlessly. “I’ve been lo
oking all over for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I need you for the count-down.”

  “What?” He drew his dark eyebrows together. “Bassett, you can’t be serious.”

  “Of course, I am,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Come on.”

  She led him out onto the dance floor as the count-down began. “Ten, nine, eight,” the crowd roared.

  “Where are we going?” Max asked, but Billie ignored him.

  “Five, four,” the crowd continued.

  Max pulled her and said, “Stop!” but she would not turn around. She was searching frantically for Pauline.

  Finally, he yanked her into his arms, looked down at her, and said, “Here is just fine. Happy New Year.”

  The expression on his face confused Billie, and she leaned back. “Max, no─”

  “Three, two.”

  Suddenly, someone grabbed Max’s arm. “There you are!” Pauline exclaimed.

  When Max turned to look, Billie broke free, and Pauline stepped into her place.

  “One!” the crowd shouted.

  “Happy New Year, Max!” Pauline said, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.

  The band started playing Auld Lang Syne, and Billie disappeared into the crowd. That was a strange encounter, she thought as she bumped and pushed her way through the revelers. What on earth is wrong with Max? She returned to the table where she drank a toast with Harry, Walter, and Irma.

  Pauline hung onto Max for the rest of the night. The more champagne she consumed, the clingier she became. Every chance he got, he glared at Billie.

  At last, he had had enough and said, “I’m calling it a night.”

  “Me too,” Pauline slurred. “Take me home, handsome?”

  “Um, yes,” Max replied. He leaned over and muttered to Billie, “And you’re helping me get her there.”

  She nodded.

  When Billie got into the taxi, Pauline whined, “What the hell is she doing here?”

  “It’s too hard to find a cab on New Year’s Eve. We have to share,” Max explained.