The Fifth Column

by Andrew Gross

  “We don’t know what we’ll find in there,” he said. “And we don’t want to surprise the shit out of anyone and turn this into a shooting incident. You stay behind me, you understand?” he said to me. “I want your commitment on that.”

  “You have it. I just want to find my daughter, Fiske. That’s all.”

  “All right. We’re looking for a six-year-old girl,” he instructed the other officers. “We don’t know who we’ll find inside. They might well be armed. I don’t want any incidents to escalate out of control. So no guns except if absolutely necessary.”

  The state policemen nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  We took off up the road in the darkness. The only light was a streetlamp twenty yards down the road. A few of the Feds had flashlights. Who knew if there was a lookout posted somewhere. Or if Emma and Mrs. Shearer were even here. This was all just a big hunch.

  The camp was built in 1936 by the German American Bund, one of the pro-Nazi organizations, whose volatile leader, Fritz Kuhn, had been convicted and jailed on tax evasion charges six months earlier. It was originally designed as a place where German-American families and immigrants might spend a country weekend in the summer remembering their homeland, but quickly morphed into a training ground for German Youth, celebrating Hitler and his annexations of Austria and the Sudetenland, and then his march through Europe. Swastikas were openly worn and anti-Jewish doctrines were taught. The Ku Klux Klan even held a rally here before I went to Auburn in 1939. We passed a sign. In German. It read, WAS WIR IN DEUTSCHLAND ERREICHT HABEN, AUCH HIER. “What we have achieved in Germany, here too.”

  We came upon a chained wooden gate blocking the road. A sign hung from it in English and German, ACHTUNG. GESCHLOSSEN. CLOSED. PRIVATE PROPERTY, it continued in English. NO ADMITTANCE SUBJECT TO PENALTY BY THE NEW JERSEY DEPARTMENT OF REVENUE.

  Guns drawn, we squeezed around the shut gate. Crickets chirped and the narrow road opened and we came upon a large white clapboard structure bordering an open field. The main clubhouse. It was completely darkened. Two of the men ran up onto the large porch, Adirondack chairs still lining it. The front door had a lock and chain securing it.

  “No one here. Let’s go on.” One of them came back around, waving us on.

  We went farther. There was a flagpole in the central field, from which I had no doubt a Nazi flag once waved prominently. There were several small white slate-roofed cabins situated around the field.

  It was after four in the morning, and I didn’t see a light in the entire complex.

  My blood tensed. Could I have been wrong?

  We kept on moving in the dark. One by one, we started checking the individual cabins. The first three were locked. Not even a porch light on. The whole place looked completely deserted. Fiske said it had been closed down eight months ago by the FBI and state authorities as the Bund’s anti-U.S. propaganda grew more heated and the United States and Germany inched closer to war. It looked every bit of just that—shut down. No sign of life.

  I began to grow worried.

  Some of the cabins seemed to be set deeper in the woods. In the darkness, it was hard to even locate the trail. After checking six or seven of them, Fiske came over to me and gave me a frustrated shrug. I’m sorry, it said.

  Nothing.

  Maybe it was just a random expression Willi had used. Just think of it as a day at camp. Maybe it meant absolutely nothing. And I was banking all my hope on it.

  Suddenly I heard one of Fiske’s men who was ahead of us call, “Commander Fiske!”

  We rushed up to the next cabin. Number 13. In the grass next to it was a vehicle. A Wagoneer. They flashed their lights all over it, all the while holding up a hand to remain quiet. It had New York plates.

  Two of his men silently went up onto the porch to the front door. Suddenly a light went on. They knocked on it loudly.

  After a second, we could hear voices and someone scurrying inside.

  “Someone’s in here,” one of the agents said. “Federal agents!” he announced, continuing to bang at the door. “Open up. Now.”

  No one answered. But inside you could hear the faintest sound of hushed voices.

  “Open the door!” the agent demanded again. Two drew their guns and put themselves on either side of the door. “We’re federal agents. Open up or we’re coming in!”

  The cabin was tiny, maybe two small rooms. I couldn’t tell if there was even plumbing. Everyone readied their guns. One of the burlier agents positioned himself to the side of the door, preparing to kick it in.

  My heart jumped with anticipation, hoping Emma might be inside.

  “Komen! Komen!” a voice suddenly called out from inside. Coming. A light went on. “Do not shoot! Bitte. Komen,” we heard again.

  Slowly, the inside latch was thrown open and the door cracked. It was a man in bedclothes. Jabbering in German. The burly agent pulled him outside and the team of agents rushed in after, guns drawn, saying loudly, “Federal agents! Hands in the air! Everyone down!”

  Fiske and I followed them in.

  There were three other people inside. A woman. Another man, older. Their hands in the air. And a young boy. No more than three. Who looked sleepy and terrified. They all did. The man who opened the door was pushed back inside. Clearly the woman’s husband. They were speaking only German.

  I shouted, “Emma! Emma!”

  The agents quickly went through the two rooms. It only took seconds. They came back out, shaking their heads. Empty.

  It was just a family. Jabbering in German, frightened out of their wits. “Please, please, nein shoot, nein shoot,” the father stammered. That seemed about the extent of his English. He dug into a leather pouch and took out some documents. Immigration papers. “Okay, okay,” he said again, showing them.

  “Where are they?” Fiske said sharply, handing the papers back. “The girl. A woman. Where are they?”

  “Ich verstehe nicht.” The man shook his head in terror, not understanding. “Verstehe nicht.” The petrified mother held the boy and huddled next to the older man, likely his grandfather. They all seemed like they were just in hiding out here. In an isolated, German enclave.

  “Where are they?” Fiske said again. He grabbed the father roughly by the arm and pushed him up against the wall. His wife let out a scream. “The girl. The woman. We know they’re here somewhere. Where?”

  “Madchen,” I translated, stepping forward. A girl. I put my palm out to the height of my waist. “Klein.” Small. “Madchen,” I said again. “Mit einer frau.” With a woman.

  They each looked at each other, hesitating a bit.

  I couldn’t tell if they knew what I was talking about or not. Or how much they even understood. Mostly it seemed they had simply camped out here with nowhere to go. Probably just off the boat a month or two, and with no job. Scared, with the war, they’d all be tossed in jail.

  “Madchen,” I said one more time. They were a family themselves. With a child. Maybe they’d see my anguish. “Mein tochter,” I appealed to the father. My daughter. “Mein tochter. Bitte…” I looked at him, trying to convey my anguish. Please.

  The father’s gaze shot to his petrified wife and then to his boy. As if he knew he was about to give something up. Something they shouldn’t reveal.

  “Bitte…,” I said again, the tiniest flame of hope lighting up in me that he knew where Emma was.

  Please.

  “Sechszehn,” the father finally said. He looked at me. He gestured toward the woods with his chin as if to convey, another cabin. Farther along.

  Sechszehn.

  I looked at Fiske. That flame had now lit into a fire.

  “Number sixteen,” I said. “Emma’s here!”

  44

  Before anyone else could even react, I was out the door, in a full sprint. This was cabin 13. I leaped off the porch. A path continued from the field deeper into the woods. I tripped over a branch in the dark and steadied myself with my hand to keep from tumbli
ng over.

  Behind me, I heard Fiske shout, gathering his men. “Charlie, wait! Please!”

  It was completely dark, the moon covered with clouds, but ahead of me, the shape of another cabin came into view—14. I kept on running. The cold was like daggers jabbing into my lungs. Stealing my breath. Another cabin appeared, tucked into the trees. Not a light on or any sign of life inside.

  Cabin 15.

  Emma was close. I felt it. Some things you could just feel.

  “Emma!” I called out. I wanted her to hear me.

  I saw the outline of another dwelling forming out of the darkness. White wood, shingle roof. It was small, just like the others. But this one with a chimney. They could build a fire. And there was smoke.

  My heart leaped. There was a light on inside.

  I bounded up the stairs and onto the porch. “Emma,” I called out. “Emma, it’s me, Daddy.”

  I heard a muffled cry coming from inside.

  Behind me, Fiske and three of his agents had almost caught up to me. “Charlie, wait for us. Don’t go inside!”

  I ignored him and jammed on the outer door. There was still a screen attached to the door and I pulled it open and literally threw myself inside.

  A woman’s voice said, “Don’t come a step closer, Mr. Mossman.”

  In the corner, illuminated by the light of a single dim floor lamp, stood Mrs. Shearer, in a wool coat as if preparing to go outside, one arm wrapped around my daughter, in her sleeping gown, her hand pressed over Emma’s mouth, keeping her from uttering a sound. In her other hand she held a gun, which she had pressed against Emma’s head.

  “Don’t you even move a muscle, Mr. Mossman. I don’t want to do it, but I will. She’s just a piece of Jewish scum to me. Don’t test my resolve.”

  “Mrs. Shearer,” I said, putting up my hands to show I was unarmed. “It’s over. Willi and Trudi are dead. Their plans have collapsed. There’s no point anymore. Give me back my daughter. There’s no reason to harm her now. No one else has to die.”

  I took a step, but her eyes narrowed in a threatening glare, and she pressed the barrel harder into Emma’s head. Emma squealed. “Just stay back.”

  “Okay, okay. Emma, don’t be scared, honey. I’m going to get you out. I promise.”

  Outside, Fiske and his team ran up the stairs and onto the porch. Mrs. Shearer’s gaze darted to them, eyes dark and terrified.

  I yelled, “Fiske, stay back! Mrs. Shearer, you can see now it’s not just me. You’re surrounded. There’s no way out but to put the gun down and give me Emma. There’s no point in scaring her any further.”

  Emma was whimpering, terrified, her eyes wide little moons. She twisted her head and momentarily freed her mouth from Mrs. Shearer’s grasp. “Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, trying to wrestle out of her grip and get to me.

  “Honey, it’s going to be okay,” I said, as calmly as I could manage. Though inside, my heart beat feverishly. I held out my arms to show her how I wanted her. “Mrs. Shearer is going to let you go and it’s all going to be over.” I looked in the nanny’s eyes, pleading. They didn’t show much fear now, only the resolve to take this wherever it would go. There was no way out for her. Now it was just, how did she want it to end.

  “Daddy, please, I want to go home now,” Emma said, crying.

  “I know, I know, darling. You’re going to,” I said. I looked at Mrs. Shearer. “Very soon. You will.”

  I heard a creak on the floorboards as Fiske eased through the door behind me, his hands protruding, showing he wasn’t armed as well.

  “Tell him to get out!” Mrs. Shearer barked. “Get out, or I promise, your daughter’s brains will be all over this floor.”

  “Please, do what she says,” I said, and spun around, my heart exploding with fear. “I’ll be all right. Please.”

  He backed out, giving me a dart of his eyes to say, My men are in position.

  “So it’s only you and me now,” I said, looking back at Mrs. Shearer, taking another step toward her. “Let Emma go. I’ll stay. You can do whatever you want to me. Let the child go, Mrs. Shearer. You don’t have any issue against her.”

  “Willi and Trudi are dead, you say?”

  “Yes. She shot him. Then she shot herself.”

  “Shot him…” Her lips creased into a wistful smile. “Shot the person she loved most in the world. A brave woman, that Trudi. She always did have more resolve than him.”

  “It doesn’t have to end like that here…,” I said. “Look…” I took another step. “Just hear me ou—”

  Her hand holding the gun leaped up and she jerked on the trigger. I heard a report and then a searing pain lanced into my shoulder. My arm went to it and I buckled in pain. Emma screamed, “Daddy!” and it took everything the old woman had to hold on to her by the collar as my daughter desperately tried to get to me.

  I lifted my hand and saw a flower of blood had spread on my jacket. “I’m all right. I’m all right, honey,” I said, rising back up. My knees were weak. I could barely stand.

  “Are you all right in there, Charlie?” Fiske called out. Footsteps scurried around the side of the house.

  “Yes. Yes. Just stay out. I’m okay.” I put my hand to my shoulder and looked at the blood, then looked up at Mrs. Shearer. “Why?” I asked. “Why do you hate her so?”

  Her eyes were fixed and dilated in her steadfastness and conviction. She tugged back at Emma, who was desperately trying to pull away. “Shearer is my married name, Mr. Mossman. My maiden name, you may know it, was McWilliams. My brother Joe, you may have heard of him.”

  McWilliams.

  It took a second for the name to sink in. Joseph McWilliams. The head of a group called the Christian Front. They were allied with Father Coughlin and the American Destiny Party. Trumpeters of Hitler. He was one of the speakers at the Madison Square Garden rally the night my life changed. “Joe McNazi” he was called.

  “You’re Joe McWilliams’s sister…?”

  She slowly nodded. “You had a brother. I’ve overheard you talk of him. Did you admire him, Mr. Mossman?”

  I looked at her and nodded too. “Yes. Very much.”

  “And I admired mine.” She pulled Emma close and pressed the gun tightly to her skull. Eyes wide, Emma tried to wrestle out of her grasp. “Daddy!”

  “So you’ll tell him that I died a true sister in the cause,” she said. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  She pulled the hammer back, gun pressed to the back of Emma’s head.

  Emma screamed. I took a lunge toward her. “Please. No!”

  She paused on the trigger, just long enough that from behind me I heard two blunt pops, and Mrs. Shearer’s head snapped back. Her hand let go of Emma and two red dots appeared on her forehead. She stumbled backward into the chair, her arms spread wide, her jaw slack, staring straight ahead. A trickle of blood ran down her face, zigzagging around her nose.

  “Daddy!” Emma ran to me, in tears. I threw open my arms and hugged her as tightly as I’d ever held anyone without crushing them, almost afraid she would be taken from me forever if I let her go.

  All around, agents rushed into the cabin. Shouting, radios crackling. They ran up to Mrs. Shearer. One checked her pulse and shook his head. “She’s dead,” he said.

  Others came up to Emma and me.

  “Here, let me check her, Mr. Mossman,” one of them said. “Just for a minute.”

  “No,” Emma said, crying, afraid to leave my arms. She shook her head. “No.”

  I looked at the agent and shook my head myself, and said back, “I’ve got her.”

  I picked up my daughter and rushed her out of the cabin. I pressed her face close to my shoulder, and when we got away from the noise and commotion, I wiped away her tears. “I’ve got you,” I said. “I’ve got you, Emma. I won’t let you go. Never.”

  She was crying, choking back heavy sobs. I held tightly to her small, convulsing body. “I’ve got you, baby. Daddy’s got you,” I said. “Everything’s going
to be okay.” Suddenly I couldn’t hold back myself. My eyes flooded and my face became wet with tears and I could only squeeze her tighter and tighter to keep from sliding myself. Thinking of Mrs. Shearer’s glassy-eyed commitment at the end. Would she truly have pulled that trigger? She had hesitated just that much. The place became abuzz with police activity. Fiske came over, put an arm around me, and smiled at my daughter. “So this is Emma.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “I have a car ready. She should be at the hospital.” He glanced at my bloody shoulder, the blood seeping onto Emma’s nightgown. “So should you.”

  I didn’t even feel it. My shoulder was the last thing in the world for me. “First we’re going to go home,” I said. “We’re going to go home now, baby.…” I hugged my daughter. I buried my face in her hair. She smelled so sweet. “Let’s go see your mommy.”

  45

  As the clock struck 4:30 that morning, Warren Latimer sat in the wood-paneled study of his home in Bethesda, outside Washington, D.C.

  He’d dozed earlier on upstairs, then gotten up around two, anticipation rustling him from sleep, telling his wife that he’d be back up shortly, after he’d gotten the call from Willi that everything had gone as planned. He poured himself a glass of milk, checked the shelf clock one more time, opened his copy of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian Wars.

  He put it down. The thought occurred to him, he hadn’t set out to be what some might call a traitor. He’d been open to new ideas back at Yale. The Young Lions, they had called them. For a while, he’d even flirted with reading Marx. But then events in Russia and in the Depression here had changed him. He’d seen what power was like when put in the hands of the people, and it only led to bloodshed and chaos. The people, strengthened beyond their ability to govern, simply became a mob. Power, he began to feel, should always be in the hands of those who were best equipped to wield it, and our perpetual president—dictator some called him—did not understand that. The idea of a Fortress America became something in which he began to believe. America protected by its two great oceans. Protected from the real threat. The Bolsheviks. Communism.