Ordinary Heroes (2005)

by Scott Turow

  Then there was Grace. In my two days of German captivity, when the combination of Biddy's death and Gita's desertion had left me feeling certain that I was going to die of heartbreak, I'd had second thoughts about Grace. She was beautiful and brilliant and steady. The one thing I could say with utmost sincerity was that I wished that I could see her, because I had learned that presence meant everything. But without a photo in my hand I could barely bring her to mind. If we were together, if Grace were in my arms, then I might have had some chance of retrieving our life. "Here, here, here," I kept repeating to myself whenever I thought of her, feeling largely enraged that something so dignifying and eternal as love could be defeated by distance. Yet the memory of Gita, of her bare skin and the moments when we'd seemed to fuse souls, easily withstood whatever had been left behind for thousands of miles and many months. By now, I was willing to say only to my most private self that I did not fully regret Gita. I had told Biddy that I was in love with her. That seemed ludicrous. I had been the kind of fool men often were for sex. But even so, I found certain images of her recurrent and fabulously arousing. Again and again I saw her looming over me naked, stimulating me with unashamed intensity. Fantasies of how I might come to find her again in the burning ruins of Europe revolved through me, even as I sometimes begged myself not to abandon the decent life I knew I could make with Grace. But it was not a time for logic. I desired Gita against all reason, and my inability to control my passions seemed part and parcel of the harsh season I was experiencing within the narrow cold confines of my room.

  I made it a point to walk as much as I could, but even on the London streets I found my thinking little more than a procession of spotlighted theater scenes, in which various figures, the dear and the dead and the dreaded, made unpredictable leaps onto center stage. Often I saw Robert Martin and Roland Teedle there. In most moods, I hated both of them for letting loose the torrent of events in which I was now drowning. In better moments, I realized that one of the barriers to righting myself was the fact that I still did not know which of them to believe. I despised Martin for his deceptions, but I remained unconvinced at the deepest level that the man I had seen swing down into the Seille like a real-life Jack Armstrong would stoop to spying. Even at this late date, some part of what I'd been told seemed untrue, and that in turn seemed to emanate somehow from the core of uncontrolled excess I'd always sensed in Teedle. Amid all the disgraces I'd suffered, my doubts about the bona fides of the commands that had led me to peril and ruin seemed intolerable.

  My tours around the West End took me several times down Brook Street. I recalled the address from Teedle's order to Martin to return to London. What I found at number 68, a block from the U. S. Embassy and across the street from Claridge's, was an ordinary West End row house, with a dormered fourth floor, a limestone exterior on the ground level, and a roofed entryway. This presumably was the OSS, or at least one arm of it. There was no plate identifying the building's occupants, but after passing by a few times I noticed enough foot traffic in and out to convince me that an organization of one kind or another was housed there, and on my fifth or sixth morning in London, I unlatched the iron gate and walked up to the door. Inside, I asked the tidy middle-aged receptionist if I could speak to Colonel Bryant Winters. I gave her my name.

  "Regarding?"

  "Major Robert Martin." The faintest lick of reaction trickled into her bland face. I was directed to a straight-backed chair across the way. She had other business to occupy her, but eventually spoke into her phone.

  I'd had very little notion of the OSS before I'd been assigned to Martin's case, but its mythology had grown in my mind and those of most other soldiers in the European theater. The stories of derring-do in France, Italy, and Africa were, even if untrue, greatly entertaining, and had become staples in the constant gossip and apocrypha that provided important diversions in a soldier's day-to-day life: OSS had wiped out a battalion of German artillery to the man by poisoning their rations. Special Services agents had dropped from the sky, surrounded Rommel's tent, and spirited him back to Rome, where he was being questioned.

  Within the inner sanctum, however, the atmosphere was anything but swashbuckling. It was, rather, very much like the Yale Club, which I'd once visited in Manhattan, where everyone seemed to speak with his jaw tightened and where I sensed that Jews or Catholics would always be treated with a courtesy that would never embrace complete welcome. NOK, as some of the more genteel fraternity boys at Easton were apt to put it--not our kind. The men here had good American names and many had eschewed military attire in favor of tweed jackets. Something about the milieu appalled me, especially the degree to which I knew I had once hungered after this like a hound perched beside a table. Whatever had happened to me, I was well beyond that now I was absorbed with these reflections when a tall man in a uniform presented himself. I jumped up to salute. This was Colonel Winters. He smiled like a graceful host.

  "Captain, we had no word you were coming. My aide is back there thumbing through the cables, but I recognized your name. Judge Advocate, right? I take it it's the usual signal foul-up?"

  I shrugged, the familiar gesture of eternal helplessness that was part of life in the Army.

  "Well, come along." He had a small office with full bookshelves among the freshly painted white pilasters and just enough room for two small ebony chairs, on which we sat facing each other. His large desk was columned with bound reports. As he closed the door, he permitted himself a well-behaved laugh. "That was a bit of a stir you created. We don't have soldiers wandering in off the street to talk about our operatives."

  "No, of course not. But it's official business." I tried to avoid outright lying, yet I said nothing to dispel the idea that Maples had signaled ahead of me. I simply indicated that as long as I was in London, I had decided it was best to formalize certain matters in my investigation, which had to be completed if Martin's court-martial were ever to proceed someday.

  "Of course, of course," answered Winters. He was impeccable, with a long handsome face and brilliantined hair sharply parted. But he had an easy air. Despite Winters' uniform, I didn't feel as if I were in a military environment. No colonel, not even Maples, would have come to greet me, and we chatted amiably about London and then the war. He asked what I could tell him about the front. We were going to win, I said. That conviction had returned to me. I told him about the German lieutenant who had expected an end to shooting soon, but made no mention of his death.

  "Good, good," said Winters. 'And tell me, then, Captain, what information is it you wish from us?"

  I named several points on which direct confirmation from OSS was still required, reciting all of it in a drone meant to suggest my regrets about the punctiliousness of the law to which I was a slave. First, we needed to confirm that Martin had been ordered back to London by OSS. Second, that he had not been directed by OSS to blow the Saline Royale ammo dump when he had. Third, that Major Martin was a Soviet spy.

  At the last request, Winters frowned noticeably.

  "That's Teedle's word, then. That he is a Soviet Spy?,,

  When I said yes, Winters reached down to fuss with his trouser cuff.

  "I can confirm for you," he said, "that Martin has been insubordinate. That he has disobeyed direct orders, and conducted important military operations without final authorization. And that OSS supports his apprehension."

  "And his court-martial?"

  "In all likelihood. After we've spoken with him." "But not charges as a spy?"

  Winters raised his eyes to a window and the trees on Brook Street.

  "Correct me, Captain. Are you the one who parachuted into Bastogne?"

  "There were actually two of us," I said. "My sergeant and me. And no one had to kick Bidwell in the behind to get him out of the plane."

  Winters smiled. Throughout the war, OSS operatives had done things like we had. Those acts were, in fact, the calling card of the agency, and I found it a bitter irony that so many of these mild, bookish
types defined themselves by those exploits. If I hadn't made that jump, Winters probably would have left me in his reception area, never bothering to receive me. But I didn't feel like a member of their club. The soldiers at the front had few illusions about what they had endured. These men, with their self-congratulations and sense of noblesse oblige, lived on their own myths and probably refused to share with one another the essential information that those who carried out their operations did so in terror. In that, Winters appeared slightly different, and was seemingly pleased I was not seeking to impress him.

  "And you jumped because Teedle told you Martin was a Soviet spy?"

  I no longer remembered why I had done that. Probably because I did not yet understand how terrible it was to die. But I knew a leading question when I heard one, and nodded. Colonel Winters drew his hand to his mouth.

  "I have great regard for Rollie Teedle. He's a magnificent commander. There's no other brigadier general in the Army bearing that kind of responsibility. He should have had his second star long ago, but for all the rumor-mongering."

  I didn't bother asking what the rumors were.

  "I have no doubt that someone here offered Teedle that surmise about Martin," said Winters. "That's surely the prevailing opinion. But it's only an opinion. Candidly, Captain, no one knows precisely what Martin is up to. Certainly it's not anything we've told him to do. Which lends itself to the idea that he's serving someone else's commands. And the Russians, given his background--that's the logical conclusion. Clearly, we can't have him out there on the loose. It's a very dangerous situation."

  Even I could see that. "Were there prior signs he was disloyal?"

  "No, but the truth is that he'd never been put to the test. This fall Martin was given a top secret briefing back here in London concerning a project we wanted him to undertake in Germany. And the information he learned then would be of special consequence to the Soviets. He made some remarks at the time which unsettled folks here. That's why, after some second thoughts, he was ordered to return. Wrong man for the job, we decided. It wasn't until he ran off that it occurred to anyone that he'd head into the Russians' arms. But if you knew the details, you'd agree it's the most reasonable conclusion. I'm sorry, Dubin, to be so cryptic. I can't say more."

  I told him I understood.

  "Personally," said Winters, "I hold to a sentimental belief that these conclusions are wrong. But it's a view I keep to myself, because, frankly, I have no other explanation for his behavior."

  "Anyone having any better luck finding him than I did?" I'd relinquished the search for Martin when I got back to Luxembourg City and had had no news since. Robert Martin had made nothing but misery for me. Revenge being what it is, I might have relished the sight of him in handcuffs. But I felt that the best homage I could make to Biddy was to give up the quest, without which he'd be alive.

  "We'll catch up with him in time. We don't want the Provost Marshal posting an all-points bulletin that might tip the Russians. We'd like to pull Martin in quietly. But he recruited many of the contacts we have in Germany, and a lot of them are leftists, union people, whose leanings these days, as between the Soviets and the other Allies, are a matter of doubt. And beyond that, it's a difficult proposition to tell them to turn their back on the man whom they've always seen as the face of this organization. It's all rather delicate.. We've had several reports after the fact. Martin's been in touch with some of his old contacts, but only asks assistance in making his way. He presents himself as on a very sensitive mission. Once or twice, he's asked to be hidden. Him and the girl."

  "The girl is with him?"

  "I take it you've met her. Beguiling as they say?" "In her way," I answered.

  "I've never had the pleasure. She has her own legend around here. Martin recruited her out of a Marseilles hospital where she was working as an aide. A genius at playing her parts, whatever they are, and willing to do anything. Made the ultimate sacrifice, if you know what I mean, to get information out of a German officer a few years back, fellow who'd been a patient and continued to pursue her. Critical information about the bombing of London. She deserves a medal, if you ask me, but people in this building get squeamish about acknowledging those kinds of activities. Oldest trick in spying, really, sleeping with the enemy, but that's one of our dirty little secrets." He smiled, enjoying his double entendre.

  He continued by telling the story I'd heard before about Gita rescuing Martin from the Gestapo by feigning pregnancy. It was fortunate Winters had gone on speaking, because I was not able to. Sleeping with the enemy. I stared at the intricate weave of the Colonel's carpet, which probably had been trod on for a century, trying to calculate what all of this meant for me. Every time I thought I'd absorbed the last from this woman there was more.

  "And is she, the girl--is she with the Soviets, too?" I asked.

  Winters shrugged. "Unclear. If Martin is really in this game, he might have shared his goals with no one. And then again--" He lifted a hand with elegant understatement. 'Anyway, we're a bit astray.

  I stood. He offered to buy me dinner one night while I was here, but I doubted, after hearing this information, that I'd have the heart to see him. I remained vague, and said I'd ring if I found a break in my schedule.

  Bad as the period before had been, Winters' news about Gita drove me into a turmoil that was even more intense, making my efforts to focus on the outer world increasingly tenuous. I walked toward Green Park and found, half an hour later, that I was still standing at the edge of one of the paths, with my hand on the cold iron railing, beleaguered by what tumbled inside me. When I looked in the mirror I saw a man of normal appearance, but it was as if that outer self was the backside of a moving-picture screen. On the reverse a movie marathon played, a never-ending splash of imagery and sound, all of it tortured. Often, as I plunged along the streets, I thought, I am having a nervous breakdown, and was propelled back to the present only by the panic that accompanied the thought.

  With three days to go on my leave I packed up. Before I left, I wrote briefly to Grace. Dashed by Gita, I still could not rebound toward Grace. I would never explain why deluding myself about one woman had meant a death to my love for the other, but that was clearly the case. Grace was estimable in every way. But she was a piece of a life I would never return to. That much was concluded. And so was my time away from the service. Any further idleness would rot me. I needed work. I would head back to Luxembourg City. There would be cases to try. Men to hang.

  But I sensed that even the drama of the law might fail to preoccupy me. If I remained in this abyss, there could be only one choice. I knew instantly and found not the remotest irony in my decision. I would apply for transfer to the infantry and return to combat. The desperation to remain alive, to kill rather than die, was the only reliable distraction from what was rocketing around my mind.

  Only as I closed the door on the hotel room, with my duffel slung across my back, did the full import of my plans strike home, and somehow it was Gita who addressed me. I listened to her voice in the same state of fury and surrender that had tormented me for days, wanting not to hear it and hearing it nonetheless.

  "You are Martin," she said.

  February 11, 1945

  Dear Grace, I have spent the last week in London, attempting to recover from what has transpired. After months of sharing so many impressions with you, I know how sparse I've been with details of the fighting. But there is no point to saying more. Imagine the worst. It is more awful than that. I came across the ocean, regretting that I was to be but a pretend soldier. I have been a soldier in earnest in the last months, and I regret that far more.

  I now know, Grace, that I will not be able to come home to you. I feel myself damaged in some essential way I will never fully repair. I thought when I arrived here that love would survive anything. But that was one of many fabrications I carried along. For me, our sweet world has ended.

  I know what a shock this letter must be. And I am crippled with guilt and
shame when I imagine you reading it. But I am in a mood that seems to require me to cast off all illusions, and that includes the notion that I could return to be a loving husband to you.

  I will carry you with me eternally. My regard and admiration are forever.

  Please forgive me, David

  PART VII

  Chapter 28.

  VISITING

  For several years when Sarah and I were little, my mother would dress us up once each summer and put us in our Chevy with my father. There was a touch of foreboding about these trips, probably because Dad didn't take us many places without Mom, except for baseball games, which she regarded as permanently incomprehensible. It was summer, and Sarah and I were not in school, and this little automobile trip was the last thing either my sister or I wanted to do. Before getting very far, Sarah or I would claim to be carsick. But Dad continued, driving about twenty minutes into the heart of the black belt, proceeding through the most blighted streets until reaching a tidy block of three-flats. There he extracted my sister and me from the auto, notwithstanding our complaints.

  Inside, we visited briefly with a soft-spoken light-toned black lady named Mrs. Bidwell. These meetings were palpably painful to everyone. After we'd come all that way, neither my dad nor Mrs. Bidwell seemed to have a clue what to say. In fact, even as a child, I realized that my sister and I had been hauled along principally as conversation pieces, so that the old woman could exclaim over how we had grown and Dad could agree. Race was not the issue. My parents lived in University Park, one of the earliest and most successfully integrated neighborhoods in the U. S., and they were comfortable socializing with black neighbors.

  In Mrs. Bidwell's living room, we drank one glass of excellent lemonade, then went on our way. When I asked each time why we had to stop, my father said that Mrs. Bidwell was the mother of a boy he used to know. Period. I didn't even think of her when I started reading Dad's account because she was black, unlike Gideon Bidwell--yet another boat I missed.