by Amy Stewart
I’m waiting for you in Paris.
As ever,
Norma
Fleurette to Freeman Bernstein
December 1, 1918
Dear Mr. Bernstein,
It’s been ages since I’ve written. I’m sorry to say that I’m not yet ready to take Laura on tour, and that all my plans—for songs, for costumes, for bird tricks and whistles—all of it had to be put aside while I assisted Constance in a case of some importance. In the process, I fell ill again, or perhaps I never properly recovered from the bug I picked up at Camp Sherman—but the miserable truth is that I was in the hospital for some time, and then sent to my brother’s home for strict bed rest and close watching by female relations.
I’m only just now up and about again, and starting to rehearse with Laura. My voice isn’t entirely recovered, but the doctors say to rest it for another month before I try again.
Please don’t forget about me! Until I’m well, I remain—
Yours very truly,
Fleurette
Bielaski to Constance
December 4, 1918
Dear Miss Kopp,
You’ll see this in the papers soon, but I’ll tell you now: I’m having to answer to my superiors over the League men and how they conducted their slacker raids. (Don’t remind me of all the times you warned me.) I’ll be testifying in front of Congress (and in front of a gang of reporters up to the rafters) for most of December. After that, I’m done. It’s been suggested that I “pursue business opportunities.” That’s exactly what I intend to do.
That doesn’t mean that you’re done, too. My deputy, a Mr. William E. Allen from Fort Worth, Texas, will step in as acting chief of the Bureau in January. I’ve told him that you’re to stay on after the war, and that you’ll bring a few ladies along with you. We can’t call it a division or a department, but in an unofficial capacity that’s exactly what it will be. Since I’m the one who started our training school for agents, I’m still (for a few more weeks) the one who decides what goes on at that school. You’re to train the lady agents and shepherd them along.
Allen’s a good man. Come down to Washington and meet him now, while I’m still around to introduce you. And don’t waste any pity on me. I’ve been director since 1912, which is too long. It’s about time another fellow had a crack at it.
There will be a ticket for you at the station. You’re to leave on the 9 a.m. on Monday. Wire to let me know to expect you.
Yours very truly,
A. Bruce Bielaski
Telegram from Constance to Bielaski
December 6, 1918
I WILL BE ON THE TRAIN
Constance to Norma
December 9, 1918
Dear Norma,
I have news that can’t wait until you return, or perhaps I simply can’t wait another minute to tell someone. I’m at the train station in Washington now, having just spoken to Mr. Bielaski. In the space of one hour, I’ve made new plans for my life.
I won’t make you skip ahead to the end of this letter to find out what I’ve decided. Here it is: I’m moving to Washington. I’m due there in January, which means that I might’ve already packed up and gone by the time you return.
I will, of course, meet your ship, wherever and whenever it arrives. I would invite you to join me in Washington—I can find an apartment for two—but I can’t imagine you ever leaving New Jersey. I expect you’ll want to stay on at the farm, or remain with the Signal Corps at Fort Monmouth. (Most likely the latter, although you haven’t told us yet. Or perhaps you have. The mail delays are worse now than they were in war-time.)
Fleurette is desperate to get away from us both and will no doubt return to the stage as soon as she’s entirely well. I could try to stop her, but on what grounds? She’s a grown woman. She can do as she pleases. She’ll always have a bed in Washington if she wants one, and a place at Bessie and Francis’s table, and perhaps a place with you, wherever you land. But she’s not going back to the farm any more than I am.
From such a great distance, it must be impossible to imagine the mood here. You’re living in a ruined place among ruined people. Everywhere you turn, you see devastation.
But here it is the opposite. Everywhere I turn, I see a spirit of progress and forward momentum. We mourn our losses, and grieve over the wounded and shattered men returning home—of course we do—but with the war ended, there’s a spark here that I can hardly describe. It’s a sense that nothing can be the same again, and that what’s coming next is—well, a new era. Something bright and almost unimaginably different from the old days, before the war.
You’re not coming home to the country you left, that’s what I’m telling you. Even our old home, and the way we once lived—all of that has been turned upside down. But please don’t worry about where you’ll fit or what you’ll do—you can take all the time you like to rest, recover, and find your way again. I just thought it better to tell you now, rather than let you harbor one dream of home only to find something quite different waiting for you.
Now I’ll tell you the entire story. Mr. Bielaski summoned me down to Washington to meet his replacement, as he plans to resign and go into business next year. You’ve never met Mr. Bielaski, so you must take my word for it that he is a more generous and good-humored man than the pictures in the papers might lead you to believe. In those pictures he’s always the hard-bitten cop, with the brim of his hat down and a stern look in his eyes. And he certainly is a cop through and through—he has lived and breathed the Bureau’s mission every day and night of this war. I don’t imagine he’s had more than four hours of sleep in a night for years.
They tell me that newspapers are getting through to France every day now, so you might’ve read about his testimony to Congress. If there’s one thing you can learn about him from those articles, it’s this: he had his hands on every case that ran through his department. There wasn’t a move made by any one of us that he didn’t follow. He’s been testifying without notes, for hours each day, on every subject from propagandists infiltrating the newspapers to breweries harboring German sympathizers. He hasn’t yet had cause to mention any of my cases, but he’s nonetheless explaining, in meticulous detail, the work of countless agents (both volunteer League men and his own agents) on hundreds of cases over several years. It’s extraordinary, what he’s accomplished, and I for one am sorry to see his career in public service come to an end.
But I was summoned to Washington to meet the man who is to succeed him, and who will be my boss in the new year.
Mr. Allen is quite different from Mr. Bielaski in both temperament and appearance. Where Mr. Bielaski has the bearing and stature of a policeman on patrol, Mr. Allen reminds one of a scholar. He’s tall and lean, with dark hair, round spectacles, and the measured drawl of a Texan. There’s something of a young Lincoln about him, if that helps to fix a picture in your mind.
He practiced law with some distinction in Fort Worth, and had served most recently as an assistant federal district attorney before Mr. Bielaski made him a deputy at the Bureau. There’s no end to the legal entanglements and financial crimes that the Bureau must investigate, and I take it that he spent most of his time on those matters. The more rough-and-tumble aspects of our work are, to put it mildly, unfamiliar to him.
When I was introduced to him, in the office that Mr. Bielaski will soon hand over to him, he stood cordially and said, “I’ve been learning all the Bureau’s secrets this week, including the name of its only lady agent. Please accept my thanks for your service to the country, Miss Kopp.”
To be greeted in such a courtly and . . . well, approving manner put me directly at ease. “It’s been the greatest honor of my life,” I told him. “I hope I might continue to serve in any way the Bureau sees fit.”
“They want change,” Mr. Bielaski said, pointing his thumb in the direction of what I suppose must’ve been the White House, or Congress, although there was nothing outside his window but bare tree branches, “and change is what they’ll get.
Mr. Allen is, at present, only the acting chief, although I hope we’ll persuade him to stay on—”
Here Mr. Allen grinned widely but said, “I’ve a wife and four girls to consider, but we are thinking on it.”
“That’s just what we want you to do,” Mr. Bielaski said. “Take Mrs. Allen to the theater, and show her a nice house on a quiet street. Why, when she sees the cherry blossoms this spring—”
“She’s entirely immune to cherry blossoms,” Mr. Allen said. “We have flowers on the trees in Texas, you know.”
“Not like ours,” Mr. Bielaski said. “But as I was saying, the Bureau’s going to change. We’re the only civilized nation of any size that hasn’t been touched by this war. That means that our factories will equip the world, and our farms will feed the world. The risk of sabotage and the threat from the Bolsheviks haven’t gone away just because the Germans stopped shooting. Mr. Allen’s going to put the agency on a more professional footing, and see that our agents—including you, Miss Kopp—have all the resources they need to do the job.”
At that moment all eyes turned to me. I realized that my turn had come. It was up to me to say what, exactly, I required. What my department required.
Fortunately, I’d had a long train ride to put it all together in my mind. I simply squared my shoulders and began.
“It seems to me that a separate training program for women would allow them to more quickly find their way and learn what, exactly, they might best contribute to the Bureau. Such a program would serve them not only as agents, but also as police officers, deputy sheriffs, or any other such work to which they are suited. In fact, we might open the course to women considering any position in law enforcement, and take the top candidates for our own. The others can finish our training and go on to find work in any police department.”
Mr. Bielaski nodded at this and said to Mr. Allen, “I didn’t know, until Miss Kopp told me, that most of these lady cops you hear about are given no training whatsoever, because the police chiefs don’t know what to do with them. If the Bureau puts the course together, we’ll have an influence over police departments all over the country.”
Mr. Allen nodded. “That’s fine, if Congress will give us the money. What would you see these ladies doing—let’s say, if you had a class of thirty?”
Thirty! I’d hoped to recruit five! But I went on as if it was nothing. “Training in the law, of course,” I said quickly, knowing Mr. Allen would want to see plenty of book-learning, “and training in Bureau procedures. I would also teach combat moves and holds, how to make arrests and use firearms.”
Would you believe it, Mr. Allen didn’t even blink at that! Perhaps all the women in Texas carry guns, I don’t know. I continued on. “Surveillance methods, naturally, and interviewing techniques, along with some understanding of codes, secret inks, and means of concealment. I’ve spoken both French and German from childhood, so I would offer at least a taste of a foreign language course to see who had an aptitude for it.”
Mr. Allen and Mr. Bielaski were both leaning back in their chairs by now, smiling. “That’s everything the men learn, and a bit more,” Mr. Bielaski said to Mr. Allen. “I guarantee you that Miss Kopp’s agents will come out of the course better trained and qualified than some of the fellows. These boys think they know everything, so they don’t listen in class. I’ve kicked out quite a few because they couldn’t bother to do the work.”
“You won’t have that problem with my students,” I said, and I meant it. Oh, Norma, you know how hard they’ll work. You know how eager they’ll be to have a chance.
There’s so much more to tell you, but the train’s coming. Must close for now. I’ll post this from Paterson and write again soon.
Tell us your plans as soon as you have them. I know there’s a great deal to be sorted out over there even though the fighting has ceased, but we’re all impatient to have you home.
Love,
Constance
Fleurette to Helen
December 9, 1918
Dearest Helen,
I hope this letter catches up with you in New York. I can understand entirely why you and the boys would want to be there to greet your father’s ship, and to wait nearby while the Army does whatever it must do to discharge him. I’ve heard of soldiers being quarantined for weeks when they return. I hope they’ll let your father go without all that fuss.
I have some news that can’t wait until you get home. I’ve just been bursting to tell you! Yesterday I had the most astonishing letter from Freeman Bernstein. I’d written him to say that I was terribly behind in putting an act together, and had only just returned to rehearsals after a miserable illness.
Would you believe it, he wrote back promptly and told me that nothing puts a girl back on her feet faster than a contract!
A real contract, Helen—and I haven’t even finished my act! He offered me three hundred dollars per week, and bookings in five cities to start. He promised to work out a schedule as soon as I say I’m ready to go. I have only to sign at the bottom and send it back when I’m well.
Just the thought of it was enough to make me want to leap up and get to work this instant! Do you know that my first thought was that I couldn’t wait to tell Laura? What do you suppose she’ll make of a signed contract with a Broadway manager? I suppose she’ll take a bite out of it if she can. Oh, I’d like to take a bite out of it, too, but instead I kissed it, and now I sleep with it under my pillow.
Everyone’s talked for so long of après la guerre, and now here we are, and it’s more than I could’ve imagined. All I ever wanted was to sing and dance, and to live my life as I pleased, and get off that rotten old farm and see something of the world. It felt like I was always too young, and under the watch of too many sisters, and without the funds or the wherewithal to put myself together and to—well, to launch myself, like a steamer leaving port.
But that’s just how I feel now! Mr. Bernstein once asked me to imagine the 1920s, and at first I thought he said to imagine my twenties, but it’s the same thing, isn’t it? It’s a bright and brilliant future, when the boys come home and the world is at peace and we can do as we wish and make our own fortunes.
Only I haven’t told my sisters yet—so don’t breathe a word about it! The truth is that I feel a bit sorry for both of them. What will they do, after the war? Constance is off in Washington now, learning her fate. I don’t imagine the Bureau will have need of a lady spy any more, with the Germans defeated. I suppose she can find work at a jail somewhere, but doesn’t that just sound like—well, like jail?
And what will become of Norma? I don’t know how we’ll break the news to her that messenger pigeons are going into retirement. Did you know that there are ten million telephones in this country? Truly, we mustn’t tell her that she’s coming home to a nation of telephones, automobiles, and electrical lighting, or she might just stay in France forever.
Is it too much to hope that when your father comes home, you’ll be free, and we can make a duet and travel together? It’s been too long since we’ve been on the stage, dear Helen, and as much as I love all the girls in May Ward’s chorus, you’re better than the lot of them. Mr. Bernstein is right—Broadway is going to want fresh young faces, and that’s you and me.
I might sound delirious. I suppose I am. Let’s go be delirious together. It’s our turn!
With love and affection,
Fleurette
Historical Notes
AS WITH MY most recent Kopp Sisters novel, Kopp Sisters on the March, I’ve had to veer even further into fiction for this novel because I don’t know exactly what the Kopp sisters were up to during World War I. For the next book in the series, which begins after the war, I’ll be able to pick up their true story again. (And it’s remarkable, what happens next. Stay tuned!)
Meanwhile, for this novel I’ve placed the real-life Kopp sisters into real-life situations—but their participation in these events is fictional.
Here’s what I do know ab
out the Kopps’ lives during World War I: Constance’s obituary stated that “during the world war she performed a considerable amount of secret intelligence work for the federal government.” Another obituary said that she worked for the Sherman Service, which was a company that business owners could hire to snoop on their employees, with the aim of ferreting out acts of sabotage or union organizing. Opposing unions would’ve been seen (by some people, at least) as a patriotic endeavor at that time. The factories had to keep running if we were to win the war, and the fear was that worker protests would only get in the way.
I took those hints about Constance’s wartime work and did all I could with them. Of Norma’s and Fleurette’s activities I know nothing at all. They completely dropped out of sight during World War I.
I sent Norma to Langres, France, where the Army Signal Corps did, in fact, have a messenger pigeon school at the Fort de la Bonnelle. I visited twice to see the site of the old school for myself and to interview local historians. Those were tough research trips, folks. I took the most beautiful walk of my life through the countryside to trace Norma’s route from town to the fort, and stopped to interview the French-speaking goats along the way. I sat in sidewalk cafés and wrote sketches of the people walking by. Many of the physical descriptions of villagers come from those afternoons. When three “town drunks” sat right in front of me and proceeded to make mayhem on the village square, I thought, “Fine. I’m putting all three of you in my book,” and I did.
With the help of local guide Maud Cauchois, I toured the abandoned fort, and visited the astonishing Petit Musée du Doughboy, a collection of artifacts from the Americans’ participation in the war in that region of France. Its owner, Franck Besch, has an infectious passion for this moment in history. From his collection came the story of the button on Forrest Pike’s coat and the soldiers’ engravings on the mess kits. I can’t thank Ms. Cauchois and Mr. Besch enough for their generosity and patience with my limited (okay, nonexistent) French. I couldn’t have told this story without them.
