by Stan Hayes
“I slept late on Sunday, had room service bring up a New York Times, orange juice, coffee and an omelet with whole wheat toast, and sent my clothes out to be cleaned. There hadn’t been room in th’ bags for anything but th’ money and my shavin’ gear, so I’d also be goin’ shoppin’ for clothes as soon as I parked th’ money. I ate breakfast, turned th’ radio on for some music, and looked through th’ Times for anything about my disappearance. Nothin’. It was, of course, both too soon and not newsworthy anyway, as long as three million dollars wasn’t part of th’ story. And th’ Germans would certainly keep that part to themselves. So I had a pretty restful day under th’ circumstances, readin’ th’ Times and listenin’ to th’ Senators-White Sox game on th’ radio. I smiled to myself every time I thought about what day it was. Independence Day.
“Th’ Credit Suisse office was, I found, just six blocks from th’ hotel. I called ’em at nine o’clock Monday mornin’ and made an appointment with th’ manager, Mr. Leclaire, for two that afternoon. I told th’ woman who took th’ call that I would be makin’ a substantial deposit, and that I would want th’ transaction kept completely confidential. I called th’ front desk for a porter and a cart, and th’ bags and I took a very short cab ride to th’ corner of Booker and Jerome Streets, a block down and across th’ street from th’ bank. I stood on th’ corner until th’ cab was out of sight. Then, for th’ last time, I picked up my load of cash and took it to its final destination.
“Depositin’ th’ cash was th’ simplest thing in th’ world. We went into a windowless room with a large, waist-high table in its center. While two men counted th’ money, Leclaire explained th’ bank’s obligations to its depositors under both Swiss and U.S. laws. He said that th’ bank and all its employees were required by Swiss law to protect depositors’ identities from any and all inquiries, and that this requirement was within th’ confines of U.S. bankin’ laws that governed foreign banks’ operations. Th’ cash amount was verified to be two million, nine hundred eighty thousand dollars, reflectin’ th’ twenty thousand that I took out for immediate expenses. I decided against havin’ th’ account be identified only by number, because I’d always have to make withdrawals in person. Th’ account would be Moses Kubielski’s.
“Havin’ founded th’ Republic of Me, I walked out of th’ bank with two large empty leather bags, a deposit slip, and a checkbook. A quick cab ride back to th’ hotel to drop off th’ bags, and I was back on th’ street to do some clothes shoppin’. I had decided to look for as invisible a job as possible, and I needed duds to match. I was already likin’ th’ idea of workin’, but not for a livin’. At least not in th’ usual sense of th’ word; I’d be workin’ to live like everyone else, but in a very unusual sense of th’ word. Anyway, I wouldn’t need suits and ties for th’ kind of job I’d be lookin’ for. Th’ yellow pages had a listin’ for a men’s store, Fitzpatrick’s, just down th’ block from th’ hotel. It was a little fancier than necessary, but they had what I needed; I picked out slacks, shirts, a couple of sweaters, a sports jacket, an overcoat, socks, underwear and two pairs of shoes. I was back at th’ hotel by five.
“Th’ next order of business was a place to live. I wanted to get out of th’ hotel as soon as possible. I bought a Baltimore Sun and looked in th’ classified ads for apartments. I wanted to live someplace in th’ city, so I could walk to work, or ride th’ bus. I didn’t want to buy a car yet. Even though I had a new name, I didn’t want to show up on a list of new automobile registrations. I found a few listin’s that sounded suitable, and th’ next mornin’, wearin’ new clothes and my old shoes, I set out on my first reconnaissance of Baltimore. I picked up a street map at th’ first newsstand that I came across, and took it into a cafe across th’ street. I looked it over while I had breakfast, and got myself oriented. Then I ranked th’ apartment listin’s based on that knowledge, and I had at least a rough idea of where to go first.
“It took me a couple of days to find what I wanted; besides bein’ in a decent part of downtown Baltimore, it had to be comfortable enough for me to live there indefinitely. If war came, as I felt sure that it would, housin’ anywhere near Washington would become scarce overnight, and I wanted to lock myself into as long a lease as possible. I intended to fade into th’ workaday world of th’ city, and to stay there as long as necessary. I really had no idea how long, or how intense, th’ search for me would be, but I had to assume th’ worst. Th’ overnight disappearance of a trusted Abwehr officer and three million dollars wouldn’t be shrugged off and forgotten, even if that officer hadn’t been part of what would have been th’ assassination of th’ century. They’d be lookin’ for me, that was for sure; how long and how hard they’d look was th’ question.
“Th’ place that I picked was in a four-story buildin’ on North Charles Street, in th’ kind of quiet workin’-class neighborhood that I was lookin’ for, a couple of miles north of downtown. Th’ apartment was on th’ northeast corner of th’ third floor; it had two bedrooms, a livin’ room, bath and kitchen. Th’ rent was seventy-five dollars a month. Th’ buildin’s superintendent told me that th’ standard lease term was one year. I asked him if I could get a lower rent for a longer lease; after a little negotiation, and my agreement to pay three months rent in advance, I signed a two-year lease for sixty-eight-fifty a month, with an option to renew for th’ same period at a rent increase of no more than ten percent. Since th’ apartment was vacant, I could move in immediately.
“I had told Foster, th’ superintendent, that I was recently divorced, and that I had come to Baltimore to start a new life, havin’ sold a parcel of land that had been left to me by my father to provide th’ funds to do so. I’d be needin’ some new furniture, since I’d agreed that my former home in Philadelphia, along with its contents, would go to my wife as a part of th’ settlement. I asked ’im if he could recommend a furniture store that sold reasonably-priced lines, since I needed to stretch my money as far as possible while I looked for work. He gave me th’ names of two nearby stores, where I found what I needed. I wished that I could’ve spent more time pickin’ out things, since this was th’ first furniture I’d bought in my life, but that wasn’t possible. What I had to do was move as fast as I possibly could, and by takin’ what I could get from these stores’ stock, I was able to move in on Saturday, just a week after I’d hit town.
“I settled into apartment 312 on 1769 North Charles, near th’ intersection with West Lanvale, and took th’ next few days to get acquainted with th’ neighborhood. And it was a real neighborhood, with drug, dime and grocery stores, a couple of restaurants, a movie, a barber shop, newsstand, library, doctors and dentists within a few blocks, a few apartment buildin’s and lots of houses on either end and up and down th’ side streets. Downtown Baltimore was due south, just a short distance away. I could look for a job downtown without needin’ more than a bus ride to get there.
“I didn’t go out of my way to talk with a lot of people at first; I’d decided to let my hair and beard grow as a little bit of a disguise. Th’ less conversation between me and my new neighbors durin’ that process, I thought, th’ better. In th’ three weeks or so that it took for th’ beard to look presentable, I spent a lot a lot of time settin’ up th’ apartment and monitorin’ th’ newspapers and radio for any mention of my disappearance. I never heard or saw anything about it; th’ more I thought about it, th’ more I could imagine how it made sense. Since I lived at Emil’s, there was no one wonderin’ about a vacant apartment or back rent. And neither he, th’ embassy nor th’ IRA had anything to gain by havin’ anything at all point to th’ Churchill plot. They’d obviously been able to keep a lid on th’ situation, and now they could come after me without th’ handicap of any news people gummin’ up th’ works. I just had to hope that th’ search wouldn’t be thorough enough, or last long enough. But three million bucks is a lot of money. Talk about frustration; there I was- one day with very little, th’ next day with th’ means to do anything I w
anted to. But for those five months until Pearl Harbor, all I could do was hide.
“As it turned out, I never had to leave th’ neighborhood for work. I had gone to th’ movie- th’ Strand Theatre- a couple of times. Th’ third time I went, a HELP WANTED sign was out front. I asked th’ woman in th’ box office what kind of help was wanted, and she asked me to come inside while she called th’ manager. I stood in th’ lobby, lookin’ at comin’ attractions posters for westerns and women’s dramas, listenin’ to th’ popcorn poppin’ and sniffin’ its aroma as it mixed with a dozen different candy smells. Th’ manager was just a little older than I was, a little shorter, and twenty pounds heavier. He had th’ tiredest grayish-blue eyes that I’d ever seen, set under a bushy set of eyebrows. His name was Mark. ‘Ever work in a theater before?’ he asked me.
“ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Whaddaya need done?’
“ ‘Well, I need someone who’ll be willing to help out everywhere at first. Box office, tickets, usher- if you’re willing to do that for awhile, you can learn the projection system in your spare time and become a full-time projectionist. That’s a union job; starts at three-fifty an hour.’
“And that’s what I did. A far cry from helpin’ Hitler take over the world, but it was perfect. Hell, I would’ve paid them to work there. The shifts were ten to five or five to twelve, changin’ every two weeks. And the longer I did it, the better I liked it. After two months I moved into the projection room, and joined th’ union, The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, Moving Picture Technicians, Artists and Allied Crafts of the United States. IATSE, or “Yotsy,” for short. And I’m still a member in good standin’.
“I was out for an early lunch one day that fall when I had the late shift, and decided to walk over to the library on St. Paul. I wanted to see what they had in the way of maps of Russia. The German invasion was into its third month. They had taken Kiev, and it looked like they’d be in Moscow soon. If they made it, Russia would soon become part of the Reich, which made them a much stronger potential adversary of the Allies. Strong enough to invade the United States some day. I wanted to get a clearer picture of the distances they’d have to cover in th’ process of gettin’ there.
“Th’ library was white-trimmed red brick with a scatterin’ of dark blue ones, like several others in th’ neighborhood. A one-story buildin’, it looked like a private home, just a little larger. A thirtyish woman stood at th’ counter; she offered a faint smile as I approached. Slender, almost thin, a little above medium height, just-grayin’ dark brown hair done up in a bun. ‘May I help you?’ she asked. Large, solemn, tired eyes, dark blue, set wide in a pale oval face, examined me with mild interest through tortoise-shell glasses as I rested my hands on th’ desk. A small brown mole sat over her right cheekbone. We seemed to be th’ only two people there.
‘I’d like to see a map of Russia,’ I said. ‘As large a scale as possible.’
‘Following the war news?’
‘Right.’
‘Come this way,’ she said as she moved from behind the counter, walkin’ down the corridor to my left. ‘Maps are in the reference room.’ As she walked in front of me, I saw that her shoes were flat-heeled loafers. She was taller than I thought, maybe five-ten. ‘There are several atlases here,’ she said. ‘This one’s the largest.’ She pulled a book that was probably two feet long down from a shelf. ‘Last Sunday’s paper had a map of the front. I’ll get it for you.’ I took the book from her and set it on the nearest table. I was still lookin’ for the map of Russia when she returned with the Sunday Sun’s first section, the left edge clamped in one of those thin wooden poles that lets it hang in a rack. She’d folded it open to the map of Russia, showin’ the German and Russian positions as of September second. As she bent over the table to put it down, a faint, but definite, whiff of alcohol hit me.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘This’ll help a lot.’
‘You’re quite welcome. I’ll be at the desk if you need anything else.’
“Half an hour of tryin’ to put myself in the shoes of the Russian front generals, first on one side, then the other, was as much as I could stand. I put the atlas back on the shelf and walked back past the front counter. ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said to the librarian, who was lookin’ down at sump’m behind it.
“I startled her. She looked up at me, her eyes wide. ‘Oh. You’re welcome. Come see us again.’
“I walked over to the desk, extending my hand as I did. ‘I will. My name’s Moses. Moses Kubielski.’
“I’d surprised her, and she took a few seconds to grasp it. ‘Oh. Hello. I’m Mrs. Green.’ But no ring on the wedding finger.
“ ‘Well, Mrs. Green,’ I said, ‘Looks like it may be a short war, but I wanta keep up with it as long as it lasts. I’ll see ya in a day or two. Don’t guess ya like movies all that much, or I’dve seen ya at th’ Strand by now. I work there.’
‘Oh. No. I do like movies. I just don’t have the time to go very often. The Strand. What do you do there?’
‘Projectionist.’
‘Hm. That must be interesting.’
‘Wait ’til you’ve done it for awhile. Guess most jobs are a little borin’, though. That’s why they call ’em jobs, I guess.’
“She laughed; the smile that followed the laugh was real. ‘I guess so,’ she said.
“I took a theatre pass out of my wallet and put it on th’ counter. ‘Come over and see a movie sometime. The first one’s on me.’
“She looked at it, then at me. She picked it up and looked at it, then put it down on her side of the counter. ‘Thank you. Could I bring my daughter?’
‘Sure,’ I said, pullin’ out another pass and discountin’ her desirability as I did. ‘How old is she?’
“ ‘Fourteen. She loves the movies. You may have seen her there; tall and dark, with her father’s high cheekbones.’
‘Could be. Want another pass for him?’
“She smiled that thin half-smile again. ‘No. Thanks. We haven’t seen him for quite some time now. Are the passes good on weekends?’
‘Yes. Sure. Anytime.’
‘Well, if my daughter hasn’t made plans with her friends, I’d like to come this Friday evening. I’m off this Saturday, and it’d be a nice way to relax and start the weekend.’
‘That’ll be just fine. How Green Was My Valley will still be runnin’. Walter Pidgeon and Maureen O’Hara. You’ll like it, I’m sure. I’ll still be workin’ the five to twelve shift. Ask the girl at the box office to call me up in the projection room, and I’ll come down for a minute. I’d like to meet your daughter.’
“They came for the seven o’clock show, and I went down to meet ’em. Linda was nearly as tall as her mother, even at fourteen. Her hair was several shades of red lighter as a young girl; maybe she has it darkened now, I don’t know. Sarah’d let her hair down out of th’ workday bun; it reached down just below her shoulders, not showin’ the gray nearly as much as it did when it was put up. ‘Hi, Mr. Kubielski,’ she said.
‘Hi. And please call me Moses. Mose would be even better.’
‘Well, Mose, this is my daughter, Linda.’
‘Hi, Linda. Welcome to the Strand.’
‘Hi, Mose,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘Looks like a good movie; thanks for getting us in.’
‘You’re welcome; glad that you could come.’
‘We were talking on the way down,’ Sarah said. ‘and we thought we’d invite you to either lunch or dinner tomorrow, depending on what shift you’re working. Would you be free to join us?’
‘Freer than usual, as it happens; this is my weekend off, too.’
“Well, things moved along smartly after that dinner. We became lovers, and I had my first experience of bein’ involved with a woman who was smarter than me. About a lot of things, anyway. But most of all, literature. She was a librarian, of course, but that by itself can’t describe how much she knew, and loved, books in general and American writers in particular. I’d never read
much beyond what my folks, and school, shoved down my throat. Sarah helped me to understand what fun readin’ could be, first with Mark Twain, then Hemingway, then Faulkner. Faulkner really helped me start to understand people here in Bisque.”
Jack smiled. “No wonder you’ve always talked so much about ’im.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve bored your ass off about ’im all these years.”
“Well, maybe at first, but not for long. You made me curious about what he had to say that grabbed a guy like you so hard. Readin’ him’s what first got me interested in writing.”
It was Moses’ turn to grin. “Wonder what he’dve had to say about this town. Well, anyway, th’ big problem with Sarah was that she was an alcoholic. You’d have to live with one to know what hell that can be. Th’ more we were together, th’ less she bothered to hide th’ way she was from me. And, like a lot of people, it took me too long to realize that she was one of th’ ones who wouldn’t accept help; didn’t want it. Th’ more I came to realize it, th’ more worried I got about what it was doin’ to Linda. You’ve met her, so you know she’s no dummy. Turns out she’d always been a whiz in school. Just a really bright kid who loved to learn stuff. She’d been drawin’ and paintin’- pencil, ink, watercolors- since she was six or seven. It was th’ damnedest thing- as much as I learned from Sarah, I enjoyed sittin’ and talkin’ with Linda even more. It was like talkin’ to a grown person who could still dream.
“By th’ time she was sixteen, in 1943, she was a sophomore in high school, doin’ better than ever, but it was in spite of Sarah’s influence, or th’ lack of it. It was almost like she resented th’ kid’s success. I called her on it all th’ time, and our relationship evaporated in a series of scraps about all sorts of shit, but mostly about Linda. Pretty soon it just got to be too much. She’d actually try to kick my ass when she’d get a snootful, and to make sure I didn’t hurt her, or get hurt myself, I stopped seein’ her.
