The Copper Series

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  He kept his eyes on William, who had been edging his way close to the greasy train wheels to examine them.

  “But you loved that Hudson.”

  He turned to me with one of his straight-in-the-eyes looks that always made my knees turn to Jell-O. “But I love you more.” Then he hugged me for a long time.

  That act touched me profoundly. I swallowed back tears. “I am coming back. I will be back.”

  “Please do,” he whispered in my ear, holding me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

  “I love you.” I kissed him and then bent down to pull William close to me for a hug. He reached into his back pants pocket and handed me a brown paper package. In it was his new Kodak Target 6-20 Mickey Mouse camera with two extra packages of film. He had used fifty cents of his Christmas money and one cereal box top to purchase this camera; he’d been saving for it for six months. He treasured this camera. And now, with his spy kit, he felt it was an essential ingredient to be a good spy. That camera meant as much to William as the Hudson meant to Robert.

  “You could take pictures of Germany for Elisabeth, so that she’ll remember it,” he said solemnly.

  How could a little boy have so much compassion in his heart? “I’ll take lots of pictures for her. I’ll take good care of your camera, William.” I hugged him one last time and showed him the sign language signal that said I loved him. Just last week, the Copper Springs librarian had found a book on sign language for me from the traveling library; William and I were trying to learn basic language. “I love you” was our first and favorite sign.

  I wrapped up the camera carefully as an idea popped into my mind. “Robert, perhaps I could photograph Dietrich’s family home while I’m in Berlin.” If it hasn’t been bombed, I thought but didn’t say.

  Robert’s face changed into a frown, looking worried, convinced I would be in harm’s way if I ventured away from the judge’s nephew. It seemed wise to say good-bye before he launched into a sermon about not taking undue risks. I climbed the steps to the train. Just before heading into the passenger section, I turned around again and called out, “I am coming back! Just as soon as I can!”

  Robert held William up to wave goodbye to me at the window. Both of them had tears streaming down their faces. They both looked so sad. I felt guilty, because I didn’t feel sad. I felt thrilled. I was finally, finally going back to Germany. Going home.

  * * * *

  My excitement grew with every passing mile of train tracks. It reminded me of being a Resistance Worker, when I lived with a deep-down thrill of knowing I had an important job to do. I had never felt so alive, so purposeful, so empowered, as when I was completing a subversive assignment.

  The next three days on the train sped by. At every stop, I hopped off to exercise and to soak up the rapidly changing American landscape, including the added benefit of watching people at the train stations. Their faces were full of unguarded expression. Saying hello, saying goodbye; whole stories written on their faces.

  Passing through the western states, I noticed the internment camps looked deserted. When I had first arrived in America, they had been filled with Japanese internees. Through southern Colorado, the farm fields had been filled with Japanese workers, working in the fields to supply needed labor. No longer. The war was over, and they were released to resume their lives. How much had changed for them during that time? I wondered. As much as it had for me?

  It had been nearly two-and-a-half years since I left Berlin. I hadn’t wanted to leave, but Dietrich had insisted. We were being watched by the Gestapo; he knew it was just a matter of time until we were arrested. Dietrich helped me to escape by driving me to the Swiss border. From there, I was chaperoned from village to village, country by country, with the aid of fellow Resistance workers. I arrived in New York City after a bumpy, lonely, bitterly cold trip on a freighter, and took a cross-country train trip to Copper Springs, Arizona, to stay at the home of the Reverend Robert Gordon. I only intended to stay until the war was over but, unexpectedly, I became an integral part of Robert and William’s lives. We became a family.

  I put a hand up against the cold window. How strange it felt to be returning to Germany.

  On the third day, the train pulled into Union Station in Washington D.C. I had the address of where I would stay for the night, so I grabbed my small suitcase from the conductor and headed down the platform. Suddenly, I heard someone call my name.

  “Mrs. Gordon? Is that you?” A younger version of the judge ran up to me breathlessly. “I’m Thomas Pryor, Judge Pryor’s nephew. Have a good trip? Yes? Yes. Did I keep you waiting? No? No. Good. I was running behind, with tomorrow being such a big deal and all, you understand, I’m sure.” He spoke in staccatos, never really giving me a chance to answer. He grabbed my bag and rushed toward the street. He turned his head slightly to call back to me, “My uncle made me promise to take good care of you. Uh, would you mind hurrying it up a little?”

  “Please don’t worry about me,” I said as fast as I could. He was so far ahead of me that I had to shout, running to keep up with him. “I can take care of myself. But it concerns me that I’m only coming along as a favor to your uncle. I really want to be of use to the Press Corps on this trip.”

  He stopped in his tracks and turned to look directly at me, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Don’t worry about being a freeloader, Mrs. Gordon. I already have a pile of papers waiting for you to translate. Trust me, you‘ll hardly even know you’re on the ocean.”

  With my proclivity toward motion sickness, that sounded like a fine arrangement. “I was hoping we might be able to talk about locating Friedrich Mueller.”

  The judge’s nephew gave me a sideways glance then looked at his watch. “Who?” I’d already noticed he checked his watch so often you’d think he was about to miss a train.

  I explained the story of Friedrich Mueller as quickly as I could because I could tell he was not a man with a long attention span. I told him Friedrich Mueller was related to Heinrich Mueller, the head of the Gestapo, and that he had stolen money from the entire town of Copper Springs, Arizona to send back to Nazi Germany. I described how he had purchased copper mines before the war began and created a double-dip situation, where he sent the refined copper to Germany and sold the tailings to the United States, effectively exploiting both countries for his benefit.

  “Uh huh, uh huh,” the judge’s nephew replied.

  I could tell I had piqued a little interest, though he was zipping the car between lanes as if in a frantic hurry. I opened my mouth to describe more about Herr Mueller as the judge’s nephew interrupted, “I remember a little about all of that. Something about a German refugee getting used as a hostage exchange by the Justice Department for American prisoners in Germany, right?” He veered the car sharply into a side street, causing me to grasp the handle to hang on for dear life.

  “Yes! I am that German refugee!”

  Now he turned to me, wide-eyed. “Aren’t you a U.S. citizen?”

  “Yes. Of course. I married an American.”

  He looked colossally relieved. “Okay then, nothing to worry about. Here we are.” He pulled up to the hotel, jumped out of the car, grabbed my bag out of the trunk, and handed it to me. “You’ll be fine from here, right? Good? Good. See you tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp.” And off he zoomed.

  Our conversation about Herr Mueller, if one could call it that, would have to be continued at a later date, I thought, frowning.

  As soon as I checked into my hotel room, I took a hot shower and lay down on the bed. After three days and nights sitting upright in a train, my neck and back felt like a question mark. I sank onto the bed, just for a moment; it felt like a mountain of soft feathers. I hadn’t realized how bone-weary tired I was. It wasn’t just the last three days; I had been exhausted for weeks. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke the room was dark. I rolled over and was just about to fade into sleep when a knock at my door startled me. It was a bellboy with telegrams
. Telegrams from home. The first one said:

  LOUISA,

  TERRIBLE SHOCK. THE JUDGE’S WIFE DROPPED DEAD.

  LOVE, ROBERT

  P.S. CAN YOU PLAY THE ORGAN?

  And the second one read:

  DEAR MOM,

  AUNT MARTHA CALLED DOG THE WORST DOG IN THE WORLD. PLEASE COME HOME.

  LOVE, WILLIAM

  I read the telegrams, re-read them then searched the desk in my room for hotel stationery so that I could mail a letter to them from the hotel lobby before the ships left tomorrow.

  Dearest Robert,

  Your telegram was waiting for me when I arrived in Washington D. C. I was so happy to hear from you and William, too! The train journey went well; I met a number of interesting people along the way. It made the time pass quickly. The judge’s mysterious nephew met me at the train station today. I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Pryor. Though, as Aunt Martha often pointed out, quite often, in fact, she was a woman of deluxe-sized proportions. Please tell the judge how sorry I am. I really am. I didn’t know her well, but she was a very loyal organist to the church.

  I translated all of Sabine’s letters for you and will include them in this envelope. I hope it gives you a start on your magazine article. I think Dietrich would have been pleased that you are writing about him. I’ll try to recall more memories.

  The ships leave tomorrow. I’m eager to get this journey on its way! I wish you and William were with me. Oh, and Aunt Martha, too.

  All my love, Louisa

  P.S. I’m sorry to say that I don’t play the organ.

  P.P.S. And I never plan to.

  The next morning, I was getting ready to meet the judge’s nephew to head over to the ship when a bellboy delivered another telegram from home. I didn’t expect to hear from Robert. Once, he was gone for over three weeks on a trip to a General Assembly meeting of the Presbyterian Church. He only sent one postcard. One! Besides that, Robert was a frugal man. Telegrams weren’t inexpensive. I opened up the telegram and smiled as I held it in my hands. This was fun.

  DEAR MOM,

  HERE IS MY SPY LOG ON DAD TONIGHT: 7:00 P.M. DAD LISTENS TO NEWS ON RADIO. 7:22 P.M. DAD LOOKS FOR BOOK, GOES TO OFFICE TO START TYPING ON THE TYPEWRITER. 7:23 P.M. AUNT MARTHA TELLS ME THAT I HAVE TO TAKE A BATH AND GO TO BED. WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?

  LOVE, WILLIAM

  P.S. AUNT MARTHA SAID SHE WANTS TO GIVE DOG A ONE-WAY TICKET TO THE POUND. WHAT IS THE POUND?

  I was amazed that Robert let William send such a long telegram, though, the more I thought about it, it was entirely plausible William bypassed Robert and collaborated with Ernest at the telegraph office to send out his missives.

  I wrote William a quick letter to include in Robert’s envelope. Hearing the clunk that the letter made at the bottom of the mail box gave me a catch-in-my-heart pang. It was my last letter sent from American soil. My last connection to William and Robert.

  The judge’s nephew drove up, a little late, quite harried, in a big black box of a car. I started to say I was sorry to learn about his aunt’s death, but he handed me a gigantic pile of file folders and spent the entire car ride giving me instructions about translating the contents. He drove us over to a dock in Virginia, swarming with newspaper people taking photographs of the President and the Secretary of State James Byrne as they boarded the U.S.S. Augusta. This conference was going to be a significant one: three world leaders meeting to discuss the end of a world war.

  On the dock, I waited to board the escort ship, the U.S.S. Philadelphia. I had a feeling I would be waiting often in the next few weeks. I paced the dock anxiously. Waiting was never my forte. Finally, after the President boarded his ship, the press contingency was allowed to board the escort ship.

  A boyish looking sailor led me to a tiny room with two berths. He explained I would be sharing the room with the naval nurse assigned to the ship. By the looks of things, she had been living on the ship for quite a while. As the only female on the ship, she hadn’t had reason to share her tiny quarters. Until now. Until me. I wondered if she would resent the intrusion.

  I wouldn’t have long to wonder.

  “Bottom bunk is taken,” bellowed a gruff sounding voice from the door behind me. “And don’t turn over in your bunk in the night. The squeaks will wake me up. I don’t take kindly to being woken.”

  I spun around and looked at my roommate. At first glance, she resembled a small, solid icebox, as wide as she was tall. For a split second, I wasn’t sure if the Icebox was a man or a woman. Even her cropped-short hair had a no-nonsense look about it. She glowered at me. She reminded me of someone, but whom? I couldn’t quite place whom.

  “And keep your things in your suitcase. You’re not here for long, you know.” She eyed me up and down. “Doubt it’s for any legitimate reason.”

  I opened my mouth to object to her rather rude accusation when she interrupted me. “Oh, I heard all about that translation excuse.” She eyed me suspiciously. “Look, girly, I don’t care why you’re here. But I will tell you two rules. One…stay out of my way. And two…follow rule one.”

  Ah! Now I knew. She reminded me of a short and stout version of Aunt Martha.

  After the Icebox left the room, the sailor knocked on the door to deliver more telegrams to me. I hoped Ernest was giving Robert a discount.

  LOUISA,

  COUNTING DAYS UNTIL YOU RETURN.

  LOVE, ROBERT

  P.S. ORGAN GETTING TUNED.

  And the other:

  DEAR MOM,

  IT’S HOT AND BORING AROUND HERE. DAD TYPES AT THE TYPEWRITER, AND AUNT MARTHA IS CRANKY. DOG AND I SPIED ON ERNEST, BUT HE CAUGHT US. ERNEST TRIED TO TEACH ME MORSE CODE, BUT I COULDN’T HEAR THE CLICKS. WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?

  LOVE, WILLIAM AND DOG

  P.S. ARE YOU ON THE SAME SHIP AS THE PRESIDENT?

  The Judge had never mentioned a need for brevity in my telegrams, so I decided not to worry about that. Brevity had never been my strong suit, anyway. After trying to find some room in the cramped stateroom for my things, I sat down to write before preparing to tackle the papers that needed translating.

  DEAR WILLIAM,

  ARE YOU WORKING ON YOUR COURSEWORK WITH DAD? DID YOU GO TO MRS. MORGAN FOR SPEECH THERAPY? WHY DID AUNT MARTHA CALL DOG THE WORST DOG IN THE WORLD? ASK DAD ABOUT THE POUND. WHAT DID DOG DO? THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME YOUR SPY LOG ON DAD.

  I LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU, MOM

  P.S. I SAW PRESIDENT TRUMAN TODAY! HE’S ON A DIFFERENT SHIP. HE IS NOT VERY BIG, AND HE WALKS AND TALKS FAST.

  DEAR ROBERT,

  THE SHIP SET SAIL YESTERDAY. AS THE COASTLINE DISAPPEARED FROM THE HORIZON, I FELT HIT WITH A GIANT WAVE, MISSING YOU AND WILLIAM. BUT THE JUDGE’S NEPHEW GAVE ME STACKS AND STACKS OF PAPERS TO TRANSLATE, SO MY MIND IS BUSY. AND OFF OF BEING SEASICK. I LOVE YOU.

  LOUISA.

  P.S. DON’T BOTHER TUNING THE ORGAN.

  The Icebox so intimidated me that I spent the first night in the bunk lying stiffly in one position so I wouldn’t wake her. Soon, it was apparent that only a stick of dynamite could rouse her from her sleep. I thought we were next to the engine room until I realized the rattle noise was her snoring!

  The next night, I had trouble falling asleep. My mind was whirring about Germany and my cousin, Elisabeth. The Icebox hadn’t come in yet, so I jumped off the bunk, dressed, and took a walk on the ship’s deck. Tonight, the sea was still. The moon cast shadows over the water, smooth as glass. The stars were close enough to touch. The weather had been ideal. Sunny and warm, with just a little rain one night.

  Ambling along the deck, I heard voices coming from the mess hall and poked my head inside. Seated at a table was the Icebox, losing badly in a card game with some of the other reporters. After throwing her cards on the table, the Icebox glanced up and spotted me. “What are you looking at?” she squinted.

  “Just wondered what’s going on,” I answered.

  One of the reporters pulled up a chair for me. “Playing a little card game, Ma
’am.”

  “What game?”

  “Twenty-one,” said one of the reporters.

  The Icebox flashed a wicked smile. “Care to join us?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Fresh meat,” she whispered under her breath. Among other things, she underestimated my hearing ability.

  Who could resist? “Why, thank you. I’d like that.” I sat down in the chair. An hour later, after everyone folded their hands, I collected the pot of money and thanked everyone for a lovely evening.

  Back in our tiny quarters, the Icebox glared at me. “Where did you learn to play poker like that?”

  “My husband’s cousin taught me. I’m not really cut out to be a poker player, but after my first experience playing with her, I found it was wise to become extremely proficient at the game.” I climbed up to my bunk, hoping the Icebox didn’t plan to knife me in the back while I slept.

  As I lay there looking at the ceiling, my mind drifted to Robert. He had a way of softening the hardest people. I’d often watched him gently turn heated conversations into constructive ones during church meetings. Not just at church but at the parsonage, too, when Aunt Martha and I would be at a gridlock. I could imagine him frowning at me for acting so smug. I exhaled deeply and knew what I needed to do.

  I poked my head over the side and asked, “Perhaps I could I give you a few pointers?”

  And in the dim light, I saw the Icebox smile.

  Chapter Three

  DEAR LOUISA,

  WILLIAM AND I SPENT DAY FIXING CLOTHESLINE AFTER DOG INCIDENT.

  LOVE, ROBERT

  P.S. ORGAN AND PIANO ARE NEARLY SAME INSTRUMENT.

  I folded his telegram and put it in my pocket, loving the crackling sound it made when I moved. After supper, I would sit out on the ship’s front deck and read it again. It still amazed me—this strange new sense of family.

  DEAR WILLIAM,

  TOMORROW, OUR SHIPS WILL BE DOCKING IN ANTWERP, BELGIUM. ASK DAD TO FIND BELGIUM ON THE MAP. IT’S ONLY TAKING ONE WEEK TO CROSS THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. PERFECT WEATHER. PLEASE PUT DOG ON THE TIE-DOWN WHEN YOU ARE NOT WITH HIM.