Message For Hitler

by Cate M. Ruane

  I put a log on the fire and stifled a yawn. Then I took a seat on the couch. It was one of them Victorian numbers with springs in the cushions that stuck you in the rear end. I managed to get comfortable by sitting on a needlepoint pillow. The huge breakfast was taxing my digestive system. I glanced over to Fritz and knew he was out for the count. My eyelids slid over the balls.

  I dreamed I was flying a red biplane. But there were strings attached to the wing struts. Baby Fritz was cooing in a crib below, wrapped up in a multi-colored crocheted afghan. Only the baby had blonde fuzz above his lip, which turned into a little black moustache. Then the afghan turned black, with a big red swastika stitched into the weave. The baby’s eyes popped opened and they were red—like the devil’s. The baby raised its hand in a Heil Hitler salute.

  I woke with a start, my eyes falling on the empty recliner. Pieces of yarn littered the floor. And the Lugar was gone from my waistband.

  From my position on the couch, I could see Fritz and his grandma seated at the kitchen table. Fritz was stuffing his face. Grandma was shoveling food on to his plate.

  Like an alley cat hunted by a dog, I slinked down the stairs. The door was locked and there was no way to open it without a key. The sound of flight boots made the floor above creak. Fritz stood on the landing, pointing the Lugar at my head. I felt like the biggest nitwit in the world.

  “Up you come,” he said. He shoved me into the kitchen. Taking a roll of tape, he fastened my hands behind my back, made me sit in a wooden chair, taping my hands to the rails and my ankles to the chair legs. His grandmother looked like a wreck. The curlers had come out of her hair, but it was sticking up all over the place with bobby pins pointing in all sorts of directions. Perspiration beaded her upper lip. Until then I hadn’t noticed her mustache. She wiped her brow with a hankie and then blew her nose. She begged Fritz not to harm me.

  “He’s just a child, Peter,” she said, using the same line that had worked with me.

  I wasn’t sure where we stood. Had she phoned Jack? Or had she made a call to some Nazi group. Maybe the British Union of Fascists, lead by Oswald Mosley.

  While Fritz’s back was turned, she mouthed something. I couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell me, but her attempt to communicate gave me a glimmer of hope. For one thing, if Fritz knew she’d called my brother he’d have high-tailed it out of there. He wouldn’t be wasting time taping me to a chair. A wall clock said it was half past ten. I’d been asleep for more than an hour.

  “Fritz,” I said, “good job with the tape.” I didn’t want to do anything to make him run, just in case my brother was flying toward London at 400 miles an hour. Best to keep him distracted.

  “Shall we listen to the radio?” said his grandma. I was starting to think she was on my side after all. The radio was a clever idea because it would drown out the sound of Jack busting down the front door.

  “Please,” I said. “Let’s have some boogie-woogie.”

  “Let’s do!” said Grandma, like she was dying to jitterbug.

  “You may use the radio, Omi. Only please bring me a map of England,” said Fritz. Omi, by the way, was a German nickname for your mother’s mother.

  “You’ll find an atlas in the sitting room, on the bookshelf,” she said. “I have to use the loo, little mouse.” She called him Mäuschen, which referred to a member of the rodent family. She got up and stomped in the direction of the bathroom, which was just through a small pantry. Fritz, meanwhile, had walked into the parlor. The grandma slipped off her shoes, did an about face, and shuffled to my chair.

  She whispered in my ear: “Ringo and Hugh. I spoke with Warrant Officer Noble.” I knew she’d reached the base and help was on the way. She shuffled back to the bathroom and flushed the toilet just as Fritz returned carrying a fat world atlas.

  “I have an itch on my head,” I said. “Would you help a guy out, Fritz?”

  “My name is not Fritz. Please desist in calling me such.”

  “Oh really? What exactly is your name?”

  “Peter Albert Loehlein,” said his grandma.

  “Omi. Please do not give information to the enemy.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to give us your name, rank and serial number?” I said. I’d seen the procedure in plenty of pictures. Only it usually wasn’t the fella strapped to the chair doing the interrogating.

  “And to what purpose will it serve to disclose my rank and serial number?” said Fritz. “I have no intention of remaining in your country.”

  “This isn’t my country, bub.” He found that interesting. “My name is Thomas Robert Mooney the II. And I don’t have a rank or serial number. I’m twelve years old. In America—where I’m from—they don’t let you join up till you can grow a beard.”

  While we’d been talking Grandma went into the parlor to turn on the radio. The Two Leslies were singing, We’re Gonna Hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line. It was a catchy song. I tried tapping my foot. I yelled, “Turn it up, would you?” Then turning to Fritz, I said, “Ya gotta love this tune.”

  “You will translate the words to German,” he said.

  I told Fritz it was a love song about a girl named Sue who meets a fella on an airplane and falls head over heels. The song was really about the Allies getting to Germany and whooping the Nazis. I sang along.

  “Lovely tune,” said Grandma, coming back to the kitchen. “And I can’t wait for the day!” I opened my eyes wide, so she’d know to clam up. She pretended to cough and said she had to use the loo again.

  “You English drink too much tea, Omi.”

  I had to agree with him there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  FRITZ OPENED THE ATLAS, found the page for England and moved his finger over the south coast, leaving a grease smudge on Dover—the shortest point across the Channel. I’d crossed over from Dover in a speedboat. Fritz was either planning to swim or steal a boat. Both options were possible. There was the chance he’d be eaten by a shark or torpedoed. But on the flip side, he might make back to France. And within a day be back to London in a fighter plane.

  “I’ll need a change of clothing, Omi,” he said. “Something warm. Perhaps a rain coat. Do you have any of grandfather’s?”

  Grandma shot me a pathetic look. She was in a jam, not wanting me to tell people she’d collaborated. We both knew Fritz was going to go through her drawers and closets no matter how she answered. I nodded my head, giving her permission.

  “You’re much taller than your grandfather,” she said. “And much broader in the shoulders. I don’t think his clothes will be a proper fit.”

  I had to hand it to her. She was trying.

  “And shoes, Omi. I can’t wear these boots. Maybe you have a pair of grandfather’s waterproof gardening boots?”

  “Wellies, you mean. Oh, my,” said Grandma. “I’d been so meaning to sort through Gerard’s things and donate them to charity. Stupid, sentimental me. I hadn’t the heart.”

  Soon Fritz was standing before us looking like a man going out to catch trout. He wore a tweed jacket and vest over forest green wool pants. He had on a school tie. On his lapel was a little pin from the Masonic Lodge. On his head was a tweed cap, and on his feet were rubber knee-high boots. He’d completed the disguise with a fishing pole and tackle box. Into the tackle box he stuffed a loaf of bread, a pickle jar, can of beans, two apples, and the decanter of gooseberry wine. No one would see him coming.

  I could see the wheels were spinning in his head. He knew the second we walked out that door, I’d sic the Home Guard on him. “Have a nice trip, Fritz,” I said. I wanted to get his mind on the obvious.

  “You are coming with me,” he said. “And you also, Omi. We will take the car.”

  “But I can’t drive, little mouse. That old motor car hasn’t been taken out since your grandfather passed. Why, the tires are flat and it’s out of petrol. I haven’t any petrol coupons, besides.”

  “We will find a petrol station,” said Fritz, wavin
g his Lugar.

  It looked like I’d be doing the driving, since Fritz would want to keep both hands free for the trigger.

  “Let me get into warmer clothes,” said Grandma. She was still wearing a nightgown, so it was a reasonable request. “And I ought to find something suitable for the boy. We can’t have him freezing to death, Peter.”

  He motioned her into the bedroom and took a seat opposite me. I knew Grandma had something up her sleeve. I hoped it was a pistol. A few minutes passed before she appeared again, bundled up and carrying a suitcase. She’d found a wool overcoat for me, and a hat, scarf and glove combo I was sure she’d knit herself. Fritz cut me loose with his grandma’s pinking shears. He handed her the world atlas.

  He said, Ruhig. I was back to square one.

  The grandma led us back to the staircase, descending to the front door. Fritz had the gun in his jacket pocket; his finger was on the trigger. He made me carry the fishing gear. I didn’t even like fish. Back home, Ma forced me to eat flounder every Friday.

  “Let me lock up, little mouse.” Grandma found a ring of keys in her coat pocket and took two off, handing them to Fritz. “This one will open the garage door. If I’m not mistaken, the larger key is for the car.”

  Fritz walked me over to the garage door. His back was to his grandma. He threw me a key. I was going to play the part of his lackey, obviously. Bending down to reach the keyhole, I caught a glimpse of the grandma. Even viewed upside down, I was able to see her snatch a piece of paper from her pocketbook. She tossed it into the foyer and pretend to lock up. British Intelligence was going to have to hire this lady.

  The garage door opened on its rusty hinges, revealing the Crossley open-top sedan. My guess was it was a 1920 model. Fritz kicked the front tire. “Goodness gracious,” said Grandma, “I forgot that your cousin Harry borrowed the car last week.”

  “How is Harry?” asked Fritz.

  “He’s in the army, little mouse.” I knew she was lying to Fritz. Earlier she’d told me that both her English grandsons were in the Royal Navy.

  Fritz poked me with the Lugar. “Can you drive a motor car?” he asked.

  “At your service,” I said.

  He motioned me into the driver’s seat. Grandma got in on the passenger side. Fritz headed toward the back seat. But instead of sliding in, he fussed with the rag-top. I preferred the wind whipping through my hair, my face in full view to passersby, but Fritz wanted the top up. He pulled it over our heads and fastened the clamps near the front windshield. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat, pushing me to the center with his rear end.

  What a dirty, crummy trick, I thought.

  My feet were up on the middle bump, my knees hitting my chin and the stick shift too close to my private parts. Fritz moved the Lugar from his right pocket to the left, so I couldn’t get at it. The engine turned over and the Crossley started right up. There was a full tank of gas, to boot. Since I was squashed up against the grandma, I said, “Suppose it’s time we were introduced.”

  “My name is Mrs. Harriet Wigglesworth. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She reached out a bent hand.

  “Was Harry named after you?”

  “You’re clever to have made the connection.” We’d slipped into English.

  Fritz shouted, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch!”

  “Freut mich to meet ya, Frau Vigglesworth,” I said, shaking her hand.

  Fritz parked the car in the street and went to close up garage. This would have been my chance, if only he hadn’t taken the car key with him. I looked down the block: empty as a church on Monday. If I made a move, he’d shoot me in the back and speed away in the Crossley. I’d be laying there with my brains splattered on the pavement and no one to give me the last rites.

  Once Fritz was back in the car, he said, “Omi, you will be my navigator, yes?”

  “Fighter pilot’s don’t have navigators,” I said under my breath.

  “We will be driving to Dover,” he said, “to those pretty white cliffs I have flown so often over. Please find it on the map, Omi, and plot a direct course—one that will avoid check-points. ”

  “Peter, I know the way to Dover,” she said. “You might have left the atlas on the bookshelf.”

  He shifted the car through three gears and took the corner without making a stop, like he was flying a Messerschmitt. A red double-decker bus swerved and blew its horn when Fritz cut in front of it. After making a right turn, we headed south along Hyde Park. The whole time, my eye swung left and right and up and down, hoping to catch a glimpse of my brother—our only hope of rescue.

  We were halfway down the block when a two-tone maroon and black car drove toward us. The driver was wearing an RAF uniform and in the passenger seat was a woman. I could only see the sleeve of her blue uniform. My heart raced like a horse at Belmont, and I reached for the horn. Fritz blocked me with his elbow. My head swung around like a ventriloquist dummy, so I could get a good look as the car passed us headed toward Culross Street. I let out a moan. The airman had a nose a half-inch longer than Jack’s and was twice his age.

  In the rearview mirror, I watched as the car turned onto Mrs. Wigglesworth’s street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MI5 Headquarters,

  Wormwood Scrubs, East London

  BRIGADIER A.W.A. HARKER—Deputy Director General of MI5— hears the rat-a-tat-tat of heels coming along the corridor. By now he can recognize the footsteps of Miss Havilland, his secretary.

  “Come in, Miss Havilland,” he says, without even looking up.

  “Sir, there is a Miss Whitehead on the line. She works under Lizzy Nel at 10 Downing Street.”

  This is the living end! thinks Harker. That the call has not come from the prime minister himself, nor from the prime minister’s secretary, Elizabeth Nel—but, rather, from the secretary’s secretary! So, this is what they think of him after twenty-seven years service in British Intelligence? It was bad enough that they’d demoted him after a brief stint as Acting Director General.

  “And what does this Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Is want?” asks Harker.

  “Miss Whitehead, sir. It seems that 10 Downing Street is being harassed by a woman from Dover, sir… a Mrs. Charles Sanders, who complains of not having had satisfaction after multiple reports made through proper channels.”

  “Meaning us.”

  “Yes, sir, meaning us. Something about a ring of German spies working from a fishing boat. She’s made multiple reports, sir. And now she is showing up at the doorstep of 10 Downing, sir, making a nuisance of herself. Bothering the guards. Shouting out for the prime minister to come to the door. 10 Downing says that it must stop. Mr. Churchill, it seems, can’t think straight with all of the commotion.”

  Harker slumps in his chair. “Ask Ellis to come see me, there’s a good girl.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  WE HAD ONE THING going for us: driving in Monday morning traffic kept us at a snail’s pace. I was happy to see that Fritz was frustrated. He was, after all, used to going a little faster. “Just like traffic in Berlin,” he said, “Although our people are better skilled motorists.” We stopped behind a meat truck; a ham was painted on the rear doors. Fritz laid on the horn, straining his neck out the window and trying to see what the hold up was. We rolled forward and he said, “I am sorry, Omi, that my visit has to be cut short. Soon we will mount the invasion and I will return for a longer stay. Then I will be happy to have a tour of this fine city, with my dearly beloved Omi on my arm. I will bring my dress uniform for the occasion—it is so grand, Omi. You will be so very proud.”

  Mrs. Wigglesworth let out a gasp.

  We glided past a policeman, directing traffic. I yelled out, “Help!”

  Fritz stuck the Lugar between my fourth and fifth rib and saluting the policeman.

  The policeman blew his whistle and yelled, “Move along!” Fritz put the pedal to the floor. Now we were driving through another park, which dumped us smack in front of the place the king lived.
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  “That’s Buckingham Palace,” said Mrs. Wigglesworth, pointing out the entrance gates. It was the first thing she’d said since leaving her street. Maybe she hoped her grandson would stop to take pictures? Everyone knew the place was swarming with guards. And they had rifles, too.

  Fritz’s eyes bugged out. “Oh! This is where your Führer resides!”

  “Only we don’t call him the Führer, Peter. He’s our sovereign king.”

  “King, Kaiser, Führer, what’s the difference?” said Fritz. “In any case, you will soon have the Führer living here in your palace.” He looked like a cat at a bowl of cream.

  In front of the gate were two soldiers, decked out like nutcrackers, with these ridiculous fur hats that stuck three feet above their heads. They stood like marble statues. Fritz leaned out the car window and laughed. The soldiers didn’t bat an eyelash.

  He looked at his compass. I wish I’d tossed it in a bush when I had the chance. It was clasped in Fritz’s sweaty palm. He did an illegal U-turn and headed down what they call The Mall: a wide avenue lined by trees. “I like this,” he said. “This avenue is reminiscent of the Champs-Élysées in Paris. I had the honor of flying in formation with my squadron over the Arc de Triomphe as Field Marshal Rommel rode triumphantly into the city.”

  “You were fourteen in June 1940,” said Mrs. Wigglesworth. “Therefore, you must have been sitting on your father’s lap.” His face turned beet red. “Is that what they taught you in the Hitler Youth, Peter? How to fib and boast?”