Louise's Gamble

by Sarah R. Shaber

  ‘All right.’

  Melinsky stood and extended his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  I shook his hand. His grip was firm, almost painful from the pressure of his heavy gold signet ring.

  The OSS cafeteria was packed, mostly with men in uniform. Not only American uniforms, either. I saw two Scottish Highland Regiment officers in Black Watch kilts and a clutch of Brits in peaked caps and Sam Browne belts.

  Joan and I fought our way through the crowd to the cafeteria line, where we selected macaroni and cheese, canned peas, milk, and Waldorf salad with a cherry on top, all for sixty cents. We scraped the debris off an abandoned table and sat down.

  ‘So,’ Joan said. ‘How was it?’

  ‘What? Sorting postcards?’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘“The Farm”. I know you went there.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, we’re on campus. And no one can hear us over this din.’

  ‘It was OK.’

  ‘When I was there I passed all the physical exercise tests. You know I’m taller than most men, and tennis has kept me fit. The lectures made me sleepy, though. And I never did learn how to steam open an envelope and reseal it. I passed with reservations.’

  ‘Really.’ I dug into my salad as if it were chocolate cake.

  ‘Why did Don decide to send you to “The Farm” now?’

  ‘He said because we had a lull in our workload.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a special assignment for you?’

  ‘Like what? I’m a file clerk.’

  ‘Want to come to my place tonight? We could have a couple of Martinis and dinner.’

  ‘I would love to, but I can’t. Knitting socks for our boys tonight.’

  ‘Surely, you can skip it once.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ I ran out of food to keep my mouth full and limit my responses.

  ‘How about Saturday?’

  ‘I’m going shopping with a friend.’ Alessa might want me to meet her on Saturday again.

  ‘OK, be a party-pooper.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Back in my office I went behind the partition that separated my desk from the others to recover my poise. My closest friend had tested my ability to keep my mouth shut, and I’d passed. Melinsky must have recruited her. Thank God I’d realized she was pumping me. If I’d gone over to her apartment for Martinis she would have kept trying to break my resolve. I understood now that spies had no friends. I was glad I wasn’t going to be one for long.

  NINE

  Alessa collected her knitting bag and coat while her mother-in-law frowned at her disapprovingly.

  ‘Knitting is such an inappropriate occupation for you, dear,’ she said. ‘Surely, you can find something more appropriate to do.’

  ‘I love to knit, Madre, you know that. And I can practice my English at the same time.’

  ‘But the people you are associating with! Who are they?’

  ‘Regular American women. I like them.’

  Sebastian looked up from the stacks of paperwork and accounts he and Orazio were studying on the breakfast table.

  ‘Leave her be, Mamma,’ Sebastian said. ‘Alessa can do as she pleases. Have fun, cara,’ he said to her.

  Alessa couldn’t resist running over to Sebastian and kissing his mop of curly brown hair before leaving the apartment. Her husband, with his thick spectacles and poetic nature, was no warrior, but he was the kindest man she’d ever known. He must have inherited it from his father, because his mother was una stronza. Being married to Sebastian was worth living in the same apartment as her mother-in-law, Alessa reminded herself, and it wouldn’t be forever.

  At her locker in the sub-basement Alessa changed into her refugee disguise.

  Sebastian couldn’t fight in the war. The British, the Canadians, and the Americans had all rejected him because of his poor vision. But Turi had asked Alessa to do more than knit socks, and she intended to do it, no matter how dangerous it was.

  TEN

  It seemed even colder in the basement of the Union Methodist Church women’s club room than it was outside. The church turned off its central heating during the week, so the six of us crowded our chairs around an old-fashioned tubby coal furnace. The sexton was kind enough to leave us a scuttle of coal every week. It was still chilly enough for us to keep our coats on though.

  Alessa wore her thrift shop greatcoat, as usual, and I had on my serviceable wool. I longed for a new coat with a real fur collar, but seeing Alessa in her threadbare clothes made me feel ashamed.

  Four other women joined us tonight. Two of them stayed warm in full-length furs. The others were ordinary housewives bundled up in cloth coats like mine. But we were all here, in this freezing church basement, to do something, anything, to help win the war. In my case I did it badly, I’m afraid.

  ‘Ladies,’ one of the housewives, Laura, said, ‘I found this great pattern in Ladies’ Home Journal, for fingerless gloves. I wrote a copy out for each of us.’

  ‘This is wonderful,’ one of the mink clad women, Pearl, said. ‘The soldiers love these. Keeps their hands warm but their fingers free to do their work. Thanks.’

  I inspected the glove pattern. No way would I ever be able to knit it. When I looked up I saw Alessa grinning at me.

  ‘Go ahead, laugh,’ I said.

  ‘As I mentioned the last time we talked, I’m sure you have other abilities.’

  The other women giggled. When I looked hurt, Pearl put her hand on my arm. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘you’re working at a real government job, so you don’t have much time to practice.’

  We dutifully pulled our projects out of our knitting bags and got to work. I took advantage of the moment to give Alessa an envelope containing the OSS’s answer to Turi’s note agreeing with all his, and Alessa’s, instructions.

  ‘Here are directions to that consignment shop you wanted to visit,’ I said to Alessa. When our hands touched she squeezed my fingers and our eyes met. For a second we saw deep into each other’s soul. She was a fine person, and I regretted we’d need to break off our friendship when our mutual foray into espionage was over.

  So we knitted. And knitted. The fingers of some of these women – including Alessa’s – flew. I labored along, but had to ask Alessa for help with a dropped stitch only once.

  No one asked Alessa why she wore a man’s used coat, or what the other women’s husbands did for a living. We worked and talked about how coffee would be rationed at the end of November and the rumors that new ration books for even more foodstuffs would be issued after Christmas.

  ‘Frankly, I’m glad they’re going to ration coffee,’ I said. ‘Then everyone will have their fair share without needing to queue up at the grocery stores.’ Dellaphine queued once a week to buy groceries in short supply, but some people simply didn’t have the time.

  ‘I bought some margarine this week,’ Laura said.

  ‘Really?’ Pearl said. ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘Not if you’re out of butter.’

  ‘But it’s such an ugly white color,’ I said.

  ‘It came with yellow food coloring,’ Laura said. ‘My children got a kick out of mixing it in.’

  ‘I’ve had margarine too,’ Alessa said. ‘It tastes best when you spread it on something hot.’

  At the end of our two hours we packed up our knitting bags, wrapped scarves around our heads, and pulled on our gloves.

  Alessa hung back, and I stayed behind with her.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘I found a new pattern for you too. Don’t make that face, it’s easy. It’s a sock pattern without a heel.’

  ‘No heel?’

  ‘It’s like a tube. So you don’t have to turn a heel. And it fits all sizes.’

  She handed me a folded paper, and I could feel the small envelope hidden inside it. I was surprised; Melinsky had told me to expect nothing from her tonight.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, stuffing it into my
coat pocket. ‘Listen, would you like to have lunch again tomorrow? Maybe we can go to a movie?’

  She shook her head. ‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘My cousin has loaded me up with chores. Some other time. But I’ll see you here next week.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I had a sudden urge to throw my arms around her and hold her close, which I managed to suppress. I was beginning to think of this woman as a friend, someone I cared about, and I shouldn’t do that.

  I did exactly as Platon instructed me, walking across the street to the filling station instead of going straight home. I leaned over the bright-red chest freezer and pulled out a freezing cold Coca Cola. After popping the cap on the bottle opener on the side of the freezer, I took a long, sweet swallow. The Coca Cola Company had convinced the government not to restrict their sugar allotment, as their product was essential to the morale of the war effort. I agreed.

  I strolled out the side door of the filling station, and sure enough, there was Jack waiting for me behind the wheel of an old Ford woody with a rusted out running-board. He didn’t speak to me, but tipped his fedora. We drove north a block, then turned on K and headed east. I didn’t ask him where we were going. Some café or other, I guessed.

  Four blocks later we turned on to Connecticut Avenue, where the glamorous Mayflower Hotel reigned over what Washingtonians called the ‘Fifth Avenue of DC’. I’d been inside several times, since Joan rented her studio apartment there. To my surprise Jack pulled over in front of the equally famous restaurant two doors down.

  ‘We’re here,’ Jack said.

  ‘Jack, this is Harvey’s!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. The first floor is a public bar and restaurant for men. When you go inside, you need to take the staircase on your right up to the second floor. Tell the maître d’ that you’re joining Colonel Melinsky, and they’ll show you to his table.’

  ‘I’m not dressed properly!’ And I would have to carry my knitting bag with me!

  ‘There’s a war on, ma’am. No one will care.’

  I stood on the sidewalk and took in the iron front facade of the legendary restaurant, its wood-framed entrance and signature glowing blue neon sign. I collected myself. Why shouldn’t a telegrapher’s widow from Wilmington, North Carolina have dinner with a Russian prince at Harvey’s? Anything seemed possible during this war.

  I climbed the stairs and presented myself at the maître d’s desk as if I took my knitting bag with me to every fine restaurant in town. He led me to the very back of the wood-paneled room to a corner table, where Melinsky rose to greet me.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie, thank you for joining me.’

  ‘Thank you for asking me, Colonel,’ I said. Melinsky wore the uniform of an Army colonel with the addition of a red-lettered Army Airborne patch on his left sleeve.

  The waiter seated me, spreading a napkin in my lap, a new experience for me, and presented me with a menu. When I saw the menu items, my head reeled.

  Melinsky smiled at me. ‘This is why I wore my uniform. Soldiers get special menus here. Roosevelt’s orders, so us fighting men can get a good meal. Would you like a drink? And order whatever you want to eat, please.’

  I’d craved a Martini for a week. I’d gobbled down a cream cheese and pickle sandwich before I left for the knitting circle, but I was already hungry. I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Melinsky noticed my hesitation. ‘Remember what I said at our first meeting? I am the only person you can behave naturally with, discuss anything with.’

  ‘I’ll have a Martini, no olive,’ I said to the hovering waiter.

  ‘Vodka, neat,’ Melinsky said. ‘And a dozen oysters each to start, please.’

  The drinks arrived. I sipped on my Martini. Its cool smoothness slid down my throat. I’d never had a cocktail before I came to Washington. My grandparents, all four of them strict Southern Baptists, would turn over in their graves if they knew.

  Melinsky shook pepper on his vodka, tossed it back in one gulp, and gestured for another one.

  ‘I never had a drink until I came here,’ I said. ‘My family is southern Baptist. If they knew half of what I’d done since I arrived in the last year, well, I believe they’d change their name and leave Wilmington in disgrace.’

  ‘What will you do after the war, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I assure you I’m not going home.’

  The oysters arrived. These were not my parents’ oysters. Not cornmeal battered and deep-fried like the ones I was used to cooking at my parents’ fish camp, but slightly steamed, with melted butter and lemon on the side. I slid one succulent oyster down my throat, then another. When we were finished, Melinsky drained his second shot glass of vodka in one gulp.

  ‘The taste of vodka reminds me I’m still Russian,’ he said, beckoning for another.

  ‘How long has it been since you’ve been home?’ I asked.

  ‘Nineteen-eighteen.’

  ‘So many years!’

  ‘Too many. But Stalin won’t live forever, and I hope I can return one day before I die. I’m not a Romanov, and I have a British passport, so perhaps it may be possible.’

  Much as I didn’t want to find myself back in my hometown after the war, I found it hard to comprehend being banished from it forever.

  The waiter returned to bring Melinsky another shot of vodka, clear off our oyster plates, and take our orders.

  ‘Prime rib?’ Melinsky asked me.

  ‘Yes, please!’ I’d never had prime rib before.

  ‘Lobster thermidor for me, and another Martini for the lady,’ Melinsky added.

  After the waiter left Melinsky lowered his voice and leaned toward me. ‘How went the knitting?’

  I drew Alessa’s papers from my knitting bag and handed them to him.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ Melinsky said, unfolding them. He smiled and handed me back the tube sock pattern. ‘This is yours, I think.’

  He opened the envelope and read the letter it contained. It seemed quite short. Pensively, he tucked it into a uniform pocket. I couldn’t read his expression, and just then the waiter brought us our plates.

  The prime rib was wonderful. I ate every bite and all of the asparagus with hollandaise that accompanied it. One more Martini and I would have gnawed on the bone. I ignored the duchesse potatoes. Potatoes I could eat any time.

  ‘That was wonderful, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You are more than welcome,’ Melinsky answered. I wondered if he was going to tell me anything about the letter’s contents.

  The waiter cleared away our plates and brought us coffee. With cream and sugar!

  ‘I’m sorry to say,’ Melinsky said, after the waiter left, ‘that there were no names in Alessa’s note. Some good information, but no names.’

  I felt a stab of disappointment. When would Alessa deliver us the take, spy lingo for any information gathered by espionage? Before the slow convoys left, please!

  ‘Did the two of you make any plans for the weekend?’ he asked.

  ‘No, she said she had too many chores to do, that she’d see me again at the next knitting circle.’ An entire week from now.

  ‘I think Alessa and her asset are still testing us,’ Melinsky said, stirring his coffee in a slow circle. ‘He’s not going to give his information to her until he is sure he is safe.’

  ‘So what next?’ I asked.

  ‘We must hope that by next week she collects the information we need and delivers it to you. That’s all we can do.’

  I turned my key in the lock of ‘Two Trees’ around eleven and found a reception committee waiting for me. Joe, Phoebe, and Ada erupted from the lounge and circled me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Phoebe asked. ‘We’ve been worried sick.’

  Of course. I should have been home hours ago.

  ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to worry you. Some of the girls and I went out for a beer and a sandwich.’ I was learning to lie without batting an eyelash.

  ‘The café didn’t have a telephone?’ Joe asked, quie
tly taking my coat and hanging it on the coat rack. Joe was upset, I could tell from the tight line of his lips and the creases in his forehead.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again. ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Joe said.

  ‘Give us a jingle, honey, the next time you stay out,’ Ada said. ‘Or let us know that you might be late before you leave.’ Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

  Ada partied at all hours. We never knew where she was, except that she was dancing and drinking somewhere. Ada could be counted on to be late. Me, I guess I was the dependable sort everyone panicked about if I didn’t get home at nine o’clock on the dot.

  Phoebe and Ada went on upstairs to bed, leaving Joe and me alone, but not really alone. If only one of us could afford an apartment! He reached his arms around me and buried his face in my neck. A cascade of pleasure flooded my body.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ he said, his voice muffled by my shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said for the third time. ‘But I am a grown woman, you know. Too old for a curfew,’ I continued, teasing him. ‘No one has to wait up for me.’

  ‘You’re not just any woman to me.’ And he kissed me, sending more tremors throughout my body. ‘We must do something about this, love,’ he said. We both knew that a hotel room, even one out of town, was out of the question. We could pretend to be married, but if the desk manager questioned us at all we could be arrested, and it would ruin my career. Not Joe’s; men were expected to do such things.

  ‘Some day, one of our friends with an apartment will go out of town and lend us their place,’ Joe said. ‘We have to wait until then.’

  Later, under my blankets and on the edge of sleep, I wondered why neither of us had discussed marriage. That was the normal way of things between single people. You got married to have sex. The truth was, I didn’t want to marry Joe. He didn’t have two nickels to rub together, and I knew too little about him to marry him. I wanted to have an affair with him. A year ago such a thought would have set me to praying for my soul during church. Today I felt frustrated and unhappy.