ELEVEN
What better way to put Alessa and Joe out of my mind than to start on the ground floor of Woodies, among the two-story cast iron arches and gleaming walnut counters, and work my way up to the Tea Room on the seventh floor?
Woodward and Lothrop department store occupied an entire block, between Tenth, Eleventh, F and G Streets, a few blocks east of the White House.
By the time I’d reached the fourth floor, I’d bought two pairs of rayon stockings, Black Orchids by Rex Stout, and a set of undies like Myrna’s, except I chose soft blue with black lace trimming.
The weather was growing colder, and I’d need much warmer clothes than I’d brought with me from North Carolina. Fuel oil was scarce, and the government decreed that bedrooms should remain unheated during the coming winter. I’d already ordered the basics from the Sears catalog. When Ada’d found me at the dining room table filling out the order form she’d had a conniption. ‘How do you expect to find a man wearing those?’ she’d asked, looking in horror at the wide-legged wool trousers I was ordering in brown and olive.
‘I’m not looking for a man,’ I’d said. ‘I’m looking to stay warm.’
I did want at least one purchase a bit more special than Sears’ trousers, and I found it in Ladies’ Dresses, an autumn-green wool suit dress for $12.95. The thought of wearing my new undies under it gave me a frisson of pleasure.
Shoes were scheduled to be rationed after Christmas, so I wanted a pair of tough saddle shoes, but I’d get a better deal on those at Hahn’s.
Then I came upon the Fur Salon. The Woodies’ ad in this morning’s paper offered wool coats with mink collars for ninety-eight dollars, which I couldn’t possibly afford, but no one could stop me from trying one on, could they?
The least expensive coats hung inside the entrance to the Fur Salon. I put down my packages and began to flip through them. Did I want blue, brown, or black? Blue, I decided as I pulled a coat off the rack. Dropping my own coat, which I’d purchased when Bill and I married years ago, to the floor, I drew on the new one. The fur collar nestled luxuriously around my neck. I turned, searching for a full-length mirror. I looked deeper into the long salon, where an older woman, gray-haired, dripping with bracelets and rings, modeled a breathtaking sheared beaver greatcoat. A young woman wearing a calf-length mink, with another fur coat draped over her arm, was with her. When the younger woman reached out to adjust her companion’s collar I saw she wore a wide gold bracelet and a wedding band encrusted with diamonds.
Something intuitive made me duck behind a pillar before I consciously understood why. The young woman turned to beckon for a salesgirl. It was Alessa.
Shock forced heat into my face, and my heart missed a beat. Several beats. How could this be possible? Alessa was a poor refugee. The woman I saw was wealthy and aristocratic in her looks and bearing.
My legs wobbled like jelly, and I felt like I was floating in the air. I recognized the signs of a fainting spell, but I forced my back against the pillar hard. I used both hands to squeeze the back of my neck and the stars receded. Thank God.
I must have absorbed some of my lessons from ‘The Farm’, because despite my shock I didn’t step out from behind my pillar to gape at the two women. Instead I stayed behind the pillar and watched the Fur Salon exits so I could see the two women when they left.
Then I heard her voice, answering the older woman’s Italian – or maybe it was Sicilian – in familiar accented English. It was Alessa, there was no doubt about it. The two women passed by my pillar hideout on their way out of the Salon.
I knew I shouldn’t follow her; I didn’t have enough training to tail her expertly, and if she spotted me it would ruin the operation. Still trembling, I hung up the fur-collared coat I hadn’t even admired myself in and collected my parcels.
I assumed my best gossipy expression and located the saleswoman who’d waited on them. She was hanging up the gorgeous coat Alessa’s older companion tried on. ‘Those ladies,’ I said to her. ‘I can’t help wondering who they were. They wore such wonderful clothes and jewels.’
The saleswoman was miffed that they hadn’t bought the coat, because she broke a famous Woodies’ rule and answered me.
‘That’s the Dowager Countess Lucia Oneto and her daughter-in-law, Alessa. They’re Italians or something. Very rich.’ She continued tidying up the rack of furs. ‘Would you believe,’ she said, ‘the daughter-in-law talked the Countess out of buying that coat? Said she should buy war bonds instead.’
I couldn’t tell if the saleswoman admired Alessa or if she was angry to lose a sale. Probably, a little of both.
‘Do you know where they live?’ I asked.
‘I’ve said too much already,’ the saleswoman said. ‘I could get fired.’
I took the elevator up to the Tea Room to settle my nerves and think of what to do next. The menu was reduced from its usual extravagance because of the war, but I ordered a cup of tea and a slice of honey cake.
By the time I’d finished my tea my shock had subsided. Random questions raced through my mind. Why was Alessa posing as a poor refugee when she was a Sicilian countess? Was her husband, the supposed count, alive and in this country? Was the Oneto family important? Were they involved in Alessa’s plan, or ignorant of it? Who was Alessa’s asset? He must be involved somehow in the Port of New York, but Alessa lived here in Washington. How did they communicate?
My only task, during my brief stint as an OSS agent, was to get the name of the Mafia sleeper Alessa said her asset possessed before the next slow convoy left New York Harbor for Casablanca. That was it. No matter who Alessa was, no matter who her asset was. OSS would want nothing to interfere with this operation. I certainly could do nothing about what I’d discovered today until I briefed Melinsky on Monday.
That left the rest of the weekend for me to brood about why Countess Alessa Oneto disguised herself in thrift store clothing. She kept secrets, of course, everyone in this city did, but I had become fond of her. I knew I shouldn’t have. It was unprofessional. I needed to think of her only as an asset, nothing more.
At least I’d be distracted tonight. Joe and I were going on our second official date. I’d made the plans this time. Joe had never been to an American movie, so we were going to see Holiday Inn, and then out to eat somewhere cheap, like Scholl’s or Childs. He was poor as a church mouse, and I didn’t want to embarrass him.
TWELVE
It was growing dark outside when Joe and I left the movie theater.
‘What did you think?’ I asked Joe.
‘Well,’ he said, wrinkling his forehead with puzzlement. ‘It was entertaining. And the music was catchy. Bing Crosby has a good voice for a popular singer. The dancing was remarkable; I’ve never seen anything like it. No wonder Crosby and Fred Astaire are such big stars.’
We walked aimlessly down the street holding hands. I wore my new suit and undies, and felt young and attractive, despite having turned thirty.
‘Look,’ Joe said, pointing at a pub across the street. ‘Let’s see if they’re serving dinner.’
We jaywalked across the street and discovered the pub had British pretensions, with a sign hanging over the door identifying it as ‘The St George’. A fierce red dragon in neon and a Guinness logo graced the window, whatever Guinness was.
‘I wonder if they really have Guinness here. I’d love a pint,’ Joe said.
‘What is it?’
‘A heavy stout. Very heavy, almost black in color. Definitely an acquired taste.’
We went into the pub, which was suitably dark with paneled wood walls and leather booths. A young waitress seated us and then gave Joe the bad news with the menu.
‘No Guinness, I’m afraid, not until the end of the war. Awful, it is. I keep telling my boss he should scrape the sign off the window – so many Brits come in here hoping and are so disappointed – but he won’t. Says it brings in custom.’
We settled for two Schlitzes. Joe ordered fish and chips, and I requ
ested cottage pie.
‘So,’ I said as we sipped our beers and waited for dinner, ‘except for the music and dancing, you didn’t think much of the movie?’
‘It was so silly. The Washington’s Birthday sequence was ridiculous.’
‘I think that’s the idea. Aren’t the newsreels realistic enough for you?’
‘Good point. And I have a feeling we’ll be hearing that Christmas song again, what was the title?’
‘White Christmas.’
Our food arrived and was quite tasty. My cottage pie was made with lamb rather than beef. I’d eaten lamb a few times since I’d come to Washington, and I rather liked the flavor. To my surprise Joe shook malt vinegar all over his French fries, or as the British called them, chips.
‘This brings back memories. I lived on fish and chips at university,’ he said.
‘Where did you go?’ I asked, without thinking. Joe spoke little about his past, protecting his identity, from what threats I didn’t know and didn’t ask. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, never mind!’
‘It’s fine. I went to Cambridge. Those were great years. Not a care in the world. I read English literature. I thought if I could live in Prague and teach English at one of the universities my life would be perfect.’
‘Did you have rooms in college and row and everything?’
‘It’s scull, not row, darling, and yes, all of it, even the scholar’s robe.’
He’d called me darling!
Unaware that he’d made my evening, Joe called for the check.
‘Do you remember where we left Phoebe’s car?’ he asked.
‘It’s a couple of blocks down,’ I said.
On our way, walking hand in hand, Joe stopped and scouted the street. ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling me through a tiny wrought iron gate into a wooded park no bigger than half a city block. The oaks and maples were bare of leaves, but we found a bench mostly hidden by the trunk and lower branches of a thick cedar tree. Joe sat and reached for me, pulling me on to his lap and into his arms. He spread his legs slightly so I could be even closer to him, and he kissed me. It was dark and chilly, but I was warm in short order. We kissed hard and deeply; his hand found its way inside my suit jacket and caressed my breast in its pretty bra. I responded by reaching deep under his belt and trousers and down his back.
‘Is it too cold?’ he asked.
‘Never,’ I answered.
A beam of blinding light flashed in our faces and drove us apart.
‘It’s a good thing I got here when I did,’ the DC auxiliary policeman said. He was heavy, huffing and puffing in the long black coat and wide yellow armband that identified him. He was armed with a flashlight, truncheon, and a whistle on a lanyard. ‘In five more minutes I would have arrested you for public fornication.’
Joe pulled himself together first. ‘I assure you, officer—’ he began.
‘Holy smoke,’ the policeman interrupted, angling the flashlight beam so he could see us. ‘You should be ashamed, at your age. I figured you were some GI and his girl. You two should know better than to make a spectacle of yourselves like this.’
He poked at Joe with his truncheon. Joe clenched his fists, but he kept his temper. ‘You two move along now,’ the ersatz cop said. ‘You don’t want me to arrest you and get your pictures in the newspaper. That would embarrass the young lady.’
‘We’re on our way,’ Joe said, through gritted teeth.
‘Thank you, officer,’ I said to him, in my most contrite voice. ‘It won’t happen again.’
We didn’t speak until we found ourselves in Phoebe’s car.
‘Bloody hell!’ Joe said, striking the steering wheel with both flat palms. He turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have put you in such a position.’
I had to snicker.
‘It’s funny now,’ Joe said. ‘But what if we’d been arrested!’
I stopped laughing and shivered. I would have lost my job, Phoebe would evict me, and I’d have to crawl back home to my parents’ house, ruined, as the preachers said. Joe wouldn’t suffer as much. It wasn’t fair.
We pulled into Phoebe’s driveway near to midnight.
Her bedroom light was on.
‘Someone suffers from insomnia in this house every damn night,’ Joe said. He turned to me. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. No necking in public parks in the future, I suppose.’
‘And little enough in private.’
Exhausted, I climbed into my bed. Dellaphine had added an extra blanket because of the fuel oil restrictions, and I wore one of my new flannel pajama sets, the one with purple stripes and pink flowers. I tried not to think about Joe and our lack of privacy; it was too frustrating. How could we possibly have an affair while living in a boarding house? No wonder couples lined up around the block at the DC courthouse to get married. At least then they could share a bedroom without scandal.
I didn’t want to get married anytime soon; I wanted an exciting romance with Joe. Oh, the hell with it! We’d never have any private time together unless one of us could get an apartment! A hotel room was just too risky.
By forcing myself not to think of Joe, my mind instantly returned to Alessa. The coincidence of encountering her in the Fur Salon flabbergasted me. Such a close call! If she’d seen me I suppose the entire OSS operation would have fallen apart.
More secrets, more cover stories; Washington was thick with them. Joe had them, Ada had them, Melinsky had them. Alessa’s was just one more.
THIRTEEN
The porter silently cleared the dinner dishes off the small table in the breakfast room and piled them on his cart. Lina, the maid, brought hers in from the kitchen – her head lowered, as if she was committing an indiscretion – to add to the porter’s cart. Orazio held the apartment door open so the porter could manhandle his cart into the hotel hallway.
Lina went back into the kitchen to brew the after-dinner tea. Alessa would have given anything for coffee, but they could only buy enough for breakfast.
The four of them, Alessa, Sebastian, Lucia, and Orazio, assumed their usual after-dinner seats in the living room of the apartment. Lucia and Alessa relaxed on the brocaded sofa, while Orazio and Sebastian took the leather wing chairs. Alessa knew how Lucia hated Orazio spending the evening with them. She’d said so often enough that both Alessa and Sebastian feared Orazio had overheard her.
Although Orazio Rossi was a signore with a respectable surname, and a graduate of the University of Salerno, he was still an employee, Sebastian’s trusted secretary. Sebastian insisted to his mother that Orazio live as they did. What was Orazio supposed to do, Sebastian said, stay in his bedroom? Alessa was glad of Orazio’s company for Sebastian. He was young and well educated. They spent much of their time together keeping track of the Oneto fortune, which Sebastian’s father had wisely stashed in Switzerland and New York long before Mussolini had overpowered Sicily.
Money was another of Lucia’s complaints. The Onetos lived frugally so Sebastian could contribute to a number of war charities. He refused to lease a larger apartment or a house, even if they could have located one. He cut their allowances. Alessa had overheard son and mother arguing only yesterday. ‘I can’t fight, but I will contribute every lira I can to winning this war,’ Sebastian said. ‘You’ll have to get used to it.’
Alessa thought of her own ongoing contribution to the war, her mission for Turi, her cover identity, and felt a tingle of excitement. At last there was something important she could contribute! She was so bored with sitting around the apartment. She wasn’t afraid; what was there to be afraid of? Louise had no idea who Alessa really was. Turi would give her the Mafioso sleeper’s name, she’d deliver it to Louise, and that would be the end of it. She wished she and Louise could remain friends, but Turi insisted she must cut Louise off once Alessa delivered his final message to the OSS. Alessa liked Louise enough to keep wearing that awful greatcoat, the one she’d bought at the thrift store near Union Station.
Lina brought in the tea tray and set it on the dining table. She knew how everyone wanted theirs – Lucia’s with milk and honey, Alessa’s with honey only, and the men’s black. Lina was nearly fifty years old and had worked for the Oneto family all her life, though she spoke some English thanks to informal lessons from Sebastian’s British tutor. She was the only servant the Onetos had been able to bring with them. Alessa thought she must be very lonely.
Lina had a tiny room and bath off the kitchenette. She took her meals on a tray in her bedroom, then delivered her dishes to the porter. Lina and Alessa fixed breakfast for the family every morning and tea in the afternoon. Bread, eggs, cereal, and milk were still plentiful in the market, and it saved them a little money.
‘You have no business cooking; it’s beneath you,’ Lucia said to her at least once a week. ‘And all that knitting! Knitting is for donne agricole anziane!’
‘I enjoy both very much, Madre,’ Alessa would answer. ‘And I need to stay busy.’
In Sicily the Oneto family owned two houses: one in Palermo, and one in the country. Both held more than enough sitting rooms, libraries, bedrooms, and bathrooms for everyone to have all the privacy they needed. Most of the time Lucia lived in the town house, while Sebastian and Alessa preferred the country. The green and hilly country, aromatic with lemon and olive trees, how Alessa longed for it!
Here the four of them and Lina squeezed into what the hotel called a semi-housekeeping apartment with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchenette, a dinette, a maid’s room, and a living room with a picture window that overlooked Connecticut Avenue. Of course, she and Sebastian shared a bedroom; Orazio used the smallest of the three bedrooms, and Lucia the other. Alessa and Lucia shared one bathroom, Orazio and Sebastian the second, and Lina used her own tiny washroom. This was one reason Alessa and Sebastian had postponed having children. Where would they put an infant and a nursemaid?
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