by Lyn Cote
“I’ve told you—if I met you for dinner on Wednesday, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my studies that night.” Then he drew up her hand and kissed it. “You are a distraction. A lovely one, but still a distraction.”
“I don’t know if I like being called a distraction—even a lovely one,” she pouted. The conflict tugged, worried her. But she shrugged it off. Her mother had explained that these types of things often came up during engagements. It was just part of beginning to work as a couple.
“Bette—” He paused, faced her, taking her shoulders in his palms. “Another two years and I should be through with school. I’ll find a position as a teacher and we’ll marry. I’m halfway through.” He pulled her into an embrace. “And my high grades have kept my scholarship, so it won’t take me five years as we’d feared. Our future is worth waiting for, Bette. At least, I think so.”
Resting her head on his shoulder, she hurried to reassure him. “Yes, you’re right and by then, I’ll have a down payment for a house saved.”
“You don’t have to do that.” As always, he sounded disgruntled at this topic.
Her mother had also explained this to her; Curt’s male pride was at stake. Shaking her head over the vagaries of men and their touchy pride, Bette brushed back his hair. “I know I don’t, but doesn’t it make good sense? Mr. Lovelady refuses to let me pay him any room or board. I buy myself new clothes all the time.”
“A fact I much appreciate.” Curt grinned and released her. He straightened his fedora and offered her his arm.
She took it, smiling at his compliment and filling with pride as she always did walking at his side. “I’m not saving every penny. I go to the movies and eat out as often as I wish. And I’m still saving over half my wages from the War Department. What else should that money go to but our future?”
“All right. You’ve got me there.” He squeezed her hand in his and began leading her out of the park. “It would be nice to be able to afford a sweet little bungalow rather than renting something. I still don’t really like you living rent free at Mr. Lovelady’s—”
“We’ve been over that before, too,” she scolded good-naturedly, proud that Curt wanted to take care of her. That’s what every woman wanted, wasn’t it? But, still, if it bothered Curt that much, he could change her living arrangements by agreeing to marry earlier than planned. So why should he complain? “Mr. Lovelady is rarely there. He says he likes the townhouse to be occupied. When he comes, he always brings along his mother as a chaperone so that the proprieties may be observed. And I like Mrs. Lovelady quite as much as I like Mr. Lovelady. She and I always take in a concert or play together. She’s such fun for an older lady.”
“Well, I’d be happier if Mrs. Lovelady was his wife, not his mother.”
“Oh, Curt.” She shook his arm. “Mr. Lovelady’s as old as my stepfather. Don’t be silly.”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “You mean everything to me, Bette.”
His words made her feel small for pushing for marriage. Bette flushed with pleasure and murmured the words back to him. She couldn’t think of a better way to end this conversation.
Two young people in love, they walked hand in hand to the streetcar and headed back to Georgetown. Curt walked her to the door of the red brick townhouse and kissed her good night. Glowing from his kisses, Bette didn’t tell Curt that Mr. Lovelady and his mother were due in that evening. Why stir the water?
It was very late and Bette wondered if the Loveladys had been delayed until tomorrow. She wanted to tell Mr. Lovelady the good news about Ilsa. After all, he’d visited Ilsa and the rest of Gretel’s family in Berlin almost two years ago. She sat upstairs in the window seat in her bedroom looking out over the jumbled skyline of Georgetown. Moonlight created a pattern of luminance and shadow. Mr. Lovelady had offered to let her redecorate the room when she’d moved in over a year ago, but she’d thought it was already lovely with its shirred white curtains, white satin counterpane, and lovely polished dark-wood floor.
A copy of Steinbeck’s newest novel, Of Mice and Men, lay open on her lap. She’d started it several times over the past week, but the story was too realistic for her taste. There was already too much cruelty going on in the world; she wanted a book that would take her away from it all, not remind her of it. Maybe she’d give in and read Gone with the Wind like everyone else in America.
The front door opened downstairs and voices floated up to her. She rose and went to her open door.
“We must be quiet,” Mrs. Lovelady cautioned, “I’m sure Bette will be asleep by now. I’ve never had a train delay like that before. I’m so tired.”
“It happens, Mother. Are you going straight up to bed or do you want a nightcap?”
“I’ll come and have a sherry with you. I’m tired, but keyed up. A sherry would relax me.”
Bette heard the sound of Mr. Lovelady hanging their coats in the front hall closet. Should she go down to greet them or not? She didn’t want to intrude.
“Are you going to spend all your time running all over Washington this visit,” Mrs. Lovelady asked, “or are you going to spend some time with me and Bette?”
That was a peculiar thing for Mrs. Lovelady to ask. Bette bent forward to hear better.
“Mother, Bette is practically engaged to a young college student and thinks of me as an uncle.”
“Well, I still can’t believe you let her mother get away from you . . .” Their voices faded as they must have gone into the front room.
Bette silently repeated the words she’d just overheard. “I still can’t believe you let her mother get away from you?” What had Mrs. Lovelady meant? Without letting herself think too much of consequences, Bette tiptoed down the steps and hovered in the hall, listening.
“Mother,” Mr. Lovelady’s voice rumbled from the parlor, “let it go. Chloe is very happy with her husband.”
“I know and I wish them no harm.” Mrs. Lovelady gave one of her grandiose sighs. “But what about Bette?”
“Mother,” Mr. Lovelady stressed with audible exasperation. “Enjoy your time with Bette but forget your romantic illusions.”
Bette turned and raced silently up the steps. Breathing fast, she closed her door behind her. Mrs. Lovelady had hopes that Bette would fall in love with her son? The idea was so far from reality Bette had a hard time taking it in. She plumped down in the window seat again. Her mother had said Mr. Lovelady was an old friend. That was why he’d done Gretel the favor of visiting her family in Berlin. But had he been more to her mother? Bette recalled what people had said about her mother being a wild flapper. What had passed between her and Mr. Lovelady?
Early the next morning Bette walked stiffly into the sunny, white dining room to find Mr. Lovelady at the head of the table, hidden behind the Herald. “Good morning, Mr. Lovelady.” She hoped the tremble she felt hadn’t come out in her greeting. The words she’d overheard last night still tugged at her curiosity and conscience, made her uncertain with him.
The paper lowered. “Bette, good morning. You’re looking lovely today—as usual.”
She smiled, holding her lower lip with her teeth so she wouldn’t blurt out, “Did you love my mother? Why didn’t you two marry?” With effort, she said in a polite, noncommittal voice, “I heard you and Mrs. Lovelady come in last night, but I was already in bed.”
“Just where you belonged at that hour.” He folded the newspaper and lifted his coffee cup.
She examined Drake Lovelady with new eyes. He was really quite good looking for a man his age.
He gave her one of his charming smiles. “How are things going at the War Department?”
She opened her starched cloth napkin and laid it in her lap. Just act natural. Mother’s so beautiful that probably a lot of men were in love with her. “The usual. I type and then I file what I typed.”
He chuckled. The familiar, friendly sound began to relax her. She poured herself coffee. Then she remembered what she’d wanted to tell him last night. “I
received a letter from Gretel. She had news about Ilsa.”
“Ilsa?” Drake gripped his cup tighter. Hearing Ilsa’s name swept through him like a thunderstorm. He kept his face expressionless. But the image of the lovely young Jewess had remained starkly etched on his memory. He wished he’d succeeded in putting her out of his mind, but he’d failed completely. He’d even written her twice and wired money, but she’d never responded except with the barest acknowledgment of his gifts.
“Yes. She is on her way to Portugal by train.” Bette leaned forward, her face glowing with innocent joy.
In contrast, Drake felt every one of his years and all their accumulated defeats with all their unappetizing truths. Ilsa would never even consider friendship with him. And why should she? She’d always look at him and feel obligation—and then irritation at having to be obligated to him. “Her child is well?”
“Her little girl is evidently well enough to travel.” Bette sipped her orange juice.
Or perhaps Ilsa’s so desperate that she’s escaping while she still can. Drake stared into the murky depths of his coffee.
Since that day at Unter den Linden thoughts of Ilsa’s offer to come to his room had lingered. They came now, unbidden, the scene replaying in a manner different than what had actually happened: in his mind, instead of walking away, he crushed her to him and kissed her until she clung to him . . . He shook his head, sending this forbidden, foolish image away. At forty-two, he was a confirmed bachelor. And Ilsa wasn’t for him. She was too young, too bitter—for good reason. And probably nothing would ever make her take a chance on another Gentile. He forced himself back to the present and swallowed his tepid coffee. “I’m glad.”
“Gretel is improving her Spanish because she plans to travel to wherever Ilsa lands.” Bette went on with a naive enthusiasm that irritated him like a particle of dust in his eye. It made him hope and there was no hope for him with Ilsa.
“Ilsa will need help with the baby. I’m worried though.” Bette frowned. “Gretel is still not a US citizen and she may have trouble re-entering the US.”
Drake reined in his sharp reaction. This has very little to do with me. I’ve already done my part and I’m probably not needed anymore. “When the time comes, let me know.” He kept his voice even. “I’ll contact my friends at the State Department and see what I can do.”
“Thanks.” Bette put down her spoon. “I’m worried. I won’t breathe easy until Ilsa is safely landed in this hemisphere. What is going to happen in Europe, Mr. Lovelady? I worry . . . I worry.” Bette sprinkled sugar on her cornflakes.
“That’s because you are a very smart young woman.” He patted her free hand, acting out his role as older friend of the family. Chloe’s daughter had become lovelier as she matured over the past year. Sometimes the way she turned or smiled reminded him of Chloe—when he’d met her here in 1919, nearly twenty years ago. “And you have the same caring heart as your mother.” Twenty years. Twenty.
“I just wish I could do something.”
“Bette, there is little we can do. History rolls on and over us humans—much like an SS tank.” He gave the young innocent beside him a wry smile. I can’t make everything better. I can’t make anything better.
In his memory, Ilsa’s drawn face and sarcastic voice spoke to him again: “This is my home, but now Ich bin Untermenschen, not human.” And though he’d come to Berlin to help her, she’d mocked him as the “hero of the play.”
I care about you, Ilsa, but you don’t want me and I can do nothing more. I’m powerless against history—you knew that.
Off the Maryland Coast, July 1938
Bette couldn’t believe where she was. And Mr. Lovelady’s grim face set the tone as they stood at the rail of his yacht. Not quite believing her eyes, she watched it slice through the moonlit waves of the Atlantic. This unexpected rescue mission had begun when Mr. Lovelady had come bursting into his house just as Bette was fixing herself an after-work cup of tea.
Within minutes, she’d breathlessly changed into casual slacks, blouse, and canvas shoes, called her superior at the War Department to say she’d been called away on family business and would be gone a few days. She’d scribbled a note to Curt, sealed it, stamped it, and left it out for the postman. Then Mr. Lovelady had driven her at a frightening speed through the summer sundown to Chesapeake Bay, where they’d boarded his yacht and immediately cast off.
Her emotions surged like the ocean swells below. A feeling of being caught up in a dream sharpened all her senses. The screeching gulls had quieted and then disappeared as the yacht left land far behind. Even though she’d been to Ocean City many summers and enjoyed harbor jaunts in small skiffs, she’d never been on the ocean before. Never out of the sight of shore. How would this night end? Would Mr. Lovelady’s plan work?
He joined her at the rail. “The captain has finally raised the SS Fortuna on the shortwave radio and has gotten its coordinates. We are going to rendezvous with them in about six hours just outside the US maritime limit.”
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Bette’s forearms rested on the railing. She leaned toward them, arching her tight back, stretching like a cat.
Mr. Lovelady stared out at the veiled Atlantic, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I just can’t stand by and let what happened to the SS St. Louis happen to Ilsa and her child. We’re getting her off that ship.”
At his harsh tone, Bette’s nerves tightened. The night breeze had cooled. Gooseflesh raised on her bare arms. “I’ve been sick ever since Ilsa’s freighter was turned away from Costa Rica and then Vera Cruz.” With the back of her hand, Bette rubbed her taut forehead, trying to ease the tension that gripped her. “How could they just turn them away?”
“The US is no better. The Fortuna is going to be allowed to dock at Roanoke. But only to refuel to head back to Portugal.”
“Isn’t there anything you could do through the State Department?” She turned toward him. The yacht’s engine purred below them and she felt this shimmer under her feet.
“Believe me, as soon as Gretel called me in New York to tell me Ilsa’s ship had been turned away at the Costa Rican port, I called everyone I could think of.” Mr. Lovelady’s voice shook with emotion. “And I’ve spent the past day going from desk to desk without luck. There is a bottleneck at the State Department. Someone named Long doesn’t want Jews allowed in the US.”
Bette gripped the slick railing, feeling as though she’d like to find the neck of that someone and twist it. “It’s wicked.”
Drake didn’t bother to agree. Tonight he felt capable of murder. Maybe he could never have Ilsa in any true sense for his own, but he’d go to hell before he let her be sent back to Germany—her hell. “Ilsa’s on a freighter,” he said. “I can’t imagine the conditions she’s dealing with docking in the Gulf of Mexico in this sweltering summer. I’m worried for her health.” I’m worried about Ilsa’s mental state.
An unbidden scene that had played over and over in his imagination for the past week sliced through him once more. He saw Ilsa holding her baby stepping off the side of a freighter and dropping—without a plea—into the dark waves below. He sensed that Ilsa was capable of this last act of defiance. A tightly coiled spring, she’d refused to give an inch those few times they’d battled in Berlin. If her ship headed back to Europe, she might not submit. The fear of this goaded him, forced him to make this attempt to save her. He could bear not having her, but he couldn’t bear thinking of her dying in despair and loathing. I’m not a praying man, Lord, but don’t let her give in to the end of hope. Let me get there in time.
“I’ve been dreadfully worried.” Bette looked down and then back up. “But I still don’t understand why you needed me to come along.”
He gripped the railing, remembering Ilsa’s harsh, bitter words: “Do you want me now or should I come back later?” “Ilsa has been very hurt.” He chose his words with care for this young woman whom life had so far protected. She was Chloe’s daughter, a car
ing young woman with the promise of inner steel, but he shouldn’t tell her everything. “You and I can’t begin to . . . understand the pain, the humiliation she’s suffered. That faithless husband . . . the demeaning Nuremburg Laws . . .”
He lowered his face, staring down at the waves silvered with moonlight, seeing floating there the yellow Star of David she’d worn—degradation he couldn’t imagine enduring. The salt spray sprinkled his face, leaving droplets like tears. He came up with an excuse. “I wanted you with me because you’re Gretel’s friend and Ilsa might question my motives for stopping the freighter out on the open sea and taking her off.”
“Question your motives? Why?”
It wasn’t his job to teach Bette the ways of the world. If he was reading the signs of the times accurately, she would have to face more than enough harsh realities in the coming years. “I told you—Ilsa’s been through one horrible ordeal after another. I hope your presence will reassure her that I only mean her good. That help has come at last.”
Bette sighed. “Gretel will be so grateful. She’s wanted Ilsa to join her for so long.”
And I’ve craved Ilsa all these months in vain. But she won’t want me. And it would never work out between us—not in this world, not in this lifetime.
Even though hoping had made no sense, he’d tried but he had been unable to get her out of his mind. Still, I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t do this. He couldn’t say any more now or it would all come flowing out, sweeping away this ingénue’s naïveté. “Bette, why don’t you go below and try to get some sleep?”
“I can’t sleep. I’ll just sit out here and wait.” She turned and sat in a wood lounge chair. Drake remained at the rail, unable to stop searching the vast, dim horizon for Ilsa’s ill-fated freighter. Fear settled into his belly—hard and hot, pulsing like a malignant force.
