by Lyn Cote
In the general commotion, another louder and even more demanding gale of strident voices rolled through the auditorium. Before Bette’s eyes, people swarmed up onto the platform and forced the speaker away from the microphone. A young man stepped to the microphone. “Americans, resist Hitler!” The address system crackled with the high volume.
The general uproar escalated. “Get off the platform!” voices shouted. Viereck and Lundeen sprang to their feet and began to push forward in the crowd. Bette strained to see over the people, but everyone else had stood up, too. Finally, she got up and stood on her chair. The people who had taken over the platform began pinning yellow Stars of David to their shirts and blouses. “War is coming!” they shouted. “How can we be at peace in a world at war? Hitler wants conquest, not peace!”
Guards in uniform were pushing their way through the roiling crowd toward the platform. Police—their billy clubs in hand—hustled inside the rear double doors. The crowd parted before them. Bette leaped down from her chair and began shoving her way to the front. Someone she needed to see or something she needed to witness might take place at the clash point of the two groups and she needed to be there in order to report details to Ted for the FBI.
She elbowed her way the last few feet to the front. The press of warm bodies nearly suffocated her. She gasped, drawing in gulps of hot, humid air. She scanned the faces around her. She was rewarded when she glimpsed the face of a man whom the FBI suspected of funneling Nazi money to isolationist groups. Who else would she see?
Then . . . she saw Gretel. Bette nearly choked on her own breath. Gretel! Here? With the Star of David on her blouse, Gretel loomed above Bette on the platform. A policeman reached Gretel and gripped her by the arm. He dragged her toward the steps. Bette strained to keep her eyes on her friend. I have to help her.
The crowd swirled and pressed Bette right up to the stairway down from the podium. She felt like a paper boat on the tide. Her boss popped up at her side and took her arm protectively. Bette stared up at Gretel—suddenly aware that she didn’t want Gretel to see her here. How will I ever explain?
At that moment, the shock of recognition hit Gretel. Bette saw Gretel mouth, “Bette!” and then the crowd surged, carrying Bette away from the steps. She kept her eyes on Gretel. One of the protesters began to fight a policeman. Gretel lost her footing and went down into the swarm of bodies. Would she be trampled? “Gretel!” Bette screamed, her voice swallowed up amid the chaos. The crowd pulled Bette away. Some woman behind her began screaming. Was it Gretel’s voice?
Bette’s heart pounded as she struggled against the tide of people—trying to go back to help her friend. “Gretel,” she screamed inwardly, “Gretel!”
CHAPTER NINE
Early August 1940
Bette and her mother sat in wicker chairs that had sat on the front porch of Ivy Manor for generations of summers. Just as Bette had helped finish clearing up the breakfast dishes, the postman delivered the mail. The two of them, each with a letter in hand, had come out for some fresh air before the heat of the day. Now, they rocked slightly out of rhythm in the morning sunshine.
The day promised to be a scorcher. Perspiration already beaded Bette’s brow. The local seamstress was due any time now to do the final fitting of Bette’s wedding dress. Bette had come home to prepare for the wedding, which loomed before them only weeks away. She wondered why this wasn’t a happy thought.
Bette held Gretel’s plain white letter loosely in her hand, still unopened. An unnatural reluctance held her back from slitting open the envelope. Why? The answer came swiftly. The image of Gretel being manhandled off the stage in Philadelphia remained stark in Bette’s mind. She recalled the horrified look on her friend’s face; would she ever forget it?
“I’m so glad you’re home,” her mother said once more. “I was afraid you’d try to work right up to the week of your wedding and there’s so much to do.”
Bette tried to smile. It had been wrenching to quit her job. Not her visible job at the senator’s office; she couldn’t get away from Lundeen and Viereck fast enough. But quitting her secret job for the FBI had cost her. Of course, Mr. Hoover had thought it only proper for her to resign on the eve of her wedding. It had been unusual enough for him to use a woman as an agent, but a married woman—no, impossible. Why was it all right for male agents to be both official and married? This inequality stung, but that wouldn’t change anything.
“I can’t wait any longer.” Chloe waved her letter, which had come from New York, too. “I must read what Ilsa and Drake have to say about their little boy.”
Bette watched her mother eagerly slit open the envelope and begin reading. Knowing that to wait any longer would invite curiosity about matters Bette didn’t want to reveal, she slit open Gretel’s letter. She spread the one folded sheet of stationery and read:
Dear Bette, I find that my schedule makes it impossible for me to attend your wedding. Please accept my regrets. Yours truly, Gretel.
Bette read the stilted words over and over and over. A sinking feeling gripped her as if her stomach had turned into ice and was sliding to her toes. Gretel must have recognized Senator Lundeen and thinks I support his isolationism. How could she believe that of me?
Bette closed her eyes, forcing herself to keep her fierce reaction to Gretel’s regrets invisible. So much of my life in the past few months has been invisible. But that was over now. And this knowledge only lowered her mood further. I didn’t want to quit. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. The stakes for us, for the world, are too high.
“What does Gretel say?” Chloe asked.
Bette silently wrestled with the deep pain of Gretel’s rejection. But she said in a falsely mild tone, “Gretel writes that she can’t make the wedding.”
“Oh, no,” her mother moaned, glancing at Bette. “Why?”
“She says her schedule makes it impossible.” Bette tried to strike the proper measure of dismay, not the devastation that was stabbing her.
“That just isn’t like Gretel.” Chloe frowned, her blue eyes troubled. “I just can’t believe—”
“This isn’t a normal year,” Bette interrupted.
Chloe nodded, her teeth gripping her lower lip, studying her.
“What about little Jonathan?” To turn her mother’s attention aside, Bette tried to infuse her tone with some true interest. Ilsa and Drake had taken a different tack toward the European war and all that it entailed. They wouldn’t condemn Bette without taking the time to confront her. That’s what really hurt. Gretel had tried, convicted, and sentenced Bette without a hearing.
But what could she have said anyway? “It’s just my job.” A pitiful excuse. But the truth was a secret. Bette clenched her jaw against the sharp teeth of Gretel’s rejection.
“Drake says they had Jonathan circumcised by a rabbi at the hospital,” Chloe continued, unaware, “and they’re planning a christening in November to please Drake’s mother. Ilsa says her son nurses like every meal is his last and is round and fat and happy. And Sarah is very protective and proud of her little brother.”
“I’m so glad . . . so glad for Drake and Ilsa.” Bette struggled to keep her mask in place.
Chloe nodded. “Yes, Drake finally found the woman for him and Ilsa is so happy. Except, of course, she’s worried for her family. They’ve been taken from their home in Berlin and no one can or will tell Drake where they have been taken. His contacts in Germany have been useless.”
Bette lowered her forehead into one hand, hiding her face from her mother. No, there was no complete happiness, no complete peace with war looming over all. Ted had divulged to her some classified information about what was happening in Europe and she couldn’t repeat it to anyone, didn’t want to repeat it. Jews and other dissidents were being concentrated in work camps—probably slave labor camps—in Germany and Middle Europe. That much the FBI knew. Were these the rumors Gretel had spoken of on the subway that night in May? No wonder she hates me. Bette writhed inwardly
at this. Would this inner conflict lessen with time, now that she was just another civilian?
Bette watched Curt drive his father’s 1935 Chevrolet up their lane and she tucked the letter back into its envelope. She fought tears. In her present mood, she realized with shock that she wasn’t thrilled at seeing Curt arrive unexpectedly. I should be thrilled. But what lies or half truths might she have to tell him today?
In an off-white linen summer suit, Curt mounted the steps and leaned to softly kiss her hello. He greeted her mother and then sat down in the rocker beside Bette. It creaked against the white planks. “I just came to tell you that I’m leaving for a job interview in Pennsylvania this morning.”
“Pennsylvania? That’s not too far,” her mother commented.
Curt nodded as he unbuttoned his collar button. His tan silk tie hanging around his neck, its tails dangling down like a long scarf. “I would prefer to stay in Maryland or northern Virginia, of course, but Pennsylvania has more schools.”
Bette tried to look interested. Why am I feeling this way—like I’m not connected to anyone here? Why don’t I care about Curt’s job-hunting?
“Of course, I wonder why I should even bother,” Curt said, unconsciously agreeing with her mood. “Every school principal points out that the draft bill may pass this month and I’d probably be one of the first drafted.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” her mother murmured. “You and Bette will be married by then and surely they won’t draft married men first.”
Curt’s expression hardened. “I don’t want people believing that I married Bette just to evade the draft. Bette and I have already discussed the possibility that we might have to postpone . . .”
Bette lost track of what he was saying. When had they discussed actually postponing their wedding? But in direct conflict with this sentiment, his words brought Bette unexpected relief. Did she want to marry Curt this month or postpone the wedding again? She looked up and studied him. “Do you want to postpone our wedding?” she asked, trying to sound natural, completely uncertain as to whether she wanted a yes or a no.
“No, of course I don’t.” Curt hunched over with his elbows on his knees, staring at the white-plank floor. Not at her. “But I don’t want my motives to be misconstrued either.”
Baffled by her own inconsistency, Bette twisted Curt’s grandmother’s engagement ring on her finger. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want people to misconstrue the reason for going through with our wedding. I don’t want people thinking we married just so I wouldn’t be drafted.”
“Curt, why would they think that?” Chloe cut in. “Everyone knows you two have been engaged and intending to marry for years.”
“People around here know that. But principals in Pennsylvania that I’m applying to might not. A teacher has to be so careful of his reputation.”
“I can’t argue with you on that point,” Chloe admitted.
Bette tried to sort through all her conflicting emotions and reactions. I don’t want the wedding put off again, but . . . The desire to be back in Washington hunting down more Nazi spies rushed through her. I don’t want to be left out. But . . .
“I don’t know what to do,” Curt admitted. And even this was indicative of the times they lived in; Curt was always certain about everything.
“I’m sure . . .” Chloe began and then halted.
Bette glanced at her. “What?”
Her mother gave her a wry, apologetic smile. “I was going to say I’m sure everything will work out, but I realized I can’t say that.”
“None of us can.” Curt stood, his chair continuing to rock without him. “I have to get going to arrive in time for the interview.” He drew Bette up and embraced her, holding her comfortably as if they’d been married for years. “I’ll call tomorrow and tell you how it went.”
His touch never failed to stir Bette, but this time, she resisted it. She said her good-bye and hoped Curt didn’t notice her preoccupation.
Just as Curt disappeared around the bend, the seamstress drove up their lane. Within minutes, the three women were in Chloe’s bedroom upstairs. Bette stood in her slip in front of the free-standing full-length mirror as plump, perspiring Mrs. Jenkins slipped the silky white satin gown over Bette’s head and shoulders. Then the woman fastened the hidden buttons under Bette’s arm and stepped back.
Bette looked at her reflection. The cap-sleeved dress had a V-neck, which was tucked back on both sides with rhinestone buttons, creating the effect of curtains tied back. The bodice was close-fitting and the skirt flared out from the waist, ending at the bottom of her knee. She would wear a small white hat with a short veil. The white satin glimmered in the morning sunlight. But inside, Bette felt as shadowy as murky night.
“It looks lovely on you, dear,” her mother said from the side of her bed.
Bette tried to smile, but her mouth only crimped at the corners.
The seamstress knelt in front of Bette, marking the hem line with a yardstick on a base. “I just have to hem it and it’s done.”
“It’s lovely,” Bette managed to say. Chloe agreed, but her eyes never left Bette’s face. Bette stared at her reflection, avoiding her mother’s scrutiny.
Finally, the seamstress had finished and hurried away with promises to return the next day with the completed dress. In front of the looking glass, Bette slipped on her light blue cotton dress again and combed her hair with her hands, turning the ends under.
Chloe came up behind her and lightly took her shoulders in hand. “Bette, honey, you don’t have to go through with this wedding if you don’t want to.”
Her words froze Bette in place. Am I that transparent? “I don’t want . . .” And then the dam separating the two halves of Bette’s life became tissue paper and disintegrated. She burst into tears.
“What is it?” Chloe wrapped her arms around Bette. “What’s wrong?”
Bette struggled to stop the flow of tears in vain. Everything’s wrong. But she couldn’t say that. “I’m worried about Curt, about the draft,” she mumbled.
Her mother said no more, but from her pocket handed her a hankie embroidered with forget-me-nots. “God’s still in control, Bette. Even when everything looks hopeless, there is always hope.”
Bette nodded obediently, but didn’t believe a word of it. Chloe was just trying to make her feel better. I’m not going to feel better until Hitler is defeated. And now retired from service before the war had even started, she could do nothing to help bring that about.
New York City, November 1940
Just inside the double doors of the downtown cathedral Drake kissed Bette’s cheek in greeting. Bette smiled but said nothing. She’d forced herself to dress with care in a new purple outfit, but she hadn’t really been in the mood for a family gathering.
She gazed around her, trying to look interested. The church must have been over a century old. It was solid stone outside and the maple woodwork and floors inside had a warm, rich patina. Small stained-glass windows let in the autumn sunshine, splashing jewel tones—reds, blues, and ambers—on the white walls. But her mind was occupied, mulling over and over her early-morning, totally unexpected, phone call from Ted Gaston. She tried to pay more attention to those around her.
Drake glanced fondly over at his wife. Ilsa stood talking to Bette’s mother. Ilsa didn’t look as if she could be the same woman they’d rescued from the freighter two years ago. Bette took satisfaction in seeing Ilsa so healthy and happy and she noted that Ilsa kept glancing at her husband, always with a smile.
“I’m sorry your wedding had to be put off. We all thought you’d be here on this happy occasion with Curt as your husband,” Drake murmured.
“Curt didn’t want anyone to think he’d married me to evade the draft,” Bette repeated what Drake already knew, unable to stop herself. Part of her wanted to be angry with Curt over his decision and another part was grateful. But the whole experience had left her dissatisfied. As soon as Curt had been dr
afted, she’d gone back to Washington to the War Department at Mr. Hoover’s behest, but without any specific instructions. She was simply to keep her eyes and ears open. Did the call from Ted mean she was needed again?
“Foolish pup,” Drake commented. He looked proud enough to burst with the joy of the day. “I could have, should have, told him—grab the girl and forget everything else.”
“My advice, too.” Bette’s stepfather, with his hat in hand, joined the conversation. “These young men don’t know what we know.”
Drake shook Roarke’s hand. “Too true.”
With Jonathan—a plump baby with round, rosy cheeks—in her arms, Ilsa turned from greeting Bette’s mother. Wearing a hat that was a confection of silk flowers and net, Ilsa leaned over and kissed Bette’s cheek. “We’re so glad you came. It’s so good to have family and friends with us.” Little Sarah in a cherry red dress clung to her mother’s skirt.
Bette kissed Ilsa and Jonathan and then bent down to kiss Jonathan’s big sister. She wasn’t surprised that Gretel was nowhere to be seen. Bette couldn’t, wouldn’t wound Ilsa by asking about Gretel. Gretel wouldn’t be happy about this christening, though Bette thought that Ilsa was doing her best in a difficult situation. A mixed marriage couldn’t be an easy one. But how could Ilsa not want to please Drake—the man who’d saved her, the man who’d adopted her daughter and loved Sarah as his own? And it was plain to see that Drake and Ilsa adored each other. Their love radiated like a physical warmth when she saw them together. “Curt would have come, but he’s in Wisconsin for basic training.”
“Wisconsin?” Drake echoed her. “With army bases all over the South, they have to send him to Wisconsin in November?”
