by Ellen Butler
“And you, sir?”
“Another scotch on the rocks.” Barden indicated the glass in front of him, empty but for a few chunks of ice.
“Very good, sir.” The maître d’ bowed himself off and we were finally left alone with Jane’s boss. And alone we were indeed. The only other patron sitting near us was a businessman in a dark suit three tables away. The rest of the patrons were grouped at tables near the front of the dining room.
“So good of you to join us today.” He smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, but that was not what stood out. He studied my face and form as if viewing me under a microscope, his gaze acute and sharp.
I didn’t recall him regarding me so astutely the night before, and I refused to allow the scrutiny to unnerve me. I straightened my spine and threw back my shoulders, meeting his bold gaze. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Barden.”
The waiter arrived and placed salads in front of us.
“I pre-ordered. Forgive my presumption, but I figured you ladies might be late.”
Nothing about this man’s bearing seemed to give any indication that he was actually apologizing, rather the words were simply platitudes. For some reason, his attitude got under my skin.
I picked up my fork and spoke before Jane. “Not at all, I was just telling Janie this morning that I was due for some vegetables and”—I stabbed a piece of iceberg lettuce, probably cut from the core of the head—“white lettuce. Have you taken the liberty of ordering our entire meal?” I batted my lashes and gave a Mona Lisa smile. “Or are we silly little girls allowed the rare treat of ordering for ourselves?”
I felt rather than saw Jane’s jaw drop at my rudeness, but my comments finally broke through the overconfident veneer. Mr. Barden relaxed his posture and chuckled. “Jane, you never mentioned how charmingly blunt your roommate was.”
My face flamed and I curled my lips in.
“I ... uh ... I apologize Mr. Barden,” Jane muttered.
“No, no need to apologize. Waiter, please tell us your specials and bring menus for the ladies. They will be choosing their own entrees.
The stiff, white-coated waiter—who shifted nary a brow at the conversation that just passed before him—bowed. “Oui, Monsieur. Today the chef has prepared a savory duck a l’orange, grilled flounder with broccoli and cauliflower florets, and squab in a brown sauce.”
I recognized the man’s accent as French and answered in his native language. “What comes with the duck?”
“Petite peas with creamed onions,” he responded in French.
“I’ll have the duck.”
“Oui, and for you, Mademoiselle?”
“I’ll take the flounder,” Jane replied, taking a sip of the coffee that had just been placed at her elbow by a different waiter.
The first waiter looked at Mr. Barden. “I’ll stick with the filet and potatoes.”
“Very well.” The waiter exited our nook.
“Jane tells me you speak multiple languages. Tell me about them.”
“I speak French, German, and some Italian. Although, we were so young when I lived in Italy, my Italian is rather parochial.”
“Where did you learn your German?”
“In Bavaria, Germany, and Vienna, Austria. Why?”
“And your French?”
“Lyons.”
“Mm-hm.” He nodded, tapping his blunted nails against the tablecloth.
“So when you speak, it is the French of France.”
“Yes, of course, what else?”
“Not the French of New Orleans, or from school.”
Realizing what he was getting at, I smiled. “Yes, I see. No, I didn’t learn in a schoolroom ... well, no, that’s not exactly true. I suppose you could consider the Swiss finishing school a classroom. However, I never got my fingers rapped for my accent by Madame Dubois.”
“Madame Dubois?”
“She taught flower arranging.”
His cheek quirked up.
“Why do you ask? Are you interested in my translation skills for your firm? If so, I’m sorry to inform you that you are wasting your time. I am determined to join the army, if they’ll have me, to do my part for the war effort. I tried to explain that to Jane this morning.” I turned to her, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze, instead keeping her profile toward me. Barden simply continued to watch me with a contemplative expression.
“She successfully identified and evaded the tail you put on us this morning,” Jane said, ignoring my comments.
“Did she really?” He crossed his arms and leaned back. The intensity from before returned.
“Tail? You saw it too, didn’t you? I knew there was something off about that fellow.” I pointed a finger at her. Then I realized what had been said, and my finger faltered as I looked back to Barden. “You had a man tailing us? Whatever for?”
“What if I told you I wasn’t a lawyer?”
I tilted my head as I tried to figure out what kind of game we were playing.
“What if I told you I worked for a special government department that needed people like you?”
“To be honest, I would tell you that I had already worked in a government office—a rather nice one, as a matter of fact—and had no plans to return to a desk. Things are happening in Europe that the United States simply doesn’t understand. Hitler isn’t just expanding his empire; he’s persecuting an entire race of people he’s deemed as less than human. I need to help those I once knew in Europe, and I think the only way I can do that is by joining the military.”
“What if I told you could do that in my department?”
“And what department would that be?”
“Coordinator of Information office.”
I shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s new. Have you heard of MI6?”
“British Secret Intelligence? Yes...” I was rather surprised he had. MI6 was a national secret, and I only knew of it due to an overheard conversation at one of our duty stations in England.
He tilted his head.
“You mean this Coordinator of Information office is going to become the American branch of the British Secret Service?”
“Not a branch of ... our own.”
My gaze swung to Jane and for once she looked me in the eye. “You’re not a secretary for a law office?”
“No.”
“What do you do then?”
Her eyes darted to Barden. He nodded and she turned back to me to answer, “Intelligence.”
The picture began to clear, as if a rainstorm had passed overhead and the clouds drew apart. “When you told me that I could serve my country ... this is what you meant? Spying?” I said the last word in a hoarse whisper.
Jane’s brows rose.
I sipped my coffee and digested the ramifications of the offer in front of me. Camilla’s letter came to mind and my brain traveled no further. This was how I would help my friend. This was how I could obtain the justice I so valiantly sought. “Mr. Barden, what if I told you I had a letter in my possession that I thought could be useful to your office?”
“I’d be very interested in seeing this letter.”
I set the cup down so firmly it clanked against the saucer. “Where do I sign?”
Four days later, I reported to a ramshackle office in Rosslyn, Virginia, and thus began my training as an agent for what would become the Office of Strategic Services.
Chapter Nine
The Naiveté of Youth
February, 1945
Germany
A girl’s soft, whispered voice wended its way through my dreams, her questions unclear, and in my vision, I leaned forward over the prickly hedgerow of our house in Bavaria, straining to hear the words she spoke. A whicker brought me out of my nighttime hallucinations, and the voice became clearer as I woke from the depths of sleep.
My living heater had risen sometime in the night, and I’d coiled into a ball beneath the miniscule blanket to stay warm. The sun had yet to rise, though the darkn
ess had eased, casting the barn into an ashen light. Franziska was back at the hayrack, his stall door open, and to his right stood a girl I estimated to be no more than eight or nine, stroking his neck. A long, dusky braid hung down the back of her navy coat, and she continued to whisper softly to the horse.
I pushed myself into a seated position, and the braid swung out as the girl jumped away from Franziska with a small cry of alarm.
“Guten Morgen.” Good morning, my rusty voice ground out. I yawned and stretched, subtly burying my weapon deeper into the straw.
“I did not see you there.” The child had put a hand to her throat as she watched me.
“Mein Name ist Anna.” My name is Anna, I said with a friendly smile. “I am on my way to see my aunt in Heidelberg. She is ill.” The lie rolled off my tongue as cleanly as soap off a newly washed dish. “The snow covered my trail and I got lost. It was late and we sought shelter in your barn for the night. What is your name?”
If she thought my attire odd, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, her attention returned to my four-legged friend. “My name is Gertrud. Is this your horse?”
“Ja. Do you like him?”
“He is quite large, isn’t he? What do you call him?”
“Franziska.”
She gave me a sidelong glance but didn’t question me further.
“You’re up early, aren’t you?” My watch told me it was barely half past five.
She gave the horse one last pat, then picked up a metal bucket that I hadn’t noticed before. “It is time to milk the goats and collect the eggs. My chores.”
“Ah.” I rose on stiff legs and limped forward as I followed her to the pen that held three goats, all with heavy udders.
She poured grain into a small trough, then opened the gate and allowed one of the goats out. The goat went directly to the trough to begin feeding. Gertrud looped a collar around its neck and pinned it to a ring on the wall, then sat on a small box. Soon the tinkling of milk spray against the metal bucket could be heard.
I rotated my ankle to stretch out the stiffness and watched her pull the teats. The pain level had reduced, and I could put all my weight on it with far less discomfort than yesterday.
“Would you like some?” She looked over her shoulder at me.
I shrugged.
“There’s a cup over there.” She used her chin to point.
My eyes followed the area she indicated and found a tin cup hanging from a post of an empty stall. I wiped the inside with the corner of my coat before handing it to her, and after a few squirts, she returned it. I’d never drunk raw goat’s milk; it had a warm, creamy texture, sweeter than cow’s milk. Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem with it, especially knowing the nourishment it provided would help sustain me through the next steps in my journey. Unfortunately, it clashed with my late-night meal of sardines; goat’s milk didn’t go well with the oily-fishy aftertaste that curdled on my tongue. However, I didn’t wish to insult Gertrud and stalwartly swallowed, but I had a hard time not gagging as it went down.
“Good?”
“Mm...lovely,” I murmured, using my sleeve to wipe away a few drops that dribbled down my chin. “Don’t you have brothers or sisters to help with the chores?” Farms like this usually had a brood of children to help run it.
“It used to be my brothers’ chore, but two died in battle, and the youngest just left to fight the Russians. So, now it is mine.”
“I see.”
“My Mutti says to me, ‘Gertrud, you are no longer a baby, you are a big girl, and because your brothers have gone off to fight and become heroes, you must do their chores.’” She returned to the task at hand. “After all, we all must do our part to bring about a New Order in Europe. My Vati says we must do as the Nazis say because the Der Führer is dangerous, even though Mutti tells him to hush. But I think the boys at school look handsome in their uniforms, and I want to do what I can to make Germany the greatest country in the world. If that means the Jews must leave, then so be it.” She shrugged and continued pulling the goat’s teats.
“How many men from your town are in the war?”
“Lots! We have Waffen SS and Heer soldiers, and even a Luftwaffe pilot. Have you heard of Hans Geffen? Nein? He has been shot down twice and survived. He is our local hero. He is very handsome,” she said with a giggle.
“Well, you seem like a good daughter. Your parents must be mighty proud of you,” I said with a smile I’m sure didn’t reach my eyes.
Gertrud’s little speech told me all I needed to know. This village, at the very least this farm, was submissive to the Nazis and their Nationalistic propaganda. It was not a safe place for me to look for assistance. I now regretted suggesting Gregor come into town to ask for help from these people. Gestapo or no, this town had children and husbands at the front whom they would support at any cost. Jews were unwelcome, and a spy was likely to be hung from the local church steeple.
I determined to make preparations for an immediate departure. First order of business, keep Gertrud talking and delay her chores. “Tell me about your schooling. What is your favorite subject?”
As Gertrud chattered about her schooling preferences, I returned to the stall to pack up my rucksack and put Franziska’s bridle on. Unfortunately, the ankle, though better than the day before, still slowed my movements down. After buckling it in place, I looked up and found Gertrud watching me, the bucket of milk hanging at her side.
“Are you leaving?” She tilted her head.
“Have you finished the milking already? My, that was fast.” I readjusted one of the bridle clasps.
“Yes, but I must collect the eggs. Aren’t you coming in for breakfast?”
“Nein, I don’t wish to be a burden to your Mutti and Vati. Besides, I must continue on to my aunt. Like your parents need you, my aunt needs my help to take care of her children.”
“Where is your saddle?”
Luckily, having taken care of two children for the past few months, I was ready for Gertrud’s inquisitiveness and had a lie prepared. “We donated it to the cause, of course.”
She sighed. “Johann, my brother, took our horse and the saddle, and the Waffen SS took the other two, so I haven’t one to give you.”
As we stood talking, the barn became noticeably lighter, and soon the pink rays of dawn would be upon us. I needed her to return to the chores so I could slip the gun out from under the pile of hay where I’d hidden it. I feared her reaction should she see me picking up the weapon, yet she seemed in no hurry to carry on with her business.
“Your Mutti is waiting. Shouldn’t you get to those eggs?”
Gertrud shrugged. “She isn’t up yet. Not until the cock crows.”
Internally, I grimaced. Just what I needed, a chicken alarm clock announcing the break of day and possibly my getaway.
“Perhaps you can show me how it’s done?”
“It’s easy.” She plopped the bucket down right in front of the stall’s exit. “Follow me.”
I shifted the bucket aside with my foot and followed her to the chicken lofts. A ladder I hadn’t noticed lay on its side. Gertrud placed it against the wooden header, hung a basket on her arm, and climbed up to the chickens. I took a step back and froze when Gertrud turned, smiling proudly, with a speckled milk-chocolate-colored egg in her hand.
“Here, take one.” She bent down and held it out.
“Danke,” I murmured.
“Would you like to try?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid of heights.”
This made Gertrud giggle. “Mutti is too.” Her demeanor suddenly turned serious. “But how do you ride your horse?”
The girl was too quick for her own good. “Oh ... I’m afraid of that too, but it can’t be helped. We must do what we can for the war effort, even if we fear it.”
She nodded with the gravity of a thirty-year-old, then resumed her egg collection. I returned to Franziska’s stall to retrieve the gun and to wrap the egg up so it wouldn’t get
broken in my backpack. I filled the tin cup I’d used for the goat’s milk with hay and lay the egg in the nest. There was no mounting block; instead I lined Franziska against the wall and climbed atop the stall door. It put me at the perfect height for mounting him. I threw my stiff leg over his back and slowly lowered my sore rear end and tender thigh muscles. My breath blew out in a few short pants as I adjusted to the discomfort.
Saddle-sore was a misnomer. It was just as painful without one. “Gertrud, can you open the barn door for me?”
Children are notorious for wanting to be helpful to adults, and from my discussion with this little girl, I had little doubt she would do as I asked without question. She climbed down the ladder, skipping the last three rungs to jump to the ground, and bounced to the big barn door. It must have been well oiled because it barely made a noise as she swung it open. Coming abreast of the child, I pulled up and leaned down to place a few Reichsmark in her hand.
“For you. Thank you for the milk and egg. Shh ... don’t tell Mutti and Vati.” I winked.
Gertrud’s face lit up and she happily tucked the coins into her apron pocket. “Danke, fräulein.” Then she clicked her heels together, stood at attention, and shot her right arm out in a stiff salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Having become immune to this address that had become equally used as a greeting and farewell throughout Germany, I returned her salute with a tepid one of my own. “Heil Hitler.” The cock’s screeching crow rent the air and had me practically jumping out of my skin. Franziska hardly blinked, simply tromping forward into the new dawn rays.
“Auf Wiedersehen.” Gertrud waved as we clopped away.
I waved and glanced one last time over my shoulder before entering the gloomy forest. Gertrud stood at the door of the farmhouse, and it looked as though she was speaking to someone. I suspect one of her parents had come looking for their delinquent daughter. Knowing Gertrud’s vociferous nature, I prayed the money I gave her was enough to buy her silence and keep the wolves at bay.
A good night’s rest and fresh hay made Franziska frisky, and I gave him enough head to take us cantering into the windblown hills.
