Greta joined her parents for Saturday lunch, aware that she was facing an inquisition. Her father sliced the foam off his beer, emphatic about the news in his German papers. Italy had joined the war, and Hitler and Mussolini were going to revive the world order of antiquity, great empires cutting away at bankrupt nations and little people without substance. She couldn’t even begin to think of how Hank would feel about this. He didn’t talk about Holland. But when she was asked to deliver the information that papa requested, she did her duty. “Hank lives at 88 Augustine Street, and his room is on the second story on the west side of the building. There is a porch facing the street.”
“I tried to get into his room, but instead he made me a cheese sandwich. It wasn’t even European cheese, it was some gooey thing called ‘Old English.’” Her father did not appear to be particularly disappointed in her. Her virtue was still something to be negotiated to the highest bidder. She continued, “So I don’t have a way to look through his things. Besides, he is crazy about locks. He has keys to everything, his doors, his work, his boxes and his bureau drawers.”
She wanted to spend the rest of her life with Hank and not with her father and brothers. “Papa, Hank is a decent man who wants to become a good American.” The tears were starting. “You have ruined enough of my life. I’m not going to ruin his.”
“Are you marrying him?”
“He wants to buy a house first.”
“Oh, so you will go to Geneva in October. Everyone will be happy then. Your brothers will be able to celebrate your wedding, whenever that is.”
Greta blinked back the tears and began to gasp as sobs choked her. “Papa, they have ruined everything I ever wanted. I don’t know why I have to do this. I only know how miserable they will make me if I don’t.”
Her father handed her a handkerchief.
Chapter Twelve
Rochester, N.Y.
Labor Day 1940
“Let’s Go… Canada!”
~ Recruitment poster
Clouds were thickening, and a breeze picked up along the shore of Lake Ontario. Picnics were repacked into baskets and people began huddling under towels and blankets waiting for the sun to come back out. This was real Dutch weather. Hank located the merry-go-round and began snapping pictures of children playing, walking with balloons, and putting their little faces into wads of cotton candy. It reminded him of summer days at the North Sea. No one was going swimming in the whitecapped waves. One intrepid sailor was out, but the rest of the boats were lined up neatly in their moorings, masts tipping into the wind.
Hank’s tweed jacket flapped in the breeze. His lean physique didn’t fill out the pleated slacks and shirt. He had been avoiding his lunches at the dime store. For two months now he had been seeing Greta for movies and small talk, with a couple dry kisses ending their evenings. Mike Hicks strolled across the lawn, camera in hand. His gait was the same, but steel rimmed glasses and a new mustache made him look like an intellectual or artist of sorts, maybe someone who travels with Socialists.
Mike shot an oblique look toward Hank, and quipped. “Is this the meeting of the Blue Ribbon Photo Club?” Hank didn’t understand the humor. He steadied his gaze and his eyes did not smile. What was the purpose of this meeting, if it was a meeting at all? There was no gentlemen’s handshake. He slid his hands into his pockets.
“Good morning, Mike. I didn’t even know you wore glasses.” Mike opened up his new Kodak camera and inserted the lead from a roll of film. He closed the back and wound it into position, then began to walk toward the water. Hank followed him, wondering when Mike would stop to at least snap the shutter. Cobbles at the shore of the lake rolled as wind licked the water into waves.
Mike laughed, “When are you gonna see your blonde dish again?”
“Actually, her birthday is next weekend and I guess I’m going out again. They invited me back. It’s going to take a while before they trust me, I’m afraid.”
Mike stopped on the path, adjusted his spectacles and looked at Hank full in the face. “Where are her brothers going to be?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“We picked them up last night.”
“Picked up who?”
“Franz and Josef Fischer. We had to wait until we could catch them red-handed.”
“Red handed? They aren’t Communists.”
Mike related a few details of the surveillance operation that had trapped Greta’s brothers. There was no gangland style manhunt, there were no machine guns. Two additional men had been added on staff at Sperry. One was a personal assistant to Mr. Norden, a real engineering whiz. The other was a file clerk. The two FBI agents had been watching the guards who were assigned to watch the offices.
“We even had a camera hidden in the old man’s desk. It tripped when they opened the file cabinet, which we conveniently left accessible.”
“Left it unlocked?”
“Don, the assistant, made sure that Franz saw him work the combination.”
Hank found a nearby park bench and sat down. He pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes and nose. The nightmare had come to an end. Unfortunately, tension in his body had racked him so that his neck cracked and his stomach hurt.
“So it’s over? Thank God!”
“What’s over?”
“All this hiding, all the secrets? It’s all over. Greta is not implicated. We can go on like — before.”
Mike’s face froze, and the steel-rimmed glasses only reflected the harshness of his gaze. There was no expression at all.
“No you can’t.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, offering one to Hank. Hank shook his head. Mike continued, “This thing’s about to blow like the Hindenburg. We’re one spark away.” He blew out the paper match and tossed it on the grass.
Hank stopped in his tracks, completely bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“We have due process in this country. You are innocent until proven guilty. So those two clowns could get off with a lawyer. There are lots of other Nazi sympathizers. Someone at Sperry might notice that they have not shown up for work. A few calls into the German Bund could be very dangerous for all of us.”
Hank hated being treated as if he were stupid or naïve. His nervousness was turning into anger. “But what about Greta? She doesn’t want to be involved with them.”
Mike’s disguise glasses obscured just enough of his appearance to confuse Hank. “Greta is a big girl.” He paused to rub his chin. “Nothing will happen to her.” The comment didn’t sound as if Greta’s innocence had been considered. “Hank, you need to get out of town. We’re going to be taking you into protective custody.”
Hans was furious. He would have hit the FBI officer if he hadn’t been aware that Hicks was armed and carrying a badge. There could still be more to lose. “I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m not the criminal. Since when do citizens have to leave?”
“You’re not a citizen. But O’Brien and I have a plan.” He paused and looked off into the distance. “Nice day at the lake.”
Hicks was right. The deep green of the dense maple trees was peaceful, and a real affirmation of life. In another month, leaves would be starting to die. So much for affirmations. Pebbles on the shore of the water shone all shades of gray, milky white to charcoal. Hicks picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the water. Hank had no idea why they were supposed to be throwing stones into the water, although the skipping was rather impressive. Why did Hicks want to talk about the lake?
“Yeah, you can see clear across.”
“It’s cloudy.”
Hicks paused. This guy was dense. The clouds were nothing compared to the fog in Hank Burns’ psyche.
“That— is Canada.”
“I know that. Canada is a British colony, and it is not part of the United States.”
“We have your paperwork ready. A full co
mmendation from the FBI has been couriered to MacMillan in Ottawa, eyes only. You have been granted an extension of your American visa, and a new Dutch passport with permission to enter the Dominion of Canada.”
“Who’s MacMillan?”
“He is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Canadian Army. You do know there is a war going on right? They need help in combat photography. MacMillan will be assigning you.”
“My God, how do I tell Greta? What do I tell Rosenbaum?”
“You don’t. Two hours from now a ‘friend’ will be picking you up to take you to dinner. An unmarked FBI car will arrive at your rooming house. Don’t take a suitcase. You can bring a camera bag with your valuables and your travel documents. The Canadian Army will give you everything else you need.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ontario Canada
Fall-Winter 1940-41
“We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches…. we shall fight in the fields and in the streets….we shall never surrender!”
~ W. Churchill, BBC
Hank sat on his bed rubbing his forehead. There was less than an hour to pack and to once again leave his life behind, a refugee with no idea what was ahead. He couldn’t even take his new American clothes unless they fit on his back. Hans Bernsteen’s Dutch passport, bankbook, and cameras fit neatly into the pockets of his bag.
He left out of the side door. A driver greeted him. They rode in silence for two hours.
The Toronto skyline began to rise over the lake. Reds and blues from the late afternoon sun streaked the sky as the car crossed a bridge into an old fort. Jeeps bumped along stone streets, honking at each other and watching out for pedestrians. Berets, tam o’shanters, and garrison caps hurried across the paths. They pulled up at a large limestone building where a burly captain with brush cut hair and a mustache was expecting him, and handed him a kit and new ID Tags, “Hank Burns.”
“Glad to see you made it in one piece. You’ll find we have plenty of Yanks here. I’m going to have Eckstrom walk you over to your barracks. Mess is at 18:00 sharp. Don’t be late. They’ll eat everything.”
Eckstrom was a big Swede, even taller than Hank. Had to be 6’5” or so. God only knows what he was doing in the Canadian Army. The soldiers were from all over Western Europe, far away from action on the European fronts. These young men had chosen to join the fight after their homelands had surrendered. Vanquished nations had no armies, and they didn’t plan to lie down to die in front of German tanks. Young Dutch farmers had fled lost homes. Immense blonde Norwegians carried bayonets that added nearly two feet to their height. They would be able to stand up against a bunch of German porkers. Energy and determination boiled in every pocket of the fort, along with pots of strong black tea.
Along with the tea came a supper of potatoes, vegetables and some sort of meatloaf. Hank looked at his plate, wondering how he would be able to fill up.
“You new here? If you don’t like your dinner, we can eat it for you.” Hank picked up his fork and began to wolf his food. “No American steaks here. They’re trying to run us on 20 ounces of meat a week.” Hank could easily eat 20 ounces of meat in a day.
When Hank reported for roll call in the morning, he heard foreign voices calling out across the grounds as sergeants lined Dutch, Norwegian and Quebecois up for training. Orders were in English, but not all the guys understood English. God help those who got a Scottish trainer. The Scots were fierce but nobody understood them, not even the English or the Yanks.
***
Within weeks the mornings were dark and chilly. Photo processing was in a quiet building far from the training grounds. Over the next months, daily courier packets arrived at a maze of partitions and standing closets in an unmarked warehouse. British Intelligence was making up for lost time in evaluating Fascist threats. Hank dipped the films into chemical baths, examining proofs for neat outlines, and clear gradations of black, white and gray. Complex images appeared in the enlarger, and he tried to make some sense of air and ground reconnaissance photos. It looked like the photographers couldn’t shoot fast enough – blurs and clouds cut through pictures taken while a plane stormed through turbulent skies. He wished he were up there with them, just to see what they were looking at.
He opened up the lab on a frozen February morning. Several packets had come in a late afternoon delivery. Within minutes the red lights were on and his baths were ready. In the basin a series of tidy gables appeared, some sort of roofline. Could it be Amsterdam? Was it Copenhagen? Not possible. The Canadian Forces didn’t have any men on the ground in Europe, but someone had taken these pictures. They sure weren’t tourist postcards. Police were wearing Nazi uniforms and seemed to be herding long lines of men through snow dusted streets. Solemn faces peered into cameras, an occasional glint of eyeglasses, or a dark hat. They wore overcoats and many were carrying battered suitcases. They were too old to be volunteers. Who were these men, and why were they being moved? Not sure. Sometimes the photos ended up in newspapers. More often, they went into file folders.
The next roll was a different format, a narrow strip on a spool. It was not to be enlarged. The stripfilm could be wound into projectors to roll from one picture to the next, almost like a film, but with time for someone to narrate the story. The filmstrip demonstrated what looked like a slow motion wrestling match, some sort of hand to hand combat. In the shadows he loaded the developed films, and began to imitate the body poses of the soldiers, making a fists and aiming punches toward the red light.
A banging on the outside door of the dark room disturbed his private war. His supervisor was calling. “Hank, buddy, you still in there?”
Hank opened the door and squinted at Spencer. “Sorry, I was just hanging this spool.”
“What bag are you on?”
“The one with all the film strips. “
“Take a break for a few minutes. We need to talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
He followed Spencer to a very messy desk, covered with yellow envelopes, photos, notes, and a couple ashtrays. Spencer pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Hank. He declined. Actually he was hungry. What he would give for a juicy roast beef sandwich…but instead lunch had consisted of a cheese sandwich on white bread, mustard, no butter. He didn’t like the greasy stuff they passed off as butter. After a couple drags on the cigarette, Spencer asked, “What is your citizenship status?”
Hank stared at him. Spencer knew darn well that Hank was on a U.S. visitor’s visa. Hicks had handed him the papers on that afternoon when he was driven from Rochester to Toronto. Confused, Hank responded, “I am on a U.S. Visa.”
“But it’s clear from your accent that you are an alien. I have to file a report on who’s working here. Some of the photos that are coming in are classified.”
“Well, I can help you classify things. I’m good at organizing.”
Spencer laughed. “Classified means that they are government information, proprietary. You’re not a U.S. Citizen, are you?” The matter of fact statement unnerved Hank.
“I was born in Holland, and I have legal immigration papers.”
“Yes, but if you were born in Holland, you are a Dutch citizen.”
“So?”
“So we need to register you as an alien. Were both your parents born in Holland?”
Hans looked straight at Spencer frozen, unblinking, barely breathing.
“My mother was born in Russia, but…”
“But what?”
Hank realized what he could not say. Officially his mother was German. The information had to stop here. “But she was raised on a farm at the border, she never had a passport.” He didn’t mention which border. The lie didn’t sound too bad, never mind that his mother had been born in the shifting borders of Eastern Europe, and had resettled three times in three decades. The Americans would never figure that one ou
t. Good God, he had an entire world war just in his own family.
“Don’t worry buddy. You’re a good guy with excellent references. I just need to figure out what to do. We have to notify the English authorities. I’m going to give Mike Hicks a call as well. It may be time to get you home to Rochester.”
“English? But we are in Canada.”
“Canada is fighting for England. You know your Dutch royal family lives in Ottawa now, right?” Hank’s ears drew back and his eyes widened as Spencer continued. “No, they’re not planning to make Holland another English colony. We’re protecting them.” Spencer paused and contemplated Hank, his brow a little furrowed. “Hank, have you even looked at what is in those pictures? Young Dutch boys in Nazi uniforms are marching prisoners down the street.”
“Who are the prisoners?”
“Other Dutchmen. Jews, I think.”
Hank did not raise his eyes immediately. When he did, he had a handkerchief with him and blew his nose, then said, “You’re right, it’s stuffy in here. All those chemicals. I think I’ll go for a walk, okay?” He kept his head down.
Spencer looked at him. The younger man was deeply upset about something in the interview. “Sure. Sometimes we all need fresh air.”
Away from the building, Hank headed to the shorefront and began to run, his leather shoes slipping on patches of ice. The frantic pace slowed into long strides as he began to formulate a plan.
Breathless, he entered the barracks. His self-absorbed mother, sister and little brother were on his mind. A desktop lay almost bare, and in a drawer he found a pen and some thin blue writing paper. In the eighteen months since leaving Holland, he had never written. Other soldiers wrote letters constantly, notes of comfort to their mothers and fantasies to please their sweethearts. He had planned to write of his successes, but there were no photos of movie stars. The photos of Greta would never see daylight again. Boys imagined heroes, but there were none on this base, at least not yet.
Islands of Deception Page 11
