A Tiny Piece of Sky (16 page)

IT WAS A FRIGHTENING
thing for Frankie, realizing that her father might not be who she thought he was. That he could be . . . well, something—or someone—else. That he could be, of all things, spying for Adolf Hitler. What it did was make her wonder if everything she knew to be true wasn't true at all. Indeed, that was something to wonder.

Tell the truth, is there anything in this world to be more frightened of?

FRANKIE HIGHTAILED IT TO
the restaurant, taking alleyways to try to get back before Mr. Stannum did and before Mother notified the police. She needn't have bothered, though, because everyone was so engrossed in preparations for the Fourth of July party and grand opening that they didn't seem to notice she had been gone. And if they had noticed, they didn't seem to mind. That being the case, she made her way to the banquet room, where there was a nice buffet table along the wall, which just so happened to be covered by a long tablecloth that reached the floor.

She crawled underneath.

What she needed was to think. What she needed was Joan. What she needed was a pencil and some paper.

What she didn't need was Seaweed.

He lifted up the edge of the tablecloth and stuck his head under. “What you doin' there?”

“Nothing,” said Frankie, climbing out.

“Nothing?” Seaweed folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “Now, I seen people do nothin' before, lots of times. I like to do a lot of nothin' myself sometime after I'm done workin'. But you there, under that table? Well, that ain't nothin'. Look to me like you were hidin' from somebody.”

Frankie just stared at him, trying not to give anything away.

“You hidin' from Mr. Stannum? Don't you worry none, he shut up in his office since he got back. So he won't be askin' you to go get more chickens.”

“Mr. Stannum?” said Frankie. “Is he back already?”

“That right. What you mean
already
?” said Seaweed. “He been gone more than an hour. Just like you.”

Frankie shook her head. “How did he get here so quick?” she said under her breath.

“What you been doing,” said Seaweed, “tailin' him?”

“Who, me?” asked Frankie.

“Nah, George Washington,” he said. “Do you see anybody else in here?”

Frankie put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing in here anyway?”

“Your momma came round the kitchen lookin' for you,” said Seaweed. “And I seen you come in here while I was takin' a break. What she nervous about all the time for, your momma?”

Frankie shrugged. That was an ancient mystery. “I've got to go.” She bolted for the door, but Seaweed grabbed her arm.

“Take it easy now,” he said. “Take it easy. Good thing I covered for you and told her where you was.”

“Where I was?” Frankie shook him off and raised her eyebrows. “Where
was
I?”

“Around the corner picking up eggs for the tater salad,” said Seaweed. “We was a dozen short.” Then he added, grinning like a goat, “Did you done forget?”

“Thanks.” Frankie smiled. “You saved my skin.”

“Again,” he said. “That makes two by my count.”

Frankie started past him, but Seaweed held up his hand. “So, you talk to your daddy yet and work it out?”

“Not yet,” said Frankie. “I've been a little busy.”

“Busy?” he asked. “Deal was, you get us a gig. Look, I make it real easy. Seeing how there's a big party here on the Fourth and everybody's welcome, just like your daddy say, I was thinkin' that would be the night me and my boys could play.” He rocked back on his heels while letting the idea float in the air between them awhile.

“Daddy told Mrs. Inkletter she could play the organ and he's already got an orchestra,” said Frankie.

“We had us a deal, remember?” Seaweed said, his eyes serious and his grin gone.

“I know,” said Frankie. “I know. I'm just saying that it might not be so easy, is all. You have just as much chance of getting him to say yes to you. Better chance, probably. I'm still in the kitchen, after all.” She rubbed the toe of her sandal over a dark spot in the wood floor. “Besides . . .”

“Besides what?” said Seaweed. “No way I can ask him. You know your daddy better than me.”

Frankie shook her head. If only that were true.

June 29, 1939

Dear Frankie,

Oh, that Leroy Price makes me fume. What did he and his father say to you?

On the morning I left for Aunt Dottie's, while Daddy was picking up a package at Fritz's, he came around, that Leroy Price, I mean, and ogled Daddy's car. And then, and I remember this part very well, he said Daddy was a German. A German! That was the first time I have heard anybody call Daddy that word, and I was so surprised, I couldn't think of a comeback fast enough. I kicked myself the whole way to Aunt Dottie's, thinking of things I ought to have said to him.

I did ask Aunt Dottie after I received your letter, but to tell you the truth, she's kind of funny. As much as she sits with her ear at the radio, listening to any reports about what's going on in Europe, she doesn't want to talk about her and Daddy's parents or Germany or anything like that. She told me I shouldn't concern myself with such things and that Germany is as far away from her mind as it is from Pennsylvania. That's just what she said.

But the thing is, Frankie, the package that I told you about, the one that Daddy picked up. He left it here with Aunt Dottie. I stole a look at it while Aunt Dottie was getting dressed for bed. She had stuck it—or hid it, more like it—in the pie safe. She didn't know I saw her put it there, but I did. Anyway, it's still in brown paper wrapping, unopened. It's got Daddy's name on it, but Fritz's address. And here's the thing that's so strange, Frankie. It's marked “airmail,” and the return address reads Germany.

Why do you think he left it here with Aunt Dottie? And what do you think is inside? And before you even get the thought in your head, no, I'm not going to open it. If Aunt Dottie found out, she'd grind me up and feed me to her animals, who, incidentally, need to be fed, so I must go.

Love and miss you more each day,

Joan

P.S. Even though we aren't really acquainted with Uncle Reinhart, perhaps you should write to him in California. He might be more eager than Aunt Dottie to give you some information.

ON THE THIRD DAY
of July, this was how things stood. First, Frankie was still in the kitchen. She had not yet found a way to convince Daddy that she was just as good as Elizabeth and could be doing other things. Second, she had not yet told Daddy about Mr. Stannum. She didn't know what she was waiting for, only that telling Daddy about Mr. Stannum meant having to tell Daddy that he was suspected of being a spy for Hitler and that thanks to Mr. Stannum there was some sort of proof of it, which was now in Mr. Price's hands. And when delivering all this bad news to Daddy, it would almost certainly come out that Frankie could have stopped this all from happening if only she'd been anything other than a Number Three and didn't just sit by and watch.

And why had she been such a do-nothing, anyway? Was it because she wondered, even just a little, if Mr. Price was right?

Oh, and lastly—as if there weren't enough troubles—she hadn't yet worked out how she was going to make good on her deal with Seaweed.

This was what you could call a tight spot.

To make matters worse, all day long she had watched Mr. Stannum play the part of a loyal and trustworthy employee, being so agreeable to everyone that Amy was convinced he had come down with the fever. It really burned her up. Perhaps that is why Frankie
decided it was time to talk to Daddy. In truth, it was past time, but better late than always a do-nothing Number Three, she figured. So, after she finished work in the kitchen and hung up her apron, and after checking to make sure Mr. Stannum was nowhere in sight, she climbed the stairs in search of Daddy.

Elizabeth and Mother were in the dining room taking inventory of what was needed for tomorrow's party, and so didn't notice Frankie in the least as she went past. She climbed the stairs and found the door to Daddy's office open enough that she could see his shirtsleeves at his desk, as well as his fingers paging through a folder. “Daddy?” she said as she stepped inside. “Can I . . . ?”

But those weren't Daddy's shirtsleeves at all.

“Mr. Stannum,” said Frankie, “what are you doing up here? Where's Daddy?”

“Oh, well, uh,” he said, dropping the folder. “I was just looking for an order your father wanted me to place. For fresh fish and seafood, you know; he found a shop in Baltimore he wanted me to inquire about.” He cleared his throat and then raked his dirty fingernails through his silver hair. He came toward Frankie and the door. “Uh, no luck, though. I'll just have to wait until he returns and ask him directly.”

Frankie stood firm in the doorway, inspecting him. Those eyes of his were having quite a blink.

Mr. Stannum gave a brief smile and tried to get by. “I think he ran out to the bank. Your father, I mean.” He squeezed by her as she glared at him. What she really wanted to do was check his pockets for anything belonging to Daddy. The rotten thief.

She watched him all the way down the staircase, and once he
was gone, she looked around for anything out of place on Daddy's desk. But the thing was, every last thing was out of place. Heaps and piles, piles and heaps.

Frankie trailed after Mr. Stannum and waited outside his office. He left soon after to talk to Mr. Washington about ground hamburger, and when he did, she snuck in and real quick checked his brown leather satchel.

Empty, except for a small, framed picture of a young man in a military uniform.

She checked the pockets of his jacket, which was hanging on the back of his desk chair.

Empty times two.

“What you doing in here?” said Amy, sticking her head inside.

Frankie jumped. “Nothing.”

“Snoopin' is more like it,” said Amy.

“Where's Mr. Stannum?”

“Kitchen,” said Amy. “Lookin' for what we ain't done. I reckon he be back right soon.”

“I'm going,” said Frankie. She tore off a piece of paper from a tablet on his desk and wrote in block letters a question that had been on her mind since her first day in the kitchen.

Frankie folded the paper in half, then in half again.

And she slipped it into his jacket pocket.

What was this question? Of course you'd like to know, as it's only natural to be curious of such things. All will be revealed in due time, my friend. In due time.

LATER THAT SAME EVENING,
Mr. Price convened an emergency meeting of the council of the Chamber of Commerce. Council members met in the back room of the chamber, where a mahogany desk, long enough to seat the seven council members as well as the president, had been a fixture of the chamber since its founding in 1873. Carved into the top were the initials of each of the presidents who had served. “SWP” was at the bottom, number sixteen.

At precisely seven o'clock, Mr. Price raised the gavel and struck it hard against the mahogany. “I, Sullen Waterford Price, Esquire, sixteenth president of the chamber, hereby call this emergency meeting to order.” He puffed on his fat cigar. “Gentlemen, we have ourselves a grave problem.”

The council members nodded and whispered to each other, acknowledging that yes, there certainly must be a problem to discuss. However, none knew just what that problem happened to be. No matter, though; the Council members had unwavering confidence in their leader, and if Mr. Price said there was a problem, then a problem there most definitely was. That was the way of it, as always had been.

Mr. Price struck the gavel down once more. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.”

The men quieted down immediately. If only Dixie were so obedient.

“Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that there is a businessman in town, one who calls himself an American but has ties to Nazi Germany, and perhaps to Hitler himself,” said Mr. Price.

Puff.

Puff.

The men gasped and looked at each other, returning to whispers and grumbles about the audacity of such a traitor.

“Who?” said Mr. Merr, scratching his graying sideburns. “Who is this man?”

“Name him,” said Mr. Marks. “Tell us, please.”

“Yes, name him,” shouted the others.

Mr. Price sucked on his cigar like a pacifier, relishing the moment as well as his fine tobacco, and then let the name
Hermann Baum
pass from his lips.

“Baum?” said Mr. Merr. “The new restaurateur?”

Mr. Price nodded. “One and the same.”

“I don't believe it,” said Mr. Travers, who was the oldest of the council members.

“I know,” said Mr. Price. “This was as much of a shock to me.”

Puff.

Puff.

Puff.

The men were raising their voices and talking on top of one another as they tried to make sense of what Mr. Price was saying. The council members knew of Hermann Baum, and had some of the same friends, but none of them knew him personally. None of them, that is, save Mr. Travers.

“Now, wait a moment,” said Mr. Travers. “I have known Hermann for years. He's been an Elk as long as he's lived in Hagerstown, and I just don't think that it could be possible that he's . . . that he's . . . well, that he's what you say he is. With all due respect, of course, Mr. Price.”

Mr. Price tapped the ashes from his cigar into his marble ashtray and held it firmly between his fingers. “Of course, Mr. Travers, I do respect your opinion on most matters. But you may want to refrain from making any further statements until you see what I'm offering as proof.” He reached into a drawer to the right of his chair and pulled out the paper that Mr. Stannum had given him. Then he stood, lifting the paper with both hands as if the words written on the page were weighted with lead. Starting at the far end of the long desk, he stopped briefly at each council member's seat so that every man could observe the evidence.

“What does it say?” asked Mr. Merr.

“I don't know,” said Mr. Pearson, shaking his head. “Does anyone here read German?”

“I'm sure I do not,” said Mr. Gaines. He pounded his fist against the mahogany desk, insulted that such a question could be posed in present company.

Mr. Travers put on his round eyeglasses and studied the paper. He cleared his throat. “Then if no one knows what this document says, what does it prove, exactly?”

Mr. Price remained calm. “Gentlemen, pardon me for saying so, but you are all being as naïve as schoolchildren. You are missing the point entirely.” He laid the paper carefully at his seat and then leaned on the desk in front of Mr. Travers. “It makes no difference
what this says. The facts are these: This document, in German, was found in the possession of Mr. Hermann Baum, a man who, upon repeated attempts to contact him, refuses to answer any of my questions about his birth country or how he has come upon his considerable assets, such as a new restaurant requiring substantial construction and that employs nearly twenty people, including coloreds. Just what are we supposed to make of that, Mr. Travers?”

Even if Mr. Travers had a reply—which he did not—he wouldn't have had an opportunity to respond, because Mr. Price had a great deal more to say. “Has anyone seen today's newspaper?” Mr. Price picked up his copy of the
Daily Mail
, which he had brought with him from home, unfolded the front page, and read aloud this headline: “‘Nazis Arming in Danzig, House of Commons Told.'” He threw the paper at Mr. Travers. “Read for yourself. Hitler is sending in weapons to the Free City, and let me assure you, friends, if he takes Danzig, he will take Poland next. There will be no stopping him.”

“But you are talking about Europe,” said Mr. Merr. “What stake does America have in this?”

Mr. Price picked up his cigar once again. “Mr. Merr, what do you think will stop Hitler and the Axis powers from attempting to conquer us, once they have conquered Europe? It's no secret that Hitler is recruiting spies in cities all over the world, even in America.”

Puff.

Puff.

“A spy?” said Mr. Travers. “Is that what you are saying Hermann is? Is that what you are accusing him of? Surely you don't think . . .”

“Baum
is
without a doubt a German name,” offered Mr. Gaines.

“It is indeed,” said Mr. Price.

“As are Mueller and Hoffman, and a dozen other surnames in town,” said Mr. Travers. “Are you accusing all of them of the same thing?”

“Right you are, Mr. Travers,” said Mr. Price, “but both Mr. Mueller and Mr. Hoffman have been interviewed and are deemed acceptable, honorable businessmen, and—not to mention—supporters of mine.” He cleared his throat. “And when you consider all of the other facts I've laid out before you, I don't see how you could doubt the danger that Mr. Baum poses to this town, to all of our businesses, and to our families.”

Mr. Gaines held up the paper with the German words. “Why, this could be instructions from Hitler himself to do us all in!”

“What are we going to do?” asked Mr. Merr. “Should we go to the authorities? Alert J. Edgar Hoover?”

“Hoover would take care of him, all right,” said Mr. Gaines.

“Perhaps in time,” said Mr. Price. “But I am quite confident that this matter can be handled locally. If I may make a suggestion.” He reached into the drawer beside his chair once again and removed a stack of flyers. “It really is quite simple. If we make it clear to Mr. Baum that his business is not welcome here, that he is not wanted, then he will have no choice but to leave.” He divided the stack of flyers by seven and handed a pile to each council member. “The surest way to rid yourselves of the rat in your basement is to make the basement, shall we say, undesirable to the rat.”

Puff.

Puff.