Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (13 page)

CHAPTER 4

Dora of
Strassburg

France to Switzerland:

It has occurred to me that I let myself get
talked into doing things you just know aren’t going to work out
well. A perfect example would be my agreeing to seduce and bed a
high-ranking German officer for the purpose of spying on him for
his enemies.

So why was I doing it? Fraught with all the
perils a mission like this would present for even a trained,
experienced agent—something I was definitely not—why did I say
yes?

It wasn’t for America. I didn’t feel I owed
anything to the United States, where I was always a second-class
citizen. It was an unofficial but ubiquitous stigma that was
automatically appended to every person of color who lived there.
Additionally, that stain of perceived lesser quality readily bled
onto any white people who dared to suggest an unequal society is an
unjust society. That’s what happened to my mother. That’s what
happened to Beau. Just as I, and others like me, suffered for our
color, they suffered for their colorblindness. Think what you will
of me for saying it, but compassion and gratitude were
conspicuously absent when I thought about my native land.

It wasn’t for France, either. Although the
injustices weren’t as prevalent, the French still had their own
biases. Some were based on race, some on religion. I saw the way
certain people looked at Elie and Mendel Bardach when they didn’t
know I was watching. I sometimes heard what they’d say to each
other.

“
Jews
.”

It was whispered in
disapproving mutters by those who’d come into the shop looking for
a bargain and then grumble when the prices weren’t quite low enough
to suit them. Somehow, that became a
Jewish
thing in their eyes. It
grieved me to see the Bardachs smiling and thanking those
narrow-minded trolls who’d patronize their shop one minute and then
curse the proprietors behind their backs the next. Considering how
kind the Bardachs had been to me, the slurs directed at them might
have hurt me even more than the stings of my own suffered
barbs.

So, if it wasn’t for flag and country, why
did I agree to be the U.S. Army’s undercover strumpet?

Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear
being turned over to the authorities—French or American, or
both—for my indiscretions. Major Harbaugh said they had no
intention of notifying anyone about them, but I wasn’t all that
sure about Lieutenant Ricci. He struck me as a man who was used to
getting his way. If he didn’t get it, what might be the
consequences? And who might suffer them? I didn’t want to be
dragged back to Virginia and forced to testify against Beau. I
didn’t want to go to jail. My mother sucked a judge’s cock
specifically to keep me out of prison. Neither of us would be
pleased to know she’d made that effort for no purpose.

And then there were all those soldiers,
European and American boys. They’d be hitting the lines, fighting
and dying over a war that just wouldn’t seem to end. The longer it
lasted, the more death and destruction resulted. If I did an
unclean thing, could it help to clean up the mess the world was in?
To put a stop to the war? To make everyone safer? Perhaps this was
my moment to do the best thing I could ever hope to do.

Yet, I think I might have
been even more motivated by the knowledge of that horrid
photographer, Tristan Zenglitz, being a German agent. At least, he
was
suspected
of
that, and, based on my own limited experience with him, I had no
trouble believing it to be true. I felt dirty and abused as a
result of just being in the same room with him. As far as I was
concerned, the man had “degenerate” written all over his little rat
face. To me, it was the face of evil. Anything I could do to
counter whatever he was up to just had to be a good
thing.

Yes, I was angry. Angry at America. Angry at
France. Angry at Tristan Zenglitz. Angry at Nanette St. Claire for
introducing me to him. But, most of all, I was angry at
myself—angry for having been so gullible, so naïve. Everything that
happened up till then, every catastrophe, had happened because I
had made a stupid choice. I should have known better. I did know
better. But I ignored the obvious dangers. I shut my ears to the
warning sirens going off in my head. I closed my eyes to the
treacherous terrain I was traipsing through and charged on like a
lemming heading right for the cliff.

Damn it! If you’re that much of a Dumb Dora,
you deserve whatever you get!

So that’s how I found myself on a train
bound for Switzerland. Final intended destination: Strassburg,
Germany.

Sitting across from me in the passenger
compartment was a snoozing Lieutenant Ricci. He looked quite
different in civilian clothing. For this type of assignment, it was
essential that no one know he was a U.S. soldier. The nondescript
suit of blue and gray he had on must have been selected especially
for its likelihood not to draw any sort of attention to the wearer.
Still, I considered him a handsome man, even in this less
fashionable attire. When we were both standing, I gauged him to be
about six or so inches taller than me, which would put him at about
five-foot-nine, five-foot-ten—an average height. He was slim, but
not skinny. His face was robust of color, not pasty, possibly from
being outdoors a lot. Sleeping, as he was, those dark, staring,
penetrating eyes of his were currently hidden from view. I recall
thinking to myself that it was a shame those eyes weren’t open and
looking my way, because I thought I looked particularly good in the
green and black traveling suit the Army had provided me. The Army
suited me with a few simple, but nice pieces of apparel. It was
important that I look good. If I was expected to seduce a man, I’d
need to be an attractive seductress. No question about that. The
only question was whether I’d be able to turn seduction into a
means of gaining valuable information for the Allies.

To that end, Lieutenant Ricci spent the
previous six days (and most of the nights) drilling me on the
various things I’d need to know and do once I was in Strassburg.
There wasn’t time to teach me to speak German. However, he taught
me certain key words that I was to listen for when in the company
of supply officers—the German words for things like “train,”
“shipment,” “supplies,” days, and numbers. Supply train numbers
would be particularly important to the Allies, as they couldn’t
hope to intercept or destroy every train in Germany—only the key
trains carrying the supplies they wanted to keep from reaching the
troops. I was also given geography lessons regarding Germany’s
principal railroad centers, the places from which supply trains
would typically originate, and the probable destinations. In
particular, any large shipments going into the city of Metz, near
the French border, were likely headed to the front. I don’t know
how many hours the lieutenant spent rattling off sample German
sentences to test my ability to pluck out the important information
within them. It seemed to take forever before I finally started to
acquire the skill. By each evening’s end, my head ached.

To maximize my training time—and perhaps
also to keep close watch on me—the Army had provided me with a
small sleeping quarters and a cot in its building. That way, I was
always there and available. Since I wasn’t going to be returning to
my lodgings—for at least the duration of the mission—on the second
day I was told I should write a short letter to the Bardachs in
which I would make the excuse of having met an old friend from
America who had invited me to visit with her at her home in
Marseilles. Lieutenant Ricci coached me on the composition and
suggested I say my reason for the sudden departure was the need for
my friend and me to catch the last train for the day. I thought it
not the most plausible excuse, but at least it wouldn’t leave the
Bardachs fretting over my sudden disappearance. I assumed they
probably worried when I didn’t return home the first evening.
Staying out all night just wasn’t like me. I didn’t state in the
letter how long I’d be gone. I didn’t know. But the lieutenant
assured me, if need be, the Army would see to having my next
month’s rent mailed to my landlords. So I didn’t have to worry
about losing my lodgings during my absence. I’m told a soldier was
dispatched to their shop to discreetly deposit the letter in the
mailbox so that it would appear to have arrived with the rest of
that day’s mail.

Each morning, when I awoke in that army cot,
I wondered whether that would be the day Lieutenant Ricci would
tell me the whole thing was off. That I just wasn’t up to the task.
That they found someone far better suited. That it was too
important a mission to rely on me. I didn’t only wonder about that,
I expected it. Yet, each day began the same as the previous—morning
toiletries, breakfast, and back to the drilling.

German numbers…

Eins, zwei,
drei
…

Picking them out of sentences about
trains…

Eisenbahn…

Mentioning supplies…

Zubeh
ö
r…

Particularly ammunition…

Munition
…

Traveling on specific days…

Montag, Dienstag,
Mittwoch
…

“
Suisse
!” called out the conductor.
Our train was entering neutral Switzerland. Soon we’d be changing
trains and heading north into Germany.

I hated to wake my traveling companion. He
looked so peaceful sleeping, and I suspected he was as exhausted as
I was following the grueling training he’d put me through. Perhaps
it was even more fatiguing for him, trying so hard to be patient as
he drilled me. I kept apologizing for not being better equipped for
that type of study. He’d respond by telling me to focus on the
subject matter and not waste time on apologies. It was easier said
than done. Struggling to cram things into my head, I felt so
brainless. I was certain I was a constant source of frustration to
him—an ignorant girl, thrust upon him by circumstance, with none of
the skills expected of someone in his profession. It wasn’t until
the fourth day of my training that I heard the first encouraging
word out of him.

“
Excellent.”

That’s all he said after I repeated back in
English the key words of a long sentence he spoke in German. He
didn’t put any emphasis or enthusiasm into his enunciation of that
single word, but it thrilled me just the same to hear a positive
assessment. Finally, I was making progress. Perhaps I wasn’t so
stupid after all. Maybe I really was capable of fulfilling the
needs of an important assignment. Maybe Lieutenant Ricci wouldn’t
think of me as just a…

Well, much as I hated to wake him, I thought
he should know where we were.

“
Lieutenant….
Lieutenant.”

He grunted as he stirred and rubbed his
eyes. Then he coughed to clear his throat.

“
What?”

“
We’re in
Switzerland.”

“
So?”

“
So are there any
last-minute instructions before we get to Germany?”

“
We’ve still got to change
trains in Bern,” he yawned. “We won’t be in Germany for hours
yet.”

“
I know. But, I thought,
while we’ve got the compartment to ourselves…”

We had shared a compartment with a married
couple from Paris to Dijon. Now we were alone, and I was concerned
that it might be our last opportunity to communicate confidentially
before entering German territory.

“
I’ve told you everything
you need to know,” he said. “Besides that, I’ll be in the next room
at the hotel in Strassburg. If something comes up, you know how to
reach me. For now, just try to get some rest. We’re going to be
pretty busy once we get there.”

He closed his eyes and nestled into the
cushioned seat.

“
Lieutenant?”

“
What?” He didn’t bother to
open his eyes this time.

“
Maybe we could go through
the German drills? Just a refresher?”

“
Hundert Artillerie Kanone sind am Samstag aus München
Versand
,” was what it sounded like he
muttered.

“
Something about ‘a hundred
cannon’ and ‘Saturday’…and ‘Munich’?” I translated as best I
could.

“
You’re as ready as you’ll
ever be,” he concluded. “Relax.”

I was anything but relaxed. How could I be?
Would any girl be able to relax knowing what was waiting at the end
of those railroad tracks?

“
What if he doesn’t find me
attractive?” I squirmed restlessly.

“
Oh, please!” huffed my
companion. “What man in his right mind wouldn’t find you
attractive?”

The compliment pleased me. Our relationship
for the past week had been so intensely businesslike that I wasn’t
sure Lieutenant Ricci even thought of me as being female, let alone
a desirable woman. Still, I had my doubts.

“
In America,” I sighed,
“there were those who didn’t think a woman of color
was—”

“
We’re not in America,” he
interjected. “Attitudes are a little different here. I’m not saying
this guy’s Frederick Douglass. But, as far as women go, he’s about
as liberal minded as you’re going to find. So don’t worry. We get
you in the same room with him, he’ll notice you.”

“
And then what?”

“
And then there are some
things I can’t teach you, Miss Foxxe.” There were those dark eyes
again—staring at me with an austere expression. How I hated being
judged by those eyes.