Shining Through (53 page)

“Well, I am.”

I couldn’t take that chance night after night, so finally I decided to keep the key. It was a risk, but not the worst I’d ever taken; sneaking into Berlin was not what you’d call the act of a totally balanced person. Besides, I was almost positive the second key had passed from the Jewish family into the Dreschers’ possession unnoticed. Horst had never invited more than twelve people, so there was no need for anyone to even breathe near those huge tablecloths. I couldn’t see Horst saying, Gee, Hedwig, let’s invite twenty people for a Passover dinner.

Naturally, I couldn’t walk around twirling the key on a chain.

I had to make sure no one could ever associate the key with me, so I prowled through the house, looking for a safe, accessible hiding place; I couldn’t risk keeping it in my room or in the kitchen. Finally I found what I needed.

There was a tree right by the side door of the house—a door everyone used except for formal occasions—and on it there was a branch barely above eye level. It had a small indentation in its upper side, like a little wood saucer. I could slip out the side door anytime; it was the way to get to the shed where they kept the garbage. I made it a point to always lift the small kitchen garbage pail up, away from me, as if to keep it from dripping.

Plopping the key into its tree saucer was a comparative cinch.

Did I ever need easy access to that key! The German foreign office was buzzing about an invasion of France by the Allies.

There was no doubt that it would happen; the only questions were when and where. So I took to sneaking into Horst’s office every night, because it was clear that the invasion would be launched from England, Horst’s territory.

394 / SUSAN ISAACS

Going into his study was like entering a gold mine: There were reports of troop concentrations in England, a feud between the British and the Free French; there were analyses of General Eisenhower’s character and intelligence, and a pile of incompatible accounts on when the invasion would take place, accompanied by maps and by weather and tidal charts.

Even reading the material the way I did—at three in the morning, while Horst slept upstairs; with a quick glance just to figure out what was worth writing home about; and then trying to write those teeny letters wearing cotton gloves and by flashlight—I knew: Not only were their agents in disagreement, but their meteorologists were at each other’s throats. But the OSS

could make something out of all the facts and figures, because they knew which information was accurate; the more stuff I could give them, the more they would know about what the Germans suspected.

As for where the invasion was going to take place—well, it seemed to me the allies had succeeded in baffling the Germans.

There were three prime areas Horst’s agents in England kept swearing would be
the
spot: Pas-de-Calais, Normandy, and running a distant third, Seine-Maritime. I’d creep up to bed by three-thirty and listen to the bombs and the anti-aircraft fire, and I’d try to conjure up a map of France, but even though I was positive I once knew which area was which, the only thing I could remember was that all three were north, across the Channel from England.

Mornings, I trudged toward Rolf’s, stepping over bricks and twisted metal, moving aside for the streams of people left homeless, who wandered around with their few possessions in soup kettles or, if they were lucky, baby carriages, and I prayed that the fish store hadn’t been hit.

One morning, though it had survived still another night, Rolf said, “Bad news,” when I walked in. Fortunately, before my mouth could drop open, he motioned me farther into the store, and I saw what he meant. There weren’t any more than ten fish in sight. That’s okay if you’re a cook for a foreign SHINING THROUGH / 395

office big shot who brings home loins of French lamb and Polish hams, but it’s not okay if you’re a spy and there isn’t a goldfish with a mouth for a message. “Not even a mackerel can get through.”

“Too bad,” I said. As usual, I was holding my tiny piece of paper between my index and middle fingers. I always took it from a slit in my coat sleeve just before I walked into the store.

Rolf looked dejected. His head was down, and even his arm hung limp. But then I realized his index finger was pointing to the floor; he’d managed to steer me to the side of the counter where he cleaned and scaled, so our feet couldn’t be seen by the two other workers in the shop. I dropped the paper on the floor.

“But come back as soon as you can,” he said. I noticed his shoe had moved a fraction of an inch and had kicked the paper under the counter. “They say there’s some nice herring coming in.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

“Good.” He guided me back toward the door. “The more you come, the better your chance of getting a nice piece of fish. It may be a bother, but I’m sure your employer will appreciate your efforts.”

So the OSS wanted the intelligence as fast as I could give it to them. And a week later, I knew I had something big.

It was a translation of a report from one of Horst’s agents in England, but when I shifted the paper to copy it better, I realized there was another paper stapled to it: the original report, in English. From the fold lines and the way it was curled up, it had obviously been rolled and pushed into a small space: a bullet casing, or even a pen.

I have settled into the town of Lydd, and ensconced myself
at the local pub, so much so that the Americans take me
for one of the locals. One of them, a Captain Grayson, is
a member of the liaison group between Eisenhower and
Montgomery. Quiet chap. Quite the loner. He reads a good
deal of poetry. I made his acquaintance after several nights
of observing him

396 / SUSAN ISAACS

reading from the works of Walt Whitman, the American
poet
.

“
Ah,” I said, “to think in this godforsaken spot there is
someone else who cherishes
Leaves of Grass.”
He was
stunned that the English knew of Whitman (!), but was
rather thrilled. I used my cover story, and there is no doubt
he believes that I am a (if not the) Royal Army expert on
heavy artillery. I had “a bit much” to drink and told him
all about the Gun Mark 3
.

Last night I got him talking about French poets, particularly Verlaine. One thing led to another, and my dear
Captain Grayson, responding to my passionate Francophil-ia, told me the invasion will take place on the beaches of
Normandy and that the talk of Pas-de-Calais is a ruse! I
made light of it, saying it was too painfully logical and
therefore unlikely. I have invited him to dine with me
Thursday, when I will show him my library and allow him
to convince me that Normandy is the place
.

I copied the English word for word, put back the envelope, flap side up, then stood at the door for the longest five minutes I’d endured since I’d started poking around in Horst’s study.

Someone
had
to stop this Grayson guy. Or encourage him; if he was a plant, Horst’s agent in England believed he was telling the truth. And by the list of names at the end of the translation, enough people in the foreign office, SS, Army General Staff and Abwehr were getting copies to show that the Germans took him seriously. If “Grayson” was OSS, he should keep piling it on.

I had to get to Rolf’s, but the more I thought, the more I realized going the next day would be risky; I’d just been there and bought two carp. No one, not even someone like me, with unlimited ration coupons, could be in such dire need of fish as to come back the next day. My orders were clear: Come often, but every day is too often. I didn’t want to risk arousing suspicions. I would wait one more day.

My mistake.

SHINING THROUGH / 397

It was late afternoon, and I was in the kitchen seeding a cucumber, when Hedwig screamed. It was such a departure from her usual whine that it tore through the house, all the way down to the kitchen. By the time I raced up the stairs to the second floor, Else and Dagmar were already there. Hedwig stood in the dark, wood-paneled hallway in her aqua robe; it had a milk dribble down the right breast. Her hands were clenched tight on the open linen closet door.

All Dagmar could do was say, “I didn’t know there was a key, Madam,” over and over. But even if Dagmar had wanted to help Hedwig, she couldn’t; Else had thrown her arms around the chambermaid in terror and was squeezing the air out of her, like a wrestler. And Hedwig herself was in such a woe-is-me state that, finally, all she could do was shriek again.

The three of them looked like one of those stuffed wild animal tableaux at the Museum of Natural History; they were absolutely incapable of freeing themselves from their ridiculous positions.

I would have laughed, except that what was happening was so perilous and I was on the brink of hysteria myself. My voice quavered so much I was terrified that it alone would give me away. “What happened?” I asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

The actual sound of someone speaking a full sentence seemed to jolt them all. Else let go of Dagmar and began to cry into her apron; Dagmar bent over to the pile of giant tablecloths, which were now on the floor, and, clearly for the second or third time, began to open each one wide and shake it; and Hedwig said,

“The key is missing!”

“Key?” I asked. I had to do four things at once: get control of myself, look more innocent and dumb than even Else, figure out how dangerous my situation was, and see if I could save myself.

“What key?”

“The key to my husband’s study.”

I tried to look confused. “It’s always locked. Doesn’t Herr Drescher carry the key?” If I was nearly hysterical, Hedwig was far out in front of me. She clenched at the door even 398 / SUSAN ISAACS

tighter, her hands like claws, and screeched, “He called from the office! He forgot some papers here and he must have them. He is upset. No; angry.
So
angry. He told me I would find an extra key under the pile of big tablecloths.” She took a huge gulp of air and then whispered: “He said, ‘This is a top-secret key. Tell no one!’” Her whisper was replaced by a loud wail.

Else grabbed onto me; it was like being hugged by King Kong.

“We’ll all look for it, Madam,” I said, in the gentlest voice possible. I pulled out of Else’s strangulating embrace and moved toward Hedwig. “Let me help you into bed. You must rest. I’ll get you some warm milk…” I managed to unhook her claws from the door. “…and then the three of us will find your husband’s key.”

She allowed herself to be led into her room. I sat her on the edge of the bed, knelt down and took off her slippers. “Everything will be fine, Madam.”

When I stood up, I saw her hands were now covering her face; she was sobbing. “Hurry,” she begged. “He sounded…like a madman when I told him I couldn’t find it. He said he’d phone again, to see if…but he didn’t. Dear God, he’s probably coming home. You
must
find it, before he gets here.”

“I will, Madam.” I shifted her bulky body into the bed.

In the five or six steps it took me to cross the room and close the door, I realized I had to get out before Horst came home, or I was finished. I was the newest member of the household staff, and for that reason alone I would be under the most suspicion. But all of us would be grilled, over and over, first by Horst, then, if he was stupid enough to let out the truth about his bringing papers home every night, by the professionals. They’d check our stories, our papers, our histories.

“She wants her milk,” I told them. “I’ll be right back.” I hurried down the hall. For a second, I glanced at the flight of stairs that led to the third floor and my room. I should go get my papers, I thought. A change of underwear. But I couldn’t SHINING THROUGH / 399

risk letting Else and Dagmar see me go up there; even they might start to wonder.

I hurried down the stairs, through the dining room and into the kitchen, so, if they were listening, they could hear the door swing shut. I hung up my apron, grabbed my brown coat off a hook, took some loose change and an apple, and ran out the side door.

I looked up at the tree branch. Let the key stay; I wouldn’t be needing it, and besides, I had to run. Except I had no sense of where to run to. I only knew that it was no more than a fifteen-minute ride to the villa from the foreign office, and Horst wouldn’t be telling his driver, Twice around the Tiergarten.

I climbed the small wall in back that separated Horst’s prop-erty from the neighbor’s. There were sharp pebbles embedded in the stone and gravel; they bit into my hands and tore at my stockings. Just as I reached the cobblestone sidewalk outside the neighbor’s house, I heard the squeal of the brakes of a too-fast Mercedes-Benz stopping in front of Horst’s. The car door opened. Then came a faint but distinct cry of panic: “Hedwig!”

It was almost six in the evening. Rolf’s store would probably be closed. I had been in Berlin for a year and a half—too long to gamble on going to the safe address I’d been given. So if I was going to survive, I had no choice but to jeopardize the life of my best friend. My only chance lay with Margarete; she knew the way the game was played. She could tell me what to do and, if necessary, galvanize the resistance into action. But as I stood in front of her apartment building, I wanted to cover my face and cry for what I was doing to her.

It all looked so secure, so protected, with its ornate wrought-iron door. Imposing stone urns stood on either side. They were filled with red geraniums and seemed oblivious to the war. And just my walking through the front door, showing my face, would endanger everything Margarete had.

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There was one small chance. Horst might realize that his own life was in peril because he had housed a spy, and he’d keep my disappearance a secret. But I doubted it; it was too risky. He knew Else or Dagmar might talk, especially if he begged or bribed them not to; that was the beauty of his Third Reich. Or it would have to occur to him that the Gestapo might catch up with me—maybe when I was performing some terrorist act—and under torture I might cry out: Horst Drescher! Sooner or later—probably sooner, maybe within hours—the photograph on the passport in my room would be copied and sent to every policeman and Gestapo agent in Berlin.