Shining Through (55 page)

Don’t believe what you read. My time 408 / SUSAN ISAACS

looked like it was almost up, and what might be my last meal was an ordinary, unexceptional, mealy apple.

I put it back in my pocket. I couldn’t eat. My nerves were shot, and so was my stomach. For almost two years I’d done almost nothing but sauté, roast and stew. I’d lived in the middle of abundance, and yet in all that time I hadn’t been able to get down one entire meal. I’d tasted a little. I’d drunk tea. And on those nights when I didn’t have to hide from bombs, I’d gone to bed with a hot-water bottle clutched to my aching belly. My clothes hung on me. My skin had turned ashen. Finally I looked as if I belonged in Berlin.

Oh, I was so tired. A couple of times I felt my head drop to my chest. I made myself sit straight, the way aristocrats do. Back at right angle to seat: like Margarete, or Nan. It was an awful, uncomfortable position for a regular person to have to stay in, but it made me breathe in deeper and kept me awake. Maybe that’s why all those sleek upper-class girls had that special air about them; they just took in more oxygen. Then I wondered about what kind of jerk I was to be sitting there, on a fragment of a bombed bench, doomed in a doomed city, thinking about my not being classy. If Edward was sitting where I was, knowing the chances were pretty good he didn’t have much more than a day or two to live, what would he be thinking about? Apples and stomachaches and rich girls? Concepts: good and evil; the nature of justice? Or something I never even dreamed about?

It was time to get moving. The news about Captain Grayson had to get to the OSS before he could meet that agent for a home-cooked dinner, a few poems, a couple of drinks and then a confidential chat—fascinating, old bean—about the invasion of good old La Belle France.

Except I didn’t know what to do. Fifteen, twenty minutes passed. I was crazy to be staying in one spot like that. A policeman or a soldier could come along any minute and demand my papers. But I was unable to move because I couldn’t think of where to move to.

Okay, I said to myself. Enough with the inaction. This is SHINING THROUGH / 409

war, girlie. Make believe you’re Edward Leland and you’re stuck in enemy territory and you’ve got an urgent message you’ve got to get out. What do you do? You think: Who do I know? Who can I trust? All right: I know Margarete. Oh, and I know old laughing boy, Konrad Friedrichs, the guy with the million-dollar smile.

But stop. Think like Edward. Analyze. Who has a better chance of getting that message out?

At about seven-thirty that morning, I lay behind a hedge, flat on my stomach in the dirt, and, with my shoe in my hand, hammered at a window gently, until it cracked. Slowly, patiently, I picked out the pieces of glass so the frame was clean. Then I slithered down through the narrow basement window—into my old bedroom at Herr Konrad Friedrichs’s.

My number two fear was that when I showed myself to Konrad Friedrichs, he’d have a heart attack and drop dead on the spot. But number one was his housekeeper, the Wicked Witch of the West, Frau Gerlach: Just my presence in the house would probably be enough to set her warts humming. So I stood with my ear against the door of my old cubicle, going through my familiar count to three hundred, listening for any sounds. A little after two hundred, I thought I heard footsteps moving across the room above me. That would be the pantry; she was getting out dishes to set the table for breakfast.

I climbed up to the first floor and put my ear against still another door. No sound. I opened it a crack and peered out. That always works terrifically in movies, because the hero can always see the villains having a meeting forty feet down the hall and around the corner. But the only thing I could see was a tiny strip of wall. So I slid out the door and, fast, looked to the right, to the kitchen. Nothing. For all I knew, she could leap out with a skillet in her hand and attack me, but she might just be sitting and having a cup of tea; I wasn’t going to hang around and count to three hundred again. I

410 / SUSAN ISAACS

rushed off to the left, to the narrow wooden staircase, and, throwing all my Training School techniques aside, ran right upstairs, straight into Konrad Friedrichs’s bedroom.

He didn’t have a heart attack, although he seemed to stop breathing for at least a full minute. He just gaped at me. I gaped back. He was standing beside a high chest of drawers, wearing a starched-collared shirt and a tie, but he didn’t have on his trousers. He had old man’s legs; white, knob-kneed, hairless,

“My God!” he said. I put my finger on my lips to signal him to keep quiet. “How dare you!”

“I don’t have time to listen to you now,” I told him softly. “I’m only going to stay two or three minutes, and then I’m going to get out. No one will know I’ve been here. But listen to me. My contact, Rolf, is dead.”

Herr Friedrichs walked over to his high, old-fashioned bed and, unmindful that he was in white undershorts and black hose, sat down and shut his eyes. “They killed him?” he asked.

“No. At least I’m pretty sure they didn’t. It seems to have been a bomb. But they know about me.” He rolled his eyes, one of those weary, it-was-inevitable expressions. I got so mad! “Look,”

I said, “for a year and a half I’ve been giving the OSS first-rate intelligence, so don’t give me any of your speeches about foolhardy amateurs.
You
try living in the same house with a Nazi like Horst Drescher, sneaking into his locked study four, five, six, seven nights a week, and see how long you’d last.”

He said, “You have made your point. Proceed.”

“I have a message that has to get out, and there’s no Rolf anymore.” He started to shake his head. “Listen, there’s a German agent near an American army base in England. He’s getting top-secret information about the Allied invasion of France.”

Konrad Friedrichs’s eyes widened. “You’ve
got
to let them know.”

“I cannot. I have just returned from Lisbon and Madrid. I am unable—”

“You don’t have any choice.”

SHINING THROUGH / 411

“Don’t threaten me!”

“Herr Friedrichs, I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to save lives—including yours. Horst Drescher is no analytical genius.

We both know that. But he’s no fool, either. In a day or two, maybe even today, he’s going to realize who recommended me so highly.” He covered his face with his veiny old hands. “You have to get out.”

“If I leave my country now, I might never come back.”

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll be dead. Please, you’ve got to understand how critical this situation is. For you. And for the Allies. Yes, you do have to leave, but is the Germany you’re living in the Germany you want? If there’s any chance of saving the country you love, it lies in its defeat.” I paused for a second, but he wouldn’t stop hiding his face in his hands. “Don’t you want to stay alive so that when it’s all over, you can come back and help your people, guide them, show them what’s right?”

Slowly, he lowered his hands to his lap. They were shaking. He was a man who did things by the book, and this time there was no book. He didn’t know what to do. “Is there any way you can get straight to the airport now and get transport out on an emergency basis? Please, think. Help me.”

“There might be.” His speech was halting. “But it will be harder for you. I would have to speak to Margarete, to try and get you…perhaps some sort of diplomatic passport.”

“No! You have to get out this morning, before Horst realizes your connection to me.”

“But what about you?” Give him credit. He was a cranky, rigid Prussian snob, but he was also a man of honor. Whatever I was, I was his ally. He would therefore save my life.

I wouldn’t let him. “Thank you, but if I go with you, there’s no chance of getting the message out.” I reached into the slit in the lining of my cuff and drew out the tiny slip of paper. I walked over and put it in his hand. “There will be copies of my passport photo at every train station, airport and border crossing in Germany. We both know that.” For a long time, he didn’t speak.

412 / SUSAN ISAACS

“What will you do?” he asked.

“Margarete’s already helped me once. I think I’m going to have to go back. I hope she’ll be able to help me again.”

“I hope so too,” he said. He showed no signs of moving; he just sat primly on the bed, the message clenched in his hand.

“Come on now, stand up. Finish getting dressed.” He looked down at his bare legs in shock. “I’m afraid we don’t have time for modesty now. As soon as you’re ready, you’ll have to go downstairs and keep your housekeeper busy so I can sneak out.”

I took him by the elbow and eased him off the bed. That was really all he needed. He marched to his closet, turned away from me, stepped into his trousers and began to button them. “Poor, dear Frau Gerlach,” he murmured. “What will I tell her?”

“
Nothing
.”

He spun around, all red-faced, huffy. “She’s utterly trust-worthy.”

“I’m sure she is.” I wasn’t sure at all. She’d probably sell him down the river for ten pfennigs. “But it’s her devotion to you that you have to worry about. She’ll fear for your life. She might call a friend of yours, a colleague, to get help for you. Promise me you won’t say anything to her.” He stood there, stubborn.

I lost my temper. “Damn it!” I whispered. “You don’t have time to be noble. Don’t you want to live? Don’t you want to give me at least a chance to survive? For God’s sake, promise me.”

“You have my word,” he said at last.

A little more than sixty seconds later, I was back on the streets of Berlin.

I imagined Edward again. Think, he said. What is there besides your passport—with your photograph and fingerprints—that can be used to identify you? How would Horst describe you?

Well, he’d say I had blond hair—

SHINING THROUGH / 413

Don’t waste time, Linda. All that information is on your passport. What else?

One of the maids would remember I have a brown coat.

Lose it.

I took off my coat and draped it over my arm. It was warm for April. At least I thought it was April; the trees that still stood were covered with the hazy green of new leaves. I used my last two coins for a bus ride. I climbed to the upper deck, took a seat and put the coat beside me. A few minutes later, when I was sure no one was looking, I gave it a light push; it fell to my feet.

The bus rumbled on for another couple of miles; then I walked downstairs and got off.

I spent the rest of the day waiting in lines. I’d asked the imaginary Edward, Where should I go? Margarete’s at work.

Become invisible. There are two ways to do it. Find a hiding place that you know is absolutely secure. Or blend in with a crowd.

So at around eight-thirty or nine that morning, I joined the long line of women in front of a bakery. “Hot, isn’t it?” the woman in front of me said. Her dress was gray, the color of a mouse, and it had small white spots all over it from being scrubbed too many times.

“Yes, very hot. And so early in the day.”

No one had conversations that lasted longer than that. Berliners were too exhausted after a night of bombing, too wrapped up in their own hardship, to want to chat. This was a line for stale bread, not for tickets at Radio City Music Hall.

So when suddenly I said, “Oh, no!” the woman looked pained, as if I was going to try and burden her with my troubles. “My pocketbook!” Her expression changed. I saw sympathy. And fear. She understood I had lost my money, my ration books and my passport: my whole German life.

“Calm yourself,” she said, and then stepped aside so I could hurry off.

I made my way from neighborhood to neighborhood all day.

I stood in the longest lines I could find, waiting an hour 414 / SUSAN ISAACS

or two, and then discovering my loss. The waiting was so miserable, I had the headache that comes from lack of sleep, and the empty, aching nauseousness that comes as you start to move from hunger toward starvation.

In the late afternoon, as the sun was beginning to lose its strength, I started to walk toward Margarete’s apartment building. It must have been around six-thirty when I got there, because the streets were filled with people coming home from work. I knew my chances of slipping up the service elevator were just about zero, so I went through the front door. Again, no doorman, but there was a uniformed operator at the main elevator.

He had gold-braided shoulder brushes and a cap with a huge medallion. He looked like a veteran from a much better war.

“Yes?” he challenged me.

“I’m Lina, sir. Hugo, the Baron von Eberstein’s estate manager…Hugo told me to—”

“Get in,” he said, and whisked me up to the top floor. As I got out, he said, “Just ring the bell, Lina.”

“Thank you, sir.” And after he disappeared, that’s what I did.

“I’m coming!” I heard Margarete say. Her heels made a rapid clack-clack. She’d been busy in the kitchen. I could smell onions being sautéed. The door opened. “God in heaven!” It was as if someone had pulled a plug: All the color drained out of her face.

“Is he inside?” I whispered. “The pig?”

“No.” She put her hand over her chest and took a deep breath.

“Come in.” She pulled me inside and shut the door. “I can’t believe you are here!”

“I’ll go.”

“
No!
It’s just…Oh, dear God, I have been crazy with worry about you.” She put her arms around me for a second and hugged me and then said, “Come into the kitchen.”

We sat at a table draped in a lace cloth that went all the way to the floor. The cabinets were all glass, but the rest of SHINING THROUGH / 415

the room was a rich, dark wood. “Are you hungry?” she demanded. She had a kitchen towel tucked into the belt of her blue silk dress.

“Yes, but my stomach—”

She leapt up. “I have some lovely calves’ liver.”

“Margarete, please, just a piece of bread.” She hurried over to the bread box, took out a loaf of dark bread and sliced it. “I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“Do you want beer?” I shook my head no. She put the bread on a plate and then went to the refrigerator and returned with cheese and a bottle of milk.