The End of Innocence (8 page)

“Professor,” Helen said, “I'll work on the assignment alone for now.”

Copeland gave a thin-lipped frown. “Gentlemen, I've never seen a room of men cower so in the presence of a young woman. I hope you reconsider this evening. I expect by the next time I see you here in this class one of you will have a space for her in your study group. Now, Marvin Elken, please recite your work.”

Helen sat in a fog for the duration of the class. She'd rather be with her mother stuffing family limitation pamphlets into envelopes than producing a poem by the next day and joining a study group. Copeland continued the class recitations in alphabetical order until they reached Hoyt. The bell then tolled, signaling the end of class.

As Helen collected her notes, the men rushed by to leave. Wils Brandl walked to Copeland's lectern, picked up the class schedule, and went back to her desk.

“Miss Brooks, I'm Wilhelm von Lützow Brandl. We met at the Saturday—”

“Yes, I remember,” she said curtly. He frowned and then seemed to regroup.

“Here is the assignment page,” he said, handing it to her. He stood there for a moment as she packed her things.

“Miss Brooks, may I ask you something? You had a good poem from the other night. Why didn't you recite it for class today?”

“You weren't so kind to it on Saturday.”

“This is a class of patriots and I assure you they'd have loved your poem. And did you hear what Morris said about mine?” His eyes smiled from behind his spectacles. “I'd be hard put to find a more derisive review.”

She looked at him, puzzled as to why he was being so kind to her now. “I'll write something tonight.”

“It's just—” he continued earnestly, “it was a fine poem and in Copeland's class it's usually better to present something, even if you think it's not your best work, than to say you're empty-handed.”

“Don't make her worry,” said a young man standing behind Wils. “She did just fine.” He introduced himself as Jackson Vaughn, the pale boy in the back. His accent was slow and melodic, that of a southerner. A short young man beside Jackson introduced himself as Morris Rabin. He smelled of kitchen soap, but his manners were polished. He opened the door for her as they left the room.

As they walked into the hall, they were surprised by two policemen in blue suits with bright shiny gold buttons. The men looked as if they'd been waiting for some time. One officer was tall and lanky, his face rough with pockmarks. The other was stout and bald, his bug eyes taking them in. As they approached, Helen's heart began to race. What was this?

“Wilhelm Brandl?” said the tall man. “I'm Inspector Walter Gordon of the Boston Police,” he said, extending his hand, “and this is Officer Kim O'Hara. I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind.”

“Here?” asked Wils, flushing. “I thought we were meeting at four thirty at my flat. My attorney is scheduled to attend.”

The short officer shook his head. “Can you come with us? This will only take a few minutes.” He reached for Wils's arm.

“Why?” asked Wils, pulling his arm back.

Helen saw the muscles twitch in Gordon's jaw. But Wils drew himself up to full height. He was tall and his chest was broad from rowing. “My attorney made an appointment, which I intend to keep. I insist on having counsel.”

“We want to talk with you, not your attorney. As a foreigner, you have no right to one.”

Morris walked closer to the officer and spoke softly. “This man has more friends than just his attorney.”

“I'm not talking to you.”

“Perhaps you'll talk to President Lowell,” offered Helen. The officer looked down at her. “He's a relative.”
It
'
s only a half lie
, she thought. It would be true after Ann and Peter were engaged. She would discuss that matter of timing with God later that evening.

“President Lowell, you say.”

“I do,” said Helen.

Morris clenched his fists and refused to move. The short officer put his thumbs in his belt and glared at him. Gordon set his jaw, stepped back, and nodded.

“I'll see you in a half hour then,” he said. O'Hara and Gordon walked off, the hall crowd parting for them.

“Thank you, Miss Brooks,” said Wils with a nod. “I should go now. But thank you,” he said quietly. He seemed less sure of himself as they looked at each other. His eyes, behind his glasses, wanted to smile.

Helen caught herself wishing to comfort him.

Perhaps this was yet another price that country's citizens paid for their king's hubris. She shook her head as she walked along the wooden planks outside of Boylston. Halfway back to Longworth Hall she stopped to adjust the books in her arms. She looked back in the direction of Wils Brandl, puzzled by a country that could produce such a gentleman scholar and a warmonger like the kaiser.

* * *

Wils was not reassured by the presence of the lawyer his mother chose to confront the police officers he'd just met. Robert Goodman was a slight, bespectacled attorney from old New England stock. Could he stand up to City Hall?

The two met at Wils's flat, and were talking when a knock sounded at the door. Wils turned to see the two detectives he'd met only a quarter hour earlier standing on his threshold.

“Walter Gordon and Kim O'Hara here. May we come in?”

“Please,” said Goodman, offering seats at the living room table, which they immediately claimed.

“Mr. Goodman, a few questions for your client.”

Wils took a chair beside Goodman and folded his arms across his chest.

“Mr. Brandl, why did you call the
Crimson
about Arnold Archer's alleged involvement in the von Steiger suicide?”

Goodman said, “He called because—”

“Let the boy speak,” said O'Hara in a wheezy tone.

“People should know that a murderer is in their midst,” declared Wils.

“You told them he may have killed von Steiger.”

“He may have,” said Wils. “That's why your department arrested him, isn't it?”

“Our chief gave the order, and we follow orders. And when the chief told us to let him go back to his family, we unlocked the door and let him out.”

“He's out?”

“On bail. He was released this morning to his family. Did you tell the
Crimson
anything else?”

“No.”

Gordon leaned forward. “Archer says Max gave him your watch to pay a gambling debt.”

“I have no knowledge of debts.”

“Were there reasons for the fight between Archer and von Steiger at the Spee other than politics?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mr. Brandl, did you gamble with Mr. von Steiger?”

“No.”

“Why did you go with him to Plymouth? I understand you drove by the Charlestown Navy Yard on your way down there.”

“Plymouth? How did you know about that?” asked Wils curtly. The officer sat back, stone-faced.

“Max wanted to see the USS
Constitution
,” said Wils. “He likes old ships. And he also needed to send a package home from one of the civilian wharves.”

“What was in the package?” asked Gordon.

“I didn't rummage through it. Books, clothes. The usual things, I'd guess.”

“Why did you choose that day to go?”

Wils couldn't recall the details. “I don't know. Let me get my diary,” he said, walking back to his bedroom to collect a small leather notebook from his desk. “It says here we went because Max was feeling down. We shipped a crate home for him as well as looked at an old ship.”

“Who paid for the shipment?” asked Gordon.

“I did. Max was short on cash and I ended up paying. But it seems silly to try to bill him for it now.”

The officers exchanged looks.

“Is there anything else?” asked Goodman tersely.

“No, except the diary,” said O'Hara. “We'll take it.”

“No.” Wils resisted the order.

Goodman leaned toward him. “Your diary is part of an investigation now. Please turn it over.”

“It's mine.”

“Let me see it,” said Goodman. Wils handed it to him, open at the August entry.

Plymouth with Max. Stopped over at the Charlestown Navy Yard to see the USS
Constitution
—pathetic sight, all leaks right now. Dropped off Max's crate at Long Wharf; mother must transfer 50 to my account to cover the shipping draft. The naval yard was an ugly place, full of concrete and shabby buildings and with three new hulking gray ships. The letters
Pennsylvania
were being painted on the largest. Plymouth Harbor, in contrast, is open and has beautiful sailboats skimming along it.

The Pilgrims knew what they were doing when they landed here. Terribly sad history. Even the natives took pity on the settlers. Fabled Plymouth Rock is small. Burial Hill is impressive in its foreboding qualities—and the stones tell tales of such sorrow—children died in horrendous numbers. These Pilgrims were grim. Almost as grim as Max, who is still distraught about Felicity. I wish to God that woman had never met my friend! But the Pilgrims had tenacity which saw them through. These Americans are an impressive lot. Just a few bad apples (Felicity).

“That's hardly anything of use,” said Goodman with a frown.

“The ship—”

“The notation about that ship doesn't mean a damn thing, and you know it. You'd need a lot more on my client to make any kind of case. Wils needs a few moments to copy down his assignments.”

The officers still insisted. Wils glared at the trio, jotted some notes, then handed the diary over. He felt ill as Gordon pocketed it.

“Did you know Archer's mother was German?” Gordon said.

“No,” said Wils coldly.

“A barmaid from Bavaria who married a rich politician. She hates the kaiser.”

That explains a lot
, thought Wils. Bavarians did often hate Prussians. They were Catholic, Prussians were Protestant. They produced beer festivals instead of manufacturing. How Wils's own Bavarian father ever fell in love with his Prussian mother, he never could fathom. Rebellion? Forgiveness? Whatever it was had probably not reached Mrs. Archer or her offspring.

The world is a prejudiced place
, thought Wils, happy to see them leaving.

“When will Wils see his diary back?” asked Goodman.

“It will be a while,” said O'Hara. “You'll be around?”

“Of course he will.”

When they were gone, Goodman turned to him and instructed him in a brisk tone. “Stay put until this is resolved, but once it is, my sincere advice to you is to return to Germany.”

“They think that Max is a spy?”

“Yes, they do.”

“And they think I am involved?”

“Your diary is incriminating. If you had wanted to, you could have told the German military that new ships—and just how many—were in the shipyard. It could give the kaiser some kind of military advantage.”

“But I didn't! And Arnold is the one who committed—”

“And Arnold was arrested. Apparently the Archers have enemies in City Hall too. Now Arnold's apparently provided enough information on you that they're investigating you for helping your friend spy on a U.S. shipyard. You are not to go around any shipyards until you walk up the gangplank to board a civilian ship for Germany. Am I clear?”

“How did he know what was in my diary?”

“I don't know. Does anyone besides Riley have a key?”

“Harvard's entire housing office.”

“Burton?”

“Of course. As well as my Irish maid and French laundress.”

“And now your Italian security guard. You employ most of Europe here, it would seem,” Goodman said with a thin smile. “My office will contact your mother, Wils. This is a serious matter. It may take a few weeks to sort out,” he said.

“Weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To clear your name.”

Wils swallowed hard.

“Wils,” said the dour lawyer, “I cannot stress to you how serious this matter is. They're not deporting Germans, they're sending them to internment camps down south—and not the part you'd wish to be in. I'm going to try to find you a boat and get you on it, but it's going to take some time. They're not letting many ships go in and out right now. Once your name is clear it would be best for you, until the war is over, to return to Germany.”

“I'll miss my final year,” Wils protested.

Goodman nodded. “Do seniors even attend class at Harvard?”

Wils shrugged.

“Well, that settles it, Wils. I need your word of honor if I'm going to negotiate these terms. The minute you are cleared to leave and I find a ship, you will be on it. Do I have your word?”

Wils nodded. “You think it is the best course?”

“It's the only course. Boston is not where I'd wish to be right now if I were German. Your mother's right.”

“Then I give you my word to leave when you call.”

“I'll get to work on it,” said Goodman, putting his notes into a scarred leather briefcase.

“How exactly will you negotiate this?” Wils asked as Goodman walked to the door.

“These issues have a legal side and a political side to them. I'll have a few members of the city council call the police chief.”

“I thought the Archers had the city council's support.”

“My wife is the governor's daughter. We're not without friends.”

“Oh,” said Wils. A bit of the tension left his shoulders. Perhaps his mother knew what kind of lawyer to hire after all.

Wils closed the door behind the lawyer. He tugged at his tie and sat down on the settee across from the fireplace, feeling restless and angry. He was no threat. All he wanted to do was finish his studies. After that, who knew what the world had in store for him?