Code name edelweiss, p.16
Code Name Edelweiss, page 16
He pulled away from the curb and put Liesl Weiss out of his mind. He had work to do.
CHAPTER 27
LIESL
On Tuesday, there was a new sign on the front door of the Alt Heidelberg written in both English and German: No Admittance to Jews. If I had any doubts left, the sign would have been the end of them. As it was, I no longer doubted Leon Lewis.
I’d dressed carefully in a pink crepe blouse with a high collar and a soft gabardine skirt of navy blue that fell within ten inches of my low-heeled lace-ups. “You look positively dowdy,” Mutti remarked.
“Danke, Mutti.” Precisely what I was hoping to achieve. Hermann’s interest was an unwelcome hindrance to my mission.
Hermann barely glanced at me as I entered. Gut. “If only we could be as advanced as they are in the fatherland,” he was saying to Paul Themlitz as I removed my hat. “With the chancellor’s power, they are removing opponents from the political and academic realms. I have heard they have a special holding camp outside München for all those who oppose our leader.”
“And the book burning! Did you see the pictures?” Thekla said from her seat on the divan. The men agreed that the removal of non-Aryan books from libraries and schools was a great good for the country and one to be realized in America.
Book burnings and camps for those opposed to the Nazis—that could never happen here, could it? I vowed it would not, if I could help Leon Lewis accomplish his goal. To that end, I was determined to get a look at the files in Hermann Schwinn’s office.
“Guten Morgen, Liesl.” Paul jumped up with enthusiasm as he saw me and motioned to a box on my desk. “I wanted you to be the first to see the new flyer. Tell me what you think of it.”
I did not fail to notice Thekla’s quick frown. She did not like to share the attentions of any man, even frog-like Paul Themlitz. Hermann came across the room to stand behind me as I sat down at my desk—so close I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. I opened the box to the sharp scent of fresh ink.
The headline shouted in black capital letters: “AMERICANS UNITE AGAINST THE JEWISH CONSPIRACY.”
Below the words, a drawing of a hook-nosed man with deep-set eyes pointing a rifle at the American flag. I held my breath and read the smaller black print declaring Jewish radicals had amassed machine guns at their headquarters in Boyle Heights and were planning an attack. It concluded at the bottom: “WE WILL NOT BE SAFE UNTIL THE JEWISH VERMIN ARE OUT OF AMERICA.” Then the address of the Friends of New Germany and an appeal for membership and funds.
No words came to me in response to the vile missive.
“Paul,” Hermann said, reaching over me to slide the top flyer off the stack, “the caricature is most effective. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Do you think it’s a little too . . . overstated?” Paul Themlitz asked, considering the flyer.
“If anything, it is not alarming enough.” Hermann was adamant and his accent became more pronounced. “We must say the truth clearly, simply. People want slogans, not explanations. Words that make them feel—” he thumped his chest—“not think.” He passed the flyer to Thekla, who studied it with a critical eye.
“Goebbels’s strategy is working wonderfully in the fatherland,” Thekla said. “Sow confusion, then give the people the answers they seek in a way that is simple and easy to understand. The Jews have proven throughout history to be our enemy. We must make that clear, nicht so?”
“Quite right,” Hermann said, tapping the repugnant face on the flyer and giving Themlitz a meaningful look. “These people killed our Lord and Savior, Paul.”
His pious statement sent goose bumps over my bare arms.
“Liesl,” Thekla said, picking up her copy of Sunset magazine and settling back on the divan. “Make sure those get out to all the members in today’s mail.”
“Of course, Thekla,” I said. But I had another task to complete. One of utmost importance.
Later in the morning, Hermann and Thekla went together to a meeting for the German Alliance at Turnverein Hall and Paul Themlitz returned to his duties at the Aryan Bookstore. I took my chance and entered Hermann’s office. My pulse pounded in my ears and my steps sounded loud in the empty room. I had been there many times, taking dictation and getting his signature. But never alone. It smelled faintly of his hair tonic and stale coffee. I dismissed the ripple of fear along my spine. They would be gone for at least an hour. I needn’t be worried.
I slid open the top drawer of the file cabinet. Heavy objects clinked and thudded. An almost-full bottle of gin and almost-empty one of whiskey. Another object slid heavily in the back. I pulled the drawer fully open.
A gun.
I picked it up. Not a revolver as I’d seen in the cowboy films. A pistol, like the one Tomas had carried on the force. I checked the chamber. Loaded. I replaced it as I’d found it and shut the drawer with a shudder of apprehension. Wilhelm Otto and now Hermann. A social club in which the members carried guns was hardly social.
The second drawer held files, each neatly labeled in Thekla’s decisive printing and alphabetically arranged. I couldn’t take a chance in removing them. I opened my steno pad and began to jot notes.
America First and the American Nationalist Party. Both files held little that looked important. The California Homesteaders had a few weeks’ worth of typed agendas and meeting minutes. The German American Alliance file was bank statements and letters from Max Socha. Next, the Ku Klux Klan. I gave the contents a quick glance. The secret organization was hardly a secret, complaining about Negroes and Mexicans, holding rallies, and getting their pictures in the newspapers. The file held a list of names, some of whom I recognized from the Germantown police force. The National Legion of Mothers of America held newspaper clippings about school districts and Thekla’s handwritten notes.
Would any of this be helpful to Lewis? I didn’t know, so I wrote down as much as I could in quick shorthand.
The last file and the thickest was labeled Silver Shirts. I took a moment and thumbed through it. Membership applications, stamped with a red swastika. I flicked through the alphabetical stack to Bittner, Fritz. His handwriting hit me like a slap in the face. What was he thinking? And something else. In the upper corner scrawled in sloppy cursive—my address. Danielle Bittner, mother. Then my name and . . . Tess and Steffen. Their ages. Tess’s school. My legs wobbled and I almost lost my grip on the folder. What need did they have for this information?
I made a note of it. Looked at the clock. My time was running out.
I shut the drawer and tugged on the third and bottom drawer. It was locked.
Why? Because it was something important. Where would Hermann keep a key? I went to the desk. The shallow top drawer held pencils, paper clips, a stapler. I checked the wall behind the file cabinet for a hook, then patted through Hermann’s overcoat. Nothing.
I heard a step and froze. The murmur of voices—Thekla and Hermann. My heart leapt into my throat. I looked quickly around the office. Had I left any evidence of my visit? My steno pad was on Hermann’s desk. I swiped it up and scurried to the door.
Too late. The outer office door opened and Thekla entered just as I cleared Hermann’s doorway. I was afraid my face showed my guilt, and I was right. Thekla pinned me with a suspicious gaze. “Liesl, what have we caught you at?”
I thought like lightning. “Just getting my steno pad. I left it in Hermann’s office.” I tapped the pad with my fingernail, willing my knees to stop shaking. The steno pad in question—if Thekla could decipher Gregg shorthand—was damning evidence of what she had caught me at.
“Did you?” Hermann said, coming in behind his wife. “I hadn’t noticed it there.”
I walked smartly to my desk and sat down before my gelatin-like legs gave way. “No matter, I have it and I can get at those letters.”
I proceeded to roll a fresh paper and carbon into my typewriter as if nothing were amiss. Thekla went immediately to Hermann’s office. I prayed nothing was out of place.
Thekla was unusually silent for the rest of the morning but she kept me in her sight. No chance to look at the remaining drawer and no idea where to find the key. Thekla had no reason to look at my steno pad, nor did I think she knew how to read shorthand, but the presence of the notes right out on my desk kept me on edge. I needed to get them to Leon Lewis. The thought of my children’s names on Fritz’s application worried at me as I did my tasks. Why?
When my lunch break came, I walked to the park on First Street to eat my apple and sandwich. I had managed to secrete the shorthand notes and an envelope into my handbag. At the park, I addressed the envelope to L1 at his post office box, licked a stamp, and slipped the envelope in the postal receptacle on the corner with relief.
As I turned back toward the Alt Heidelberg, my relief shifted abruptly to alarm.
A figure stood across the street, back turned as if perusing the display of men’s oxfords in the Clark’s Shoe Store window. I recognized the platinum bob and perfect posture, not to mention the cherry-red wool suit with ermine trim that she’d been wearing at the office this morning.
Thekla Schwinn was following me.
I quickly boarded a trolley and returned to the Alt Heidelberg, wondering if she’d seen me deposit the envelope in the mailbox. She did not voice a word about it when she returned twenty minutes after I had settled at my desk.
“Liesl,” she said breezily, “Paul has another box of the flyers ready. Please go downstairs to collect them.”
“Of course,” I said crisply.
It was a relief to leave her suspicious gaze and I took my time walking downstairs to the Aryan Bookstore. Paul Themlitz kept me for a few moments, showing me a new display of propaganda just arrived in the international mail. I admired the latest issues of the state-run German newspaper and a new pamphlet with the title “America for Americans” in red, white, and blue print.
When I was able to politely say goodbye, the box of flyers in my grasp, I left the bookstore to see Karl Weber in the hall. “Mrs. Weiss.” He greeted me with a tip of his hat. “What are you doing here?” Karl had the soft, doughy look of a German Santa Claus but he was a sharp businessman. He had always been a fair landlord, even when I’d struggled to pay on time each week.
“I work here, Mr. Weber,” I answered.
He looked a bit taken aback. “At the Friends of New Germany?”
“Yes, are you going there now?” I hadn’t thought him one to be involved with the National Socialists. But Neele was friendly with Gertrud Grundbacher, so perhaps I was wrong.
He hesitated, then said quickly, “I’m meeting Travis Monroe downstairs. He’s going to introduce me to some of the veterans.”
I wished him a good day and went on my way while he took the stairs to the basement. In the office of the Friends, I found Travis Monroe and Hermann lounging on the green silk chairs, Thekla on the divan. Wilhelm Otto was leaning on the window frame, dressed in his usual somber suit and a pristine white dress shirt and tie. I wondered if the man owned anything less formal. Travis was regaling Wilhelm Otto and Thekla about a screen test he’d had at Warner Studios years earlier. “I’d have had the part but the director thought I was too handsome. Can you believe it?”
“I certainly can,” Thekla twittered. It seemed the actual employees at the Friends of New Germany could find time to chitchat, while the unpaid volunteer did all the work.
They continued flirting as I went to the storage room, looking for more carbons. They were on the top shelf and I didn’t wish to get out the ladder. “Mr. Monroe,” I called, “could I have your assistance for a moment?”
He appeared immediately and was tall enough to reach the box without even stretching and gave me a dazzling smile as if he’d accomplished something heroic. I remembered about Karl Weber. “Oh,” I said, “Mr. Weber just went downstairs looking for you, in case you were waiting for him here.”
“Weber?” Travis frowned. “Thanks for letting me know, Mrs. Weiss.”
Back in the front office with my carbons, I saw Wilhelm Otto send a dark look after Travis as he went out the door.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed Wilhelm Otto’s ire. “What do you have against our friend Monroe?” Hermann asked.
I folded a flyer and slipped it into an envelope I’d typed earlier in the day, trying to look as if I was not listening.
Wilhelm Otto answered, “Something smells wrong with him.”
I licked the envelope and glanced at the men. Hermann leaned forward, his brow creased in concern. Wilhelm shrugged casually. “The amount of cash he carries. Expensive auto. Where is it coming from?”
The back of my neck tingled. Fold, stuff, seal. Wilhelm Otto was implying something—perhaps, like me, Travis Monroe was receiving pay from Leon Lewis to spy on the Friends of New Germany. Perhaps he was the other agent.
“You might be right,” Hermann told Wilhelm. “Keep an eye on him.”
A shiver of apprehension went down my spine. Wilhelm kept an eye on everyone connected to the Friends of New Germany. That included me, as he demonstrated with his questions about Tomas. If Travis Monroe was an agent, he would need to take great care indeed.
——————
I finished the envelopes just as the clock ticked to three thirty. “I’ll bring these to the post on my way home,” I told Thekla.
“Wilhelm will drive you,” she answered abruptly, not even glancing up from the copy of Sunset magazine in her hands.
Wilhelm Otto stood like a dog at her command.
Did she not trust me? “Of course,” I answered smoothly. “That’s very kind.”
I put on my hat, turning to the mirror to adjust it. In the reflection, I could see Wilhelm Otto and Thekla exchange a glance that confirmed my suspicion. Wilhelm Otto had been told to watch me, just as he was watching Travis Monroe.
Wilhelm politely carried the box of envelopes and the stack of outgoing mail and helped me into his auto. After a silent ride to the Germantown post office, he parked. “I’ll take them in.”
I watched him bound up the steps, his long legs taking two at a time. It had crossed my mind to dump the offensive flyers in one of the trash barrels on the corner. Was that what Thekla had suspected? I would have to be very careful—far more than I had been—around Thekla. She was not easily fooled. What would she do if she discovered I was working for a Jewish lawyer? I didn’t want to consider the thought.
The journey between the post office and my home was predictably silent and though I wasn’t comfortable with Otto’s silences, I found them preferable to his questions.
Wilhelm Otto was helping me out of the auto outside my home when I heard Tess’s voice. “Mommy!” She ran from the backyard, with Steffen and Mutti following. Steffen barreled toward me and I caught him as he tackled my legs. Tess showed me her spelling test. “The only word I missed was truncate, but I think that’s wrong. If a tree has a trunk, then it should be spelled with a k, not a—”
Mutti reached us, puffing a bit. “Who are you?” she demanded of Wilhelm Otto in her abrupt way.
I wished only to leave the watchful presence of Hermann Schwinn’s guard dog, but with a knot of fear in my chest, I made the introductions. Wilhelm removed his hat and gave Mutti a polite nod.
“Hmm.” Mutti eyed him from his polished shoes to his toothbrush mustache, landing on the swastika pin on his lapel. She scowled.
I continued. “This is Tess and Steffen.” I gave them a look that told them to be polite. “Children, this is Mr. Otto.”
Tess stepped forward, putting her small hand out. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Otto. I’m Theresa Violet Weiss. Is Otto your first name or your last name?”
After looking at Tess’s small hand for a moment, he shook it. “Wilhelm Otto,” he clarified. He pronounced his name in the American way, unlike Hermann, who said it as the Germans did.
He offered his hand next to Steffen, who was holding a small glass jar. Instead of shaking his hand, Steffen silently gave the jar to Wilhelm Otto. The towering man held the jam jar up to the weak sunshine. Inside was a large black spider. He examined the spider just as he did people—with an intense gaze and silence. I shuddered as he returned it to Steffen with an appreciative look and Steffen, to my surprise, rewarded him with a smile.
“Mr. Otto,” Tess said, “did you know that you shouldn’t pet a porcupine? They have long quills with hooks that grab you.” She curled her fingers into hooks, but before he could answer, she went on. “Are you going to drive Mutti home every day, Mr. Otto? So that she doesn’t have to take the trolley? Do you ever take the trolley or do you only take your auto? Can girls drive autos? Do you like graham crackers?”
I’d never seen Wilhelm Otto look anything but completely assured, so his hesitation when confronted by a child was an interesting sight. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if unsure which question to answer first.
I saved him from choosing. “Tess, take Steffen inside. You may have graham crackers and jam.”
“Two each?” she asked, distracted from her interrogation and back to her attempts to bend the rules.
“One,” I answered in a tone that told her to behave herself. Tess dragged her feet as she went to the house, Steffen following. I turned to the silent man beside the auto. “Thank you for the ride. I won’t keep you—”
“Otto, did you say?” Mutti barked out, her eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you work at MGM?”
Wilhelm glanced away, watching Tess and Steffen clamber up the stairs and into the house. “No, ma’am. Never worked there.”
“Hmm,” Mutti said again.
Wilhelm replaced his hat. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Bittner. Goodbye, Mrs. Weiss.”
He shut the door of his auto with a decisive slam and was gone. I let go of my breath and realized I’d been clutching my handbag hard enough to leave an indent in the leather.
Mutti watched the auto disappear around the corner. She turned to me, her gaze going deliberately to the red, white, and black pin over my heart. Then she looked away and walked to the house.
