Message For Hitler Read online

  “Sir, I was thinking to go down to Dover and have a word with the fisherman.” Ellis thinks about the mounting stack of similar reports on his desk. It makes him feel dizzy. He hasn’t been out of London in weeks, sleeping at his desk most nights. “I could catch the 10:15 and be back in no time.”

  Harker knocks his knuckle against the desktop, thinking to bring the conversation to a close. “Waste of valuable time, Ellis.”

  “But what if…Remember that chap went by the name of Walter Simon? The Abwehr landed him on the Dingle Peninsula…”

  “In Ireland, for pity’s sake! A rank amateur, if you ask me. Seen burying his AFU transmitter on the beach, then asking locals when the next train was due to arrive…when the bloody train hadn’t run on that line for 14-months! Decided he’d warm himself up at a local pub before commencing his mission. The chap was picked up drunk as a skunk, identified by the sand in his shoes.”

  Ellis hesitates, reluctant to contradict his superior. “But perhaps they’ve learned from their mistakes, sir. I know we have.”

  Harker leans back in his office chair. “You’re referring to Operation Dovetail, unfortunate business that.” He lets his voice trail off, but then raises it almost to a shout. “I refuse to give credit to this, this busybody widow who has nothing better to do than make trouble for honest fishermen! If you want my opinion, the government ought to put a stop to those ludicrous posters giving everyone the impression that there are German spies listening behind every hedgerow, behind every rose bush. How many false citizen reports have we had to date, Ellis?”

  “About 15,000 this month alone, sir.” He brings up an image of the mounting stacks on his desk and signs.

  “Waste of time, Ellis. Waste of valuable time. No need for bored widows to be snooping around fishing piers. Chaps at Bletchley Park are breaking coded messages at lightening speed, ever since the invention of the, the, that contraption called the—” He snaps his finger.

  “—the Bombe machine, sir.”

  “It was on the tip of my tongue. Well, ever since the Bombe machine we’re cracking messages so fast we know an enemy agent is coming before he does. Close the door as you go.”

  As the door shuts, Hacker is heard laughing to himself.

  Why, he thinks, they don’t even have time to nip into the pub.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “BUT I’M CATHOLIC!” I moaned when Daphne shook me awake and told me to get ready for church. “I can’t go to an Anglican Church. My ma would have a conniption!”

  “Well, aren’t you a lucky boy then. Blanche has volunteered to take you to her church,” said Daphne. “Roman Catholic. They’ve got confession booths, candles, holy water—and whatever else you’ll be needing. You can write your mum and tell her what a saint you are for going without an argument.”

  I opened one eye and looked at the ladies, all dressed up in their Sunday best. There was Blanche holding her rosary beads in one hand and a missal in the other. Even Daphne was going to church. I knew there was a synagogue in Southend, but they met on Saturday. She’d made up for it Friday night, by lighting a candle before we ate our Wartime Vegetable Pie. She’d even recited a prayer in the ancient Jewish language, which she was teaching me.

  “Gee,” I said. “Can’t a fella get a break?”

  “You’ll have fun,” said Blanche. “Today is the fête. Everyone brings a pie and we have a contest after church. We lay wages on who can eat the most pie. The steeple bell needs refurbished, you see. It’s got a crack. And what a good time to fix it, now that church bells are permitted to ring again. If we don’t raise enough, we’ll have to have a jumble sale next month. So everyone is going full stop at pie baking.”

  Catholics knew all the tricks. If it wasn’t pie contests, it was Bingo. I jumped from the couch like a shot. “You can carry my offering, it’s in the kitchen,” said Blanche. “And if I turn a blind eye and a big chunk goes missing, no one will be the wiser.” I ran into the kitchen and spotted a chocolate cream pie, covered in globs of whipped cream. The cream was probably fake, but so what? I was feeling grateful to God just then. I reached my finger into the cream. It was the real deal—Blanche must’ve used a year’s worth of ration coupons to get it.

  We walked all the way into town, me nibbling on the pie the whole way. The Anglican Church was right down the block from the Catholics, so we walked together. Dot dragged her feet and we kept waiting for her to catch up. When we got near the church, I heard a dog bark. It was Ringo, attached to a leash. And holding the leash was my brother, Jack.

  “We thought we’d surprise you!” said Daphne, pinching my arm. “He rung up this morning and said he was back!”

  “Hey, kiddo,” said my brother, fluffing my hair. He didn’t seem to have a bruise on him, unless you counted the dark circles under his eyes. “Sorry about the Crown Jewels and all. Crying shame.”

  “Missing out on the hamburger and fries,” I said, “that’s the heartbreaking part.”

  “Ma always said your stomach was a bottomless pit. Figured you’d show for the pie-eating contest. I see you’ve gotten a head start on the rest of the faithful.” Jack gave Daphne a peck on the cheek, probably worried that a nun was in the area—waiting and watching. Then he handed me the leash: “No wonder Ma doesn’t let you have a pet. Sel’s goldfish was belly up this morning and starting to bloat. I had the honors of flushing it down the toilet. He’s gonna miss that fish. He was awful attached, even gave it a name.”

  My brother pretended to sock my arm. I felt bad about the fish. I’d failed in my duties. “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  Jack took his cap off and leaned down, pointing to the top of his head. There was a gash at least three inches long—a big bloody scab with hair stuck in it. Daphne gave a gasp and got wobbly on her feet. “I thought you told Geraldine that you weren’t hurt?” she asked.

  “This didn’t happen when I bailed out,” said Jack. “It happened when I was in a pub afterwards. I was just having a bite to eat before heading back to the base when some nutcase must’ve mistaken me for someone else. Clubbed me over the head. Knocked me out cold.”

  “Did you see who it was?” I asked.

  There were no witnesses, he said: “Nope. When the girl came with my pint, there I was laid out on the floor, blood gushing from my skull. She figured me for dead. And I might have been, too, because the guy’d used the blunt edge of an old rifle they had hanging on the wall above where I’d been sitting. A decoration—thank God the gun wasn’t loaded.”

  “Pubs are dangerous places, aren’t they?” I said.

  “You bettya,” said Jack, patting my shoulder. “All those drunks under one roof. If you take my advice, Tommy, you’ll stay clear of them.” He rubbed his head. “I might take my own advice, in fact.”

  Daphne said, “Oh, Jack. Shouldn’t you be in hospital! You might have a concussion like Sel.”

  “You’re out of luck, babe.” He grabbed her to him. “I’m fit for duty. Not even able to go to Mass. I barely have time to lay my eyes on you, hand over Ringo to the babysitter here, and be off again. These are desperate times.”

  I looked down at the ground and kicked a stone. “Rotten Nazis,” I said. “Keepin’ a kid from his brother.”

  “With any luck, I’ll be back for an early dinner, maybe some leftover pie.”

  “There won’t be any, not if I can help it,” I said.

  “Rhubarb,” he said.

  I thought he meant pie. “I’ll try and snag a piece for you.”

  Jack laughed. I realized he meant he was going up on a mission to find and destroy German military positions across the Channel in occupied Europe. For some reason they called these missions Rhubarbs. I threw my arms around him, not knowing if I’d ever see him again.

  “What about your Spitfire?” said Daphne. “Surely it was wrecked.”

  Jack kissed her on the lips and smiled. There were plenty of Spitfires sitting around now that so many pilots were laid up with injuries. A jeep drove u
p, Wilson in the driver’s seat. Before I could alert my brother, he jumped in and they were speeding off toward the airfield.

  “You!” I said to Ringo. “I can’t seem to shake you.”

  The church bells started thudding on account of the crack. The bells stopped ringing while there was a chance of an invasion, saving them for warning bells instead. So it was a good sign that they were ringing again—or thudding, that is. Blanche took my arm and escorted me into the church. We were splashing holy water on our faces when a priest spotted Ringo, wagged his finger and pointed to the door.

  “Sorry, Blanche. They won’t let us in,” I said.

  “Not that easy,” she whispered, grabbing the leash. “Wait here whilst I tie her up outside.” When she came back, she put a hand on my shoulder and walked me to a pew. She did a genuflect and then slid in. I followed behind, bowing my body from the waist. The church was overheated and I yawned. Blue-haired parishioners turned around and shoot me dirty looks. Judge not! I wanted to yell out, quoting Jesus. How many of them had been hiding behind couches half the night? I stuck my tongue out. After that, my eyelids defied gravity. I shook my head trying to wake myself up. It didn’t work. Soon I was dreaming that I was a gunner on a B-17 Flying Fortress.

  I woke up when something hit my right toe. As I leaned down to see what it was, I saw Blanche was kneeling on a cushion, her eyes shut, reciting the Nicene Creed along with everyone else. The priest stood in a carved wooden perch, leading everyone in ancient Latin, his eyes closed too. This was my chance for escape.

  Ringo had snuck back into the church and was sleeping on the cushion meant for my knees. On top of my foot was Blanche’s missal: her prayer book. The cover was open to a page for family history: birth, death, and marriage dates. I reached down and took the book in my hands, scanning the handwritten list of Blanche’s family members. The priest said, Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur. Just a few more lines before everyone opened their eyes, and my shot at freedom was over.

  Blanche Ann Wickersham, born on April 25, 1916.

  Married on January 4, 1938.

  To Siegfried Hutzel.

  German.

  Looking over at Blanche, I zoomed in on her wedding ring finger. It was steepled upwards with the other nine, ring-less. With a light touch, I placed the prayer book next to Blanche and slid to the end of the pew, pulling on Ringo’s leash. A nun stood guard at the front door. When she got a look at the dog, she ordered us both outside. In the direction I needed to go.

  Blanche, I thought. She hadn’t been on my list of suspects. Seemed so innocent, for one thing. Virginal, almost. This was spy craft: pretending to moon over Millionaire pilots and ghosts of the Boer War. It was probably Siegfried who recruited her for the Abwehr: the German spy department.

  A traitor to her country. And to the Holy Catholic Church. And yet, I knew what love could do to a dame. It screwed up their heads, made them do crazy things and whatnot. I’d spent enough time with Daphne to see the results.

  Just as I was pondering this, the leash was pulled from my hands. Ringo went flying down a side path that led to a creepy old cemetery—the kind they’ve got all over Europe. She made straight for a tombstone, squatting down and peeing right above where the deceased’s head would be.

  John Sheffield, CBE was engraved on the stone. Dearly beloved husband of Rivka. 1882-1939. Then a clue to a Bible verse: Numbers 6. Somewhere in the Old Testament, I knew that much. It might be a code, put on the tombstone right before the war got going. There’d been plenty of German spies in England then, scouting out the best place for a future invasion. I looked up at the church: gothic with gargoyles. So Lord Sheffield was a Catholic, too. And his wife’s name—I’d never heard of a dame called that before. Rivka. Must be a German name, I thought. I took a look at the tombstone next to Lord Sheffield’s. It was a brand new stone. It said Reginald, 1921-1942. In service to God and King. At the base of the stone was a bunch of flowers: fresh, like they’d just been put there.

  “My son,” came a voice behind me. “We lost him less than two weeks ago.”

  I spun around and saw Fräu Sheffield standing not four feet behind me. She was patting the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. “Are you enjoying the book?” she asked.

  “Did he die in the war?” I pointed to the tombstone. She started talking, but it was almost like she wasn’t talking to me. So I didn’t interrupt.

  “He should have been at Bletchley Park. That’s where he was working. But he was found in his flat in London. The coroner ruled that he died by ingestion of some toxin or another. Mercifully, it was ruled an accidental death. I was afraid at first that they’d say it was suici… My, I can’t bear to say the word. There was a note, you see. Written to me by his own hand.”

  “Murdered,” I said. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “The Nazis, naturally,” she said.

  Time to get thinking, I thought. She might be telling me this to throw me off the trail—the one that led straight to her door. “Why would they target your son?” I asked, paying careful attention to what she did with her hands, seeing if I could catch her in a lie. Hand twitches are always dead-giveaways.

  She reached for the top of her blouse, unclasping a couple of mother of pearl buttons, reaching for a gold chain. Here it is, I thought, the secret symbol. I stepped closer to see the small medallion that hung from the chain. She bent down. We were eyeball to eyeball, and everyone knows that liars have trouble doing that.

  “Now do you understand?” she said.

  I did.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “YOU REMIND ME a little of my son Reggie at your age,” said Lady Sheffield, as I bit down on a jam filled bun. She’d offered to take me to the bun shop across the street from the Catholic Church; it was the only place in town opened, probably owned by atheists. “Reggie was precocious, like you. Always getting into mischief, but oh so brilliant. He rarely was caught.” She took a sip from her teacup.

  “My German teacher was Mr. Fisch,” I said, “who lives down the street from us in New York. He told me all about how Hitler was treating the Jewish people. Most Americans don’t know,” I said. “Then I seen for myself when I was in Paris. They tried to take Daphne’s aunt who is Jewish, but my brother saved her.”

  “My late husband was a student at the University in Bonn,” said Lady Sheffield. “He was reading theology at the Seminary there. This was before the last war. My family always struggled financially and my father supplemented his income by tutoring some the seminarians in Hebrew and Aramaic. My father was a cantor—the one who sings the prayers at the synagogue. I came home one day to find James Sheffield sitting in my father’s study. He was reading from Tehillim—the 145th Psalm. I stood outside the door listening as he said, ChaNûn w’rachûm y’hwäh erekh’ aPayim ug däl-chäsed, in English accented Hebrew. He read beautifully, like the poet I later came to know he was. The Lord is gracious, and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy. It had always been my favorite scripture.”

  “And then you fell madly in love and got married,” I said, wanting to get through this part fast.

  Lady Sheffield began touching a yellow flower, stuck in a pickle jar and meant to spruce up the table. She stretched over her teacup and saucer, so her nose was right up against the petals, taking a big whiff. “I converted to the Catholic Church to marry him—although I still wear my Magen David pendant.” She let her hand rest on her throat. “My parents tore their clothing, signifying that I was dead to them. Year after year, I’ve written to Germany, my letters always coming back unopened and with the address crossed out. Always in my father’s handwriting: Return to Sender. Addressee unknown. Then in 1938 the letters ceased to be returned. I suspected that either the letters hadn’t arrived to Germany or they’d arrived and been intercepted. Or worse—perhaps something unthinkable had happened to my father.”

  I took a big gulp of air. I knew what she was getting at.

  �
��Then the day came that MI5 paid me a visit, wanting to know why I had tried to mail letters to Germany.” She laughed for the first time in our conversation. “Like you, they suspected me of being a German spy.”

  “I—I,” I stammered. She waved her hand, meaning all was forgiven.

  “I told them my whole story, just as I’ve now told you. It must be that you remind me of my son. I could always speak with Reggie. But since he died, everything has been bottled up.” She took a deep breath and then opened her handbag and crushed her handkerchief into it. “Well, later, when I heard that the RAF needed places to billet WAAFs, I volunteered the manor house. I wanted to do everything in my power to stop Hitler. Everything sped along nicely with the RAF, especially when I mentioned that I had already been vetted by British Intelligence. Do you think they would have let a German live in the groundkeeper’s cottage without a thorough background check? I’m happy to do my part. So, you see, my dear boy, I am not the one whom you seek.”

  “That shortens my list of suspects,” I said, believing every word she said. German spies don’t go around wearing a Star of David tucked under their blouses. Forgetting the date on his tombstone, I asked her what happened to her husband, if he was killed in the last war with Germany.

  “Goodness gracious no,” she said. “He came home to me after the Armistice and we had a wonderful marriage until his heart gave out.” The pistol, she told me, was a souvenir of her husband’s from the war. “When another war with Germany seemed eminent, he instructed me to keep it beside my bed. So that in the event of an invasion I might fight back. In 1939 that scenario was a real possibility.”