The Aviator's Wife (26 page)

Who was trying, so valiantly, to remain in control of a situation that grew more fantastic and bizarre with every telegram, phone call, letter. Mediums
offered to come hold séances, in order to determine if the baby was “in the spirit world.” Crazed zealots wanted to cast off the evil spirits in our home; one even managed to get past the security, and painted a strange symbol with a bucket of pig’s blood on our front door before she was taken away.

The most bewildering were the offers from other mothers to give me their children. How could any
mother be willing to part with her child voluntarily? And the notion that my son could
simply be replaced by another—I shook with rage at the thought. Yet we received dozens of such letters and telegrams.

Charles was trying to oversee everything; trying, in vain, to shelter me from the worst of it, constantly reassuring me that it was only a matter of time before he returned Charlie to me. He
barely ate, fitfully slept. He spent most nights seated upright in a chair in our bedroom, watching me, as if he was terrified I might disappear, too. But when I was awake, he could hardly look me in the eye.

To Colonel Schwarzkopf, to the hordes of policemen, detectives, working on the case—to the world at large, holding its suspended breath—he remained the calm, cool aviator in total control.
He allowed Schwarzkopf and his men to sort through the thousands of letters delivered three times a day by a special mail truck, to follow up the vaguest of anonymous tips, to continue to tramp about our property in search of clues. But he made it clear that he, and he alone, would communicate with the kidnappers, and I heard Colonel Schwarzkopf express his first doubts about Charles’s leadership
the next night in the kitchen, when I padded downstairs to get a glass of warm milk.

“You can’t be serious?” I heard the colonel ask in his blunt way; I stopped just outside the doorway. “You’re really going it alone? Colonel Lindbergh, you have the entire police force of New Jersey and New York at your disposal.”

“I am perfectly serious. They need to trust me. That’s the only way we’ll get
him home, don’t you see? Once I can establish that trust, I do not intend to betray it. I will make a statement declaring that no police will ever be involved in our communication, and that I alone will meet with them, no questions asked.”

“You’re a man of honor, aren’t you, Colonel?”

“Of course.”

“Well, whoever took your baby isn’t.” Schwarzkopf slammed outside, so furious that he didn’t see
me standing in the hallway. Through a window, I watched as he kicked a stone, drew a deep breath, then took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, angry face raised to the moon.

Peering around the corner, I saw Charles slump down in his chair, hiding his face within his hands. I knew I mustn’t go to him; I couldn’t let him know I had seen him like this. He needed me to be hopeful; I needed
him to be strong. These were the roles we had assigned each other.

But for the first time, I understood that they were just that—roles.

MOTHER ARRIVED ON SATURDAY
; by then, my baby had slept somewhere else for four nights. Was he crying out for me? Or was he, so used to me being gone as I flew away with his father, already trusting his kidnappers? Could he be bestowing on them one of his sweet,
serious smiles? My heart could not withstand such questions—but still they came, as relentless as that shutter that still beat itself against the house.

“I don’t know what to say to you!” Mother blurted the moment she saw me. “I have no idea what you’re going through. I can’t even imagine.”

So I found myself comforting her instead; I had just led her to the study when Charles burst into the
room.

“Anne! Come. There’s another note.”

My heart started to thunder; I leaped to my feet and followed Charles into the kitchen. There, once again, an army of men stood round our table, gaping at a thin white note as if it might jump up and bite them.

We have warned you not to make anyding Public also notify the Police
.

I felt sick; I closed my eyes, but not in time to stifle an image
of my child lying cold and still, sacrificed because we had done what any parents would do under the circumstances. But then I heard Charles, reading the rest of the letter out loud, say,
“Don’t be afraid about the baby,”
and my nausea disappeared. I opened my eyes and saw for myself the three-hole signature, just like the original.

“He says don’t be afraid!”

“Yes, he does. He also says he increased
the ransom to seventy thousand.” Colonel Schwarzkopf picked up the note.

“But that’s wonderful, right? It means the baby is unharmed!” I scanned his face, desperate for confirmation.

“Yes, of course, it’s a positive thing,” Charles said, with such authority it banished the tiny, imperceptible fear worrying my heart. “Colonel, where was the letter postmarked?”

“Brooklyn. We’ve already brushed
it for fingerprints, but there’s nothing to pull. It was in the mail, and probably touched by a hundred hands along the way. I suggest, then, that we post lookouts at every mailbox in the borough.”

“No.” Charles shook his head. “That will scare them off.”

“Colonel, we can do it in such a way no one would notice—”

“No.” Charles’s voice rose; it silenced Colonel Schwarzkopf. “I said no police.
Didn’t you read the letter? I think we need to contact Spitale and Bitz.”

“I urge you to reconsider—”

“Spitale and Bitz,” my husband repeated, his voice a low growl.

Schwarzkopf pulled at his lower lip, glaring at my husband. Charles glared back.

“As you wish, Colonel Lindbergh,” Schwarzkopf muttered; he then looked at his men, nodded, and strode out of the kitchen. One by one, his men followed
him—each mumbling, “Ma’am,” to me as they left.

Don’t be afraid about the baby
. I knew that I would repeat that phrase, over and over, through this endless day.

“Charles, who are Spitale and Bitz?” They sounded like a vaudeville act to me. I sat down at the empty table. My kitchen was no longer a warm, inviting place; there were cigarette butts in saucers, stacks of empty coffee cups on the
counter in an assortment of mismatched china patterns. Elsie must have had to send away for extras. Newspapers were piled in corners: “Lindbergh Baby Kidnapped!” “Little Lindy Vanishes!” “The Crime of the Century—Will Lucky Lindy’s Baby Ever Be Found?”

“Who are they? Why is the colonel so upset?” I asked my husband again.

“Anne, I ask you to trust me. These men have never been involved in a
case like this. They may be well intentioned, but I don’t want this bungled. Do you?” Charles met my gaze warily. We were both on an uncharted trip to a land we never even saw as we flew so high, untouchable—or so we had once believed. And just as he had needed me to navigate his path before, he needed my trust now; without it, he might never find his way back to himself, the man who had never been
lost, not even while crossing an ocean alone.

“So what do you plan next? What is your—
our
—next move?”

“Harry Guggenheim has been helping me come up with the money. I’ll have to wire him about this new sum. Anne, that is all I’m going to discuss with you at the moment. I don’t want you to know more.”

“Why? What possibly can be worse than what I already know?”

“There are some rather—unsavory
characters that I’m dealing with. But they can be very helpful, even if I detest having them touch my son—even if I would prefer not to associate with their kind.”

“Kind? What do you mean?”

“Mobsters, Anne. Men like—Al Capone offered his services. There, now you know. And some New York men. They offered to act as go-betweens, instead of the police, and I believe that’s the best course. I prefer
not to tell you more. You mustn’t worry. Your job is to remain hopeful.”

“You keep telling me this, but I do worry!” I was shaking with fury. “Of course I do—and so do you! But you won’t tell me, you won’t talk to me, and I don’t understand why. Charles, I was your crew! I was baptized in the Yangtze and let you push me off the top of a mountain in a glider—but now you think I’m too
weak
to understand
or help? Too frail? Charlie is my son, too!” I pushed myself away from the table in disgust. “How can you imagine that I’d care whom you deal with? Deal with the devil himself if you have to! But stop thinking you can protect me from this. You can’t protect any of us anymore, so stop trying to.”

Charles winced, but I didn’t care.

“Don’t you see?” I asked hoarsely. “It’s already happened. Now
we need to get him back. They’ll have to give him back to us, once we pay. Won’t they?”

“Of course they will.” Charles picked up the note and studied it again. “It’s simply a matter of communication and trust. Spitale—one of the New York men—is certain he knows who is responsible. I’ll respond through him—I’ll give him this letter as proof, and my reply. I don’t know why the colonel wants to
make it into something else—like an army invasion! Does he really think he can post men all over Brooklyn and no one will notice?”

“You’re going to give this—character—this letter? The actual
letter? But—that identifying mark, should you let anyone else see it?”

“Anne, as I said, it’s a matter of trust. I may not like these men, but there is a certain honor among thieves.”

“What does Colonel
Schwarzkopf think about this? Are you going to tell him you’re releasing the letter?”

Charles’s face flushed. “I’m in charge, Anne. I’ve told you.”

“And I’m your wife, and Charlie’s mother. I’m telling you to run this by Colonel Schwarzkopf.”

Charles didn’t reply. His fury was different than mine; it was coiled, so tightly wound you might miss it until it sprang out, cutting deeply. I didn’t
often see it. But I sensed it now, and while once it might have terrified me, today I had no fear to spare for my husband. Only for my son.

When finally Charles spoke, his words were measured, precise. “Anne, I believe I’ll include the baby’s diet with our response. Would you write it out now?”

“Yes, of course.”

I got to my feet, then I paused behind his chair. Leaning over, I kissed Charles
on the cheek. He didn’t respond. As I pulled away, hurt, he put his hand on my cheek for a moment, drawing me close before releasing me.

Then he returned to his study of the note, as if he might see something in those crudely written letters that the rest of us could not.

I started up the stairs; Colonel Schwarzkopf was seated on the landing, his head in his hands. He looked up. And suddenly
I knew what I must do.

“Colonel! You can’t stop him!” The colonel rose in alarm. “Listen to me. You can’t stop Charles in this. He must do this his way—he always has, and it’s always been the right way before. That’s what he can’t understand now—that he’s wrong, that this
is too big for him. But please, I beg of you. Do whatever you have to do.”

“Behind his back?”

“If possible, yes, but Colonel,
I am serious. I’ll answer to Charles. I’m not afraid, like the rest of you.”

“Are you saying—”

“Colonel, listen carefully. I’m saying my husband has no idea how to proceed, but he will never admit that. So I’m admitting it for him. I’m saying that I authorize you to do whatever you have to do. Interview the servants. Post men at mailboxes. He wants to release the latest letter to those New York
men, and I believe that’s a terrible mistake. Just—do whatever you have to do to bring my boy back home.”

The colonel stared at me. Then he cocked his huge head—like a bulldog’s, square and jowly—toward Betty’s closed door at the end of the hall. Her light was on; it spilled out from beneath the door. When had I last seen her? I couldn’t remember. “Can I question Miss Gow again? Colonel Lindbergh
said—”

“Ask her anything,” I instructed Colonel Schwarzkopf. “Give her the polygraph. Betty loves the baby, but maybe someone near her doesn’t. Ask her about Red. Then talk to Elsie and Ollie. Ask them anything. Anything you need to. All of the servants. Here and at Next Day Hill. Start with Violet Sharpe—she’s the one I spoke with on the phone that day. She knew we would be staying here.”

He studied me skeptically, perhaps looking for the hysterical mother. Then, to my surprise, he cupped his big hands around mine and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Lindbergh. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”

I let my breath out in a surprised laugh.
Oh, men!
How little they knew, after all. “No, Colonel, you’re wrong. This is my child we’re talking about. It was very easy.”

ONE WEEK PASSED
. Eight days.
Ten. Fourteen.

Two weeks since that terrible night. Two weeks with only one additional communication, increasing the ransom amount again.

The house had taken on a rhythm now, a busy, purposeful hum, although it was not even close to being back to normal; I couldn’t remember what normal felt like. The switchboard was still in the garage, ringing with tips and cranks and people hoping to hear
my voice, or Charles’s. Our lawn was churned to mud. Colonel Schwarzkopf still showed up every morning, his men still camped out in droves, and I never knew at what hour I might be asked to leave my bedroom for yet another conference between detectives or policemen. Politicians drove up our drive simply to have their photographs taken on a broken ladder they’d found lying outside my child’s empty
nursery.

Only the baby’s room remained untouched, after that first frenzied night of searching. A fine layer of dust had settled on every surface, undisturbed save for whenever I went inside. I did so once a day, at the time he would normally be put to bed. It was habit, it was routine—and I would not relinquish it. If I did, I was terrified that I’d never get a chance to resume it.

Surprisingly,
I did not mind the chaos. The constant activity meant hope—all these people were working to bring my Charlie home because they believed there was a chance.

As the days dragged on, my surroundings grew more bizarre; cloistered in my new home, I was aware that, at the end of my driveway, people sold photographs of my missing son as souvenirs. Planes flew low overhead, full of eager onlookers. Sightseeing
tours launched from a nearby airfield.