Through Waters Deep (13 page)

Boston
Sunday, September 7, 1941

After the last rousing chord of “God of Our Fathers,” Jim sat down next to Arch in the pew at Park Street Church.

Time for the choral anthem. Behind him, up in the gallery, he could barely see Mary in her black choir robe. The choir director waved her baton, and the musical introduction started.

Jim's grip tightened on the stiff brim of his cover in his lap.
Lord, hold Mary up
.

She met Jim's eye. He gave her a huge smile and mimed hauling on a rope to hoist a sail, despite the odd look Arch gave him. Mary rewarded him with a brief smile. Right now it was more important for Jim to be a good friend than a debonair suitor.

Some debonair suitor he was. The previous weekend in Connecticut he'd had several opportunities to push their friendship over the threshold into romance. And he'd wasted every one. He could still see her buttoning up his shirt, her dark head bent close to his, her silvery eyes glancing up to him full of affection and self-consciousness.

He'd wanted to stroke her cheek, to embrace her, to tell
her he needed help with the rest of his buttons, to burrow in her hair, to kiss her forehead, kiss her lips. Torn between so many good options, he'd frozen. Then when Gloria stormed by, all the options evaporated.

All week he'd told himself the timing had been wrong. Starting a romance the same day Arch and Gloria broke up would have been insensitive.

Jim's leg jiggled. Yet how much time did he have before they shipped out again? Not much.

The voices of the choir rose in a triumphant anthem. Was it his imagination, or did the soprano section sound stronger? Perhaps Mary's courage had bolstered the rest of the ladies. Courage did that.

Arch shifted in the seat beside him. Thank goodness Durant had given them liberty today. Not only did Jim want to cheer for Mary the first time she sang with the choir, but Arch needed a distraction.

Since the breakup, Arch had alternated between stony and melancholy. He was furious with Gloria for being more enamored with his inheritance than his heart, and he was furious with himself for being snared by another gold digger.

In a few weeks, Jim could talk to Arch about his unrealistic expectations, but not now. Now Arch needed his fury.

The song ended, and Dr. Harold Ockenga approached the pulpit, prayed, and started his sermon.

Jim had enjoyed every one of the pastor's sermons he'd heard, but today he couldn't concentrate. He wanted to see Mary and find out how she was doing.

No one else in the building knew the fullness of what today meant for her, how she'd faced her worst memory and deepest fear. His satisfaction that she'd confided in him and his admiration for her strength filled his chest.

What a wonderful woman she was, and how blessed he was to call her a friend. And perhaps soon, something more.

Finally the organ played the recessional. Jim strode down the aisle and out to the second-floor lobby. Mary came down a spiral staircase on his left, her choir robe swinging around her shapely calves.

He dashed to her. “Good job. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a twitchy smile and clutched her choir book to her chest. Her hands shook.

If only he could take her hands and smooth away the tremors, but a church service was no place for a romantic overture.

Mary stepped aside to let other choir members pass. “I need to put away my robe and book.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. I'll meet you outside.” Would he ever attain suave? He joined Arch and went down one of the twin spiral staircases to the ground floor, then down to the sidewalk.

Arch was quiet, gazing up at the red brick façade and the white spire, but Jim paced until Mary glided down the steps in a flowery dress.

“Wasn't the sermon wonderful?” She even smelled like flowers. “Isn't it remarkable that he spoke on Isaiah 43? Exactly what I needed, and perfect for you, Jim.”

“Yes, perfect.” He sent up a quick prayer that she wouldn't probe further, but guilt jabbed him. Should he really pray for God to conceal his lack of focus during a sermon? He took a step of courage, into honesty. “Actually, I was distracted.”

Her gaze swung to Arch, and she gave Jim a sympathetic smile. “It's been quite a week, especially with the
Greer
incident.”

Jim had failed again. Couldn't she see he'd been distracted by her, not by his best friend's heartbreak or even an international naval incident?

Arch was already talking about the injustice of it, funneling his personal anger into the story—how a German U-boat had fired upon the destroyer USS
Greer
in the North Atlantic, and how the
Greer
had fired back with depth charges.

Jim's own anger hardened into a lump. He knew a fellow on the
Greer
, and someone had tried to kill him. Why Congress hadn't immediately declared war, Jim didn't know, but they hadn't. No ships had been sunk. No sailors harmed.

Mary clutched her purse to her stomach. “I'm surprised we aren't at war.”

Jim sighed. “That's all anyone's talked about on the
Atwood
—how many men have to die to tip the balance?”

She gazed up at them as if relaying a confidence. “I've heard men at the Navy Yard say we fired deliberately, either to enrage Germany into declaring war on us, or to enrage the American public into calling for war ourselves.”

Some of the sailors did talk about provoking an incident, but talk didn't mean action, especially when their own lives would be at stake. “I don't believe that for a second.”

“Me neither.” Mary adjusted her hat, a little straw thing with flowers on it. “Will you be in town long? I know you can't give me specifics . . .”

Jim put on his cover. “A bit longer. The Navy's adding new equipment and loading us up with supplies. New crew members too.”

He and Arch exchanged a glance. They couldn't say they'd taken on a full load of live ammunition. They couldn't say they'd soon escort a convoy from Newfoundland to Iceland, with British ships relieving them at the Mid-Ocean Meeting Point. They couldn't say they might end up in an international naval incident themselves.

A pretty young redhead came down the steps and approached Mary, turning her shoulder to exclude Jim and Arch. “I was so surprised to see you in choir this morning. I was afraid you'd faint.”

Jim's hands coiled around the hem of his white tunic. She had to be Claudia, the soprano diva Mary avoided.

Mary gave Claudia a stiff smile. “Edith and Bertha prayed with me beforehand.”

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you were angling for a starring role in the Christmas pageant.”

“Oh, never,” Mary said with force.

“Good.” Claudia patted Mary's arm. “As I'm sure you know, the role of Mary has always been played by a soprano, and you and I are the only ones young enough.”

“Don't worry. Your role is safe.”

Jim smiled at the sarcasm in Mary's voice.

“I know, but I'd hate to see you disappointed.” She fluttered a wave at Mary and departed.

Arch tapped Mary on the shoulder. “Why didn't you introduce us? I'm single now, and she's my kind of woman. Such kindness. Such sincerity.”

Jim joined Mary's laughter. Good. Arch was already switching back from melancholy to charm.

Two tiny elderly ladies came out and headed straight for Mary. “There's our girl,” one of them said, clasping Mary's hand. “We're so proud of you, dear.”

Now Mary's smile was relaxed and true. “I couldn't have done it without you. Oh, you must meet my friends, Jim Avery and Arch Vandenberg. Jim and Arch, please meet Bertha Wilkins and Edith Wilkins.”

Bertha shook Jim's hand. “Well, Mary, aren't you blessed to have two handsome young men fighting over you?”

Mary's laughter rivaled the pealing church bell. “Not like that, Bertha. They're my friends.”

Jim winced. Maybe he was the only one who wanted that to change.

Edith peered up at Arch. “Are both you boys single?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Arch's eyes sparkled.

Edith clapped her hands. “What a coincidence. So are Bertha and I.”

Laughter eased the hurt somewhat. Was he making a fool of himself again? Reading too much into the act of slipping a button through a buttonhole?

Arch lowered into a bow. “Would you three ladies do us the honor of joining us for lunch?”

Mary turned to Jim and raised an eyebrow and a smile. Yes, Arch was turning on the charm full force. The sermon must have raised his spirits.

“We'd love that. Wouldn't we, Bertha?”

“On one condition.” Arch bent closer, his face drawn in mock seriousness. “I must know. Are you only after my money?”

“Oh no, sweetie.” Edith pinched his cheek. “I'm after your handsome face.”

Arch grinned at Jim. “If I'd known all the lovely ladies were in choir, I would have joined ages ago.”

“I think he's feeling better now,” Mary murmured to Jim.

He looked into her twinkling eyes. “Arch has never had trouble finding a date. Only in finding the right woman.”

“How about you, dearie?” Bertha asked from his other side. “Which gives you troubles?”

The women's gazes skewered him from opposite ends, making him feel like corn on the cob, sweating over the grill. “Huh?”

“You're still single, young man,” Bertha said. “Which gives you troubles? Finding a date or finding the right woman?”

Jim tried to swallow, couldn't. The right woman stood beside him, but he couldn't say so—not here, not now, not like this.

Mary leaned in front of Jim and cupped her hand over her mouth. “As you can see, Jim has trouble finding the right words.”

He smiled and nodded. For once, playing the fool suited him fine.

Friday, September 19, 1941

Agent Sheffield snuffed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and flipped a page in Mary's notebook. “Doesn't look good for Ira Kaplan and his pals.”

“No, sir. It doesn't.” The leaden feeling in Mary's chest wouldn't go away. Mr. Kaplan had always been kind to her.

“He has experience with wiring, you know. Studied engineering at MIT for two years, then dropped out to work here two years ago. He's smart enough, all right.”

“Mm-hmm.” At his desk facing the wall, Agent Hayes nodded and made notes.

Mary sighed. “I still can't imagine him—”

Sheffield slapped the notebook shut. “That's why you leave the investigation to us. In this work, there's no room for feminine sensibilities or women's intuition. Cold hard facts and the insight into the criminal mind that comes from training and experience.”

Mary leaned forward and eyed her notebook. “Anything useful in there?”

“I have to admit, yes. And I appreciate how you transcribe the conversations without any editorial input.”

“Yes, sir. Only cold hard facts.”

Sheffield rewarded her with half a smile. “I should give you my weekly lecture about keeping your little nose out of this, but you won't listen, will you?”

Mary's mouth twisted in what she hoped was a mysterious way. “Oh, I'll listen.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Women.”

The office door burst open. Ira Kaplan barged in and slammed a small metal item onto Sheffield's desk. “There. You wanted proof. Here's your proof.”

Agent Sheffield rolled his desk chair back and narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Kaplan, I'm in the middle of a meeting.”

“Oh.” Mr. Kaplan spun to Mary and gave her an apologetic look that turned to curiosity.

Mary lowered her eyes to the empty notebook in her lap. To maintain her cover, she tried not to be seen in the FBI agents' office. But any harm was already done, and now her own curiosity took over. “Go ahead, Mr. Kaplan. Don't mind me.”

Agent Sheffield poked the metal disc with his pen. “A German-American Bund pin.”

Kaplan held his chin high. “It belongs to Heinrich Bauer. I saw him drop it.”

“Did anyone else see him drop it?” Sheffield gazed at the young man over the top of his reading glasses.

“No, but—”

“Bauer says you're framing him, then you show up with a Bund pin with no proof it's his.”

“No proof?” Kaplan thrust a shaking finger toward the door. “The rat dropped it.”

“I'll hang on to this and make a note of it, but without any witnesses . . .” The agent shrugged his slim shoulders.

Out of habit, Mary's fingers itched to take shorthand notes, but Sheffield was hearing the conversation anyway. Still, she wanted it recorded word for word.

Kaplan's gaze bounced between Sheffield and Hayes, who hadn't even faced the young man. He breathed hard, his fingers working at his sides. “Search his locker.”

Sheffield shook a cigarette from a pack. “His locker?”

“Bauer's. He's hiding something in there, we all know it. A bomb or something. He keeps it locked—no one else does—and he's sneaky, shields it from view when he opens it, won't let anyone look inside.”

In silence, Sheffield pulled out his lighter, lit his cigarette, and puffed it.

Mary held her breath. A man acting sneaky wasn't hard proof, especially when everyone suspected him of a crime, and yet . . . what
was
Mr. Bauer hiding?

Agent Sheffield shoved back his chair and stood. “Agent Hayes, fetch Mr. Bauer and meet me at the locker room. And Miss Stirling . . .” He paused in front of her and bowed his head. “Would you like to come along as my personal stenographer and record these proceedings?”

She sprang to her feet. “Yes, sir.”

He raised one eyebrow at her. “I figured you'd follow me anyway.”

“Perhaps.” She clutched her empty notebook.

The agents put on their hats and departed. Mr. Kaplan led the way, his long legs setting a brisk pace. Mary had to put an extra skip in her step to keep up, almost like walking with Jim.

Except Jim would laugh and chat as they walked, with an easy swing in his step.

Mary followed a set of railroad tracks and gazed out to where the
Atwood
was moored. Perhaps Jim would have liberty tomorrow night and come to church on Sunday. Seeing
his encouraging face in the congregation bolstered her. If only he could be with her right now. No matter what happened today, she'd certainly have plenty to discuss with him this weekend.

Mr. Kaplan led Agent Sheffield and Mary into Building 42.

Agent Sheffield paused outside the door to the locker room. “Wait here. I'll make sure no men are inside.”

While Kaplan paced by the door, Mary opened to a clean page in her notebook. Her stomach squirmed. Although she was excited to be part of an official investigation, her role today might make the men wonder about her note-taking on the docks. Without her invisibility, how could she sleuth?

Agent Sheffield opened the door and beckoned them inside. “All clear.”

Kaplan marched in, past several rows of steel lockers with benches in the aisles. He jangled a small padlock. “Here it is. See—the only one with a lock.”

Mary glanced around. Not quite, but very few did have locks.

“Go ahead. Open it.” Kaplan rattled the locker door.

Sheffield sighed, leaned back against the bank of lockers, and puffed on his cigarette. “We won't have to wait long.”

Sure enough, loud voices rose in the hallway and the door banged open. Agent Hayes led Heinrich Bauer by the elbow, and a dozen men followed, jeering, shouting, arguing with each other.

Frank Fiske strode behind the mob. “Back off, boys. Leave him alone. Let the FBI do their work.”

Mary eased away from the crowd and set her pen in motion. In secretarial school she never imagined using her skills like this.

Bauer's blue eyes stretched wide, his forehead creased. “What is wrong? I have done nothing.”

Fiske stepped right in front of Agent Sheffield. “What's going on here? You drag my man away from his job and start a disruption. How can I get any work done? We have a timetable to meet.”

The agent leaned around Fiske and addressed Mr. Bauer. “May I look inside your locker?”

“My . . .” He looked at his locker, at Kaplan, at Sheffield, his face pale. “I have a coat, a lunch. That is all.”

“Good.” Sheffield gestured at the locker.

Bauer moistened his lips. “This is America. I thought it was different here. Do you not need a—what is it named?”

“A search warrant. If you don't agree to the search, I'll get a warrant. But if you have nothing to hide, why not open it now and shut these fellows up for good?”

“Yeah, Bauer.” Al Klingman pointed at the locker. “What are you hiding?”

More shouting, more accusations.

Mary shifted to the side to get a better view through the pulsating crowd.

Agent Sheffield shrugged. “With or without your cooperation, I'm getting inside your locker.”

When Bauer nodded, Agent Hayes dropped the man's elbow. Bauer wiped his upper lip, slid a key from his pocket, and opened the lock. For a second he stood still, his head bowed, then he slipped off the lock and opened the door.

Dozens of pamphlets fluttered to the ground, stark red and black and white.

Bauer gasped and stepped back.
“Was ist—”

“See! Proof!” Kaplan snatched up a pamphlet and waved it before the men. “Nazi propaganda, courtesy of the German-American Bund. I knew it. I knew he was a Nazi.”

“I am not a Nazi.” Bauer's voice came out high-pitched. “These are not mine.”

Mary could scarcely take her eyes off the drama long
enough to take notes. But she had an official job, and she'd do it.

Kaplan flicked a pamphlet in Bauer's face. “The evidence says otherwise.”

“Yeah.” Morton Anders raised a fist toward the German. “Lying Nazi saboteur.”

Bauer backed against the lockers, his eyes wild. “I am not. I—”

“Remember?” Kaplan faced the men and held the pamphlets high. “Remember when those Bund thugs beat me up a few weeks ago? They threw trash like this on top of me.”

Bauer lunged at Kaplan and grabbed his collar. “You! You did this to me!”

Heart racing, Mary gasped and stepped back.

“Get off me!” Kaplan shoved him away.

As shouts rose, Bauer socked Kaplan in the gut. Pamphlets and fists flew through the air.

Rough hands grabbed Mary's arms from behind.

She cried out and glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Fiske. She sighed in relief.

“Get out of here, Miss Stirling.” He guided her back, away. “You'll get hurt.”

Something fierce and determined stirred within her, and she wriggled out of his grasp. “No! I'm taking notes for Agent Sheffield. He asked me to. I need to stay.”

His deep-set eyes narrowed. He glanced at her notebook, the open page covered with shorthand scrawls, and he frowned.

“Excuse me.” She turned back to the melee and tried to make sense of it.

Bauer pinned Kaplan to the ground. “You did this. Why did you do this to me?”

“'Cause you're a stinking Nazi.” He spat in Bauer's face.

Men pulled Bauer back. Kaplan stumbled to his feet, darted forward, but other men grabbed him from behind.

Bauer strained against his captors, his eyes flaming, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “I am not a Nazi. I left Deutschland to escape the Nazis.”

“Baloney!” Kaplan rammed an elbow into the chest of the man to his right, but he failed to get free.

Mary scrawled down the words she couldn't believe—Mr. Bauer had left to escape the Nazis? How could that be? What would such an Aryan-looking man have to fear?

Bauer's shoulders rounded, like a bull ready to charge. “I am not a Nazi,” he growled.

“Sure you are, German pig!” Kaplan struggled, arms flailing. “You hate the Jews, think you're better than us.”

“My
wife
is Jewish!” Bauer startled, cried out, then ducked his head, curling his hands before him as if to protect himself.

The room hushed.

Mary's lips tingled while her fingers took down the words. His wife was Jewish. His wife—no wonder he'd fled.

Bauer shook his head behind his raised fists.
“Meine Magda. Meine
liebe Magda.”
His voice cracked.
“Es tut mir leid
.”

Mary didn't speak German, but shorthand was phonetic, so she did her best, though her heart broke for the man.

“Your wife . . . ?” Kaplan's voice quavered through the silence. “Your wife is Jewish?”

“Ja.”
Bauer looked up, his face stricken. “That is why we escaped. She was not safe.”

Kaplan sagged back, his arms hanging loose. “You—you never said anything.”

“She is not safe here either. You should know. Folk hate the Jews. It is wrong.”

Kaplan's eyes widened, and his hand rose and covered his mouth and nose like a cage. “You—you aren't the saboteur.”

No, he wasn't, and Mary almost smiled. No wonder Bauer was so secretive—he feared for the safety of his family. Thank goodness he wasn't guilty.

“No, he isn't.” George O'Donnell stepped forward and jabbed Kaplan in the chest. “But now we know who the real saboteur is. You.”

“What?” Kaplan's face scrunched up. “That doesn't even make sense. Why would I—”

“Why would you frame Bauer?” Curly Mulligan joined O'Donnell. “Hmm. I don't know. Maybe to make it look like a German was blowing up our ships. That'd get us in the war right quick, wouldn't it?”

In tandem, realization and horror dawned on Kaplan's face. “You think I—I didn't—I couldn't.”

Mary's mouth drooped open. Nothing insincere in his reaction at all. “He didn't do it either,” she whispered.

Agent Sheffield picked up a handful of pamphlets and displayed them in front of Kaplan. “Be truthful, son. These are the same pamphlets the Bund members threw down on you, aren't they?”

Kaplan blinked over and over, his chest heaving.

“Wrinkled, soiled.” Sheffield lifted one of the pamphlets. “And look. This one has a blood smear. What do you want to bet it's your blood type? Easy enough to find out.”

“I—I—” Kaplan's breath huffed out. “I thought Bauer—I thought he was guilty. I thought he was dangerous, and you said you needed proof, more proof, and—” He cussed and grabbed his head, his knuckles white.

“And what, Mr. Kaplan?” Agent Sheffield said in a calm voice.

He gestured to the locker. “Look, all I did was put the propaganda in his locker, slipped it through the cracks, but I didn't plant a bomb. You've got to believe me. I couldn't—”

Shouts rang out from the isolationists, while Kaplan's interventionist friends backed up, disgust carved into their expressions.

Mary shook her head and forced herself to take notes. He admitted to framing Mr. Bauer? But not to the sabotage? If he were guilty of both, wouldn't he either deny both or confess both?

“Yes, he could.” Mr. Fiske's voice rang over the shouts and silenced them. He turned to the FBI agent. “He could've planted that bomb.”

The agent dipped his head. “Continue.”

Fiske faced Kaplan. “I'm sorry, Ira, but I won't cover for you. The day we installed that gun mount, I sent you to the handling room when we were done, to clean up.”

“Yes, but—”

“You were there a long time.”

“Five minutes.” Kaplan spread his hands wide, disbelief warping his features. “Five minutes.”

Fiske turned back to Sheffield, his face solemn. “A lot longer than that. Plenty of time to install that lockbox. And he helped me with the final inspection before the
Atwood
shipped out. I left before he did. That must be when he planted the bomb.”