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Briar

1942

T he day after Peter told us about the U-boat meeting the spy, Cadence forced me to sit with her in the kitchen, with Bess and Gram, for another book-club meeting. She claimed we had to establish a normal-seeming schedule, since half of the U.S. Army was swarming our property each morning, and we had to at least go through the motions of discussing The Song of Bernadette. I’d actually read Gram’s copy of that one, though it had sounded insipid—a young peasant girl who sees visions at the town dump and becomes a nun. Turns out it wasn’t half bad; it was based on a pretty compelling true story, and people’s constant accusations that Bernadette was lying about her visions made it relatable. But I still loathed the idea of rehashing it ad infinitum.

I’d taken my time dressing that morning, in Grandpa Smith’s jodhpurs, which Gram had let me cut down; a dove-gray young man’s cashmere cardigan that I’d found at the thrift shop; and a silk ascot, a real find in the free basket. Cadence hated my outfit. I could always see it in her eyes. She probably wished she had a sister she could introduce with pride to friends. But I couldn’t dress in skirts and saddle shoes just to please her. I dressed to keep the people I loved with me always. She once urged me to try on her gartered thigh-high stockings and pantie girdle, and I’d felt ridiculous, rigged up like a horse. So I dressed as I liked.

But I had bigger issues than fashion to focus on. The absurdity of our situation—troops doing jumping jacks on our beach while a German Kriegsmarine sailor slept in my bed in the attic—was not lost on me. My thoughtless actions had caused it, after all. How stupid I’d been to talk to Mr. Schmidt’s friends like that. To try to rectify things, I unplugged the shortwave and hid it on Gram’s closet shelf in an empty hatbox. I’d barely slept the night before, listening to Gram’s gentle snoring, and I ticked off a mental list of possible spies. Catching him or her was a golden opportunity to redeem myself. Tom would want me to step up.

At least Gram was making my favorite dessert, the delectable Kiss Pudding, and one of my favorite cookies, the unfairly named Grandma’s Rocks, the only things that made book club tolerable. The scent of allspice and brown sugar wafted from the oven as Gram baked, banging pots around, with the radio in the living room turned up. Since she was so short of breath most days, she had slowed down considerably and didn’t get out to church as much as she once had. She rarely left the radio, listening for any news about Tom. We were on tenterhooks waiting to hear where he would end up fighting. The Pacific Theater? Europe somewhere? North Africa?

Cadence sat at the table. “I know you’d rather be up in your tree or something, but it might do you some good to talk books.”

“Can we read a Joan of Arc biography?” I asked.

Bess leaned in and smiled. “You’ve already read them all, Briar. The Song of Bernadette isn’t our first choice, either, but the idea is to read a book together.”

How lucky was I to have Bess Stanhope for an almost-sister-in-law? Just by being there with us, she made living with Cadence so much easier. “I’m fine with staying,” I said.

Bess took my hand. “But before we start the meeting, there’s something I need to tell you and Gram.”

Cadence helped Gram sit in a chair at the table.

“What is it, Bess?” Gram asked.

“I just want you both to know that Tom and I are having a baby.” Wearing an anxious expression, she looked back and forth between Gram and me.

I stood and rushed to Bess and hugged her. “How wonderful!”

Gram stood and came to us and embraced us both. “Good news indeed!”

Bess looked relieved. “I thought you might disapprove. With us not married and all.”

Gram brought the puddings to the table and smoothed one hand down Bess’s back. “This is a blessing, Bess. You and Tom will make it official when he comes home on leave.”

“Have you told Tom?” I asked.

“She wrote him yesterday,” Cadence said, clearly enjoying watching us all take in the good news.

I could barely wipe the grin off my face. Tom, a father. As I devoured the pudding, I examined Bess more closely. How had I not seen? Seemingly overnight, she had started wearing her shirts untucked and actually did look pregnant. Just the thought of being an aunt made me thrum with joy. This baby was bound to be exceptional. How would Tom react to the letter Bess had written with the news? Definitely out of his mind with joy.

No wonder Bess had cried so piteously when Tom left. Pregnancy hormones famously wreak havoc on moods. She’d also had some rough spells since then and even locked herself in Cade’s bedroom and cried most of the day after Gram showed her Tom’s pewter baby cup one morning.

Once things settled down after Bess’s news, Cadence reached for her book.

“Okay, now on to Bernadette,” she said.

Partly to not have to talk about the book and partly to get their help, I pulled from my pocket the photos of the Nazi rally and house I’d found in the metal box. “These were in Mr. Schmidt’s things.”

Bess looked at the photos with disgust and passed them to Cadence. “It’s terrifying how they worship Hitler. How did Conrad get photos that were taken in Germany?”

“I don’t know, but he may have not told me everything. Think he could have been the spy? Maybe they’re waiting for him, not knowing he passed.”

Gram brought a plate of warm Grandma’s Rocks to the table.

“Conrad?” Gram asked. “Not a chance in this world. He was a genuine war hero. And there was no better man.”

“Well, who, then?” Cadence asked.

Bess took a cookie, then another, and I held back a comment about eating for two. “Could be the German guy out at the Hornblower estate,” she said. “He comes into Alley’s and barely speaks.”

Gram set her teacup down on the table. “No, he’s done some work for me. Has a wife he adores and three kids. He’s not getting on a U-boat anytime soon.”

“Could be Tyson Schmidt,” Bess said.

“He’s a nice boy,” Gram said. “Though he could have been more devoted to his grandfather.”

Gram was right about that. It was I who took Conrad to Bert the Barber and to medical appointments, while Tyson enjoyed his friends.

“And so good-looking, don’t you think?” Cadence asked me. She’d often floated Tyson as a possible love match for me, probably fond of the idea of our family ending up with Mr. Schmidt’s considerable fortune, like something out of one of her gothic novels, where the penniless sister attracts the initially taciturn lord just visiting for the dove hunt.

Gram stepped into the living room and turned up the radio.

“Tyson may be pure German, but his parents were born here,” Cadence said, rejecting Bess’s theory. “He goes to Hotchkiss, for heaven’s sake. Not exactly a den of saboteurs. And he has enlisted. Who else is German?”

There had been a rash of anti-German incidents reported in newspapers across the country and quite a few on the island. Annie Merry started a rumor that Fritz Frankel was a Nazi because he wore a brown shirt to church. And before he died, Mr. Schmidt told me that people had made more than a few anti-German comments right to his face. But it was relatively minor compared to the Great War, when a German man was killed by a mob in Illinois.

“Who says the spy has to be German?” I asked.

“Who says it has to be a man?” Cadence said through a mouthful of cookie. “It could be that Crabby’s friend of yours, Briar.”

“Sandra?” I asked. “I seriously doubt it.”

Not that I’d tell Cadence, but Sandra actually was a likely candidate. She had a shortwave radio of her own and a fondness for German memorabilia. She’d read Mein Kampf. Perhaps she was more Nazi-leaning than I realized.

“All I know is, we need to figure it out by next week or we’re letting a spy go back to Germany with God knows what information.”

Gram came from the living room and stood in the kitchen doorway. “Briar, it was just on the radio—Tyson Schmidt is in the hospital.”

I stood. “Is he okay?”

“I’ll drive you over to see him, if you like. But you’d better hurry. They said he’s in serious condition.”

—

Once I got to the hospital and heard Tyson was going to make it, I considered Gram’s suggestion to visit him a double victory. I not only got out of book club, but I could ask Tyson some questions about the weird pictures and inscribed Nazi ring I’d found.

Gram dropped me in Oak Bluffs at the hospital, and I had to be less than truthful in order to visit Tyson. I could see him in the glass-walled room just off the nurse’s station. I figured that since everyone already thought I was a liar, I might as well reap the benefits.

A nurse sat at the check-in desk— Judith Darling, R.N., printed on her name tag, probably a cousin to the Darling’s popcorn shop Darlings. I recognized her as another former Crabby’s Hardware employee who’d gone on to better things; I tried to make small talk, but she wasn’t in the mood, so I asked to see Tyson.

“Are you a family member?” she asked.

“Cousin,” I said, trying to look suitably tragic. “His parents are traveling, and his grandfather died recently, so I’m the only family nearby right now.”

Nurse Darling waved me into the room. “Go ahead. But keep your voice down—this is a quiet zone. No raucous talk or laughter.”

It was good to see Crabby’s had taught her well.

Tyson slept in the hospital bed, hooked up to some sort of machine, his forehead bandaged, his left eye swollen and bruised an Easter-egg purple. He looked so pathetic lying there. Tom would be happy I was visiting his friend, and part of me was happy I got there before Shelby did.

He woke as I entered. “Hi, Briar.”

“Came as soon as Gram heard it on the radio. You’re famous.”

“Swell,” he said. “I’m fine, actually. Only a little sore.”

“What happened?”

“I was getting ice cream at Vincente’s. It was crowded, and as I was leaving, a kid at one of the tables tripped me. Called me a Kraut. I swear it was George Ibbetson.”

“Were you wearing your uniform?”

“No. I came from a swim. I fell on the granite step and got my bell rung pretty hard. Next thing I remember is waking up here.”

It wasn’t Tyson’s fault he had German ancestry. It was like what his grandfather had gone through. Mr. Schmidt would have been livid that Tyson was treated so badly.

“Possible you tripped?”

“ No. And I heard George say ‘Kraut’ plain as day. Jeez, you don’t believe me?”

“Of course I do. Want me to petroleum jelly his bike seat?”

“What? No. I don’t know. It’s just hard enlisting, and going through basic, and then this happens. As if I could be a sympathizer. My grandfather was a war hero, for God’s sake. I’m ready to die for my country and damned George Ibbetson goes after me like that.”

“George Ibbetson eats his own boogers and wouldn’t last a day in basic training.”

Tyson smiled at my little joke. “At least Shelby’s driving over with some friends.”

Once Shelby got here, she’d turn me in as non-family for sure.

I bent closer to Tyson so the nurse wouldn’t hear. “Hey, not to change the subject, but would you be up for helping me with something kind of critical?”

“I guess.” He tried to sit up. “Got a splitting headache, though.”

“Some people are saying there might be a spy on the island.”

He waved that idea away. “Please. Somebody thought a guy in Edgartown was building a machine-gun bunker, and he was just laying concrete for his tennis court.”

“I think this spy thing might be true. Know any Germans new to town?”

“Are you serious, Briar? Somebody just pushed me down the stairs for being a Kraut, and you expect me to chat with you about traitorous Germans? As if I know.”

“Sorry. I thought you might want to help me figure it out.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m kinda sore about it right now, that’s all.” A few moments of silence passed, probably music to Nurse Darling’s ears. “But who says a spy has to be German? There are plenty of non-German Hitler lovers. Look at Wallis Simpson and the former king of England. Cozying up to the führer. Charles Lindbergh. Henry Ford sends Adolf a birthday gift every year, even since he declared war onus.”

I glanced toward the nurse’s station and kept my voice low. “I was thinking it could be Sandra at Island Treasures.”

“Why? I don’t know her. Just seen her around town.”

“She told me she’s read Mein Kampf. ”

“She must be eighty-something. Seems too old to be a spy.”

“And I heard a shortwave radio in her back room.”

We were quiet for a minute. The sounds of the hospital seemed to be making Tyson drowsy; me, too.

“She and your grandfather were friends.”

“Wait. Are you saying he might have been involved in spying? I hope you’re kidding.”

I considered waiting until another time to tell him but instead dove right in. “I did find some things.”

“What things ?”

“Something with the name Kuno . Was that a friend of his? Maybe back in Germany?”

“No idea. Where’d you find it?”

“Just cleaning out some of his old things. I actually wanted to show you something.” I slid the envelope of photos from my pocket. “Looks like Nazis,” I whispered.

Tyson took the pictures and inspected the one of the crowd with their hands raised in the Nazi salute. “Wait. Is this Germany?”

“Not sure. The house in the second picture has a swastika on it.”

Tyson pressed one hand against his bandaged head. “Are you sure they were Grandfather’s?”

“Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“He was a decorated war hero, Briar. You know that.”

“But look again at the second one. It’s a neighborhood with adolf hitler strasse on the street sign. Did Conrad ever live there?”

Tyson pushed the photos away. “If you’re accusing him of being a Nazi, just say it.”

“You have to admit it’s strange. I won’t show anyone, but aren’t you curious?”

“When I get sprung from here, I’ll go through his things. See if I can find out more. But I’m so tired all of a sudden.”

I heard a familiar voice and turned to see Shelby Parker and two friends talking to Nurse Darling at the desk. They must have come from the beach, still in their bathing suit cover-ups and sandals.

I slid the photos back into my pocket. “Let’s talk about this later.” I glanced at Shelby, who was pointing our way.

Nurse Darling stood and walked toward us, her lips pressed into a hard line. “Briar Smith? It’s come to my attention that you are not a Schmidt family member.”

Tyson lay back. “No, but it’s fine.”

The nurse gripped my arm. “Come with me.”

She yanked me past Shelby and pals, who stood there shivering in the cool hallway and popping their gum, muttering various forms of “Briar the Liar” as I passed, just loud enough for me to hear. I barely looked at them. Odious individuals. What did it matter what they thought?

Nurse Darling was squeezing my arm so tight I almost passed out. She deposited me outside the front door.

“And don’t come back,” she said, as she turned and went inside to allow Shelby and friends into Tyson’s room to coo over him. It was fine, I thought, rubbing some feeling into my arm and walking through the parking lot to start the long trek home.

At least I’d made some progress, with Tyson offering to help delve into Mr. Schmidt’s papers.

I caught a ride back Up-Island with a friend of Gram’s, Bev Iorio. She told me her hens weren’t laying and we got into the details, and before we knew it, she was dropping me off at the head of our road. As I opened the car door, a news commentator came on the radio and interrupted the music.

“It has been confirmed. British troops have taken losses at Dieppe in France, the largest percentage by far Canadian as well as American Rangers.”

Mrs. Iorio looked at me, wide-eyed, two fingers to her lips. “Isn’t your Tom a Ranger?” she asked.

“Thank you,” I said, and exited the car, trying to keep my voice steady. And ran all the way down Copper Pond Road for home.