Page 39

38

Briar

1942

I got through Tom’s funeral in one piece, just glad I didn’t have to get up and speak or something. That crowd wouldn’t have reacted well to my eulogy, the main point being that my brother was not actually dead and they were all pawns in the military’s scheme to use up our servicemen and discard them.

I walked back to the house with Scout at my heels and left everyone else at the church hall, eating the slightly stale donuts Gram had made before her hospitalization. It was hard to watch all of them standing around so sorrowfully, accepting whatever the U.S. military told them. Making themselves feel better by chatting about what a hero Tom had been. Why did people just believe everything they were told without questioning and not think for themselves? Hitler had done pretty well with that. The German people swallowed whatever he told them. Mr. Schmidt had always said that’s what would eventually be Germany’s downfall—hearing only what they wanted to believe.

I had tried to shake the constant loop of horrible thoughts about Tom by examining the church crowd for spies. That church was full of islanders, mostly women and soldiers, with so many off at war, but I checked each row. Young Fred Fisher. Chief Leo. Mr. Reed. None of them in a million years. My thoughts went to Peter, at home. What if he had planted this red herring and he was actually the one going out to the boat?

Tyson Schmidt had shown up with Shelby, who’d even changed out of her sandals for once. In the receiving line Tyson said some nice things, and he seemed genuinely saddened by the news of Tom’s death, but our conversation ended in a quarrel when he asked me to give the tugboat model back.

“C’mon, Briar. I know you have it somewhere. One day you’re at my house and the next day it’s gone.”

“This is Tom’s funeral,” I said. “Can you live without it for another day? You didn’t even care about it until I wanted it.”

My mind spun with options about who would be meeting the U-boat that night. The new moon, which reflected none of the sun’s light, would provide someone with complete cover out there. I had narrowed down my suspects to two. I was glad it would finally come to a head.

When I got to the cottage, I noticed Margaret’s car parked down near the path to the boathouse. She’d made it home quickly. Since she returned from her yacht trip, she’d been staying in the boathouse, practically living with us when she wasn’t at work at the drugstore. Gram, ever generous, had insisted she stay as long as she wanted. I could barely think about Gram not being here with us someday. Not so close on the heels of Tom’s supposed death.

Peter was probably upstairs, staying out of sight. He’d had quite a scare when the Navy guys almost exposed him. There was no reason why they couldn’t just call the cops about him.

I took the binoculars to the bluff and searched the sound for the U-boat. If they were out there, they were staying submerged. I fed Scout and went to Gram’s room to change out of my funeral clothes—and found that the shortwave was missing from the hatbox on the closet’s top shelf. I tossed the hatbox to the floor and felt around the whole shelf, my heart whacking against my sternum. How long had it been gone? And who’d been in the house to take it?

I heard footsteps above me in the attic.

Peter. Of course it was him. He’d been there throughout the funeral. He was such a talented actor and so good at gaining our trust. He was probably using the shortwave the whole time we’d been gone, communicating with the U-boat. Of course he was the one going back to Germany. Taking something with him the Germans wanted badly.

I had to be careful. What if he had a gun? I strode to the kitchen and grabbed Gram’s fish knife from the drawer, then crept up the back stairway to the attic.

I found Peter on the bed, belly down, shining Gram’s silver flashlight out the little window, clicking it on and off. Obviously communicating with the U-boat.

Blood pounded in my ears. How had I not seen?

—

I approached the bed and held out the knife. “So, when were you going to tell us?”

Peter turned and sat up.

I moved closer. “Communicating with your friends? How could you?”

“I’m not—”

“ Quiet. ” I waved the knife. “Don’t move. And hands up.”

He raised his arms. “I can explain, if you allow me to speak.”

“Where’s the radio?” I asked.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“ Please. I’ll search your things. Or do you have it stashed in the house somewhere?”

Behind me, I heard footsteps on the stairs—Margaret. “My God, Briar.”

I kept my gaze on Peter. “I caught him signaling his U-boat friends.”

Margaret came to my side. “Put the knife down, Briar.”

I held it steady. “He’s the one meeting them tonight, and I’m sure he has Gram’s shortwave. Took it from Gram’s closet.” I glanced at her. “Get some rope.”

“No,” Margaret said. She stepped toward the bed and turned. “He was signaling me.”

I looked from her to Peter. “I don’t understand.”

Margaret went to sit on the bed next to him. “Since Peter can’t use the phone, he uses the flashlight to tell me when it’s safe to come up from the boathouse and…well, visit. Please don’t tell the others.”

Peter took her hand. “I know it was a breach of trust.”

“I wanted to tell everyone,” Margaret said. “But I wasn’t sure you’d understand.”

They seemed to be genuinely affectionate, but what did I know about that? I wasn’t sure how I felt about the two of them bunking up behind our backs. It seemed to me an inconvenient time to suddenly fall in love.

I lowered the knife. “Well, someone took that radio from Gram’s room.”

Peter waved toward his knapsack. “You may search my things, the room. It is not here, I assure you.”

“Then who took it? We’re kind of getting down to the wire here. Someone’s meeting the U-boat tonight.”

“Any theories?” Margaret asked.

Could I speak freely in front of Peter? Or Margaret, for that matter? None of us knew her all that well. Peter seemed like such a caring person, but he could easily be scamming Margaret, who wasn’t exactly experienced with men, and the rest of us, too. But my gut said he was telling the truth. And I needed his help, so I hurried to my room to get the photos, then returned to the attic.

“This is getting serious,” I said. “Someone’s going out there tonight. I’ve narrowed the spy possibilities to two: Major Gilbert and Tyson Schmidt.”

Peter sat forward. “I know the major, obviously, but who is Tyson?”

“Our neighbor, the grandson of my deceased friend Conrad Schmidt.”

“The one decorated in World War I?” Peter asked. “I actually overhear a lot up here.”

“Yes. Mr. Schmidt was a true hero. And his grandson is eighteen.” I handed Peter the photos. “I found some pictures in Mr. Schmidt’s house that maybe you could look at?”

Peter took the photos and examined them. First was the crowd in the forest, with their arms raised in a Nazi salute.

“The one of the crowd is clearly a Nazi rally,” I said. “I’m thinking it was probably taken in the woods near Hitler’s house in the mountains.”

How many newsreels had we all seen of Hitler at his vacation home in the Bavarian Alps? Staged footage of him with Eva Braun, smiling with his advisers.

Peter then looked at the house with the swastika embedded in the stucco beneath the eaves.

“And in that one, do you recognize the architecture?” I asked.

“No,” Peter said. “Because these photos were not taken in Germany.”

“I know they’re not wearing armbands,” I continued, “but I’m thinking—”

“If you would listen for a moment, I will tell you how I know.” Peter held up the photo of the rally in the forest. “First of all, those are hickory trees behind them. There hasn’t been a hickory tree in Europe since the Ice Age, when they all died off and became extinct. Plus, see the man here in the brown shirt?”

“In the Nazi uniform?” Margaret asked.

“Nazi uniform, yes. German man, no. He is giving a military-style salute. In Germany, they salute with only one arm raised.”

How had I missed that? “You’re right, of course.”

Peter considered the photo of the house. “And this one was taken here in the United States, as well.”

I pulled a chair closer and sat down. “But there’s a swastika under the eave there. And adolf hitler strasse ?”

“This is not a German town. Our street signs don’t look like this.”

“I just don’t understand why Mr. Schmidt would have these. He’s lived here on the island ever since he left the military.”

“But where did his family live? His children?”

“He had one son, Tyson’s father,” I said. “He and his wife lived somewhere in New York, where Tyson grew up. Visited the island for a few weeks each summer, I think. But Conrad never talked about them much.”

Peter said, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

Margaret fetched Gram’s, which lived downstairs on her folded newspaper.

Peter examined the photos again. “This one of the crowd is definitely not Germany.” He looked up at me. “It is Camp Siegfried, in Yaphank, Long Island, at least according to the sign there—very small.”

“What? No.”

“And the house with the swastika is here in America, as well.” He offered me the magnifying glass. “Look for yourself.”

I waved it away. “I believe you. But why would Mr. Schmidt have these?”

“My bet would be they belong to his son. Perhaps Tyson grew up in Yaphank,” Peter said. “They have a large German American population. I read about it in Frauen-Warte magazine, back in Germany. One of my crewmates was joking about defecting there. To the Bund.”

I swallowed hard. I’d read about the Bund—Nazi wannabes who assembled in Manhattan at large rallies. They’d had a sellout crowd at Madison Square Garden. A group of Bund leaders had even traveled to Germany, hoping to meet Hitler. After Pearl Harbor, the Bund had not been so open about their activities, but they likely hadn’t lost their ardor for Hitler, either.

I hesitated. Could I trust Peter about the ring? “To be honest, I also found a ring in Mr. Schmidt’s things.”

“What kind?” Peter asked.

“A Totenkopf.”

Peter shook his head. “Impossible. Those are for Himmler’s most trusted advisers. It must be a fake.”

“I don’t think so. And it was inscribed To Kuno .”

“ Kuno is another word for Conrad in German, but it also means Junior. Perhaps those are Mr. Schmidt’s son’s things. Perhaps he gave the ring to his grandson?”

“It’s hard to believe it might be Tyson,” I said. “He’s in uniform, due to ship out. And he was Tom’s friend. Though he has been having some trouble with German prejudice.”

“If he grew up around the Bund, then he may be sympathetic to Hitler. Like his parents. Where are they?”

“Traveling.”

Peter shrugged. “To Germany, maybe?”

“What about that girlfriend of his?” Margaret asked.

I thought for a moment. “Shelby? I hadn’t considered her.”

“Any other suspects?” Peter asked.

“Major Gilbert,” I said.

Peter exhaled and looked away. “I’ve had a strange feeling about him since I met him.”

“Me, too,” I said. “And a local antiquities dealer said Major Gilbert knew a lot about the Nazi stuff she had in her shop. Plus, he was a German POW.”

“This is a hard choice, if it even is one of them,” Peter said. “Tyson fits the profile of a traitor in some ways. Young. Headstrong. Ostracized by his own country for his German name, perhaps. But the major may fit, as well. A man once held by the Nazis. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that a British officer would become sympathetic to the German cause and end up spying here.”

“And it could be Shelby, to be honest. She’d be easily manipulated. Her father works for Hitler’s friend Henry Ford. Probably big Charles Lindbergh fans.”

Margaret stood. “Can we follow all leads?”

“Why not?” I asked.

Down below, I heard Cadence come home. “Cadence can check out Major Gil. And I’ll take Tyson.”

Peter sent me a dark look. “In the end we may just have to wait and see what happens tonight. Someone is meeting that boat.”