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Briar

1942

I came to work as usual at the Van Ryper Model Company in Vineyard Haven, eager to get my hands on the combination to Mr. Schmidt’s box. It felt like home there at my workbench, the ocean lapping the beach outside my window. I loved the hush of that place, all of us quietly sanding and sawing, the scent of poplar wood and shellac in the air. It was my last day of temp work, and I hoped my boss, Mr.Reed, would need me again soon.

I was lucky to work now and then at Van Ryper Models, one of a network of souvenir-model shops the Navy used to supplement its production of military war models. Recognition models, to help soldiers identify enemy ships and planes. And, even luckier for me, every ship model we built came with a thick file of research meant to ensure accuracy. American intelligence provided ship blueprints and aerial-reconnaissance photographs of the various vessels, even a copy of the ship’s operations handbook so we could get the most minute shipboard details right.

For the last model I’d built, the handbook included chapters for toilet maintenance, kitchen-knife sharpening, and proper condom storage. All precisely detailed, in true German style. If Mr. Schmidt’s box had been in the purser’s office of a German ship, the combination to the lock might be listed in the ship’s manual.

Not that borrowing anything classified from the government was casual for me. I’d done it before, here and there, but it always made me feel like my stomach was about to fall out onto the floor. Just going into the classified room during the course of my work was a big deal. Mr. Reed treated it like entering the Hohensalzburg Fortress or something, with a whole system of key checks and protocols.

I gathered my green boiled-wool coat close and glued the railing of my last Japanese destroyer model. In my miniature world, the tiny parapets and smokestacks formed a safer and more orderly place. Soon there was no beloved brother going off to war across the Atlantic Ocean, zigzagging past German U-boats. No sick grandmother. No friends that stopped coming around once I talked too much about model-making.

Mr. Reed came and admired the wooden tray of all those scale models before me. “Your paints made this so much more realistic-looking, Briar,” he said.

I liked that Mr. Reed allowed me the special privilege of bringing my own paints from home.

“I’ll miss you, Briar,” he said. “Hopefully I’ll have more work soon.”

“Mr. Reed, do you mind if I get my own folder from the classified room? I just need to check the Japanese schematics one last time.” A pinch of guilt nipped at me for lying to him.

He handed me the key. “No need to sign in. Just get it back in there stat.”

“Of course, Mr. Reed.”

I steeled myself against the jitters. Borrowing a classified document could get me in real trouble. I’d read in the paper that a model maker at a similar shop in New York was just caught discussing the Japanese submarine he was working on. And two weeks before, a model shop in Wisconsin reported that an employee smuggled out a copy of a top-secret schematic inked on his hand, allegedly to show his son. Both men were serving sentences at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth. I’d borrowed classified docs before. I just had to be extra careful.

I stepped into the classified room and closed the door behind me, huffing quiet little breaths to stay calm. The one eyebrow window above me gave scant light, and I yanked on the chain for the overhead bulb, illuminating the metal file cabinets against three walls.

The scent of cedar was strong in there and reminded me of Gram’s bedroom closet. What would she think of what I was doing?

I pulled out the gray metal drawer marked M and found Master File Drawings of German Naval Vessels . I slid out the file, opened it, and paged through the blueprints and top-secret photos of the ships. Where was the handbook? I heard cars pulling into the driveway out front and upped my pace, flipping through the papers. At last I came to the tiny handbook, wedged between two photos. I opened it with shaking fingers and flipped to the purser’s office chapter, where I found three pages of combinations. I pulled the pages out, folded them, and slipped them down the front of my shirt.

“Looking for something?”

A flash of fear went through me as I turned to find my colleague standing in the doorway. It was harmless Jerry Whitcomb, who worked at a bench near mine.

“Maybe I should be in the Secret Service,” he said. “You didn’t even hear me come in.”

I sighed. “Just double-checking a schematic.”

“For your Japanese subs? In the M drawer?”

“Oh, right.” I dropped the handbook back into the file and closed the drawer.

Jerry leaned against the doorjamb, settling in to deliver one of his unsolicited little discourses. “Like the Jap subs, U-boats have to stay on top of the water most of the time, you know. Need to recharge their batteries every few hours. Like a shark that has to come up from the depths to breathe.”

I stared at that thirty-year-old man, astounded by his ability to underestimate me, though for me it was a daily occurrence with men in general.

Something about my silence must have registered with him. “Of course you know that, don’t you? You’re the granddaughter of Zeb Smith. He made models for Teddy Roosevelt, didn’t he?”

“I’m busy, Jerry.”

“You’re wearing men’s clothes again. You like Joan of Arc, right? She wore men’s clothes, too. That why you do?”

“Joan of Arc wore men’s clothes because she’d been assaulted by the English when she wore women’s clothes. And maybe she just liked them better.”

“Anybody ever mistake you for a guy?”

“No, how about you, Jerry?”

He paused and then chuckled at that. “See that U-boat again? I believe you, ya know. Anytime I hear someone call you Briar the Liar, I say, ‘Whoa. Briar Smith knows her stuff. If she says she saw a U-boat, she two hundred percent did.’?”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you hear that a U-boat surfaced last night at sunset, just outside the harbor at Menemsha, and the soldiers demanded Richie Mayhew give up his swordfish? Then the Krauts just took it and went on their way. Gettin’ to be like an A&W drive-in around here, Germans ordering their dinner.”

“Anybody catch the U-boat’s call letters?”

“Not that I know of. Waitress at the Beach Plum Inn said she had two bearded guys with accents come in, and she swore they came off a U-boat. Saw them cuttin’ their meat in the European way. Cops took ’em away, but I haven’t seen a thing about it in the Gazette. ”

They were probably keeping it hush-hush so the tourists wouldn’t get scared away. No one wanted to laze on a beach with Nazi Kriegsmarine soldiers tripping over them. Of course, Cadence did her part with her column, keeping a positive tone at all costs.

I closed the file, returned the key, and went back to my desk. I made sure Jerry wasn’t looking, took the pages from my shirtfront, and slid them into the false bottom of the old cigar box I kept my paint tubes in. I sighed with relief as I shoved the cigar box into my knapsack.

All of a sudden I heard men’s voices in front of the shop, and Jerry peered out the window. “Wow, it’s Captain McManus.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked.

“It’s no big deal. Just another security check. Like last week.”

The month before, McManus had been promoted to island FBI chief, and he’d instituted weekly checks at the shop. I was out sick when they visited last.

McManus came in and stepped toward Mr. Reed’s glass-walled office, staring at me as he went.

Mr. Reed pushed himself back from his desk. “Frank.”

I pictured the pages in the cigar box in my knapsack. There was no way he’d find them.

“Good to see ya,” Mr. Reed said, and closed the office door.

Captain McManus sat and angled himself for a view of the workers in the room. He was somewhat new to the island—moved here with his wife five or so years before, and she’d died from cancer—and I’d seen him around. He didn’t fit my impression of what an FBI captain would look like off-island, crew-cut and fit, ready to chase down criminals. McManus was well into his sixties and not exactly a men’s fashion model, in his thick black-framed eyeglasses, stained khaki trousers, and too-tight navy-blue windbreaker. And with that paunch, he wasn’t running anywhere. But it was Martha’s Vineyard. Not exactly crime-ridden. If criminals were running, it wouldn’t befar.

For the amount of glass around it, Mr. Reed’s little office was remarkably soundproof, but sitting so close to it, I could make out words if I listened hard enough.

“Who’s the kid?” McManus asked. “She wasn’t here last week.”

“Briar Smith,” Mr. Reed replied. “One of my best temp modelers.”

I bristled at the word kid. At sixteen, I probably knew more about the U.S. military than McManus did.

“Jesus, Everett. You let a teenager handle classified documents?”

McManus glanced at me through the glass, and I quickly averted my eyes.

“Smith—she’s the one that’s been bugging the tip line with false alarms,” McManus said. “And I hear she was cozy with a sympathizer.”

“Conrad Schmidt? Nah. Born in Germany, but he was no sympathizer. Decorated by Pershing himself. He was a fine man.”

“You’re a German lover now, too?”

Mr. Reed leaned back in his chair. “Heard you just took Bert the Barber from his shop and put him under house arrest. Just for being Italian.”

“In case you didn’t notice, Mussolini declared war on us when Hitler did. We can’t be too careful.”

“Jesus, Frank—Bert was right in the middle of a shave.”

“Maybe you don’t understand the Fifth Column and how it works. There are scores of German, Japanese, and Italian sympathizers living in this country, actively working to take us down from within.”

A drop of sweat trickled down my back. It was too late to remove the pages. What if they caught me with them? Would they punish Mr. Reed, too?

McManus lit a cigarette. “Where’d you find her?”

“Got her name from the hobby shop in town.”

“The hobby shop.”

“I’m under the gun here, Frank. We have to use temps to keep up with the workload. And she’s faster than three guys.”

“What’s to stop her from yakking to school pals about top-secret stuff? Maybe swipe a few things?”

“She’s a good kid. Graduated early and keeps to herself, some sorta genius. Taught herself German.”

“Interesting. They don’t offer that at Tisbury High.”

“She’s no thief, Frank. Certainly no spy. Brother’s an Army Ranger.”

“Impressive.” McManus crushed out his cigarette and strode to the door. “Mind if I lead the employee search today?”

“Be my guest.” Mr. Reed followed him out and addressed the employees. “We’re closing early today, everyone.”

We all knew what that meant. We were to leave a clean workbench and endure a quick security check. I shakily slid the strap of my knapsack over my shoulder and joined the line.

As we shuffled forward, I watched Mr. Reed and McManus do a cursory check of my colleagues’ belongings at the table near the door, making a little chitchat here and there. When I approached the table, McManus reached for my knapsack and removed the cigar box. Up close I got a bird’s-eye view of that windbreaker, the cuffs stained with some sort of greasy stuff, and I wasn’t thrilled about him touching my belongings.

“Coat and boots off, Briar,” Mr. Reed said with a smile. “Trouser pockets inside out.”

As the captain pawed through the jumble of paint tubes in my cigar box, I slipped off my coat and pulled out my pockets so they hung like donkey ears, my heart thumping against my shirtfront.

McManus attempted a smile, and I tried not to look too hard at his teeth, which may have been dentures.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Smith, though you probably overheard the whole conversation.”

I nodded. “I did, actually.”

“Visit the classified room today?” he asked.

I tried to sound nonchalant. “Checking a schematic for my Japanese sub.”

“Your sub?” he asked with a smile.

“The recognition model I’m building for the Navy.”

McManus dumped the paints out of the cigar box. “Mr. Reed tells me you knew Conrad Schmidt.”

I nodded, unable to breathe as I watched him wedge his thumbnail under the cigar-box bottom and try to peel it up.

“Family friend?”

“He lived next door to us, and we just became friends. He liked to walk the beach.”

“I see.” McManus held the box up to the light. “You’ve phoned in a few U-boat sightings to the tip line.”

I ran through my options. If I was honest, he’d come snooping around Mr. Schmidt’s for sure.

“Guess I’ve been reading too many magazine stories.”

McManus set down the cigar box and lifted the jacket from the table. “Yours?”

“Mr. Schmidt’s,” I said. “I started wearing it after he died.”

He nodded, perhaps a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. “When I was in Germany years ago, everyone there wore one of these. Tyrolean, they call it?” He showed me the label. “Says Made in Düsseldorf. Did Schmidt go back to the fatherland often?”

“Not that I know of.”

“My sources tell me his house is for sale.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“I may come over and have a look-see.”

I met his gaze. “Swell.”

“And how about you come to the office and we take a fresh set of fingerprints?”

I looked to Mr. Reed. “We already did that here.”

“Oh, I like to do my own. We can get to know each other better.”

“Sure, I guess.”

McManus swept the paint tubes back into the cigar box. “Good, then. You’re free to go.” He handed me an ecru card. “Come see me for those fingerprints. And I suggest if you get the urge to phone in another false alarm, you channel your imagination into writing a fiction story for one of those war magazines.”

“Good idea.” I slipped the card into my pocket. “See you later.”

“Hope so,” he said.

I walked out into the parking lot, relieved to have made it out undetected.

I headed for home, vaguely unsettled. I was happy I’d made it past McManus and was eager to open the box but puzzled by an annoying gnat of unfinished business. Why had he been so nice? He suspected me of something, but what was his plan?

When I got back to Mr. Schmidt’s house, I pulled the box from the fireplace cupboard, set it on the kitchen table, and slid the pages of combinations from the cigar-box bottom. One of them had to open it, but with my luck it would be the very last one, so I started at the end of the list, wheeling the dials with the tip of my thumb. I tried the lock after each one, with no success, and my thumb blistered. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Finally I keyed the right combination and the lid opened with a satisfying click. I stared at the contents, almost unable to believe I’d doneit.

I was in.