“It would stop the killing at least,” I said.
“I thought you were cleverer than that, Johanna,” he said, my name sounding foreign on his lips. “The killing wouldn’t stop. That madman in charge would just regroup. He’d murder off anyone with enough brains to resist him and start this bloody mess all over again. Expand territory as soon as he could rebuild his army. He would move slower next time. He wouldn’t anger Stalin a second time, perhaps. But the killings would never stop. Not for a single day. In your heart, you know I’m right, don’t you?”
I nodded. “This needs to end. They need to win. We just have to hope they’ll be kinder to us than we deserve.”
“Amen to that,” he said. “I admit the reason I volunteered to be your assistant while you were in prison was partly to ferry your designs to them. They would take pictures of them and send me back along my way.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Well, we don’t have the built-in excuse of sending you as my courier any longer, not that I can exercise any sadness on that front. Could they procure you a small camera? I could claim to be archiving the design work or some such.”
“I’ll ask tonight,” he said.
“I won’t meet with them,” I said. “I can’t be seen anywhere out of the ordinary.” As I uttered that sentence, the horror of its truth weighed in my gut like a stone. “But if I can help in any other way, I’ll do what I can.”
“Any information you might have on any strategies would be the most helpful. Or anything that might give them the element of surprise. I don’t know too much about their main objectives, though. I fetch, I carry, I see, I listen. Above all, I find things.”
“It must be useful to them to have a DVL employee among them,” I said.
“They appreciate what I can do for them,” he said, trying not to sound smug, but his pride was evident. He was proud to be useful and appreciated in a way the Reich would never bring itself to do. Because of one deformed leg, the Reich had discarded him as a waste of flesh.
The benefit was that it made him invisible to them.
And invaluable to their enemies.
Louisa’s plan came to mind, and I felt a smile tug at my lips. “I may have the very thing they want.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MILKSHAKES FOR HORSERADISH
MAX
August 16, 1947
Los Angeles, California
Sarah’s niece Rebecca slid into the passenger side of my car with grace. She’d been waiting on the sidewalk by her building in South LA rather than having me go to the trouble of parking and collecting her from the seventh floor. Sarah had explained that after Rebecca got word of her husband’s death in the South Pacific, she’d moved from their home in Fairfax into a small apartment to conserve funds. Even so, the time was coming, and soon, when she would have to entertain the possibility of moving back in with her parents. Sarah helped her as much as she could, but I wasn’t in a position to pay Sarah well enough to be as generous as she might like to be. It was probably more information than Rebecca would have wanted her aunt to disclose, but Sarah tended to get gabby over lunch. If nothing else, I could give Rebecca a good meal and a night away from home, which I expected would be welcome.
Rebecca wore a smart-looking cocktail dress. It was modest with a delicate collar made of white lace flowers and a row of simple pearl buttons down the front. The material of red satin kept it from crossing the line over to matronly or dowdy. Her dark hair was coiffed neatly, and she seemed perfectly at ease as we drove. Only the too-tight grip on her evening bag betrayed her nerves. It was a solid half-hour drive to the fancy steakhouse in Beverly Hills where Sarah had made reservations. I’d have to remember to keep in mind Sarah’s expensive tastes when spending other people’s money when I wrote the check for her holiday bonus the following winter. I should keep some funds in reserve in case she had other dates in store for me.
“Aunt Sarah couldn’t say enough nice things about you,” Rebecca said, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.
“Of course she raved about you as well,” I said. “But she’d be a disloyal aunt to do otherwise.”
“She is a lamb, isn’t she?”
“More of a lion when she wants to be, but she’s wonderful at her job.”
Rebecca’s laugh was like the tinkling of crystal. “You’ve got the measure of her, then.”
The rest of the ride passed with companionable chatter.
The restaurant was known for its prime rib, so I ordered the dinner as they suggested with horseradish, salad, potatoes, and Yorkshire pudding.
When the waiter turned to Rebecca, she replied, “I’ll have the same,” without having looked at the menu.
I thought to question her, but let it slide. Perhaps she’d been raised to believe it was polite to follow a man’s lead in a restaurant, and I’d make her uncomfortable by asking. Though my parents and I had eaten out rarely, Dad always insisted that Ma order whatever was to her liking.
Rebecca’s responses to any query I made were thoughtful and her questions insightful. Almost rehearsed, in a way. She reminded me of a girl at my high school who had been determined to marry the son of a rabbi. She wanted the status and influence the position afforded. She paid attention to people and what they wanted and used that information to get people to like her, and she was highly effective at it. Rebecca was certainly more polished and poised than a high school girl, but there was still something very measured about her mannerisms.
“Tell me something no one knows about you,” I suggested. Something, anything, to help her throw off her veneer.
A shadow passed over her face, and her smile slipped for the briefest of moments.
“Doesn’t that seem a little personal?”
“I’m just trying to get to know you. Isn’t that the point of dating? To get to know someone?”
“I—I don’t care for horseradish,” she admitted.
“Then please don’t eat any more of it,” I said. “I don’t want you to eat something you don’t enjoy. Would you like to order something else?”
She bowed her head for a moment. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Her air of confidence vanished.
“I’m glad you did,” I said, reaching across the table to place my hand on hers. “I want you to enjoy your evening. That includes the meal.”
“Does it bother you that the potatoes aren’t kosher to have with the meat? They have cream and butter in them,” she said, a little more boldly. “Aunt Sarah said your mother keeps a kosher kitchen.”
“I spent almost three years trudging through mud in Europe eating whatever I was given. I gave up my squeamishness pretty quick. I just don’t advertise my indiscretions to my mother.”
“M-my . . .”
“What is it?” I pressed.
“My—late husband. He insisted I keep kosher.”
“And insisted you eat the same thing that he did whenever you went out.”
She nodded.
“Well, it doesn’t bother me one bit what you eat, Rebecca. Especially when my mother isn’t in view.”
She emitted a small chuckle. “You’re fond of her.”