The Art of the Devil (7 page)

‘She can be tough sometimes, that's all.'

‘For example?'

‘Well.' Leaning in closer, Josette lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Last year I found a little sparrow, right over there, with a broken wing? So I brought it up to my room, in a shoebox lined with cotton. And I was nursing it back to health – fresh worms, water from an eye dropper, the whole nine yards – but when Dunbarton found out, she made me get rid of it.'

‘She didn't!'

‘She did. Even though everybody knows that once you've handled a bird, the mother won't take it back.'

‘How heartless.'

‘Well, I felt that way at the time. But looking back, I can see that maybe she was right. We're here to work, after all. That's why we don't get a TV, and radio's not allowed, although – just between us? – I've got one hidden in my room.' Josette shrugged, smoked. ‘Dunbarton doesn't have the easiest time of it herself. You know, she drinks.'

‘What!'

‘Like a fish.'

‘I never would have guessed.'

‘Just goes to show, doesn't it? Walk a mile in someone else's shoes. Even President Eisenhower struggles with demons, you know. The big man himself.'

Elisabeth raised her eyebrows.

‘He had that girlfriend during the war. Kay Summersby. Everybody knows about it – that's what drives the First Lady crazy. It's not as if she actually minds the cheating. It's just the gossip that bothers her. She likes to keep up appearances. But then Mamie isn't so perfect herself. Dunbarton's not the only one around here who likes to tip the bottle. But listen to me: Josie the blabbermouth. It's one of my worst habits. Oh, I really must do better.'

‘Don't worry; I won't hold it against you.'

A first drop of rain fell. Josette gave a girlish shriek. ‘To be continued,' she promised. They snuffed out their cigarettes half-smoked and ran back inside.

Throughout the rest of that rainy afternoon, Elisabeth kept her eyes peeled for a chance to engage the girl again, to find out what else Josie the blabbermouth might reveal.

But Miss Dunbarton, up from her nap, played quite the taskmaster. During a brief pause, Elisabeth critically examined the calloused palms of her hands. The humiliation of lowly physical labor – a member of the master race, working as an equal alongside subhumans – was galling. But it was toward a purpose, she reminded herself. The end would justify the means.

Following the hard labor came suffocating tedium: for two endless hours, assigned the task of polishing the demitasse, she charily ran a chamois cloth around the inside of tiny porcelain cups. By the time her chores were finished, the sun was down. Falling across her bed, she tried to find a hidden reserve of energy.

She was spared seeking out Josette, as it happened, because a moment later the younger girl knocked on her door. ‘Hi,' Josette said, breezing in. ‘Oh, you look beat. Tell me about it. My dogs are barking.'

Elisabeth sat up. ‘Dunbarton has no mercy.'

‘I told you, she can be tough. But remember what I said: walk a mile in her shoes.'

Josette proceeded to explore the quarters familiarly, fiddling with items on the bureau. All were innocent – but Elisabeth nonetheless felt the urge to thump a warning across the girl's snout. ‘You ought to come by and listen to my Philco sometime,' said Josette as she snooped. ‘Do you like music?'

‘I love it.'

‘Me too. I listen at night, after everyone's asleep. Mostly to Dick Biondi out of Chicago – he plays good stuff. My favorites right now are ‘Rock Around The Clock' and ‘Mr Sandman' and ‘That's All Right'
and ‘Earth Angel'. Do you like rock and roll?'

‘Do you have to ask?'

‘What about movies? Do you like movies?'

‘I love movies,' said Elisabeth seriously.

‘Me too. One day I'm going to pack up and head out to Tinseltown and get discovered sitting at a soda fountain, just like Lana Turner.' She dropped down onto the edge of the bed beside Elisabeth; the springs creaked complainingly. ‘A friend of mine – Babs, who you replaced – recently did just that. Dunbarton thinks she ran off with some guy. But I'm sure she went to Hollywood. We talked about it all the time.'

‘Lucky girl.'

‘Yeah. But … well, not to sound mean, of course. But she's not too easy on the eyes, Babs. And she doesn't have much in the way of talent. And she's got lousy posture, to boot. I'm afraid she'll end up waiting tables, or worse.' Josette sighed. ‘Personally, I hope to get a shot at something more. I was named after a French film star, you know. My mother says I've always had a flair for acting, and modeling, and telling stories. You know: drama.'

‘Yes, I can see that about you.'

‘One day I hope to star in a movie opposite Clark Gable or William Holden. That would just be the living end. When Clark took off his shirt in
It Happened One Night
and wasn't wearing anything underneath
,
I thought I had died and gone to heaven.'

‘They're both dreamy.'

‘Say, let's play a game. It's called “Truth”. You answer one question honestly, and then I have to do the same.'

Elisabeth smiled. ‘Okay,' she said.

‘Swell. You can go first, if you like.'

Bluntness would be counterproductive; any valuable information would need to come indirectly. ‘Who on the farm,' asked Elisabeth slowly, ‘do you find most attractive?'

‘Bill Brennan,' answered Josette promptly. ‘He's a dead ringer for a young Clark Gable, if you ask me. Plus he's important; he's head of security. You probably haven't seen him around, because he spends most of his time on Farm One. But every once in a while he comes over to butter up Miss Dunbarton, so he can get extra coffee or bacon when he wants it, or toss back a few and sing some songs when she goes out. Next time, I'll point him out to you.'

‘If he's really so handsome, I wish you would.'

‘Maybe even later tonight,' said Josette cheerfully. ‘Dunbarton's gone into town to see her sister – that's why she took a nap today – and a few of the guys might stop by. Now: my turn.' Elisabeth could see wheels turning in the girl's head. ‘Have you ever … you know?'

‘What?'

‘You know.' One corner of Josette's mouth rose suggestively.

‘Josette! Of course not.'

‘Well,' said Josette, adopting a sudden air of sophistication. ‘That's a mistake, Libby, if you ask me. On your wedding night, you need to have some idea what you're doing. You can't just jump into the deep end of the pool if you've never had any practice swimming.'

‘So you have?'

‘Is that your question, officially?'

‘Yes, officially: have you?'

‘I have,' said Josette demurely. ‘I'm no child, you know. In fact I've already been engaged to be married.'

‘Did it hurt?'

‘Being engaged?'

‘Don't tease!'

‘Well, technically it's my turn to ask a question, but, why not, I'll give you one for free: no, it didn't hurt one bit. But that may be because I grew up with brothers, playing ball and riding horses. Now, my turn – if you could go on a date with anyone in the world, who would it be?'

‘Dirk Bogarde, I suppose.'

‘You've got good taste, don't you?'

‘I like to think so. My turn: have you ever, in all your time working here, seen the President up close?'

‘Just once. He came over to inspect the steers. But that was last year. From what I hear he's not even allowed to leave the house any more, since the heart attack.'

‘Never?'

‘Not according to Caroline, who's friendly with Jane, who's friendly with Rose – that's Mrs Eisenhower's maid. These days the President spends all his time on the porch, from sunup to sundown. Now: my turn. I know you've only been here a few days, but – who do you dislike most?'

‘Dunbarton, of course.'

‘I should have guessed. That was a wasted question. Give me another one?'

‘My turn first! Okay, so – who actually lives on Farm One, and who gets to visit …?'

That night Josette and a group of Secret Service men took advantage of Dunbarton's absence to stay up past curfew, singing and drinking and strumming an out-of-tune guitar.

Despite a burgeoning friendship, Josette had not extended Elisabeth an invitation to join the party; she must not have wanted competition for the favor of the men. Still, through the thin walls Elisabeth could hear every tipsy word. If she paid close attention, there was valuable intelligence to be gained.

She counted four male voices. One apparently belonged to Bill Brennan, identified by Josette as the handsomest man on the farm, akin to a young Clark Gable – the one she had named as head of security. Another was called ‘Skin', which sounded like a nickname. The remaining two were never addressed directly. None seemed bothered by Josette's mixed blood; they all flirted carelessly. But what else would one expect from men like these, probably half-mongrel themselves?

They bellowed out songs from West Point: ‘I want to be, I want to be, I want to be away on furlough' to the tune of Dixie; ‘There's a long long trail awinding, into the land of my dreams', with a maudlin lilt; ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile.' The fact that these overgrown children had won the war still felt unreal to Elisabeth, like a bad dream. But it had been only a matter of resources, she reminded herself, of America's great natural bounty, and not an indication of the relative quality of their nation's menfolk. Besides, the lion's share of damage to the Reich had been done by the Russians.

The tuneless guitar was played badly by Josette herself, as Elisabeth gathered from Brennan's teasing whenever she hit a sour note, which was often. The lack of quality of the music didn't help matters. Compared with the inspiring ‘
Horst Wessel Lied
' and the anthemic ‘
Deutschland Über Alles
', these songs were grating and shrill. Every so often the singers halted their musical butchery to drink, joke, and gossip. Like all hired men, they mocked their superiors – in this case Miss Dunbarton (you could tell when she spread her legs, opined the one called Skin crassly, because the furnace kicked on) and even President Eisenhower, whose fondness for Western magazines, remarked Brennan, revealed the poor white trash he truly remained inside – the same barefooted boy who had been born in Abilene and worked at a creamery, who in many ways had simply lucked into his current position of power.

The party broke up abruptly when a crackling of walkie-talkies informed Brennan that Dunbarton was on her way back through the security checkpoints. Within ninety seconds, everybody but Josette was gone, trucking loudly down the stairs. For the next few moments came quiet clunking sounds – probably the out-of-tune guitar being hidden away beneath the bed – and then, after a very brief period of silence, the sound of the Philco being switched on.

Exhaling, Elisabeth closed her eyes.

Her mind was spinning. Tomorrow was Tuesday, her first day off. It promised to be busy.

Y
et for a long time, despite her exhaustion, she couldn't sleep.

The presence of enemy soldiers next door had stirred up old feelings. Of course the war was ancient history; and while she might take pleasure from avenging her
Fuehrer
against the cursed architect of D-Day, her motivations now were chiefly mercenary. Only rarely did an opportunity like this come along, offering sufficient recompense to set her up for the rest of her life, enabling an end to running from those who made a career of prosecuting Nazis.

Sleep
, she thought, and punched fitfully at her pillow. Tomorrow she needed to be sharp. The past was the past. She must let it go.

Next door, the radio played softly. Farther down the hall someone talked quietly, and then laughed. But in her private quarters, Elisabeth was alone – no deprivations here in post-war America, where even the least of the hired help was given humble billets of her own. By contrast, her countrymen back in Germany were more desperate than ever, even hungrier and colder than they had been in the terrible years following Versailles.

The air in the tiny bedroom felt hot and dry. From somewhere deep in the bowels of the renovated barn, she could hear a furnace kicking and thumping. Windows were fogged with condensation. For a few moments she stared at a small plaque reading JESUS LOVES YOU mounted above the dresser. Then – the clock beside the plaque read 12:40 a.m. – she forced her eyes closed.

GETTYSBURG: NOVEMBER 15

Elisabeth rose early, ate a crust of toast with some butter, and struck off down the long driveway.

Passing near the towering grain silo, she slowed her pace. Up close, an observation she'd made from a distance was confirmed: no ladder ran up the silo's exterior. Hoops near the base were visibly less weathered than those near the top. A latched double-door in the dome was too far off the ground to be useful. At some point, she surmised, the tower had been shorter, and unloaded from the top by silage fork. It had since been built higher, and an air slide had been installed on the ground for easy mechanical unloading. But there would still be an interior ladder, a souvenir of the original form.

Emerging from the farm's main gate, she turned left, as if undertaking the four-mile journey into town on foot. After ten minutes, she reached a crossroads. Continuing straight would bring her into Gettysburg; a turn to the north would lead her around the perimeter of the Eisenhower property.

Tossing a glance over her shoulder, ensuring that the guard booth was out of sight, she took the turn. If caught, she would pretend simply to have lost her way – dizzy, simple girl that she was. Thus she managed to accomplish, by rough country road, almost an entire circuit of the Eisenhower farm. At the last moment, nearing the main gate again from the other side, she turned around and retraced her steps rather than be seen by the guard at the booth.