2

Mother had been active in the woman’s suffrage movement since my father died in 1909. Before then she worked on various women’s committees and in clubs wherever we lived, but she had remained overshadowed by other women more deeply involved. My brothers and I were all astounded as she began to speak before groups, to travel, and serve on important commissions all over the place. What shocked us most was the fact she had grumbled and groaned every time my father’s change in military orders caused an uproot. After his death she hardly ever stopped long enough to unpack her suitcases.

Following many long talks with her, however, I finally decided my father’s career was the cause of her involvement. Although she never let us know because she wanted her children to have a high opinion of their father, she resented having her life manipulated constantly. Her work in the suffrage movement was a strike back for personal freedom. Her gripes about moving us kids from pillar to post expressed only the surface of her feelings. What really disturbed her was her own sense of violation carried on the print of military decrees.

Once all of her children were educated, and my three older brothers were married and building their own lives, she dedicated herself to the movement for the rights of all women, giving up once again her own personal freedom and forcing me gently from her nest.

My mother is a very serious-minded individual, but she does have a great sense of humor and a certain amount of mischief in her eyes. She also has an amazing talent for stirring up what she calls “constructive activity,” and what my brothers and I have long since referred to as “trouble.”

She is short and plump, with steel-gray wavy hair and the clearest skin I have ever seen on a woman in her fifties. She always wears a small watch in a filigree case, hanging from a long chain around her neck—a wedding gift from my father—and when she reads she wears a small pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. I thought of her motherly looks when I picked up the telegram awaiting me at the Y, saying she was coming for a visit. I’d written her all about my new job, and couldn’t wait to tell her in person that my salary was to be raised another five dollars per month in December.

I hadn’t seen her in months. Before the war in Europe began, she had been in London, working with the antimilitant faction of suffragettes. She was among those trying to reason Sylvia Pankhurst out of her hunger strikes and violent protests, and her displays on the steps of Premier Asquith’s residence on Downing Street. She was in agreement with the higher-ups in the suffrage movement in this country who believed women who continued to react to rebuffs from any government dramatically and violently hurt the cause for all women, and she was mobile and thus able to represent them in England. Over there she had seen windows crashed in by rocks, churches burned, bombs set off, and all sorts of destructive and terrorist acts by the militants, “putting their cause back by hundreds of years,” she wrote.

Now back in the United States since the war began, she had been touring the country, speaking on the changes that had occurred since the first of July in the whole suffrage movement. Formerly unreasonable women were now showing men they could do their fair share of man’s work in his absence, and in the process showing in any number of constructive ways that they were equally capable of casting ballots in elections. The thrust of Mother’s speeches was that American women were once again proven correct in their nonmilitant, more patient approach to suffrage. Whereas over in England they were only now getting the attention they wanted and deserved from the government, women in the United States had already managed to swing many state legislatures to their side. Yet, there was much left to be done.…

Her letter about that speech ran sixteen pages, and I could tell by the more and more indecipherable scrawl as the letter continued that she was thoroughly wound up on her subject. I was proud of her for having the ability to communicate her enthusiasm to others, and I believed in what she was doing, but regardless of her prodding I was not yet ready to take up the flag and follow her. Neither was I reluctant to tell her so.

The last time she left for Europe I had told her I was thinking of moving to San Antonio after I finished my course in business school, and when she seemed surprised I said, “You’re never at home anyway, and I don’t want to live with any of the boys and their families. San Antonio is the closest thing I’ve ever had to home. Also, Dad’s buried there … it just seems like a good idea.”

That argument satisfied her, and she wished me well and left in a flurry of kisses and hugs, and with instructions that I was to go to church regularly and behave myself. One thing both of us knew: the years of living in so many different places had taught me self-reliance. She didn’t have to worry much about my welfare. Even if I were her only daughter and the youngest of her brood by several years, I could look after myself.

She arrived in early December of 1914, checked in at the Gunter, where her conference was to take place, and left a message at the Y that she’d be in touch the following day, in between a tight schedule of meetings. I told myself I didn’t mind that she put her meetings before me. She had important matters to tend to.…

Up to then, everything was normal.

She called on Saturday afternoon to say she wanted me to meet some people in her room at the Gunter, and since they all had to attend a banquet that night—would I like to come?—to please stop by as soon as I could. I’d just gotten off work, and told her I’d be over after I changed clothes. I didn’t hurry, though. I had counted on a private visit, and was irritated by her inviting guests. That was thoughtless, and unlike her.

Mother looked well, and after going through the usual maternal routine of looking at me aghast, and declaring I was getting too thin, and turning me around to give me a cursory inspection, she introduced me to a small man with black wavy hair and a neat mustache beneath a large nose. His name was Michael Stobalt. Their companion was a tall, stately woman named Frieda Miles. What occurred in that queer little meeting soon had me sitting forward, eyes wide.

Mother had met Frieda at a women’s club meeting a couple of days earlier, and they had talked over coffee. The woman, of Czech origin, seemed especially interested when Mother mentioned the name of the bank where I worked. By that evening she’d contacted Mother again and brought along Stobalt. He dominated our meeting in Mother’s room.

He began in slightly broken English, “We of the Bohemian National Alliance feel a kinship with the women involved in the suffrage movement both here and in Europe … basically our goals are the same—personal and national freedom. Miss Devera, there are many important women of your mother’s organization working in ours as well.

“The provinces of Bohemia, Slovakia, and Moravia have been working for independence for some time, and our work becomes especially crucial now that Europe is at war and the German empire threatens to aggrandize in the Austro-Hungarian empire—in the process robbing us of our last hope for an independent republic. Here is our scheme. The BNA, along with several fellow organizations, is working on the side of the Allies in the hope that, should they win the war, they will in turn help us in getting our independence. The best we have to offer the English is in the field of espionage.”

“Spies?”

“Over the past few months we’ve learned of an extremely powerful underground movement by the German espionage service to undermine the Allies in various ways, through this country.”

“For example,” I said.

He glanced at Frieda, then Mother, before continuing, “Sabotaging shipments of arms from the United States to Britain; stirring up labor strikes; spreading propaganda through the buying of newspapers here in the United States to sway sentiment away from the Allied cause.”

“I’m sure the Allies do their share of dirty work, too,” I told him. I could see Mother smiling from the corner of my eye. She loved a good debate. “What about the crummy British blockade? Seems to me if the English are cutting off the guns and food on its way to Germany, they’d be pretty desperate to counter somehow. Don’t you agree?”

“Let me assure you, miss, we of the BNA branches in the United States consider ourselves first, last, and always American citizens. While we are secretly organizing our forces to help the Allied cause, we will stop short of committing any deed whatsoever that will endanger the position of our country or risk one human life. We are simply in the frightening position of having our families in the fatherland completely at the mercy of German aggrandizement, and only those of us who have had the privilege of freedom are able to help those of us who have not.

“We’re like sailors in a ship, throwing life buoys to drowning victims. It is because those of your mother’s group work for the cause for equal rights for women that we find ourselves so greatly in sympathy. Freedom has many different faces, but only one meaning in the end.”

I recognized his powerful rhetoric, but failed to understand what this had to do with me. “You want me to hand out circulars or something?” I asked.

“No, no. We enlist your help in something far more serious in consequence, demanding absolute secrecy. It is only by virtue of your mother’s vocation and your own unique position—as well as what we trust to be your irreproachable morals—that we consider asking your help.”

“How?”

“You have recently taken a job in the bank owned by Adolph Heinrich Tetzel?”

“Yes …”

“We have information which indicates Tetzel is involved in the underground activity of the German espionage system through the buying of certain newspapers in this area, the purchase of arms for Mexican revolutionaries, the granting of certain loans in Mexico, and the buying and transshipment of copper from Mexican mines. We do not know to what extent he is involved. However, we do know of plans under way for sabotaging munitions factories and blowing up munitions ships in United States harbors destined for Allied countries, and we have strong reason to suspect Tetzel is an active participant.”

I sat back. “Well, you’re mistaken, that’s all. Where did you get those ideas, anyway?”

“We have definite proof regarding several of his associates.”

“But none against him.”

“Not as yet.”

“And you want me to snoop around and look for some? Well, you’re asking the wrong person. I won’t do it. Besides, I happen to have easy access to his personal papers, and I’ve never run across anything incriminating in the least.”

“Hm … I wonder, does he keep a safe in his office?”

I thought for a moment about that implication, then said, “Yes … but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Have you ever taken a careful look at the interior of that safe? There is likely to be a small inner compartment in the upper left-hand corner, with a special lock.”

“No … I haven’t had any reason to get into that yet, and we’ve been too busy. I’ve never really looked, but I’m sure—”

“Do you have the combination to the outer lock?”

“No. I suppose I’ll get it when his present secretary leaves.”

“Well, then you could check inside for the small compartment.”

“Something tells me your activities might be illegal.”

“Our organization does nothing more than channel evidence to the proper officials for their perusal, and we are within our rights as long as the United States remains neutral.”

I looked at the three faces across from me. It irritated me that they presumed to choose sides on my behalf in a war that meant nothing to me. “You certainly take a risk—how do you know my sympathies might not lie with the Centrals?” I asked.

“My good woman, surely you would not be in favor of either side setting off explosions here in your own country, killing and injuring innocent people.

“Let me hasten to explain that most German people in our country have but one allegiance—to the United States—only a small percentage have loyalties elsewhere. The discovery that Adolph Tetzel may be involved in espionage does not in any way discredit the multitude of naturalized citizens from Germany or the Austro-Hungarian empire.

“Further, we would not have considered imposing upon your personal feelings regarding the war under ordinary circumstances. But in this instance we are facing plots that may well endanger the lives of hundreds of your own innocent countrymen.”

“But you only suspect Tetzel—”

“You are correct. Yet, as I explained, we have definite proof regarding several of his close associates, and his name is one of several which are spoken continually in circles of these people. Certainly you would agree it bears some investigation.”

I did not like the direction this meeting was taking. He kept dissolving my arguments. I looked across at Mother, whose expression now indicated she was clearly in favor of the BNA’s plans for me. Frieda looked as though she were about to add something, then changed her mind. They all stared at me. I felt perspiration rising on my forehead; I despised them for putting me on the spot. Finally I realized there was an all too easy way to get myself out of the predicament. “I’ll think about it, and get in touch with you.”

Michael Stobalt drew up his shoulders and said, “As you wish. But remember, time is not on our side. I’ll be here in the hotel until tomorrow evening, then I must leave town. Please call me as soon as you have made up your mind. If you are interested, we’ll arrange a further meeting. If not—”

“I won’t call you at all.”

From his expression, I think he understood. “All right, but keep in mind, aiding in the freedom of an oppressed people is a rare opportunity, and one which you would never regret. As to citizens of your own country—” he began, then stopped. He glanced at Mother, then he and Frieda left the room and shut the door behind them. Mother sat looking down, tracing her finger along the piping of the chair arm. I didn’t know whether she was ashamed of herself, or of me. I couldn’t quite find the words to sum up my exasperation with her for ganging up on me with those people, but I was about to give it a try when she spoke.

Meekly, she said, “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

“Of course not. You’re expecting me to jeopardize my job for some cause I’ve never even heard of?”

“I know it’s asking a lot, but—”

“How do you know these people are sincere? Surely you couldn’t find out much about them in two days.”

She shook her head. “I became acquainted with their movement for liberation while working with Emmeline Pankhurst in Europe.”

“Oh … I see. Is she heading it?”

“No. The Czech Nationalist Leader, Thomas Masaryk, is at the top, and he’s a friend of hers.”

“Is Stobalt in charge over here?”

“No. A man named Victor Voska heads the movement in this country, but I don’t think Stobalt is too far down the line. I really don’t know much about their chain of command over here.”

“So you’re not actually a member.”

“No … though I did promise my support once I got back over here.”

“Did you set me up for all this?”

“No indeed. But when you mentioned Tetzel’s name and I passed it on to Frieda Miles—purely by coincidence—she told me of their suspicions about the man and I agreed to let them talk to you. You’re in a perfect spot. Stobalt traveled a long way to make his appeal today. I do wish you’d reconsider.”

“How do you know they’re not a bunch of radicals, like Pankhurst?”

“Emmeline has a clear head, and a lot of wisdom It’s Sylvia, mainly, who is so hard-headed and overdramatic—the headlines-maker. The people in the BNA are not hotheads like her.”

I looked into her eyes for a few moments, then said, “You’re still hurt that I didn’t follow you into the suffrage movement, aren’t you? And that’s why—”

“No, that was your decision and I respect it. Believe me, I’m only serving as an intermediary here. Though I must say, knowing it’s an important crusade—virtually a life and death situation—I couldn’t help feeling proud of you if you’d co-operate. They’ve assured me they wouldn’t expect much from you … just a little sleuthing and reporting back what you find.”

“You seem to forget you’re asking me to pry into the business of a man I like and respect, and who, incidentally, took a chance on my ability. You heard my feelings when Stobalt was here. Mr. Tetzel just wouldn’t—”

“I’m not calling Tetzel a blackguard, Camille. But people have loyalties, and they’re not always where they ought to be.”

“But you don’t mind traipsing over my loyalty to Mr. Tetzel.”

“Wait a minute. Do you really think the BNA would bother with him if there weren’t good reason to believe he’s up to something? You heard about the plans for blowing up—”

“But in this case they’re wrong.”

“How can you be so positive? You really haven’t known the man that long, have you?”

I just stared at her. It was like a repeat of our arguments over the suffrage movement so long ago. We just couldn’t get through to each other. Finally she said, “Look at it this way. If you prove he isn’t guilty of anything, you will have been doing him a service. Now that they’re on to him, the BNA will have to find some way—eventually—of investigating him. If not you, then someone else who is in a less accessible position will be chosen. If you’re right—and I hope you are, believe me—you have the wherewithal to lay the whole thing to rest.”

I spent the balance of the day and part of the night struggling over what Mother said, and in the end decided to trust her judgment. More than anything, it was her final remark which convinced me.

The following morning I met Stobalt again in Mother’s room. First I made my position clear. I was willing to help the BNA only as long as it took to exonerate Mr. Tetzel. Then I was finished. Stobalt listened attentively while I spoke, then nodded and briskly began, “Now, what you must do first of all is familiarize yourself with his habits. What time does he go to lunch? What time does he leave his office in the evening? Who are his regular visitors? Telephone calls? See if you can overhear his conversations, whenever possible. Note how much time he spends alone in his office, with his door closed.”

“Shall I look after these little incidentals for a week or so, then dash off a little note to you?”

He shook his head. “One week from tomorrow, you will meet your contact, and work with him from there. If you have nothing to report, he will give you further instructions; if you have, he will advise you accordingly.”

Suddenly it all seemed more ominous. “Where will I meet this man? What time? And how will I know him?”

“At one o’clock in the afternoon, on a bench at Alamo Plaza, Menger side. He will approach you. You will know him by this phrase—‘There is rain today in Paris.’”

“All right. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open next week, but I’ll bet you Tetzel comes out looking cleaner than a Golddust twin.”

He nodded. He is more certain than he pretends, I thought.

Mother and I had the rest of Sunday together, until her train left at eight o’clock. As soon as Stobalt was out the door, she began bustling about in her usual way, making plans. “We’ll visit your father’s grave, of course, and I’d like to see your room at the Y and meet your roommate. How about dinner at a really nice restaurant? Honestly, if I see one more roasted chicken half or fruit salad I’ll give up conferences forever.…”

Yet as the day wore on she became more and more subdued, especially after she stood at the foot of my father’s grave. I had been there only once since moving to San Antonio, and, unable to reconcile my memories of him with a small plot of ground marked by a stone with his name, I had not stayed long. Yet Mother lingered, standing perfectly still with arms folded under her bosom, as though her thoughts were somehow communicating themselves to him. Upon his death several years before, she had talked a great deal about what was to be done next. With her stiff-upper-lip attitude she was as much like a soldier as he was. Yet as she stood above his grave that day I realized she must have missed him far more than she ever let on to us kids.

We didn’t speak again of the BNA, but as she was about to board the train she said, longingly, “Do take care of yourself, and eat properly … and … remember to keep your guard up.”

“Mother, you sound like I’m about to be thrown to the lions.”

She hugged me tight and kissed me, then looked as though she might add something. But the train whistle blew and she scurried down the walk, weighted down yet balanced equally between her proverbial enormous purse, carried by the strap in the one hand, and her bulging portfolio packed in the other. It occurred to me when I stepped away that my remark might have hit a little too close to home.

I made it through most of the next week with growing confidence. I was thorougly convinced that anyone who spoke so fondly of life in the United States, and particularly anyone who had been able to amass so much in terms of wealth and position in a foreign society, could not possibly be involved in what the BNA people were trying to pin on Tetzel. He had no reason, first of all. He had been here since he was a kid. What could he gain by working with agencies of the government he had fled as a youth? Why risk the loss of everything to help them?

Mr. Tetzel ate lunch in his office, door closed, on Monday and Tuesday. Both days Claude brought him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. On Wednesday Tetzel went to a regular meeting of San Antonio bankers, which included a luncheon at the St. Anthony’s. After he left I wondered if I should have followed him, but by then I was convinced the BNA was all wrong, and counted the days until Sunday so that I could tell them so. On Thursday Tetzel spent much of the day behind closed doors, speaking on the telephone. I could hear little of the conversation because Claude had me working on a file near the front of my office, but whenever I did catch a phrase as he slipped into Tetzel’s office or came out, to leave a message or take one, the words seemed to pertain to banking and certainly gave no indication of anything outside the law. Another point was that he had only one phone, which was connected into the bank switchboard. Early it occurred to me that if he were carrying on cloak and dagger activities, surely he would have had a separate phone direct to outside. Arranging for it would have seemed innocuous on the surface—an understandable executive luxury. I made a mental note to tell my contact of my sound rationale.

When I left at six o’clock on Thursday night, Tetzel was still in there. After putting on my coat I stepped up to his door and knocked softly.

“Come in,” he answered immediately.

I asked if I could get anything for him before I left.

“Nothing,” he said, and smiled. “I was just going to call it a night myself. Can I drive you home?”

“No, thanks. I don’t live far from here.”

I saw nothing unusual on his desk. There were a lot of papers, but I couldn’t make an issue out of glancing down at them, so I could only assume, from his relaxed behavior, that I had not been threatening discovery by coming in when I did.

On the way out I looked up at the windows—his office faced the Navarro Street side of the building. The lights were still on. I was really feeling smug and crafty by then, and spending a lot of time thinking how I’d impress my contact—whoever he was—with my thoroughness in proving there was nothing wrong with Tetzel. I decided to go by a little cafe for some Mexican food, then double back after I had eaten and look up at the windows, to see if he had left. I pulled my coat collar up around my chin. The winter air was chilly, especially near the river.

An hour later I was back on the spot. I did a double take when I noticed Mr. Tetzel’s office lights were still aglow. Too late for the cleaning people to be in there. By seven o’clock they were up on the fourth floor. Half the windows on that floor, Navarro side, were now glowing, proof my timing was correct.

I walked back to the Y, crestfallen. I’d have to mention this to my contact. Yet, what could it mean? He’d been tied up longer than he expected? It was only an hour, for heaven’s sake. In a week of absolutely normal routines, what did an hour prove?

I had more nervous energy than usual that evening, and scrubbed floors, then emptied the bookcase along the wall of Cecelia’s books, dusted each one, and put them back into place. I repotted a languid ivy and mended a blouse. I was so involved in my own thoughts that I stared at Cecelia dumbly while she repeated twice, “It’s almost nine-thirty. Aren’t you ever going to bed?”

“I—I just remembered … I have to go out for something,” I told her, pulling on my coat. I know what nagged at me was Stobalt’s certainty. I had a feeling he already knew plenty, before my help was enlisted. And if that were true, I just had to be extra suspicious of anything unusual. Maybe Tetzel did pal around with some unscrupulous characters, not knowing that’s the sort they were. Then I would be doing him a favor by clearing his reputation. I walked back to the bank building to check once more. To my relief, all lights were out. I turned to walk back, a smile on my face, when I caught a glimpse of him, crossing a street just a few feet ahead of me. With the streetlights on, there was no mistaking it was him. Should I follow, I wondered? Just fifteen minutes left before curfew at the Y. I didn’t have time. He was probably going home anyway, but what if not?

No, I just couldn’t risk it. I didn’t have any money with me, and could not possibly catch him up, once he’d gotten into his car, without hiring a taxi. This is ridiculous, I thought angrily. Here I am feeling obligated to go chasing after a perfectly decent man, right on the point of spending my own money to rent a taxi I can’t afford, all for some organization that means nothing to me. I slipped upstairs and into my room—stubbing my toe on a table because Cecelia had turned the lights off—undressed quickly, and got into bed. Cecelia turned over and said sleepily, “I was worried about you, Camille. It’s awfully late for a single girl to be out on the streets. Anything could happen to you.”

“Thanks,” I told her, and was soon asleep.

By Friday I knew my case wasn’t as strong as it had been on Monday, but I was still sure my evidence against Tetzel was minimal. Then around noon I happened to walk in while his safe door was open—Claude was putting something into it—and noticed there was undeniably a separate compartment in the left side. I approached and said, “Oh yes, before you go you’ll have to give me that combination. What would happen if you got off to California without telling me? Oh say, how do you get into that little door inside?”

“I don’t go into that, and neither will you,” he said without turning around. “Mr. Tetzel keeps the key himself.”