50
Encircling Foley Square in Lower Manhattan were tangible, solid structures of age-old justice. A granite pediment, Corinthian colonnades, and broad, sweeping steps adorned a trio of courthouses. The relevance of this symbolism was not lost on Vivian as she approached the FBI’s office.
She had a block to go when two suited men exited the building, one with a briefcase, the other with a cigarette. Brimmed hats shaded their features from the early evening light. From this distance either one could be Agent Gerard. If not, they just might know his whereabouts.
“Pardon me!” Vivian called out. Though they continued on, she tried again over the motors of passing cars. “Agent Gerard!”
They turned to her, exposing their faces, and rewarded her attempt; the gentleman smoking was indeed the one she sought. He uttered something to his companion, sending him off, before meeting Vivian halfway.
“Miss James–”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Yes, I know.... I was going to call when I had more information.”
“When is Isaak going to be released? Are they allowing him to defect, or will he be sent back? Please, I need to know what’s happening.”
Agent Gerard pitched his cigarette at the pavement, ground it beneath his shoe. He appeared to hold his breath even as he replied, “There’s been a trial.”
A trial?
She shook her head, certain she had misheard. “When you talked about legal formalities ... that’s what you were referring to?”
“When we started, it was just a possibility. But FDR pushed for a military tribunal.”
“What is-what does that mean?”
“It’s an armed services court of law. Closed-door. No press, no jury. Just seven generals on a panel.”
She visualized the daunting scene. “You never said anything about this.”
“It’s not the usual. They haven’t convened one since the Civil War. But the President wanted to move things along, keep it out of the media. Plus, with a war on, he didn’t want civilian rights getting in the way.” At this, the agent gazed toward the street with a slight look of distaste.
“So you’re saying the trial is over,” she realized, still trying to process the update. It didn’t seem possible in the span of a few weeks. She fought to keep her voice level. “What was the ruling?”
When he didn’t respond, she followed his attention to the string of courthouses. Their grand colonnades suddenly resembled the bars of a trap.
“Agent Gerard. What was the verdict?”
He dragged his eyes back to her. “Isaak wanted proof about his family, that they’d been relocated safely. When we coughed up documents, he was convinced they were fake. He refused to give us any details about the operation. As a result, he was found guilty of treason and espionage.”
“That-no-that can’t be right.”
“One of the others, a guy named George Dasch, called our office a day after arriving near Amagansett. The next week, he coordinated a meeting in DC, where he handed over a bag of eighty-four grand. He provided all the intel we needed to arrest his three buddies, along with four others who came ashore near Jacksonville. That’s how we ended up getting all eight.”
“But Isaak surrendered first,” she insisted.
“He was still considered an enemy spy.”
She went to argue the point when she recalled Isaak’s clothes. He was captured out of uniform. Oh, God. He had listened to her when he shouldn’t have.
She would fix this. She would explain.
“It’s my fault he wasn’t wearing his uniform. I didn’t think it would matter, once he came forward.”
“His clothes weren’t the issue.”
“But–I should speak to someone to be sure.”
“I’m sorry,” Agent Gerard said, “but it’s too late.”
“It’s no such thing,” she burst out. “It can’t be. All of this just happened. Now, tell me whom to speak with.”
“Miss James.” He spoke with such solemnity she wanted to scream. “This was a military tribunal. Which means there are no appeals. The judgments are final.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and produced an envelope. “Isaak asked me to give you this.”
The familiar script of her name wrenched her stomach. She brought herself to accept the offering but had no intention of reading its contents. Isaak could convey the message in person, when they met to discuss his options.
This time, she would go to anyone, including her father, for help.
“I have to see Isaak. Where is he?”
“The past few days, I did everything I could. Meeting after meeting, trying to help.” Agent Gerard removed his hat. He held it to his middle, as one might offer condolences. “The other eight are going to be tried by a military commission in DC next week. FDR wants to make an example of them all, so the Germans won’t send over more–”
“I don’t care about that!” She was far beyond logic, beyond compassion. “Tell me where they’re keeping him. Or I’ll ... I’ll march through those doors over there and find out on my own.”
He parted his lips, giving way to an interminable pause. Did he think she was bluffing?
Vivian started off toward the building.
Only then did the agent yield: “This morning, just after eleven, Jakob Isaak Hemel was put to death.”
She flipped back around, and stared.
“By the time I’d heard, it was already over.” The agent held there, shook his head. “I’m very sorry. About all of this.”
You’re lying! He’s alive and you’re lying! These were the words she wanted to yell, but all she could do was stand there.
“Rest assured, since we helped his family before he backed out, the FBI will want to keep a pretty tight lid on your friend’s case. So no one will ever know about your involvement.” Finally he said, “Listen, why don’t I take you home?”
She watched his hand settle on her arm, bare below the sleeve of her dress. Yet she couldn’t feel the contact. She couldn’t feel anything at all, except panic and a budding of anger. With scarcely a voice, she said, “How did he die?”
“Miss James, let’s just–”
“How?”
He released her and answered in a quiet tone. “The electric chair. Then they put him to rest in a cemetery.”
Again, the vice on her lungs cranked tighter. “Where?”
“He’s in an unmarked grave within the prison walls. It’s the standard for this type of situation.”
Standard. What a vile description for an execution. She was tempted to strike the man down. In fact, she wanted to take out everything in sight. But then, what would that change?
She looked him in the eye. “You gave me your word.”
“I told you I’d help him the best I could, and I did that. Believe me, it was out of my hands.” The defense flowed out as if prepared for the accusation. His voice, however, seemed to waver from lack of confidence.
“He trusted you,” she said.
Agent Gerard added nothing as Vivian backed away. It appeared that he, too, recognized the waste of any effort.
From Foley Square Vivian traveled the streets on an aimless path that dimmed and cooled around her. Hours floated by without meaning. Somewhere along the way, she recalled the inscription of Isaak’s necklace and recognized its lie. The risks she had taken were great, yet this was the ghastly reward.
Eventually she found herself standing at the Brooklyn Bridge. The water below looked strikingly like the Thames. It was at that moment, without a single tear spent, the sealed envelope in her hand, that she realized the error of her statement. What she truly meant was: He trusted me.