Chapter One
Dear Reader: Starting this story, you might very well decide that Lita Nemetz seems to be the most disgusting, depraved and utterly disloyal character you have ever met…a creature not even worth punishing. But please remember, things are not always what they seem…especially when you are dealing with the daughters of Letitia Bradshaw.
The string quartet was playing “The Blue Danube Waltz” as Lita Nemetz came slowly down the winding mahogany staircase in the German Embassy. She frowned in annoyance, as she heard the two male voices arguing in the ballroom below.
“Nice music,” sneered a tall, muscular American with an unruly shock of red hair, as he lounged against a white marble pillar.
“We are very glad you enjoy it,” the military attaché replied in his clipped German accent, as he bowed his crew-cut blond head. “I am rather surprised, too, since your employers at the Philadelphia Truthteller have been so critical of all things German.”
“German?” the American replied, in a tone of mock surprise. “But didn’t Herr Strauss have a Jewish grandfather? Are you admitting that he was a German composer anyway? I thought that stopped him from being a real German, where you Nazis are concerned.”
His Prussian host pulled himself up to his imposing full height. “Things were different when Johann Strauss wrote his famous tune,” he explained coldly. “That was 70 years ago. It is 1939 now, and the Third Reich has more modern views.”
“You call Herr Hitler modern?” his tormenter demanded. “I would hardly describe him that way, with his talk about a German Aryan master race.”
With a brief laugh, he went on, “Not that anyone is giving any heavy odds on any master races nowadays. Just last year, a colored man named Jesse Owens beat your Aryan supermen in the footraces at the Olympic Games. And that’s after your other superman Max Schmeling had to throw in the towel when he met another Negro called Joe Louis in the boxing ring.”
Coming closer to them, Lita could see the angry glare in the German’s bright blue eyes and the cold fury in the America’s brown ones. After a visible struggle to control himself, the blond man turned towards her with a slight bow.
“But no one can deny the superior beauty of our Nordic women,” he said in a gallant tone, as his thin lips brushed against her hand. “You have them in America, too, like Miss Nemetz here.
“With her red-gold curls falling down to her glittering golden tunic, she could be the model for your Statue of Liberty. She looks so cool and elegant, even in this terrible Washington August heat.”
“Liberty?” the other man scoffed. “I did not know that your Leader even let you say the word.”
His host pretended not to have heard him.
“On the other hand, we could say she is a true daughter of Germany,” he declared, with another courtly bow. “Her name is Nemetz, which means ‘German’ in another language, so she is as pure in blood as she could possibly be. That name tells me she could join our friends in your own country, where she would be a great asset to the German-American Bund.”
“A great asset with no assets of her own,” she replied, with a light laugh, trying to ignore the utter contempt in the American reporter’s face. “I thank you for your invitation, but if I took you up on it, my parents would never speak to me again.”
“But their very name says they are of pure German heritage,” the blond man objected.
“Yes, and my mother was born a Strechenbach. That’s pretty German, too. But Herr Hitler has disgraced their names.” Quickly, she added, “That’s what they say, anyway. The very mention of him drives them into a fury, so we have learned to avoid the subject.”
Shaking her head ruefully, she went on, “If I dare to bring it up again, they will just go back to telling me what pure American patriots we are.
“Then I will have to listen to yet another lecture about how my father’s grandfather Nemetz was wounded fighting for the Union in the Civil War…while the O’Malleys, my father’s other grandparents, were both Pinkerton detectives who guarded President Lincoln himself. I hear they said it was their gift for Mr. Lincoln.”
“Before the family made their fortune in canned food, of course,” the red-haired man sneered.
“Of course,” she retorted, with a shrug. “They even called their products America’s Finest. My own parents spend most of their time giving away their merchandise at their soup kitchens. They say it’s their duty as wealthy people to help the nation’s poor, especially during this terrible Depression.”
In a more apologetic tone, she added, “My parents have some very strong views. When Mrs. Roosevelt resigned from the Children of Liberty this year because they would not let a colored singer perform in Constitution Hall, my mother left right along with her.
“Then mother went to hear her at the concert Mrs. Roosevelt had arranged on Easter Morning, in front of the Lincoln Memorial.”
“I trust that you do not share her liberal racial views?” the German asked. Lita shrugged and smiled.
“I don’t suppose Miss Nemetz is even very fond of Mr. Lincoln,” the American said. “Your leader says that the Negroes are half apes, so he’s probably pretty angry at Old Abe for freeing them. Otherwise, they could not have beaten your Aryan supermen on the sports field, could they? I’m sure your Leader is still raving mad at that. But then, he’s raving mad about everything, isn’t he?”
Before the German could form his angry reply, his guest went on, “I would have expected more of her, with an ancestor named O’Malley.”
“Really, you go too far!” the blond man exclaimed.
“Do I, Count von Leden? Well then, you can put it down to my own Irish temper as an O’Neill.”
“Perhaps it is time to shed the peasant manners your parents brought with them from Ireland,” von Leden replied.
“For your information, my family has been here at least as long as the Nemetzes,” O’Neill snarled. “I was named for the Brian O’Neill who fought in the American Revolution, beside General Washington himself.”
“Well, then,” the count answered triumphantly. “You should not be such a friend of the Jews, since their David Franks was such a loyal servant to Benedict Arnold, that notorious traitor. I hope to spread the word about him in my work for the German-American Bund.”
At that, Lita found herself reaching out a white-gloved hand to grasp O’Neill’s arm in warning. The man was obviously on the verge of throwing himself on his startled enemy, ignoring the crowd that was gathering around him, buzzing furiously.
“And you should find out what you are talking about, before you spread your Nazi garbage here,” O’Neill growled furiously. “General Washington himself believed Franks was innocent and proved it by making him his own aide.”
“Well, I had ancestors in that war, too…on both sides!” Lita put in, with a nervous smile. “I am named for one of them…Letitia Bradshaw. She spied on the British soldiers as her gift for General Washington, before she married one of them. My parents are always talking about them.”
“Yes, I am sure they are. You high society types are always climbing back into your family tree.” Grudgingly, he added, “But at least your parents trying to make themselves useful, even if they are multi-millionaires.”
His voice grew harsh again as he went on, “But spoiled debs like you…and Barbara Hutton…and Doris Duke…I can’t say as much about any one of you. I’ll say this for the those other two, though…at least they are not traitors.”
Count von Leden’s pale face turned red above his tight white collar. As he turned to lunge at his opponent, Lita half expected him to throw his glove in the Irishman’s face, thus challenging him to a duel.
Still trying for a calm, cheerful tone, she raced on, “But I cannot be a traitor, you know, since Germany is not America’s enemy.”
“Not yet!” the Irishman retorted, his own face now as red as his unruly hair.
“And not ever, I hope,” the German declared, with a slight bow. “But getting back to our country’s great contributions…shall we go to the buffet for some of our sauerbraten with red cabbage and potato dumplings? They are delicious here…I don’t think anyone could argue with that.”
“Everything looks simply wonderful and smells that way, too,” she told the man who stood behind the long table, as they entered the dining hall. “My compliments to the chef.”
He stared back at her in silence, with no expression on his long, thin face, with its pale, almost transparent grey eyes.
“He must not speak any English,” she told her escort.
Leaning down, von Leden murmured, “Hans Meissner speaks your language perfectly well. Gestapo.”
Despite herself, she shuddered, having heard about the dark deeds of the Nazi secret police.
“But what is he doing here?” she finally whispered.
“They have gotten reports about another plot to kill Hitler,” he murmured in reply. “Some of the rumors may have started here.”
She found herself wishing she could warn the Irishman to be silent when he came to the buffet table with the angry glint still in his eyes. He was sure to anger the secret policeman, and she felt all too sure that Herr Meissner was not someone you wanted to offend. Even O’Neill’s press credentials might not save him then.
If she had had time to alert the Irishman, though, she felt all too sure he would have ignored her warning. With a sinking heart, she waited for O’Neill’s next verbal volley. She did not have to wait long.
Glancing above the long table, he slammed down his plate and announced, “I have suddenly lost my appetite.”
Lita followed his gaze, to see the full-length oil painting of Adolf Hitler, in full uniform, gazing loftily down.
The other guests kept trying to ignore him as they filled their own plates. The Germans and their American friends had had to put up with rude newsmen before. They were not about to provoke this one into giving them any more bad publicity.
But von Leden had obviously lost all patience with his ill-manned guest. “If you feel that way, then why did you come here?” he demanded.
“My editor sent me,” O’Neill answered, with a shrug.
“To insult us?”
“To pick up some news.”
“Didn’t we already make enough headlines last year, by bringing Austria and the Sudentenland into our Third Reich?” von Leden sneered.
“Yes, it made all the papers, when those German tanks rolled into Vienna,” O’Neill replied, with a bitter grin.
“They did right before the Austrians had a chance to vote on the plan, which they would certainly have turned down.”
Before von Leden could answer, O’Neill calmly went on, “That was a big story everywhere, yes. But I have a feeling you are getting ready to make some more headlines. Am I right about that?”
As the young count seemed to struggle for a reply, Lita impatiently pushed the question away with a flick of her long, white glove.
“Must you be working all the time, Mr. O’Neill?” she demanded. “Do we always have to talk politics? Count von Leden, can’t you find a more pleasant topic?”
“Please, I am Karl to you,” he replied, with another brief bow and smile.
“How about this one?” O’Neill asked. “How do the Nazis feel about women? Do they believe what their great philosopher Nietzsche told them…’When you go to women, forget not the whip’? And what do you think of that idea, Miss Nemetz?”
“It sounds rather naughty to me!” she responded lightly.
“Exciting, do you mean?” O’Neill growled. “Perhaps someone should try it on you, to see how thrilled you are then.”
“Are you calling me a sex pervert?” she demanded coldly.
“For once, we must let the women rule us,” the German put in quickly, before his opponent could reply. “Perhaps the Polish women would enjoy the whip, but this is an American lady. She has told us not to talk politics, so we must obey.”
In the same light tone, he went on, “But I, in turn, must insist that she dance with me even before we enjoy our dinner together. It is ‘The Merry Widow Waltz’ this time. I will confess in advance that the composer has a Jewish wife, so let us join the dance before Mr. O’Neill uses that embarrassing little fact to start another argument.”
“Gladly!” she exclaimed, as she set down her half-filled plate on the long buffet table. The count gallantly extended his elbow. Resting her hand there, she swept into the ballroom beside him. Both tried to ignore O’Neill glaring at them, with his powerful arms crossed over his brawny chest.
* * *
O’Neill felt his fists clenching together, as he imagined himself dragging her off the dance floor, pulling her into a side room and locking the door behind them. There, he would seat himself in the nearest chair, pull her over his knee, haul her skirt to her waist, drag down her girdle and pepper her skinny backside with a shower of hot, sharp smacks.
She would twist and struggle frantically, without being able to stop his hand from bouncing off her bottom. He would ignore her angry protests and commands to stop spanking her, until they turned into frantic pleas and weeping. That’s when he would demand her solemn oath never to come here or even talk to any Nazi again.
When she started howling out her promise, he would take his belt off and announce that he was giving her ten more blows, just to make sure she remembered her vow. Ignoring Lita’s hysterical shrieking, he would mete out the final punishment, happily watching the new red stripes falling over the bright red bruises. Soon they would turn black and blue, making it even harder to sit down.
After he finally let her off his lap, she would stand stroking the injured area, with her head lowered in shame. Then he would lecture her even more sternly on how foolish she had been. That had been his father’s method, and it had never failed to make a lasting impression, on both his sisters and himself.
He shook his head at the thought. It was not his place to paddle her, he realized. That was clearly her father’s task. Since the Nemetzes seemed like decent, down-to-earth people, he had to wonder why James Nemetz III had not done his job properly.
As things were, though, she and that Nazi von Leden deserved each other.
He would have been very surprised to learn that the count did not agree.
* * *
As he whirled her onto the dance floor, von Leden smiled down at her, doing his best to hide his true feelings.
Little fool! He thought in utter disgust. You are living in a land of freedom, where you can express any crack-brained, addle-pated view you choose, and you come here to flirt with the Nazis and tell them how exciting their ideas are.
While I, a true nobleman, from a family even older and more distinguished than your own…I am forced to play along with this Nazi street rabble and their great leader, the ranting and raving Austrian housepainter.
“When thou goest to women, forget not thy whip?” That would be a good saying, if it applied only to idiot females like you. How I would love to bend you over a desk like the naughty girl you are and cane that madness out of you, like a strict schoolmaster.
Yet you have no idea how fortunate you are, he thought, as he bared his teeth in an even wider grin. You can walk out of this madhouse any time you wish. Then you can denounce the Nazis for the thugs and louts they are. No wonder you make me so angry. Because I…I have no such luxury. Instead, I am forced to remain here, as helpless as any prisoner in their detention camps.
Our entire country has become a lunatic asylum, and I would have fled long ago if I had only myself to think of. I could have done it easily, too, after taking this embassy post. I needed only to have walked out into the street.
But in truth I have no choice but to stay here, while I try to serve my real master…our rightful Kaiser, may Heaven bless him!
He is still alive in Holland, with a wonderful son to come after him as Wilhelm III. I know they both are trusting us to return him to his throne. As long as there is any chance of restoring him, and thus returning our country to its true traditions, I will stay here.
I must be just as brave as my fellow officers, like Ludwig Beck and Claus von Stauffenberg, if we are to have any chance of achieving our goal. That means we must arrest that guttersnipe Adolf Hitler…and if he resists, we must kill him.
So I must risk my life constantly, staying here to learn the Nazi plans and try to desperately to pass them on to the Americans. I took my life in my hands when I dropped that hint to the American newspaperman, about the fate of the Polish women. I can only hope he understood.
It seems unlikely, though, because he is too busy glaring at that idiotic American girl. He seemed as angry at her as I am, but because he is a free American, he saw no reason to hide it. Cannot any of those Americans realize how precious their liberty is?
If she doesn’t know that, why didn’t her parents teach her?
* * *
Clutching her pink terrycloth bathrobe around her, Susan Nemetz pulled aside the floral-printed chintz draperies. She stood gazing anxiously out onto the quiet street beyond the perfectly manicured lawn.
“Why don’t you just forget it and come to bed?” demanded her husband, who sat sprawled in the matching easy chair.
“She should have been home hours ago,” she said, shaking her graying blond curls in dismay. “Embassy Row is close enough to our own house, since we are both on Massachusetts Avenue. I don’t know what can have kept her.”
“She should never have gone there at all!” he growled.
“I just wish I knew why she does it! Even though she is already 23, she could still meet some nice boys.” With a slight shudder, she added, “The Lord knows, there is nothing nice about those Nazis.”
“Maybe that’s why she likes them,” He answered grimly, his square jaw biting down hard on his pipe stem. “They may seem wicked and exciting to her. I’d like to give my daughter some excitement…lying across my knee!”
“You know we have never believed in spanking,” his wife reminded him nervously.
“We were probably wrong about that. I am starting to think it is not too late to change my mind and paddle her right now, as old as she is, until she promises to stay away from that Nazi nest.”
“But she is no longer a child,” his wife objected.
“As long as she lives in my house, she is still my child.”
“Perhaps we should ask her to explain…”
“Explain what!” he demanded. With growing fury, he went on, “Can she explain why she spends all her time with that scum, who are making us feel ashamed of our own name? I would have felt forced to change it to Nelson or something like that, if my grandfather had not been a Union hero in the Civil War, who brought our name such honor.
“Now instead of paddling her, I have half a mind to throw her out of my house without a cent. I never talk to her anyway…I don’t even look at her when she comes through the door and walks up the stairs.
“She eats alone in the kitchen, and even that’s too good for her. I suppose I should just be grateful that she does not insult our colored cook and housekeeper by spouting off her racial nonsense in front of them.”
“We have talked about this before,” his wife reminded him, with a sigh. “If she were all alone, she might fall completely into their hands. They might even pay her to be a leader in that dreadful German-American Bund of theirs.”
Shaking her head sadly, she went on, “A debutante whose ancestors were heroines in the American Revolution and Civil War…that would be quite a feather in their miserable caps. Anyway, she is still a young, unmarried girl and we can’t really leave her all alone.”
“Wasn’t she alone when we sent her off to Miss Porter’s boarding school and Wellesley College?”
“She had friends and teachers there.” With a faint smile, his wife went on, “She had many friends, as I recall, and the teachers were always telling us how bright she was.” Her smile faded as she added, “Not that any of them would have anything to do with her now.”
“They are right to feel that way!” he retorted. “If she were not my daughter, I would not have anything to do with her either. I could wish that Emma Franks were my child instead.”
“But she is such a radical left winger!”
“Yes, and she is dead set against private charity,” he answered, with a grin. “She says it is just another trick to keep the people down. But she stands there ladling out the baked beans right along with us, all the same.
“She says her parents share her views, too. They hate the very word ‘charity,’ but they still give clothing to half the poor people in Philadelphia, from their department store.
“Emma is even eligible for the Children of Liberty, not that she’d ever admit it. She has a rather famous couple as her Revolutionary War ancestors, too…David Franks and Hannah Levy. But as things are now, she would not go near the COL.”
More slowly, she answered, “When you think about it, your own ancestress was almost as famous as David Franks himself. I mean Letitia Bradshaw.
Eagerly, she raced on, “Our Lita was named for her, of course. We have told her often enough about how that first Letitia spied on the British officers in that tavern she owned. I once read that she said she was making a gift for General Washington.”
Susan fell silent for a moment, as a strange new thought struck her. Then she timidly asked, “Could it possibly be that our own Lita is working in top secret, in order to make…”
“A gift for President Roosevelt?” he answered bitterly.
“Now you are grasping at straws, my love. That is a vain hope indeed.”
* * *
It was past midnight, and the yellow brocade draperies were drawn against the darkness. The three full-length arched windows formed an oval behind the big mahogany desk, giving this Oval Office its name.
As quickly as her high heels would allow, Lita strode across the blue carpet, towards the man who sat playing solitaire.
His Scottish terrier seemed to have seen her first and recognized an old friend. Fala came running out from beneath the desk to jump up and paw at her frantically, as his great black eyes begged her to pick him up and cuddle him.
She scooped him up and petted his black fur, while his master looked up from his game.
Like every other insider in Washington, she knew only too well why the man could not rise to greet her. His childhood polio had left him confined to his chair.
His disability was forgotten, when he put down his cards to welcome her. As always, she was dazzled by the radiant grin that spread across his strong, square face.
Someone had said that being with Franklin Delano Roosevelt was like drinking champagne, and she felt that intoxication now. It consoled her for the rage and contempt she always saw in the eyes of her parents, the childhood friends who no longer spoke to her and even that handsome red-haired reporter she had met tonight.
The president’s warm smile was all the more welcome, after the furious glare she had seen in Herr Hitler’s eyes, as she glanced at his oil painting. She had barely been able to stop herself from cheering, when O’Neill said that the picture had taken away his appetite, because she had felt the very same way.
Not that FDR was really an angel, she remembered, with a hidden smile. Insiders whispered that the First Lady was not the only lady in his life. There was also Lucy Rutherford, her former secretary.
Gazing into his blue eyes, Lita could hardly blame Miss Rutherford. Even at age 57, Mr. Roosevelt had lost none of his irresistible charm. Lita was not sure that she herself could have turned him down.
Of course, that red-haired reporter would not approve. But, as she realized sadly, he despised her already as much as he could.
Roosevelt’s rich, deep voice interrupted her thoughts. It was the sound that had lifted Americans out of the despair of the Great Depression, and it would soon, she knew, lead them to war. It reminded her, once again, of the difference between this great man and his opposite, with that demented shrieking she had heard only too often, blasting out of the newsreel screen.
Two great leaders now faced each other across the world arena. One was bringing his country together to fight the common disaster they called the Great Depression. The other was blaming minorities for it. Could this contrast between good and evil have been any stronger?
And how could good and evil fail to go to war against each other? She could only hope that she might be permitted to play her part in ensuring that evil was defeated. If she had to sacrifice her own personal happiness, that was a tiny price to pay.
“Well, Miss Nemetz,” he asked her, clenching his cigarette holder firmly between his teeth at its usual jaunty angle. “What do you have to report to me tonight.”
Carefully putting the dog on the floor, she took a deep breath and said, “Mr. President, I believe that the Nazis are about to invade Poland.”
