With a Heavy Heart: Confessions of an Unwilling Spy

Chapter 1

Morning, Jen, Maggie Harris said as she breezed through the front door of the Bauxite Antique Barn.

Jenny looked up from her book. Morning, Maggie, she said. Want a cup of coffee? It’s fresh.

Sure, that would be nice, Maggie said. She walked over to the checkout counter and sat down on one of the tall, wooden stools.

Jenny set a cup of coffee down on the counter and pushed it toward Maggie. If you got time, I need for you to do me a favor.

I got all kinds of time. What do you need? Maggie asked.

In the back of the consignment area, there are a couple of pieces of pottery that are still in boxes and might be worth looking at. They just came in yesterday. One of the Baxley women died; the kids cleaned out her house, took what they wanted, and decided to sell the rest. They asked me to do the pricing. Take a look, and see what you think, Jenny said.

The consignment area was a large open space fronted by south facing windows. The shelves in front of the windows were filled with bright blue and green glassware, which gave a bluish tint to the room. Guarding the entrance to the area was a large, old, floor model radio that had long ceased to function but would make a great furniture piece in the right home.

As Maggie approached the new pottery, the first thing that caught her eye was a small, wooden, shipping crate. Written across the top, between the supports, were the words

old vase.

For Maggie, this was like Christmas. At estate sales, she bought odd boxes that were taped shut and labeled miscellaneous. She would take these boxes home, unopened, and save them for a rainy day. With a bottle of wine, she could spend an entire evening going through old recipes for Mexican cornbread, clippings from the Ladies Home Journal, dark, single socks, or pictures of someone’s husband holding a large trout; there was always the excitement of what she might find.

She opened her pocketknife and gently pried the wooden lid away from the case. Someone had removed the lid in the recent past, because the nails let go easily. The box was filled with loose wood shavings cut to resemble straw. Pulling back the first layer of straw, she revealed the prize. It was a beautiful, fourteen-inch, swirl vase with the sharp cream, red, and blue layers of color that were used in the late thirties. When she lifted it from its bed, her suspicions were confirmed. On the bottom was the black ink stamp of

fitts

that Larry Fitts had used between 1937 and 1943. When this piece was made, it had sold for ten dollars, but now a good piece would go for nine hundred dollars at a minimum.

She slid her hand into the narrow mouth of the vase and ran her index finger around the rim. As her finger explored the border, she felt a roughened area and then a sharp pain in her finger, as if something had bitten her. By reflex, she jerked her hand out of the vase, almost dropping it.

She regained her composure, laid the vase back in its straw, and then looked at her finger. What she thought was a bite turned out to be a cut, a nice, clean, knife-like cut. She reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue to stop the bleeding. She covered the wound with a small dressing and went back to the vase. From her purse, she pulled a small penlight and shined it down into the vase. The culprit was not some ferocious insect or a sharp edge from a clumsy repair attempt; instead, it was an envelope—an old, yellowed envelope. The envelope adhered to the side of the clay vessel, and her knife was not long enough to break it free.

She looked around for something to loosen the paper from the lacquered surface. On a desk next to the pottery she found an old, wooden spatula and slowly guided the dull utensil under the edge of the aged paper. Reluctant at first, the old envelope and its contents finally released their hold and fell free from the wall of the vase. She reached in, grasped it between her index and long fingers, and slowly withdrew it from the vase. What a find, she thought as she pulled it from its hiding place.

It was a letter that had been sequestered in the vase many years before and forgotten.

The letter was addressed to:

Andy Valencia

Imperial Imports

Mexico City Mexico

She gingerly opened the letter and removed the contents. In the left, upper corner of the page was the date—July 18 1942. The letter read:

Dear Senor Valencia or whoever reads this

It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter This will be my last communication with you Not to be too melodramatic but I may not survive the next few days I am writing this to set the record straight I am not a Nazi and never was What I did I did for my mother and sister For years I have deluded myself into thinking that my part of this intrigue was meaningless but it isnt The heinous act your friends have planned would involve the death of many of my new friends, and I simply cant do that

The decision to write this letter is the hardest that I have ever had to make and I pray to God that I am doing the right thing It would be a much easier task if it were only me that had to be considered but my mother may still be in the line of fire

The long ton production figures are provided in the usual form

J L Stein

Maggie finished the letter and then read it again.

This must be a joke, she thought. This just can’t be. J. L. Stein couldn’t be a spy.

When Maggie was a teenager in Bauxite, J. L. had been her softball coach. He had been the announcer for the Miner basketball and football games. When the aluminum company dismantled the town in the sixties, he had been a leader in sitting up the community hall as a museum. Even though he had lived in Benton, his kids had gone to school in Bauxite. When a Bauxite kid had needed help, he knew where to turn—J. L. Stein.

Larry Fitts and J. L. Stein knew more about art pottery and fine custom furniture than anyone in the region. Either one could take a pottery shard or a picture of an old piece of furniture and date and authenticate it in no time. Maggie had learned most of what she knew about Mission Art Pottery from those two.

The old men from Bauxite had always talked about a rumored spy at the Bauxite mines during the Second World War. If this letter was true, there was a spy, and he was still there.

This just couldn’t be, she thought. J. L. Stein couldn’t have been a spy for the Nazis. I’ve got to ask him about this, but how?

Chapter 2

Fitts and Stein’s old building was built in the style of the turn of the century—a long, narrow, brick building with a low, sandstone facade on the front. Looking in the window, Maggie was struck by the simple beauty of their work. In the right front window sat one of Larry’s grandson’s latest creations. It was a tall, four-foot pot of New Buffalo swirl that had been inspired by the multicolored rock cliffs along the Buffalo River. In the left front window sat a wooden, padded rocker with an adjustable platform, its arms and back created in the Stickly style.

Hooked above the front door, a bell rang each time the door opened. Entering the building, Maggie saw J. L., dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, at his computer screen, scrolling through eBay looking for bargains. Larry, dressed in tan-colored, work shirt, and pants, was at the drawing table over by the south wall, working on the design for a pottery display case for his grandson.

J. L. was the first to notice her. Well, Maggie, he said. Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?

At the mention of her name, Larry looked up from his drawings and smiled.

Hello, Maggie, he said. What do you know?

Not much. I got a couple of things I want you guys to look at, Maggie said.

Larry eyed the distinctive wooden box she held under her arm.

Is that what I think it is? Larry asked.

Yeah, I think it is, and wait till you see what’s inside, she said.

Maggie was always surprised at how well these two old men moved. They were both in their late eighties, but they carried themselves like men of fifty. When asked how they managed to stay so fit, Larry’s stock response was, Chasing women and running from jealous husbands.

She carefully set the box on the work counter.

Larry looked the box over and pointed to a mark. On one of the end supports of the box was burned, in small, black letters,

fitts-1942.

Not bragging, he said, but do you realize that the box alone is worth about a hundred bucks?

Wait till you see what’s inside, she said as she pulled out her penknife and slowly opened the box.

Be careful, J. L. said as the three crowded around the box.

She lifted the lid and the top layer of wooden straw.

Larry smiled.

How wonderful, he said. That’s a fourteen-inch swirl from the early forties. Looks like I just laid it in there. He paused for a second, But, how did it get in the box? I only used those to ship out west or up east.

Now came the part that Maggie wasn’t completely sure how to approach. How was she to accuse her friend of being a German spy?

I think it was originally meant to be shipped to Mexico, but I’m not sure, she said, looking at the two men.

J. L. asked, Why do you say that?

Because of the other thing that I found inside, she said.

What? he asked.

She reached into her purse and pulled out the old yellowed letter and handed it to J. L.

A look of recognition dawned on his face, and tears began to well up in his eyes. He stumbled as if he’d been hit with a bat. Shaken, he looked around for a chair to sit down in.

Maggie had the feeling that she had done something terribly wrong.

What is it? Larry asked. He picked up the letter from where J. L. had dropped it on the countertop and read it out loud.

Is this what it looks like it is? Maggie asked.

Yeah, it is, Larry said as he laid the contents of the letter back on the table. He walked over to the chair where J. L. was sitting. Are you okay, old friend? Do you need your nitroglycerin?

J. L. shook his head. No, I’m okay. This is the happiest day of my life, he said.

I bet it is, Larry said, patting him on the shoulder.

Somehow this was not the response that Maggie had expected. To say the least, she was confused.

Why would he be happy? she whispered to Larry.

It’s a long story. A very long story, Larry said.

Chapter 3

The year was 1909. It was a fresh spring evening in central Vienna, and the music of Mozart was being played by a street quartet. Students of The Institute of Civil Engineering had just completed their final exams, and there were several tables of graduating students on a mission to get drunk in Gruber’s Beer Garden.

At table number eight were four young men who seldom ventured forth from their labs but this was a special day. Among this group was Wilhelm Stein from Linz. Willie was the son of a master carpenter, who had scrimped and saved to send his youngest son to the institute in Vienna. He was a shy young man who loved to tinker and find out how things worked. No one in the group could remember him dating; there had just never been time. He had begun drinking the sour white wine made locally, and by mid-evening, he was intoxicated.

A pretty young waitress was serving the three tables nearest the street and, in the process, walked back and forth in front of the table of young drinkers. The owner had taken the task of watching after the drunken students; it seemed safer that way.

On one trip as the waitress came walking by with a large tray of wine mugs, Willie said in his newly learned English language, I wonder what is the name of the cute waitress black-headed with the pretty breasts? His friends, who had just completed the same English course, roared at his joke.

A few minutes later, the waitress walked by the table and handed him a note that read, My name is Helena Edit, and I speak four other languages. By the way, your English sentence structure isn’t very good.

Willie was awestruck and embarrassed—this pretty little angel who spoke five languages had understood what he had said. When she came back by the table, he stood to apologize for his remarks. In his attempt to stand, he stumbled and fell into her, causing her to spill her tray onto the next table. Realizing the problem he had caused, Willie sat on the floor and cried.

Willie would tell his children years later that he was lucky to have met their mother after his testing was completed, because had he met her earlier, he would have surely failed and ended up a derelict on the street with only his unrequited love for her to sustain him. Coming from someone else, that might have seemed to be a dramatic overstatement, but from Willie, it was taken as it was meant—the absolute truth.

Helena Edit was a woman of many passions. She was born in April of 1889. Her mother died in the process of childbirth, and she was raised by her father.

Franz Edit was the rabbi and schoolteacher for the village of Aigen, near the border between Austria and the Czech Republic. He had a fascination with language, and young Helena’s life was immersed in French, English, Spanish, and German. Franz loved to say, A people’s history is written into their language, into the way they write and speak, into the structure of their sentences, into their euphemisms and phrases. It can be said that, after a while, language takes on a life of its own and directs those who speak it. Look beyond the words and how they are put together; they are but a shadow of reality. For Helena, each day was a word puzzle in one of the five languages.

Helena took to the spoken and written word in the same way that her father had. By the time she was ten, she was assisting him in teaching his classes. The rabbi took great pains to expose his young daughter to all of the ideas that had taken root in the nineteenth century: the ideas of universal suffrage for men and women, the philosophy of feminism, the concept of liberalism, and the role of government as an instrument of good for all of the people and not just for a privileged few. The Edit home was full of newspapers and books from Munich, Prague, Paris, Vienna, and on occasion, America. He dreamed that, one day, she would move across the sea and establish a new life for herself in America.

In the fall of 1908, Rabbi Edit became ill; it was a consuming illness that came on fast and with great force. As Franz lay dying on his bed, he said to his daughter, Sweetheart, I have very little, but what I have is yours. There are no debts to settle; there is no property to sell. You know where I keep the reserve. It isn’t very much, but it’s yours. If you stay here and marry, you will become the overweight wife of a dirt farmer and have a house full of dirt farmer children. Don’t get me wrong; there is nothing wrong with dirt farmers and their children, but you are meant for something more. You are the best student I have ever had, and I’m not saying that because you are my daughter. There is enough money for you to leave this town, go to Munich or Vienna or Salzburg and find a way to continue your education. Promise me you will do that. Will you promise me that?

Of course, I will, Father, she said.

A few short weeks later, Helena was living in a women’s hostel in Vienna and waiting tables at Gruber’s.

It took days for Willie to build up the courage to return to the scene of the crime and ask Helena out for a date. Helena was waiting for him to ask; she was lonesome with no plans for her future and no family to fall back on in hard times.

On Friday evening just before the evening crowd began to descend on the garden, Helena caught sight of Willie standing across the street, watching her as she went about busing tables. Each time she came from the kitchen, he had worked himself closer to the front entrance. She gave no hint of noticing his presence. Finally, as she came out to wipe down the front tables for the third time, he stepped forward.

Miss Edit, my name is Willie, Willie Stein, he said. I got drunk and caused you to spill your tray last Friday. I would like to sincerely apologize for my behavior. I hope that my clumsy drunkenness didn’t get you in any trouble.

No, there was no trouble, just a few broken mugs. Nothing big. Do you drink that much very often? she asked.

No, no; I never get drunk. Well, not very often. We were celebrating. I passed my exams. I’m a certified civil engineer.

What does a civil engineer do?

We build bridges mainly—roads and bridges. Jack of all trades, I guess you would say, he said.

I hope you’re better at building bridges than you are at holding your liquor, she said, smiling.

Me, too. Willie hesitated and put his hands in his pockets. After a long pause, he continued, Would you like to see my favorite of all man-made things?

Why, Mr. Stein, are you asking me for a date?

Well, yes, I guess so. I guess I am. Is that okay? he asked.

Of course, it’s okay, she said.

When do you have a day off?

Sunday. After the lunch hour, about two. I don’t have to be back for work ’till six, she said.

Should I pick you up here or at your place?

Here would be best, she said.

Fine, here it is. Sunday at two.

As Willie walked from the garden, there was a spring in his step. Unlike the stylish men in their fine linen suits, his khaki work pants hung loose from his hips, the frayed cuffs of his pants dragged behind his heels. His coarse cotton shirt was a size too big for comfort and hung over his belted waist. His sandy colored hair was just a little too long in the back—not to make a statement but because of neglect.

Helena knew that her attraction for Willie was for real; she didn’t know why, but she did know.

When Helena told her housemates at the hostel of the Sunday afternoon date with an engineer, they insisted on dressing her up. For two days, they planned and schemed. She only had two work dresses, neither of which was adequate for this first date. One evening was spent altering an old dress that belonged to the proprietor of the hostel. As for makeup and perfume, Helena could honestly say that she had never used either. The girl from Prague who lived upstairs took on Helena’s makeover as a project.

I don’t want to look like I’m going out whoring, Helena said as the girl proposed an especially bright red lipstick. Is there anything more subtle? she asked.

In the end, they had taken a plain, country girl and changed her into a beauty.

Helena wore her regular dress to work for the lunch crowd, and then she changed as the cafe patrons began to thin out. Willie was there promptly at two. His shirt was ironed, his hair was trimmed, and he had on a brightly colored tie. In his right hand, he was carrying a small bouquet of cut flowers. Helena was cleaning one of the front tables when he came into the garden. He walked right by her and asked Gruber if he knew where Helena was.

Gruber smiled, grabbed the boy by the shoulders, and pointed him toward Helena.

Willie was speechless.

Helena walked over and pointed at the flowers. Are those for me? she asked.

He nodded his head.

Are you going to say anything? she asked.

Wow, he said.

You like it. It’s not too much is it? she asked.

No, you’re beautiful, he said, smiling.

Where are we going? Helena asked as they walked toward the canal.

To the park across the river. Have you been there, he asked.

No, not really. I’ve been meaning to go, but it has been cold all winter, and I work a lot.

Well, I’ve got something I want to show you, Willie said. Are you hungry? We could stop and get something to eat if you want.

No, I’m okay. What is it you want to show me?

I want you to see the Ferris wheel, he said.

What’s a Ferris wheel?

Willie had assumed everyone knew about the giant ride in the park. Do you really not know? he asked.

Helena shook her head.

This fellow, Ferris, invented it for the World’s Fair in ninety-four. It’s just amazing. The most wonderful thing is how big it is.

While they were speaking they walked around a corner.

Look over there beyond those trees, and you can see it, Willie said.

As he extolled the virtues of the engineering marvel, Helena stared at the height of the giant contraption. He finally got around to asking, Would you like to take a ride? In his excitement, Willie didn’t wait for her to answer and left to go buy a pair of tickets.

When she was a child, Helena’s father had taught her a trick to overcome fear. He would have her stand on a narrow stool facing into a corner as a way of improving her concentration and will. While Willie went to buy the tickets, she began to focus on the stool in the corner, attempting to steel herself against the fear of falling from the giant wheel. It didn’t work, and she was tempted to tell Willie that she simply could not ascend to those heights. The other problem was that, like her mother before her, she had a weak bladder and was fearful that, even if she didn’t fall to her death during the ride, she would surely pee on herself.

As it happened, neither occurred, even when the cabin they were in came to a stop at the very top of the circle. When the ride was complete and she stepped out of the bucket that had imprisoned her, Helena sighed in relief and swore never to set foot on a Ferris wheel again, even if she did have to admit to being a weak sister; pride was just not worth it.

When Willie took her back to the Garden, he asked, Now, we have been where I wanted to go, where would you like to go?

Helena smiled and pointed into the Beer Garden. Here, she said.

Here?

Yes, here, she said.

But you come here every day. Why here?

Because I want sit at these tables and join into the conversation. I long to sit at the table and discuss the ideas in my head. My father taught me to think and not to accept, to reason and not to follow blindly. He taught me to search for the right path and then take it. I want to be drunk on ideas. You don’t know how lucky you are as a man to have the opportunity to go to school, to have the doors open and be able to go in and choose what you want. Not just to survive or accumulate money and things—that’s unimportant to me—but to have the power to make decisions that affect my life.

Willie stood with his mouth agape; he was enthralled with this boyish little girl. He was a level-headed, clear thinker, an engineer at home with numbers and formulas, a man who found solace in order and form, and here he was falling in love with a political whirlwind.

For Helena, Willie was a touchstone of reality, a solid place to light on. From that day on, they were inseparable.

The first crisis in their relationship occurred in the following winter. Willie was working at one of the local factories, and he hated every minute of his job. On a visit back to his school to check the job board, he ran into one of his favorite professors.

Willie, the man said, there is an American company that’s looking for young engineers to go to the Far East. The representative will be here on Thursday, and I would be happy to give you a recommendation.

Two days later, Willie had an interview and, within two hours, a new job in a place called the Philippines. Prior to the interview he had never heard of the Philippines much less known where they were. The personnel man from McAlexander and Associates, a firm out of Atlanta, Georgia, in the United States, offered him a job building roads, bridges, and schools at three times the money he was making in Austria.

When Willie sat down at his usual table, Helena sensed quickly that something was amiss. What’s the matter? she asked.

I—we—have a problem we need to talk about, he said.

What’s wrong? Did I do something?

No, no. It’s nothing like that. This factory work is not what I went to school to do, he said. My father has spent his life building furniture and homes. The things he built will be here centuries from now. They have his mark. At the foundry, I’m nothing but a cog in a wheel. I won’t spend my life as a passive conduit. A funeral—no matter how sophisticated—is still a funeral, and I don’t want to get to my end and see that I really haven’t added anything. I want to leave a mark. You know, I have been looking for another job, anything but what I’ve been doing.

So what’s the problem, quit your job, move in with me till you find another one, she said.

I’ve already found a new job.

That’s great. So what is the problem? she asked.

It’s in the Philippines.

What are the Philippines?

They’re islands in the Pacific, off the coast of China, he said.

Oh, I see, she said.

And I have to leave in two weeks.

Oh, yes, I see.

For a minute, Helena thought and didn’t say anything. She picked up his beer and took a drink. She set the beer down, looked at Willie, and asked, Can I go?

What do you mean? he asked.

I mean, can I go with you?

You mean you would go with me?

Are you kidding? I would give my eyeteeth to get a chance to travel, she said.

Helena Edit, are you proposing marriage to me? Willie asked, somewhat incredulous.

She smiled. I guess I am. Will you?

Yes, he said as he started to cry. The Stein men cried when they were happy.

The McAlexander firm provided Willie and Helena with wonderful quarters on the outskirts of Manila, leased from the US government. They lived in a beautiful five-room home with a garden and a maid and a houseboy who were at their beck and call. Helena was delighted by being treated as a princess, but at the same time, she was bored.

She applied to teach at the military base school, but she was informed that, since she had no teaching certificate, there was no way that they could allow her to teach on the base. She was referred to the Methodist Mission compound that was just off of the base. It was the stated mission of this group to provide health care and education to the people of the Philippines. They were always in need of teachers and nursing personnel. Even without papers, Helena was welcomed as an additional set of hands.

The compound where Helena worked primarily served the upper class Philippine nationals who were being groomed as the eventual leaders of the future. It was at that compound that she realized that central European Jews weren’t the only people looked down on because of color, nationality, or race.

Helena was assigned to assist a young teacher from Ely, Minnesota. The teacher was ten years older than Helena but naive to the point of being painful. The two became fast friends, Helena taught language to the children and the teacher from Minnesota focused on religion.

Despite the advice of the US authorities and the church, the two women traveled widely in the region around Manila and discovered that the rosy picture of a satisfied population of indigenous peoples ruled over by a benevolent military government was, at best, inaccurate. In the eyes of the general population, people from the United States were no different than the Spanish. They were there to rule the people and to take advantage of them. Except for a few of the powerful politicians at the top, no one believed that the Filipinos would have an opportunity to rule themselves.

Soon, Helena became pregnant with her first child. It was a proud day in the family when she delivered an eight-pound, six-ounce boy. She named him Franz after her father. Two years later, on the sixth day of August, her second son, Jean Louis Stein, was born. She told her work partner that, as a true cosmopolitan woman, she wanted to have four children. Franz would be her German child, Jean Louis her French child, and the last two should be her Spanish and English children.

With the birth of Jean Louis, Helena began a habit that lasted until the children were grown. On Mondays, they spoke only French in the house; on Wednesdays, they spoke only English; on Fridays, they spoke only Spanish, and the rest of the days, they spoke German. In that way, the children grew up fluent in all of the languages.

In early 1914, Helena became pregnant with her third child. At that time, they received word that Willie’s father had suffered a heart attack, and they were needed back in Austria. The young family packed up and prepared for what they thought would be a short visit to Austria. When they arrived in Linz, it was obvious that Willie’s father would survive but be unable to return to work.

Helena delivered her third child, Anna, and within weeks, war broke out, consuming their lives. Willie was drafted into the Austrian army and sent off to rebuild and repair roads and bridges destroyed by the war. Helena and the children began the war living with the Steins in Linz. There were several points of conflict between the two Stein women that had festered for years. The fact that Helena was Jewish was first on Mrs. Stein’s list. The family had a long solid unbroken history of Catholicism and having a Jewish daughter-in-law who had no intention of converting was galling to the elder Stein. To make matters worse, Helena made the decision to keep her own last name with a hyphen—Helena Edit-Stein.

Now that there were children in the picture Mrs. Stein’s focus changed. The conversation with Mother Stein was repeated many times, but the essence was the same.

If these children are going to live in my house, they are going to a real school (by which she meant Catholic school) and to the Church.

Mrs. Stein was adamant about the education of the children.

Mother Stein, I respect you and your feelings, but these are my children, Helena said.

And my grandchildren.

Yes, and your grandchildren, but they are my children, Willie’s and mine. We have agreed that we want them to go to a nonreligious school, Helena said.

Well, if you want my opinion—

And I don’t.

You are ruining these children. They will grow up with no moral compass, the elder