The Traveling Companion

Chapter 1 – Wednesday, May 2, 1945, Morning

The war pushed the city of Amsterdam into hiding—the surviving Jews, the Resistance, the striking rail workers, and the meager remnant of the Dutch troops. They hid in closets, under floors, and in attics; a few of us hid quietly in the shadows.

As the sun rose, the tulip fields shook off the morning chill, though the rest of us in Amsterdam shivered to our bones. Canadian forces had liberated parts of Holland, but we still waited for the Allies to march through our streets and free us from Nazi occupation.

I’d heard whispers last night at the club—a high-ranking officer of the Third Reich was dead. Some said by his own hand. I dared not hope; I’d heard rumors before.

A bicycle bell zinged at the gate in what once was a sturdy stone wall in front of my little townhome, and I pulled on my threadbare grey coat to see what the boy had for me.

“You must have wealthy friends, miss. You have a telegram.” The boy beamed with teeth too white and ground down from eating things that were not food.

My numb fingertips searched my pockets for something to give him. I found a two-and-a-half-cent coin, which might have been pure gold by the look on his face. “No, miss. I couldn’t.” He held it on his palm as though he was afraid to close his fingers over it.

“It’s for your mother, then.” I took the envelope from him and wrapped my hand around his. “Take it home to her.”

“Thank you, miss.” And with another zing on his bell, the boy wheeled away.

Turning back to the weathered green façade of my building, I saw Mrs. Dahlia Lundt at her window next door. I waved and offered a smile through chattering teeth.

The elderly widow raised her sash and leaned over her sill. “Good afternoon, Penny.” Her posh British accent reminded me of home. “I made biscuits for tea, so I’m running a bit late. I’ll be over in half an hour.” She glanced toward my telegram. “Not bad news, I hope.”

I shook my head. “I don’t expect so. See you soon.”

Inside, I pulled the butter knife from the jar on the table—I hadn’t used it for anything in over a month—and slid the dull blade down the fold of my missive.

MOTHER NEEDS YOU HOME.

My fingers trembled from something other than the cold. I knew what the message meant. I was going back to London. It also meant I would see Jack Vogel tonight.

Without thinking, I peered into the little mirror on the wall over my washbasin. I pinched my cheeks and wished for something to blush my lips. The bare bulb lighting the cloakroom at the club eked out the dimmest glow—maybe Jack wouldn’t notice my pallid complexion. He’d have to speak to me. Wouldn’t he?

Was I to finish my work here before I left or drop everything? Would he provide a way home, or was it up to me? I’d know for sure in a few hours.

I hung my coat on its hook and put on the kettle. I measured the tea leaves into the infuser as giddiness overtook me. I wouldn’t have to ration my tea anymore; I decided to be lavish with today’s serving. Mrs. Lundt and I would enjoy ourselves.

I tidied my room for company, fluffing the pancake-flat bed pillow and smoothing the coverlet. I picked up the book on my night table and pulled the torn strip of paper from between the pages. I read the name for the thousandth time. Yann Kohler. When I’d first received the note, the page had been longer, with five names above Herr Kohler’s. It had taken me almost a year to find the others. Kohler was the last man left. And now I wondered what I was supposed to do about that.

“Knock-knock,” Mrs. Lundt sang without knocking.

I dropped the strip of paper into my bra before I opened the door for the woman. She smiled sweetly, hugging her tea towel-wrapped parcel of biscuits to her small bosom.

“Come inside and sit near the stove. I’m afraid this spring will never warm up.” I directed her to the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Nonsense,” she chimed, unfolding the napkin of sweets over a plate. “Before we know it, we’ll be glowing from the heat of summer.”

An almost-forgotten aroma floated to my nose, rousing my attention. “Sugar?” I blinked as the tiny woman beamed at me. “How did you manage sugar?”

Her eyes twinkled, and she sat down with a quiet sigh. “You should know better than to ask questions like that. The proper response is a gracious thank you.”

I dipped my chin. “Thank you.” With a quick sweep of my towel, I poured two cups of tea and placed them on either side of the plate of biscuits. “Are we celebrating something?”

“Certainly,” the old woman said, holding her cup under her nose. “Didn’t you hear? That horrid little man is dead. The war will be over soon.”

“Who?”

“Hitler. It was in the newspaper this morning.” Mrs. Lundt crinkled her nose, which had been the last inch of her face that wasn’t wrinkled.

A wave of relief washed over me. I almost laughed that she called the underground reports the newspaper and that she called Hitler little, as she was no more than four-foot-ten.

“Then it is a celebration.” We clinked our mismatched teacups together and sipped our drinks. I forced myself to smile when I lowered the cup from my lips. I would miss my tea parties with Mrs. Lundt. She was my one real friend in Amsterdam. Apart from Jack.

“Oh, my! And at a time like this. I hope it’s not ill health.” The woman’s voice dripped with sadness.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I didn’t mean to spy, but I couldn’t help but see the message in your open telegram. I hope your mother isn’t ill.” Dahlia pressed her gnarled fingers over her heart.

Glancing down at the open telegram, I shook my head. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. She’s probably heard most of the country is out from under the Nazi’s grip. She’ll want me back under her wing as soon as possible.”

“And is she in London?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sipped a little more. “I’ll be working my way back when I’m able.”

Mrs. Lundt bobbled her head. “I suppose I should go back home soon as well. Amsterdam is a good home when you have a family, but now I’m all alone—well, especially without you to look after.” She picked up the plate with her frail, trembling hand. “Please, have one. It’s still tulip flour, but the sugar is real.”

“Thank you.” The dainty tea cake was the most decadent thing I’d eaten in a year. The sugar erased the bland, grainy, non-flavor of ground tulip bulbs. “These are lovely, Mrs. Lundt.”

“Oh, Penny. We shan’t have many more afternoons together. Please call me Dahlia. Nobody ever calls me Dahlia anymore.” She wrapped her fragile fingers around mine. “Please.”

“It would be my honor, Dahlia.”

After finishing our little celebration, Dahlia hopped to her feet in a sudden burst of energy. “I must be going now. So many things to do.” Her silver-white hair rose into a neat little knot atop her head, and she patted the sides of her coif as though she’d lost something within it.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, my dear.” She rested her finger on her chin. “I have an idea, but I don’t want to speak it before I’m sure.” She skittered to the door. “I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow. You’re not leaving tonight, are you?”

“Of course not. How could I?” I walked her to the front stoop, folding her towel and tucking it into her shaking hands. “I have to go to work tonight, and tomorrow I’ll have to look into passage by train or boat or such.”

Dahlia’s face pinched. “Oh, please, not by boat if you can help it. I’d worry for you. My first husband died at sea.”

“Not by boat, then.” I squeezed her hand for assurance.

“And promise me you won’t purchase tickets until after we speak again. Promise?”

I agreed and watched her walk across the narrow garden and back inside her home. “Now for tonight,” I said to myself as I retreated to the meager warmth of my little hovel. I took my work dress from its peg and spread it across my cleared table. Covering the skirt with a tea towel, I used my kettle as an iron to press out the wrinkles around the hem. I had to look my best for Jack.

Pulling my house dress over my head and off, a flutter of white fell to the floor. The scrap of paper with the name. Kohler.

The last one left to kill.

Soon the club buzzed with patrons, all whispering about Hitler’s death as if saying the words aloud would bring fiery wrath down on their heads. Most of the officers scoffed at the idea of Germany’s surrender, though they all wanted to settle debts between themselves discreetly.

My job was simple. Take guests’ coats, hats, and bags and tag them, giving each piece a claim check. Afterward, I carefully hung each jacket and shelved each hat and bag. When the guest was ready to leave, I retrieved their items, matching the check numbers.

I offered compliments, especially to the regulars, and thanked guests for their patronage. The guests who still had any money at the end of the night often offered a small tip.

It was, for me, the ideal job. I could be as visible or invisible as I liked.

“Good evening, Herr Schwartz. How good it is to see you tonight. And how well you look.” A wool overcoat, scarf, and hat.

I slipped the coat over the wood hanger and wrapped the scarf over the shoulders, around the collar, and under the lapels. My fingers smoothed out the fabric to prevent creasing. Nothing in the outside coat pockets. A card or note in the inside breast pocket—I’d inspect it later. I used a stiff lint brush on the hat as I placed it over the mushroom stand inside the cubby. Nothing hidden in the outer hat band, crown, or inner band. Clean.

Next, I regarded the woman. “Lovely to see you again, miss. What a beautiful dress. And wherever did you find such a clever hat? Yes, it does flatter your eyes.” One mohair coat with tortoise buttons. One hat. Cotton gloves in the coat pockets. Last week’s claim check in the inner brim of the hat.

Maddock didn’t abide laziness, and I became adept at looking busy. When I wasn’t checking a coat or bag, I worked with the lint brush on the coats or pushed a lemon-oil cloth over the shelves. I used my body to shield my true actions from the attention of the room.

Herr Schwartz had a meeting on Thursday morning, tomorrow, at eleven o’clock with someone named Brumstead. I had the information copied and the original note replaced in less than ten seconds. I slipped my copy into my bra and prayed it wouldn’t fall out before I needed it.

I was tucking my fourth such note into my bosom when a familiar voice floated through the front door.

“See, Alice? We’re not late.” Jack Vogel strode into the room with his secretary on his elbow. “Let’s get our things off and get inside. You can order whatever drink you like.”

The couple might have stepped off the cover of Photoplay Magazine. Jack was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, and he carried himself with the poise of Cary Grant or Gary Cooper. Alice flaunted honey gold hair, full rosy lips, and an hourglass figure that seemed out of place in a city on the brink of starvation. I hated her and wanted to be her at the same time.

Jack was out of his overcoat and helping Alice out of hers within seconds. I flashed a smile as I took coats and hung them up without small talk. I had their claim checks ready before Alice had her hat off. She was still checking her lipstick and stocking seams in the cheval mirror on the stand near the door when Jack took the check stubs and shoved them into his trouser pockets.

“Let’s go.” He hurried Alice. “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.” Jack had barely made eye contact before rushing Alice into the main clubroom.

Though I longed to exchange a meaningful glance with him, I knew it was a bad idea. His brown eyes mesmerized me, and I was sure he could read much more in my face than I wanted him to know.

Wasting no time, I tucked all four copied notes into the hidden pocket beneath Jack’s right lapel. Beneath his left lapel, I found the message with my instructions.

LEß15M-PAT-BAPI

I understood immediately. I must be in London, England, before May fifteenth—two weeks. PAT was me, Penelope Ann Tompkins, meaning I was on my own for travel. BAPI meant I was to belay all prior instructions.

That answered my questions. I was to let Herr Kohler live.