Service

by Hughston P.

The clock now reads 3:42. I stare curiously at the circular device on my wrist, and wonder how I should play this one out. Standard protocol of all CIA agents is to wait no longer than fifteen minutes at a meeting point. I technically should wait another three minutes; however, this interview is a little more meaningful to me. Jerome Robinson was a citizen of the United States, yet left the country for Norway about a decade ago. Because of that, I am about as interested in him as he is in me. Colleagues speak of Robinson as a master of his work, a man who picks apart every detail. This is why the Manhattan Project wants him, and this is why I am in this dreadfully cold country of Norway.

Moe Berg, before he became a spy

The dial has now spun its way around to tell me it is now 3:45. So how will I play this? Nazi patrols slowly vanish around the corner of two streets. I have been watching and timing them for a while now and know it will take them two to three minutes to make their round around the block. I know if they come around and see me still waiting, they’ll get suspicious. I’ll give Robinson two more minutes. I scan the horizon of this gloomy town. The musty streets are sprayed with a few dim people. A handful of kids race after a dusty soccer ball. It seems that my job has shown me this scene a thousand times. It is as if this is the outlook of most every European suburb.

Then I see him, a man bundled tightly with a coat, pacing quickly down the sidewalk. Even against the dull background and skyline, Jerome Robinson stands out purely off his skin color. People cock their heads in his direction yet he pays them no attention; he plows through the street with his eyes locked on me. When Jerome finally reaches me there is a look of regret written all across his face.

Jerome steadies himself, and then codes to me, “Do you know where the nearest pastry shop is?”

“I’ll walk you there,” I reply.

With that we take off down the road. Jerome starts the conversation quickly, saying, “Sorry about being late. I think the patrol were suspicious of me. I was waiting for them to leave.”

“Listen, I don’t care. We don’t have much time, are you in or not? The Manhattan Project needs you. We can double what your salary is now and pay for the move.”

“You see, money isn’t the problem, it’s the United States,” he silences me.

“What do you mean?” I reply, in shock. “It’s the greatest country that lies on the earth. This tundra isn’t half of it. The United States is the land of the free and the home of the brave,” I state with pride in my country, which has treated me just as well as I have treated it.

“Yet that land is no longer free.” He shivers as the wind picks up.

“What do you mean? That’s ridiculous,” I huff.

Then he yells, “Look at me, I’m black! I’ll never know what the spoils of a white man are like, just like you’ll never know what the pain of being a black man is like.”

I’m stunned; I don’t know what to say. What do you say? But before I can compose myself he continues, “Have you ever been told that you can’t sit in that seat, eat in that diner, use that restroom, or even swim in that pool all because of the color of your skin? That’s the entire reason I left that nightmare of a country.”

He’s so right, and I’m so wrong. I know there’s nothing I can say to convince him to work in the Manhattan Project, and quite frankly there’s nothing I can say to convince myself he should work there. All I can form to tell him is that we need him and to think over the offer. However, I know he won’t. We finish our round through the town dodging patrols, and then we part.

On my walk back to the hotel I can’t stop thinking of what it’s like for them in America. I don’t know why this is bothering me now. It had never before in my life, not before the Office of Strategic Service recruited me, not before I was Moe Berg, catcher of the Boston Red Sox, and never in my childhood. I was around segregation in my life yet I had never really cared. I just went with the flow; they had never affected me, so why should I care? However, right now I do, and sympathy is overwhelming me, and I can’t help but feel guilty. Yet what for? It isn’t my fault Negroes are treated this way. But I know I am part of the cause, and a memory stands blazing in my head. I can’t shake it from my mind, and then all of a sudden I am in it.

*****

“Hey Moe!” squawks Skippy from around the corner. He enters the room; he has his right sleeve rolled up, and ice is tied and dripping down his arm. “Hey, great job behind the dish today, kid.”

“Don’t mention it. It was a good win for the team,” I reply.   

“Yep,” he continues. “Well me and the boys got something goin’ around and I want you to sign it.”

“Wait a minute, you know I don’t sign nothin’ without a reason, so what’s up?” I respond.

“Yeah I know, well you see Toledo just signed some Negro,” answers Skip.

“Yeah I heard, ain’t his name Fleetwood Walker? Some name,” I add.

“Yeah that’s his name, but me and the boys wanna send him back to his Negro league as fast as he got here. So we got a petition goin’ round and I want to you to sign it,” he states.

“I don’t know,” I stall. “You see, I just got in this league and I don’t wanna get in no trouble.”

“Come on Moe, it’s a disgrace to the game,” he retorts.

“Oh all right, I guess, gimme a pen,” I squirm.

I scrawl my name across and pray this won’t come back to haunt me.

*****

“Key 42 please,” I translate into Swedish, and ask the front desk of the town hotel.

“Mr. Jonathan Morris, you have a letter sir,” he replies, in Swedish, to my cover name.

“Oh,” I reply. He hands it to me, and with American and government stamps, I know who it’s from. I turn over the crisp white envelope and then head towards my room. I trudge along on the stairs to my room, which lies on the top floor of the building. On the way I continue to think about that memory. It painfully makes sense, though; who cares about the color of your skin, especially in baseball? Base hits and runs don’t have color.

When I finish my climb I push through the doorway and then into the hallway. There I search, and find Room 42. I open my door and then find my bed and then collapse onto it. Today has taken a toll on me physically and mentally. I fumble open the envelope and read the print lying on the page. It states:

Morris Berg,

You are to abandon your current post and advance on to a new mandatory station in Zurich, Germany. There you must attend the lecture hosted by Werner Heisenberg. Your orders are to figure out how close the German Uranium Project is to completion of an atomic bomb. If convinced that the Germans lie close, you are ordered to kill Werner Heisenberg. Time is of the essence; fight for your country,

OSS

Along with this letter lies money and a ticket for the 2:35 ferry from Gothenburg to Kiel. I put down the envelope, set my alarm clock, and then fall asleep.

The next day I awaken to the constant ringing of the alarm clock. I gather my bag, then race out the door. I sign out in good time and then take off for the bus station. By the time I purchase my ticket, the bus rolls in. I find a window seat behind the bus driver and then we set off for Gothenburg. The ride is a quiet, long, bumpy one. Nevertheless, we make it to Gothenburg harbor by 2:20. I climb out of the bus and then onto the ferry.

The ship is crammed. It is a small vessel with too many passengers. I keep my stuff with me and make do for the long ship ride. The trip stretches on for hours; the waves give the ship a constant rhythmic rocking. The light side to side lurching is enough to make a man ill and thus hold its victims. I, however, am not bothered and within no time am in a half sleep state, which consists of my eyes breaking open to only shut and doze again in a long cycle.

When the ship finally anchors into the Kiel harbor, I am awake and standing out of my seat, which has formed as my make-shift bed. I’m now ready for the final and longest leg of my journey, in which I will take a long train ride from Kiel to Zurich. Kiel is a city that lies on the north side of Germany. To get to Zurich, a city that lies on the south side of Germany, I will travel through the country.

I walk from the harbor to the station and find myself gazing at the depressing scenery. This is a city that had taken a heavy brunt of the Allied bombings. Kiel is a living graveyard. Dangerously thin children are huddling for warmth. Families are crawling and struggling to live in alleyways; the homeless are dodging and hiding from patrols. The people look as if they haven’t eaten in weeks. It’s a chilling sight and not just because of the cold. These people are dying. Children who will only get to live a small fraction of life and are living it in misery. Parents are having to watch their families starve. These families are fighting the war just as much as the soldiers. These people are paying for what their leaders decide. The Allied forces are bombing the wrong people.

When I made it through my haunting walk, and arrive at the station, I quietly get my ticket and get onto the train. The train doesn’t seem to leave this horror fast enough. However, when we are on our way I can’t relax, not after what I’ve seen. These are horrors that the news will never dare talk about, and Americans will never know about. Yet why not? I ask myself. Why don’t people know just how their country is fighting?

The train ride lulls on, yet I just stare out the window, not knowing what to think. So I distract myself by going over a plan to get Heisenberg to tell me how far the Germans are. It will be difficult but I’m going to have to figure out something. Hours drag on and the plotting has exhausted me, and I finally surrender into a deep sleep.

“Hissss...”

My eyes fly open. I look around in panic, yet am relieved by the common sight of people getting up and beginning to leave. I slowly find my way up, my heart still pounding, and then work my way out of the cabin.

Once I find my way out of the train station, I step out into the darkness of the night. I look down at my watch, which through the help of the moonlight tells me it is 12:33. I wander through the streets searching for somewhere to spend the night. It takes me a while but I eventually do. I pool my money together and get Room 22. I find my way to it and collapse onto the bed.

When daylight finally inches me awake, it’s 10:00 in the morning. I start the day finding something to eat; it feels like I haven’t eaten in days. After that I return to my room, where I prepare myself for Werner Heisenberg’s lecture.

I leave the hotel with plenty of time and arrive at the conference early. I find myself a desk and wait for the lecture to begin. More students, teachers, and scientists of all fields filter in after me. However, the crowd is relatively small. When Heisenberg makes his entrance he is greeted by a room of applause. Then, with no introduction, Heisenberg just does science, and I am completely lost. The man makes sketches on a chalkboard, makes equations, and mixes bottles. Even when I know nothing about what he’s talking about I can tell he’s a genius. You can easily tell by the Oo’s, and Ah’s, and the Wow’s, and the occasional Oh My God’s. He’s blowing his crowd’s mind. I just try to keep up with these crowd reactions so I don’t stand out too much. One advantage of this is that I do get time to think over my plan and compose myself for when I talk to Heisenberg.

Heisenberg goes on for hours; however, he honors his time slot. When he is over he ends abruptly in his science, and then packs up his stuff. The crowd then merely disperses; some come up to him and ask questions, others just leave. I, however, stay and wait for him to leave. I chase up behind him and then walk home with him. This is where we start.

“Wow, that was amazing!” I tell Heisenberg.

“Well anyone can do it, but they just have to get creative, and think in ways they haven’t before,” he encourages as he’s supposed to.

“No, not anyone,” I praise. “You’re something special. You work for the Uranium Project, right?”

“Yeah,” he claims suspiciously. My hand touches my gun in my coat.

“Do you think it’s really possible, though, to build the bomb?” I ask innocently. But Heisenberg doesn’t buy it.

“Look, I know you’re a spy, so give up the act,” he retorts. I slow, a little stunned, yet I still try to keep up my cover. But he’s on to me, and I feel my fingers grip around my gun.

“So what do you want to know? How close we are?” he states, in outrage. “We still need to find a successful mediator of the neutrons in the chain reaction, as the heavy water is low in supply. Then manufacturing of Uranium 238 takes months at a time and our design can still be more effective,” he continues. “So in short, we’ve hardly started, but you don’t want the bomb,” he reasons. “Discovering the bomb is like releasing a demon from hell. It shows loyalty to no one and its only real goal is to kill. America may be the first to drop the bomb but they won’t be the last. You think it will be your killing savior. You drop one on somebody, and they’ll drop it right back on you. Nuclear warfare will poison the air you breathe; it will kill the earth and all of its inhabitants.”

I’m stunned. What do I say? What can I say? He’s so right, and I’m so wrong. Who do I believe in and who do I fight for? Which country will serve me as well as I serve it?