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Back The Radio Operator Save as PDF
Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. Acknowledgments
  40. Bibliography
  41. A Note from the Translator
  42. About the Author
  43. About the Publisher

She laughed and seemed very young all of a sudden. The voice was hard to read, but he liked it. It had a glamour to it, and as a way of getting her to speak more, he asked about her equipment. For a receiver she used a Hallicrafters, a Super Skyrider. She asked about his setup, and for a while they talked about antennas, something he’d never done with a woman before. Her voice was warm and inviting. His body, rigid from the strain of being around the men, seemed to relax. He’d have liked to talk about something personal with her, but that wouldn’t do; others could hear them.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

It was his turn to speak. “I’m still here.” A pause set in, then he wished her a good night—“Till next time, W2DKJ.”

“Lauren,” she said. “My name’s Lauren.”

8

New York, February 1939

BLUE TWILIGHT DESCENDED OVER THE CITY. THE LIGHTS came on around Madison Square Garden, a yellow glow from inside the office towers flowed out into the sky, and there he stood, minuscule, on the pavement down below, and looked for Schmuederrich.

He had a hard time getting his bearings. The demonstrators shouted, “Boycott Nazi Germany!” The policemen kept forcing them back, nightsticks dangling from their belts. The police horses reared up. The demonstrators briefly retreated, their banners hanging crooked in the air, FASCISTS OUT fluttering above their faces as the horses were illuminated in the flashes of the photographers’ cameras.

The sirens grew louder, the chants swelled: “Boycott Nazi Germany!” He now saw men with bloody lips, men stuffing their shirttails back in their pants.

He felt a blow on his shoulder and spun around in a panic. Schmuederrich stood behind him. He wore the military uniform of the German American Bund and pointed, breathing heavily, to the entrance to the stadium. They fought their way through the people, ads for Pepsi-Cola, Planters peanuts, and Chevrolet blinking overhead. “Bloody bastard,” someone shouted. “Go to hell!” Schmuederrich shouted back. A new chant started up—“Go home, kraut!”—and this one was addressed at them.

Schmuederrich shook his head. “There, up ahead, they’ll let us in. They know me. Don’t dawdle now, little man.”