Tears spilled over as I stood in the entry. Arm draped with my coat, my personal funds tucked behind the lining, I gripped the handle of my hastily stuffed bag. This time unable to mouth goodbye, I slipped out the door and into another life.

1943

Chapter 27

Late February 1943

London, England

Much like my move from Amesboro, impulsive yet necessary, my stay in London has been everything and nothing as I expected.

Upon my arrival, I was briefly assigned to a typing pool, perhaps giving the War Office a chance to check my background for any criminal or unpatriotic leanings. Thereafter, utilizing my “unique and innovative skills,” as Christopher Hutton put it, I’ve indeed been tasked with helping save Allied lives—in a secretive manner. As his assistant at Section Nine of Military Intelligence, or MI9, I’m to design escape-and-evasion gadgets for our airmen, POWs, and others covertly fighting for the cause.

Regrettably, my success in doing so has been sorely lacking.

More and more I have to remind myself how, four years ago, my initial months in Chicago were nearly as challenging. In the work arena, the trials and obstacles had similarly taken me by surprise.

That isn’t to say I’d envisioned stage careers back then being handed out on street corners like dailies from paperboys. I’d known times were still rough for many, but the insulation of my Dutch community had left me naive about just how many doors would be slammed in my face: theaters, magic societies, variety agencies. I knocked on them all, even willing to start as a backstage maid if need be. The sole offer I received was for a lewd role in burlesque.

I confess, the despicable option did tempt me as I lay in my cold, grimy tenement, fretting over funds, unable to sleep for the police sirens, passing drunkards, and tenants bellowing through walls as thin as those back in the Copper Country. Curled up in a musty blanket, I would think of Arie and weep until drifting off.

It was after such a night that I stood outside Union Station, performing sleights of hand to four or five onlookers for pocket change, when a pale, heavyset cop descended. The hard bill of his hat shaded his eyes. In lieu of ordering me to clear out, as he’d done on two prior instances, in a faint brogue, he declared my arrest, claiming I’d been warned.

More passersby stopped as he went to the trouble of applying handcuffs. A grandstanding move, it seemed. When he bent to gather my prop bag, a woman gasped and several men chuckled. It took the officer a moment to realize I’d slipped free and was dangling the bindings on a finger.