“Yes.”
“Oh, my, well, I just don’t know what to tell you about finding her but if you do, tell her Jan in the shoe department says hello. She probably won’t remember me but tell her anyway.”
A week later Zofko located a Mrs. Eunice Silvernail in Birmingham, Michigan. She and her sister were now living together in a retirement home. Zofko explained that she was trying to find out information that might give the Internal Revenue Service a clue as to her whereabouts. People were always willing to help if there was money involved. Mrs. Silvernail and her sister sat in the small living room, they all ate cherry pie, and the sisters chatted away about the good old days and showed Zofko the watch Mrs. Silvernail had received from the department store when she had retired. Zofko finally reminded them of the purpose of her visit. Mrs. Silvernail said, “You know, when you called I went back through my things and I thought I had a picture of Miss Chapman; we had employee pictures taken every year. I found the year but she wasn’t in it. I can’t imagine why—maybe she was sick that day. I know she was working there then, and I certainly remember her. What kind of information are you looking for?”
Zofko took another bite of the pie they had put out on the coffee table. “Anything, anything at all you can remember.”
Mrs. Silvernail closed her eyes. “She always wore Shalimar—I know that because I was behind the perfume counter that year, before I moved to lingerie—and she got the employee discount. You know, I’ve worked with so many people, it’s hard to pinpoint details but I do remember that. And she was a pretty woman, had a lovely voice; she worked in Better Dresses. You know, we have a lot of rich women here and they all shopped in her department and I’ll tell you something—she was just as elegant as her customers. More so than some; she held her own.”
Zofko had heard all this before. “Do you know if she had any boyfriends?”
Mrs. Silvernail said, “No, she was not interested in men. I can tell you that for a fact. The owner’s son, Marcus, a good-looking man, had his eye on her and she wouldn’t so much as give him a tumble. He was just crazy about her, followed her home, and found out she had been married and had a child. Begged her to marry him, said he would put a hundred thousand dollars in that child’s name, buy her a house, a car, anything she wanted, just name it, but she just gave him his walking papers. But you know men, if they think they can’t have you, then they go crazy trying to get you. But he never did. Lord, if it had been me, I think I would have married him. I mean, how many chances like that come along? Of course, that was before I met Mr. Silvernail, but she was having no part of it and I don’t mean maybe. And she left shortly after that. I wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t have something to do with why she left. But he finally got married. He married that girl from … handbags, I forget her name, but … that’s all I know.”
A day later Zofko sat in her own apartment eating a bag of Fritos, studying the chart she had made. She was not going to give it up. She read and reread the copies of all the employee records and job applications she had managed to get hold of and this time noticed something she had not caught before. A Lili’s dress shop had been listed in all her references, then suddenly, after 1946, did not appear on any more applications. Why had she left that job out? Could something have happened there that might be the reason she was running? What had happened on that job that she did not want checked? Why had she left? Had she been fired? Maybe for stealing? Maybe for having an affair with a married man? Zofko was hopeful. She went to the New York City library newspaper reference room searching through the 1937 and 1938 advertisements in the New York area and she found it. Lili’s Exclusive dress shop, “clothes for the discriminating woman,” 116 Park Avenue. She went to the city records and looked up the address and the list of owners. It showed that the building at 116 Park had been purchased from a Rickter, William J., and sold to Steiner, Lili Carlotta, in 1935 and sold back again in 1944 to Rickter, William J., the original owner. From there it was easy. She called a woman who worked for the New York Census Department and was on Sidney’s payroll as well and told her to send everything she had on Lili Carlotta Steiner. Then she went back to her office and waited. The information came by messenger. Zofko ripped open the envelope as if it were a bag of M & M’s and devoured the contents with about as much relish:
Steiner, Lili Carlotta
Born: Vienna, Austria, 1893
Moved to New York, resided in Yorkville section at 463 East 85th Street. Owned and operated fashionable dress shop until the time of her arrest. Closely associated with American Nazi Party members and accused of spying and on December 13, 1946, was convicted and served ten years in prison. Died in 1962 at the age of sixty-nine in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
When Capello read the information she handed him, he looked at her. “What can I say? It doesn’t get better than this. You’re the best.” Barbara Zofko was happy. She liked to please her boss.
“How long did she work for Steiner?”
“About eight months.”
Capello nodded. “It’s enough, more than enough. Write it—Hitler, holocaust, death camps, the whole deal.”
Zofko went back to her office, sat down, and knocked out a few sample headlines and phrases:
Dena Nordstrom’s Shameful Nazi Past … mother war criminal … leader of American Nazi bund … Daughter of Nazi spy now in American broadcasting. Mother close friend of Hitler, a source revealed … aided the Nazi cause … Nazi war criminal confesses, names top American broadcaster as the daughter of Nazi spy …
She would finish a full rough draft later. Right now she needed lunch. After all, there was no rush. Nordstrom was not quite a big enough star yet. They had time, time to embellish, add “evidence.” Certainly time for a nice lunch. She deserved a reward, she had worked hard, and she had come up with the nucleus of a great story. It wasn’t airtight, it wasn’t complete, it might not be true, but it would do the job. When she finished, she put it in the file with the rest. This little hand grenade would wait for a time when Sidney Capello decided to pull the pin and throw it at Nordstrom, the all-American girl.
The Banquet
Kansas City, Missouri
1978
After the visit from Barbara, Norma drove all the way to Kansas City to shop in the Plaza for a formal for herself and Aunt Elner. She figured they could rent Macky a tuxedo in Jefferson City. As the capital of the state, they certainly had a rental place but she called and checked anyway, and they did and had several tuxes in Macky’s size. Keeping a secret like this was hard for most people, but it was hell for Norma, who had to practically strangle herself to keep from blurting it out to Macky. She was terrified that she might talk in her sleep and she had promised Barbara that she would not breathe a word about it to anybody.
Every day she scoured the papers, looking for the announcement that Dena had been named Missouri Woman of the Year. And every morning she grabbed the mail hoping the banquet invitation would be there.
After several months she began to wonder if maybe they had made the announcement and somehow it had not made the Elmwood Springs paper, so she decided to check. She called the governor’s office in Jefferson City and asked to speak to Barbara. The voice on the other end said, “Do you have a last name?”
“No, but she works for the governor.”
“In what capacity?”
Careful not to give anything away, she answered, “She’s in charge of awards.”
“I don’t know who that would be, ma’am.”
“Oh. She didn’t tell me her last name. Who’s in charge of banquets?”
“Catering?”
“No, of writing up the programs.”
“I don’t know who that would be, ma’am.”
“Well, do you have anybody named Barbara working there?”
A pause. “Ma’am, I’m going to connect you with Public Relations. I have a Barbara Thomas listed.”
“Is she a heavyset girl?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, I’m
just the switchboard operator.”
Someone answered, “Public relations.”
“May I please speak to Barbara.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Ohh, if you don’t mind, I don’t think I can tell you.…”
“Hold on.”
A woman picked up. “Hello. This is Barbara.”
Norma whispered, “Barbara … is that you?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s this?”
“It’s me, the lady in Elmwood Springs. You know, the relative of … you know who.”
“I’m sorry. Who is this?”
“Is there anybody else on the line? Can I speak freely?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Norma Warren, the cousin of you know who, in Elmwood Springs.”
“Where?”
“Elmwood Springs. You paid me a little visit about six months ago.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never—”
“Yes, don’t you remember—about the—” and Norma spelled out A-W-A-R-D.
“What award?”
“Don’t you remember coming about the bio?”
“I’m afraid you must have the wrong person.”
“Are you a heavyset girl with black hair?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, do you know a heavyset girl with black hair named Barbara?”
“No.”
“She works there. She’s in charge of the big banquet.”
“What big banquet?”
“Well, if you don’t know, I can’t say. Would you put me back to the operator? I seem to have the wrong Barbara. Sorry. And please don’t mention that I called.”
“I won’t.”
Norma spoke to the only other Barbara who worked in the governor’s office but she was not the right one either. Norma was completely confused. She called Aunt Elner and asked if a woman named Barbara had ever come to her house.
Aunt Elner, also sworn to secrecy, answered cautiously.
“Who wants to know?”
“I do.”
“Well, I can’t tell you; all I can tell you is that don’t be surprised if you get an invitation in the mail any day now and that’s all I can say on the subject.”
Aunt Elner and Norma both waited and waited but nothing ever came.
Marion Chapman
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1954
The La Salle Dress Shop in Philadelphia, where Dena’s mother now worked, was unlisted in the phone book. Those who needed to know the number knew it. Under its long blue and white canopy strolled customers who peopled the best homes, schools, and clubs in Philadelphia, the Main Line, Palm Beach, or wherever they happened to be. Mrs. Robert Porter, one such customer who wanted and could well afford only the best, always insisted that Miss Chapman was to wait on her. She had picked Chapman out from the first as a woman who knew what she was doing. Today, Mrs. Porter was seated on the edge of a large round tufted ottoman in the center of the mirrored showroom, choosing a wardrobe for a daughter-in-law’s trip to Europe. As always, she was impeccably dressed in a black designer suit that showed off her small, neat figure to best advantage. Her thin, black, T-strap shoes called attention to the fact that although she was in her early seventies, she still had the legs and perfectly shaped ankles of good ancestry and the very rich.
As her daughter-in-law, Margo, modeled each outfit, selected by Miss Chapman, Mrs. Porter approved by a simple nod. She was really more interested in studying Miss Chapman, something she had been doing for some time now. It began when her middle son, Gamble, who was at present between marriages, started to pursue Marion Chapman but to no avail. Over the ensuing weeks Mrs. Porter had observed that Miss Chapman handled herself very well indeed at all times. She was never overly friendly, always pleasant, but still there was always something slightly reserved, slightly removed about her. She was a tall, extremely attractive woman with flawless, almost porcelain skin, and wore her light auburn hair in an upsweep that emphasized an aquiline nose and a perfect profile. At first glance she had the exact look of the professional woman, but upon closer inspection, the one feature that did not fit the picture of the cool, emotionless saleslady was her eyes. There was something in her eyes that told another story. A certain expression, a sadness, almost a preoccupation with something that had nothing to do with the present.
After her daughter-in-law had finished her fitting, Mrs. Porter said, “Margo, wait in the car for me, will you? I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
When Margo left, Mrs. Porter patted the space beside her on the ottoman. “Miss Chapman, sit down. I’d like to talk to you.”
Miss Chapman seemed rather reluctant. “Mrs. Porter, if this is about Gamble, I can assure you—”
Mrs. Porter waved her hand. “No, of course not. You are perfectly right to stay away from him. He’s a fool where women are concerned. On the contrary, I’m surprised he had the good sense to go after you. Most of his women are brainless.” She snapped open her cigarette case and placed a cigarette in a small black cigarette holder and lit it. Miss Chapman sat down. “Is it about the clothes? Is—”
Mrs. Porter interrupted again. “The clothes are excellent. Margo is a big girl and you did a magnificent job of minimizing it. No, it’s you I want to talk about.”
A look of alarm crossed Miss Chapman’s face but she did not flinch. Mrs. Porter took a drag from her cigarette, turned and blew it out the other side, then looked at Miss Chapman squarely. She said, matter of factly, “Miss Chapman, I’m too old and too rich to beat around the bush. Why are you here?”
Miss Chapman blinked. “Pardon me?”
“You don’t belong here. I know it and you know it. I’ve been watching you for quite some time now. And frankly, you fascinate me. You’re no ordinary shop girl; nobody speaks French like you do on a high school education. It’s obvious you have breeding so don’t try to tell me your parents were just plain working folks. I raise horses, Miss Chapman, and I can spot a Thoroughbred a mile away.”
Miss Porter saw her blush. “Please don’t misunderstand, I would never presume to pry into your personal life; I find that sort of thing distasteful. But this much I do know. You could probably have any man in town if you wanted him, but maybe you don’t want a man, for whatever reason; I couldn’t care less. But in the meantime I also know you have a daughter to raise. I also know what they pay you here and it can’t be easy.” She took another drag of her cigarette. “What I am proposing is this. I have plenty of money and God knows I have clout and contacts. Let me buy you a shop of your own. Anywhere you want, that’s up to you, but at least allow me to put you in a position where you are not working for somebody else.”
Miss Chapman looked concerned.
“And you needn’t worry that this has anything at all to do with my son; this is strictly between you and me. You have talent, style, and you know your business. There is no good reason on earth you shouldn’t have your own shop. I’m sure in a matter of a few years you could be very comfortable. There are enough clotheshorses in my family alone to keep you busy.”
Miss Chapman looked as if she were about to speak but Mrs. Porter stopped her. “Don’t decide today. Take some time to think it over. You can give me your answer at the end of the week.” She removed her cigarette from the holder and crushed it out in the large crystal ashtray between them. “But I’ll tell you as I would tell one of my own daughters. Don’t be foolish and not accept my offer. You can pay me back or not. It doesn’t matter.”
Marion Chapman was still rattled as she hung up clothes in the dressing room. Of all her customers, she had always liked Mrs. Porter more than most, but this proposal had caught her off guard. Dealing with Gamble had been tricky, but she had handled such situations before. This was different. Maybe it was because there was something about Mrs. Porter that she trusted, that even allowed her to entertain the idea. If only she could. It would mean a new life, security; she would be able to do so many more things for Dena, buy her anythin
g she wanted. It would give her a chance to get them out of those seedy apartment hotels. They could have a lovely home, a place where Dena could bring her friends.
When she got home from work that night, Dena was in the lobby waiting for her. They went to dinner around the corner at a small restaurant, and Dena asked what was wrong, what she was thinking about. But she said, “Nothing, honey, I’m just tired, that’s all.” After they came home and she put Dena to bed on the sofa in the living room, Marion Chapman sat across the room in the dark and watched her daughter as she slept.
The streetlight shining in the window bathed Dena in an almost silver glow and she could see her hair and white skin. Lately she had begun to see a lot more of her father in her. She looked more and more like Gene every day, same blue eyes, same hair. As she sat and smoked in the dark, her mind drifted back to 1943 and San Francisco. A girl who worked with her was dating a marine, and his friend had apparently seen her through the window and was dying to meet her, but that year the town was crawling with boys desperate to get a date before they were shipped out, and she was not interested. But the girl badgered her for weeks to at least meet him and finally, as a way of getting the girl to leave her alone, she agreed to meet him at the Top of the Mark for one drink and one drink only. That night when she got off the elevator at the Mark he was standing there waiting for her holding a cellophane-wrapped box, tied with a purple ribbon, containing an orchid. “Miss Chapman, I’m Gene Nordstrom,” he said. “I didn’t know what to buy; the lady at the flower shop said you might like this.”
He was certainly not what she had expected. He looked as if he had just stepped off a marine recruiting poster. He was at least six foot three with blue eyes and white-blond hair. The place was packed with servicemen and their girls, and they had to fight their way through the crowd to get to their table by the window. He said, “I hope this is all right. I got here early to get a really good one. I’ve been here for a couple of hours; this place fills up fast.”