Hitler's peace

I thought about my previous day’s conversation on the subject of “What is philosophy?”

“I don’t know. Agent Rauff seems quite intelligent,” I said, recalling one of their names. And then another. “Pawlikowski isn’t such a bad guy.”

“For a Polack,” laughed Schmidt.

“You got something against Polacks?” I asked.

“Me, I’m German, like you,” replied Schmidt. “We’ve got something against nearly everyone.”

XIV

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1943,

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

When I awoke the next morning, I was surprised to find that Ted Schmidt was already up and gone from the cabin.

After a shower and a shave, I went along to the mess room, expecting to find him enjoying a plate of ham and eggs. I was disquieted for a moment at not finding him there, but told myself it was a big ship and Schmidt was probably up on deck, clearing his head in the fresh air. Disquiet turned to concern when, after a leisurely breakfast and a walk with Harry Hopkins on deck, I returned to the cabin to find Schmidt was still not there. I began a one-man search that included everything from the pilot’s house to the first-aid room and the main deck, fore and aft. Then I went to tell Captain McCrea that Ted Schmidt was missing.

McCrea, a career navy officer from Michigan who had seen action during the First World War, was also a lawyer and possessed of a lawyer’s cool head.

“I ought to add that he’d been drinking, quite heavily. So it’s just possible that he’s sleeping it off in some quiet corner of the ship I don’t know about.”

The captain heard me out with the air of a defense attorney listening to a particularly implausible story offered by his client, and then ordered his executive officer to organize an immediate search of the ship.

“Can I help?” I offered.

Containing his now very evident dislike of me, McCrea shook his head.

“It might be best if you waited in your cabin, just in case he shows up there. Which I’m sure he will. This is a big ship. I get lost myself sometimes.”

I went back to my cabin and lay down on my bunk, trying not to dwell on the thought that was uppermost in my mind: the vague possibility that Schmidt might have committed suicide. On a ship where the men manning the guns carried derringers to avoid being drowned like rats in their gun turrets, love and jealousy might have seemed rather old-fashioned, unmanly reasons for killing yourself. But I could hardly deny their devastating effect on poor Ted Schmidt. And while I had already rejected the idea of self-slaughter for myself, I didn’t know him well enough to assess whether he was the type to kill himself. Assuming that there was such a thing as a type.

Restless, I got up and searched Schmidt’s luggage for a clue as to what might have happened. Some kind of note or letter was usually considered customary. There was a letter. But it wasn’t from Ted. Inside a brown leather address book, I found the letter from Schmidt’s wife, Debbie, telling Ted about her affair with Thornton Cole and informing him that she was leaving him. I pocketed the letter, intending to give it to Captain McCrea if the search failed to find Schmidt on board.

Just before midday, when the search had been going on for almost two hours, there was a knock at the door and a sailor came in and saluted. He looked about twelve years old.

“The captain’s compliments, sir. He’d like you to join him in his cabin.”

“Right away,” I said and, grabbing my coat, followed the young sailor forward. “No sign of Mr. Schmidt, I assume?”

But the boy merely shrugged and said he didn’t know.

I found the captain with the chief petty officer and Agents Qualter, Rowley, Rauff, and Pawlikowski. Their somber expressions told me the worst. McCrea cleared his throat and rose slightly on his well-polished toes as he spoke.

“We’ve searched the Big Stick from bow to stern and there’s no sign of him. It’s even money Schmidt went overboard.”

“Are we stopping the ship? I mean, if he has gone overboard, we ought to search for him, the way we did for the sailor on the Willie D. ”

The captain and the CPO exchange a weary look.

“When did you last see Mr. Schmidt?” asked McCrea.

“Around ten o’clock last night. I turned in immediately after dinner. What with all this sea air, I was bushed. And a little drunk, probably. Schmidt was probably a little drunk, too. I think I heard him go out of the cabin at around eleven. I assumed he’d gone to the head. I didn’t hear him come back.”

McCrea nodded. “That would fit. The chief petty officer here had a conversation with Mr. Schmidt at around 2320 hours.”

“There was alcohol on the gentleman’s breath,” said the CPO. “But he didn’t seem drunk to me. He wanted me to direct him to the Secret Service’s quarters.”

“Only he never arrived,” said Rauff.

“You’re aware that alcohol is forbidden on this vessel,” said McCrea.

“Yes. I think the president is aware of it, too. And I had several drinks with him the night before last.”