CHAPTER 1

'Please tell me you've got hamburgers today,' I said, browsing the grease-spotted menu.

'Yes, ma'am,' the colored waitress, whose name I already knew was 'Jonesy', answered, pulling a pencil from behind her ear and suspending it over her order pad, 'but they won't last long.'

So I hadn't dreamed the sizzle of beef fat on the grill and the odor of frying red meat that struck me when I walked into the diner.

'Thank goodness. I'll have a cheeseburger, medium, French fries, and a glass of milk. And I'm expecting someone to join me.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Jonesy said.

The diner was hot and close with the body heat of hungry people crammed into booths. Steam fogged the plate glass window that fronted Pennsylvania Avenue. Happily, the smell of grilled onions and frying bacon disguised the odor of people who couldn't bathe or wash their clothes as often as they'd like. If you lived in a boarding house with a dozen other people your time in the bathroom was limited.

Alessa di Luca sat down opposite me in the booth, sliding across the seat and tugging off the heavy coat I'd seen her wear every Friday evening for a month. And I thought, for the umpteenth time, that it looked like a man's discarded greatcoat she'd picked up at a thrift shop. One button didn't match the others, and the seat fabric was rubbed shiny from wear.

'Am I late?' she asked.

'Not at all. But I ordered already. I couldn't wait! They have hamburgers and cheeseburgers!'

Jonesy appeared at Alessa's side.

'If you still have hamburgers, I want one,' Alessa said.

'We do, ma'am,' Jonesy said. 'But they're going fast.'

'Well done, please,' Alessa said.

'Fries with that?'

'No thanks. Coffee if you've got it. With lots of milk.'

I didn't know Alessa well, but I liked her very much. We'd been casual friends since we met at a Friday night knitting circle I attended, where she generously repaired my frequent dropped stitches. We'd had coffee together a couple of times. Last night she'd asked me to have lunch with her today, and I was happy to spend time with someone congenial I didn't work or live with.

Alessa was a war refugee who spoke English fluently with an Italian accent. Despite her thrift shop clothing she had soft hands, perfect skin and lovely manners, so I assumed she was a gentlewoman in 'distressed circumstances', waiting until the end of the war to discover if she could return to Italy, or if her home even existed any more. Thousands upon thousands of refugees from all over the world like her waited in dread, with a spark of hope, for news of their homes and loved ones.

So I didn't know Alessa's story, and I didn't ask. In Washington, DC, in November of 1942, no one had time for such pleasantries. Besides, it was none of my business, and I was accustomed to secrets.

'You got our last hamburger, ma'am,' Jonesy said to Alessa as she set our plates in front of us and poured fresh coffee for Alessa.

The new arrivals in the booth behind us heard her, and a hum of disappointment and frustration rose and fell, as they adjusted to getting grilled cheese sandwiches or hot dogs for lunch.

I tucked into my burger. I was hungry. Dellaphine, the cook and housekeeper at my boarding house, didn't prepare any meals on the weekend except Sunday dinner. I'd eaten a single slice of toast, without jam even, for breakfast. I wasn't complaining, mind you. I felt lucky to live at 'Two Trees', where I got breakfast and dinner during the week, had my own bedroom and shared a bathroom with Phoebe and Ada.

My cheeseburger, topped with a thick slice of fried onion and sweet pickle relish, tasted heavenly, and the salty fries weren't the new mealy frosted kind, but fresh-cut and crisp, with the skin on. I ate half of what was on my plate before I paused.

'This is a popular place,' Alessa said, looking around. Every booth and counter stool was full, and a dozen people waited near the door for a seat.

'There are so many boarding houses in the neighborhood,' I said. 'You can hardly get in for breakfast during the week. And the food's not too greasy.'

'I'm not particular,' she said.

'Who can be?' I said.

'No one. We must remember those who have nothing to eat at all, and be grateful.'

I searched for a topic of conversation. Not easy, when so much of my life was off-limits.

'What part of Italy are you from?' I asked.

'Not Italy, Sicily,' she said. 'Our island hasn't always been part of Italy. We Sicilians are sensitive about our heritage. We even have our own language, although only the country people speak it now. I could tolerate Mussolini, but I left after the Nazis came to build their air bases and the bombings began. I stay with my mother's cousin here. I suppose you would call me a poor relation.'

'I have a dear friend who's a refugee on Malta,' I said. 'The Nazis bomb it every day. Every single day.' I'd gotten two letters from Rachel after she'd escaped to Malta. She insisted she and her children were safe. I chose to believe that for my own sake, since I'd done everything I could for them.

'The Germans bomb Malta from their bases in Sicily, and the British bomb Sicily from their bases on Malta,' Alessa said. 'Yet the islands are less than a hundred kilometers apart. The situation would be absurd if it weren't monstrous. And our little island is so very lovely. Sometimes I daydream that I'm picnicking on a bluff overlooking the Gulf of Palermo, where there are only fishing boats, no warships, drifting at anchor, eating focaccia, sipping limoncello and listening to the breeze rustling through the leaves of lemon and almond trees.'

'I'm so sorry,' I said.

'With God's help I'll go home some day.'

'What part of Sicily are you from?' I asked.

'Near Palermo,' she said. 'But I cannot say more.'

'I understand,' I said. 'I didn't mean to pry. I'm from Wilmington, North Carolina, myself.'

'The South? Where the cotton plantations are?'

'Wilmington's on the coast. We make our living from shipbuilding and fishing.'

'You came here to work for the government?'

'Yes, soon after Pearl Harbor.' Washington, DC, once a sleepy southern city, was now a boom town crammed with soldiers and sailors. Washingtonians repeated constantly the wisecrack that DC was an occupied city – occupied by its own troops! Not to mention thousands of government workers, job seekers, drifters, prostitutes, con men, pickpockets and just plain hoodlums. Washington's homicide rate was more than twice New York City's!

'So, busy as you must be with your job, what inspired you to take up knitting?' Alessa asked.

Smile crinkles formed at the corners of her brown eyes, and her mouth turned up in an impish grin. Despite her troubles Alessa still had a sense of humor!

'Because I'm so good at it?' I grinned back. 'You're awfully nice to correct my mistakes every single week!'

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'I'm sure you are very competent ... at something else!' We both laughed out loud.

'Oh, I don't know why I bother,' I said, 'but there's all this talk about the need for socks in Europe. Maybe I should switch to scarves. They're easier.'

'It doesn't matter what your socks look like,' she said, 'as long as they are warm.' Without knowing it Alessa repeated what Joe, the refugee Czech who boarded with me at 'Two Trees', said every time he noticed me struggling with my knitting needles and yarn.

There were people waiting for our table, but I wasn't ready to head home yet. I wondered what the two of us could do for fun this afternoon. I could hardly ask Alessa to go shopping with me; it was obvious she had little money. I wondered if she'd let me treat her to a movie ticket.

Alessa noticed me glancing at the queue of people waiting for a table. 'We should go,' she said. 'But first.'

She leaned far across the table toward me, took my hand, and lowered her voice.

'I know where you work,' she said.

'Pardon me?' I said. Stunned, I felt my heart leap with alarm. Had I slipped up somewhere? Dropped a clue in the midst of some random conversation?

Alessa sat back in her seat and rummaged in her handbag, pulled out a stubby pencil, and printed three letters on a clean napkin. She turned the napkin toward me, and I saw ... OSS. The Office of Strategic Services.

'How did you know?' I asked.

'It was easy,' she said. 'I followed you to your boarding house after knitting circle ended last week. Then Monday morning I got up quite early, stationed myself outside the house, and followed you to work.'

'The building's not marked.'

'I stopped at a diner across the street and asked the waitress who worked in your building. She said it was full of spies! Besides, there's an army camped outside!' That would be the Army squadron that bivouacked on OSS grounds to guard us. Attracted attention to us, too!

The chatter of the customers, Benny Goodman blaring from the jukebox, the clatter of pots and pans, and the shouted orders of the waitresses to the cooks all receded, until it was just Alessa and me, as if we were crowded together in a phone booth on an empty street. I was aware of no emotion except caution. Who was this woman, and what did she want from me? My training kicked in.

'I'm a just file clerk,' I said.

'Dear Louise,' she said, 'you are not an ordinary government girl. You're educated. And older. You have an important boss, no?'

Why pretend? 'Yes,' I said.

'I have something you must give to him.' She pulled a thin leaflet, folded in half, out of her bag and handed it to me. 'Here is the knitting pattern I promised you,' she said, so loudly that I guessed she wanted our neighbors in the next booth to hear. Of course I reached for the leaflet, and she pressed it into my hand, gripping it for a second before she turned it loose.

Alessa got to her feet and struggled into her heavy coat. 'So I'll see you Friday night, for the knitting?' she said.

'I'll be there,' I said.

She strolled calmly out of the diner, leaving me astonished by her audacity.

By now the waiting diners huddled inside the door were glaring nastily at me, so I hastened to leave my booth, tucking the leaflet carefully into my handbag.

When I tossed a dime on the table for Jonesy's tip I noticed that Alessa had left half of her burger uneaten.

CHAPTER 2

As I turned into the tiny front yard of my boarding house, I reflexively checked the front window to see if both the stars taped on it were still blue. My landlady, Phoebe Holcombe, had two sons in the Navy in the Pacific fighting the Japs. We all dreaded coming home one day to find a gold star in her window.

Inside I hung up my coat and stowed my galoshes under the coat tree. Instead of dropping my handbag on the hall chair I kept it over my arm, instinctively protecting Alessa's note. I could hear my fellow boarders talking in the lounge with the radio playing quietly in the background, but I was too unnerved to make small talk with them. I slipped down the hall toward the kitchen, Dellaphine's domain, where I found her ironing one of Phoebe's housecoats.

'Hello, Mrs Pearlie,' Dellaphine said. 'Did you have a nice lunch?'

'Yes, I did,' I answered. 'The diner had hamburgers.' My voice cracked a bit, and Dellaphine looked at me curiously.

'You all right?' she asked.

'I don't feel well,' I said. An understatement, considering a foreign refugee I barely knew had figured out I worked for OSS and given me a message to take to my superiors. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it until I went to work on Monday morning.

'You look like you seen a ghost.'

'Dellaphine, could I have a shot of bourbon? Please?'

'Sure. You do look peaked.' Dellaphine winked at me, then pulled a key ring out of her apron pocket and unlocked the pantry cabinet that stored an impressive stash of the late Mr Holcombe's favorite bourbons and Phoebe's sherry. Phoebe wouldn't permit her boarders to bring their own liquor into the house, but she allowed Dellaphine to dole out what alcohol she locked in the pantry.

Dellaphine handed me an orange juice glass with about a jigger of Old Grand-Dad in it and then relocked the cabinet. She went back to ironing without asking me any more questions.

I drained it in two swallows.

'Better?' Dellaphine asked.

'Definitely,' I said. I went over to the kitchen sink and washed the glass, leaving it on the drainboard to dry.

'I'm going to my room to lie down,' I said.

'You get some rest. You work too hard.'

Once in my room I sank on to my bed and rummaged through my handbag for the leaflet Alessa had given me. It was a knitting pattern, all right, but tucked inside was a small envelope. It wasn't sealed, so I removed and unfolded a page torn from a pad of school-ruled paper. Tiny words in Italian, written in blue ink with one of those new ballpoint pens, crowded the page. No letterhead, no salutation, no signature, just sentences crammed on to the page from top to bottom and edge-to-edge. A few more sentences, also in Italian, written in pencil in a different hand, squeezed into the narrow margin at the bottom of the page. I couldn't understand a word of it.

My mind raced with curiosity. If I had any brains I'd be scared, I told myself. This Alessa woman knew who I was and where I lived, and that I worked for America's spy agency.

'Louise?' Ada's voice followed her tap on my door. 'Dearie, are you all right?'

Quickly, I refolded the paper, stuffed it into its envelope, and slid it back into my pocketbook.

'Sure,' I answered, 'come on in.'

Ada was on her way to work at the Willard Hotel where she played in the house band. She wore expertly applied make-up and a sea green silk dress. A snood glittering with rhinestones enclosed her shoulder length dyed platinum blonde hair. She carried an evening bag and her clarinet case.

'Dellaphine said you didn't feel well,' Ada said.

'I'm OK. A little under the weather.'

'I was hoping you might come over to the hotel later on,' she said. 'I get a few hours off between the tea dance and our evening gig. We could have a couple of Martinis and dinner.'

'Ada, you know how I feel about that.'

'You're so old-fashioned!'

'Look, when women sit around in a bar without a date you know what men think.'

'So?'

'I don't like being propositioned by drunken soldiers and traveling salesmen.'

'You'd rather scramble an egg and read some mystery book?'

'Yes, I would.' Especially if Joe was around.

'OK,' she said. 'It's your life.'

Yes, it is, I thought to myself as I listened to Ada click down the stairs in her high heels. And I intended to live it my way. I liked Ada, but I didn't want to be drawn into her life of cocktails and never-ending stream of boyfriends. Sometimes I wondered if she wanted me around so she could keep an eye on me for fear I'd blurt out her secret. In a moment of despair she'd confided in me that before the war she'd married a German commercial airline pilot who was now a Nazi officer in the Luftwaffe. She was terrified of being discovered and imprisoned in an internment camp. She didn't dare even file for divorce.

Hers wasn't the only secret I kept. When we were alone, which was rare, I teased Joe that he was 'undercover'. The others thought he was a language teacher – he made a big show of writing lectures and grading papers. By accident I'd found out that he worked for a humanitarian agency, raising money, scrounging for ship berths, and supplying safe houses, all to help European Jews escape the Nazis. He'd constructed an identity as a language teacher to protect his family still in Czechoslovakia. Prager wasn't his real name. It was Czech for 'Prague'.

And, of course, I'd locked my memory tight shut on the foolish risks I'd taken to help Rachel Bloch and her children escape from Vichy France hours before the Gestapo entered Marseilles. If anyone at OSS knew what I'd done I'd have at least lost my job and possibly wound up in the federal women's prison in West Virginia. Which I might actually prefer to going home and back to gutting bluefish and frying hush puppies at my parents' fish camp on the Cape Fear River.

Luckily, I'd always known how to keep my mouth shut.

CHAPTER 3

Enzo kept the deepest secret of Alessa's life: one that if revealed would ruin her and perhaps cost her brother his life. And all for only three dollars a week!

Alessa had met Enzo when she'd come upon him on a cigarette break outside the hotel near the servants' entrance. His hands were filthy, and he wore a hotel apron stiff with silver tarnish. Normally, she wouldn't have spoken to him, but she was desperate for a cigarette herself. When she asked him for a light in Italian, he answered her in Sicilian. After he lit her cigarette they talked. He was an illiterate tradesman's son from a tiny village near her home in Ficuzza. He'd immigrated to the United States almost ten years ago. With thousands of others he'd fled Sicily in the thirties, when Mussolini consolidated his power on the island. His uncle had found him a job in the hotel. Alessa realized immediately that Enzo was a man of honor, who valued the Tradition above all else, and because of that he would protect her secrets without hesitation. As long as he got his three dollars. So she told him what she needed from him.

Enzo toiled in the vast sub-basement of the massive hotel in the silver room, where he polished hundreds of pieces of silverware and silver plate every day. He procured a key to the servants' entrance and a secluded employee's locker for her use.