I was stuck with myself. ‘Sorry to interrupt you at your work,’ I said, ‘but my boss –’ that was a stupid thing to say, please God, don’t let him call Don – ‘sent me to ask you some questions,’ I said, ‘about a hydrology conference you attended in 1936, in Edinburgh?’
‘What, you people don’t have telephones?’
‘I was in the neighborhood anyway,’ I said. ‘On my way to the dentist.’ Another mistake. I should have checked to see if there was a dentist’s office nearby.
Metcalfe rolled his eyes, as if my inanity was the best he could expect from a female government clerk.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what about it?’
I was ready for this question.
‘One of our division heads died a few days ago,’ I said. ‘We found the program for a hydrology conference that took place in 1936 loose on his desk. Your name is listed as a participant. We don’t know why it was on Mr Holman’s desk, and we hoped you could tell us why it might be important.’
‘It was the last international hydrology conference held in Europe. The 1939 conference was here, in Washington. Of course there won’t be any more until this bloody war ends. Not that it matters. I have no time to work on my research, much less my dissertation, what with the teaching load I’m carrying. I sent the program to the OSS back when they asked our department for the names of important people in our field.’
‘Did you know any of the other speakers well?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got another copy of the program. Let me refresh my memory.’ He pulled a folder out of his desk file drawer, the program out of the folder, and glanced through it. ‘This Burns fellow. He’s with you people now. We shared an office one semester when he was in graduate school here. Somehow he managed to finish his dissertation before the war started. And Gerald Bloch, he’s a Frenchman, but he speaks very good English. We had dinner in Edinburgh one evening. His wife was with him. Lovely woman. Can’t remember her name. Bloch wasn’t here at the 1939 conference. Couldn’t get out of Europe, I suppose.’
‘Might his wife’s name have been Rachel?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I believe that’s correct.’
‘And Bloch’s expertise?’ I asked. ‘For our files, you see.’
‘The Mediterranean,’ Metcalfe said. ‘The North African coast particularly.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your time.’
Metcalfe withdrew several brochures from the folder. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I have some reprints of some of Bloch’s journal articles. We all exchange reprints with each other at these conferences. Do you want them?’
‘Sure.’ I stuffed them into my bag.
I left the building with my stomach knotted into a tight ball. I’d been dangerously unprepared for my meeting with Metcalfe. He didn’t seem suspicious, but if I planned to continue to investigate the missing Bloch file without OSS permission I needed to be more cautious. Ruthlessly I suppressed the apprehension that surfaced whenever I thought of Rachel and her family in peril. I couldn’t help them if I was crippled by my fear for them.
It was nearly lunchtime, and my stomach growled. When I saw the foreign-languages building ahead of me I thought of a distraction. Why not drop in on Joe? My errand gave me a good excuse to be here, and we could go to lunch. Have a meal away from the boarding house and talk without anyone else around.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pearlie.’
‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ I said. ‘Mr Prager teaches Slavic languages here. He’s Czech, has a dark beard, medium height. Wears a gold pocket watch.’
The secretary, younger than the watchdog at the geography department but no less authoritative, closed her notebook with an impatient slam.
‘There is no Joseph Prager working here,’ she said. ‘Not in foreign literatures, not in languages, not in the day or the evening colleges.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Perhaps this
‘What, you people don’t have telephones?’
‘I was in the neighborhood anyway,’ I said. ‘On my way to the dentist.’ Another mistake. I should have checked to see if there was a dentist’s office nearby.
Metcalfe rolled his eyes, as if my inanity was the best he could expect from a female government clerk.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what about it?’
I was ready for this question.
‘One of our division heads died a few days ago,’ I said. ‘We found the program for a hydrology conference that took place in 1936 loose on his desk. Your name is listed as a participant. We don’t know why it was on Mr Holman’s desk, and we hoped you could tell us why it might be important.’
‘It was the last international hydrology conference held in Europe. The 1939 conference was here, in Washington. Of course there won’t be any more until this bloody war ends. Not that it matters. I have no time to work on my research, much less my dissertation, what with the teaching load I’m carrying. I sent the program to the OSS back when they asked our department for the names of important people in our field.’
‘Did you know any of the other speakers well?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got another copy of the program. Let me refresh my memory.’ He pulled a folder out of his desk file drawer, the program out of the folder, and glanced through it. ‘This Burns fellow. He’s with you people now. We shared an office one semester when he was in graduate school here. Somehow he managed to finish his dissertation before the war started. And Gerald Bloch, he’s a Frenchman, but he speaks very good English. We had dinner in Edinburgh one evening. His wife was with him. Lovely woman. Can’t remember her name. Bloch wasn’t here at the 1939 conference. Couldn’t get out of Europe, I suppose.’
‘Might his wife’s name have been Rachel?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I believe that’s correct.’
‘And Bloch’s expertise?’ I asked. ‘For our files, you see.’
‘The Mediterranean,’ Metcalfe said. ‘The North African coast particularly.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your time.’
Metcalfe withdrew several brochures from the folder. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I have some reprints of some of Bloch’s journal articles. We all exchange reprints with each other at these conferences. Do you want them?’
‘Sure.’ I stuffed them into my bag.
I left the building with my stomach knotted into a tight ball. I’d been dangerously unprepared for my meeting with Metcalfe. He didn’t seem suspicious, but if I planned to continue to investigate the missing Bloch file without OSS permission I needed to be more cautious. Ruthlessly I suppressed the apprehension that surfaced whenever I thought of Rachel and her family in peril. I couldn’t help them if I was crippled by my fear for them.
It was nearly lunchtime, and my stomach growled. When I saw the foreign-languages building ahead of me I thought of a distraction. Why not drop in on Joe? My errand gave me a good excuse to be here, and we could go to lunch. Have a meal away from the boarding house and talk without anyone else around.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pearlie.’
‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ I said. ‘Mr Prager teaches Slavic languages here. He’s Czech, has a dark beard, medium height. Wears a gold pocket watch.’
The secretary, younger than the watchdog at the geography department but no less authoritative, closed her notebook with an impatient slam.
‘There is no Joseph Prager working here,’ she said. ‘Not in foreign literatures, not in languages, not in the day or the evening colleges.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Perhaps this
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