one more Swiss cauliflower might well have driven them mad.
The border guards came in two versions: the Vichy French, theoretically still in charge of their own boundaries, and the Germans-Gestapo or military-who considered the Swiss border far too sensitive to entrust to French authorities. In any event, there were far more Germans than French at this particular crossing and they milled about ceaselessly, sharp-eyed and suspicious-there was always some wretched idiot hidden away under the produce and fishing him out meant extra leave. So they took their time, while the horses stood patiently, and checked the farmers’ well-worn passports long before the wagons actually reached the bridge.
Khristo held the reins loosely in his hand while Lucien appeared to doze at his side. Behind them, the old wooden cart was piled high with cabbages. The German corporal who approached them was no more than eighteen, a country boy with red cheeks and a stiff shock of blond hair who licked his callused thumb to turn each passport page. He looked from faces to photographs-up and down, up and down-a dozen times before he was satisfied.
But he could find nothing amiss because the French passports were in every way perfect, legitimately issued to real French citizens and full of exit stamps from previous market Saturdays. He next turned his attention to the two farmers, forcing them to empty their pockets onto the seat of the cart and pawing through a collection of string, wire, horseshoe nails, a few strands of pipe tobacco, half-used ration cards, and a miscellany of French and Swiss coins-all gloriously redolent of horse manure. But the corporal was a farm-boy and did not mind at all.
At last, he turned his attention to the huge whitish-green mound of cabbages piled in the cart. He lifted them up, rolled them aside, peered down among them, and seemed intent on spending the rest of his days in contemplation of a pile of cabbages. Finally, the driver turned halfway round in his seat and called out to the corporal in a loud voice, his market German cut by a strong French accent:
“Hey back there! What are you doing? Counting the farts?”
The Germans roared with laughter and waved him ahead-any mention of such matters hit them hard in the funny bone.
And somebody knew that too.
In December of 1944, Robert Eidenbaugh was transferred to administrative duty in the United States, with a thirty-day furlough to precede his appearance at the OSS offices in Washington, D.C. He flew from Croydon airfield on a MATS C-47, landed at a military air base on the eastern seaboard, and made his way to Boston to see his family.
It was a happy, emotional reunion, lacking only his younger brother, who was serving as a gunnery officer on a destroyer in the Pacific. The family had devoted themselves to the war-his father’s firm now entirely taken up with designs for a new battle cruiser, his mother managing blood donor drives for the Boston Red Cross, various cousins and uncles spread across the globe in a variety of uniforms. One of his mother’s Wiscasset nephews had died in New Guinea but they were thankful that, otherwise, the casualty lists had not touched them, and the grace said before meals was no longer the casual mumble it had once been.
The family found Robert leaner, stronger, and a good deal older than when he’d left, and they made a considerable fuss over him. Privately, Arthur and Elva Eidenbaugh thought their son had changed. He seemed lonely, edgy, isolated and, sometimes, angry for no discernible reason. They decided that what he needed was to raise a little hell and, to that end, slipped ten ten-dollar bills in a new wallet and shooed him off to New York.
Before he was even out of Grand Central Station he’d treated himself to an elaborate dinner at the Oyster Bar. He managed to promote a special serviceman’s room at the Biltmore and was given, a privilege of uniform, a ticket to a Broadway show. For two days he wandered around midtown Manhattan, bought a few Christmas presents, and enjoyed the anonymity of being part of a busy city; looking at faces, listening to conversations, trying to pick up the thread of American life. Walking down the street he was only one uniform among many, yet now and again he did sense the quiet approval of strangers.
He called some old friends, but most were not around. Dropped in at the OSS office on Madison Avenue, where Agatha Hamilton, the genteel lady who had been involved in his recruitment, treated him to the lunch at Luchow’s he was supposed to have had three years earlier. Walking back up to the Biltmore-it was a sunny, cold day-he ran into one of the J. Walter Thompson telephone operators, and she invited him to the big Christmas party that Thompson was throwing late that afternoon.
When Eidenbaugh arrived, just after five, there were already more than a hundred people milling about. The Thompson staff had made a major effort for the party. By marshaling their considerable design resources, they had managed to make the rather utilitarian space seem festive and seasonal. There were no balloons-latex had been declared a strategic material for the duration-but there was everything else: streamers of colored crepe paper, red and green Santas driving paper-bag cutout reindeer across the walls, and a huge Norfolk pine tree cut from the Stamford property of one of the senior partners-so fulsomely decorated its lower boughs touched the linoleum floor. There was every sort of liquor and large trays of sandwiches, cookies and fruit cake-the entire office had pooled sugar rations for the party. The opaque green glass that divided the cubicles was decorated with posters done by Thompson for various wartime campaigns: recruiting, blood donation, war bonds, aluminum collection, and the cautionary ones advising defense plant workers not to talk about what they did.
When Eidenbaugh arrived, they made him very welcome indeed. He felt like a hero. He was kissed and hugged and slapped on the back, a triple-strength Scotch and soda appeared in his left hand, a giant Christmas cookie in his right. Looking about, he could see several uniforms moving through the crowd. He was in the midst of earnest conversation with a young woman from Barnard, who did something in the production department, when Mr. Drowne, his old boss, stood on a desk at the center of the room and banged on a drinking glass with a knife.
“Oh Gawd,” his new friend said, “here goes Drownie.”
Mr. Drowne cleared his throat. “On behalf of the J. Walter Thompson Company, I want to take special notice of some of our fighting men and women who are here with us tonight. Some of them are former employees, their friends, whoever you may be, all are welcome! We think it would be fitting if each of you would step up and say a little something and give us folks on the home front a chance to express our appreciation.”
This announcement was received with cheering, and the parade began. Marine Captain Bruce Johnson from the billing department, who had lost a leg at Tarawa. Army Lieutenant Lee Golden, former account executive, now instructing pilots in Oklahoma. Naval Lieutenant Howard Bister, from the copywriting department, who had participated in the D-Day landings the previous June.
Bister, looking sharp in his dark blue officer’s uniform, faced the crowd and waited that brief moment which usually signals that the speaker has something significant to say. As prelude, he thanked Mr. Drowne and the Thompson management for one helluva fine party, as well as for their hard work in bond drive and recruiting campaigns. Then he placed his drink on the desk next to him and took off his glasses.
“On D-Day,” he said, “I found myself aboard the U.S.S.
Applause thundered out for Bister’s speech. The young woman from Production, standing next to Eidenbaugh, squeezed a cocktail napkin tightly in her fist and her eyes followed Bister as he walked away from the table. Mr. Drowne cleared his throat before he was able to speak again. “Thank you, Howard,” he said. “We are all very proud of you. Next”-he peered out over the crowd-“I think I see Bob Eidenbaugh. Bob?”
Eidenbaugh moved slowly to the front of the room, then turned and looked into the expectant faces before him. “I’m Captain Robert F. Eidenbaugh,” he said. “I used to work in the copy department. And I want to thank the Thompson people for a terrific party. As for my war, well, I was involved in staff work in London, lots of details, nothing very glamorous I’m afraid. Anyhow, I do want to wish everyone a merry Christmas.”
There was a scattering of polite applause as he made his way through the crowded room and Mr. Drowne
