“You’re ten minutes early,” he said, rising to his feet. “Excellent.”
Moving around his desk, he shook Olivia’s hand firmly and then held out his palm for Haviland to smell. The poodle was clearly interested in the scent of other canines he detected on Billinger’s skin and clothes but was too polite to sniff the professor’s pant leg or shoe. Instead, he gave the man a welcoming smile and waited to be invited inside.
Emmett Billinger was handsome in a bookish way. In his late forties, he was tall and slim like Olivia. Like her, his thin frame radiated good health and strength, and the flush on his cheeks indicated that he didn’t spend all of his time indoors. His eyes were brown, as were the frames of his glasses and his tousled hair. Olivia liked his face, seeing in it a contrary mixture of boyish eagerness and the wisdom of an old soul.
The jacket of Billinger’s seersucker suit was draped on the arm of a small sofa, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing gently freckled forearms. Olivia had never laid eyes on a man who looked sexy in a bowtie, but Emmett Billinger did.
“Are you hungry?” he asked politely, indicating a neatly laid table with a view out the only window.
Olivia shook her head, taking in the built-in bookcases, the wooden file cabinets, and the attractive design of the blue and maroon Oriental rug obscuring most of the industrial gray floor. “This is a wonderful office.” She removed the canvas bag holding Harris’s painting from her shoulder and laid it carefully on the sofa. “Would you like to clear a space on your desk?”
Billinger jumped to comply. He piled papers, file folders, and his laptop onto the bookshelves behind the desk and then stood back, waiting for her to set the painting on the clean surface.
Without speaking, she unwrapped the watercolor from its protective layers and stepped back, allowing Billinger the time and space he required to examine it.
Olivia settled on the sofa with Haviland at her feet and watched the professor. She liked how he sat very still and studied the winter scene, his eyes glimmering with unadulterated pleasure. He then slid on a pair of gloves, similar to those worn by the museum curators, and drew a jeweler’s loop from a desk drawer. He looked at Heinrich Kamler’s initials and then, a slow smile creeping across his face, turned the painting over.
“This is marvelous,” he declared happily, meeting Olivia’s eyes briefly before letting them fall on the handwriting again. “This inscription . . .” He pushed back his chair, grabbed a file folder, and hurried to take a seat next to her on the sofa. “It sheds light on a relationship that presented itself during the course of my research earlier in the year. I’ve seen a photograph of Kamler and Evelyn White and, earlier this year, heard stories about them from another guard’s child. That child, who’s now an elderly woman named Mabel, has been my primary source up until this point, but this is the first written evidence I’ve laid eyes on that suggests the extent to which Kamler cared for Miss White.”
He handed Olivia a black-and-white photograph. “This has been digitally enhanced, but it shows Heinrich Kamler giving Evelyn White a painting lesson.”
The image showed a dark-haired girl in a modest, light-colored dress, seated on a campstool in front of an easel. She held a paintbrush in her right hand and was facing a small canvas, but her eyes slid sideways and her mouth curved into a slight and secretive smile. Kamler was in profile, but it was clear from his chiseled features and locks of thick hair that he had been a good-looking man. He held a palette in one hand and was gesturing at the canvas with a wood-handled knife in the other. His expression was one of unmasked adoration.
“That’s the knife that was used to kill the guard the night Kamler and Ziegler escaped.” Billinger handed her another photo, this one a blowup of the knife in Kamler’s hand.
But Olivia didn’t take the photo. Her mouth hung agape in shock. “Ziegler?
“Yes. I thought you knew that already.” Billinger’s face clouded in confusion.
Accepting the photograph, Olivia explained, “Nick Plumley’s real name is Ziegler. That’s no coincidence.”
Billinger nodded. “Absolutely not. Nick was Ziegler’s son.” He pointed at the photo, unaware that Olivia was still trying to absorb what he’d just said. “See this knife? There’s an
“They’re both so young,” Olivia whispered, temporarily distracted by the first photo of Evelyn and Heinrich Kamler. She’d need a moment to herself to fully consider the significance of Nick’s parentage.
“Evelyn would have been sixteen and Kamler eighteen,” Billinger agreed. “He was one of the youngest crew members on the U-352 sunk off the North Carolina coast. It’s no wonder he and Evelyn hit it off. According to the woman I spoke with in the spring, Kamler already knew some English and, by the time of his escape, spoke it like a native North Carolinian, right down to our ever-so-subtle drawl. And Evelyn had always loved art, so it’s easy to see why she fell for the talented German.”
“But I’m astonished that her parents would approve of her being taught by the enemy. Wouldn’t the Whites have been ostracized by giving their consent?”
Billinger was clearly delighted by the question. “In the beginning of the war, probably. But as the war dragged on, most of them became a part of the community. They went to baseball games and the cinema, worked the area farms, and traded with the townsfolk. All of these activities took place under guard, but toward the end of the war, several locals were being given language lessons by the prisoners. As long as Evelyn was chaperoned, no one viewed her art classes as a scandal.”
Fascinated, Olivia took the rest of the photos Billinger held out. “Did you get all of these from Raymond Hatcher?”
Billinger shook his head. “Just those three on top. They’re perfect for my research, though, because they show the prisoners interacting with the guards and other locals. Here’s a prisoner trading handmade soap for some fresh fish.” He moved closer to her, pointing enthusiastically at the next photograph. “Now we have two prisoners and three guards playing cards for peanuts. It wasn’t uncommon for prisoners to work in the peanut farms or pick cotton or help out in the paper mill, and as you know, peanuts are a healthy and filling snack and were often more useful than money.”
Olivia was amazed at the expressions of amicability between the prisoners and their keepers.
“In these next few photographs, the prisoners are wearing American uniforms or civilian clothing,” Billinger explained. “These men had probably been in our country long enough to blend in. Even today, many people are startled to learn that Germans and Italians, Austrians and Poles, and French and Czechs were filling the manual labor jobs left empty after our men went overseas.”
When Olivia came to a large image showing a group of prisoners posing for the camera with the frank, open stares of schoolchildren, she paused for a long while. These young men were as fresh-faced and wholesome as any group of American soldiers. They stood straight-backed and proud in the back row. In the front row, they knelt, one arm slung casually over a raised knee, as though they’d been interrupted in the middle of playing baseball or dancing with a pretty girl.
Olivia looked into their eyes, all rendered into dark pools by the black-and-white film, and wondered which of these men had returned to their homes, which had been shipped to another camp, and which had died before the armistice.
She felt the waste of war in her hands, and suddenly, the photographs felt very heavy. The images of these boys, both foreign and American, whose lives had been turned inside out by circumstances beyond their control, filled her with sorrow. A part of her felt foolish too. She lived so close to Camp New Bern and had never known about its existence or that prisoners from other countries had toiled to put food on the tables of her fellow North Carolinians.
“Very few of these guys were Nazis, you know,” Billinger said, misreading her frown. “Many were coerced into joining the army. Threatened. Some wanted to defend their homeland even though they didn’t support Hitler. Nothing about war is as black-and-white as these photographs.”
His words echoed Olivia’s feelings exactly. War, like a murder investigation, was a mess of emotion, conflicting stories, and useless violence. The pair fell silent for a moment. Haviland yawned and gazed up at them, his eyes conveying his interest in procuring a midday meal.
“Why don’t you tell me how I can help while we eat?” Billinger suggested, ruffling Haviland’s ears. “I picked up some muffulettas from one of my favorite sandwich shops, and I have bottles of Perrier in my dorm fridge. Please.” He pulled a chair up to the table by the window and held the back, waiting for Olivia to be seated. “I brought Haviland organic chicken breast. That all right?”
