GRETEL PROVES HER LOYALTY
Gretel started to her feet, with a wild, half-formed idea of making her
escape, but the portly form of Mr. Becker stood between her and the
door, and she sat down again, feeling suddenly cold, and rather sick.
“Do not agitate yourself so much,” Mr. Becker was saying, soothingly.
“It is true that our beloved Anna is very ill, but the doctors have
great hopes for the result of the operation. I am sorry that you have
had your trip for nothing, but it could not be helped. Now that you are
here, you will surely stay and have coffee with us. My wife will have
it ready in a few moments.”
“I am afraid I can’t possibly stay,” protested Gretel. “I only came to
see Fräulein because you said she wanted me. My brother will be waiting
for me. I went out in such a hurry that I forgot to mention where I
was going.”
Mr. Becker glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“There is plenty of time to spare,” he said; “it is not yet five
o’clock. Surely you will not deprive Mrs. Becker and me of the great
pleasure of offering hospitality to Hermann Schiller’s daughter?”
His manner was so kind and courteous that Gretel was beginning to feel
rather ashamed of her first suspicion. So she made no further effort to
rise, and even forced a faint smile.
“Did you know my father?” she asked, stiffly. It was the first time in
her life that praise of her adored father had not caused her heart to
swell with pride.
“I did not have the honor of his personal acquaintance,” Mr. Becker
admitted, “but his art! Oh, Miss Schiller, what an artist he was!” Mr.
Becker heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
Before Gretel could speak again, there was a rattling of crockery, and
Mrs. Becker reappeared, bearing a tray containing hot coffee and thick
slices of brown bread and butter. Setting the tray on the centre table,
she requested her husband and Gretel, in the same dull tone as before,
to “come and eat.” Gretel was very uncomfortable, and very anxious to
get away, but she dared not refuse the invitation, and Mrs. Becker
poured her out a cup of the steaming coffee.
“This is indeed a great pleasure,” remarked Mr. Becker, smiling
benignly. “We are proud, are we not, Gertrude, to have the daughter of
the great Hermann Schiller drink coffee with us?”
“Certainly we are proud,” murmured Mrs. Becker, obediently, but the
expression of her face did not change in the slightest, and Gretel,
knowing how anxious she must be about her niece, felt very sorry for
her. She was also a good deal surprised by Mr. Becker’s manner, for on
former occasions when she had gone to see Fräulein, that gentleman had
taken very little notice of her.
“Your father was not only a great artist, Miss Schiller,” the host
went on, sipping his coffee. “He was a great patriot as well. If there
were more men like him alive to-day, it might be better for our poor
country.”
Gretel’s face brightened. Perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken.
The likeness was certainly startling, but then people sometimes did
look alike.
“I am sure this war would have made Father very unhappy,” she said. “He
was so kind and gentle; he hated everything cruel.”
“All good Germans hate what is cruel,” Mr. Becker assured her. “All war
is terrible, but there are times when stern methods must be used. The
sterner the method, the sooner the fighting will be over.”
Gretel could not repress a slight shudder; Mr. Becker’s voice sounded
so fierce and determined. She glanced at Mrs. Becker, but her
expression remained unchanged.
“Your father loved his country better than anything else in the world,”
Mr. Becker went on, solemnly. “I once had the pleasure of hearing him
speak at a dinner given for the German Ambassador, and it was one of
the most stirring speeches I have ever listened to in my life. I wish I
possessed a copy, that I might read it to you.”
“I should like to hear anything Father ever said,” said Gretel, with an
uneasy glance towards the clock.
“I am sure you would, but, alas! I fear it is impossible. That speech
was delivered more than ten years ago, but I am convinced that Hermann
never wavered in his love and allegiance to the Fatherland. I hope his
daughter loves her country as well.”
“I hope I do,” said Gretel, blushing. “I would love to help my country,
but there isn’t much a girl of my age can do, except knit for the
soldiers, and make bandages and surgical dressings for the Red Cross.”
Mr. Becker’s face was fairly beaming at her across the table.
“You cannot be sure about that,” he said. “In these days there is work
for all to do. No one is too young or too ignorant to help. You may
not realize it, but you have a great opportunity before you.”
“I!” cried Gretel, opening her eyes in genuine astonishment. “Why, what
can I do?”
Mr. Becker smiled a rather peculiar smile.
“You are going to Washington,” he said, “and you have been visiting
in New London. One often sees and hears things that might be of great
service to the Government, and which should be reported.”
Gretel remembered Fritz Lippheim, and her cheeks grew crimson. Was it
possible that Fräulein’s uncle knew of that meeting, and was going to
reprove her for not betraying her old friend? She did not speak, and in
a moment Mr. Becker went on.
“Your brother, I understand, holds an important position in Washington.
You are likely to meet many interesting people, and may hear things
which will be very valuable to us. You understand what I mean, do you
not?”
Gretel gave a violent start, and her heart began to beat very fast.
“I don’t think I do understand,” she said. “Do you mean that I should
tell my brother everything I see and hear? I would do that naturally,
of course, but sometimes one happens to meet an old friend, just by
accident, and----”
Gretel paused, abruptly, struck by the altered expression of Mr.
Becker’s face. He still smiled, but his smile had changed.
“I think perhaps you do understand a little better than you care to
show,” he said, mysteriously. “I must give you credit, my dear young
lady, for being much cleverer than I supposed.”
Gretel pushed back her chair from the table, and rose.
“I really cannot stay any longer,” she said, hurriedly. “I am afraid my
brother will be anxious about me. Good-bye, Mrs. Becker. I am terribly
sorry about Fräulein. Perhaps you will send me a line to let me know
how she gets on. My address is----”
“Sit down!” thundered Mr. Becker, in a voice so changed that Gretel
dropped back into her chair, shaking from head to foot.
“I think we are misunderstanding each other,” the man went on, in a
quieter tone, but with eyes fixed sternly on Gretel’s face. “When I
ask Hermann Schiller’s daughter if she wishes to help her country, I
naturally suppose she knows what country I mean.”
“I thought you meant my own country,” faltered Gretel. “I am an
American.”
“An American!” repeated Mr. Becker, scornfully. “Hermann Schiller’s
daughter an American! It is impossible! I will not believe it.”
“My mother was an American,” said Gretel, “and I was born here in New
York. I have always loved Germany, for my father’s sake, but if he
were alive now, I know he would not approve of the dreadful things the
Germans are doing.” Gretel was horribly frightened, and yet, oddly
enough, she had never felt so truly an American as she did at that
moment.
There was a moment of intense silence, during which Mr. Becker
continued to regard his visitor with stern, incredulous eyes. Then the
man said, slowly:
“I see. You have been deceived, like so many others. You have been told
only one side of this great question. Otherwise, nothing will persuade
me to believe the daughter of a German patriot would turn her back on
the Fatherland in her hour of need. Listen, and I will try to explain
the truth to you. Germany is fighting for her existence. She has been
cheated, deceived--do you understand?”
Mr. Becker talked on steadily for the next ten minutes, but Gretel
scarcely heard a word he said. Her eyes were on the clock, and her sole
thought was of making her escape. Oh, why had she ever come here, even
for Fräulein’s sake? Would that dreadful man never stop talking, and
let her go home? At last Mr. Becker paused.
“Have I made the situation any more clear to you?” he inquired,
sharply.
“I--I don’t know,” faltered Gretel. “I know you think Germany is in the
right--I suppose all Germans do--but I am an American. Now will you
please let me go? It is getting very late.”
Mr. Becker turned furiously upon his wife.
“What did that fool Anna mean by telling us this girl was a German?” he
demanded. “She gave us to understand the child could be useful to the
cause.”
“Oh, Rudolph,” protested Mrs. Becker, beginning to cry, “it is not my
fault, I am sure. I only told you what Anna said. Indeed, I am not to
blame.”
“Not to blame!” her husband repeated, fiercely; “but where is the use
in blaming fools? As to you, young lady, I find I have made a mistake.
I thought I was speaking to a German, but I see you have no desire to
help your father’s people. But there is one thing you must and shall do
before you leave this room. You shall solemnly swear never to repeat
to a living soul one word of what has passed here this afternoon. You
must swear not even to mention having been to this house. Otherwise, I
shall not let you go.”
Gretel was very white. She felt sick and faint, and more frightened
than she had ever been in her life. But through all her terror she
seemed to hear Ada Godfrey’s clear voice proclaiming:
“Any one who doesn’t report a suspect is a disloyal American citizen.”
“I can’t be disloyal to my country,” she told herself, desperately.
“Perhaps I shall be killed, but it would be better to die than be
disloyal.”
Mr. Becker went into an adjoining room, whence he returned, carrying a
large German Bible, which he laid upon the table.
“Are you prepared to swear?” he demanded, sternly. “Even if you are not
willing to help Germany, I scarcely suppose you are willing to have
your father’s people punished through any fault or mistake of yours. I
believe you are to be trusted in so far as that. Will you swear?”
[Illustration: “I BELIEVE YOU ARE TO BE TRUSTED IN SO FAR AS
THAT.”--_Page 224._]
Gretel’s white lips moved, but no sound came from them. She resolutely
shook her head. Mrs. Becker clasped her hands, with an exclamation of
dismay.
Mr. Becker laid a heavy hand on the girl’s trembling shoulder.
“Do you realize what you are doing?” he asked, and his voice shook a
little, but whether with anger or fear Gretel did not know.
“I can’t swear not to tell,” she whispered. “It would be disloyal to my
brother, and--and to my country.”
“Then,” said Mr. Becker, sternly, “you will not be allowed to leave
this house. Do you understand what that means?”
Gretel gave a little frightened sob. She glanced towards the open
window, with some wild idea of screaming for help, but as if
anticipating her intention, Mr. Becker sprang across the room and
closed the window with a bang.
“Now,” said the man, turning fiercely upon her again, “perhaps you will
realize that I am in earnest. I will give you one more chance. Will you
solemnly swear not to mention to any human being where you have been
this afternoon, or repeat one word of what has passed?”
Again Gretel shook her head.
“I can’t swear,” she whispered, in a voice so unlike her own that it
startled her.
Mr. Becker seized her roughly by the arm. His eyes were blazing with
anger.
“You little fool!” he cried. “You little obstinate fool!”
He half led, half dragged her out of the room, down the narrow hall of
the apartment.
“Go in there!” he commanded, “and, remember, if you make one sound,
try in any way to attract attention, you will have a gag put into your
mouth. That will not be pleasant, so you had best do as I say. There
are other Germans in this house, besides myself, and they know what
loyalty to their country sometimes requires.”
In another moment Gretel found herself in a small dark room; the door
was closed, and she heard the turning of the key in the lock. She was a
prisoner.
It had all been so sudden, so unexpected, that for the first few
minutes Gretel scarcely believed it was true. It seemed so much more
like the things that happened in bad dreams that she half expected to
wake up suddenly and find herself on the library sofa, where she had
been dozing when Mr. Becker’s summons came. But gradually the awful
truth began to dawn upon her, and then she sank down in a little heap
on the floor, and lay there, moaning in a terror greater than any she
had ever known in her life.
How long she lay there she did not know, but at last she raised her
head and began to look about her. The room had no window, but was
lighted from a skylight, and although very hot and stuffy, it was
not without air. It was evidently used as a storeroom, for the only
furniture it contained were several trunks and boxes, and everything
was plentifully sprinkled with dust. There was light enough to enable
her to look about, but she could see no means of escape, or even of
attracting attention, had she dared to do so after Mr. Becker’s
dreadful threat. It must be after six o’clock by this time, she was
sure, and Percy would soon be coming for her. Oh, what would he
think?--what would everybody think? She got up off the floor, and began
walking rapidly up and down the narrow limits of her prison. She felt
along the wall with her hands, in the wild hope of finding some means
of escape, but, alas! there was only the one door, and that was locked.
With a cry of despair, she sank down on one of the trunks and burst
into an agony of tears.
She cried until she was utterly exhausted, and then sat, leaning her
head against the wall, in a kind of hopeless despair. She had no
means of knowing what time it was, but from the diminished light she
felt sure it must be getting dark. Percy would be waiting for her by
this time--growing more anxious every moment. He would telephone the
Barlows, but they would know nothing. Oh, why had she not told Mrs.
Murphy where she was going? In that case Percy might have found her,
but now----
Gretel’s reflections were cut short by the turning of the key; the door
swung open and revealed Mr. Becker standing on the threshold, and his
wife close behind him. Mrs. Becker carried a tray.
“My wife has brought your supper,” said the man, shortly. “You may
bring in the tray, Gertrude.”
Mrs. Becker came in and set the tray down on one of the trunks. There
was a gas-jet in the room, and the woman struck a match and lighted
it. Gretel noticed that Mrs. Becker’s eyes were red and swollen. She
also noticed that the tray contained a well-filled plate of some kind
of stew, as well as several slices of bread and butter, and a glass of
water.
“I will come back in half an hour to take away the things,” Mr. Becker
announced, “so you had best eat at once.”
Gretel clasped her hands imploringly.
“Please, please let me go!” she cried, tremulously, but the man only
shook his head, and in another moment the door was closed again, and
the key turned in the lock.
In spite of Mr. Becker’s advice to “eat at once,” Gretel did not begin
her supper. Indeed, she felt no desire for food of any kind. The smell
of the steaming stew, plentifully seasoned with onions, made her so
sick that she moved as far as possible from the tray, and sat down on
a box in the corner. She was growing more and more frightened every
moment. If they kept her there all night she was sure she should die
of fright. And yet, strange to say, even at that moment, the idea of
securing her liberty by making the required promise never entered her
mind.
At the end of the stipulated half hour Mrs. Becker returned, but this
time she came alone. She glanced at the untouched food, and then at
Gretel.
“Don’t you like your supper?” she inquired, not without some surprise
in her tone. “The stew is good. I made it myself.”
“I am not hungry,” said Gretel. “Oh, Mrs. Becker,” she added, eagerly,
“can’t you persuade your husband to let me go home? My brother will be
so terribly worried.”
Mrs. Becker softly closed the door and stood with her back against it.
“You ought not to have made Rudolph so angry,” she said in a frightened
whisper. “You should have done what he asked. I never disobey him,
never.”
“But I couldn’t do what he asked,” cried Gretel. “Oh, Mrs. Becker,
don’t you see I couldn’t? I am an American.”
“Well, what does that matter? Your father was a German; you should be
a German, too. Now you have made my husband angry, and Heaven knows
what will happen. Rudolph is a great patriot; he is working for the
Fatherland. No one suspects, but if you told what he said to you, it
would do terrible harm to the cause. Rudolph’s life might be in danger,
and his friends’ lives, too. He has two friends in there with him now.”
Mrs. Becker opened the door a crack as she spoke, and Gretel caught the
sound of men’s voices. They were not talking loud, but their voices
sounded excited, and she could even distinguish a few German words she
knew.
“You hear?” said the woman, and heaved a long sigh.
Gretel burst into tears.
“Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?” she sobbed. “No one has any
idea where I am. They will never be able to find me. Mrs. Becker, for
the love of Heaven, help me to get away.”
“It is indeed terrible,” sighed Mrs. Becker, “but it is all your own
fault. If you had obeyed my husband, you would have been at home hours
ago. I am very sorry, but there is nothing I can do. Rudolph says I may
bring in a mattress and a pillow, and in the morning I will bring your
breakfast, and some water, so that you may wash.”
She was turning to leave the room when Gretel suddenly remembered
something.
“Oh, Mrs. Becker,” she said, anxiously, “have you heard anything from
the hospital yet?”
“The hospital,” repeated Mrs. Becker, looking puzzled; “why should I
hear from a hospital?”
“Why, about Fräulein, of course,” gasped Gretel. “You said they had
taken her to the hospital for an operation.”
“Oh, Anna, you mean,” said Mrs. Becker, her dull face lighting with
comprehension. “Rudolph told me to say Anna was in a hospital, but it
was not true. She is in New Jersey, governess to two little boys. She
left nearly two weeks ago, just before my husband and I moved here.”
“But--but why did you send for me, then?” questioned the astonished
Gretel. “I thought it was because Fräulein was ill and wanted to see
me.”
“My husband sent for you,” said Mrs. Becker, slowly, “because Anna had
told us you were a good German. He thought you might be of use to him,
but he made a mistake, and so he is very angry.”