Jason Overstreet: Beneath the Darkest Sky

“When your men finish their investigation, Dallas,” said Bobby, “cable me at the embassy with a standard message regarding how your wife and children are doing, etcetera. Act as if we’re long-lost friends. And, if it is indeed confirmed that the targets exist, make this one of the sentences in your cable: ‘My family is looking forward to our annual trip to London on the blank of April.’ You fill in the actual date, Dallas. That date will signal to us when Prescott is to meet your men in Riga. Where do you suggest?”

“The Riga Hotel,” said Dallas. “And they will have with them what you’ve requested.”

“Fine,” said Bobby. “They will meet Prescott in the lobby. He will likely be the only person of color staying there. If not, they can walk up to the other few and ask if their names are Prescott Sweet. The time of this meeting, no matter what, will be noon.”

“Got it,” he said, petting his dog. “You’ve got me wishing I actually had a wife and children.”

“Sorry,” said Bobby.

“Not a problem.” Dallas half smiled.

“Continuing,” said Bobby. “If, on the other hand, your men confirm that no said targets exist, or that they exist but not in the nature we need them to, make this one of your sentences in your cable message: ‘Unfortunately, my family will not be taking our annual trip to London.’ And if our plan does not bear any fruit, I’ll be cabling you thereafter about our next idea. We would convene here again in that case.”

“What if my men hit a snag?” said Dallas. “A myriad of things can cause delay or hang-ups. Targets could be traveling. If two months roll by and there’s no news either way, then what?”

“Send a friendly cable that doesn’t mention London,” said Bobby, “one that has a line in it somewhere involving your wife not feeling well lately and being in and out of the doctor’s office.”

“Good,” said Dallas. “If and when my men meet you, Prescott, what will be that day’s next order of business?”

“For your men to show me where their apartment is.”

Two weeks later Bobby and I found ourselves at the French Embassy sitting down with Robert Coulondre, France’s ambassador to Germany. He had actually invited Bobby because he wanted to share some news with him in person. We hadn’t heard from Dallas yet, but I was thinking positive and trying like hell not to dwell on it.

The middle-aged, mustached, dark-haired Mr. Coulondre sat down with us in his library—a fire ablaze in the corner. Bobby and I parked ourselves on a velvet-covered maroon couch in the middle of the room, and Coulondre made himself comfortable in a thick, leather chair just on the other side of a coffee table.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Ambassador,” said Bobby after we had already shaken hands and introduced ourselves.

I translated. “Vous remercie de votre hospitalité, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.”

“ De rien , Bobby,” said the ambassador. “S’il vous plaît appelez-moi Robert.”

I translated. “He says you’re welcome, Bobby. And he says to please call him Robert.”

Bobby nodded and smiled.

“I don’t want to waste any of your precious time,” said Ambassador Coulondre in French. “I just want to look you in the eye and tell you that not a day goes by when our country takes for granted its special relationship with America.”

I translated.

“The feeling is certainly mutual,” said Bobby.

I translated.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Coulondre, “I have changed my mind. I was expecting heavy snow today, but it is clear out. I shall have my chauffer drive us to the Tiergarten and the three of us can enjoy some cold, fresh air. I would much prefer a walk through the beautiful, tree-lined garden today, even if we have to see and listen to the Nazi soldiers marching all over the damn place.”

I translated and Bobby agreed.

Minutes later we found ourselves strolling along the eastern portion of the massive park, myself in the middle, the ambassador to my left, snow having been recently shoveled off of the sidewalks.

“I feel,” said Coulondre, “it must be made clear, once again, that we intend to back Poland if Germany attacks her. Prime Minister Chamberlain agrees with us on the matter. We understand that President Roosevelt will not be joining us in this pact, but, nevertheless, want to reiterate how welcome he is to change his mind. The French, British, and American friendship is everything to us. And speaking of attacks, we both know it is only a matter of days before Hitler moves on Czechoslovakia. He was certainly shameless in violating the Treaty of Versailles last year by annexing Austria.”

I translated.

“President Roosevelt,” said Bobby, “respects yours and Britain’s position here. For God’s sake, if it were Mexico and Canada being threatened today, we’d be forced, like you, to consider force, based on their simple proximity to us. We understand how you and Britain feel squeezed. But, as you are fully aware, Congress has already spoken. America’s Neutrality Act remains in place. Besides, our economic situation all but demands that we not get embroiled in a second world war unless the sovereignty of our nation is under direct threat.”

I translated, and I also thought about what Bobby had told me privately, that Roosevelt actually wanted like hell to get Congress to repeal the Neutrality Act passed in 1937. He wanted at least to send military aid to European countries that were likely to be attacked in the near future by the Nazis. With each step we took, I couldn’t help but see the desperate look in the French ambassador’s eyes. All of us here in Berlin could feel the strength of Hitler growing daily. And if I wasn’t walking around scared to death about what might be happening to my family back in Stalin’s hell, I’d certainly be more worried about walking the streets of Berlin.

“What’s happening here is insane,” said Coulondre. “The walls of Berlin are closing in on us all. I will be leaving for France sooner than later. I assume all of the embassies will be closing within months. Acts of aggression by the various players have already occurred. But a global war is inevitable. And we may soon find ourselves trapped in Hitler’s inferno.”

I translated.

“I would like to think,” said Bobby, “that we are here to try to stop that kind of war from breaking out.”

“We can’t stop it,” said Coulondre, responding to my French. “And here, our families are no longer safe. Is your wife here, Mr. Ellington?”

Bobby waited for me and answered, “Yes… and my children.”

I translated and Coulondre said, “You can’t feel that they are safe. If you don’t leave soon, there will be no way to get out. Think about it. Communicate this to President Roosevelt.”

Bobby listened to me and responded with, “Perhaps if Hitler attacks Poland we will be recalled. But with each day that passes, I grow more concerned, more fearful. It is much worse than any of us could have imagined. Everyone is walking around in total fear. And my God, to be Jewish! The Night of Broken Glass was likely just the tip of the iceberg.”

Coulondre watched my lips and then nodded. “If I may, Mr. Ellington, I must ask our interpreter friend here if he knows what Hitler is doing to the local blacks, most of them of mixed race. He calls them ‘Rhineland Bastards.’ They are mainly the children of white German women and African soldiers who fought alongside the French when they controlled the Rhineland area during the Great War. These black children are being subjected to Hitler’s mandatory sterilization process. They’ll never be able to have children of their own. Adolf Hitler doesn’t want them mixing with the Aryans. Sick, sick man!”