The Incidental Spy

Chapters 9 & 10

Chapter Nine

1939-41 -- Chicago

Max Stern was born two days later on September 5, 1939. Lena had an easy labor: her water broke at noon; by seven, Max made his appearance. He was a perfect baby boy: dark hair and lots of it, a lusty cry, and a determined chin that said he would not be ignored. They named him after Lena's father Maxmillian—who, if not already dead, was clearly lost to Lena.

Lena took her time recovering, so Karl organized the bris. He found the Mohel, invited the guests, ordered trays of food. Lena spent the entire time in the bedroom with Ursula. The baby gave a sharp cry when the Mohel's scalpel sliced his foreskin. Lena ran to the bathroom and threw up.

Max was the most adored baby ever. Lena thought of him as a little prince and, of course, quit her job to take care of him. She was determined to become the mother he deserved. After all, his birth was proof that the Nazis, no matter what, had not prevailed. It was her job to make sure it stayed that way.

Over the next year she carefully washed his diapers and bottles, made sure he had plenty of fresh air, sang and talked to him constantly. The experts said the more you talked to your baby, the smarter he would be.

Still, in the dark hours of the night, she was beset with fear. A mere sniffle meant a rush to the doctor. She worried whether she was feeding him enough. Whether he was sleeping too much or too little. Even a diaper rash made her nervous. In the deepest, darkest part of her brain she was sure that one mistake, one careless error on her part, would mean the end. Karl, who had bounced back from his depression over the St. Louis, tried to comfort her, but her outlook, so broad before, shrank into a tiny world view of what Max needed, what Max did, how Max fared. His powdery baby smell was the most seductive aroma she could imagine.

Max was asleep one summer night in July, 1940, when Karl got home. Lena usually tried to keep Max up to see his father, but tonight his little head drooped, his eyes closed, and she had to put him to bed. It didn't help that Karl was often late now that research on chain reactions and uranium compounds had picked up.

Much of the new work, he told her, was done in Berkeley, New York, and Britain, but Compton was the head of National Science Academy, and his opinion was sought on everything dealing with nuclear research. That meant lots of staff papers, analyses, and theoretical discussions that lasted until the middle of the night.

Lena had climbed into bed herself and was nodding off when Karl came into the bedroom. She could smell his beery breath across the room. Karl rarely drank. She decided to ignore him, but when he stumbled over his shoes and let out a yelp, she switched on a lamp and rose up on her elbows.

"Are you all right, darling?"

"Yah, yah," he replied.

"You're drunk."

"Quite possibly." He let out a loud burp as if to prove the point.

Lena shook her head in mock annoyance. She couldn't be angry with Karl.

"It was a crazy day. Some of us went out for a few beers to calm down."

Lena pushed herself to a sitting position. If Karl needed a few beers to calm down, this was important. "Why don't I make you some coffee?"

"Thank you, liebchen."

Ten minutes later, she brought a steaming cup into the bedroom, handed it to her husband, and got back into bed. She watched as he took a few cautious sips. A few minutes passed. Karl's furrowed brow smoothed out, and he looked calmer.