Smith, busy thumbing through Franz’s bank ledgers, raised his eyebrows at the sight of the high-six-figure balances.
“We’re looking for dangerous enemy aliens, and we are authorized to do all we need to find them,” Jakobsson went on, looking a little too long at a picture of Helene in a low-cut evening dress on Franz’s desk, her pale chest filling half the frame. “But to be frank with you, Mr. Lange,” he said, waving his arms around to indicate the house, “all this is ancillary. I don’t need to search this house. I don’t need these letters.” He flipped a few onto the floor. “Though I will be taking some of them with me.”
He folded a pile of documents and handed them to his colleague. Pausing a moment, he took the framed picture of young Helene. He ran his finger lewdly over the image before saying, “My real questions lie here.” He patted his worn briefcase and pulled it onto the desk, where he opened it slowly.
“This, Mr. Lange,” he said, pointing to the top of the pile of papers, “is a letter written by you to Fritz Kuhn, the head of the German American Bund. In it, you write all about your support of the Nazi Party and how you intended to help spread its message in America, particularly the Midwest, where President Franklin D. Rosenfeld has less influence. You even say proudly that you’ve funded programs for Nazi youth in Grafton, Wisconsin, for several years. Makes for a disturbing read.”
“You must be joking,” Franz said, reaching for the paper. Jakobsson pulled it away before he could touch it.
“I didn’t write any such letter,” Franz said firmly. “I would never say, or write, such things. And I have never had any interaction with Fritz Kuhn or the Bund.”
“Is this not your writing, Mr. Lange?” asked Jakobsson.
“No!” said Franz, trying to grab the paper again. Jakobsson pulled it out of his reach, obviously amused by his game.
“So you are not a member of the Bund? And you did not give money to the camp in Grafton in the thirties? What was it called?” he asked his colleague.
“Camp Hindenburg,” said Smith. “It was full of Nazi youth running around raising swastikas and hating Jews.”
“Right,” said Jakobsson. “That’s the place.”
“Of course not,” Franz said, struggling to remain polite, his body tense with restraint. “I have nothing to do with that camp or that Nazi group. I take great issue with its presence in America.”
Christian looked at his father, his square jaw tight, his light eyes starting to water from frustration. There had to be an explanation. He had never heard Franz say a positive word about the Nazis, but he had never been a rallying force against them, either.
“But you knew it was an American Nazi group. You just said so,” said Jakobsson, smiling.
“No, you said so,” Franz replied. “I’m repeating your words.”
“Yet there is this letter,” said Jakobsson, flicking the paper. “It looks quite a bit like your writing. I would call it identical.” He finally put it down on the desk next to a condolence letter that Franz had been composing to a colleague. The handwriting on the two documents—slanted to the left, big capitals, and almost illegible at the end of each sentence—was indistinguishable.
“Obviously, the letter to Kuhn is fraudulent,” said Franz, bending down to examine the heavy black script. “Someone is playing a malicious joke on me.”
“Obviously,” Jakobsson replied.
Christian and Helene moved closer to see the letter, Christian’s panic rising, but Smith kept them at a distance.
“I’m afraid it’s not just the matter of the letter,” said Smith stoically. “Two of your employees confided—after not much pressing—that they heard you make pro-Nazi statements in the office. And one claimed to have seen you spit on an American flag. Any recollection of using the Stars and Stripes as a spittoon?” he asked, running his hand back and forth on the desk, causing even more papers to fall.
“You are gravely mistaken,” said Franz, no longer succeeding in keeping his temper in check. “I love this country. My wife and I chose to build our lives together here and to have our son right here in Wisconsin. I am as much an American as I am a German.”
“No,” said Smith. “You are not an American and will never be.”
Helene stared at him as if he had taken her country club membership and pitched it in an incinerator.
“We could hunt through your house for contraband, but we have enough to arrest you right now,” Smith said to Franz, the agent’s forehead beginning to sweat as the warm air of the Langes’ house caught up with him.
“You intend to arrest me because of false information. A forged letter. Now. At four o’clock in the morning in front of my wife and son,” said Franz.
“Yes,” said Smith flatly. “Yes to the arrest. As for the grounds, you can argue what you want during your trial.”
A trial, thought Christian. So there was a chance for his father. He, with his eloquence, would be able to explain everything.
“But this is all hearsay,” said Franz. “Clearly someone planted these forged materials in my office. A competitor. Or a disgruntled employee. Isn’t that obvious!”
“Are many of your employees disgruntled?” Jakobsson asked from across the room. “And the handwriting. Identical to yours. The same slant, written with a left hand,” he said, walking back over and moving the paper closer to Franz’s face. “There’s a smudge here made by the side of your hand, just as there is on the other letter.”
“It is not impossible to forge someone’s writing. To smudge a letter with the side of a palm!” Franz said, pushing the paper away angrily.
“And how would you know that?” asked Smith.
“Because I know that, just as you do. Because of common sense.”
Jakobsson laughed and looked at Helene, who was standing with her back to the wall. “Mrs. Lange,” he said, “your husband is not the only one who brought us to this house tonight. You did, too.”
“What?” asked Helene, stunned, reaching out for Christian, who was across the room.
“Did you make a wire transfer of eight thousand dollars to a Mrs. Jutta K?hler on the eleventh of October, 1942?” Smith asked her, having trouble looking away from her dress, which had loosened at the neckline after it had been tied in haste.
“Did I what? Do what? Send money to Jutta?” she said, rushing to her husband’s side. “How do you know Jutta?”