Joe picked her up in a black Buick at the appointed time, and within half an hour they were driving west through Virginia horse country, the mountains ahead a dark line against the sunset. He drove fast but well, a fact which impressed Amy, who had never liked cars and found no pleasure in driving.
He talked almost incessantly as he drove. His favorite subject was war, the present one and all those that had gone before. As they crossed the foot of the Shenandoah Valley he treated her to a detailed account of Sherman’s March, adding for good measure an analysis of its significance in the development of modern military strategy. She made what she hoped were appropriate noises on those rare occasions when he paused to draw breath.
He said nothing about the job at hand, and while he talked Amy occupied her mind writing an imaginary report to Moscow on his motivation. She was just concluding that the game alone was what interested him when he switched subjects and started talking political philosophy. She’d been wrong. He really did believe in the Nazi cause; it fitted perfectly with his views on life in America. Miscegenation was the great evil, Roosevelt a Communist dupe, and Hitler a shining example to the white race.
“If Roosevelt wins the war,” he said earnestly, “you know what will happen? All the goddamn liberals will make a lot of noise about world democracy and racial brotherhood and all that crap. And there’ll be about two million goddamn niggers coming back from the war who’ve learned to use a gun, and their heads will be full of the same crap. The Klan will have a hard time keeping things under control.” He looked at her briefly, a look of boyish intensity that almost took the sting out of his words.
“He won’t win the war,” she said. “Not if we’re successful, he won’t.” The Klan, she thought. She suddenly felt as if they were driving into a foreign country. She’d always known it, but feeling it was different.
He was silent for a few minutes as he guided the car through the center of Harrisonburg. It was almost midnight now, but the main street was still full of people, most of them the worse for drink.
“Maybe,” he said as they emerged into the country once more. “But the times are against us at the moment. This is a bad century to live in, I reckon. But we’ll come back. Technology’ll do it, you’ll see. The machines’ll get so good we won’t need the niggers anymore. Then we can ship ’em all back to Africa, let ’em learn to look after themselves. See where democracy and equality gets ’em.”
“But it’s not just the… niggers,” Amy murmured.
“True enough. But I don’t rightly know where we can send the Jews.” He laughed. “New England maybe. And put a wall around it. Let ’em work for their Friday bread.” He looked at her again, his face so innocent of guile that she felt a shiver.
“It’s cold in the mountains at night,” he observed equably. “There’s a blanket in the back — why don’t you try and get some sleep? It’s another ten hours yet.”
“You’re going to drive right through?”
“Maybe. I slept all day. If I get tired, I’ll pull off the road somewhere and take a nap.”
She took the blanket and closed her eyes, grateful for the silence even though sleep refused to come. She wondered why he’d said nothing about what her role was. Southern chivalry, she supposed. Marble columns and lace and happy black faces picking cotton…
It was light when she awoke, and they were parked by the side of the highway in a deep valley. Joe was asleep, snoring softly with his head against the window. She opened the door as quietly as she could and got out. In the near distance she heard a river and walked down through the trees toward the sound. Sunlight hadn’t yet reached the valley floor but it was already getting hot, and the night dew was rising like steam from the ground, spreading the thick fragrance of fresh grass.
Amy relieved herself in the middle of a thicket, feeling foolish that she felt the need for concealment in the middle of nowhere, and then washed her face in the fast-flowing river. Looking around, she could see nothing but trees and, above them, the higher slopes of the valley. The highway was invisible and there was no sound of traffic. It was years since she’d been so physically alone, and it felt intoxicating. Her feet wanted to dance, but this impulse, too, made her feel foolish for no good reason. She walked back up the slope, taking an almost furtive pleasure in the springiness of the turf.
Joe was awake when she returned, looking a lot less sprightly than she felt. “Okay,” he grunted, and swung the car back onto the highway. “Let’s find some breakfast.”
They ate at a truck stop outside Bull’s Gap and continued south through Knoxville, Athens, Cleveland, Chattanooga, the valley widening before them. Soon after eleven they reached Bridgeport, Alabama, found the railroad depot, and cruised the surrounding streets looking for a suitable hotel.
“That one,” Amy said, pointing out a three-story white building.
They parked the Buick and went in. “Two rooms at the back, on the top floor,” Joe told the proprietor. “We’ve got work to do,” he explained, “and we need some quiet.”
“Your secretary, I suppose,” the proprietor said with a grin, looking across at Amy, who was studying a painting on the wall.
“If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t need two rooms,” Joe said coldly.
“Okay, no offense intended.” He led them up the carpeted stairs. “This is a decent house. You won’t be troubled by any noise.”
The rooms looked surprisingly comfortable. Amy went to the window and examined the view. “Fine,” she told Joe. He went downstairs for their luggage, and a few minutes later he pulled two identical leather cases from his bag. “German officer issue, 1910,” he said, handing her one and pulling the binoculars from the other. He studied the railroad depot through them. “Perfect,” he muttered. “As long as Sigmund has his facts right,” he said, turning to her.
“He hasn’t been wrong yet,” she said, joining him at the window. “What about the light?” she asked.
“There’s yard lamps all over the place. No reason why they won’t be on. I’m going to get some sleep.”
“I’m going for a walk,” she called after him.
It wasn’t a big town, with just the one main street and about ten perpendicular roads on each side. The faces were mostly white; this was still hill country. She walked down to the Tennessee River, which looked narrower than she’d expected until she realized that the far shore was an island in midstream. The water had none of the blue-green purity of the mountains; it was a dull brown, rolling rather than running.
She heard giggling behind her and turned to see three black children staring at her over the trunk of a fallen tree. She smiled and walked toward them. They fled, laughing.
She suddenly felt a little dizzy, and cursed herself for not wearing a hat. The heat was stifling. Back on Main Street, she bought a Coke in a general store, aware that everyone was staring at her. “Where you from, honey?” the woman serving asked her. “If’n you don’t mind me asking.”
“Washington,” Amy said, adding that she and her boss were driving down to Birmingham on business.
“Gadsden road would have been quicker,” a man observed.
Amy didn’t reply. What was she doing wandering about the town, hat or no hat? The fewer people saw her the better. She paid and walked out, feeling the looks aimed at her back.
From nine o’clock on they took turns at the window in Amy’s room. While she watched he read a well-thumbed copy of a Civil War history; when the roles were reversed she tried without success to begin a Sinclair Lewis novel. As it grew darker the depot buildings grew indistinct, but there was no sign of the lights being switched on. The yard was bereft of activity.