December 2, 1945

Boston, Massachusetts

"Patty, these are amazing." It's 2am, and we still haven't gone to bed. "But there are no clues."

I sigh and begin pacing again which is what I have been doing all night, waiting for Charlene to discover something. I feel Charlene's eyes on me and can feel the pity emanating from her body.

"There has to be something! This can't be a dead end." Tears are prickling my eyes.

"Where would we even begin searching? These tablets could be anywhere. Maybe he lost them on the run. Maybe the government has them. We just don't have enough information." Her voice is consoling trying to get me to see reason.

"So the famous Charlene Madlee is just going to stop there? We could be talking about war crimes right on our own soil. If they're keeping him after the war…" I say.

"Then they would be suspicious of him committing war crimes," She finished.

"But Anton would never hurt anyone. There's no evidence." I fiercely wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Patty," Charlene says quietly, "People do a lot of things they normally wouldn't do if they're scared or they're being commanded with the threat of their life."

"No," I shake my head, "No, not Anton."

December 3, 1945

My assignment is not exactly what I had hoped for, but I sit at my little make-shift desk consisting of a broken rolling chair and a card board box in my lap. Charlene types fiercely on the type-writer while I wait for something interesting to happen. Today, I'm just supposed to observe and go where she goes. Fantastic.

I sigh for the millionth time and try to focus on the subject at hand. Cold weather and staying warm. I'm not exactly sure I'm the right person for this because I just got here. Sure, it was cold back in Memphis, but we still have our days of 60 degree weather in the middle of December. This weather here doesn't even compare.

The title of the article is "Bundle Up!" and I've drawn a corny little picture of myself struggling against the wind and snow with a coat wrapped tightly around me and my scarf unraveling. I finished over an hour ago and had gotten bored. Charlene seems busy, and I'm using this time to daydream about Anton.

I'm lost in my thoughts when I feel a presence above me. I look up, and Charles is standing above me.

"Nice drawing," he comments. "The writing isn't bad. How long have you been finished?"

"Not long," I lie.

"Hmmm," he says, and I cross my fingers hoping he drops it. He straightens up. "I have an assignment for you two ladies."

Charlene glances up before continuing typing away.

"It seems to be your specialty. An asylum." Charles is staring intently at Charlene. "An insane asylum."

"I don't know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment that you're so attentive to one of the many fields I work with. Insane asylums aren't my specialty. Human rights is. Conditions." She emphasizes. "Of prisons, hospitals, and yes, some hospitals are for the mentally ill."

"Precisely." Charles says, and she finally stops typing and looks at him.

"It's not exactly a place for a child. Give this one to Theodore." I feel wounded.

"What?" I exclaim. "Why? I can handle it."

"It wasn't really topic up for discussion." Charles says in the sharpest tone I've ever heard from him.

"I have a right to refuse to cover a topic that I think is too dangerous or mentally upsetting." Charlene leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

"Look, you're the best we've got for this topic," He lowers his voice, "The best."

She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, "Okay. Where is it?"

"Boston State Hospital," He says, and there seems to be something that hangs in the air between them.

"You're sending two, young females to a mental facility alone?" Charlene prods.

He sighs. "Let's face it. This isn't the most dangerous thing you've done. Either of you." He looks from me to her. I had been wondering when he was going to mention that.

I shrug.

"Come on," he pleas, "Please, for me. For the best boss in the world."

"Okay," she says, "But it's definitely not for you."

This doesn't even faze him. "Thanks, darling," he calls on his way out of the office.

"Well," she says, "This is going to be interesting."

December 4, 1945

Boston, Massachusetts

My article will be printed in tomorrow's paper. It's not exactly how I wanted my first article in Boston to be. This asylum, though, is right up my ally.

"I don't know why he thinks the American public will care about these hospitals. It's too soon after the war. People are still looking for their missing sons. And daughters," she adds, remembering the WASP team we had for the war.

We drive along in the car while snow flurries blow past us. I review the notes that Charlene made for me. They're characteristics of bad conditions which seem quite obvious, but others I wonder how they could apply.

"Nobody's going to care about crazy people. Families lock their relatives up for no reason. We should be focused on what happened in the war." Charlene lets out an exasperated breath.

We leave the city behind and head on towards the countryside.

"The world needs to hear this. I need to be over there, documenting." She gives me a dark look. "I'm a reporter, an investigator."

"Maybe if we do well on this, he'll send us over there," I suggest.

"We are not going over there. I leave next month, and you will be back in Memphis where you need to be."

"You're going over there?" I cry out. "When were you planning on telling me this?"

She doesn't answer, and I cross my arms and stare at the window until we pull up to a gate.

Charlene gives our names, and we're let through. In the summer, perhaps this place wouldn't looks so awful. But it's gray and stone and cold not unlike the correctional institute. We're directed to park in front of the entrance.

"Remember the notes," she whispers as we approach the steps where a man in a suit waits.

"I trust you're here to give us good reviews, Ms. Madlee," he says extending his hand.

"Only the best, director," Charlene chuckles darkly sending a chill up my spine.

"Well," he says turning to me, "With all due respect, this is no place for children."

"This is no child. She's young, yes, but right now, she's my intern, and she's very eager to learn." I feel warmth go through me despite the fact she left out some very important information. And she didn't seem to have a problem with calling me a child yesterday.

He nods. "We shall proceed." He doesn't even ask for my name. Rude.

"Take notes," Charlene calls back to me.

We walk into a somewhat grand front entrance and then into a waiting area. This is not at all what I expected.

"As you can see, our facility is quite clean," the director does a small walk throughout the room and stops in front of the door as if to say 'tour over'.

"So, where are the patients?" Charlene prods.

"In their quarters," he responds.

She has what seems to be a staring war with the director until he pulls out his keys and unlocks a door to his right. The door swings open to reveal a long hall with nurses walking about, some helping patients walk, others walking briskly in the opposite direction. They look at us curiously as we pass.

We turn down another hall and go up the stairs to the second floor. The hall has doors with small windows that line it. Charlene peaks into each window and grabs the notepad from me and begins jotting things down. This continues for two more floors until she is satisfied.

"Well," says the director.

"You'll see the article in next week's paper," she says curtly. "Thank you for this opportunity, director."

We start down the stairs toward the first floor.

"By the way," she says, "What on earth do you use the basement for?"

I hadn't even noticed that there was a basement.

The director clears his throat. "Storage, Ms. Madlee, storage."

"You wouldn't be storing any people there, would you?" She says this very light-heartedly.

He looks uncomfortable.

"I was only joking, director." Her laugh trills eerily through the stairwell.

We're walking down the hall on the first floor when I hear the voice.

"Wow. You look just like her." I turn to see who was speaking.

A man about sixty years old is being escorted by a nurse. She tugs on his arm, but he just stares directly at me.

I stop walking. "Like who?"

"Let's go," Charlene says tugging my arm much like the nurse.

"Just like her." His voice is scratchy and becoming less audible the further away he walks.

"The way that German fellow talked back in New York City. You would've thought she was an angel."

New York City, where he was allegedly shot. I rip free of Charlene's grip and chase him down the hallway.

"New York City," I ask. "You came from New York City."

He smiles, "Yes, I did. They transferred me here a few months ago. They said I was some sort of traitor being such good friends with the enemy. But he said he wasn't the enemy. I believe him."

"Who?" I plea.

"Patty, let's go," Charlene whispers.

"He was always writing, too. I liked to talk philosophy with him. Real intellectual fellow." The man was staring off in the distance, remembering.

"Please, sir! Who?" I cry out.

"Why, you are that girl. I recognize you from the papers. You're Patricia Bergen," he says pointing at me. "P.B."

"That's enough," the director says. "I will not have you coming in here and interfering with the patients' treatment."

Several nurses pull the man through the door. He was thrashing about and shouting, "I need to tell her something!"

"What?" I shout back.

"They've taken him! They took my only friend!" The door slams shut and wails emit from behind the door.

It's quiet in the hallway now.

"I must ask you to leave. Immediately." The director practically throws us out.

He watches drive away back through the gates.

"Oh my God," I say over and over.

Charlene is silent.

"Charlene, he wasn't lying! There's no way he could've known that."

"Patty… I don't know. He saw your picture in the paper. Everybody did." The snow starts falling harder as we head back towards the city lights. It's freezing in the car, but all I can think about is Anton.

"He called me P.B. That's what Anton called me!" I realize I'm shouting and have to force myself to calm down.

"This is just a big coincidence, and I'm very sorry that this happened. But it's not real. Patty, listen to me very clearly. It's not real." Charlene's eyes are pleading.

"But he wrote and talked about philosophy. That man said they took Anton. What if he left a tablet?"

"Don't be ridiculous," But she doesn't sound very convincing.

"We have to try. We have to at least try. The worst thing that happens is we don't find anything. Fine. A dead end. But, please, we have to try." I sigh when she doesn't answer.

The car ride is silent until we get to her apartment. She parks along the street, but doesn't turn the car off.

"We'll go this weekend."

"Really?" I exclaim.

"Yes. You need to do your research though. Get a listing of all the hospitals. We need to make appointments, too. There's so much that could go wrong with this." She shakes her head. "A lot of patients aren't listed due to the family's wishes. He may not be listed because whoever put him in there doesn't want anyone to know. It doesn't make sense, Patty. Why would they put him in there?"