The Devil and the Suffragette

The Burtis Opera House was now dwarfed by such buildings as the Masonic Temple and Petersen's Department Store, but it still possessed a classical dignity in the bustling city of Davenport, Iowa. Friedrich Teufel paused in front of the sign proclaiming that Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt would be speaking at 7:30 p.m. To anyone who didn't know him, he looked like an ordinary newspaper reporter. Only the blond hair betrayed his north German origins. He was clean-shaven, wore an American-cut suit, and spoke English with a Middle Western accent. He straightened his tie, adjusted the black armband he had worn for nearly two years, and walked to the entrance.

“Is there a special section for members of the press, ma'am?” he asked the woman at the door. She was wearing a sash reading “Vote Yes June 5th, 1916.”

“To your right, sir. Which newspaper do you represent?”

“The Democrat,” he replied. Teufel wasn't sure whether he'd be allowed in if he answered Der Demokrat.

He checked his hat and coat and found his way to to the press section, greeting several colleagues on the way to his seat.

“You're a brave man,” said Frank Kelly of the Democrat. “Mrs. Woodbine was not very kind to you at her press conference.”

“She's not keen on the Irish, either,” replied Teufel.

“Correct, but she has a special reason to hate your race. A very lovely one, if I may say so.”

Teufel was going to ask Kelly what he meant when Eleanor Woodbine, president of the Davenport Woman Suffrage League, strode to the lectern. Several other women and two men followed her onto the stage and took seats behind two tables that were festooned with bunting. The women at the table looked middle-aged and prosperous, except for a younger dark-haired woman, who, save for her widow's weeds, might have stepped out of a Charles Dana Gibson drawing. All, including the men, were wearing the “Vote Yes June 5th, 1916” sash.

Mrs. Woodbine was wearing a battleship-gray dress that matched her hair and eyes. In an accent that betrayed her upper-class English birth she said, “We have a fine crowd here tonight. Perhaps we shall carry Scott County on the fifth, so long as...” Her eyes scanned the room, and settled on Teufel's.

“Mr. Teufel,” she said, “I believe you are aware that members of the German press are not welcome at this gathering.”

At least she pronounced it right: “Toy-full,” not “Too-fell.”

“Madam President,” said Teufel, “I believe the German-speaking voters of Davenport should have a report of Mrs, Catt's remarks. I beg leave to do my job and report the news.”

The Gibson Girl stepped from behind the table and whispered in Mrs. Woodbine's ear. As she turned her face away from the older woman, her dark eyes met Teufel's for a fraction of a second.

Mrs. Woodbine spoke: “My niece, who was widowed by one of your German countrymen at the Marne, asks that I relent and allow you to hear Mrs. Catt. I shall take her advice, though against my better judgment. My niece, who knows your language, says your name means 'devil.'”

“Alas, Mrs. Woodbine, the men of my family played the devil in a medieval play from one generation to the next, so we eventually went by the name Teufel. My thanks, Mrs. Woodbine, and my condolences to your niece. But let it stand on the record that I was born in this country, and my allegiance is only to the United States of America. Thank you again, ladies.”

“And now, without further ado,” said Mrs. Woodbine, “let me present tonight's speaker, Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt, president of the National Women's Suffrage Association and a native Hawkeye...”

She wasn't a native Iowan, Teufel knew, but that was a minor point. Mrs. Woodbine went on with a good deal of further ado before she turned the podium over to Mrs. Catt.

Teufel, who hadn't made up his mind how he would vote in the referendum, was inclined to vote yes after he heard Mrs. Catt's speech. He was a reporter, though, and as he walked down the gaslit streets of Davenport, he arranged the story in his mind. By the time he got to Der Democrat's office, he sat down with his notes in English, translated the highlights of the speech into German, and submitted his copy to the night editor. He made no mention of the his trouble with Mrs. Woodbine.

After reporting on an anti-suffrage meeting that afternoon, along with the regular City Hall and police blotter news, Teufel was tired and hungry. He had a room at the Hotel Unter den Linden, and the Bierstube was open late. As he entered, he heard a familiar voice.

“Verdammt!” muttered Heinrich Schmidt into his beer. “Diese Frauen...”

“Guten Abend, Herr Schmidt,” said Teufel.

“In the old country we should hear of no such thing,” said Schmidt. Imagine, women voting. The first thing they will do is to take away our beer.”

Teufel sat down across from the older man, who had been a friend of his late father. A waiter came and took Teufel's order: schnitzel, roast potatoes, and green beans, along with a glass of Weissbier.

“I've just finished my story on Mrs. Catt's speech. She was very persuasive.”

“Damn Mrs Catt, and that schrecklicke Eleanor Woodbine. Along with that niece of hers from bloody England, whom she uses to call all of us Deutschers murderers. I should be going. Mathilde will be waiting for me. She's a good German woman, who would never, ever ask for the right to vote. You ought to find a good German wife.”

“I had one, Herr Schmidt.”

“But it's been what, two years, and you're still wearing that armband? Lotte would want you to be happy again. My daughter would not object to your paying a call, and...”

The waiter arrived with Teufel's beer, and let him know that his food would be coming shortly.

“I have had to deal with Mrs. Woodbine,” said Teufel, avoiding the subject of Schmidt's daughter.

“She blames anyone with a German name for killing her nephew,” said Schmidt As though we machine-gunned him here in Iowa! The only reason she wants the vote is to get America into the war on the British side. She's a witch, I tell you, and that niece of hers, with those coal-black eyes, has to be in league with the devil.”

“Perhaps she's in league with me,” Teufel joked, “given my name. She persuaded her aunt to let me stay and hear the speech, so I'm indebted to her.”

“Don't talk nonsense,” replied Schmidt. “I think that young witch must have hexed you.”

“Herr Schmidt, this isn't like you. Perhaps you've had a bit too much beer. Maybe you ought to go right home.”

“You'd be angry if that witch were trying to get you fired from your job. Her husband is in charge of the Ordnance Section at the Arsenal, as you know, and she's been after him to get me fired because she thinks I'm a German spy. There's only one thing to do with witches...”

The food arrived, and Schmidt excused himself. As Teufel ate, he wondered about President Wilson's campaign slogan, “He Kept Us Out of War.” It didn't promise to keep us out of war in the future. If America were to get into the war on the British side, things would get even worse for Schmidt, who had a good job at the Rock Island Arsenal across the river. His support for Kaiser Wilhelm was well-known in Davenport, and he had been urged by many, including Teufel, to be less outspoken.

Teufel expected to vote for Wilson in November, but he was still uncertain about his ballot on June 5. He really didn't see any reason why women shouldn't have the vote, but the Women's Christian Temperance Union had turned the election into a referendum on Prohibition. Give us the vote, and we'll ban the sale of alcohol. For the Germans of Davenport, beer and wine were part of everyday life. Most of the men he knew were voting no, and that included the Irish and the Swedes.

He checked his watch and signaled for the waiter, who urged him to have a slice of Schwarzwaelder Kirschtorte. Teufel declined, saying he needed to get some rest.. He settled his check and left a generous tip.

It was ironic that Schmidt had become such an ardent supporter of the Kaiser: his father had fled Germany with his family to save his older sons from Bismarck's conscription in 1870. Teufel hoped the United States would stay out of the war, but he had a feeling the Germans would go one step too far and push Wilson to the Allied side.

Teufel walked up the three flights of stairs to his room, where he undressed and washed his face and hands in the basin. He to unpinned the black armband from his jacket and contemplated putting it in a drawer. It had been more than two years, now, since Lotte had died from pneumonia. While he still thought of her every day, his grief was no longer overpowering. He hadn't felt that spark of attraction toward a woman since Lotte's death. But he had felt it today, and he sensed it was mutual.