The Kidnap Years: by David Stout (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

To say that “life goes on” seems heartless, even all these years later, when one contemplates the anguish of Charles and Anne Lindbergh that March. But life did go on as always.

On March 10, the Times analyzed the approaching elections in Germany, where Paul von Hindenburg seemed to have an excellent chance of being reelected president of the Weimar Republic. The report was heartening, especially because of the anti-Semitism that was brewing in the country and the presence of a fiery orator who was tapping into the passions and resentments of ordinary Germans. But, as the Times noted reassuringly, “Among those whose opinions are worthwhile because they know Germany best, the chance of a victory for Adolf Hitler is calculated at a small percentage indeed.”38

Just as heartening, the Times noted that while anti-Semitism was prevalent in the rank and file of the Nazi party, the party leadership appeared not to be encouraging such feelings. Indeed, party leaders seemed to be discouraging such sentiment and saying nothing that would commit themselves to “definite drastic measures” should their dreams of power come to pass.

There was no outside world for Charles and Anne Lindbergh, secluded in their big but suddenly empty house in Hopewell, New Jersey. Inevitably, there was speculation that whoever took the baby might have had help from within. “From the mass of confusing detail that piled up, one fact stood forth clearly,” the Times declared on March 3. “That was that the kidnappers must have been familiar with the plan of the house and with Colonel Lindbergh’s plans as well. Not only did they place a ladder against a window of the nursery which Mrs. Lindbergh had tried unsuccessfully to lock, but they chose a night for the crime which the aviator had announced he would spend in New York attending a New York University dinner. His attendance at the dinner had been widely advertised and it was only because he had his dates mixed up that Colonel Lindbergh happened to be at home.”39

There was something else: it was the Lindberghs’ routine at the time to spend weekends in Hopewell, then return to Englewood to stay with Anne’s mother, whose husband, Dwight, had died unexpectedly the previous October 5. But because of the baby’s cold, they decided to stay in Hopewell for a few days after the weekend of February 27 and 28—a fact known only to people in the household.

The impression was growing that the kidnapping simply couldn’t have been the work of one person.

“Kidnapping: A Rising Menace to the Nation” was the headline of a very long Times article the Sunday after the Lindbergh baby vanished. “No conceivable event, unless it were an invasion of the White House itself, could have so dramatized the crime of kidnapping as did the carrying off, last Tuesday night, of the infant son of Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh.”40

The article recounted some cases of the distant and not-so-distant past. Most poignantly, the article was accompanied by a photograph of a comely girl of ten. The photo showed intelligent eyes and a smile mature and dignified for someone so young. The photo caption stated that she “was kidnapped in New York in 1928 and never heard from again.” Her name was Grace Budd.

CHAPTER TEN

A FRIENDLY FARMER

New York City

Sunday, May 27, 1928

“Young man, 18, wishes position in the country,” read the advertisement placed by Edward Budd in the Sunday New York World Telegram.41

Indeed, Eddie Budd was eager for work. His father, Albert Budd, was a low-paid doorman at an insurance company and had a glass eye. Albert’s wife, Delia, was obese and could not read. The glitter and seeming prosperity of the twenties was a galaxy away from the lives of the Budds.

They had three other children: Albert Jr., Grace, and Beatrice, the baby of the family, who was five. The family lived in a cramped apartment in the Chelsea section of Lower Manhattan.

Eddie wanted to help out financially. Besides, the family apartment at 406 West Fifteenth Street could be sweltering in the summertime, which was just beginning.* Fit and energetic, Eddie wanted to try country living, away from the heat, noise, and smells of the city.

On Monday afternoon, a small, tweedy-looking man of late middle age knocked on the door, introduced himself as Frank Howard, and declared, “I am looking for a young fellow named Edward Budd. I read his ad in yesterday’s paper.”

“I’m his mother,” Delia Budd said, inviting the visitor to come in (Delia’s husband was still at work). She explained that Eddie was nearby with his best friend. Then she told Beatrice to run and fetch her brother.

“You remind me of my granddaughter,” Howard said, handing the girl a nickel as she was on her way out.

The newcomer had a gray beard and mustache, and his suit was rather worn. He looked more like a farmer than a city slicker.

While they were waiting for Eddie to appear, the visitor explained his situation. He had a farm in Farmingdale, Long Island. The farm had three hundred chickens and six milk cows. The twenty-acre spread was a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables.

The farmer said he already employed several hands but he needed one more, maybe two. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his wife was no longer around. They had been happy in their old life when he was an interior decorator in Washington, DC. Then his eyesight had begun to fail, and he’d had to find something new. He’d always dreamed of having a farm, and he’d put away enough money to make his dream come true. Trouble was, his wife hadn’t liked life on the farm, he went on in his sad, quiet voice. So she had left him a decade or so before, leaving him to raise their six children alone.

Delia was relieved when Eddie appeared with his sister Beatrice. Eddie’s best friend, Willie Korman, had also come to the Budds’ apartment.

The conversation