by C. J. Carey
But there was no ignoring the arrests. Hospitals, schools and holiday camps were commandeered as detention centres. The Tower of London reverted to its ancient status as a prison. Swathes of politicians, local councillors and public figures were detained while others were swiftly promoted. Those members of the ruling class who had forged valuable links with the regime by visiting Germany back in the 1930s and taking the trouble to form friendships with the leading figures were handsomely rewarded. Within days, Halifax was ousted and Oswald Mosley was named Prime Minister. King George, Queen Elizabeth and their two little princesses disappeared.
Rose and her family grew accustomed to the sight of canvas-covered trucks making their early morning round-ups in the streets as strangers, neighbours and friends were collected and detained. Shuffling rows of detainees were escorted by men on motorbikes and soldiers in steel helmets. Along terraces of bleak brick, curtains were lifted, then closed again. The authorities must have their reasons. The rule of law would prevail.
The Vanishing was even harder to ignore.
The authorities didn’t call it the Vanishing. They used innocuous terms like ‘exit’, or ‘evacuation’, or ‘relocation’, but the Vanishing was how it came to be known.
Swiftly, over a period of months, men were conscripted. Thousands of males between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five were transported to workplaces on the mainland for Extended National Service. Women were assured that their menfolk would be in touch once destination details were finalized. They would be working in those provinces where labour demand was highest as part of the general relocation. And often they did write – short letters, devoid of detail, with occasional black pencil where words had been redacted.
Yet no bald abstraction could express the howls of high grief that accompanied their departure. Fresh-faced teenagers, no more than children, were marshalled at railway stations or collected by troop carriers at designated street corners. Wives and mothers stood wailing, like cows whose calves had been removed.
Rose’s mother constantly gave thanks that she had no boys.
As the months went on, however, people decided to let bygones be bygones. Let’s not spend our lives looking backwards, that was the refrain amongst the friends of Rose’s parents. We’re lucky to be in the Alliance. Look at France, look at Belgium. Look at anywhere else in Europe.
People began to call it the ‘phoney Protectorate’ and everyone assumed that things would pretty much carry on as normal.
‘That’s politics for you,’ said the greengrocer, sliding potatoes into their mother’s shopping basket. ‘Ain’t that what they say? Whoever takes over, Government’s always in charge.’
Others pointed out that Canadians, Indians and Australians had always been content to accept a head of state who lived on the other side of the world, so why should Britain object? Political alliances were normal.
But Celia had been desolate as the world closed in. No holidays abroad, no wearing slacks, no make-up. No smoking in public places. No more education, because she was seventeen and university was now out of reach for females. No fun. As the realities of life in the Alliance dawned, she wept constantly, and the house resounded to her tempestuous cries and stamped-foot demands.
So it was all the more extraordinary just how well she had adapted.
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, 14th April
‘You’re tense.’
Martin’s usually genial face was clouded and he was chain-smoking, yet even then, the stress barely dented his good looks. He was the kind of man who only grew more handsome as he aged. Though he had gained a few middle-aged pounds, his torso was muscled rather than plump, and everything about him exuded an animal vitality. He shunned the shaven crops of other senior men and grew his hair as luxuriantly as possible while keeping within the prescribed length. It was jet black, now lightened with flecks of grey, but the effect was only to make his naturally olive skin appear healthily tanned.
That evening, however, despite the soothing surroundings of the Savoy’s River Room, with its mirrored, sugared-almond walls, pink and gold furnishings and crimson table lamps, Martin was drinking heavily and his cheeks had gained a faint alcoholic flush.
‘Tense? Am I, Liebling? I suppose I am. Things are difficult.’ He ran a hand through his hair and looked distractedly at the menu. ‘Between ourselves, I was not only in Germany for family reasons.’
Rose stared down at her plate. It appalled her that Martin felt able to discuss his family openly with her, and she was horrified at herself for consorting with a married man. She had never dared tell him so, but she always shut down his attempts to discuss the inadequacies of Helga, or his hopes that he and Rose could soon be ‘properly together’.
‘Matter of fact, I was mainly in Wilhelmstrasse planning the Leader’s visit.’
‘But that’s an Interior Ministry responsibility, isn’t it? Nothing to do with Culture.’
‘There are aspects that concern our department.’
‘What aspects?’
He screwed his cigarette stub into the ashtray and immediately lit another.
‘You know the Leader is obsessed with libraries?’
‘I know he has the biggest library in the world.’
The Leader’s Library in his home city of Linz was a vast neoclassical warehouse of dazzling Italian marble, modelled on the Great Library of Alexandria and known as the Eighth Wonder of the World. Informally, the fact that every surface was covered in marble cladding had earned it the nickname the Leader’s Lavatory. It had taken thirteen years to build and boasted a collection transported from universities and institutions all over Europe. Protector Rosenberg himself had headed a task force from 1939 onwards amassing treasured works from Paris, Rome, Florence, Prague, Budapest and Vienna. All the major libraries of Europe had contributed their patrimony, and many prize pieces from Britain – the Lindisfarne Gospels, an early edition of the Tyndale Bible – were also on show. There, visitors could stare down at the Magna Carta, dense with the twirls and flecks of Latin calligraphy, sealed by the wax of seven-hundred-year-old bees, drawn up by the barons of England to curb the draconian power of a tyrannical leader. No man can be imprisoned, outlawed or dispossessed except by judgement of his equals or the law of the land.
Every British schoolchild studied photographs of the Leader’s Library, even if travel restrictions meant that was as near as any of them would ever get.
‘It’s all he thinks about now. He spends all his spare time overseeing the re-shelving and reordering of his books and personally annotating texts. Books. More books. Always books. Reading. I don’t know what he sees in it.’
Martin blew out his cheeks in puzzlement and drained another sip of Pouilly-Fumé.
‘Anyhow, while he’s here, he plans to make a tour of England’s most celebrated libraries. He’s singled out the British Museum Reading Room and the Bodleian in Oxford. The Wren Library in Cambridge and the Gladstone Library in York. I’m compiling the itinerary and you wouldn’t believe the interest his office is taking. They’re never off the phone. They’re requesting daily updates. To be honest, I get the impression this library tour is the highlight of his trip. Perhaps the whole reason for it.’
‘I thought the reason was the Coronation? That the King and Queen didn’t want to be crowned unless the Leader could be there?’
It was touching and admirable, English citizens were told, that King Edward and Queen Wallis should have waited so long to be formally crowned.
Though Edward had abdicated the English throne in 1936, because of his insistence on marrying an American divorcée against the wishes of his bourgeois family, he returned keenly from exile in France once his brother George VI had been arrested and deposed.
For a tricky few months immediately after the Alliance was formed, the Protectorate had functioned without a royal family. With the nation deprived of its ancestral royals, the mood among the people had turned ugly, expressing itself in outbreaks of street fighti
ng and petrol bombing. Every city in the land was riven by guerrilla attacks. Troops on the street were picked off by snipers hiding in the roofs of buildings. Train tracks were blown up and public buildings burned. Rumours abounded of possible foreign intervention. All that ended when Edward and Wallis were installed in Buckingham Palace, and a cheering crowd was marshalled along the Mall to salute the return of the House of Windsor.
Martin downed his fourth glass of the evening and signalled to the Gretl for another. A red-headed girl of about eighteen hurried over and removed the bottle from the ice bucket, but when she tried to pour the drink, her hand trembled and she spilled a little on the tablecloth.
He slammed his fist on the table.
‘For Christ’s sake, girl!’
He must be stressed. Although his status intimidated people, Martin normally behaved with impeccable decorum, even to the lowest castes. The little Gretl, flustered, made the mistake of looking at Rose in appeal. That was a transgression. Lower caste women were forbidden to make eye contact, and it was enough to make Martin snap.
‘Lower your gaze and keep your eyes on your work!’
Rose frowned and glanced around, monitoring the neighbouring tables. The drink was affecting Martin and restaurants were notoriously risky places to talk. Not only were many staff on the Security Service payroll, but occasionally the tables themselves were fitted with concealed microphones. As the band lurched into a mournful rendition of Perry Como’s ‘No Other Love’, Martin flinched.
‘Where do they learn this stuff? The office lift?’
It was never sensible to talk in public, but the quality of the band, coupled with the fact that it was a week night, meant the place was sparsely attended. Rose judged that they were safe.
‘I’ve always wondered why the Leader hasn’t come here before,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s been thirteen years since the Alliance was formed and he’s never visited England.’
‘He’s like that,’ said Martin shortly. ‘He was enchanted by Paris before we took it. He possessed a gigantic scale model of the city and he would spend hours discussing it with his architect, Speer. What he would do with the place. What he would build. Then the country was taken, and do you know how many times he visited?’
Rose shook her head.
‘Once. Just once. In 1940. And he stayed sixteen hours. Long enough to visit the opera house and the Eiffel Tower. He said he’d seen everything he needed. It was all inside his head.’
The Leader was unusual in this respect. Most of the other VIPs of the regime had taken to Britain with relish. Von Ribbentrop, who had always admired the rocky cliffs of the Cornish seaside, had built a mansion there, and co-opted thousands of acres for his personal domain. Goebbels had taken Apsley House, the former abode of the Dukes of Wellington, for his London home, along with Cliveden, a magnificent Berkshire estate he had appropriated from the Astor family. Rudolf Hess had a place in the Scottish Highlands.
‘So how’s the planning going? For the Coronation?’
He sighed.
‘Not good. The Leader’s in fair shape, of course, but he’s sixty-four and he tires easily . . .’
He paused as a replacement Gretl approached and slid a plate of steaming salmon en croute and green beans before him. Then he leaned closer.
‘And there’s another problem . . .’
Martin hesitated, almost as if he didn’t trust Rose with the knowledge. She noticed that his nails, rubbing against the material of his napkin, were bitten to the quick.
‘As if we didn’t have enough to contend with, some charlatan astrologer has told him his life’s in danger.’
‘His life?’ Rose hesitated as a raucous group of uniformed officers with a selection of young Gelis passed by, no doubt on their way to a nightclub. Each young man, with a buzz cut and a wide, impeccable smile, had a girl hanging on his arm. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Unfortunately. I can’t imagine how these people are allowed to operate. I assume they’re being controlled by Himmler. They feed the Leader messages and he swallows it hook, line and sinker.’
‘Surely he isn’t that easily deceived?’
‘He believes these people, and they know it. If I had my way, all psychics and mystics would be shot at dawn.’
‘Don’t let the people in the Astrology Office hear you say that.’
‘Oh, the Protector encourages that nonsense for good reason. It relaxes people, thinking things are predetermined . . .’
Martin forked a mouthful of salmon into his mouth and chewed it joylessly.
‘Anyway, the upshot is, the whole thing has thrown a huge spanner in the works.’
‘Why should it?’
‘The Leader’s as jumpy as hell. As if things weren’t complicated enough with the parade, there’s talk of it being cancelled.’
‘Cancel the parade! They can’t do that. Everyone’s dying to see him. There are people camping out on the route already and it’s two weeks away.’
‘You think I don’t know? Originally the plan was that he should ride in the golden state carriage instead of the King and Queen, but now he won’t hear of it. The official message is that the Leader despises that kind of pomp and prefers a modest Mercedes. In reality, he’s put his foot down. He says he couldn’t possibly ride in the carriage.’
‘Because he’s not royal?’
‘Because it’s not armoured. He’s never forgotten what happened to Heydrich.’
When he was Protector of Bohemia in 1942, Reinhard Heydrich had insisted on making his regular drive to work through Prague in an open-topped car. Czech assassins had taken advantage of this carelessness by concealing themselves en route and throwing a grenade. Heydrich died of his injuries. The Leader’s retaliation was to raze the assassins’ home village of Lidice, killing every male and sending the women and children to camps. But the after-effects lingered. Always unpredictable, the Leader became more nervous than ever, prone to last-minute prevarications that drove his security detail mad.
Martin lowered his voice, even though the band had moved on to the third of three tunes in their repertoire, a syrupy rendition of ‘When I Fall in Love’ that more than drowned out their conversation.
‘The plan is, the Leader spends the night before in his official residence at Blenheim Palace. He chose that place because it’s the birthplace of that old loudmouth Winston Churchill – remember him?’
She tensed. ‘Faintly. A politician, wasn’t he?’
‘Sure. The less said about him the better. Anyway, the Leader’s only ever seen it on postcards, so they’re pulling out all the stops. The place needs to live up to everything he’s imagined, down to the last detail. Swans in the lake, golden cutlery, the works. Then, in the morning, he and his entourage head to London. But frankly, the whole thing’s turning out to be the biggest security headache since the Protectorate was formed.’
Unbidden, a flash of images ran through Rose’s brain of the Time of Resistance. The bombings and street fighting. Shots ringing out at night and arrests at dawn. People corralled into vans, arms raised, disappearing to God knows where.
A dessert trolley approached, but Martin waved it away.
‘We’ve had enough. Unless you . . . ?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Rose shook her head, salivating at the glistening confections as they sailed off to the next table. She had a sweet tooth and loved puddings, but with so little sugar and fat available, the cakes on offer to most citizens were hard and dry. The only ones to be found in bakeries were rock cakes, as tasteless as a piece of rubble in the mouth. The Savoy’s patisseries, by contrast, were flown in from Paris and oozed with fresh cream, sugar and fruit.
‘Actually’ – Martin folded some notes and placed them under a saucer, then drew back his chair – ‘I think I’d prefer to continue this conversation elsewhere.’
He led the way out of the back entrance of the hotel, causing the guards at the door to shudder into a hasty salute, and walked down towards the Thames.
The river was drowned in darkness, glinting liquid mercury where the water caught the light of the moon. Crossing Westminster Bridge the previous evening, Rose had seen a white, spread-eagled shape and her heart had lifted, thinking it was a swan, but it was only a corpse, bobbing in the water’s muddy flow. Tonight, though, it was an empty, fathomless drift.
When they reached a gap between two pools of street light, Martin stopped, leaned back against the granite balustrade of the river, and passed his hands across his face as if he could rub out all the strain and fatigue written there. The momentary humour vanished and beneath the tight, silver-buttoned jacket his muscular frame seemed to sag.
‘The fact is, those psychics I mentioned might be on to something.’
‘The fortune tellers? I thought you said they were charlatans.’
‘They are. But truth be told, we have heard rumours of an assassination plot. No idea where it’s coming from. The army’s on red alert for a terrorist attack. The Gestapo and the police are working overtime. You’ve seen the threat status has been raised?’
A board in every ministry lobby announced the alert level from terrorist attacks. Green meant no danger, and Rose had never seen it green.
‘So let them. There’s no need for you to be stressed. It’s not your affair.’
He sighed. ‘You’re right. It’s not. I can’t spend my life thinking about the future. Unless, it’s my future with you.’
He reached out and drew her into his arms. She breathed in a gust of the familiar metallic cologne he wore that always reminded her of belt buckles and guns.
‘Come here. I’ve missed you.’
Normally, Rose relaxed into his embrace, but that night she stiffened at his touch. Perhaps it was the thought that just a few hours ago Martin had been playing with his children and maybe making love to his wife, the unwitting Helga. Or perhaps it was due to the deep resistance that had been building inside her for some months now, rising to a tide of self-hatred when she saw the gleam in her sister’s eye, or heard Oliver Ellis’s sardonic mention of friends in high places.