Widowland

by C. J. Carey

  ‘I would have thought the job of a historian was to reveal the past as it really was.’

  He gave a slight, wry laugh. ‘That’s what everyone thinks. Each historian believes they’re revealing things as they really were. They’ll give you a load of detail. What the Romans ate. How the Georgians built their ships. Victorian coins. Edwardian stamps. But the truth is, we can never know how things really were. Everything we think we know about the past is determined by what historians choose to tell us.’

  ‘It doesn’t alter the facts, though.’

  ‘Depends what you call facts,’ he said airily. ‘There was a saying by the traitor Churchill . . .’

  Reflexively, Rose glanced around her. Churchill’s name was not mentioned lightly, and preferably not at all, but Oliver Ellis seemed unconcerned.

  ‘Something along the lines of, History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it. Whatever you may think of him, he got that right.’

  ‘Shh.’ Rose couldn’t help herself. ‘I try not to think of him at all.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Oliver rubbed his thumb against the tumbler and broke off to stare into the flickering coals in the grate. Rose could not help studying him. The firelight shadowed the cliffs of his cheekbones and his jaw was hazed with stubble. His hair was at least an inch longer than the prescribed length for men and a shock of it tumbled frequently into his eyes, prompting him to run his hands through it in an unconscious reflex. Off duty, in shirtsleeves and braces with his tie loosened, he seemed more boyish than the buttoned-up suited figure who sat beside her every day in the office. She realized she had never had a proper conversation with him – little more than a few tame jokes and the routine, guarded exchange of pleasantries.

  She knew nothing about him at all.

  ‘What part of history are you adjusting at the moment?’

  ‘Mediaeval. In particular, a book about King Alfred. The Protector’s a big fan of mediaeval history. He likes their way of doing things. He wants me to show how the English and the Germans share the same racial soul. That’s what fascinates him.’ He grinned. ‘Nobody else, though. I’d guess the only people who will ever read this book are me and the Protector, and the Protector has other things on his mind.’

  ‘In that case’ – she faltered, but was too tired to stop herself – ‘is there any actual point in correcting history? I understand the case for literature, of course. People are so easily influenced by novels. You have to watch what goes into people’s minds. But if no one is reading all those historical tomes, then why exactly?’

  ‘Because we owe it to future civilizations to explain the evolution of the past. People will always look to history to understand the present. There’s a saying: Those who don’t know history are condemned to repeat it. That’s why we need to make sure history is cleansed of false and erroneous views.’

  ‘It must be strange, spending all your time on something nobody might ever read.’

  He paused, as if exhausted by the magnitude of the Protector’s ambition.

  ‘That’s true. And it’s an enormous task. The Protector won’t rest until all the history books in libraries and public spaces across Europe have been corrected. He sees it as an ideological battle. If we can control what people know of history, we control memory too.’

  Across the room, mention of the Protector had piqued the attention of the elderly couple and caused them to glance in their direction. Rose wondered what they made of them – a couple of business associates? Or, God forbid, given that she and Oliver were roughly the same age, a pair of lovers, sharing a romantic nightcap before bed? Either way, Oliver seemed unconcerned. In the office, he always appeared something of a cold fish, but now he was animated, almost physically charged with excitement. The reflection of flames lit up the depths of his eyes.

  ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it? When you think about it. History takes such shaky steps. So little determines whether it goes one way or the other. Just imagine, if things had gone differently, it might be a different monarch being crowned next week. We could have a Queen Elizabeth instead of a Queen Wallis.’

  ‘I’d rather not think about hypotheticals.’

  ‘Why? Gelis are permitted to think, aren’t they? Encouraged, in fact. Doesn’t the Faith and Beauty School train its Gelis in philosophy and logic?’

  The Faith and Beauty School was another institution imported from the mainland. It was open only to elite young women likely to marry into the SS. Just three branches existed in England – one in Knightsbridge, another in Chelsea, and the third in a stately home in Sussex. They provided residential training in a host of accomplishments: music, tapestry, weaving, painting, classical philosophy, conversation. Everything necessary to mould fitting companions for the cream of German manhood.

  Fortunately, the elderly couple had finished their drinks and were making their way fussily up to bed, forgetting first their spectacles, then the guidebook, then the need to request an early morning call. Once they had finally gathered their possessions and left the bar, Rose shook her head in amazement.

  ‘Frankly, Oliver, if I’d gone to one of those places, which I didn’t, I might also have learned discretion.’

  Oliver seemed undeterred. He stretched his legs out, crossed his hands behind his head and regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘You know what happened to Geli? The original one?’

  ‘She died tragically young. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Angela Raubal. The Leader’s half-niece. She killed herself. Shot herself through the heart in the Leader’s apartment in September 1931 with his own Walther PPK pistol. She was just twenty-three. She’d come to Munich to be a medical student and moving in with her uncle must have seemed the most natural thing in the world, but there was nothing natural about what happened next. The idea was that he would look after her, but in effect, he controlled her every move. He was crazily possessive. Wouldn’t let her have a boyfriend. Went mad if she spoke to other men. Eventually, she formulated an escape plan. She would go to Vienna and train as an opera singer – but the Leader wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted her with him, always. This was his own niece we’re talking about. He was infatuated with her.’

  Despite the warmth of the bar, Rose felt a chill go through her. She had never heard such a scandalous tale. To her, as to every female in the Protectorate, Geli was the apogee of womanhood. A secular saint, pure and perfect, to be honoured and emulated. Her brief life story was taught to five-year-olds. How she had grown up in Linz, the Leader’s home town, a model child and then a faithful follower and supporter of her uncle. Photographs of her round, slightly pudgy face, with its unruly bob of brown hair and broad smile, beamed from the windows of department stores. It hung in classrooms and replaced the Virgin Mary in churches. Often, Geli was seen alongside the Leader’s own image, as twin male and female ideals.

  Rose thought of the day she and Helena had posed arm in arm beneath the statue of Geli on their Classification Day, trying to look suitably sober beneath her stately bronze form. That this same girl had taken a gun to herself at the age of twenty-three in an emotional crisis prompted by the incestuous behaviour of her own uncle was incredible. Horrifying.

  ‘Her suicide almost pushed the Leader over the edge. His men feared that he would give up politics altogether. He was sunk for months in a pit of depression and rage. It was touch and go whether he would desert his career. His niece was said to be the only woman he ever properly loved.’

  Oliver would not unlock his gaze from her eyes.

  ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You mean, you don’t know if Geli Raubal’s death is sad?’

  ‘I mean, I don’t know if what you say is true.’

  ‘I do, and it troubles me to think about it.’

  ‘The mind must know its bounds,’ she murmured. It was one of the endless mottos the Ministry pumped out for posters and public information campaigns. Don’t think beyond your own shores.
Don’t presume to speculate on other cultures. ‘Cultural Misappropriation’, it was called, trying to imagine you could understand how other people thought.

  ‘Of course. The British like being an island, don’t we? A precious stone set in a silver sea – isn’t that Shakespeare’s phrase? Makes us feel safe.’

  Why was he talking like this? Almost certainly it was designed to test her, but even so, it was reckless. The bar might be ostensibly empty, but waiters were hovering, buffing tables and polishing glasses. Gretls passed, with brushes and piles of sheets. No public space in the Alliance was free from prying eyes and keen ears. If Oliver was trying to draw her into some kind of treachery or indiscretion, he would need to try harder.

  But he seemed to recover himself. He shrugged, pleasantly.

  ‘So how did you find the Friedas?’

  ‘They were . . . co-operative. Intelligent. But their homes . . .’

  ‘Yes, what is Widowland like? I’ve never seen those places.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it . . .’ The events of the day were catching up with her. She reached for a sip of whisky, but her hand trembled so much she put it down again. ‘It’s like a different world. One that’s going on right under our noses, but we never see it. The Friedas are very poor. They make do, but they have almost nothing. No electricity even. Very few possessions. It’s the kind of place I’d never dreamed of.’

  He was silent for a moment, still monitoring her intently.

  ‘What do you dream of?’

  ‘Me? I never remember. How about you?’

  ‘You don’t want to know my dreams.’

  The spell was broken. Oliver shook his head and grinned. ‘But as far as my aspirations go, I have it pretty good. A lovely apartment. Congenial working companions . . . Another Scotch? It’s doing me good, even if they do water it down.’

  He looked like he was planning on talking all night so she feigned a yawn, and signalled her imminent departure.

  ‘Actually . . .’

  ‘You look tired, Rose.’ He leaned forward solicitously. ‘I would have thought time out of the office would be a relief for you, but—’

  ‘It’s been a trying day.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m here for a while. Until Friday at least. How long will you stay?’

  Three days, she had planned. There would be further interviews to conduct and notes to write up, and after that, the report to file for the Commissioner. All in a frighteningly brief timescale. The Leader arrived in ten days. She had until then to unravel the insurrection of the widows, or she – and, even worse, Martin – might be referred to the Morality Office. She had to find something. At the very least provide some names. Yet the thought of doing it under the observation of Oliver Ellis, with his restless dark eyes and searching gaze, was unbearable.

  ‘I’m leaving in the morning actually.’

  His face fell. No doubt she had thwarted whatever plans he had laid. Perhaps he too was operating under a tight deadline.

  ‘Must you?’

  ‘I must.’

  He lifted his arms as if to protest, then dropped them again.

  ‘Shame. No night on the town for us then.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Maybe sometime back in London . . . ?’

  But she was already getting to her feet.

  ‘Maybe. I’d better say goodnight now. I have an early start.’

  When she closed the door to her hotel room behind her, she was shaking. The events of the day had left her in a state of nervous shock. Her head was throbbing, her ankle hurt and her back ached where the ugly policeman had pushed her against the wall, yet these physical aches were nothing compared to the trauma in her mind.

  The encounter with the Friedas had profoundly unsettled her. She could not forget Kate’s forthright gaze, or the sceptical way Sylvia questioned her entire raison d’être. Why would the Party need to control literature, Fräulein Ransom? Then Oliver’s dreadful, scandalous suggestion about Geli, which had opened dark doors in her mind.

  If she was to make any sense of it, she needed both time and space.

  Leaving for London early meant that she may need to make a return journey to the Widowlands if she was to find enough information for the Commissioner. Yet the urge to slip away from the scrutiny of Oliver Ellis and return to familiar surroundings felt suddenly overwhelming.

  As she undressed and crept between the chill sheets, she longed for all the little rituals that represented the sacred in her ordinary life. To open the creamy pages of her notebook and sit, head bowed, lost in concentration as the ideas flowed from her. To make tea and curl up in the armchair, listening to the trams trundling past, or the shouts of the children in the street or the birds singing in Gordon Square. To take a walk through the streets of Bloomsbury and imagine herself back in historical times. Or, even better, to catch a bus to Clapham and cuddle up with Hannah in her candy-striped bedroom, reading the latest instalment of their secret story, until, mouth open and eyelids heavy, the child finally fell asleep.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wednesday, 21st April

  A busload of tourists, faces agog and cameras at the ready, sailed up Piccadilly. They exclaimed at the tall stone columns that stood on either side of the street, each bearing the Alliance symbol on top: a mangy lion, surmounted by an eagle. They photographed the sentries standing guard outside the SS headquarters at the Ritz Hotel as though they had never seen soldiers before, and they marvelled at the advertising slogans spelled out in stuttering neon in Piccadilly Circus as if they were Wordsworth’s finest. Guinness is Good For You! Gordon’s Salutes Our King and Queen! Even the statues had them in raptures. The leaden figures on horseback with their bird-limed uniforms had, in most places, been replaced by members of the regime, and that morning in the centre of Piccadilly Circus, an immense bronze of the Leader, modelled by his favourite sculptor, Arno Breker, was being hoisted into place. Some of the tourists saluted.

  As the open-top bus passed, Rose could hear the tour guide, an aged, port-faced man whose booming, aristocratic voice had evolved over the centuries to give orders in gentlemen’s clubs, but was now reduced to advertising the buildings that had, until recently, been occupied by his ancestors.

  ‘The royal couple will proceed to Westminster Abbey in the gold state coach. It has been used at the coronation of every monarch since George IV. It weighs four tons and is lined with velvet and satin. It is always pulled by eight Windsor Greys. When we say greys, we mean white horses. The King and Queen will be preceded by a cavalcade of Mercedes, in which we can expect to see a host of foreign dignitaries including the Protectors of Bohemia and France and Ministers Beria and Khrushchev representing the Soviet Union. Yes, madam, the Leader’s route is being kept under strict wraps but that is part of the fun of the occasion. Now, if you look to your left you will see Cambridge House, once the home of Prime Minister Palmerston, later known as the Naval and Military Club, and now the private residence of Minister von Ribbentrop. Cambridge House was built in 1756 . . .’

  Rose crossed the road and walked south towards St James’s Square.

  Access to the London Library, a lofty, mellow-bricked Georgian building in the northern corner of the square, was strictly controlled, due to the number of heretical texts that were stored there.

  Rose, like everyone in the Correction team, had special authorization and went as often as she could. It made a change from working in the Ministry, with its soupy light and dingy warren of corridors, and besides, she loved the library’s thick, dust-filled air and its metal stacks several storeys high that reached up on each side like a precipitous forest. If you looked down between the iron-slatted floor, you glimpsed thousands more books piled beneath your feet, like an ever-receding cavern. Whole stalactites and stalagmites made entirely of literature.

  This was where it had started.

  When she told Martin Kreuz that she had no time to read, she was telling the truth. As a young teenager
she had read avidly, stories about orphans who turned out to be heiresses, adventurous animals, and hearty tales set in girls’ boarding schools. But after the excitement of becoming a Geli when she was sixteen, life had been far too busy for any solitary pursuit. Immediately after the Alliance was formed, a great push towards community activity began. Scouts, Guides, chess clubs, and sporting societies expanded their ranks, each of them seeded with informers. Under the new dispensation, busyness was more than a virtue, it was a manifestation of patriotism. As on the mainland, any female over the age of ten would attend Alliance Girls meetings in the evenings and holidays, right up to the time she transferred to the Women’s Service and ultimately Mother Service classes.

  Where would anyone find the time for books?

  That all changed when reading became work. When Rose was appointed to the Correction team (Fiction) her days were spent immersed in work that was ideologically toxic. Page after infectious page must be read, and in parts rewritten. Like an industrial chemist, Rose’s job meant coming into contact with substances that the regime had pronounced dangerous.

  And she was not immune.

  Approach the job like a mundane task, Martin advised. Think of it like gardening. Spotting heresies like weeds. Pruning, chopping and tidying the text. If all else fails, remove entire paragraphs, chapters even.

  Rose tried, really she did, but as she went on, it got harder. No matter that a novel’s spine was cracked or its pages torn, the words breathed out of the book like a soul. Going home after a long day’s work, she found she could not get the writers’ voices out of her head.

  She came to love the sensation of the writer’s mind against her own. To feel the touch of another intelligence, jokey, tender, serious or preachy. To hear the breath of the author’s voice in her ear. To know what it was to be alive in the eighteenth century, or the fifth century BC, or roaming the Yorkshire Moors. To ask questions, to experience the sounds and smells of a hundred imagined worlds. Living with an author meant, at times, becoming them. The writer’s voice – be it calm, urgent or insistent – sounded in her mind like the voice of a friend. Rose came to appreciate their subtlety. The way the writer let her know not only what their character was thinking, but what they, the writer, thought of the character.