Widowland

by C. J. Carey

  He’s half-dead. Should be him in the coffin.

  ‘The Leader. He’s obviously not in good health.’

  ‘Precisely. But any kind of comment on it is strictly censored. Why do you think the press has been issued with all those new instructions regarding long-range cameras during the Coronation?’

  ‘Isn’t it because Leni Riefenstahl has the documentary rights? The images have to be exclusive.’

  He laughed shortly.

  ‘The fact is, they don’t want pictures of a sickly Leader getting out. Not before the invasion is launched.’

  ‘Invasion?’ Half choked, she repeated it. ‘You mean, Germany is planning to invade the Soviet Union? They’re allies!’

  Oliver was pacing the carpet, smoking furiously.

  ‘What do you think all those bullets are for? The ones the Magdas and Friedas are making in their factories? The Germans have long planned to overturn the Soviet pact. The Leader would have done it as early as 1941, only Goering and Hess discouraged him. They said Stalin was too fearsome an opponent. The Russian winter would defeat the Wehrmacht. Better simply to divide Poland between them. But now the Soviet leadership is weakened, it’s the ideal time to act. The endgame is to expand eastwards. To level the largest cities and starve the population. Annex the entire Baltic region. Wipe Moscow off the surface of the earth by the creation of a giant lake, made by opening the dam gates of the Volga Canal. Make Crimea and large areas of southern Ukraine available for German people to move east.’

  ‘How on earth would you know all this?’

  He looked at her narrowly, as though trying to decide how much he might confide.

  ‘I said I haven’t managed to communicate directly with my father, and that’s true. But there are channels. My father’s part of a group – refugees from Germany and various British exiles. Some politicians who left England in a hurry in 1940. They have powerful factions in the US Government on their side. Recently, I was able to make contact with one of them.’

  Slowly, Rose said, ‘Sonia Delaney.’

  He froze.

  ‘I saw you together,’ she explained. ‘After the Grosvenor House reception.’

  ‘You followed me?’ His voice was suddenly chilly.

  ‘Not intentionally. You were talking to her. I was surprised that . . .’

  ‘That a man like me might have made the acquaintance of an American film star?’ He smiled wryly. ‘Sonia was born Sonia Dimitriova, in Berlin, to a family of Russian émigrés. They left in the early thirties when she was just a child, and moved to New York, but her family still has strong connections in the Soviet Union.’

  He came and sat close to her and fixed her intently.

  ‘Sonia is convinced that an attack on Russia is planned. Maybe not right now, or even in the near future – but it has implications for America and for us.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘It means there’s growing support for American intervention here.’

  Vaguely, Rose recalled the voices on Freedom Radio. The ones who’d talked about ‘the British problem’.

  ‘But surely America isn’t going to help us? That’s madness,’ she protested.

  ‘Is it? Perhaps with a royal figurehead at the helm . . .’

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘What are you talking about? The King and Queen couldn’t be more loyal to the Alliance.’

  ‘I don’t mean King Edward.’

  He got up, went over to the window, tugged the curtains more tightly shut, then returned to sit next to her.

  ‘When the Alliance was formed, the royal family were Vanished, and we assumed the two princesses too. In fact, Himmler ordered that Princess Elizabeth should be separated from the family. At that stage he wasn’t sure if the Alliance would hold, and the day might come when he needed a high-value hostage. Unfortunately for Himmler, his plans went awry. A group of high-ranking German officers secreted her as far as Liverpool and from there she was taken to Canada. She’ll be part of this.’

  Rose sat immobile as she tried to process this information. It had been a long time since she had thought about Princess Elizabeth, whose face, along with her sister’s, had once been familiar to every child in the land. Rose’s mother had adored the young royals and put up a picture of them in the kitchen, standing side by side in velvet-collared coats and buttoned shoes, little felt hats tied beneath their chins, and a corgi at their feet. Celia and Rose were exactly the same age as the princesses and her mother had even dressed them alike, as if this way her own children might absorb the young royals’ elegance and deportment.

  Since the Alliance, her mother had never mentioned the princesses again. Yet the thought that Princess Elizabeth was still alive, and living in Canada – that she might even return – was too much to take in.

  ‘If she’s still alive, why don’t we know about it?’

  ‘The same reason we don’t know anything about life outside this country. Except, in this case, Elizabeth’s life has been kept secret from everyone. It’s too much of a risk. Relations between Germany and America have been too sensitive. God forbid the Princess became a pawn in some international deal. No, she’s been held in reserve until the time comes.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  He looked at her for a moment, until something in his expression changed and Rose realized that he had taken a decision – to confide in her just as she had confided in him. He took a breath.

  ‘For an uprising.’

  ‘That will never be possible.’

  ‘You could be right. But it doesn’t stop us trying. We’ve had a network of units in existence for years, most of them in remote areas of the countryside, or in cellars and bunkers and hideouts stocked with arms and explosives. It’s not been easy. They’ve all needed food, ration coupons, identity cards, money. Not to mention rifles, grenades, Molotov cocktails and a system of beacons. We have all kinds: young lads trying to escape Extended National Service, Jews, former soldiers. There are thousands of them.’

  Them. The pronoun that ignited a tiny subterranean flicker in the psyche of every citizen. The word that nurtured a quiet flame of hope.

  Them.

  Oliver corrected himself. ‘Or I should say, us.’

  He gave a little snort.

  ‘I might curse the Coronation, but it couldn’t have come at a better time. Remember the science of distraction? The regime’s been operating it for decades. Now we plan to exercise it ourselves while the Party’s focus is elsewhere.’

  Thunderstruck, she whispered, ‘When?’

  ‘It’s already begun. We had a code that would be printed as a signal when we were ready for action. A call to arms. The code was very simple: we used the name of a spy thriller. No such film existed, actually, but we got the line in a newspaper story about a slate of movies.’

  Even as he spoke, it came to her. The sense of déjà vu, the stirring excitement. She murmured, ‘The beginning is always today.’

  Oliver recoiled, his face blanching in shock.

  ‘How on earth do you know?’

  Quickly, she said, ‘I saw the story in the People’s Observer. It was a list of the movies Sonia Delaney has made. That was one of the titles, wasn’t it? A spy thriller? The line caught my eye. Then later, in the library, I came across the same line and remembered it, though I couldn’t think where I’d seen it. But Oliver . . .’

  She was breathless as the implications tumbled through her mind.

  ‘I wrote that line on a piece of paper. Because I liked it and didn’t want to forget it. The police found it.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘They couldn’t possibly know what it meant.’

  ‘I don’t think they did. It’s just . . .’ She hesitated, trying to make sense of it, recalling the flicker in Kaltenbrunner’s reptilian eye. ‘I thought it was the words they were interested in. But they also asked me about the paper.’

  ‘Why should that matter?’

  ‘When I wanted to write
it down, I grabbed a piece of paper. A thin, tissue kind of notepaper. They asked where I had found it.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them I found it on your desk.’

  Oliver paused. His look was unfathomable. Then he shrugged, and in a sudden movement, he slipped out of his braces, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. His chest was tanned, but hatched with two livid scars, long and jagged, that extended under his arm and round to his back. He reached for her hand and brought it gently to touch his bare skin.

  ‘D’you mind these?’

  With infinite gentleness she traced them with her finger.

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘Nineteen forty.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t fight. You were a student.’

  ‘My studies were pretty eclectic.’

  ‘So you were a resistor?’

  ‘It was before that. For a year I belonged to something called the Military Intelligence Research division. A division of the old War Office formed to support armed resistance in what was then occupied Europe. We engaged in all kinds of subversive activities and covert operations. I went over to Poland a couple of times in 1939. These scars are my personal souvenir of derailing a train and not getting clear in time. As it happens, they were key to my survival, because my injuries meant I couldn’t fight in the Resistance. I had to go back to my books. Otherwise I’d probably have been killed. And then I would never have met you.’

  He lifted her fingers up to his mouth and kissed them.

  Softly, she said, ‘Why did you wait so long?’

  ‘I assumed you only had eyes for an Assistant Commissioner.’

  ‘You might have given me a hint. I had no idea.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you spent your days reading romantic literature.’

  ‘How did you know you could trust me?’

  ‘I did hesitate. Given that you’re the girlfriend of a senior man.’

  ‘Ex-girlfriend.’

  ‘But the fact is, I trusted you as an act of faith. Because the authorities want to destroy all trust. If you can eliminate trust between men and women, even between parents and children, then there’s nobody to trust but the state. That’s why we have to trust each other. It’s part of being human. No good society can exist without mutual trust.’

  For a second Rose hesitated, then she reached forward, pulled him to her and kissed him.

  Until then, she had physically shut down. To sleep with Martin required it. Even in the early days she’d never felt as she’d hoped she would. Yet now her senses came alive, and she was feverish, surging with excitement. She had never known how easy and natural it could be to want another person and have that desire reciprocated.

  His arms were around her and then his hands were running over her shoulders and back, down towards her waist, drawing her closer to him. She felt the twitch of muscles as his body responded to hers, his mouth reaching to hers, and the weight of him as he pressed against her. How little she had acknowledged him. She realized she could not have told the colour of his eyes until that night, yet now every inch of him was imprinted on her senses. Even the dance band on the wireless serenaded them.

  I may be right, I may be wrongBut I’m perfectly willing to swearThat when you turned and smiled at meA nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

  In their fervour and fumbled urgency, as he pushed back the blouse from her shoulders, her necklace broke and sent its pearls spiralling across the floor.

  Eyes closed, she whispered.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Friday, 30th April

  Rose stirred first, still bathed in the afterglow of their lovemaking. It had been the kind of night she had never imagined. Nothing she had read properly described the way her body had flooded with pleasure when he touched her, or how their coupling felt not just a twining of flesh and limbs, but a connection of souls. Half awake, she relived every moment of it, awash with sensuous delight, astonished at how sex could encompass such a variety of sensations. How different the same act could be when it was with the right person.

  Reaching over, she gently kissed his head. She barely knew him. But being there next to him, breathing the salty scent of his flesh, feeling his arm, heavy with sleep, flung over her, she was glutted with delight. She resolved to memorize every detail of the moment: the soft rise of his chest, the warmth of his slumbering body and the light seeping through the thin fabric of the curtains, making the orange chrysanthemums blaze.

  He must have sensed her eyes on him because he woke up and reached a finger to her lips before springing out of bed and turning on the wireless. Then he came back, held her close to him and murmured in her ear, ‘Get dressed. We have to leave.’

  Then he pulled on a pair of grey trousers and a white shirt. He knotted his tie and grabbed his glasses. Muzzy with sleep, she watched him.

  ‘We need to look as normal as possible. We mustn’t stand out.’

  She raised herself on one elbow.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘That paper you took from my desk – it was airmail paper. The kind you use for posting overseas.’

  ‘That’s not strictly illegal.’

  ‘But it’s unusual. Suspicious. All foreign communications are censored and I’m far too cautious to write anything reckless, but an airmail letter? That’s going to get flagged up and the fact that they’re already on my trail makes it a red flag. They won’t ignore something like that.’

  ‘What do you mean, they’re already on your trail?’

  ‘I’ve been aware of it for some time. They’re almost certainly building a case against me. Using everything I do and say in preparation for an arrest.’

  ‘If you realized that, why didn’t you tell me straight away?’

  He went over to the curtain and parted it a fraction, then he came and sat on the bed, pulled her face to his and kissed her.

  ‘I didn’t want to. I wanted this night. Because it’s only just happened, after I spent so long thinking about it. And if anything goes wrong, I would have cursed myself if I hadn’t spent it with you. I might need a treasure to hoard.’

  He sprang up again and pulled an ancient khaki kitbag from the top of the wardrobe, unbuckled it and pushed spare clothes inside.

  ‘Make no mistake, they’ll be watching. We need to look as if we’re going to work as usual. Not as though we’re planning to escape.’

  Rose’s head was spinning. On any other Friday morning she would be heating a small saucepan of porridge oats and water, adding a pinch of salt, stirring it for a lazy moment before eating in a hurry standing up, washed down with a cup of tea. Then she would dress and head to the bus stop, walking swiftly to make it to the office by eight thirty because she was always a few minutes late.

  Instead she was in a room with bare floorboards in Battersea with Oliver Ellis, who was stuffing a canvas kitbag and talking about escape.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’ll explain when we get there. But just so you understand’ – he put a hand on her shoulder and frowned – ‘there’s no going back.’

  Many years previously, in their walks around London, Rose’s father had pointed out the elegant, eye-catching statue of Prospero and Ariel, carved in smooth grey Portland stone, that adorned the frontage of Broadcasting House. It was a triumph of Modernist sculpture, Dad explained; Shakespeare’s draped and bearded wizard holding the naked body of the child spirit before him represented the power and magic of radio waves that emanated from this inspiring building.

  That degeneracy was all hacked off now.

  Since the BBC’s home had become the Rosenberg Documentation Centre, a fresh figurehead had been commissioned and the portal was now graced by the official symbol of the Alliance – a lion overshadowed by an oversized eagle with spread claws and outstretched wings. Whether because the sculptor had too little talent, or too much, the lion had a distinctly nervous look on its face.
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  ‘Just follow me and say nothing. I’ve been in and out of here for the past three months,’ said Oliver tersely. ‘There’s no reason for them to suspect anything at all.’

  They had made their way to Portland Place barely speaking, Rose hastening slightly to keep pace with Oliver’s stride. Above, the sky was plumped with a glittering swell of clouds, promising a fine day. At that time in the morning the whole city was waking up and the noise of buses and trams mingled with the clatter of metal shutters opening on shop windows. The streets filled with businessmen heading for the office, umbrellas rolled, Lenis clipping along in heels, and Gretls returning from night shifts, ready to snatch a few hours of rest. Outside butchers’ shops and bakeries, women were beginning to queue. It was Friday, and the queues were always longer before the weekend, let alone a weekend like the one to come.

  Oliver was right – the uniformed commissar merely nodded as the two of them flashed their Ministry passes and headed down a flight of steps to the basement.

  A corridor wound sinuously beneath ground level, like some Minoan labyrinth to be navigated not by thread but by white-painted arrows on the wall indicating mysterious destinations: Buro RAM files, Numbers D1-19, Foreign Office Secretariat Files. It was a burrow of dirty cream paint and stone walls punctuated by open doors providing glimpses of steel shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with boxes and files. Each room held a desk, or a couple of desks, at which people were working, heads bent over papers, while others stood searching the stacks. Unlike a library, with its beeswax polish and comforting smell of old, well-thumbed books, this was a sharper, more clinical place, of evisceration and classification, scented with the metallic tang of typewriter oil and ink stamps.

  This was their natural habitat now, Rose thought. Document centres, archives, libraries. Places of the past that she and all the Correction teams laboured endlessly to control.

  ‘I’m not sure if you know, but a large tranche of papers recently arrived from Berlin to be archived here,’ said Oliver quietly.