by Tricia Goyer
Amity placed a hand on her hip. “Despite the fact?” She narrowed her gaze, pretending to be offended.
“Second question,” Amity started before Celia could launch into reviews of other new books she hoped to read. “What was the name of the pope who stopped Attila just outside of Rome and obtained from him the promise that he would withdraw from Italy and negotiate peace with the emperor?”
Celia rose and smoothed her hands down her skirt. “Pope Leo I. Can we go out now?”
Amity closed the history book. “Yes. You’ve done well. Bravo.” Then she pointed to the scattering of papers and books on the worktable. “But first put away your things. I’ll never hear the end of it from Mrs. McGovern if you leave your papers askew.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” Celia gathered up her books in a pile. She grinned. “Sometimes I wonder who really is the head of this household, my father or our stodgy head housekeeper.”
“Shh.” Amity covered her lips with her finger. “The walls seem to have ears here.” Then she helped by gathering up the loose papers and pens.
As they cleaned up, Amity couldn’t get the young woman’s comment about Hitler off her mind. She hadn’t heard anyone compare the German dictator with the Hun destroyer before, but something deep inside told her it was a fair comparison. After listening to Hitler’s speeches on the BBC, she’d be surprised if he stopped at the Sudetenland. Even though both France and Britain were intent on avoiding war, Amity suspected it would come to that.
Once the cleanup was complete, Celia wasted no time and took hurried steps toward the cloakroom.
“One more question,” Amity called out as she rose from her spot at the table.
Celia swung around, placing her hands on her hips and swishing her skirt from side to side as she pouted. “But you said two questions only.”
Amity nodded. “This isn’t so much a question as something to ponder. Would you have done it? Would you have dared to approach someone as vicious as Attila the Hun?”
Celia lifted her face to the conservatory’s glass ceiling and focused on the falling snow. She stood quietly, and for a moment Amity was certain she’d forgotten the question and had again become lost in her thoughts. Amity was about to ask again when Celia met Amity’s gaze.
“I suppose if I knew God was on my side I would dare to stand up to a Hun invader. Surely Pope Leo I felt that He was.”
“But he could have died,” Amity commented, following Celia to the cloakroom to grab their wraps.
“We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” Celia’s voiced softened, and she suddenly seemed older than her fifteen years. Her face fell, and the joy of the earlier moment was gone. Amity had no doubt the young woman was thinking of her mother, who’d died little more than three years ago. “It’s a good question though,” Celia continued. “What if Leo hadn’t gone? What if he’d been too scared?”
Amity slipped her arms into her wool coat, and a strange sensation settled in her chest. “Rome would have been conquered, and the world as we know it would have been different.”
It still might be different yet, a nagging fear inside Amity’s gut suggested. Despite the festivities of this season—the Christmas lights of Oxford Street and the Trafalgar Square tree—this century’s own Attila seemed to be on the move, first annexing Austria and now the Sudetenland.
“Peace for our time,” Chamberlain had declared after signing a nonaggression treaty with the German leader, but who really believed Hitler would hold up his side of the bargain?
Hush now, it’s none of your concern, she scolded herself. Even though Andrew now worked for the British Home Office, which oversaw immigration in the United Kingdom, they were both American citizens and could leave the UK at any time. Attila wasn’t storming at her own country’s gates. At least not yet.
Amity considered the telegram she’d received from her brother at lunchtime. It was a cryptic note, one she didn’t fully understand.
Please visit me in Prague for the holiday. Need assistance with Jewish welfare work. Send date of your arrival. Room will be waiting for you at Hotel Evropa. STOP.
It was just like her brother to demand so much and send so little information. Did he expect her to drop everything and come? To buy a ticket and travel to a part of the world in crisis? What would Clark think about that? What about Celia? Amity couldn’t just leave the young woman behind, could she?
Then again, what was this Jewish welfare work? Surely it had to be important for her brother to send for her. Even without more information in the telegram, Amity understood the context behind her brother’s message. With the recent occupation of the Sudetenland, the Jews who’d lived in that part of Czechoslovakia had been pushed out of the newly annexed area, either by Nazi terror or Nazi threats. Were the streets of Prague now filled with refugee families? It would make sense if they were. But if that was the case, why had Andrew requested her? She was no Pope Leo I. What could she offer in the face of Hun invaders?
TWO
Afternoon shafts of light slipped across the sky, and a fine snow hung suspended in the air. From the second-story window of his study, Clark Cartwright watched his daughter’s tutor, Amity Mitchell, walking in the misty depths of the garden with Celia. A pain struck his heart, and he swallowed down emotion. Celia was taller than Amity now, and the shining image of her mother. Gwen would have loved to see how their daughter had grown. Celia’s love for life could not be shaken, and he had Amity to thank for that.
Dear Lord, what would we have done if she had not come? Clark shook his head, not wanting to consider such a thing. Amity has rescued Celia…rescued us both from a life of mourning.
The two outside paused, turning their faces up to catch the snowflakes falling from the sky. Then, with a smile brighter than beams of sunlight, Amity lifted gloved hands into the air and began to twirl in a slow circle. Her laughter carried to the window, shimmying through the glass and wrapping around Clark’s heart.
In that moment Clark was struck again by what he’d known for the last year. I love Amity. Not in the same way he’d loved Gwen, but with a new, tender love he couldn’t shake.
If only he didn’t struggle with these feelings. He felt like a fool for having them, for even entertaining the idea that Amity would care for him a fraction of the same way. What a foolish old bloke you are. Get on now with your feelings before you lose her for good.
The problem was Amity was closer to Celia’s age than his. At twenty-five years old, she was twelve years younger than he. Why would such a beautiful young woman care for an old man such as myself?
“What luck to find such a fine tutor,” Clark’s editor had said upon meeting her and seeing the effect she had on the whole family. But luck had nothing to do with. While Clark wrestled with God after his wife’s death—like Jacob at the River Jabbok—he had no doubt God’s hand had brought the young woman to them.
The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. The words slipped into his mind unwelcome.
No, not again. Please not again. He pushed that thought from his mind. He didn’t think they could bear it if Amity was taken from them too.
For the first two years after his wife’s death, it was the taking away that had kept Clark up at night, stretching his hand across his bed to find only cold, empty sheets next to him.
Yet in the last year a shift had happened, and Clark had started to look at his life differently. He’d started to consider more what he’d been given—what he and Celia had both been given. Amity’s joy, friendship, and care for others was of high value, something he never wanted to take for granted. Yet fear kept him from sharing his true feelings.
He didn’t want to ruin their professional relationship by sharing his heart, and he didn’t want Amity to laugh in his face. He was also afraid Hitler’s antics would cause her to run back home to the States. He’d even been afraid to bring up the conversation of next year’s contract, fearful that she wouldn’t want to stay. How could he handle the disappointment, the
ache, if she decided to leave? And what would Celia do?
Why would such an amazing young woman remain in Europe when she could go someplace safe, like America? How many others wished they had an American passport and could travel there now? Thousands—tens of thousands—would love to escape, especially Jews and Communists, men, women, and children Hitler was sending to camps, or so rumors reported.
With the ache expanding in his chest, Clark turned his back to the window and approached his desk. He sat and opened a newspaper before him yet was unable to focus on the words on the page. He flipped to the next section, but still it did no good. Surely God wouldn’t rob him of Amity too.
He glanced at the paper—a Chicago Tribune from two days prior—and the third page headlines were like a slap to the face:
HITLER PREPARES TO OPEN HIS DRIVE EAST NEXT SPRING: ASKS RULERS OF IRAN AND AFGHANISTAN TO PARLEY
And the next headline seemed even more unbelievable.
NAZIS BREAK UP HOMES OF JEWS WED TO ARYANS: COUPLES MARRIED MANY YEARS MUST PART
By Sigrid Schultz
BERLIN, Dec. 9
Nazi organizations are bringing pressure to bear on Aryans married to Jews and half-Jews to compel them to obtain divorces. Thousands of Aryan men have been ordered to divorce their Jewish wives under threat of losing their jobs. This pressure is being exerted despite the fact that no official decree has been issued ordering the dissolution of such marriages.
Couples who have been married thirty or forty years are being ordered to dissolve their unions. Elderly men who are faced with the prospect of living without their lifetime partners are desperately seeking a way for their elderly wives to leave Germany. They have no financial means of supporting them abroad, and in most cases the women, who never held professional jobs, are too old to support themselves.
Clark pressed his hand against his forehead and shook his head. No doubt the British Home Office was being flooded with immigration inquiries. Yet what country would ever be willing to take on immigrants unable to support themselves? As painful as the truth was, Great Britain had enough of her own homeless and jobless to consider. Unemployment and depression in Britain seemed significantly more important to the people than the fate of foreign Jews. There was a time for compassion and a time to protect one’s own…wasn’t there?
He glanced to the sepia-colored photo of Celia on his desk, and a new thought hit him. What about the children born to these couples? Even the grandchildren. Surely the German people would let their chancellor go only so far with his so-called racial cleansing.
Clark also wondered what part Amity’s brother, Andrew, had in making decisions about the influx of requests. Was the Home Office entertaining the idea of helping such cases?
Clark had read recently that the Refugee Children’s Movement—a subsidiary group of the Central British Fund for World Jewish Relief—was trying to pull together various organizations to organize Operation Kindertransport. And most recently there was a fund set up to aid victims not of flood or famine but of “man’s inhumanity to man.”
Picking up the framed photograph of his daughter, Clark tried to imagine how a father would feel if he knew his young one was considered impure and unworthy in Hitler’s eyes. A shame, a disgrace, all of it.
Hopefully someone would do something to help those caught up in the whole mess, although he had no idea what actions could be taken. Germany was a force to be reckoned with, and even Britain and France had chosen to give in to Hitler’s demands for the northern, southern, and western areas of Czechoslovakia, which were inhabited primarily by ethnic German speakers, rather than risk another world war. How many lives would be lost if things came to war? Pitiful war veterans were still all too common on the streets of London, not to mention lives lost. Thankfully, matters like this could efficiently be handled by the Home Office by capable people like Amity’s brother.
Clark had met Andrew only a few times at social gatherings and on Andrew’s rare visits to the manor to see his sister. Andrew seemed kind and trustworthy, with a decent head on his shoulders. He was thankful Andrew had suggested that he hire Amity as a tutor. Although it was a battle at times to convince Mrs. McGovern that Amity’s American ways should be tolerated, Clark thought she brought a breath of fresh air to their otherwise stuffy home.
Turning the newsprint page again, Clark tapped the tip of his pen on the crossword puzzle, but even that was incapable of holding his interest. Laying down his pen, he rose from his leather chair and moved to his desk, flipping through a stack of letters and dinner invitations. He frowned. Something was missing. He made a mental note to talk to his head housekeeper about it later.
In the pile among the bills was an invitation to his publisher’s house for a cocktail party, and another one for a reading for a local group of mystery lovers. Yet he couldn’t attend either because they’d ask the same question—“How’s the next novel coming along?”
Dare he tell them that he hadn’t finished one page on his next novel that was due in six months? He’d crumpled up every page he’d started, tossing it into the wood burner. At least the large black stove radiated a pleasant warmth.
Surely with all the drama happening in the world he could come up with an idea for a simple spy novel. Then again, perhaps that was the problem. Maybe because there was so much drama, his fictional attempts seemed unimaginative in comparison.
He glanced at the typewriter, with one blank sheet of paper propped up within the rollers, and shook his head. He hadn’t written a decent story since Gwen’s death. And that was the problem. His publisher was giving him one last chance before they backed out of their contract, taking with them Clark’s income.
As much as he’d adored his father, the elder Cartwright had been land rich yet penny poor. It was only because of the success of Clark’s books that he was able to keep and maintain both properties. And if he couldn’t pull off the next novel? Clark shuddered at the thought, but the country house would have to go. He couldn’t imagine Celia’s despair if that happened.
Good job, old chap, Clark thought, running his fingers through his short-cropped brown hair. Worrying about finances, fretting about crushing your daughter’s spirit by selling the country house, and a possible war. Three more ways to kill the muse.
The footsteps of Mrs. McGovern were barely distinguishable on the wooden hallway outside the door. She paused, no doubt checking for the clacking of the typewriter keys before knocking, but she needn’t worry.
Clark turned toward the door and rubbed his brow. “Mrs. McGovern? No need to knock.”
The thin wisp of a woman opened the door, a large bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in one hand—a touch of spring in the clutches of winter. Celia would be pleased. With her free hand, the older woman pushed the gray hair back from her forehead.
“Yes, sir?”
“I was certain I noted a telegram delivery today. Do you know where it was placed? It wasn’t with my other mail.”
“Yes, sir, I placed the telegram on Miss Ami’s bureau, seeing’s it were for her.”
“For Amity?”
“Yes, from her brother in Czechoslovakia, sir. She mentioned it to Celia as they were dressing for the out of doors. She is planning to speak to you at dinner. It seems she’s considering taking holiday there.”
In Czechoslovakia? Clark cocked an eyebrow. “Well, it appears she’ll not have to broach the subject now, will she, considering you have already done that for her.”
Mrs. McGovern shifted her weight between her feet, as if unsure to how to answer. “I suppose not, sir, but if I have the liberty, a holiday in such a place doesn’t seem wise, does it now? Especially with Hitler’s troops claiming part of that country for themselves. I shudder at the thought of the scourging that’s already taking place.”
Why, of all times, was Andrew in Czechoslovakia, and why would she want to join him there? Surely it wasn’t truly for holiday. After all, who would choose to visit such a place now? Did it have to do with tho
se who were being forced to leave, just like what was happening in Germany?
“Thank you, Mrs. McGovern,” he stated to dismiss her, and then he remembered she’d come to see him. “Oh, and did you wish to speak to me?”
“Yes, sir. It seems the flower shop down the street is closing. The owners are immigrating to Canada, sir, although why someone would want to move to the wilds of Canada is beyond me.”
“That is interesting, and I have no doubt that as rumors of war grow we’ll be seeing more people fleeing.”
“I believe so, sir, but I wanted to ask…there is another shop a mile beyond. Do I have permission to use your car and driver every week or so to place an order? It’s a nice shop, although their flowers are a bit more pricey.”
“Of course.” Clark smiled and hoped the head housekeeper didn’t see the worry in his eyes. Each month he calculated the cost of the upkeep of the properties, and each month he saw his accounts dwindling. Yet a few pounds more for flowers wouldn’t break the bank. Celia did love fresh flowers in their home.
“Do what you must, Mrs. McGovern, but thank you for asking. Also, do you plan on purchasing poinsettias this year? Miss Ami mentioned they were a favorite that reminded her of her mother.”
“Yes, sir, in next week’s order. Oh, I do hope Miss Ami will still be here for Christmas.”
Clark clucked his tongue. “No need to worry. Amity has a good head on her shoulders. Why don’t you double that poinsettia order as a surprise?”
Mrs. McGovern’s eyes widened. “I will, sir, with delight.” Then she hurried out of the room.
Clark turned his attention back to the window and saw that Amity and Celia had moved from the garden to the badminton area. He smiled, remembering the summer days the three of them had spent playing the game.
Although Celia was fifteen, and Amity ten years her senior, today they laughed and talked like schoolgirl friends, their words volleying back and forth like the feathered shuttlecock—a streak of white in the fading golden light.