Tomas’s voice came from the living room. “You can help me with the flag badges. I want to beat last month’s totals.”
Emil rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Maybe later.”
Tomas was an odd one. Short and surly, with thick, black-rimmed glasses, he often squirreled himself away in the corner, aloof from the others. Otto didn’t remember him from Prague, although apparently, he had heard Otto speak at the Café Slavia. Tomas had appeared at the cottage a week after Peter and the others, forced, like all foreign refugees, to leave London soon after the outbreak of war. He was obsessed with making flag badges to raise money for the Czech Refugee Trust Fund, with ridiculous self-imposed targets he urged the others to embrace.
Emil peered into the bread bin and pulled out yesterday’s half-eaten loaf. “I’m starving. Is there anything else to eat?”
“That’s it for now. Take the ration books with you and buy more bread on the way back,” Lotti said. “There’s this jam from Mrs. Thompson next door. Blackcurrant.”
Emil twisted his face in disgust. “I had some yesterday. It’s too tart.”
“Have plain bread, then. You’ll survive.”
Otto caught her eye, holding her gaze for a few seconds, pondering her words.
CHAPTER 5
SUSSEX, FEBRUARY 1940
Otto and Emil set off down the village street, passing a row of ancient redbrick cottages similar to their own, with warped rooflines and tiny windows, some with brightly colored front doors. Even in this dismal weather, it was hard not to appreciate the charm. Otto hadn’t expected this. He’d welcomed the chance to focus on his writing, without distractions. It was important to get the word out, reflect on the devastating loss in Spain, analyze the fragmentation of the Left, and expose the failure of Britain and France to support the struggle against fascism. He’d landed here by chance—an opportunity to be sponsored, stay rent-free in a cottage, receive a modest advance—all arranged through International Brigade contacts. He hadn’t given much thought to what it would mean to live in a country village. He’d been surprised to find it so picturesque.
Lena would love it. She liked this sort of thing. With a sudden rush of tenderness, he recalled their walks through the Jardin du Luxembourg, the way she drew his attention to various shrubs. Normally, he wasn’t one to pay attention to such things, could never remember what they were called—but Lena knew not only their German names, but the French, too. Now, he imagined them strolling together past the village shop, as he pointed out this particularly attractive cottage, covered in thick ivy, or, once the weather warmed up, admiring the flowers in the front gardens.
Otto shot a quick glance at Emil, afraid these musings were transparent on his face. But Emil was kicking a small rock down the street, as if on a football field. As they passed the shop, Otto groaned at the sight of a stout, middle-aged woman carrying two large shopping bags and bustling straight toward them. This was the not-so-charming aspect of village life. Otto couldn’t remember her name but recognized her as one of the most overbearing of the neighbors. There was no escape.
“Good morning, boys!” the woman boomed, falling into step beside them. “Not too bad today, is it?”
“No, very nice,” Otto responded, and quickened his pace, but this was not enough to dissuade her from coming even closer.
“Still bitterly cold,” she yelled, a few inches from his face. She always shouted, as if this would help compensate for his inadequate command of the English language. “And they say it’s going to snow again later. That wind what we had last week was something terrible, wasn’t it?”
The weather was always the favorite topic of conversation.
“You boys must be on your way to Mrs. Calder’s,” she continued in full cry. “How is she doing down there at The Hollow? I hardly see her these days. Mr. Adams still visiting, is he?”
“I really don’t know,” Otto said.
Second-favorite topic: Muriel’s comings and goings. She was a natural subject for local gossip, totally eccentric in the eyes of the villagers: wealthy, radical in her political affiliations, unconventional in her behavior and tastes. Divorced. And openly having an affair with Alistair Adams, a London man.
“I think it’s such a shame she had to move from the Manor House.” Branson. That was her name: Mrs. Branson. She was forgetting to shout quite as loudly now that she was getting into her rhythm. “I don’t think it’s right. I bet she’s upset about it.”
“I think she understands this,” Otto said. “Everyone has to make the sacrifice.”
There was a lot of talk about the Manor House. The army had recently requisitioned it for use as officers’ quarters. Otto knew that Muriel in fact appreciated the privacy of her new home, a much smaller but comfortable house at the far end of the village, tucked away from the eyes of the local gossips.
“Well, I hope the army takes good care of it. Such a grand house. And beautiful grounds. You know, my Derek worked for Mrs. Calder as a gardener before he signed up. Very good to him, she was. I don’t care what anyone says—she’s always very good to those what work for her.”
They reached the square at the center of the village, bordered by the imposing manor on the right, with three military vehicles parked in front, and to the left the arched lychgate leading to the churchyard. Mrs. Branson turned down the hill, while Otto and Emil continued the short distance to Muriel’s driveway. The tall hedgerows towered above them on both sides, lending a persistent dampness to the rough track. But the dankness lifted as the lane opened up into a clearing and the house itself came into view.
The dwelling was a two-story, timber-framed structure with an intriguing pattern of squares and rectangles created by the dark wood beams and the yellowing plaster, and two tall chimneys, one at each end of the house. The original building was one of the oldest in the village, dating from the fifteenth century, left in ruins until Muriel had restored and expanded it several years earlier. It had been envisioned as a summer house for visiting friends from London, but now it was to be her home for the duration of the war.
Muriel always insisted they were to dispense with the formality of knocking. Otto pushed open the heavy oak front door and called out to announce their arrival. Lancelot the dog came bounding up to greet them.
“Is that Otto?” came a voice from the back of the house.
“Yes, and Emil is here with me.”
“Oh, good. Come in! I’ll be there in a minute.”
A roaring fire filled the huge stone fireplace in the living room. There were three overstuffed armchairs and a large crimson sofa, and in front of them an Oriental carpet in hues of deep blues, reds, and gold. One wall consisted entirely of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, filled with rows of faded brown volumes and thin orange-and-white-striped Penguin paperbacks.
“I am so glad you’ve come.” Muriel beamed as she joined them. She was tall and large-boned, with a broad, angular face, in her early forties. Her skin was still smooth and her step light. She was wearing a tweed skirt and a man’s woolen cardigan over a white blouse, no jewelry. “Ethel is just finishing cleaning upstairs. I’ll ask her to make some tea in a moment.” She spoke in English today, although she could just as easily converse in German or French.
She navigated her way across the room, one arm extended in front of her, and sat in a chair next to the fireplace. She coped so well in familiar surroundings that a casual observer might be unaware she was losing her eyesight. A covert inherited defect was playing havoc with her retinas, gradually covering them with opaque patches impervious to light. She’d naturally had access to all the best Harley Street experts over the years, but apparently nothing could be done. She was doomed to a slow, relentless deterioration into total darkness. Otto found it impossible not to admire her courage. A lesser woman might have retreated into self-pity or despair, but not Muriel.
“Any news from Lena?” she asked.
“Still waiting.”
“Please let me know as soon as you hear,” she said.
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“I brought Emil over to help me work on that fence you wanted repaired,” Otto said.
“Oh, gracious, I forgot about that. Thank you, yes, yes. I don’t want to risk another confrontation with old Pritchard if Lancelot gets out again and bothers the cows. Perhaps you could do that first, and then we can talk. There’s so much I want to discuss. We have to start planning the play.”
“Are you still going to do the play this year?” Otto asked.
“Oh my goodness, yes. We continued all through the last war. We may end up a bit short of male actors, but we can substitute with women, if necessary. After all, Shakespeare did the opposite, so why not?” she chuckled.
The previous summer, just after Otto’s arrival, it had been King Lear. The annual amateur dramatic production in the converted medieval barn on Muriel’s aunt’s property had been a tradition since the turn of the century.
“I shall need all of you to help,” Muriel said. “I was thinking that A Midsummer Night’s Dream might be more appropriate this year, considering the circumstances. Don’t you agree?”
“I am sorry; I cannot help. My English it is not good,” Emil said.
“That’s no excuse!” Muriel laughed, a big, contagious laugh, large enough to fill any room. “You’re doing very well with your English. We’ll have plenty of small supporting roles. And anyway, I’ll need you all to help with scenery and props.”
Ethel served them tea and retreated to the kitchen. Otto was warm and comfortable sitting by the fire, the dog nestled at his feet. This tea tasted much better than the brew Emil had provided earlier. He was reluctant to move. But the sky was now completely overcast; it did indeed look as if it might snow.
“Come on, Emil,” he said, draining his cup. “Let’s look at that fence.”
“You should find whatever tools you need in the shed,” Muriel said. “I think there’re some wooden stakes out there, too. Thank you so much. It’s so nice of you.”
The cold hit with a force that left Otto reeling. He pulled up his collar and stuffed his hands into his pockets. At the bottom of the garden, behind a cluster of small fruit trees, a two-meter stretch of the fence had keeled over, leaving a tangle of stakes and rotting slats. Emil surveyed the damage, pulling at a fence post that was off-kilter, giving the base a firm kick. “The post looks solid enough, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so,” Otto said.
The wind whipped across the expanse of open fields to the south. Otto held the shed door open as Emil rummaged through a wooden box. He selected a hammer, a screwdriver, a set of pliers, and a small glass jar containing screws and nails, then scooped up a bundle of wooden stakes. “That should work.”
The boy seemed to know just what to do. Otto allowed Emil to direct him to hold this and pass him that, as he pulled the fence post into a vertical position, inserted four stakes across, and reinforced them with twine. Within ten minutes, it was in passable condition.
Otto smiled in admiration. “Where did you learn to do that?”
Emil shrugged. “Picked it up. Josef taught me a lot. He did most of the work on our family’s cabin in the Tyrols, fixing it up.” He flexed his fingers and held them to his mouth, blowing on them. “Come on. Let’s get inside and warm up.”
One of the joys of coming to The Hollow was the opportunity for a hot bath. It seemed only fair to let Emil go first. When it came to his turn, Otto had to be quick, not take the long, hot soak he would have liked, because Mrs. Courtney-Smithers and her chauffeur were expected momentarily. Muriel’s aunt Pippa was taking her on an excursion into town. Muriel said this was of no consequence and that Otto should bathe as long as he wished, but he didn’t feel comfortable. Muriel had become much more than his sponsor; he considered her a real friend. Her unorthodox views and boundless energy almost made you forget she was upper-class. With the aunt, however, there could be no mistake. Ever since that first journey from Newhaven in the back of the Rolls-Royce, Otto always felt he had to sit up straight and tuck in his elbows. He couldn’t imagine emerging from the bathroom with wet hair while she was in the house.
As they prepared to leave Muriel said, “Promise me you will all come over for supper tonight. Alistair isn’t returning until the weekend, so I shall absolutely depend on you for company.”
They reached Oak Tree Cottage just as it started to snow. Tomas had moved Otto’s typewriter and papers onto the floor and spread out his badge-making paraphernalia on the table by the window. He held one of the buttons up close to his face and dabbed it with a small brush, touching up the red paint. Peter and Lotti sat on the sofa, her legs across his lap. She was darning socks; he was reading the newspaper.
“How did it go?” Lotti asked.
“We fixed the fence,” Otto said.
“You did?” Peter looked up in surprise.
“I should say, Emil fixed it.”
“We’re all invited for supper,” Emil said.
“That’s nice,” Lotti said.
Otto picked up his typewriter and was trying to decide where to perch, when he heard the clink of the letterbox and saw a thin blue envelope plop onto the mat. He lunged for it, convinced it was from Lena. A quick glance, however, told him it was not. The envelope was covered in postage stamps from Lithuania, endorsements from the Red Cross in Geneva, Thomas Cook in Lisbon, and the final forwarding stamp from the Czech Refugee Office in London. It was hard to tell at first whom it was for.
“Emil,” Otto said, finally locating his name, “it’s for you. It must be from Josef.”
Lotti grimaced, as if bracing for bad news, and lowered her feet to the floor. They all watched in silence as Emil opened it and withdrew one sheet of notepaper.
“It’s dated Vilnius, the thirteenth of December, 1939—more than two months ago,” he said.
“Look!” Peter said, peering over Emil’s shoulder. “The dots and the comma! Remember?” He turned to Lotti. “The code we agreed to in Prague.”
The opening greeting was followed by five dots and a large, exaggerated comma. The lines of text were widely spaced, written in Germanic cursive.
“There’s a hidden message written with milk and lemon juice,” he said.
“I see that,” Emil said. “But let me read this part first.” Emil scanned it quickly and then read out loud.
Dear Emil . . . . . ,
We have reached Lithuania, which is a beautiful country, and we are enjoying visiting our cousins. There is a magnificent castle overlooking the city, which reminds us of Prague. We have seen many splendid lakes. The weather has been bitterly cold. The boots that Papa bought me last winter have been a blessing, because there has been a lot of snow already. We have been playing cards, and my uncle is always winning, you will not be surprised to hear.
I hope you are well and behaving yourself without me to boss you around. Say hello to all the others from me. Love from Josef
Emil was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We don’t have any family in Lithuania.”
“Let’s see what he’s really saying,” Peter said.
He rummaged through a box on the bookshelf and retrieved a small iron. Otto didn’t know they owned such a thing. Peter covered the letter with a handkerchief and carefully dabbed at it to heat the paper. It took a good ten minutes to reveal the other letter, the one that had eluded the censors, written between the lines of platitudes. Emil stood next to him, watching in silence. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, moistening the soft down of his fledgling mustache, a recent experiment. Tomas dipped his brush into the blue paint pot but then laid it down. They all waited, suspended in a capsule of anticipation.
Peter inspected the letter and handed it to Emil.
“This is in Czech,” Emil said, looking at Otto. “I’ll translate.” In Prague, Otto’s social circle consisted entirely of bilingual Czechs who spoke German just as fluently, and to which they could easily revert in the company of non–Czech speakers. So he survived speaking only his native tongue, unable to deciphe
r more than a few words of the mysteriously bundled Slav consonants, with their multiple hooks and accents. Now that they were in England, they continued to use German most of the time.
Emil read aloud:
We got arrested in Krakow. Finally released after much delay, but had to wait for K.; her release took longer. We found some contacts who gave us new documents. Tried to head north but can’t get to England now, so we are turning east. Have to put faith in our Soviet brothers in spite of M-R. Be brave. Hope you are safe. I’ll write more when I can.
There were a few moments of stunned silence. Then everyone began talking at once. “Why the hell are they going east?” “Why were they in Krakow?” “What does ‘M-R’ mean?”
“With the Nazis all over Poland now, they probably thought it was just too dangerous, so they had to go in the opposite direction,” Otto said.
“‘M-R’ must mean ‘Molotov-Ribbentrop,’ the Hitler-Stalin pact,” Peter said. “They’re betting on it being safer in Russia than in any territory controlled by the Gestapo.”
“How far east is Lithuania?”
Lotti asked. “Let’s see.” Tomas had erected a large map of Europe on the living room wall, above the sofa. Soft shades of pastel pinks, yellows, greens, and blues distinguished each nation from its neighbors, giving a beguiling illusion of tranquility. Only the lines of gray pins indicating the advance of the Third Reich betrayed the true condition of the continent. Tomas scrunched up his eyes close to the map, scanning the territory to the east of Poland, until he identified Vilnius. The others watched as he inserted a pin.
Except for Emil. He slumped in the armchair, staring blankly at the fire. Lotti reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off and made for the front door.
“Emil,” she beseeched, as he let in a blast of cold air. Peter restrained her, quietly shaking his head.
Emil slammed the door behind him. Otto hesitated. He considered following Emil but instead picked up his typewriter and retreated upstairs. Perhaps he could get some work done up there. And divert his attention from a queasy anxiety in his chest. Of course Lena was not in the same dire straits as Josef. The Nazis were not in France. Yet. But he bitterly regretted having left her behind in Paris.
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