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When It's Over

Page 7

by Barbara Ridley


  On a warm August afternoon, Lena ran into Heinz on the Boul’Mich.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, taking hold of her hand before she could stop him. “Look who’s here! A wonderful sight to brighten the day.”

  He brought her hand up to his lips and, in an exaggerated pose of chivalry, kissed her fingertips. Lena was puzzled. He’d seen her only two nights earlier and had hardly noticed her. He’d sat with his arm around Eva but had spent most of the evening talking with a group of men at the next table.

  Then she remembered: Eva was out of town. She was visiting her cousin in Normandy.

  Lena pulled her hand away.

  “Max, this is Lena,” he said now, turning to his companion. “Lena’s still pining for her lover boy who left for England two months ago. She won’t let anyone else in her bed. Such a waste, don’t you think?”

  Lena looked up at him, squinting into the sunshine. He was handsome, no doubt about that, with dark eyelashes and an olive complexion, his black hair neatly oiled in place, and a short-sleeved white shirt, the cuffs rolled up almost to his shoulders, revealing bronzed, muscular forearms.

  “Ma chérie, you really need to let your hair down,” he said. “Now more than ever. We need to enjoy ourselves while we can. There’s going to be a war.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  He smirked again. “Haven’t you heard? Hitler’s signed a non-aggression pact with Stalin. It was on the news just an hour ago, sweetheart. War is now a certainty.”

  Hitler and Stalin? How could that be? The communists had always been the staunchest enemies of the fascists.

  “Yes, quite a shock. What will your Otto think about that, eh?”

  “I don’t know,” Lena stammered. She wished she did. She wished she could turn to him for advice.

  “But surely,” she said, “no one wants war.”

  “Stalin has given Hitler the go-ahead to invade Poland. Britain and France will have to declare war.” He seemed almost smug at the prospect.

  “What’s so special about Poland?” she said. “They didn’t step in to rescue Czechoslovakia.”

  Heinz shrugged. “I’m only telling you what everyone’s saying.” He reached for her hand again. “Let’s go for a drink later and have a full debate.” He winked, and turned to his companion again. “Don’t you just love a woman who knows how to argue?”

  Lena shook her head; he really was insufferable. She stepped to the side. “Excuse me. I have to go.”

  When she arrived home, she found a letter from Otto. She opened it immediately, standing in the foyer, opposite Mme. Verbié’s loge. Absurdly, for a moment, she imagined it might offer an interpretation of the day’s events—but of course he had posted it a week ago. He again wrote how much he wanted her to join him in England. His last plan had fallen through; he’d tried to get her sponsored through International Brigade contacts. But now he had another idea: a work permit to enter as a domestic servant. He was making arrangements. Lena was to wait for further details.

  She climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. Did she really want to go to England? What little she knew about the place was not very appealing: huge factories and smoking chimneys. London, maybe, but Otto was stuck in the middle of the countryside. It sounded dull. Yet she was flattered. He was going to great efforts on her behalf. And it was hard to be alone so much of the time. But she didn’t want to get her hopes up. Everyone said it was difficult to get into England nowadays. And she had to wait for Sasha.

  Ten days later, the Germans invaded Poland and the continent plunged into war. An impenetrable barrier of silence put an end to the letters from Prague. The trunks sat in the warehouse. Sophie still asked occasionally, “When is Sasha coming?”

  Otto’s scheme to get Lena a domestic work permit application fell through on a technicality with the paperwork; by the time she resubmitted, the regulations had changed and only applicants residing in Nazi-occupied territory were eligible. She tried for a temporary permit but couldn’t prove she had enough money to support herself. Lena dreaded the repeated trips to the embassy with the hope that she couldn’t suppress, the disappointment she couldn’t dispel. The weather turned cold again. Money became tighter, her skirts looser.

  The war didn’t seem to amount to much. Poland got a beating, and there were skirmishes in Finland and, briefly, along the German–French border, but then everything stalled. C’est le drôle de guerre, everyone said. It’s a phony war. They will negotiate a peace treaty soon.

  Certainly, France wasn’t in danger. The Maginot Line would hold firm.

  But Otto kept urging Lena to leave. In the midst of winter, he wrote, in a buoyant mood, this plan was sure to work. An invitation for a visitor’s visa. From someone very rich, very influential. He enclosed that letter from Mrs. Courtney-Smithers. Just go back to the embassy and show them this letter, he wrote.

  CHAPTER 8

  SUSSEX, FEBRUARY 1940

  The Czechs received their weekly allowance, and Peter suggested a beer at the Fox and Hounds. Otto declined, hoping for a chance to finally do some writing. He hadn’t had a moment’s peace all day. But then Emil said he didn’t feel like going, either. He’d been subdued ever since he’d received his brother’s letter the day before, and now sat on the sofa, stabbing at the fire with morose pokes.

  “Here, take a look at this,” Otto said, tossing him a well-worn copy of Homage to Catalonia. “You’ll like it.”

  Otto had skimmed through it again recently: a rather simplistic analysis of the conflicts between the anarchists and the socialists, but some insightful firsthand reports on the fighting in Spain. And the first section, with its description of the workers’ republic in Barcelona, was truly uplifting. It might keep Emil distracted for a while.

  Emil studied the back cover. “Oh, yes,” he said, his face brightening. “Milton told me about this. George Orwell. Caused quite a stir.”

  “Yes. He had the audacity to question the Moscow Party line.” Otto threaded a piece of paper into the typewriter.

  Emil flipped through the pages. “This will be good for me. I need to read more in English. But it will take me a long time to get through it.”

  “I don’t need it. It’s Milton’s copy. I’m sure you can keep it as long as you want.”

  “When is Milton coming down again?”

  Muriel’s son, Milton, was in his first year at Oxford. Rather naive, spoiled rotten, in Otto’s opinion. But he and Emil were about the same age, and they’d become good friends over the Christmas holidays.

  “In a couple of weeks, I think.” Otto adjusted the alignment of the paper.

  “Josef always wanted to go to Spain,” Emil said. “Did you ever think about going?”

  Otto turned to him in surprise. Of course, Emil was very young, and at the time, Otto had kept his position strictly secret. But he had always suspected that Peter knew the true nature of Otto’s work for Spain, and he assumed Peter had told the others.

  “I didn’t go to Spain, but I worked for the Republican government.”

  “I thought you worked for an information bureau or something,” Emil said.

  “It was certainly a lot more than that.” Surely, Emil didn’t think he’d functioned as some sort of advice clerk. He had never taken fire, never had to kill, but his work hadn’t been without risk. Otto shook his head in disbelief. When he first arrived in Prague, he was viewed as quite the hero, the one experienced in the struggle against fascism. He loved the thrill, the buzzing in his chest, whenever he held the attention of the whole room, loved seeing the admiration in people’s eyes.

  “Well, what were you doing?” Emil asked.

  “I worked for the Republican intelligence service.”

  “You mean you were a secret agent?” Emil’s eyes widened.

  Otto smiled. “Yes. In a way.” There was no longer any need to be furtive.

  “What did you do, exactly?”

  “Collected information on the support Hitler was giving
to the Spanish fascists. Arms shipments, movement of planes, that sort of thing. Sifting through information we received from our contacts inside Germany.”

  “What did you do with the information?”

  “We passed it on to officials in the Spanish embassy in Prague. They had people in direct contact with the War Office in Valencia. And then, later, we worked with the embassy in Paris.”

  “You were a spy!”

  Otto laughed. Much of the work had been rather mundane. But there had been moments of real excitement. Especially when the troop movement crisis happened, in May ’38.

  “Damn! I’ve never met a spy before.”

  Two days later, Lena’s letter arrived.

  It didn’t work. They’re not giving out any visitor visas anymore. They barely looked at that fancy letter you sent me. I need to wait for Sasha anyway. I’m . . .

  Otto didn’t read the rest. He slumped onto the sofa. Why had he allowed himself to believe that he would soon meet Lena off the boat? And why was she still harboring this ridiculous idea of her sister joining her? Did she not understand the peril she was in? Once there was fighting in France, it would be impossible to get Lena out. She was stuck in that miserable hole of a flat, with no one to help her. No, he had to get her out of there.

  “Not good news, I assume,” Tomas said, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

  “What? No.”

  Otto went to the kitchen in search of a glass of water and looked out on the back garden. A blackbird sat on top of the moss-covered wall. A huge, impenetrable wall separated him from Lena. Even when fleeing from the Nazis, crossing the border at midnight, hidden under a tarpaulin in the back of a lorry, he’d not felt this powerless.

  Peter stood in the doorway. “We’ll just have to come up with something else.”

  “Like what? Your last clever idea didn’t work out so well, did it?”

  “I think we should go to the Czechs.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Otto pushed past him to return to the sofa.

  “Emil gave me the idea,” Peter said. “Yesterday he couldn’t stop talking about your having been a spy. He’s building it up in his mind as a very glamorous thing.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Is it really true?” Lotti said. “That you were a secret agent?”

  “Sort of. Yes.”

  “My God! Peter, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Peter shrugged. “I thought it was obvious to everyone that Otto wasn’t really interested in . . . what was it? Industrial development?”

  “It was the Spanish Economic Information Bureau.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What about Lena?” Lotti asked. “Was she an agent, too?”

  “No. She worked for me, she was my secretary, but she wasn’t an agent. And officially, she wasn’t supposed to know what was going on.”

  “I was thinking yesterday,” Peter said, standing on the hearth, facing the room, “when Emil was going on and on: Back in May ’38, there were rumors. . . . Wasn’t it the Spanish embassy in Prague that tipped off the Czech government about the Nazi buildup on the Sudetenland border?”

  “It was indeed.”

  “And where did they get that information?”

  Otto nodded. He was impressed. “Very good. Yes, they got it from us. We got the reports from our contacts in Saxony and passed them to the Spanish embassy. They tipped off Beneš, and he ordered the Czech mobilization. Stopped Hitler in his tracks. For the time being.” Yes, it had been a real triumph.

  “Good heavens!” Lotti said. “You were responsible for that?”

  “Well, yes, together with a lot of other people. Some of our sources inside Germany took great risks to get that information out. I dread to think about what has happened to them since then. Yes, it was splendid at the time, but it didn’t achieve much in the long run, did it?”

  “It bought a few extra months, allowed some people to get out who might not have otherwise,” Peter said. “What I’m thinking is: How can we use that to our advantage now?”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Use it for some leverage to get Lena out of Paris.” Peter poked the few remaining coals in the grate.

  “I don’t see how that’s going to work. The organization I worked for closed long ago. The Spanish government no longer exists. The Czech government no longer exists. We have no contact with anyone from those days. I don’t see how any of it can be of use now.”

  “But President Beneš is here in London now.”

  “So?”

  “He has the Czech National Council based here, trying to establish the government in exile. There’re people at the Trust Fund Office who are associated with the council.”

  “What are you getting at?” Lotti said.

  “Otto’s agency gave the Czech government valuable information back in ’38,” Peter replied. “I’m sure we can persuade the Czech Council people here in London that Lena was a part of that operation and that they need to repay the favor.”

  “I don’t see how a tiny group of exiled Czech bureaucrats can do much. I’m sure they’re full of their own self-importance, but really . . .”

  “They must have links with British officials here. There’re people in powerful positions in this country who feel guilty about appeasement and Munich. It’s time for them to make amends.” Peter reached for his coat from the hook behind the front door. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Where’re you going?” Lotti said.

  “Let’s get out of the house. We can’t afford to keep that fire burning all day.”

  “Where’s Emil?” Lotti said.

  “He went to The Hollow,” Tomas said.

  “I hope he’s all right,” Lotti said. “He seems so forlorn since he received Josef’s letter.”

  “You baby him too much,” Peter said. “He just needs time to take it in. Come on everyone—we need fresh air. And we need to talk to Muriel.”

  Peter led the way across the recreation ground toward a stile between two tall hedges, with a sign indicating the public footpath. The stile was smooth and worn from years of use, the weathered wood of the lower cross-steps indented from the thousands of footsteps that had preceded them on this route. Peter swung his leg over, climbed down, and offered Lotti a hand. She laughed lightly as she landed in his arms. Otto caught himself staring as they embraced.

  Their route stretched out through three long fields bordered by high hedgerows. A gentle incline in the terrain allowed a view of the woods beyond and, to the left, the rolling contours of the South Downs in the distance. Out of sight beyond them, but almost palpable in Otto’s mind, lay the English Channel and the shores of France. And Lena.

  “So, does Muriel know you were a spy?” Lotti said.

  This was getting out of hand. Otto had never thought of himself as a spy, exactly. He was just passing on information that was important for the defense of the Spanish Republic. But, well, let them think that. It was odd to be talking about it openly after years of being secretive, but it couldn’t do any harm now.

  “I talked with her about the Sudetenland situation. When I first arrived. She knew I was involved with the movement in Spain when she sponsored me, so I told her about the bureau.”

  “Here’s the plan,” Peter said. “Otto and I will go to the Czech Council office tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Otto said.

  “Monday, then.” Peter was in full swing. “We’ll concoct an elaborate story about Lena’s playing a key role in the Sudetenland business.”

  They cut through the next field and picked up a narrow path that led to the driveway of Muriel’s place at The Hollow. They found Emil in the living room, nestled in front of the fireplace, playing chess with Alistair.

  “Come in, come in,” Alistair effused. “How delightful to see you all. Emil is giving me a thrashing here.”

  Alistair was strikingly handsome, probably in his early fifties, wel
l preserved, with a lively stride, a warm, jovial disposition, and always a beguiling smile. He wore his signature brightly colored bow tie; today’s was a deep red with small blue dots, setting off his crisp white shirt and navy blue waistcoat. He gestured for them to sit.

  “How are things in London?” Lotti asked.

  “Frightfully dreary. The wretched blackout, and sandbags everywhere. One might just as well spend the weekend in the country. Not that the company isn’t delightful down here, of course.” He flashed that smile again. “What can I offer you?” He slipped effortlessly into the role of host, even though he generally visited only on weekends. Muriel joined them as they sat by the fire.

  “Lena didn’t get her visa,” Otto said. “They’re not giving out any visitor visas at all.”

  “Oh no,” Muriel said. “I’m terribly sorry. Aunt Pippa’s letter didn’t help, then.”

  “No,” Otto said. “We have to find another approach.”

  “Peter has a wonderful idea,” Lotti said.

  “Do you know how to reach the British intelligence service?” Otto asked Muriel. “We’re thinking of using Lena’s involvement with my bureau in Prague as a ploy to get her in.”

  “Hmm . . . that’s an interesting idea, but I’m afraid I don’t have any acquaintances in MI5. At least, not as far as I know,” she chuckled.

  “We’re going to London to talk with the Czech Council,” Peter said. “I’m sure we can convince them Lena was an important part of the bureau’s work and needs to be brought to safety over here.”

  “It makes more sense to work with the British,” Otto said. “They’re the ones who will have to issue a visa.”

  Alistair appeared with a tray of wine glasses and a plate of crackers. “You need someone to put in a word at the Foreign Office,” he said. “Muriel, surely some of your good Tory friends here in Sussex have useful connections.”

  “Most of them are busy trying to hide the fact that they so enthusiastically welcomed Ribbentrop into high society when he visited London before the war,” Muriel snorted. “Lauded him for being staunchly anticommunist. But I could try to talk to Lady Charlotte, I suppose.”

 

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