“Lady Charlotte?”
“McMahon’s wife, over at Durfield Park. We used to avoid any discussion of politics, because we disagreed on just about everything. But it was Lady Charlotte who first approached me about sponsoring refugees. After Munich. She called on all the local gentry, I believe, but I don’t think too many obliged.”
“McMahon might give it a shot,” Alistair said.
“What are they talking about?” Tomas turned to Otto, screwing up his nose.
“Entschuldigung!” Muriel said. She was fluent in German. “Es tut mir leid. I’m dreadfully sorry. Please forgive me. We’re trying to decide who would have most influence at the Foreign Office.”
Peter said, “I think we should go with my plan for an approach to the Czech Council.”
“I have one hundred and seventy flag badges to give them,” Tomas said. “If we all worked on them tonight and tomorrow, we could get to two hundred and fifty, I’m sure. That would impress them.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Otto said.
“Well, it couldn’t hurt,” Muriel said with a smile. “We’ll lean on the British, and you work on the Czechs.”
Later, as they rose to leave, Alistair put an arm around Otto’s shoulder. “As soon as Lena arrives, you have to bring her here to meet us right away. I simply have to see this girl. She must be something to be worth so much effort.” He winked.
CHAPTER 9
LONDON, FEBRUARY 1940
Miss Marjorie Hubbock glanced at the clock on the wall above her desk. Quarter to three. She gave a ladylike cough in an attempt to attract the attention of the young woman at the opposite desk. Mrs. Perkins continued to work, jabbing at the keys much too aggressively. It was no wonder the keys kept getting jammed, a regular occurrence that had led to some undignified expressions of frustration earlier in the day. If Mrs. Perkins was not more careful, she was going to break her typewriter, and there would be no end of difficulties in getting a replacement.
“Ahem.” Miss Hubbock coughed again. No response from the other desk. Finally, realizing that she would just have to be more explicit, she said, “Mrs. Perkins, do you see what time it is?”
Mrs. Perkins looked up at the clock. “Almost ten to three,” she said, and returned to her typing.
Trying to control her exasperation, Miss Hubbock announced, “It’s time to put the kettle on for afternoon tea.”
“I have to finish this report for Mr. Watkins, Miss Hubbock. He needs it by the end of the day. Do you think you could possibly make the tea today?”
Miss Hubbock was rendered speechless. Mrs. Perkins was perhaps twenty years her junior and had been here for less than a year. Miss Hubbock had been at the Foreign Office for the past twelve years, long before all these flighty young women had taken it into their heads to enter the workforce, and she held a very important position. Miss Hubbock was Senior Secretary to the Assistant Clerk, the Deputy Head, and the Assistant Director of the Special Operations Department, led by the Deputy Under Secretary of State, who in turn reported directly to the Permanent Under Secretary of State. Her responsibilities, the precise details of which she was of course not at liberty to divulge, included writing up confidential memos, recording the minutes of highly sensitive meetings, and handling all incoming telephone calls.
This last duty called for particular tact and skill. Naturally, one had to be polite at all times yet firmly resist pressure from callers who believed their particular concern should receive immediate priority. Just that morning, for example, she had had to field calls from the French attaché, the department heads at both the Ministry of Supply and the War Office, and a very persistent Mr. Lisicky, from the Czech Council, who had now called three times. But Mr. Lyndhurst and Mr. Watkins were much too busy to take any calls. They had to complete a detailed analysis of the situation in Finland, which the Prime Minister would need for a speech in the House of Commons tomorrow. Miss Hubbock had recorded each telephone message in her scrupulously neat handwriting, to be delivered at the end of the day.
Now, this young upstart was asking her to go and make the tea. On second thought, however, perhaps it was just as well. She had recently noticed that Mrs. Perkins, in spite of specific directions, persisted in pouring Mr. Lyndhurst’s tea first, when Mr. Watkins preferred his tea on the weak side and Mr. Lyndhurst was more partial to a stronger brew. It just went to prove the old adage that if one wanted something done right, one had to do it oneself. With a sigh of resignation, Miss Hubbock rose from her desk and went to the lounge.
And so it was that while Miss Hubbock was otherwise occupied, the telephone rang again and was answered by Mrs. Perkins. The caller said he was Sir Somebody-or-Other and was most insistent on speaking with Mr. Lyndhurst immediately. He had a very posh accent, which made him difficult to dismiss, and as Mr. Lyndhurst was going to break for tea in a few moments anyway, Mrs. Perkins could see no harm in knocking on the door that led to the inner office where the gentlemen worked.
“Sorry to interrupt you, sir,” she said, “but there is a Sir Rupert McManus, I think it is, on the phone, sir, who says he has to speak with you right away, sir.”
“Sir Rupert? Oh, Sir Rupert McMahon,” Mr. Lyndhurst said, coming into the front office. “All right, I’ll talk to him. Where’s Miss Hubbock?”
“She’s making the tea, sir.”
“Good heavens. I see. Right, then.” He reached for the pile of messages sitting in his box and glanced through them. “Well, put him through, please, Mrs. Perkins.”
He returned to his desk, leaving the door ajar. “Sir Rupert! How are you? What can I do for you? The Czechs? Oh, yes, I see that Mr. Lisicky has called a few times. Been frightfully busy working on a report for the PM, you know. I see, I see . . . Yes, quite . . . Quite so . . . Naturally . . . Well, I’ll see what I can do . . . What’s the name? . . . Can you spell that for me? Good gracious . . . I see . . . Yes, indeed . . . Quite so . . . Oh, not at all, not at all. Glad to oblige.”
“What was that all about?” asked his colleague.
“It seems the Czechs have an agent in Paris they have to bring over. Vital to their work over here, apparently.”
“Why’s McMahon getting involved in that?”
“Oh, the Czechs have been having a go at him, it appears. Everyone’s tripping over themselves being nice to the damn Czechs these days. Better let this one through to shut them up.”
“What’s this Czech chap’s name?”
“Well, that’s the darnedest thing. It’s a girl.”
CHAPTER 10
PARIS, MARCH 1940
Lena returned from the market carrying a baguette, a pear, and thirty grams of gruyère, the smallest piece the cheese man would sell. She immediately checked the letterboxes opposite Mme. Verbié’s office. She had been anxiously awaiting more news since she had received a cryptic note from Otto, two days earlier.
Think we’ve found a way to get you here, he’d written. Wait for official notification. Don’t ask too many questions. Just follow instructions.
She saw it at once: protruding from the top-floor slot, a large white envelope, thick and opaque. It was addressed English-style to Miss Lena Kulkova, postmarked London SW1, and decorated with an official signet: a shield topped by a crown and flanked by a lion and a unicorn. She was about to open it right there opposite the concierge’s loge, when she became aware of Mme. Verbié staring at her with blatant curiosity. She didn’t understand what Otto meant about not asking questions, but maybe she should be discreet.
Lena took the stairs two steps at a time, and reached the top floor breathless from both the climb and nervous anticipation. Her heart raced. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and then opened the envelope. She extracted a sheet of official stationery with the letterhead The Foreign Office, King Charles Street, London SW1.
Dear Miss Kulkova,
On behalf of His Majesty’s government, I am pleased to inform you that you have been invited to enter Great Britain on a special pe
rmit, granted at the discretion of the Foreign Office.
The necessary entry papers are enclosed with this correspondence. They need to be endorsed at His Majesty’s embassy in Paris, which is located at 35 rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré, in the 1ère arrondissement. The hours of operation are Monday to Friday, 9:30 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. No appointment is necessary.
I understand that time is of the essence. I have therefore taken the liberty of making travel arrangements on your behalf.
I am enclosing a ticket for the 10:30 A.M. flight from Le Bourget on Sunday, 10 March. I trust you will find this convenient.
Yours sincerely, Thomas Lyndhurst, Esq.
Assistant Director, Special Operations
What on earth did this mean? Lena looked inside the envelope again. Indeed, there they were: an entry permit and a ticket to London, sitting in her hands. She reread the letter carefully, unsure whether her imperfect command of the English language had deceived her. You have been invited to enter Great Britain on a special permit. How had Otto managed this? She looked at the ticket. Le Bourget was the airport—she knew that. An aeroplane ticket—it frightened her. Was she going to have to pay for it? It must be very expensive.
She had to show this to someone and decide what to do. Marguerite would not be home until late. But Eva—yes, she would go and find Eva.
Lena caught up with her as she was leaving her apartment with Heinz. Lena wanted Eva to herself, but they ended up walking as a threesome across the Jardin de Luxembourg, through the sadly neglected lawns and flowerbeds, so faded from their former glory. Eva and Heinz were engaged in animated discussion, something about a Hungarian writer they’d just met; Lena couldn’t pay attention.
“You’re very quiet, Lena,” Eva said. “What’s happened? Did you hear something from home?”
“No, nothing like that. I’ve . . .” Lena faltered, then blurted it all out: “Otto’s somehow managed to get me an entry permit to England. I really don’t understand how. It just arrived in a very fancy letter. With an aeroplane ticket to London.”
“Good Lord!” Eva said. “A plane ticket?”
“Yes, for the tenth.” She pulled the envelope out of her handbag. “Look at this. Do I have to pay for it?”
Heinz took the ticket, turned it over, inspecting it. “I’m pretty sure it’s all paid for,” he said.
“That’s incredible,” Eva said as they continued walking. “I suppose if anyone could do it, Otto could.”
“You must be damn good in bed, sweetheart—that’s all I can say.” Heinz had his arm around Eva, but he winked at Lena over her head.
“So, are you going?” Eva asked.
Lena was about to say something about waiting for Sasha, but it suddenly felt ridiculous. Heinz would be scornful. Everyone told her a child could not travel on her own now, in wartime conditions. Instead, she heard herself say, “Well, yes, I suppose I am. I tried so many times to get into England; I don’t see how I can turn this down now. It’s not as though this special permit is transferable to anyone else. There’re so many others trying to get in. . . .”
“Not anymore,” Heinz said. “Why would anyone want to go there now? They say Hitler is going to attack London with his huge stockpiles of poison gas any day now.”
“But Otto thinks—”
“Who cares what Otto thinks?”
“Oh, shh, Heinz,” Eva said.
“Well, he was right about Barcelona, right about Munich. I trust his instincts in matters like this. He . . .” Lena felt a thickness in the back of her throat.
“You miss him, Lena. Why won’t you admit it?” Eva said, with a gentle laugh.
“It’s not just Otto. You know Peter and Lotti are over there now, too. I got a letter from Lotti last week. They’re living in a commune, by the sounds of it. From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. I like that. We have to hold on to our ideals, even in wartime.” Lena linked her arm through Eva’s. “It’s just . . . I wish you could join us, Eva.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me.”
“But I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“I’m not alone.” Eva in turn slipped her hand through Heinz’s arm and pulled him closer to her again. “And Heinz is sure he’s soon going to hear back from his cousin in Chicago.” She looked up at Heinz. “If he does get a visa to America, I might go with him.”
“How would you be able to do that?”
Now it was Eva’s turn to blush. “Well, we’ve talked about getting married.”
Lena looked at Heinz in surprise. He turned away, his eyes pulled toward the tight-fitting skirt and elegant legs of a passerby pursuing a poodle straining on its leash.
CHAPTER 11
PARIS, MARCH 1940
The following morning, Lena received more startling news: a letter from her father. At least, it was unmistakably his small, scratchy handwriting that traversed the page. But this ostensibly came from someone called Hans Weimer, and not from Prague but from Belgrade. It was one short page, dated the 12th of February, more than three weeks earlier.
Dear Lena,
I am here in Belgrade with your brother. We spent some time in the mountains. The others stayed home. We are going to meet up with our old friend Schweik. You will remember him.
Love,
Father
Lena stared at this in disbelief, trying to decipher it. Her father and Ernst had left Prague and fled over the mountains to Belgrade? Leaving Máma and Sasha behind? How could they do that? And why Belgrade? Presumably, they’d traveled through Slovakia and Hungary, avoiding Nazi-occupied Austria. She knew the Czech consulate in Belgrade was one of a handful that had refused to close after Hitler dismantled Czechoslovakia; it had stayed open in a gesture of defiance. They can’t be doing anything very useful, she thought; they probably have no funds. But was that why her father had headed there?
Whenever Lena thought of her father, she felt nothing but anger. It was like an old jersey that she automatically slipped into without considering whether there could be anything more suitable to wear. She remembered the arguments, the beatings, the vow never to speak to him again. Yet now he and Ernst had made a clandestine escape from occupied Czechoslovakia. We spent some time in the mountains. This was a dangerous route—Lena understood that much. And even from Belgrade, he hadn’t dared use his real name. The last she’d heard, her parents had been unable to envision anything but an officially sanctioned emigration, bringing all the trappings of a bourgeois lifestyle. None of that was possible now. Leaving over the mountains meant carrying nothing but the clothes on their backs, hiding by day, traveling at night. How could she not grudgingly admire him?
She showed the letter to Eva. She tracked her down that afternoon, for once without Heinz at her side. The weather was milder. They walked toward the river.
“It’s hard to believe,” Eva said. “My father would never do anything like that. What’s this part about meeting up with Schweik?”
“I don’t know. I can’t make any sense of it.”
Yet no sooner were the words out of her mouth than she suddenly got it, and simultaneously Eva did, too. They stopped on a traffic island in the middle of the street and in unison cried, “Osudy dobrého vojáka Švejka! The Adventures of the Good Soldier Schweik”—the famous fictional Czech soldier in the Austro-Hungarian army.
“That’s it,” Lena said. “Our old friend Schweik. You will remember him.”
“Oh my God!” Eva said. “They’re going off to be soldiers. To join the army. But what’s your father doing invoking the name of Schweik? He can’t approve of his anarchistic beliefs.”
“Not at all. But he knew I’d understand the reference.” Lena said. “I can’t believe I didn’t get that right away. They must be trying to connect with the Free Czech Army.”
“Yes, I think Belgrade is one of the places they’re mobilizing.”
“My father always was fiercely patriotic. Still, I never imagined he would do something like this.
And Ernst just turned seventeen. Surely he’s too young.”
“They’re probably not too fussy at this point.”
“Come with me to the library,” Lena said. “Let’s see if any newspapers have reports on the Free Czech Army.”
Eva looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Heinz at four o’clock.”
So Lena went alone. Le Figaro had a short item on page five about a division mobilizing in Agde, in the South of France, with volunteers shipped in from recruitment centers in Belgrade and elsewhere. They were to be deployed with the French army, if needed. But they were short of uniforms, tanks, and ammunition and embroiled in negotiations with the French authorities for funds. Father had liked to boast about the efficient military back home, with its sophisticated weaponry, so impressive for a young nation. This venture sounded more like a Boy Scouts outing, pleading for additional tents and raincoats.
And Ernst: he was a child. When Lena had last seen him, he’d been a scrawny adolescent waiting for his growth spurt and a real reason to shave. Now he was heading for the South of France to be sent into an ill-equipped army. And Sasha and Máma were on their own in Prague. What was Father thinking, leaving them behind? What would Máma do for money? Lena had no idea—and no way to contact any of them.
She had never considered her family close-knit, but now they were all separated from each other, and it suddenly felt frightening. She knew that Máma would not send Sasha out now. Not now that she was on her own. And if Sasha was not going to appear in Paris, there was no reason for Lena to stay.
Lena looked again at the letter from Mr. Lyndhurst. So she was supposed to return to the embassy with this invitation and get it endorsed by the cheerless clerks she’d encountered so many times before. She broke into a grin at the prospect of waving it in their faces. She hoped they would feel suitably rebuked. It was almost four o’clock. If she splurged on a Métro ticket, she would get there before they closed.
She sprinted up the embassy steps, waving her letter in triumph at the entrance guard. He merely nodded and directed her to the long queue. Apparently, Mr. Lyndhurst of London SW1 was not empowered to exempt her from taking her place once again among the huddled masses. It was unbelievably crowded and stuffy. She inched forward at an excruciatingly slow pace, her excitement dissipating. Now she was annoyed that she had not brought anything to read and worried that they might close before her turn.
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