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When It's Over

Page 9

by Barbara Ridley


  Finally, she was called to the counter, where she found herself indeed standing face-to-face with one of the familiar clerks. Lena beamed inanely at him and produced her letter with great flourish. But he displayed no glimmer of recognition. He studied the letter and the accompanying permit, stared at Lena, inspected her passport photograph, and looked at her again, back and forth several times, wordlessly. Lena realized she was holding her breath and that her stomach was growling; she hadn’t eaten in hours. Suddenly, the official scooped up all the documents and disappeared through a heavy mahogany door behind him.

  Lena felt exposed and self-conscious. She couldn’t recall ever having seen a clerk leave the counter. She tried to breathe normally. She lowered her hands out of sight and tried to cross all her fingers, one over the other.

  The clerk reappeared, accompanied by an older man, bald, with red, blotchy skin. This newcomer repeated the scrutiny of Lena and her paperwork, mumbled something inaudible, pointed to something on the permit, held it up to the light. Lena saw an elaborate watermark hidden beneath the surface, like an occult gem. She was suspended still in a moment of time as three pairs of eyes focused on this piece of paper. Finally, the bald man reached for his stamp and thumped his authorization onto the permit and her passport. He handed both back to Lena with a silent nod.

  Was that it? She walked out in a daze; she had a visa for England! She laughed out loud at the unexpected turn of events, at the joy of it—and saw a chestnut man on the corner. The warm smell from the brazier was enticing; on impulse, Lena indulged in a small bag of nuts. She cracked one open and bit into the soft meat, almost burning her tongue.

  “I’ve decided to go to England,” she announced to Marguerite later that evening. “I’ve got a permit and an aeroplane ticket.” She showed Marguerite the letter.

  “Goodness!” Marguerite nodded in approval. “All right. We’d better start getting you ready. The tenth is this Sunday.”

  There was not much to do. Lena’s life in Paris was compact and could easily be uprooted and fitted into one small suitcase. She had never flown before but assumed she would not be permitted to bring the massive trunk her mother had thought essential on her departure from Prague two years earlier. Most of its former contents had either worn out or been sold anyway. She spent the next three days giving away many of her remaining possessions, including the trunk itself. Most of her Czech and German books went to Eva, the French to Marguerite. After much deliberation, she decided to pack her complete set of À la Recherche du Temps Perdu; it was ridiculously heavy and bulky, but she loved Proust and thought it would be a way for a little bit of Paris to accompany her.

  And the hideous gas mask from Mme. Verbié: it had been tossed aside and never used. People had long ceased carrying their masks with them; the mannequins in the shop windows on the Place Vendôme no longer sported masks decorated with colorful bows. Lena took the mask in and out of the suitcase several times, before finally wedging it next to the Proust. She didn’t want Mme. Verbié to discover it discarded—and perhaps she might need it one day.

  Her final day in Paris, Lena walked one last time along the banks of the Seine and through the Latin Quarter. The plane trees were showing tiny buds of green; spring flowers from Provence had arrived on the Quai aux Fleurs. In the rue Duhesme, two women still wrapped up in their winter wear—knitted bonnets, black overcoats, woolen stockings—called out a cheerful “Bonjour, mademoiselle!” Arms outstretched, hands reddened and cuticles torn, they proffered up their glistening carrots, plump leeks, and perfectly round cabbages, extolling their virtues with a barrage of superlatives. The work of yesterday, today, tomorrow: unchanging, except for the variation in produce with the seasons. She had seen these women many times before, but they probably did not remember her and certainly would not miss her. She smiled and bid them a silent adieu.

  There were other farewells, so much harder: to the Beaufils and little Sophie, to Mme. Verbié—good people who had shown her so much kindness. Final hugs and handshakes, one last look deep into their eyes, a fervent hope that everything would turn out well.

  And Eva and Marguerite: What if it was going to be dangerous to be in Paris?

  “We’ll be all right,” Marguerite maintained. “If things take a turn for the worse, Eva can come with me to my uncle and aunt’s place in the Gorges du Tarn. It’s completely hidden away from the world; they grow all their own food. We can stay there until it settles down.”

  “It might be over soon, anyway,” Eva said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “They’re saying this stalemate will end in a truce before long.”

  They were sitting in Les Deux Magots on her last night. The weather much milder, they were back on the terrace, and the accordion player had returned to the street corner. The distinctive smell of Gitanes wafted over the tables, the smoke hovering in thick layers in the amber light.

  A group at the next table called out to the musician. He sauntered over, black beret askew, eyes red-rimmed. He gave a vaudeville bow and compressed the bellows, his sinewy hands plying the keyboard. Lena soon recognized the tune: “Tout Va Très Bien, Madame la Marquise.” It was an absurd ditty, the tale of a butler trying to reassure his mistress that everything is fine back home, when in fact it becomes clear that the gray mare is dead, the stables have burned to the ground, the castle is in ruins, and the Marquis has committed suicide. But “everything is fine,” tout va très bien, went the catchy refrain. Lena loved it, and soon the melody reverberated from table to table.

  “Tout va très bien, Madame la Marquise. Tout va très bien, tout va très bien . . .”

  PART II

  CHAPTER 12

  ENGLAND, MARCH 1940

  Lena looked up from her book. The vast expanse of the English Channel was all she could see, the white tops of the waves appearing as tiny specks thousands of feet below. She became aware of her left hand still clutching the upholstered armrest. The aeroplane appeared to be staying aloft, so perhaps she could relax her grip.

  Craning her neck forward, she could see the engines out on the wing, the faint oscillation at the hubs the only hint of motion. If she understood the physics of it better, perhaps it would be easier to have confidence in this improbable venture: a huge, bird-shaped machine with fifteen passengers (and her suitcase, weighed down with the Proust volumes) lifting up into the sky and speeding north, purely on the strength of those propellers. Lena had watched with a mixture of fascination and terror as the giant blades stirred from their slumber on the ground. Faster and faster they whirled, like the roundabout in Letna Park that she and Ernst loved so much when they were little, going round and round until her mother sitting on the bench became a blur; faster and faster, until the blades moved so quickly they looked like the whizzing spokes of a bicycle wheel; and then suddenly vanishing altogether, becoming invisible, as the noise thundered through the cabin. This motion somehow allowed the plane to speed down the runway and, miraculously, lift up into the wide-open sky.

  Peering ahead again, her cheek pressed up against the window curtain, Lena saw a line of chalky white bluffs fringed with green as the English coastline came into sight. A few wispy clouds floated just below. Once you got used to being up here, the view was spectacular.

  “More coffee, mademoiselle?”

  The steward was back, offering a silver pot balanced on a starched white towel. Lena declined. She had earlier accepted a crouton with pâté and was feeling slightly queasy.

  “When are we expected to reach London?” she asked. She had no idea how long this flight would take.

  “We shall be arriving at Croydon Airdrome in about forty-five minutes, mademoiselle,” he replied, with a slight bow. “May I get you anything else?”

  “Oh, no thank you.”

  Lena wasn’t sure what to expect on her arrival. She had written Otto to say she was leaving on the tenth, but there had been no time for a reply. She presumed he would be there to meet her. She suddenly wondered what she would do if he were no
t. Well, she had his address; she could find her own way there, if necessary. She had traveled on her own to Le Bourget on the RER train, feeling quite adventurous. There had been talk of Eva and Marguerite accompanying her, but Marguerite had to work, and Eva had suddenly announced that she hated platform farewells and would say good-bye in the Place de la Contrascarpe.

  “I don’t think there’s a platform at the airport,” Lena protested.

  “You know what I mean. Reminds me of those tearful partings at the station in Prague. The huge, unspoken fear of not knowing when or where we would meet again.” Eva shuddered.

  Lena nodded. She was still haunted by the look in Máma’s eyes the day she left. So she and Eva took leave of each other instead in the bustling market square; a quick, tight hug, and then Eva disappeared into the crowd, leaving Lena with an empty space in front of her and a lump in her throat.

  But once on the train, she felt her courage returning. The thought of seeing Otto again gave her that fluttering excitement that she’d felt when they were first lovers. She always marveled that he wanted her—he who was admired by so many, wiser by far. She closed her eyes and imagined the feel of his body next to hers, walking down the street, sitting together, lying in bed—and then opened her eyes in apprehension. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same. Maybe she and Otto would be like strangers.

  Just at that moment, the plane lurched, as if stumbling to the bottom of an air pocket, and her stomach heaved in fright. But then it stabilized and began to descend in a gentle controlled glide. In the gaps in the mist, Lena caught tantalizing glimpses of the English countryside, spread out like a patchwork quilt: verdant fields and woods, meandering rivers, small clusters of red-roofed buildings, a little oval lake reflecting a glint of sunlight. It was beautiful. Where were the dark Satanic mills of the England she knew from school textbooks? The lush greenness enfolded her in a welcoming embrace, dispelling her lingering doubts.

  And now, safely back on terra firma, she found her welcoming committee: Otto, looking taller and thinner than she remembered, standing next to a gleaming counter, and behind him Peter, and there was Lotti, waving excitedly at her from across the spacious hall. Lena noticed them immediately, framed in a spotlight of sun from a huge skylight. Suddenly she had closed that gap and was in Otto’s arms, her cheek pressed hard against his coarse jacket, taking in his warmth and his smell, so strange and yet so familiar. She looked up, and he grinned at her, his hair all askew; he rocked her gently in his arms, pulling the top of her head toward his lips. All the months of waiting and trying and failing and hoping and not hoping—all that was now compressed into the past.

  “Lena, Lena, mein Schätzchen,” Otto said. “You’re here at last!”

  “He’s been like a dog with a bone, obsessed about getting you over here,” Peter said with a laugh. He and Lotti embraced Lena, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “I was worried for your safety,” Otto said, pulling her toward him again.

  “What was it like to fly in an aeroplane?” Lotti asked, as they made their way toward the exit.

  “Terrifying and really wonderful. And so fast. It took no time at all.”

  “Well, mein Schätzchen, you’re to continue your journey in style,” Otto said. He ushered Lena through the heavy exit door. Peter carried her suitcase. “Muriel lent us the car for this auspicious occasion.”

  “This really is a special treat,” Peter said. “Petrol is scarce. The old Bentley hasn’t had a run for almost two weeks.”

  “We have to constantly remind Peter to drive on the left.” Lotti laughed. “It’s a little nerve-racking at times.”

  “Luckily, there’s hardly any traffic,” Otto said.

  “And luckily, it’s daylight,” Lotti continued. “A few weeks ago, we went down to the South Coast for the day and came back at night. Headlights aren’t allowed because of the blackout. Tomas was leaning out of the window, trying to light the way with a tiny hand-held torch.”

  Lena basked in her friends’ jovial chatter. A wave of contented exhaustion swept over her. Of course this was the right place to be. For the first time in months, she could relax. She sank into the leather seat and leaned on Otto’s shoulder, as he put his arm around her. He kissed her, on the mouth this time, the roughness of his chin brushing hers, their noses jostling in an awkward fumbling for the right position, until their lips discovered the remembered softness.

  Peter was driving and Lotti was up front, saying something about having taken the wrong turn. Suddenly, Otto pulled away from Lena to peer forward.

  “No, this is right. I remember we passed that pub, the Three Swans.”

  “We have to get back to the Oxted Road,” Peter said.

  “It’s just up there on the right,” Otto said.

  “It’s such a maze of little lanes and convoluted routes,” Lotti said, “it’s easy to get lost.”

  “It’s beautiful. I couldn’t believe how green it looked from the air.” Lena turned to Otto. “You didn’t tell me it was so beautiful.”

  “Wait until you see the village,” Lotti said. “There’re lovely walks in the fields and woods.”

  Lotti seemed bubbly and talkative, very different from the shy young thing Lena remembered from two years ago in Prague. She turned around to face Lena. Her eyes sparkled, and all the muscles of her face joined in a coordinated dance around the words as they tumbled out.

  “Muriel is planning a party tonight,” she continued. “Milton is down from Oxford, and Alistair will be there, perhaps with a couple of his London friends. It will be so much fun.”

  These names meant nothing to Lena. “I’m just so happy to see all of you.” She squeezed Otto’s hand. “What about Josef? Isn’t he over here, too?”

  “He never made it. He was arrested in Krakow. By the time he was released and managed to secure new documents, it was too late to leave through Poland. He’s heading toward the USSR, we think.”

  “Oh no!”

  “His brother, Emil, is with us. Do you remember him? He’s really upset about Josef,” Lotti said. “He doesn’t like to talk about it much.”

  “He received a letter from him—from Vilnius, of all places,” Peter said.

  “I just had an extraordinary letter from my father,” Lena said, leaning forward into the gap between the seats. “He and Ernst escaped from Prague and reached Belgrade. It sounds as if they’re trying to reach the Free Czech Army unit in Agde, in the South of France.”

  “Your father?” Peter exclaimed. “That cantankerous scoundrel?”

  “I know. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Sounds somewhat foolish,” Otto said.

  “Sounds very brave,” Lotti said

  “How did you get out?” Lena asked. “When did you leave? It was after the invasion, wasn’t it?”

  She was hungry for news. The letters she’d received over the past year had, of necessity, been vague and circumspect. Now, safe in a motorcar meandering along leafy English lanes, she could finally hear firsthand what had happened when the Nazis rolled into Prague a year earlier—the previous March.

  “Yes. Almost immediately, the Gestapo started arresting people who’d been involved in the movement,” Peter said. “We had to move from house to house, sleeping in a different place every night. And there was the curfew. You couldn’t be out on the streets after 11:00 P.M. Suddenly, about two weeks later, they started accepting applications for exit permits at Gestapo headquarters. The queue stretched around the block; we were there all night and into the next day.”

  “Peter’s father kept us supplied with coffee and sandwiches so we wouldn’t lose our place in the line,” Lotti said.

  “People were coming and going, rumors flying,” Peter said. He looked at Lena in the rearview mirror, his eyes sparkling. “We heard that you couldn’t get an exit permit unless you had a train ticket,” he continued. “And you could only buy a train ticket with foreign currency, which of course no one had. Then someone said Thomas Cook was selling ticket
s for Czech koruna, so my father rushed over there for us, but they were sold out. That’s when we ran into Josef and Emil, who told us of a place near the Silesian border where you could get smuggled into Poland.”

  “It was really scary,” Lotti said. “We had to cross through the woods at night. I still have nightmares about it.”

  “Has anyone heard from Prague since the war started?” Lena said.

  “Very little. Lotti had a letter from her aunt,” Peter said. “Through Portugal. And then my grandmother wrote to me in October.”

  “Did she say anything at all about my mother?” Lena asked. “I haven’t heard a word.”

  “No, nothing about anyone in particular. It was mostly about food shortages, long queues for bread, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m really worried. I can’t imagine how she’s coping now that my father’s left.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Lotti said. “It’s not easy, but she won’t be in danger. The Nazis were only going after people who’d been active in politics.”

  The journey progressed through small towns and villages, the lanes becoming increasingly narrow and banked on either side by tall, thick hedges. Dappled sunlight danced on the road ahead. It was so pretty. Lena leaned on Otto’s shoulder and tried to banish her anxiety about Prague.

  Oddly, it was not until Lotti announced that they were approaching Upper Wolmingham that Lena thought to ask, “How on earth did you manage to get that special permit for me from the Foreign Office?”

  Otto chuckled. “Mein Schätzchen, you’ve been brought over here in order to continue your vital duties on behalf of the Czech secret service.”

 

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