When It's Over
Page 11
“How can this be happening so quickly?” Emil said. “It’s unbelievable. Norway, Belgium, Holland overrun. Now the French border breached.”
“There it is.” Tomas inserted the pin and wrote the date in black ink.
“They’ll be in Paris in no time,” Otto said.
“My God, Otto,” Lena said. “There’s no need to sound so gleeful. What about all those friends of ours in Paris? They must be terrified.”
“They should have escaped while they could.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that. You know how hard it was for me to get a visa.”
“Let’s not write off the French defenses just like that,” Lotti said.
“And the British Expeditionary Force has made a big push across the River Dyle,” Lena said. “They’re sending a full armored division into Belgium.”
Otto shook his head. He couldn’t believe how inept the English military appeared to be. How had they ever built an empire on which the sun never set? He looked again at Tomas’s map. It was hard to shake off the image of a rising tide and an ever-shrinking piece of dry land, on which they were stranded.
But he saw no point in succumbing to panic. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, returning to his typewriter, “I really have to get back to work.”
He wanted to focus on his writing. Events were running away from him; this new war was escalating, and he’d not yet completed his analysis of the last war—the war in Spain. He was getting bogged down trying to analyze the conflicts between the revolutionary factions in Madrid.
“What are we going to do if the Germans cross the Channel?” Lena said, her voice rising. “Can we hide out in this village?”
“I don’t want to run anymore,” Emil said. “I want to stay and fight. I’m going to sign up for that new Local Defense Volunteers force.”
Otto could not restrain himself. “That’s just for the English,” he said. “They’re not going to let us join.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Peter said. “I can’t stand listening to the news, feeling useless, just waiting for the Nazis to arrive.”
Peter went to London to see if the Czech Council had any update on a Czech regiment forming in England. He had not returned by late afternoon. The others went to The Hollow for the evening: Churchill was giving a big speech, and Muriel said they should listen together. And see Milton before he left for army training camp; he was being drafted into the anti-aircraft artillery.
They found Muriel and Alistair on the back terrace, drinking cocktails; Milton was said to be upstairs packing. The new Prime Minister’s speech was not due for another hour, so they relaxed in the evening warmth, enjoying the view of the South Downs. Lena identified Venus, twinkling in the western sky. Alistair brought out the gramophone. The melodic notes of the Pastoral Symphony filled the air.
“Oh, lovely,” said Lena. “I love this piece, especially the last movement.”
“I suppose it’s still all right to play Beethoven!” Alistair chuckled, handing her a very large glass of sherry. “I hope no one will accuse me of treason.”
“So, what’s Churchill going to say?” Otto asked.
“Stirring words for the masses, I suppose,” Alistair replied. “Stiff upper lip, all that sort of thing.”
“I can’t believe we’re hanging on that man’s every word.” Muriel sneered. “Has everyone forgotten how reactionary he is?”
“I don’t know much about him,” Lena said.
“He threatened to shoot the miners who went on strike in twenty-six. He said, ‘Send those rats back down their holes.’”
“We’re a lot better off with him than with that idiot Chamberlain,” Alistair said. “If they’d listened to Churchill five years ago, we wouldn’t be in the frightful pickle we’re in now.”
“This whole thing is simply beastly,” Muriel said. “I just cannot believe we’re going through this again. Milton’s leaving in a couple of days, you know. I’m thankful that he’s not being posted abroad, but I absolutely hate it. We lost so many last time. Three-quarters of the men I danced with at my coming-out ball were killed in the trenches. And that was supposed to be the war to end all wars.”
“But that war was completely different,” Milton said, jumping into the conversation as soon as he joined them. “That was an imperialist squabble between the great powers. This war is about the struggle against fascism.”
“I envy you, Milton,” Emil said. “I wish I could join the fight.”
“You see, it’s not so different from 1914. Somehow, they always get the young men excited to become cannon fodder,” Muriel said.
“I do think things are different this time around,” Alistair said. “On that, Milton and I are in agreement, for once. We can’t just lie down and let Hitler walk all over us. You know what is really upsetting Muriel, don’t you?” he continued, winking at Lena. “She’s finally realized that she’s not going to be able to do the play this year. We were supposed to begin rehearsals for A Midsummer Night’s Dream next week, but Puck and Lysander are in France, and all the fairies are in a panic about a pending invasion and quite incapable of learning their lines. I’ve finally persuaded her to abandon the idea.”
Milton passed around cheese and crackers and the last of a jar of olives Muriel had brought back from France before the war. Alistair refilled everyone’s glasses, and Lena began to feel tipsy.
“These olives are a treat.” She bit into the firm, salty flesh. “Mĕl bys to zkusit,” she said, turning to Emil. “You ought to try one.”
He puckered his lips and shook his head. “Ne, díky.”
Lena laughed, basking in the mingling of languages as the conversation glided from English to German to Czech and back to English again. It moved like a symphony, the wind instruments coming in there, the violins here: intelligent discourse among friends. She wanted to cling to this moment. Men were being sent off to the front, the Nazis were within shouting distance, and she still had no word from Máma, but she was here with Otto and a group of like-minded souls in this green and pleasant land, and she felt oddly happy.
Churchill came on the radio and promised nothing but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Lena, however, felt the promise of something else: a home away from home in this newly adopted country; a new family to stand in for hers, which was scattered and fragmented; a sanctuary in these scary times.
CHAPTER 15
SUSSEX, MAY–JUNE 1940
Peter returned late at night, when the residents of Upper Wolmingham were sequestered behind their blackout curtains. At Oak Tree Cottage, everyone was awake, waiting. Lena and Otto sat on the sofa, reading. Lotti was darning, Emil and Tomas played chess. They were all occupied yet also keeping one ear open for Peter’s return. They were like eager parents waiting to hear every detail of the first day of kindergarten.
But when the door eventually swung open, Peter looked pale and exhausted, his face drained. He sank onto the sofa and closed his eyes.
“What happened?” Lotti said. “Peter, what’s the matter?”
“It’s getting nasty out there,” he replied after a moment or two. “Look at this.”
He drew from his pocket a rolled-up copy of the Daily Mail. He spread it open and smoothed out the wrinkles. The headline screamed, INTERN THE LOT.
“What does this mean?” Lena said.
“Internieren, gefangen nehmen. Intern, imprison.”
“What?”
“All enemy aliens. In case they’re acting as spies for the invaders, ready to welcome parachute troops with open arms. Everyone’s in a panic about a so-called ‘fifth column.’ As soon as they hear your accent, they think you might be German. A respectable elderly woman screamed at me on the train. I had to move to another carriage.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Lotti said. “Why would we want to—”
“This doesn’t apply to us,” Tomas said, trying to read the entire article. “It’s just enemy aliens. Germans and Austrians.”
“
But Otto . . .” Peter said.
“That’s absurd. He’s been wanted by the Gestapo for years.”
“I’m afraid that’s a subtlety that’s likely to be lost on the Daily Mail and its readers,” Peter said.
Everyone in the village seemed on edge. In the shop, two women walked out as soon as Lena entered, as if afraid of contamination. The shopkeeper remained cordial while collecting the ration coupons, but it was hard to ignore the anti-alien crusade conducted by the tabloids displayed on the shelf behind her.
“It’s hard to believe,” Lena said when she returned. “They used to be so friendly.”
On Saturday evening, Emil and Tomas set off for the Fox and Hounds for a pint of beer but returned five minutes later.
“The barman refused to serve us.”
Mrs. Thompson next door went out of her way to assure them that she was not swept along by this wave of public opinion. She had a bumper crop of rhubarb. Every day she knocked on the door with another bundle.
“I said to Mr. Thompson last night, I said, ‘No, this ain’t right.’ He said I should be careful about coming over here, but I told him, ‘This don’t apply to my foreigners, it don’t.’”
“Thank you very much,” Lena said, accepting the stringy pink stalks. She wasn’t sure what to do with them. You had to stew them for hours and add lots of sugar to make them palatable—and they’d already used all their sugar rations.
“No, I said to Mr. Thompson, I said, ‘They had to run away from Hitler, they did. Don’t make no sense for them to turn round and help him, now, do it?’ I said, ‘Stands to reason that none of you’s going to let Hitler walk in the door.’”
Lena welcomed Mrs. Thompson’s kindness, although she guiltily discarded the rhubarb over the back fence.
The news from France continued to flood in, terrifying. Tomas traced the Maginot Line onto the map from a diagram in The Times, but it turned out to be more like a sieve than a barricade; Panzer divisions poured deep into the heart of the country. Lena, Peter, and Lotti took the bus to Haywards Heath to see the same ridiculous Charlie Chan picture three times, just to be able to see the newsreel shown with it. There was something compelling about seeing the images on the screen, always the irrational hope that perhaps the news would be better there than in the newspaper. Instead, there was the announcer’s astounding ability to make the frantic evacuation of Dunkirk by the British sound like a great military victory. Yes, it was moving to see the flotilla of small fishing vessels coming to the aid of the British navy, to pluck over three hundred thousand soldiers out from Rommel’s reach within three days.
“But it’s a full-scale retreat, for heaven’s sake,” Peter said. “They’ve left behind all their tanks and artillery and guns.”
Now there was nothing between England and the Wehrmacht except a thin blue line of sea.
The following week: more terrifying images, another exodus. The roads south from Paris jammed with cars, bicycles, carts, trucks, and horse-drawn traps, piled high with suitcases, furniture, mattresses, pets. Tired, anxious faces jostled in the crowds. Lena’s eyes flickered over the screen, searching the throng absurdly, desperately, for Eva or Marguerite.
Constable Bilson pushed down harder on the pedals and bent over the handlebars to try to get more leverage. His heart pounded in his chest. The hill up to Upper Wolmingham seemed steeper than ever in this heat. He should have waited for the cooler part of the day, or, better yet, put this whole thing off until tomorrow morning.
But the chief inspector from Lewes had insisted: he needed a report today. Something about the bigwigs from London, they’d been onto him. Wasn’t right, in Fred Bilson’s opinion. They should come and do their own dirty work. This was way over his head. Constable Bilson was patriotic enough and wanted to do his bit to help, of course he did. But they shouldn’t be asking him to do this.
“Just go and look them over,” the chief inspector had said. “See if you can find anything suspicious. Check their papers, that sort of thing.”
It wasn’t that simple. These weren’t just any aliens. They belonged to Mrs. Muriel Calder, and Constable Bilson wasn’t about to pick a quarrel with her. She had her peculiar ways, mind, there was no getting away from that. There were those who didn’t approve of her at all, what with her getting divorced and all her peculiar visitors—strange London types. And, well, yes, a fair share of foreigners. You never knew who was coming and going, especially now she was down at The Hollow. But she was the Lady of the Manor, and she had always been good to the villagers. It was Mrs. Calder who had built the nurses’ cottage opposite the school, paid for everything, she did; all the Bilson children received their inoculations there, free of charge. You couldn’t argue with that. No, Constable Bilson didn’t want to get into any sort of bother with Mrs. Calder.
He made it to the top of the hill and turned to the right, relaxing into the gentle glide down the village street, feeling his heartbeat return to normal. There was Oak Tree Cottage, a few hundred yards ahead. As he was passing the village shop, however, a booming greeting startled him and almost caused him to teeter out of control.
“Constable Bilson! Just the chap I want to see!” Colonel Knowles from Romley Place emerged from the shop. He strode right into the path of the policeman’s bicycle. His portly frame was encased in a tight white suit that had obviously fitted him better when it was purchased; the jacket’s single button strained to cover his protruding belly.
“I say, Constable, what are you fellows doing about those aliens living right here in our midst?”
“Aliens, Colonel?”
“Don’t be evasive with me, Constable. You know who I’m talking about: those damn Bolsheviks staying somewhere in this village, in one of the Calder woman’s cottages. I don’t know which of these wretched hovels it is, but I know you do.”
“We’re following all the correct procedures, sir. I can assure you of that.”
“Procedures, my foot! Intern the lot, that’s what they’re saying, and I couldn’t agree more. Can’t be too careful about this sort of thing, you know. We’re on our own now, Constable. We’re better off this way, if you ask me. No more damn Allies to pamper. But we have to weed out the fifth column, Constable, or they’ll be shooting us in the back when the Germans attack. Haven’t you received instructions to round them up?”
Bilson wanted to end this unpleasant conversation as quickly as possible.
“As matter of fact, sir, I’m on my way there right now,” he said. “The chief inspector has asked for a report this afternoon, so if you will excuse me . . .”
“Chief Inspector Montgomery? Over at Lewes? Oh, splendid, splendid. I’ll give him a ring on the telephone. Good day, Constable.”
Bilson now had a sour taste in his mouth and a heavy weight sitting somewhere between his shoulder blades. He approached Oak Tree Cottage and dismounted, propping his bicycle against the hedge next to the dilapidated wooden gate. In three short steps he reached the front door and knocked loudly, boldly. Just get this over with, he thought. Check their papers and get out of here, tell Montgomery everything is in order. Then finish the paperwork down at the station and call it a day.
The door was opened by a young woman, not beautiful but quite pretty, with bright blue eyes and a fresh complexion. He was taken aback. Of course, there were girls here, too, but he had somehow forgotten that, imagined he would be dealing with just the men.
“Afternoon, miss.” He gave a little bow. “Constable Bilson from the Bigglesmeade Police Station. I need to check all your passports and immigration papers, if you don’t mind. Shouldn’t take long. May I come in?”
She opened the door wider, and he crossed the threshold, delving into his uniform pocket to retrieve his notebook. “You must be . . .”
“Lena Kulkova.”
“Ah, yes. Right you are. All your friends here today, are they?”
“Yes, we are in the garden. A moment, please.”
She had a soft, lilting accent. She walk
ed through the tiny house to the kitchen and the back door beyond. Constable Bilson looked around the living room. On the table by the window were a typewriter and a pile of books. He picked up one from the top of the pile. Hmm . . . It was in foreign. No telling what it was about, but it stood to reason they would have foreign books. Couldn’t be too much harm in that.
He turned as he heard voices from the garden.
And that was when he saw it. Tacked up on the wall above the sofa, in broad daylight, was a large map of Europe, with pins and black lines and arrows drawn all over it, numbers and dates, the sevens with that funny line through the stem, and other strange names he could not decipher. Code words, no doubt. A stone-cold chill ran right through him.
CHAPTER 16
SUSSEX, JUNE 1940
Lena was sleeping when the first pounding on the door vibrated through the house—asleep finally after a fretful night, enveloped in a vivid dream. She was walking with Sasha through a park, warm and green, crowded with throngs of people, being pushed forward, carried along with the swell, holding on tight to Sasha’s hand, fearful of losing her. Suddenly, there was a loud bang behind her. Lena looked around—and felt Sasha’s hand slip from hers. She sat up with a cry. Lotti stood at the bedroom door, a sheet wrapped around her, a bundle of clothes tucked under one arm.
“Lena, Otto, get up! There’re policemen downstairs, lots of them.”
Otto was already up, standing by the window, peering down at the street below. He was deathly pale.
“You have to come down, both of you,” Lotti continued. “They want to see everyone’s papers. Can I get dressed in here?”
Lena threw on some clothes and followed Lotti downstairs. The living room was overtaken with large brown suits and trilby hats filling the tiny space.
“But the village policeman, he came two days ago and he looked at everything,” Peter was saying. “Did he not tell you this?”