“Oh, he told us, all right. Come on—we need everyone down here right now, with all the passports.”
Peter dismantled the camp bed and shoved the bedding behind the sofa in an attempt to clear some space. Even so, the room remained very crowded with the six residents, in varying degrees of dishevelment, and the four neatly groomed plainclothes police officers. They tried not to bump into each other as the officers scanned papers, scrutinized faces, searched through books, upended sofa cushions. Otto’s typewriter was turned upside down, the keys individually inspected, the pad of blotting paper from the desk lifted up to the light. The tallest officer, who had an aquiline nose and the air of being in charge, pointed at some obscure black splotches on the paper and mumbled to one of his colleagues. Another started rummaging through the shelves in the kitchen.
What were they looking for? Lena was desperate to visit the lavatory. When it was clear that the visitors were not going to leave anytime soon, she had to excuse herself and explain her need to use the outhouse. One of the policemen insisted on following her and stood guard outside while she relieved herself. When she emerged, Lena saw that she had forgotten to bring in the laundry the night before. After the argument, it had completely slipped her mind. Two short-sleeved shirts of Otto’s, her pale blue cotton dress, a couple of towels, and assorted undergarments remained pinned on the line, damp now from the morning dew.
“Wide yee no fairtch in yer togs last nite, den?”
This appeared to be a question directed at her. The policeman’s tone was firm but not unkind, and as she looked into his face for the first time, she saw that he was younger than the other officers, in his midtwenties, she guessed, with chubby cheeks and prominent ears. Lena could not understand a single word. Was he speaking English?
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yer tings ’ere.” He gestured toward the laundry. The words came out a bit more slowly, but they sounded so different from the English spoken by either Muriel and her friends or the village people. “Did yee leef them oop as soom kinda signell, den?”
Lena was baffled. She glanced up at the sky and saw that it was going to be another sunny day. “I think they will dry soon,” she said, hoping that was an appropriate response.
Back in the cottage, the officers stood around the table in the living room, looking at the map they had removed from the wall. They were pointing at the annotations scribbled over the Ardennes.
“Of course not!” Peter yelled. “This was all from the BBC. See, the wireless there? The BBC. Or The Times.” He pointed a shaking finger at the radio in the corner and picked up yesterday’s paper, which had slid to the floor and which he now waved in anger, dangerously close to that long, pointed nose on the chief officer.
“Shh, Peter,” Lotti said at his elbow, speaking softly in Czech. “Mluvte tiše. It’s not going to do any good to get angry with them.”
“Speak English, please.” The chief officer pointed to the map again. “Whose writing is this?”
Everyone looked around for Tomas, but he had just stepped out. Lena had started a trend to obey the call of nature, keeping the young officer with the strange accent busy on escort duty.
“It’s Tomas,” said Peter. “He’s outside now.”
“He’s the German, is he?” asked the officer in charge, shuffling through his collection of passports.
“German? No, he’s Czech.”
“So who’s the German? Otto Essenberg—is that right?”
“I’m Otto Eisenberg.” Otto was standing in the corner, as if trying to keep a low profile. He looked pale and gaunt, his hair disheveled, a black lock sticking up above his right ear, lending an almost comical air to his appearance. He was still in his pajamas; they hung loosely on his thin shoulders, the faded gray-and-white-striped fabric fraying at the cuffs. He stole a glance at Lena. The memory of the previous night lingered between them, as bitter as the taste of the rhubarb.
“Mr. Iceberg, are you aware of the new regulations regarding enemy aliens? You are not permitted to own a bicycle, a radio, or a map.”
“He doesn’t,” Peter said. “The radio is mine, and the map—”
“But I was given clearance,” Otto said, speaking at the same time, “when I arrived. You can see it in the papers there, with my passport.”
“I’m afraid all that is irrelevant now, sir. We can no longer afford to take risks in the protected areas.”
“Protected areas?” Otto said.
“The risk of invasion, Mr. Iceberger. We cannot allow any alien elements to be in a position to give support to the enemy.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Peter cried.
“There must be some mistake,” Lena heard herself say, surprised at her boldness. “Otto is a prominent anti-Nazi. He was—”
“We want to fight the Nazis more than anyone,” Emil said.
The police inspector held up his hand as if he were stopping traffic. “Enough!” he bellowed. “I have not come to hear a three-ring circus. I am addressing Mr. Iceberger here, and I will thank the rest of you to remain silent. Mr. Iceberger—”
“Eisenberg,” Otto corrected him.
“Yes, well, Mr. Eisenberg, it’s my duty to inform you that you are being taken into custody. You may pack one small suitcase. Be ready to depart in five minutes.”
Lena followed Otto upstairs, hoping for a few minutes alone. But one of the policemen clambered up the creaky stairs behind her and stood watching from the doorway. Otto pulled his suitcase out from under the bed and began throwing in clothes, without folding them and without making eye contact.
“Otto,” she pleaded, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Not now, Lena,” he replied. He turned his back to get dressed, then continued packing in silence. When he was finished, the policeman led Otto away, closed the door, and motioned to Lena for her to stay behind. She sank onto the bed. The sheets lay in a crumpled mess, a soft indentation marking the spot where Otto had been lying only an hour before. She stared at it without stirring until she heard the front door open. From the small window, she saw Otto climbing into the backseat of the car, flanked by the officers. For the first time, she became aware of a crowd gathered in the street below. Otto did not look up.
The previous night, after supper, the others had all gone for an evening stroll, but Lena had stayed behind with Otto, welcoming some time alone.
She heated water for washing while he cleared the dishes outside. She watched him from the kitchen window as he stood in the last strand of sunlight, his forearms bronzed from his hours spent writing outside. She remembered when she’d first heard him speak, at the Café Slavia. She knew he must miss all that: the frenetic activity, the meetings, the cheers, the standing ovations.
Lena smiled as he circled the table outside, ducking to clear the clothes that still hung on the line. He brought such an intense concentration to anything he did, even such a mundane domestic task as this, chewing slightly at one corner of his lip. He gathered up the assortment of chipped plates, bowls, and tea-stained mugs into a precarious pile that wobbled as he approached the back door.
“Careful with that,” Lena said, going to meet him. “Here, let me take something.”
“I’ve got it,” he said, adding his chin to the equation at the top of the pile for extra stability.
“We can’t afford to replace any dishes,” she said, meaning to sound lighthearted.
“I’m not going to break anything. And I’m quite aware of the state of our finances. All those visits to the cinema, the bus fares . . . There’s hardly enough to feed us until the end of the week.”
“We’ll manage somehow. Lotti’s been sewing all day; that’ll bring in a few shillings.” Lena poured the warm water into the sink. “We had to go see those newsreels.”
“I don’t see why. Just read The Times. It’s all there.”
“I had to see those scenes for myself. Paris, the fall of France . . . It’s unbelievable. I can’t imagine where Eva is.
Or Marguerite.”
“The Gestapo is probably busy rounding them all up.”
“My God, Otto!” Lena gripped the rough rim of the sink. “Why do you always have to assume the worst?”
“Because terrible things are happening.”
“But we can’t just give up hope. I can’t go through this thinking the worst will happen to all those we’ve left behind. I have to hope things will turn out all right in the end.” She lowered the plates into the water. “We have to have faith.”
“What? Are you getting religious all of a sudden?” Otto sneered. He stood leaning against the back door, arms across his chest.
“I’m not talking about praying—just keeping hope alive, keeping positive,” Lena said. “We have to.” The sun slipped behind the hedge, and it became quite dark in the kitchen. “You always used to say that we must fight until the end, never give up. Doesn’t that mean believing that we will survive?”
Otto didn’t answer. Lena finished the dishes in silence, ruminating on the conversation. She could not let it go; it was a sore she couldn’t help poking, an itch that had to be scratched. She picked up a towel to dry her hands and followed him to his desk by the window.
“What about here, Otto?” she said. His attention was already focused on his typewriter, but she continued. “Don’t you think things are looking better here, with the new government and everything? And all the precautions the British are taking against invasion, the road blockades and removing all the road signs? Isn’t that a good thing? Compared with that panic in France?”
“I hardly think the Panzer tanks are going to be stymied by a few bits of barbed wire,” Otto replied, without looking up. “And who’s to say the British won’t panic, too, when the time comes?”
“My God, Otto, what’s happening to you?” Her voice trembled. “You’ve changed so much. I feel as though I hardly know you. It’s hard to be with you when you’re like this.”
“You don’t have to stay if you’re not happy here,” he said, turning to her, his eyes cold and hard. “No one’s holding you prisoner against your will.”
“I thought you wanted me here.” She reflexively took a step backward. “Why did you go to so much trouble to get me out of Paris?”
“I felt responsible for you. I brought you to Paris, and I felt I should get you out.”
Lena rubbed her hands in the towel, although they were bone dry already. “I thought you wanted me here,” she repeated. “I thought you loved me.”
But immediately she knew she should not have uttered those words. She wished she could pull them back.
“This is not the right time to be swayed by emotions, Lena,” Otto said, rolling a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. “We need to be clear, calm, and objective.”
Lena retreated upstairs and lay on the bed, trying to read. Muriel had given her a copy of Jane Eyre, but she couldn’t concentrate. The letters swam before her on the page in a jumbled maze; she read the same sentence over and over, like a needle stuck on a gramophone record. She heard the others return, the sound of laughter, the pop of a cork being pulled from a bottle, the clink of glasses. They must have procured some cowslip wine from The Hollow.
Why didn’t she go back downstairs? Perhaps Otto would soften toward her, would be more cheerful with the others around. Instead, she wallowed in loneliness. She had thought she would find some shelter here in England. And, she told herself, it had been comforting to be with Otto, to lie in his arms again, like finding refuge after a storm. Only the day before yesterday, they’d walked down to The Hollow and climbed into the big bathtub together. He had taken the uncomfortable end, where the water taps were, and she’d leaned back in the warm suds, stroking the dark hairs on his chest with her wrinkled feet. He’d kissed her toes, making her giggly with tickles.
How had things gone so wrong? Why was this knot of anger and hurt twisting together in her gut, pulling her down as if into a bottomless pit? How was she going to stay in this cottage when Otto was being so cold to her? But where else could she go? She knew no one else in England.
She switched off the light and lay listening to the rumble of voices downstairs. When Otto crept into bed hours later, she pretended to be asleep. He did not reach out to touch her.
CHAPTER 17
SUSSEX, JUNE 1940
Lotti entered the bedroom and gave Lena a long hug. “Come down,” she said, taking Lena by the hand. “We have to work out what to do next. They didn’t even tell us where they were taking him. Did they say anything to you?”
Lena shook her head. “No, not a word.” She hadn’t thought to ask. They joined the others in the living room.
“It’s outrageous. They can’t possibly get away with this,” Peter said. “Come on. We have to go to Muriel’s, let her know, have her start working on his release.”
Lotti looked at her watch. “It’s very early still.”
“Lena,” Tomas said, “I’m so sorry about the map. It never occurred to me . . .” “It’s not your fault,” Lena said. She looked around the room. “Where is the map?”
“They took it with them.”
She shook her head. “That’s so stupid. I mean, they can’t possibly think . . .”
“If it hadn’t been the map, they would have found something else,” Peter said. “They were trying to make a fuss about the washing on the line outside. Said something ridiculous about it being a signal for German parachutists.”
“That’s absurd,” Lena said. “The policeman was pointing to it, but I couldn’t make any sense out of what he was saying.”
“There isn’t any sense in it,” Peter said.
“Otto’s been here longer than any of us,” Emil said. “He escaped from Germany to get away from this sort of thing. Don’t they understand that?” He paced up and down the living room, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. “They won’t let us join the fight against fascism. They arrest someone like Otto, who has the best anti-Nazi credentials of anyone. What are they thinking?” he shouted.
“Emil, calm down,” Lotti said.
“I’m not going to calm down until there’s something to be calm about. Did you see that damn village policeman standing out there, looking so pleased with himself?”
“I thought he looked rather embarrassed, actually,” Tomas said.
“Come on—he was the one who started all this.” Emil towered over Tomas, blocking his access to the kitchen. “I feel like going to his pathetic little police station and hurling rocks through the window. That will give him something to talk about.”
“What good will that do, exactly?” Tomas said. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Then you’ll get arrested, too.”
“I didn’t say I would get caught. I’ll go—”
“That’s so stupid.”
“Stop it, you two,” Lotti pleaded.
“Otto has been dragged off,” Emil shouted. “He might as well have stayed behind and waited for the Gestapo.”
“Come on,” Peter said. “Let’s not blow things out of proportion. That was not the SS. They were not brutal. They didn’t come in the dead of night. And there has to be some sort of appeal process.”
Lena tried to ignore the cacophony and gather her thoughts. She had been so upset with Otto last night—and now this. He had probably been in a bad mood, perhaps preoccupied because he’d suspected he might get arrested. He had said nothing, probably hadn’t want to worry her. Now she had to do everything she could to get him released.
“Wait,” she said, turning to Peter now. “I’m trying to think— you know how you and Otto got me that special permit? That story about my being a Czech agent?”
“Yes,” Peter said, grinning. “Your vital role in the discovery of the German buildup on the Czech border in ’38.”
“Otto had much more to do with that than I did,” Lena said. “I was just the lowly office worker. Whatever you did for me ought to work for Otto.”
“You’re right,” Pe
ter said. He looked at her with a glow of admiration. “Perhaps we should pay another visit to the Czech Council in London.”
“We should go tell Muriel what’s happened,” said Lotti.
Muriel’s house was unlocked, as usual. Peter called out to announce their arrival, but no one responded. They wandered through the living room into the dining room and the kitchen beyond. The back door was wide open, the sun streaming in.
“Hello!” Lotti called, leading the way out to the terrace. “Anybody home?”
Lena heard footsteps inside. She ran back into the house and almost collided not with Muriel but with Milton at the foot of the stairs. He looked bleary-eyed and was dressed in a burgundy silk dressing gown drawn tight at the waist. He jumped back, startled, catching himself on the bottom step.
“Good Lord,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“What?” Lena was equally surprised; he was supposed to be at army training.
“I do beg your pardon; how frightfully rude of me. You must excuse me.” He smoothed his hair into place. “I’ve just woken up. Nothing like sleeping in a decent bed after a month on a hard, narrow bunk. I simply couldn’t rouse myself any earlier. I say, are you all right? You look a bit peaked, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I have to find Muriel. Something terrible has happened. Otto’s been arrested.”
“What in heaven?”
“It’s the enemy-alien thing. We thought he was going to be all right . . .” Her thoughts were running too fast for her English to keep apace, so she broke into French. “Mais enfin, le gendarme from the village was snooping around a couple of days ago, and then this morning they came en masse and took him away.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Milton!” Peter came in from the terrace with Lotti. “You’re back so soon?”
“Yes, three days’ leave before I’m sent off to a ridiculous anti-aircraft unit. It’s so—well, more on that later. Lena has just told me about Otto. I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” Peter said.
“Did they have a warrant? Did they read him his rights? Did they say where they were taking him? They can’t just drag someone off like that in this country, you know.”
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