“Perhaps they were just enjoying each other’s company.”
Anna didn’t want to let go, she wanted to know more. It was her reporter’s curiosity about the moral equation affecting Jews in Europe, but then finally, politely she conceded: “Forgive me, Hans. I’m sorry.”
The exchange of verbal volleys had no clear winner.
“I understand, Anna, and no apologies needed. I usually don’t discuss politics.”
“Music, then. How can you hear every instrument, and then bring them together, in perfect combination and tone, the way you do?”
“Music is the way I see the world, so musical notes, instruments, they are my tools. Words are instruments. Don’t you feel the same when you write?”
“The same? I don’t know, but I do know that I felt something when I heard your music.” She had surprised herself. Flirtatious. It was far from her style.
“May I take that as a compliment?”
“You may take it as you wish, but it is the truth.”
Leaving the Mirabelle, Hans opened the door of a waiting taxi. “Can I see you home, drop you off?”
Anna shrugged. “Oh, I’m going a different way. But perhaps we will see each other before you leave,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “I’m going to the office to file. And don’t worry, just music, no politics!”
“Well, good night,” he said, with a quick embrace, hoping he would see her again.
The evening had been unsettling, with the push and pull of a new relationship. He watched Anna’s cab receding into the darkness until he could only see two red, dimming lights. Returning to his hotel and lying in his bed, he couldn’t fall asleep. Anna was on his mind. A song began to play in his head. Then again, he’d always had a sentimental touch. Their day together had gone well, he thought, but the evening had ended on an awkward note. Politics, an uncomfortable topic, was not his game. But he liked her, and their meeting had ventured beyond a casual introduction. However, he lived in Prague and she in London. That was a bit of a distance for feelings to travel.
A SONG FOR ANNA
The following morning, Anna called.
“I wanted to thank you for dinner. I promised Nana that I would take tea with her, would you like to come? I can reciprocate for the lovely dinner you gave me.”
At Eaton Square, the brilliantly polished eighteenth-century door knockers gave some hint as to the individuality that lay behind the uniformity of the wide-terraced homes and broad arches.
“My grandmother is a bit eccentric, but I think you’ll like her,” Anna said as they passed the row of elegant homes. “She’s lived here for ages.”
Hans asked, “Does she have a piano?”
She looked at him curiously, and then knocked on the door. It opened and a butler in black tails led them into the drawing room.
“Hans Krása, meet Madeline Kingsley.” Anna’s grandmother welcomed him in a long, pearl-beaded gown, a bit over the top for an afternoon high tea, but anything Madeline chose was commanding, almost regal. Her keen eye sized up Hans as a character for one of her romantic novels.
The flat was filled with English paintings, antiques, and books. A collection of friends posed in sterling silver frames on the piano, which looked perfectly at home in a room that was graced by considerable yardage of crimson taffeta sweeping each side of three windows overlooking the square, and the generous width of the windows allowed patterns of light to reach the pale walls around the room.
Madeline had always retained some British reserve, but the twinkle in her eyes suggested an inner mischievousness, just as it did in Anna. Sensing her daring spirit, Hans knew he had found an ally. He wasted not a moment in recruiting her to support his affection for Anna.
Noticing the piano, he commented, “I haven’t seen a Bechstein since Berlin.” He knew it would help his confidence. He was nervous before performing.
“May I ask what sign you are, Mr. Krása?” Madeline said lightly.
“Sign?”
“I have an abiding interest in astrology.”
“I haven’t thought about one,” Hans replied. “I was born on the twenty-sixth of November.”
Anna tried to interrupt before the planets collided in conversation.
“Ah, good, Sagittarius,” Madeline exclaimed. “The stars don’t seem to be in retrograde. You have a positive outlook on life. Anna is a Leo. Very compatible. But fair warning, Mr. Krása, the lion is self-reliant. Leo rules the heart with loyalty. She’s a very warm girl, once you get to know her.”
Anna interrupted in desperation, “Nana, please keep your astrological charting private!”
Madeline paid no attention and commanded a tea service, cucumber sandwiches, crumpets with Seville orange marmalade, and scones with currant jam and clotted cream. The conversation turned to small matters, including the weather.
“Just dreadful,” Madeline pronounced.
Hans took this opportunity to brighten the afternoon and, summoning his confidence, was restless to play. He took a seat at the piano and, turning toward Anna as he removed a sheet of music from his inside pocket, Hans beamed. “This is for you.”
Then, placing his hands on the keys, came a gentle theme. Madeline couldn’t hide her pleasure. “You know the way to the heart, Mr. Hans Krása.”
Later, walking through the square, Anna remarked, “I appreciate your sentiments, but you really embarrass me, Hans. I introduced you to my Nana, and the next thing you do is improvise a song.”
“Not improvised, but I hope refreshing, the ink barely dry on the paper. That’s what I do. I write music.”
“For every lady you meet?”
“Oh, no, absolutely not. Only … well, for you. It’s not my intention to intrude or embarrass.”
Anna blushed a little. “I do admit we are a bit unconventional, even direct, but we don’t wear our emotions so openly. The next thing I suspect is that you will be reciting a poem, standing on a box in Hyde Park.”
“Why not? If the situation demands it.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m Czech.”
“I’m English.”
“Perhaps your Nana was right, perhaps our planets are colliding?”
A smartly fitted doorman tipped his hat when they arrived back at Claridge’s. A Hungarian quartet played nearby in a grand room off the foyer. Anna realized that the musicians were playing her tune. She couldn’t resist a smile. “You did this?”
“Just a way to say thank you,” Hans said, handing Anna a page of music inside a white envelope. “It sounds much better arranged; don’t you think the quartet adds fullness?”
“There you go again.”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
Offering his hand, Hans closed the afternoon. As she turned to leave, she saw that on the back of the envelope, he had written:
Anna,
Prague will always be waiting for you.
Hans
When she returned to the newspaper’s offices, Anna sat down to read a report filed by an Observer correspondent about an upcoming meeting in France that had crossed her desk. It concerned an international conference called by Franklin Roosevelt, intended to provide refuge for thousands of Jews in Nazi-controlled Germany and Austria. It was almost impossible to focus on politics and, with a complex of emotions swirling around inside, she stared at her typewriter for some time, then began to type, surprised by her own words.
He’s a Casanova …
She paused, and then a riff of words fired from her fingers:
… and I’m not some backstage strumpet or stage-door hussy who’s just going to fall for a tune … So forward, in fact a bit rude, a musical manipulation, our song, my song, well, I won’t have it. We don’t know each other, well hardly, but he is attractive, older, not that that is a bad thing, no, I WILL NOT have it. It’s a
sweet tune, but he cannot just come waltzing into my life. I’m not Viennese! But … he is rather sweet, and it is a very pretty tune …
She called Nana.
“Well, that was a surprise, Anna, bringing that lovely man around to see me. You’ve not done that before. I like him very much, and I’m assuming he is your new beau.”
“Hans said he’s waiting for me in Prague, or Prague would be waiting for me … Something like that. Nana, I’m unnerved.”
“Of course. It’s in the stars. Don’t be in such an uptizzle. What are you waiting for? Go!”
“Uptizzle? But we just met. I don’t know a thing about him.”
“I’ve always had a thing for musicians … Strange, isn’t it … and I’m sure I’ve passed it on to you.”
“Thank you, you’re amazingly generous,” Anna said with unladylike sarcasm.
“You know more than you think; now stop wasting my time. Goodbye.”
With that encouragement, all that was left was her managing editor. Rising from her desk she walked determinedly into MacPherson’s office.
“I must go to Prague,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Why Prague?” MacPherson asked.
Standing with conviction in front of the editor’s imposing wooden desk, one that was older than most of the reporters on staff, Anna replied, “I think the Germans are moving in that direction. I want to see for myself.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“It makes sense, as part of their expansion, but it’s also just a journalist’s hunch.”
“Your review of Hans Krása was impressive. He should be pleased. Thanks for filling in.” MacPherson gave a sly smile. “How long do you think you need?”
Anna paused, unsure of whether it would take longer to figure out the Germans or her heart. “A fortnight. And I do have holiday coming up.”
“File something for Travel so I can justify the assignment: ‘Pleasurable Pleasing Prague.’”
“A bit of alliteration.”
Looking up over his glasses, MacPherson shuffled some papers. “We share a bureau with the Times News Service near Wenceslas Square. Here’s the address. I’ll wire them to expect you. Enjoy the concerts.”
Before she left the office, she returned to her desk and read the dispatch about the conference in Évian. On her way to Prague, she would attend and file the first of the reports that would justify her trip.
When Anna returned to her flat, it was just after eight o’clock, toward the end of a long summer’s day, and the evening light found a bright white envelope posted at her front door.
Anna,
Could you come around? I would very much like to have a short visit before you leave for Prague.
Winston
It had only been hours since she had decided to go to Prague, but as far as she was concerned, her trip was a private matter. Was Nana spreading gossip?
Churchill and Madeline Kingsley had been friends for many years now—just how close Anna dared not think. Anna was miffed. “Why does Nana have to broadcast my every move? I guess I should go and see him, but what on earth could Winston want?”
Churchill had been in the political wilderness in the thirties, taking measures to return the pound sterling to the gold standard, supervising home rule in India, but the one factor that drew him and Anna closer together was their shared and deep opposition to Hitler. He had often and eloquently warned those willing to listen about Germany’s pounding war drums. He had delivered an eloquent speech to the House of Commons admonishing Neville Chamberlain, “You were given the choice of war or dishonor. You chose dishonor and you will have war.”
Having been passed over as minister of defense, Churchill’s warning about Germany had gone largely unheeded.
Arriving at Chartwell, Anna was announced as the great man trundled past bookcases; stern and commanding with implacable determination, he entered the dusty room. The walls were fitted with volumes of leather-bound books on military history, and he walked past an easel on which the oils were still drying, confirming that he had spent the afternoon painting in his garden.
“Hello, Anna,” he roared. “Excuse the place for being a bit untidy, Clemmy hasn’t finished refurbishing yet.” He held up a recent painting of flowers, and briefly, silently assessed his own work.
“I’ve been out of favor with the government for some time and my paintings seem to be the only portfolio I have these days.” He grumbled the remark with a frown, as his large frame settled into an armchair that accommodated him easily. He had the grace to refrain from lighting up a cigar. Anna had sometimes wondered if they were more of an amusing prop than a source of enjoyment. Folding his hands across his waist, he said, “I’ve known you for a long time, Anna, watched you grow up, and I think we share many of the same sentiments, and most of the same principles.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“About Germany.” He got right to the point.
“I just wrote a piece.”
“You’re on the mark, and this is one very old journalist to a new one, so to speak,” he said in his sibilant voice, rather more restrained, less theatrical than the one he reserved for his oratorical work.
“I’m flattered.”
“It’s not flattery, Anna, it’s the truth. Do you know how fortunate we are to have a great man in England, a truly remarkable man who has just arrived from Austria.”
“I know there is an influx of course, so many are seeking refuge. Who in particular?”
“Sigmund Freud.”
“The doctor from Vienna. I know something of his work—his remarkable research.”
“Indeed. He has revealed and explored so much in his work, and did you know just a few years ago, he published Civilization and Its Discontents, writing something that haunts me. Human beings have the capacity to exterminate people they consider inferior, those who don’t serve their cause, down to the last man.”
There was silence between them for a few seconds before Anna spoke quietly: “That’s a very thoughtful statement.”
“I fear that it’s a warning, a prophesy. History, Anna. History. I think we will all be better off if we check Hitler’s death-dealing inclinations.”
“There is very much to think about, for every one of us. It is almost as if all of this, everything that is unfolding, is a prelude to a great drama.”
“More than a drama, perhaps something very much graver. Yes, if you put it that way, at the very least the prelude to a play, and what we are talking about is a matter of survival.”
Churchill reached to Anna’s news-gathering instincts. “Since 1933 Freud has examined the great struggle between life and death and how it will be staged. So yes, it is great drama, Anna. Being a Jew, he was targeted by a campaign of persecution and forced to emigrate. When he left Vienna after the gestapo ransacked his home, interrogated his daughter, and seized family property, those bastards even demanded an emigration tax … and if that were not enough, he was required to sign a carefully prepared document testifying he had not been mistreated. With a note of sarcasm, he confirmed, ‘I can most highly recommend the gestapo to everyone.’”
“I pray you’re not recommending the gestapo to me.”
“This is an important writer and thinker treated as a common criminal. I know you’re going to Prague, Anna.”
Nana!
“But what you don’t know is that the nation is going to need all the information we can muster. I’m out of fashion just now, trapped between what I suspect and what I know. In short, I’ve set up an intelligence service, a service in which you could play a role, a vital role.”
Anna was curious—more than curious. “I’m a journalist, sir, not some agent working undercover. Who would I be reporting to, MI5, MI15, whatever it’s called?”
“I’m running an operation called Pink Tulip.�
�� She stared into the keen eyes of the man she’d known since childhood and could see, beneath the veneer of accrued physical weight, the disappointments that were etched into the lines of his face, the air of world-weariness that seemed to weigh heavy on his slumped shoulders, and beneath all that the eager, fearless journalist that he had been in his youth, the master of intelligence. He added with a steady grin, “I hope you’ll be with us.”
“You seem to have a lot of confidence in me.”
“I have a cover for you.”
“I hadn’t thought of myself as a spy,” she whispered to Winston. The notion amused her.
“You’ll be working for the Resistance—the Kindertransport program. But essentially, I want you to find an operative. I’ll need actionable information.”
“What in the world is Kindertransport?”
“Consider this, Anna. If Hitler marches, we’re going to at the very least get some of those kids out of Europe. Last night, there was a major House of Commons debate on refugees.
“I’ve discussed the matter with the home secretary, who has already met with a large delegation representing various Jewish and non-Jewish groups allied under one umbrella organization, the Refugee Children’s Movement, or RCM. This group is dedicated to the care of helping children. Anna, I need to know about all Europe. If we enter a war, which I believe we will, it’s vital that we have a network spanning the continent. I stand alone, and I had hoped that Germany would be restored to the European circle. That, I am certain, is now a vain hope, and we need to make plans. I need your service over at Electra House. And above all else we need to save the children.”
Anna believed that Churchill was angling to become the first lord of the admiralty and a member of the War Cabinet, a position he had held in the First World War. If war came, he would be needed to lead, to be at, or close to, the center of power. She had always been curious, she was leading the European desk, and if a silly fascination with a Czech composer didn’t work out, she had an assignment that mattered.
While the Music Played Page 6
