The old man, still struggling with his trousers, waited until the count of three, transfixed by fear and confusion, then someone at his side suddenly pushed him in the back and he stumbled forward and began to move. ‘I will go, I will go.’ He could not go fast, no more than a shuffle. He walked on his old legs across the street, trying to button himself all the while, and Lydia saw now that he had a limp. He was going towards one of the great houses, to beg water and materials for his chore.
Behind him, the SS and SA officers were laughing.
Lydia was stiff with impotent rage. She knew in this moment that the pacifism of the Quakers was beyond her. She turned away, helpless. Looking straight ahead, she walked to the front of the seemingly endless line to the overblown stuccoed building that housed the British passport office. Those in the line eyed her with a mixture of envy and resignation as she went ahead of them, through the large gates, across the wide front courtyard and up the steps to the grand entrance.
She was directed to a small room on the first floor, with the words PASSPORT OFFICE stencilled on the wall beside the open door. People were waiting both inside and out. Lydia elbowed her way through to a desk where she presented herself to the secretary, a young woman who looked as if she should still be at school.
‘Have you been called? Do you have your passport and exit papers?’ She spoke German but was clearly English.
‘I’m not after a visa. I’m British. I must speak with Captain Foley.’
‘The director is very busy, I’m afraid.’ She held up her palms and indicated the twenty or more people crowding around.
‘I think he might have had a message about me from a mutual acquaintance, Mr Eaton.’
‘Ah, are you Miss Morris?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘One moment, please. He’s just with someone at the moment, but I’ll slip you in as soon as he’s free. Do take a seat if you can find one.’
Lydia found a space to stand by the window, which was open to let in air. She thought of her conversation with Ulrike Forster over a lunch of salad, black bread and cheese.
‘Frau Haas brought the boy to me personally,’ Miss Forster said. ‘He is a quiet, studious boy, very well-mannered. Well, they all are, of course. None of them deserves this.’
‘And you saw him on to the train?’
She smiled grimly. ‘It was one of the more orderly transports. The parents managed to hold back their tears and the children were generally obedient. Only God knows whether they will ever see each other again. You know, Miss Morris, this is all a dreadful mystery.’
‘His visa and exit papers were in order?’
‘Of course. There can have been no reason to remove him from the train.’ She took a sip of water and gave her visitor a long look, half helpless, half pitying. ‘Can I ask, Miss Morris, what do you think you can really do to find a boy in a city of four million souls? What evidence do you have that he is even here?’
Lydia had no evidence, but nor did she have any option. She knew she was being foolhardy in coming here, but there were times in life when one had to throw caution to the winds. The moment Eva had asked her to meet her son off the train, she had felt responsible for him. She could not simply wait in London twiddling her thumbs. ‘At least I have a start,’ she said. ‘Philip Eaton gave me that much. And I was hoping you would give me some pointers, Miss Forster. If Albert is alive and in Germany, then someone must be looking after him. Where would the Gestapo take such a boy? An orphanage, perhaps? Would one of the Jewish leaders be able to help?’
Ulrike Forster reached across and laid her hand over Lydia’s. ‘Most of the Jewish leaders are in the concentration camps or in hiding. As for orphanages accepting Jews? Well, I am sure they would have told us by now if Albert had turned up. Let me make some more inquiries.’
‘And what about the man who brought her here to you?’ asked Lydia. ‘Could I talk to him? He might know something.’
‘Herr Baumgarten? I fear I have no contact details for him. It’s safer that way. He was very brave in doing what he did, as it is.’
Lydia allowed Miss Forster to squeeze her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I know how much you have on your plate.’
‘We all do what we can, but it is never enough. And we have been accused of “going over to the Nazis” in our efforts to help. But please remember this, Miss Morris: when you deal with the Nazis, you must think how Jesus of Nazareth would have talked to them. We must believe there is some good there. Der Mensch ist doch gut . . .’
Now, looking from the window of this old lodge at the desperate people below, it was hard to see any good in the Nazi regime. Freedom seemed such a fragile thing. After five minutes the English secretary waved her over. ‘He’ll see you now.’
Frank Foley was a short, bespectacled man in his fifties. He looked unremarkable in his tweeds with slightly flyaway and thinning grey hair, yet even before he spoke he exuded an aura of warmth and understanding. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Morris. I had a rather mysterious wire from our mutual friend, Philip Eaton, asking me to do what I can for you. He didn’t say what you wanted. Perhaps safer not to . . .’ He grinned. ‘They read all our wires, you know. But if Eaton asks me to help, then help I shall. If I can. Please, sit down, won’t you?’
Lydia was still overcome by the long line of human misery outside his door. ‘All those poor people, Captain Foley. And those SS men, Gestapo, whatever they are . . . they are such bullies.’
Foley himself did not sit down. ‘I only wish I could do more,’ he said. ‘All I can do is try to keep the line in order and take them water. They’ll stay overnight, you know.’
‘Do they all want to come to England?’
‘They want visas to Britain or British territories. As Director of the Passport Control Office my job, of course, is to ensure that no one is allowed to come to Britain who might take a job from one of our own. But these people are desperate, so what am I to do?’ He held up a pile of unfilled visas. ‘And so I sign them at the slightest excuse, hand them out, mostly to Palestine – and damn the consequences. Failing that, their only hope is Shanghai, but our people are really under the cosh there.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll probably get sacked, but the National Socialists have made it quite clear they want the Jews to die like dogs. So I try my best to get them out of the country. Better to die in freedom than as slaves in Dachau or Sachsenhausen, isn’t it?’ He afforded her a wan smile. ‘But you’re not here to listen to my problems, are you, Miss Morris? What can I do for you?’
‘I’m trying to find a missing boy. A little Jewish boy named Albert Haas.’
Foley obviously knew of the Kindertransport and was aware of the Quakers’ work even though it was not something in which he was personally involved. Lydia told him all she knew about Eva and the removal of Albert from the train at the Dutch border, but he had never heard of her or the boy.
‘Can you think of anyone I might approach for information – anyone inside the regime? I’m told they are sometimes quite amenable to approaches from Quakers.’
Foley thought for a few moments. ‘Actually, I have had an idea,’ he said at last. He tore a piece of paper from a pad and scribbled a few words, then turned it to show her. ‘Go to this place, the Taverne, nine-thirty or later. It’s not far from here. The British and American journalists gather there every evening to exchange notes and gossip. They keep a table reserved. They’re good people.’ He pointed to the name on the paper. ‘JT McGinn particularly, but if not him, then any one of them will probably offer you advice. Tell them I sent you. If they’ve heard anything about your boy, they’ll help. But take care. There are some pretty unpleasant people in this city.’
CHAPTER 12
A spin out to cocktails with a famous movie star seemed a fair idea given the balmy weather. Apart from anything else, it would give Wilde the chance to make the acquaintance of Milt Hardiman. Wilde had spent the afternoon catching up on his college mail, seeking out his undergradu
ates and paying his respects to the master of the college, the senior tutor and the bursar.
What he found was an eerie mixture of reality and unreality. Yes, all agreed a war was on the cards and that it would be bloody awful, but no, they weren’t going to mope. Summer was here, the May Ball was almost upon them and they were going to enjoy a damned good party. He smiled at the theme of the ball – black tie and gas masks. To hell with the future. The one question they all asked was: why hadn’t he taken the opportunity to stay in America? He shrugged it off.
Coming down the stairs from his rooms he bumped into Birbach and Hellquist. They were arguing.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
Birbach looked away, surly and sullen, his mouse-like moustache quivering.
Hellquist threw up his arms. ‘Ah, Mr American, help me here, please.’
‘Help you with what, Dr Hellquist?’
‘This fool!’ He jabbed a chubby finger towards Birbach, not quite touching him. ‘Tomorrow he goes to California. But why? Why does he split up our working partnership? Together we have all the answers. He is the theorist – and I am the practical one. Together we could give the whole world cheap free energy and make ourselves millionaires. Separately, we are but half of a whole. You are American – tell him he is a fool.’
‘What has any of this got to do with me being American?’
‘Nothing – but tell him anyway.’
Wilde laughed. It was not the first time he said seen these two fighting. He liked Hellquist, who made no secrets of his ambitions to be as rich as a Rockefeller or Krupp. Birbach was a different matter, a decidedly strange character. Wilde did his best to avoid listening to the tittle-tattle about his private life, but it was impossible to filter everything out.
‘So you’re off tomorrow, are you, Dr Birbach? Well, let me wish you all the best.’
‘Pah!’ Hellquist said. ‘That will not help. Now he will think you approve of his move.’
‘Then follow him, Hellquist, follow him . . . or perhaps he’s trying to avoid you?’ Without another word, Wilde strode off, leaving them to their squabbling.
*
Wilde hadn’t worn his dinner jacket since Christmas. He pulled it out of the wardrobe and held it up to the light, dusting the shoulders. It seemed all right. He laid the trousers out on the bed and smoothed the creases. His dress shirt had been ironed by Doris, and she had put it away carefully. With black tie and cummerbund, he should just about pass muster. Probably wouldn’t do in Beverly Hills, but this was Cambridgeshire.
Downstairs, there was a knock at the door. He frowned. Far too early for Geoff. He trundled down and opened the door to a man in uniform, proffering an envelope. ‘Mr Wilde? Cable for you, sir.’
Wilde tore open the envelope. REPORT TO ME SOONEST RE C LAB STOP FEARS THIS END STOP FLOOD.
‘Is there any reply, sir?’
Wilde scratched out a short cable. WHAT FEARS STOP NOTHING OBVIOUS THIS END STOP. His pen hand froze in mid-air. He tore the paper in half and dropped it in the bin beneath the telephone table.
‘Sir?’ The telegraph boy looked anxious.
Wilde held up his palms. ‘No, thank you. No message.’
He closed the door, then picked up the phone and tried to get through to Jim Vanderberg at the US Embassy. The receptionist said he would be unavailable until the morning. Wilde folded the telegram and put it on the hall table by the phone. Before replying, he would talk to Jim. He wanted his old friend’s advice on Colonel Dexter Flood.
At eight thirty on the dot a car’s horn sounded in the road outside. Looking out from his bedroom, he saw Geoff Lancing waving up to him from the rear window of a large and very fancy motor car. Powder blue.
The chauffeur wore grey livery with a peaked cap. He held the rear door for Wilde, who ducked in and took a seat beside Lancing. The upholstery was creamy white hide and the trimming of the interior was walnut; a well-stocked drinks cabinet held pride of place.
‘Champagne?’
‘It would be rude not to.’
Geoff already had a glass in one hand and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the other. He poured a slender crystal glass to the brim for Wilde. They clinked and both downed half the wine in one. Geoff immediately topped them both up.
‘So what is this enormous beauty of a car?’ Wilde demanded of Lancing, as the chauffeur, disconnected from them by a glass screen, did a U-turn and picked up speed towards the centre of town.
‘Hispano-Suiza. A car beloved of movie stars and the Riviera set. Didn’t you note the swanky stork emblem on the bonnet? Only the best for my sister’s guests, Tom.’
‘So I see. You’re making me nervous.’ He fiddled with his tie, wondering at what point expensive elegance slipped into over priced vulgarity. ‘In fact I’m beginning to feel rather shabby.’
‘Oh, good Lord, don’t worry about that. We’ll be the smartest chaps there. She’s invited all sorts, including half the lads from the Cavendish. Wants to make her presence felt in the vicinity. This is just her way of announcing her arrival. Always has to be the centre of attention, my sis. Remember, though, just don’t . . .’
‘. . . mention the film? Don’t worry, I won’t.’
‘That wasn’t what I was going to say, actually, but never mind.’
They drove south and west, no more than ten miles into wide-open countryside. The evening was light and warm and Wilde gazed out with pleasure at the young fields of green, the trimmed hedgerows, the trees heavy with new leaf, the grazing of cattle and the slow winding of the river. They passed through ancient villages, mellowed by time, their thatched cottages unchanging over the decades and centuries. In the near distance, he spied gentle hills. This land was so very different from the endless flatness of the Fens to the north of Cambridge, and yet he loved them both with a passion.
When all those people in college and elsewhere asked him why he lived here rather than in America, he never gave these landscapes as a reason; if he said anything at all, he protested that it was because he needed to be close to his subject matter, the lands of the Tudors, in particular Sir Francis Walsingham and Sir Robert Cecil. That was true, but it wasn’t the only reason; the beauty of this country also meant a great deal to him.
They pulled into a long driveway between rows of poplars.
Wilde was on his third glass of fizz and he felt at peace with the world. He was going to relax and enjoy himself and breathe the night air deeply. He thought of Lydia: his irritation with her for not meeting him off the boat had evaporated. If she wanted to miss an evening like this, that was her business.
‘So this is Milt Hardiman’s joint?’
‘It’s called Old Hall. Hawksmere Old Hall to give the place its full name. Milt and Peggy spend their summers here and their winters in Long Island or New York. This year they have my dear sister as their guest.’ Lancing lowered his voice so that the driver wouldn’t hear. ‘They’re not really my cup of tea.’
The lawns on either side of the drive, beyond the poplars, were perfectly manicured. A peacock strutted along beside them for a few paces, then wandered off. They drew up in a circular forecourt littered with Rolls-Royces, Bugattis, Lagondas, Bentleys and a host of lesser vehicles. The house looked late Elizabethan, almost a copy of Hardwick Hall, with tall windows, divided by transoms and mullions. Square and high, with tall chimneys, it must have been the home of someone important in Elizabeth’s court. Wilde decided a lot of money had been spent on it in recent years, because it looked in very fine condition. Two footmen stood at the front door, beneath a wide portico with columns, both with a pair of identical fine-featured dogs on leashes, like sentries to the underworld.
‘Borzois,’ Lancing said.
‘Très chic.’
‘I think they’ve hired them for the evening. They’re very showy people. As a pet, they have a rather fiercer looking animal. Alsatian, I believe.’
As they approached the door, one of the footmen opened it wide and bowed low with a sw
eep of his arm to bid them enter. Inside, they came straight into a large, square hall, probably eighteen feet high, lit by crystal chandeliers. Wilde estimated it was at least forty feet square.
At least they had refrained from adding any cod-Tudor styling, so no pikes or halberds, pennants or shields on the walls. The old panelling was still in place and had been restored and polished.
The hall was already filling up. A jazz band was playing in the far corner and servants were everywhere with trays of champagne glasses or canapés. Wilde took a glass and looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of the star of the show. Instead he saw a few faces he knew from the university and many faces he had only seen in newspapers and on newsreels – stars of stage and silver screen, politicians, some aristos, diplomats (Wilde was sure he spotted US ambassador Kennedy), and a couple of members of the exclusive Cliveden set (was that Nancy Astor and Lord Lothian?).
‘So this is your idea of an intimate little cocktail do, is it?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You implied it.’
Lancing took him by the arm and nodded towards the throng. ‘Come on, Professor Wilde. Time for you to meet the star of the show.’
‘Should I be intimidated?’
‘Well, I’ve known Clarissa all my life – and she’s always scared me.’
They wove their way through the guests. Wilde spotted several people he had met at the Cavendish earlier in the day, including Torsten Hellquist and, more surprisingly, the pinched little pencil that was Paul Birbach. Birbach had a woman on his arm. There were always surprises to be had under the heavens.
Lancing caught his eye and laughed. He cupped his hand to Wilde’s ear. ‘I’ll tell you about Paul Birbach and his sexual proclivities later.’
‘I think I’ve heard rather too much about his private life actually, so spare me the details. And he’s off in the morning?’
‘He’ll be missed, especially by poor Torsten Hellquist.’
*
Clarissa Lancing was surrounded by men. Blonde, slender and taller than her brother, she had the predatory beauty of a Tallulah Bankhead or a Marlene Dietrich. But the men now hemming her in weren’t about to heed any warning signs; they couldn’t get enough of her.
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