by Helen Bryan
“God forbid!” Mrs. Cohen put her head in her hands.
“May God forbid,” echoed Rachel.
“So we need to act before the Nazis find the children or those helping them. Can the Quakers hide them a little longer,” Frances asked, “until we can make arrangements to get them out of France?”
Rachel considered. “They have to be careful to act only as neutral humanitarians. Anything more will jeopardize the small amount of good they are permitted to do. Nevertheless, some are less neutral than they were, and those are a link through which we have sent money to the Resistance for medicine, guns, ammunition, wireless sets,” she said. “It buys us information and favors in exchange. They can sometimes help someone escape if he or she is important enough to justify the risks involved, and like the airmen shot down over occupied territory, they can be smuggled along escape routes, with the help of local Resistance networks, to pick-up points on the French coast and then taken back to England. But do not forget that the price is not just money. The Germans execute civilians in reprisal for Resistance activities. But the Quakers would probably agree to do what they could to help get the girls to the coast, if there were some prospect of reuniting them with their family. The Resistance, however…I’m less sure they’d be willing to use their escape routes for children—but, for enough money, who knows? But even assuming the children reached England, then what?”
Frances said, “We have a plan…”
Rachel stopped her and looked at Mrs. Cohen. “Berthe, I am sorry, but it would be best if you would please leave us by ourselves now. It is for your own protection that you should not know what is said. Then, if the authorities ask you, can truly say you know nothing.”
“But, Rachel!”
“For the rabbi’s protection too, you must be able to say you know nothing.”
Mrs. Cohen sighed and left the room.
“First, we can pay the Resistance to bring the girls along the escape route to the coast and then across the channel,” said Frances steadily.
“The authorities would only send them back!”
“Only if the authorities knew of them.”
“But the Coastal Defense Zone is impenetrable.”
Evangeline spoke up. “No, it isn’t, which is why the government are so worried about Nazis slipping through. We’ve found a way into the country people used hundreds of years ago, through an old smugglers’ cave on the coast and a tunnel going inland. We believe the authorities don’t know it’s there—there’s no official map. Just this.” From the roll of papers she pulled out Alice’s tracing of her father’s map and spread it on the kitchen table. “This was drawn twenty years ago by a vicar in our village, an amateur local historian who died a few years ago without showing it to anyone but his daughter.”
“So?” said Rachel, bending over to look.
Frances pointed to a spot on the Sussex coast. “The smugglers went back and forth to France from here.”
Evangeline explained how they had discovered and explored the tunnel, then pointed out how it ran to St. Gabriel’s and was still usable if the children could be brought to the coast.
“It seems a bit far-fetched,” Rachel muttered, “although…in some cities Jews are escaping through the sewers. Once that would have seemed far-fetched too.” She bent over for a closer look at the map.
“Did this ever work?” she asked dubiously.
“Very well. The government never stamped out the smuggling gangs—the industrial revolution came along and men stopped making a living by sea. This is probably the only map in existence. And it was quite as dangerous when the smugglers used it—the coast was crawling with troops and excise officers ready to hang any smugglers they caught. The smugglers still got through.”
“So here is the cave on our side, but where on the French coast? The Germans are everywhere.”
The time Frances and Evangeline had invested in charming the Free French colonel had paid off. Frances said, “We know sea rescues of the RAF take place from Plouha where the cliffs are steep, like they are at Dover. Right under the Germans’ noses.”
Rachel was wavering, they could see, but she said, “Crossing the channel in a small boat is dangerous, nearly impossible—there are mines and submarines. The captain, probably a French or Spanish fisherman, would have to weigh the risks and decide what he can and cannot do. There is no guarantee he will not turn back or land elsewhere on the coast. And you say the children will come out at night from this tomb, here?”
“That’s right.”
“And then what? I suppose there will be a car waiting to pick them up, full of petrol despite regulations?”
“Actually yes, and it’s better if you don’t know who is helping us.” God bless Bernie and the black market, thought Frances.
Rachel gave a small, wry smile. “I understand. And then?”
Evangeline took a deep breath and explained how Tanni suggested the children could be hidden. Ration books would be provided.
Rachel stared at her, dumbfounded at such a simple solution. Then she nodded. “Tanni may be right. My sister…perhaps…let me think…we must make sure no one knows who the girls are or where they come from, then no one could give them away…”
She thought for a minute. “My sister Judith and her husband, Dovid, have a large family of ten children in Tottenham. Berthe does not know Judith and rarely leaves this Bethnal Green neighborhood now, so she is unlikely to hear of the girls being in the Jewish community in Tottenham. I will ask Judith if she and Dovid would be willing to take in two children, knowing nothing about them, not their names or where they come from. Only Tanni and we will know who they are and where they are.”
“But there is a risk—will they take it?”
“Yes, for Jewish children. I think so. Dovid’s cousins in the Lodz ghetto have been taken by the Nazis, and he…it helps that they do not know who Tanni is. If either is arrested they can say they took in two children whose parents went missing after a bombing raid. I think Tanni is right. For once the authorities’ lack of interest in Jews will help. Now, you say you have money. How much?”
“Not money, not yet, but we have these…” Frances lifted the carpetbag onto the table and pulled out a towel-wrapped bundle. Inside were three old-fashioned black velvet jeweler’s cases. She undid the brass clasps and Rachel gasped. It was Lady Marchmont’s splendid triple string of pearls with the emerald and diamond clasp. Frances opened the two smaller cases to reveal the matching earrings and bracelet. The pearls glowed against the black satin of their case, while the emeralds and diamonds winked and sparkled.
Rachel, whose family had a shop in Hatton Garden, knew immediately that they were worth a fortune. She hadn’t expected anything like this. “They aren’t stolen? If we’re caught there will be enough trouble without that. They must be worth thousands.”
“They’re mine. I inherited them. And there’s more in the bag. I’m on my way to show them—or a few of them—to a man I met last night, a colonel with the Free French who believes agents in France will help us for enough money… it’s better that you don’t know more. We’ll offer them part now, the rest when the girls are here.”
“It’s a dangerous plan, but I cannot imagine there will be another way to rescue these children. It is worse to abandon them if there is a chance. So we must help, risk or not. Tell Tanni to be brave,” said Rachel.
“You know she’s pregnant again? The nurse says it’s too soon. Anna was only born last November, Bruno had leave in February, and now this baby’s due in October. She hasn’t been very well,” said Frances. She closed the jeweler’s boxes and returned them to the carpetbag.
Rachel stood up. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we have some answers. And one more thing. Tanni may see her sisters briefly when they arrive in your village, but then they must leave at once. After that, Tanni must not know their whereabouts in London or the name of my sister and her family. It will be sad for the girls and for Tanni, but you must make her un
derstand the risks for them—and for Bruno—if she or he knows anything. It must be enough for her that they are safe.”
Frances and Evangeline promised they would make her understand. “Good luck, Rachel.”
“Good luck to you too.”
As the front door closed behind them they heard Rachel exclaim, “Two lives! And there are hundreds of thousands…”
Evangeline went to the Underground while Frances walked down the street, bustling now with everyday activity. She was more worried than she would admit about the part of the plan that involved hiding Lili and Klara so openly. However, she tried to see the busy street through the eyes of the authorities. She caught snatches of conversation in what she assumed was Yiddish. There were women in head scarves tied like Rachel’s, with shopping baskets and children. In fact, children were everywhere, dressed in black and carrying satchels. The boys wore little caps on the backs of their heads and had side locks. The girls had on thick stockings like their mothers wore and skirts that came nearly to their ankles. Frances began to smile as it dawned on her that the SOE controllers couldn’t have bettered Tanni’s simple plan. Among the close-knit Jewish community in Tottenham, Lili and Klara might be newcomers, but Rachel had assured them the community would close ranks to protect them, and to outsiders, two more little girls in thick stockings and black dresses would blend into the background.
Frances found a tube station and bought a ticket. She would have to find a place to change out of her siren suit into her pretty frock, fluff out her hair.
Two hours later, glamorous once more, she tightened her grip on the carpetbag and entered the smoky gloom of the Coach and Horses. She paused dramatically and tossed her hair back. Every male head swivelled, and the colonel strutted forward importantly before any other man could waylay her. “Ah, ma chère, Mees Falconlee!” He put a proprietary arm round her waist to lead her to a table.
Frances flashed him an encouraging smile as she sat, calculating his mood. The colonel ordered wine and offered her a cigarette, which he leaned forward gallantly to light for her. Frances let her hand rest on his, as if to steady it, then drew it away almost caressingly. Frances licked a speck of tobacco off her lip and the colonel began to breathe more quickly. This was going to be a game of cat-and-mouse, and she had to calculate carefully how far flirting would take her, then at what point she should reveal the jewels they were prepared to exchange. She feared what would happen when the colonel finally “persuaded” her upstairs as part of the bargain. She would try her best to get him drunk but if the worst came to the worst, the lessons of the Shanghai Police were fresh in her memory. She hoped it would not be necessary to put them into use.
At the same time, Evangeline emerged five Underground stops to the north, near the hospital. A one-armed man was selling small baskets of strawberries at the entrance and she bought one for Richard: he couldn’t see flowers, but he could taste the strawberries. He had been moved to a side ward, and on her weekly visit Evangeline spent the day at his side, reading to him, smoothing his sheets, giving him sips of water, and telling him the latest bits of news from Crowmarsh Priors. But no matter what she did, Richard remained passive and unresponsive.
“Shock,” the nurses assured her. Most of the time he slept, and then Evangeline sat quietly, wondering what she was going to do. A doctor at the hospital had just examined her and confirmed that her nausea and dizziness were due to pregnancy. When she asked how far along she was, the doctor was exasperated. “How long ago was your last period!” he exclaimed. “All you need to do is count backward.”
Evangeline had chewed her lip. She still couldn’t remember whether her period had come before or after she had last seen Laurent. Unaware of her dilemma, the doctor advised her not to tell Richard yet but wait till he was stronger.
She had persuaded Frances to wait till tomorrow to go home because Laurent was coming to London tonight, and hard as it would be, Evangeline knew she had to face him, possibly for the last time. He was her cousin, her only link to her old home and family, and she had loved him for so long—and so dangerously—that the realization that she no longer loved him had come as a shock, and a liberation. Still, she worried for his safety, going back and forth to France. And she wasn’t sure whether to say anything about the baby. He would be furious, but if the baby was obviously colored…
No, she wouldn’t tell him. If the baby was obviously colored, she couldn’t count on Laurent.
At six she walked slowly out of the hospital toward the tube, still not certain what she was going to say.
Later, in a dim café in Soho, Evangeline and Laurent drank beer and ate the day’s special, Mock Duck. “This tastes like a duck would taste if it was made out of potatoes and old turnips,” said Laurent. “Awful. Less to eat in Paris, though.” He looked different—thinner and older, no longer a boy. He had wolfed his “duck” and its puddle of gravy, then finished Evangeline’s. For pudding they had stodgy jam roly-poly. “That’s awful too,” muttered Laurent, making a face and drinking more beer. “When are they moving Richard home?”
“Soon. When Lady Marchmont’s house is finished there’ll be a place for him to recuperate. There are too many stairs at Penelope’s for him, and we’re crammed already with three evacuees and Tanni and the children. But we should talk about…”
Laurent interrupted curtly. “I’ve got a job to do, honey,” he exclaimed impatiently. “They keep me busy, back and forth to France, can’t tell you about it exactly, got to live. Don’t keep askin’ to talk about it!”
Laurent jiggled one leg under the table, a nervous tic he’d developed. “One day to the next is all I can manage. They’ve given me French identification papers, but the Nazis are good at detecting fakes, especially in Paris, and I had a scare last time I was there, Gestapo stopped us, looking for somebody…they decided my papers were in order, but they arrested some guys behind me for having false documents. When he heard what a close shave I had, de Gaulle called a pal and had him get me a new set—there’s some young fellow at the War Office—they say he’s the best, so far no one’s been able to spot his fakes. But you know…” he shrugged.
“Laurent, I have to tell you…”
A drum roll and a clash of cymbals on stage drowned the rest of what she said.
Laurent perked up and changed the subject: “You worry too much. Wait till you hear this band. They use me sometimes if one of the musicians can’t play. One has a brother plays with Glenn Miller, says he can get me a job when they come over to play for the troops. How about that?”
He took out cigarettes for them both and lit Evangeline’s, then his own. Evangeline stared down at her empty glass, trying to decide when to get up and leave. When Laurent slapped the table she jumped. The tempo had picked up. “Come on, sugar! Let’s dance and forget about the damn war.” Suddenly eager, he yanked her out of her chair, swung her onto the floor, and spun her away.
Three American GIs in Ike jackets sat in the corner watching the dancers. When their beer came they tasted it and grimaced. It was their first night in London. As their eyes got used to the gloom one drawled in a flat Georgia accent, “Son-of-a-bitch, y’all look at that!” He nudged the soldier next to him. “That’s a white girl for sure. And she’s dancin’ with a colored fellow!”
“Where?” said his friend from Nebraska who had been sizing up two single girls at the bar. He squinted at Laurent. “Him? Looks white to me.”
“A high yellow, we call ’em. Some white blood, but you can always tell a nigger! Back home, he wouldn’t be dancin’ with her long, I promise you that. Be dancin’ from the end of a rope.”
Evangeline felt dizzy as Laurent spun her away, spun her back, and hugged her tight. “Just follow me, honey,” he said into her neck and kissed her ear. “It’s like old times again, and your train isn’t till tomorrow. We got all night.”
No, it wasn’t like old times, she wanted to scream. It never had been like old times ever since she’d followed him to Europe. She co
uldn’t regret saving him from Maurice, but her heart was no longer his. She wanted to be in the hospital where Richard lay. She wanted to turn back the clock and be in a seaside boarding house, curled on the sofa with him, she wanted to see him striding toward her on the railway platform, holding out his arms to scoop her up, not caring that Albert Hawthorne was watching. She wanted to talk about the baby they were going to have…she wanted to run. Back to her life.
When the dance was finished, Evangeline snatched her handbag from the table and did exactly that, without looking back. Laurent was busy clapping and shouting for an encore, and then the musician whose brother played with Glenn Miller was pulling Laurent up onto the stage. She knew it would be some time before he noticed that she had gone.
28.
Crowmarsh Priors, July 1942
The wedding about to take place that sunny afternoon was a distraction and a welcome relief from the horrors of war. With most of the young people called up, with handsome Richard Fairfax lying half dead in his bandages in the hospital, with the Germans on their way, and the mute testimony of the bare earth over new graves in the churchyard, Crowmarsh Priors heard the dogs of war howling at its gates.
But today, everyone was in church, wearing their best clothes, and there was the usual sense of happy anticipation as they waited for the bride to arrive. No one minded that she was late; they luxuriated in a rare feeling of normality. People said the things to their neighbors that were always said on these occasions. Not necessarily important or profound things, just normal things, soothing platitudes and timeworn sentiments appropriate to the occasion.
“What I say,” whispered Nell Hawthorne to the butcher’s wife beside her, “is that a wedding is a wedding and young people will be young people, war or no war. You have to wish them the best, and though he’s a good enough lad at heart, he wants keeping on the straight and narrow. She’ll be the making of him.”
