PRAISE FOR WHEN IT’S OVER
“Laden with detail, When It’s Over brings the forces of history to a very human level.”
—Booklist
“Barbara Ridley has the rare ability to take the life of a real person— her mother, a Czech Jew who fled Prague for Paris and finally England—fictionalize it, and end up with a character so fully realized that we care not only about the bigger backdrop of history but about her daily life and the lives of those who surround her. Compelling and complex, with a strong female protagonist, When It’s Over adds a much-needed fresh perspective to the canon of World War II literature. A first-rate first novel that makes you look forward to Ridley’s second.”
—Lori Ostlund, author of After the Parade and The Bigness of the World, winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award and the California Book Award
“A vividly realized story of wartime lives. This beautiful novel weaves an enchanting path through bravery, sadness, unexpected love, and sparkling hope. An involving story, utterly convincing in its historical detail. Barbara Ridley’s heartfelt wartime novel When It’s Over, will remind you of why you love reading.”
—Amanda Hodgkinson, author of the NY Times Bestseller 22 Britannia Road
“In Lena Kulkova, the reader finds an engaging, resilient character who comes of age amidst the turbulence, chaos, and devastation of 1930s and 40s Europe. She escapes to France and then, as the Nazis threaten, to England, but she is ultimately saddled with the torment of divided loyalties and the guilt of a survivor. Lena’s intelligent and sensitive perspective exposes all the idealism and hope of young love and optimism, followed by the poignant realizations of human frailty and political reality as adulthood dawns. Lena’s beautifully developed character, Ridley’s commanding sense of place and well-drawn supporting cast bring this intricate historical fiction vividly to life.”
—Barbara Stark-Nemon, author of Even inDarkness, winner of the Sarton Literary Award for Historical Fiction
“This fraught love story brings to life passionate, personal, and political struggles in the face of paranoia and prejudice in wartime England, struggles too easily forgotten in the received generalizations that often airbrush out the role of flesh and blood individuals in the broad sweep of history. It’s a story that resonates with the tensions and blindness all too apparent in the twenty-first century.”
—Desmond Barry, author of The Chivalry of Crime
“With rich, sensuous details, Barbara Ridley captures the tumultuous 1940s in England, transporting you with a captivating story about love, loss and war.”
—Nina Schuyler, author of The Translator
Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Ridley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2017
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-296-3
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-297-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017936020
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
Cover design © Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical events and figures, are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An excerpt, adapted from Chapters 14 and 15, was previously published in The Copperfield Review, as a short story, “Mapped Out”
Dedicated to the memory of my parents, Vera and Jasper
. . . and to the hundreds of thousands of courageous refugees fleeing war and persecution in today’s world
TIMELINE
SELECTED HISTORICAL EVENTS MENTIONED IN THE NOVEL
March 1933
Hitler comes to full power in Germany.
Thousands of political opponents, mainly socialists and communists, arrested and sent to Dachau, one of the first concentration camps.
Restrictions on Jews begin.
July 1936
Start of Spanish Civil War:
Franco launches coup of Nationalists against the left-wing elected Republican government. Nationalists supported by Hitler. International Brigade of volunteers fight for Republican side.
March 1938
Hitler annexes Austria: the Anschluss.
May 1938
Reports of German troop movements towards the Czech border lead to full Czech Army mobilization, threat averted.
Sept. 1938
British and French governments sign Munich accord with Hitler; Germany granted right to annex the Sudetenland region of Czechoslovakia.
Oct. 1938
International Brigades withdraw from Spain.
March 1939
Franco declares victory, end of Spanish Civil War. Hitler invades Czechoslovakia.
Aug. 1939
Hitler and Stalin sign Non-aggression Pact.
Sept. 1939
Hitler invades Poland. Britain and France declare war on Germany.
Followed by period of ‘phony war’ with very little action on Western Front until April 1940.
April 1940
Hitler invades Denmark and Norway.
May 1940
Hitler launches invasion of Belgium and France. Chamberlain resigns as British Prime Minister, succeeded by Churchill as head of Coalition Government.
June 1940
France falls to Germany.
Internment of ‘enemy aliens’ begins in Britain.
July 1940
Arrival of Free Czech Army divisions in Britain.
Sept. 1940
German bombing of Britain, the ‘blitz', begins.
June 1941
Germany invades Soviet Union, violating non-aggression pact: Soviet Union enters war on side of Allies.
Dec. 1941
Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. U.S. and Japan enter the war.
Jan. 1942
Deportation of Czech Jews to ghetto of Terezín begins.
Nov. 1942
Publication of Beveridge Report in Britain advocates for post-war Welfare State.
Feb. 1943
Germans surrender to Russians at Stalingrad, their first major defeat of the war. Followed by significant Allied advances in the East, Africa and Italy—but no ‘Second Front’ in the West.
June 1944
D-Day landings on the northern coast of France. Start of V1 “Doodlebug’ reprisal rocket attacks on Britain.
Red Cross visit to Terezín, performance of Brundibár.
July 1944
Soviet troops liberate first concentration camp at Majdanek.
Aug. 1944
Paris liberated.
Oct. 1944
Siege of Dunkirk by Czech Brigade—continued until May 1945.
Oct -Nov. 1944
Sustained V1 and V2 rocket attacks on London.
Jan. 1945
Soviet troops liberate Auschwitz.
May 1945
Surrender of Germany to Allies, end of war in Europe.
July 1945
Churchill dissolves Coalition Government, calls General Election.
Labour Party wins election
in a landslide.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
PARIS, JANUARY 1940
Lena Kulkova stood at her tiny fifth-floor window, surveying the rooftops of the foreign city that she had come to love but was being urged to leave. She was wan and thin; her hair hung in limp strands to her earlobes, framing her broad cheekbones and sky-blue eyes. She crossed her arms to gather her nightgown tight against the early-morning chill. It was an inauspicious start to the day, but she focused on a streak of brightness piercing through the clouds. A puddle on the gray slate roof across the street reflected the shimmering image of a row of terra-cotta chimneystacks. Off to the left, a glimpse of her favorite landmark: the round balustrade atop the St. Sulpice tower, tinted with a spot of crimson.
Surely a good omen, she thought.
“You’re up early,” Marguerite said from the bed across the room. “Ça va? You all right?”
“I’m going back to the embassy,” Lena said. “One more try.” She straightened the eiderdown on her own bed and fluffed the pillow.
“If it doesn’t work, you know you can stay here with me. Paris will be perfectly safe.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Marguerite was her one true French friend; they had shared this small apartment for the past six months. She stood now and took Lena’s hands in hers, holding her gaze. “They’ll negotiate a peace treaty soon.” She threw her dressing gown over her shoulders in an agile gesture, donning both sleeves simultaneously. “Then it will all be over.”
Lena sighed. Yes, she heard that everywhere.
But not from Otto. For months he’d asserted that she must get out. That Paris would not be safe for a girl like her: Czech, Jewish, with known socialist connections.
The smell of the morning’s fresh bread wafted up from the boulangerie on the corner. Usually, she bought a baguette every morning and nibbled it slowly throughout the day; sometimes this served as breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But today, she would wait. She still had an apple left over from the small bag Mme. Beaufils had thrust upon her, after her day of watching little Sophie. Tuesday nights at the Beaufils’ was the only time she saw a full meal. She tried to eat with some restraint at these family dinners under the high chandeliers, but she felt Madame’s gentle eyes upon her, couldn’t hide the fact that she was ravenous.
“I’ll be late tonight,” Marguerite said, heading for the toilet on the landing. “Leave me a note. Let me know what happens.”
“Bien sûr.”
“And I’ll try to bring home some leftover pastries from the café.”
“Merci.”
Lena dressed quickly, choosing the brown wool skirt, rather than the gray, and her new shoes. The soles of her old shoes were worn so thin they let in water, and she could not trust the rain to hold off. This new pair had cost 50 sous at the flea market the previous week. Tan, with a wide buckle, showing only slight wear on the heels, they had seemed a bargain. Now, she tried them on again and wiggled her toes; they should suffice for today’s long walk.
In the kitchen annex, she sliced the apple and drank two cups of hot water to keep the hunger at bay, cradling the mug in her hands, inhaling the warmth. She retrieved Otto’s letter from the bedside table, extracted her passport and the money from their hiding place among her undergarments, and placed them in her handbag. On second thought, she removed the crisp, peach-colored 1,000-franc note, folded it carefully into quarters, and plunged it deep into her skirt pocket for safekeeping.
Taking a final look around the room, she felt her eyes drawn to the watercolor tacked next to the window. Her little sister, Sasha, had painted it; Máma sent it last year, in a birthday package from Prague. Its colors were faded now, but you could still make out the eagle soaring high over the treetops, and the girl in the blue coat with her arms outstretched, as if trying to lift off the ground.
By the time Lena reached the British embassy, her feet ached, the sky was dark and overcast, and a cold wind whipped her face. She climbed the familiar stone steps and pushed through the heavy door. At least she would find a few hours of shelter inside.
Two dozen people already stood in the queue. The woman immediately ahead of her turned and smiled. She was in her thirties, older than Lena, with large gray eyes and a mass of auburn curls. In front of her, a tall man in a worn black coat looked nervously around the room, shifting his weight from one foot to another. A couple farther up spoke softly to each other in what sounded like Polish. Even farther ahead, a very young man, no more than a boy, really, read the newspaper. An older man, perhaps accompanying the boy, stared down at the tiles on the floor. The usual motley assortment.
The room looked drabber than Lena remembered. The war might have stalled on the battlefield, but here it was clearly taking its toll. More paint had chipped off the ceiling; a thick layer of grime coated the high windows, almost obscuring the bare branches of the trees outside as they swayed in the wind. Even the portrait of the King in the gilded frame behind the counter had lost some of its luster.
Only one station was open today. The clerk looked dour and inscrutable. A well-dressed woman with a large hat waved her hands excitedly, pleading her case, rummaging through her handbag for documents.
“I’m sorry, madame,” the clerk said, loudly enough for all to hear. “We cannot continue with your application without the proper documentation.”
The woman withdrew from the counter, avoiding eye contact with those behind her. The queue shuffled forward. Eva’s boyfriend, Heinz, had a theory that the first fifteen applicants of the day were always denied, so perhaps it was just as well Lena had not arrived earlier, lining up for the doors to open at nine thirty. She didn’t believe Heinz; the process seemed utterly random.
But her walk had taken longer than expected because the new shoes had rubbed her heels raw before she crossed the river. Now, she wiggled her left foot out of its shoe and shifted her weight to the right.
The boy and the elderly man moved up to the counter. The man spread a dossier of documents in front of him. The clerk looked at them with a cold, skeptical stare. Everyone in this queue wanted the same thing: the coveted visa for England.
Lena reached into her bag for Otto’s letter. Apparently, her Czech friends Peter and Lotti had now arrived and were staying with him in the ancient cottage in the south of England.
Mein Schätzchen, he’d written, using his favorite term of endearment. They always wrote and conversed in German, his native tongue. There are five of us now. It’s like the Prague days. We’ve established a commune of sorts. You belong here with us.
A second clerk appeared, opening up an additional window. Things should move a bit faster now, Lena thought—but then she recognized the man with square shoulders and the thin-rimmed spectacles. She had encountered him on three of her previous attempts, and he was sure to recognize her.
“Back so soon, Mademoiselle Kulkova?” he’d sneered the last time.
The problem on that occasion had been that she couldn’t prove she had enough money to get herself to England. Lena touched her skirt, felt the outline of the pristine 1,000-franc note lying safely in her pocket. Tonight she would return it to Heinz so another expatriate could use it: to present to some bureaucrat, to prove solvency, as needed.
“You should forget about England,” Heinz had said the night before, as they’d sat in Les Deux Magots, where all the Eastern European émigrés gathered. “The food will be terrible. They eat jam with their meat.”
Lena didn’t say that she rarely ate meat these days. Heinz obviously dabbled in the black market; he was always able to get his hands on things far beyond her reach. His arm draped around Eva’s shoulders as he leaned back in his chair, blowing perfect smoke rings into the thick, noisy air. It was too wet to sit outside, as they usually preferred.
“She’s not going for the food,” Eva said. “She’s going to be with Otto.”
“You can do better than that, sweetheart.” He winked at her. “Besides, you need t
o get out of Europe.” He boasted that he would soon hear back from a second cousin in Chicago. “The New World: that’s where the future lies.”
Lena felt a tap on her shoulder. A dark-haired man with a pencil-thin mustache jerked his chin wordlessly to the space in front of her. She’d been daydreaming; the queue had moved ahead. Lena pushed her foot back into her shoe and edged forward, irritated, wincing in pain. Jamming together like the morning crowds on the Métro wasn’t going to get them there any faster.
A younger man stood at the counter now, pleading his case loudly in very bad French with a thick Eastern European accent.
“L’autre homme promissons que si je revenir . . .”
The clerk raised his eyebrows and curled his upper lip in contempt. Lena’s own French was fluent, perfected during her twenty months living in Paris. She read everything she could find: newspapers abandoned in cafés, cheap secondhand paperbacks from the green metal bins along the Seine: Proust, Verne, Zola. Especially now that she had so much time on her hands.
But she would speak English, she decided, when her turn came to face the clerk. It wasn’t as polished as her French—but anything to make a good impression. She took a deep breath, trying to shake the nervous twitch in the pit of her stomach.
The Polish couple proceeded through quickly and left looking relieved, the woman hooking her hand through the man’s crooked elbow, leaning into him as they made their exit. Lena watched their backs, remembering the pressure of Otto’s arm against her breast, the coarse fabric of his jacket against her cheek.
She realized with a start that she was next. She pulled out Otto’s letter again and removed the enclosed letter of invitation from . . . what was her name? A Mrs. William Courtney-Smithers had written in an elegant script on heavy, ivory-colored paper embossed with the family coat of arms. The address: The Grange, Upper Wolmingham, Sussex. Lena was to come and visit immediately. Spring was on its way, and the daffodils were sure to be spectacular. Mrs. Courtney-Smithers was anxious to show Lena all the delights of the English countryside.
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