When It's Over

by Barbara Ridley

  “Where? London?”

  But he was gone into the rear office, closing the door behind him.

  “They’ll be at Cholmondeley Park, near Cheshire,” said the receptionist at the desk. “That’s in the north of England, near Liverpool. We’re setting up an army base there.” She smiled at Lena.

  “Can I get a message to them? They don’t even know I’m in England.”

  “Let me find out,” the woman said. She returned several minutes later with an address written on a piece of paper. Handing it to Lena, she said, “You can write to them there.” She smiled again. “Your father and brother are real heroes. You must be very proud of them.”

  Peter turned to Lena. “Well done,” he said with a smile.

  Father a hero? It just didn’t fit. It was about as plausible as a cotton shirt in winter or woolen mittens on a warm June day. But Lena’s heart fluttered at the thought of his being in this country, of hearing news of Máma and Sasha. How was Máma supposed to manage on her own? How had she agreed to let Ernst leave? She looked at the piece of paper in her hand: the first possibility in months of contact with her family. She slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  They waited two more hours, but Lisicky’s whereabouts were either unknown or not to be divulged. Nothing more could be achieved sitting there; Peter and Lena had to content themselves with leaving a detailed message for him and trusting that the friendly receptionist might put in a good word for a hero’s daughter.

  They emerged into bright sunshine and walked to Hyde Park. Office workers and shop girls sauntered out for their lunch break or sat in small groups on the banks of the Serpentine. People-watching had been a delicious pastime back in Prague and Paris, and here again was a kaleidoscope of humanity: young women with boyish bob haircuts, elderly couples walking arm in arm, women with infants and toddlers—so there were still children in London—and fellow refugees. Lena heard Dutch, Flemish, and Polish. Here in the wide-open space of the park, at least, there appeared to be no repercussions from speaking in tongues other than English. And there were soldiers everywhere, milling in twos and threes, in uniforms of brown and khaki and gray and blue. There were officers in kilts and women, even, in khaki skirts; men with New Zealand or South Africa emblazoned on their shoulder tabs; and others, with complexions of golden brown or gleaming ebony. Clearly, Britain was calling in reinforcements from all corners of the Dominions.

  Lena recalled her conversation with Otto the night before his arrest, only two nights ago—though it seemed so much longer— when he had scoffed at the notion that the British could hold out against the Nazis.

  “Don’t you think it’s encouraging to see so many troops everywhere?” she asked Peter now. “The English seem prepared to defend this island.”

  “I agree,” Peter said. “You do get that feeling.”

  Why had Otto been so dismissive? She had always respected his opinion; he was so often right. But she refused to believe that the Nazis could invade England without meeting any resistance. Everywhere around her, she sensed a quiet determination to stand firm, to defy whatever unknown terror might be in store. Lena wanted to honor and embrace that.

  “This is Speakers’ Corner,” Peter said. “Always an interesting scene.”

  They watched as a young man harangued the small audience with calls for a negotiated settlement with Hitler. A square-faced woman with her hair pulled tight in a bun handed out broadsheets from something called the Peace Pledge Union; “Stop the War,” they proclaimed. Some people heckled the orator, but it appeared very good-natured. There was laughter, and jokes that Lena could not completely understand, something about inviting Hitler over for a cup of tea, and then further repartee about not wasting precious sugar rations on him.

  “Extraordinary, these English,” Lena said, smiling at the odd combination of quiet resolve, gentle tolerance, and dry humor. It was difficult to reconcile this with the hysterical anti-alien sensationalism of recent headlines.

  “Yes, it’s interesting how political dissent is clearly still tolerated,” said Peter, as they moved on to Oxford Street. “Do you want to hop on a bus, or shall we continue walking?”

  “How far is it?”

  They were making their way to the Refugee Committee’s office in Bloomsbury. A visit there was de rigueur—a chance to hear news, rumors, and gossip from Prague.

  “Two or three kilometers, I think.”

  “I’m happy to walk,” Lena said.

  Would she ever get to know London the way she knew Prague or Paris, with that intimacy that came from hours of walking, exploring hidden corners and claiming them as one’s own? She tried to register all the landmarks and the names of the streets, but Peter was walking much faster than she would have preferred, and as her feet raced to keep up with him, her mind sped on its own trajectory. Lena’s first glimpses of Selfridges, Regent Street, and Tottenham Court Road mingled with visions of Otto sitting in a tiny cell, cramped and distraught, cut off from the world, and Father and Ernst on their way to an army camp in England, having survived unimaginable ordeals.

  Lena faced with trepidation the thought of seeing her father. After the furious arguments back home, she had vowed never to speak to him again. Clearly, the old rules of engagement no longer applied, but what would replace them? What would it be like to confront him once more—here, in this country?

  At the Refugee Office, they ran into a fellow Peter had known during his military service in Bohemia. They exchanged greetings and news. He had heard from a family member in Prague, but the letter had been heavily censored, whole sentences obliterated. What could be gleaned was nothing but gloom: hints about severe food shortages and strict curfews for Jews. A group of Polish refugees he’d met reported having heard dreadful stories about Jews in Lódź being sealed off in a ghetto.

  “A ghetto?” Peter said.

  “Yes, cut off from the outside world and subjected to forced labor.”

  Lena had a sudden flash of memory: her grandmother describing the pogroms of her childhood.

  “The accounts are probably wildly exaggerated,” Peter’s friend said. “You know how the Poles are—you can never believe anything they say.”

  Yes, it couldn’t be happening all over again.

  The Refugee Office itself had little information to offer: vague hints about a resistance movement developing in Prague, but nothing substantial, and no news at all to bring back to Emil about anyone who had escaped toward the East, as Josef had done last winter. It was all disappointing and demoralizing.

  Sensing their deflation, the woman at the desk, a matronly sort who was bustling about, tidying papers and pamphlets, picked up a notice about a concert to be held that evening at Wigmore Hall.

  “It’s a fund-raiser for the committee. They’re playing Dvořák and Smetana. I can give you two free tickets. Go on, enjoy yourselves.”

  She gave Lena a conspiratorial wink that made Lena realize she assumed Lena and Peter were lovers. Luckily, Peter was oblivious to this female innuendo.

  “Would you like to?” he asked.

  Lena looked down at her plain cotton dress. “Like this?”

  “You’ll be fine like that, dear,” the woman said. “One good thing about wartime: as long as it’s clean, it’ll do.” She chuckled. “This is not a formal affair. It starts at six thirty, so that everyone can get home before blackout time.”

  “Should give us time to make the last train,” Peter said. “Shall we go?”

  “Why not?”

  An evening concert: it sounded quite delightful, so civilized. The perfect antidote to the frustrations of the day.

  Lena sank deep into the plush maroon seat, easing her feet out of her shoes and allowing the tension to ooze out of her back and shoulders. She was pleasantly exhausted. They had walked for hours, getting lost in the narrow streets around Covent Garden, making a wrong turn at Piccadilly Circus, and finally traipsing all the way up Bond Street to reach the concert hall just in time. The auditori
um was three-quarters full, and they were seated toward the rear. As far as she could tell from this position, the woman from the Refugee Office had been correct: the backs of heads and shoulders revealed a wide variety of styles and formality. Sprinkled among the few sequined gowns and shiny black coats were women without hats and men without jackets.

  After a few mercifully short speeches thanking them for their support and urging additional donations for the Trust Fund, the music started with Dvořák’s Carnival Overture. Lena remembered now she considered it rather too jarring for her taste. What she really wanted to hear was the program’s finale: Smetana’s Ma Vlast, My Country. She loved especially the second movement, the melodic depiction of the Vltava flowing through Prague, the repeating motifs, and the final, triumphant crescendo portraying the heroic legends of those who rescued Bohemia in its darkest hour.

  In the short pause before it started, Peter whispered, “Did we tell you that on the night the Nazis marched into Prague, we had tickets for the symphony? Those cheap standing-room-only tickets we used to get. My parents couldn’t understand how we would want to go to a concert on a night like that. But we did, and so did hundreds of others. The place was packed. And they abandoned the planned program in favor of Ma Vlast. They performed it from memory, no music. Everyone was on their feet.”

  From the opening chords of the harp in Vyšehrad to the culminating march in the final poem, Blaník, Lena’s eyes were moist, her throat parched. She felt tugged back to Prague by a deep longing, an aching homesickness she had not felt since she’d left. She could not yield to this; she must remain strong. When the culminating applause brought the whole audience to its feet, Lena remained seated to compose herself. She brushed off Peter’s solicitous inquiry with a vague wave, staring ahead as people turned to leave the hall.

  If she had not been sitting like that, if she, too, had turned to leave as soon as the applause died down, she might easily have missed her. As it was, when her eyes first alighted on that familiar face, Lena did not immediately recognize what she was seeing. A trick of the mind, it must be, a phantom conjured up by the music of her homeland. Or a mere coincidence. After all, there can be only so many possible juxtapositions of features; no single visage can be truly unique. Those deep-brown eyes and high cheekbones, the full lips and the pointed chin, even that little mole on the upper lip, must surely coexist in another face, in another land.

  But then those eyes met hers and lit up in excitement. Those lips opened wide in astonishment.

  “Eva!” Lena cried.

  CHAPTER 20

  LONDON, JUNE 1940

  There stood Eva, thinner than when they’d parted in the Place de la Contrascarpe three months earlier but unmistakably in front of Lena, stepping into the row of seats to clear the aisle, leaning forward now to kiss her on both cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” Lena managed to say. “How did you get to England?”

  “I arrived two days ago, via the South of France. I left Paris with the masses, in l’exode.” She turned to kiss Peter and flashed him a flirtatious smile. “This is amazing. Half of Prague seems to be here.”

  “South of France?” Lena said, as they made their way to the foyer. Peter was a few steps ahead of them.

  Eva turned to Lena and said, “So, you’re with Peter now?” She gave a quick, brittle laugh. “I always said he and Lotti wouldn’t last.”

  “What? No, no. They’re still together,” Lena said. She hoped to goodness Peter couldn’t hear them. She clutched at Eva’s arm to slow her down, pull her in toward her. “How did you get here from France?”

  “I came on a ship full of Czech soldiers. Well, not a ship, exactly—a coal freighter, filthy dirty; we had to sleep on the floor in the coal dust. But we got here.” As they rejoined Peter outside the concert hall, Eva added, “And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Your brother was on the ship.”

  “Ernst? That’s incredible.” Lena turned to Peter. “Eva came from France. On one of those ships they told us about at the council offices.”

  “How many soldiers were there?” Peter said. “Where did you land in England?”

  “What did Ernst say?” Lena said at the same time. “How did he look?”

  “I didn’t talk to him much. There were hundreds of troops. I only realized it was him just before we docked at Liverpool. I hardly recognized him. He’s grown half a meter, and he was in uniform. I remembered to tell him you’re in England now. He had no idea, of course.”

  “Did he say anything about my father?” asked Lena.

  Peter looked nervously at his watch. “We have to get to Victoria for the last train. Let’s walk to the Tube.” He pointed in the same direction in which everyone else was walking.

  The throng swept them toward Oxford Street. Lena kept hold of Eva’s elbow, but strangers bumped them constantly and it was hard to complete sentences.

  “Did Ernst say anything about how they got to France?” Lena said.

  “No,” Eva said. “I told you, I hardly talked to him. It was all very chaotic.”

  “Where’s Marguerite?” Lena asked

  “I don’t know. I lost track of her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story. But she made it out of Paris. Just in time.”

  “You haven’t heard from her since?” Lena asked in dismay.

  “No.”

  They had to dodge to avoid a knot of inebriated young men in uniform emerging from a pub, staggering up the street arm in arm, singing lustily. Lena and Eva were trapped behind the spectacle. Eva seemed unable to take her eyes off them. They were tall and blond and would obviously be very handsome once they sobered up.

  When she finally returned her attention to Lena, she asked, “So, where’s Otto? Isn’t he with you?”

  They had reached Oxford Circus and come to a standstill at the top of the Tube steps.

  Peter looked at his watch again. There was no time to explain anything.

  “Come with us, Eva,” Lena pleaded. “Come with us to the station, so we can talk more.”

  “I have to get back to my hostel,” Eva said. “I’ll never find it unless I stick to the one route I know.”

  “Peter can tell you the way,” Lena said. “He knows London very well.”

  “No, I think I’d better go back now.”

  “Promise you’ll come down to Sussex soon. I have to hear everything. Peter, give Eva the directions. Do you have any paper?”

  After a few scribbled notes on the back of an envelope and a quick wave as Peter practically dragged Lena into the Underground, Eva was gone again, almost as quickly as she’d appeared.

  The train rumbled back to Sussex, the rhythm of the wheels thrumming a gentle lullaby. Indeed, Peter soon dozed off, his head cocked against the window frame, his mouth open, the lower lip quivering slightly with each intake of breath. They were alone in the compartment; this last train was eerily quiet.

  An all-encompassing fatigue enveloped Lena, but she could not sleep. She stared out at the fading light of the long summer evening. She could just discern her reflection in the grimy window. She automatically raised her hands to rearrange her hair back behind its clips as she tried to piece together the puzzle. Eva seemed different somehow. Was it Lena’s imagination, or had she been evasive? Why wouldn’t she come with them to Victoria so they could talk more? They could have told her how to get back. Eva wasn’t usually timid about finding her way around. She didn’t seem herself. Shaken, perhaps, by whatever she had gone through escaping from Paris. She’d said nothing about Heinz. And what had she meant about Marguerite? It was maddening to have to wait for more details.

  At least Eva was safely out of France. And Lena would surely be able to see her again soon. And Ernst, too, by the sounds of it. Amazing that he and Eva had been on the same ship! It was hard to imagine Ernst in uniform. The brother she used to fight and squabble with when they were little, who had then become very distant i
n recent years. Lena hardly knew him anymore. She fingered the piece of paper in her dress pocket: the address of the Czech army base. She would write to Ernst tomorrow.

  And she should try to find out how to write to Otto. Her thoughts returned to him with a pang of guilt. She had hardly thought of him all evening, not since the first stirrings of the music. The excitement over the news about the Czech army had overshadowed the fact that they had made no progress in securing Otto’s freedom. Should she have stayed longer at the Czech Council office? That girl at the desk had been friendly. Perhaps Lena could have persuaded her to do more. I’m just no good at this, she thought. Otto had somehow managed to get her a visa for England—but that was the thing about Otto. He was so persuasive. She hadn’t been able to get the council people to really listen to her. Lena looked across at Peter. He had been so confident that morning. But he hadn’t been successful, either.

  Lena looked out the window at the huddled houses, the amorphous shadows where diligent citizens were applying their blackout shades to assuage the watchful local wardens. A gibbous moon rose in the east, as if to mock their efforts: any bomber flying overhead tonight would have no difficulty locating its target. How odd that the beautiful lunar glow could be something to fear. Were bombs really going to rain down on them? Would Lena ever find it within herself to be brave in the face of such an onslaught? She thought of the Londoners she had seen that day, and what she had gleaned of their quiet, solid resolve. Why had Otto said you needed to be free of emotion at times like these? Those Londoners seemed brave and ready for anything, but couples still strode arm-in-arm, still loved and needed each other.

  Peter gave a soft snore, and his head jolted forward. He woke with a startled expression. Kicking off his shoes, he spread out full length on the seat. “Wake me up when we get to Bigglesmeade,” he said, curling over onto his side.

  The movement reminded Lena of Otto, of him curled up behind her in bed, his arm around her stomach, his knees tucked behind hers. Caught off guard, she felt tears well up. Where was he? It would be some comfort just to know where he was tonight.