“Let’s find out if we can train to be nurses,” Lotti said.
“I could never do that,” Lena said. “I’m far too squeamish.” But she wasn’t afraid of hard work and wanted to make a contribution. She wasn’t sure she had any skills, though, except for typing. Perhaps they would need typists.
Otto was excited. “We’ll join the ranks of the proletariat,” he said. “That will be interesting.”
Muriel had a small gathering that night, and although the mood was somber, Lena was determined to have a good time, and for Eva to enjoy it, too. She wanted to show Eva that she harbored no ill will over the events in Paris.
Alistair took Eva under his wing to introduce her to the other guests while Lena helped Muriel with final preparations in the kitchen.
“I can’t believe you’re all going to leave us,” Muriel said.
“I know,” Lena replied. “I’ve been here only a few months, but it feels like home.” She was going to get tearful if she didn’t change the subject. “My goodness, what are you cooking?”
“Rabbit stew,” said Muriel. “Old Pritchard has rabbits all over his land and is happy to get rid of them. He gave me three this morning. Off rations, of course. I’m trying not to think of them as sweet little bunnies.” She gingerly groped for the casserole lid with an oven glove. “I hope this will taste all right. It’s rather an experiment.”
“It smells wonderful.” Lena said then added, “Is Milton coming tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” Muriel said. “He thought all leave would be canceled. They’re on full alert this weekend. It’s the anniversary of the start of the last war—perfect timing for the invasion, for Hitler’s ultimate revenge. Moreover, it’s the full moon.”
“Do you think it really will be this weekend?” Lena asked. They might have been discussing a much-anticipated social event.
“Who knows? If not, there will be another set of theories about why next week is the obvious date.”
Alistair stuck his head into the kitchen. “Do we have time for a game of charades before dinner?” he asked.
“No, it’s just about ready,” Muriel said.
Lena went in search of Eva. She found her out on the terrace, sitting on the low wall in a tête-à-tête with Emil. Lena admired the view, drinking it in for one last time. She felt something brush against her sleeve; Alistair stood next to her.
“It’s spectacular at this time of evening, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes. I’m going to miss it.”
“You’ll enjoy London, my dear. It’s a delightful place.”
Lena looked into his kind face. “Isn’t Hitler going to bomb it to smithers?” she asked.
Smithers? No, that wasn’t the right word, was it?
Alistair’s eyebrows knitted in confusion for a moment; then he smiled. “Smithereens? Let’s hope not. We’ll have to put our faith in Milton and his splendid anti-aircraft fellows. They’ll do their damnedest to stop him.”
PART III
CHAPTER 27
LONDON, FEBRUARY 1944
Lena hurried up the Gray’s Inn Road, glancing over her shoulder every half block to see if a bus was coming. She’d hop on the number 17 if one came, but she wasn’t going to stand and wait.
Lotti was coming to dinner, and Lena wanted to prepare something special. Lotti’s note said she had some exciting news. Lena tried to guess. Word from home? There was always a hope, a twinge of excitement at the possibility, although there’d been none for years now. A promotion for Peter? Perhaps—he was doing well as a radio technician in the RAF. Or possibly Lotti was finally to be offered the chance to train as a full-fledged nurse at Barts, the hospital in Smithfield.
A blast of cold air barreled down from King’s Cross. Still no sign of the bus. She turned down a side street in search of a more sheltered route, passing a heap of rubble where once a house had brimmed with life. On the next corner, she spotted a queue: the familiar orderly line of women in woolen coats and sturdy shoes, huddled together with shopping bags at the ready, patiently waiting their turn for whatever was being offered. The ubiquitous seductive queue, any queue—it was something she often joked about yet was unable to resist. This one, only about a dozen strong, was in front of a greengrocer’s. Partially depleted boxes of root vegetables were arrayed outside.
“What’s here?” she asked the woman at the end of the line.
“I dunno, love. Just got ’ere meself.”
Lena moved forward to peek into the dimly lit shop. A bare lightbulb hung over the counter, where a tall, gray-haired man was measuring something into the steel pan on the scales. Two women made their exit. They proudly displayed their bounty.
“He’s got onions,” announced one. “Only one pound per person, but he gave me extra for me mum. She’s stuck indoors with her legs playin’ up.”
Onions! That did sound good. Onions had been off rations and exempt from distribution control for several months, but Lena hadn’t seen one in weeks. She looked at her watch. Nearly five thirty. She should be getting home. But an onion would be just the thing to spruce up the potatoes and tinned Spam she was planning for tonight. She hesitated, looked again at the queue; there were now three more people in line. One of these women caught her eye.
“You comin’ in?” she asked Lena, gesturing for her to go ahead. “Go on—you was ’ere before me, love.”
“Thank you so much.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lena emerged with her own supply of four firm yellow onions, which she stuffed into the bottom of her handbag. A fine drizzle had set in; buffeted by the wind, it carried a surprising punch, and Lena was wet by the time she reached home. She was fumbling for her keys on the doorstep, trying to retrieve them from among the onions, when Mavis Perkins, from the downstairs flat, joined her and let them both in.
“Goodness, Lena,” she said. “You’re drenched. Did you end up walking all the way home again?”
“I did,” Lena said. “And look what I found at a greengrocer’s off Acton Street.” She pulled out two of the onions and handed them to Mavis. “I would never have found these if I’d been on the bus. These are for you.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Go on—I have two more.”
Lena climbed up the two flights of stairs to her own flat. She never knew when to expect Otto, couldn’t keep up with his constantly changing shifts at the factory. And she never knew what kind of mess might await her.
“Hello,” she called out.
She was greeted by silence from the two small rooms: the combined kitchen–dining room–living room that opened immediately from the front door, and the bedroom beyond. The tweed jacket that Otto wore when not in his work overalls lay on the floor. Lena scooped it up and threw it onto the green armchair, one of the few items they’d rescued when they’d been bombed out of Essex Road the year before. Three books were also scattered on the floor; she found space for them on the brick-supported planks that housed their modest library. The rest of the furniture—the dining table and chairs, the sofa and the small sideboard—was all standard issue under the Utility Scheme.
The light was fading outside; she lifted the blackout shades into place over the kitchen window. Piled high in the sink were the breakfast dishes and more. Why did he never clean up? Was it really too much to ask?
Keeping her coat on until she could make a fire, she set to scrubbing and peeling six large white potatoes from the box under the sink. She put them on to boil and cut up the onions, and then turned her attention to the coal bucket on the hearth. There were no large lumps left, only cobbles and slack. She managed to get a small fire going, just enough to take the chill off for an hour or two. She fried the onions until they were translucent, with amber edges. The potatoes were bubbling away on the stove when she heard the knocking on the front door two floors below. She ran down the stairs and let Lotti in.
“It’s lovely to see you,” Lena said, taking her by the hand and leading her upstairs. “Dinner’s
almost ready.”
“Mmm. Smells good. I’m starving.”
They sat at the table, eating heartily, talking and laughing. They hadn’t seen each other in a month, even though Lotti lived only two blocks away. She worked grueling hours as a nursing assistant at the hospital and liked to save her days off for when Peter came home on leave.
“How is Peter?”
“He’s doing very well. He was excited because one of the pilots took him up on a training flight. It was the first time he’d been in an aeroplane. He spends all his time on the ground, working on the radios.”
“That’s very important work, I imagine.”
“Yes, but he loved being up in the plane.” Lotti’s cheeks glowed with delight, as if she had been the one taking the joyride.
Then Lena remembered Lotti’s note. “You said you have some exciting news,” she said.
Lotti beamed. “Guess,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to guess all day. I don’t know. Tell me.”
“I’m pregnant!”
“My goodness!”
Lena looked at her friend again. She knew there was something radiant about her. This was so different from the last time, three years ago, when she’d been despondent. Lena had stayed up all night with her then, easing her through the cramps. The pills had done their magic: the worst had been over by morning.
As if reading her mind, Lotti said, “I definitely want to keep it this time. Everything is different now. Peter has a steady income. We’re winning the war. It’s only a matter of time. It has to be over soon.”
“That’s wonderful.” She leaned over to hug Lotti. “How are you feeling? Let me look at you.”
Lotti laughed and blushed and placed her hand over her stomach, still perfectly flat. “I’m feeling great. A little sick first thing in the mornings, but otherwise fine.”
“When are you due?”
“October.”
“Are you going to keep working at the hospital?”
“As long as I can.”
“You’ll get extra clothing coupons and two eggs a week!” Lena said. “Plus all that extra milk.”
Lotti laughed again. “I don’t really like milk. But I suppose I’ll have to fatten myself up.”
Lotti’s joy was infectious, and Lena was thrilled for her. But, goodness, this was certainly not something she wanted for herself. She recalled the scare she’d had the previous month, when her own cycle had been delayed. She was always so careful. She studied the leaflets from the Mothers’ Clinic, where she’d obtained her diaphragm. It wasn’t foolproof, she understood that, so she kept a vigilant eye on the calendar and stayed up late reading, or invented a headache or cramps, on those critical days in the middle of the month. She had no idea why she’d been so late. She’d been relieved to see the bright red stain on her undergarments again.
Lotti was saying something about a woman at work who was going to give her a crib. “That’s nice,” Lena said.
The front door slammed two floors below, and she heard the familiar sound of Otto bounding up the stairs. She flinched inside, a small, reflexive tightening. What mood would he be in tonight? The door to the flat flung open to reveal him in his overalls and coat and the workingman’s cloth cap he had taken to wearing. It must have stopped raining, for he was dry. There were gray circles under his eyes and a dark shadow on his chin; his cheeks were gaunt, his skin pale. He looked from Lena to Lotti and back to Lena again.
“Yew! What’s that smell?” he said. “Have you been cooking onions in here?”
“Yes,” Lena said. “I was lucky to find some.”
“I could smell them halfway up the stairs.”
“Hello, Otto,” Lotti said. “How are you?”
He recovered his manners. “Good, good. How are you? How’s Peter?” He planted a light kiss on Lena’s forehead.
“Did you eat?” Lena said.
“Yes, at work. Liver and onions.”
“So you had onions, too.”
“They always have onions in the canteen. I don’t know why you bother with scraping together stuff to cook at home. Go to the British Restaurant. It’s all off rations, and it’s cheap.” He picked up the empty Spam tin. “How much did you spend on this? You could have bought a full dinner for both of you for only one and six.”
“Sometimes I just like to cook at home and not sit at those noisy tables. I wanted to talk to Lotti in peace.” Lena tried to keep her voice light. She didn’t want another argument. “Lotti has some good news.”
But they were interrupted by the Warning, the terrible, shrill, undulating howl of the siren.
Lena cringed. “Not again.” She jumped up and took the plates to the sink. She turned to Lotti. “There’s a pile of blankets on the windowsill in the bedroom. I’ll get the holdall.”
Behind the sofa she kept a bag stocked with two torches and extra batteries, a book with a few photographs from home and her passport tucked inside, a pack of cards, and a thermos of warm tea, which she replenished every morning. Except this morning she had forgotten; the tea would be tepid at best. She was getting slack.
There had been no raids for almost two weeks. Every pause raised the possibility that Hitler had run out of bombs or run out of steam or realized his was a lost cause. Lena was tired of all this; everyone was. In 1940, they’d been fresh and well fed. Now they were worn out. In 1940, Lena had almost welcomed the blitz. It was terrifying, yes, but there was nothing quite like a bombing raid to give you a sense of belonging. A bomb didn’t care what sort of accent you had or where you came from—and everyone knew it. Huddled in the Tube station for the long nights of bombardment, Lena found a home in London. And the blitz gave birth to the first glimmer of hope that the Nazis’ advance could be stopped, that Britain would not cave in.
Now, three and a half years later, it was clear the war would be won. Every day brought more good news: British and American forces were nibbling away at the foot of Italy; the Russians had broken through the siege of Leningrad and were inching toward Poland. It was only a matter of time. Lena heard that everywhere: it was only a matter of time. As if one were waiting for the water to boil or the dough to rise or a rose to bloom; one just had to sit back and wait.
Why, then, did they have to still tolerate this misery?
“Come on. Let’s go.” Lena stood with Lotti at the door, ready to leave. Otto hesitated in the middle of the room.
“I’m not going,” he said. “I’ll stay here. I can’t stand the thought of another evening in the bloody Anderson shelter.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What will happen to you if an incendiary drops on the roof or we get a direct hit?”
“I’ll be fine. You go on. Anyway, there’s not room for us all with Lotti here, too.”
“I’ll go to the public shelter,” Lotti said.
“No, no, please,” Otto said. “You go ahead. If it gets really heavy, I’ll hunker down in the cupboard under the stairs.”
Outside, the rise and fall of the siren continued unabated, now accompanied by the distant rumble of the approaching planes. Lena grabbed Otto’s arm.
“No, you won’t. We’re going to stay together. Let’s go to the Tube. Quick!”
In the hallway on the ground floor, they ran into Mavis and their other downstairs neighbors, the Clarks; they were retreating from the back garden.
“The Anderson’s waterlogged,” Mr. Clark said. “All that heavy rain last week.”
So they all traipsed into the street. The pitch-black night was punctured by beacons of light from handheld torches. A small crowd hurried in silence to the Underground station. The drone of the bombers was getting closer. To the south, the swooping bands of the searchlights cut through the night sky. Lena tried to quell a rising panic; she felt exposed out in the open. She hooked her arm through Otto’s and grabbed Lotti with her other hand, trying to keep them all together as she quickened their pace.
“Come on.”
“Lena, calm down. They’
re still a few miles off,” Otto said. “The men at work say that if a bomb has your number on it, it’s going to get you, no matter what.”
“That’s absurd.”
Lena had heard that before. It was so stupid. She thought of Tomas, killed in one of the last big raids three years before. Would the huge chunk of shrapnel have found him, tracked him down, if he had reached the shelter in time? Of course not.
Mr. Clark, two steps behind them, tapped her on the shoulder. “There’s a street shelter right here. Used it once before, we did.” He shone his light at a huge S and an arrow whitewashed on the brick wall to their left. “Let’s go in here.”
“It’s probably full,” Otto said. But he offered no resistance as their group moved down the stone steps, through the heavy wooden doors, into the sudden brightness of two long rows of faces looking up at them.
“Evening, all,” Mr. Clark said. “Mind if we join you?”
The warden jumped up from his post by the door, knocking his ARP helmet askew. “Come in, come in,” he said, moving a box to the floor. A wave of bottoms shuffled along the benches to clear more space. “More the merrier, I always say.”
CHAPTER 28
LONDON, FEBRUARY 1944
This was a nasty one. The bombardment continued for hours, frighteningly close, with a fierce intensity. Even down in the shelter, the ground shook. The whistling shriek of the bombs and the thundering explosions felt right overhead. Lena resisted the instinct to duck at each new crash. Lotti leaned on her shoulder, trying to snooze. A man with a harmonica had been leading the crowd in renditions of Vera Lynn tunes during the early part of the raid, but he must have grown fatigued, for that had died down. Across from her, on the opposite bench, Otto played a desultory game of cards with a man in his sixties who kept dropping his cards onto his lap. A child cried at the far end; Lena tried to read but couldn’t concentrate.
She always thought of her mother during a raid. Whenever she pictured Máma and Sasha back in Prague, she had a dreadful, tugging knot deep in her stomach. She was afraid for them. There had been no direct reply to the letter Lena had written back in 1940, at her father’s insistence. Her Aunt Elsa had written a short response in the spring of ’41: a tersely worded, one-page aerogram that found its way from Prague to Lisbon to Thomas Cook in London. Aunt Elsa knew Lena and Ernst and her father were all together in England, so Lena’s letter must have arrived. But Máma herself had not replied. She must have been too fearful. Had Lena’s letter placed her in danger?
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