CHAPTER 30
LONDON, MARCH 1944
Lena spread the last of the butter ration over her warm toast then piled on a generous portion of jam. This was the jam from Devon, with large pieces of fruit—delicious. There were still three jars left. It was such a delight to be extravagant with something. She scooped up a spoonful containing half a plum and took a huge bite. The jam was soft and slightly tart and perfectly offset by the crunchy toast. She chewed slowly and deliberately, closing her eyes for a moment to savor the flavors and textures.
Lena and Otto were having breakfast together, alone for the first time in two weeks. Eva had left for an early appointment at the local labor exchange. She had refused to go back to work when she’d been bombed out of her flat. She hated her job at the aircraft factory in Mile End and was hoping to get reassigned to something closer to home—home now being here, on Donegal Street, though after Monday she would move downstairs with Mavis.
Lena was looking forward to having her living room back and a semblance of peace and quiet. She’d tried to ignore Eva’s things piled all over the floor, but no matter where she looked, there they were: the open bag next to the sofa, with a tumble of clothes spilling forth; the stack of papers on the floor by the bookcase; the brush with trailing long hairs on the mantel.
“The Second Front demonstration is this Sunday.” Otto peeked over the top of the newspaper. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes. We should. We have to do something.” Something to try to persuade the government to act. Huge demonstrations the previous year, a chorus of pressure from backbench MPs, newspaper editorials, dozens of broadsheets and pamphlets—and still no invasion across the Channel. “Is it in Trafalgar Square?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Otto flipped through the newspaper, scanning the headlines. “I’ll check with Harry at work. He’ll know.” He cleared his throat. “And tomorrow, Eva wants to try to salvage a few things from her place. I said I’d go over to Hackney to help her with that.”
“Oh.” Lena looked at him. He said no more. He opened the newspaper, avoiding eye contact with Lena, chewing the lower corner of his lip in that irritating way of his. The Times hovered like a barricade between them. A photograph in the center of the page facing her transfixed Lena: a huge cloud of ash bellowing out from the top of a mountain. Vesuvius Erupts, read the headline. After decades of lying dormant, the volcano was spewing lava over Allied and Nazi forces alike. The image of that explosion would stay with her for hours.
The rally seemed smaller than last year’s; nevertheless, the streets were beginning to fill. As they approached from the Strand, the crowd grew and filed slowly into Trafalgar Square. It was hard to make much headway through the congestion.
“Let’s cut through this way.” Otto pulled at Lena’s elbow and steered her into a dead-end mews.
“That’s not the way,” she said.
“This is a short cut,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.”
But it was. An alley took them to the next street over, which also led into the square. The crowd was just as thick here, however, filling the entire street. They were jostled by men and women, young and old, bundled up against the wind, inching forward as if on a pilgrimage.
There were men in work overalls or khaki uniforms or their Sunday best, or up from the country in their tweeds and flannels, and women with stout legs and sturdy shoes. Just in front of them now, a little to the right, a group of factory girls, they must be, wearing trousers even here in the streets, their hair cut short in the bobbed style, five of them, arms linked, laughing, the one on the end smoking a cigarette. Lena stared at this mannish camaraderie, this carefree audacity. It was so different from how the girls at her office behaved. She was friendly enough with them, but she hadn’t convinced any of them to come to the demonstration. They’d murmured excuses about having to wash their hair or visit their aunts.
They came to a standstill. Lena perched on tiptoe, catching glimpses of the throng fanning out toward the fountains and the lions, a sea of banners and flags of every hue. She loved being part of this pulsing, throbbing mass, with feet tramping, shoulders rubbing, all united for a common cause. They moved forward again. She saw the tricolore of the Free French, and the Polish flag, and, yes, over there a Czech flag, and of course a mass of red: plain red flags and the red flags with the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union.
The usual smorgasbord of groups and campaigns were well represented. The Communist Party was out in force, as usual. Freed now from the mind-boggling acrobatics it had to perform to justify the Hitler-Stalin pact—once the Germans invaded the USSR—the Party could now resume its more comfortable role as self-righteous leader of the fight against the Nazis. Buoyed by universal admiration for the heroics of the Soviet army, membership was soaring. Lena had been amused the previous year, at the height of the Red Army fever, to see that even bastions of free-market enterprise, such as Selfridges and John Lewis, flew the hammer and sickle in Oxford Street. Such incongruous displays of enthusiasm had abated somewhat, but the Party was actively recruiting. Otto was being aggressively courted by a shop steward at the factory. She could tell he was tempted.
“Look at the size of the CP contingent,” he said now. “Given the success of the Soviet army, the Party will be well positioned to create revolution in every country in Europe.”
“Yes, but what sort of revolution?” Lena asked. “The Soviets haven’t created a true socialist society. All that manipulation of truth, the arbitrary justice, and the show trials—that’s not what we want.” She had just read Darkness at Noon, and it had horrified her.
“It’s produced a better army than any other country, hasn’t it?” He thought Darkness at Noon was greatly distorted. “They’re defeating the Nazis because the people know they’re fighting for their own homeland, not a country controlled by capitalists.”
“But what about Spain? You were so angry at the Soviets for their ineffective support of the Republicans. And the attacks by the Soviet secret police on the revolutionaries in Barcelona. You said that was the main reason for the fascist victory.”
“That was a different set of circumstances, Lena. The Red Army is saving the world now.”
They quarreled about everything these days. He surely knew that she was partly right, and she knew that he was, but they pushed away from each other, staring at each other like boxers in opposite corners of the ring. She wanted to call a truce here in public. They were together just the two of them by default. Lotti had to work. Eva had disappeared early the previous morning, leaving Otto looking sheepish about the planned excursion to Hackney; then she had reappeared late at night, without any explanation. That morning, she’d claimed she had an upset stomach. And Mavis . . . well, Mavis said the demonstration wasn’t her cup of tea, and, really, didn’t Mr. Churchill know best? Otto was planning to meet up with some of the men from work, but when he and Lena reached Charing Cross, they were nowhere to be found.
“Let’s try over there,” he said, taking her hand and pointing toward the National Gallery. “We’ll get a better view.”
She supposed he took her hand because there was no other way to stay together. But it felt oddly cold and clammy. They had not been intimate in how long? A week? No—longer than that. And when they did make love, it felt mechanical and perfunctory, Otto thumping away while Lena let her mind wander and waited for him to finish.
She followed him now as he forged a pathway to the opposite side of the square. Lena caught a glimpse of a huge banner unfurled at the base of Nelson’s column: TODAY THE SECOND FRONT; TOMORROW THE BUILDING OF SOCIALISM. Someone was making a speech from an improvised platform, but the loudspeaker was malfunctioning and the words were lost in the wind. A man in the crowd yelled, “Second Front now!” over and over, and others joined in so loudly that no one could hear the speaker up front.
They made their way to the steps of the National Gallery to gain higher ground. The Trotskyists had set up here—the Revolutio
nary Communist Party and its rival the Workers International League glaring at each other over their banners, each declaring End the Imperialist War—and the Common Wealth Party and the Miners’ Federation with placards calling for full implementation of the Beveridge Report and health insurance for all, and the Peace Pledge Union advocating an end to the bombing of German cities, and a middle-aged woman in brown Utility tweed and hair pulled back in a tight bun carrying a sign: Independence for India Now. It all seemed good-natured, a hodgepodge of good intentions, but Lena couldn’t help wondering how they were ever going to agree enough to get anything done.
“This will do,” Otto said, staking out a spot with a good view of the square. A man adjusted the loudspeakers up front, and suddenly the amplification system crackled into action and the crowd cheered. The president of the Miners’ Federation was introduced and spoke in ardent tones about the long-standing friendship between the miners and the Red Army.
“The Russians are smashing away at the Nazis, and we are still getting ready,” he bellowed. “What is Churchill waiting for?”
The crowd roared in approval. There were more speeches along these lines, but Lena found her attention drifting. A woman in her forties, perhaps, stood to their left, coat drawn tight across a large bosom, her hand slipped through the arm of a boy of about fifteen, tall and lanky. Her son, obviously. Was her husband in the forces here or overseas? How she must hope and pray that the war would be over before her son was old enough to be called up, too.
Lena heard a man behind her say, “This will be interesting.” She redirected her attention to the podium, where a diminutive man was preparing to speak. He seemed dapper and subdued, compared with his predecessors, and waited patiently as someone lowered the microphone for him.
“Who’s that?” Lena asked Otto.
“Victor Gollancz.”
“The publisher?”
“Yes. He’s a writer, too.”
Of course. She knew that. She had seen his Penguin paperback, published the year before, on the plight of the Jews in Nazi-occupied Europe, although she had not been able to read more than a few pages. It had made her sick to her stomach.
“Shh,” said someone behind them.
You did have to strain to hear him: “Inconceivable inhumanity. The Nazis are pursuing a policy of deliberate extermination of the Jews throughout occupied Europe. As many as one million may have been exterminated already. The longer the delay in the Second Front, the more lives are in danger.”
There was muted applause all around. He continued in this vein, but Lena could no longer hear him. She could hear nothing; everything was muffled, as if she were underwater. She was very cold all of a sudden—shivering, icy, black inside—and everything was spinning. And now she was hot, hot, burning up. She tried to loosen the scarf around her neck, but something was pulling her down, down, something heavy; round and round she went, as if she were being pulled into the drain of a bathtub, round and round, and she was afraid she was going to vomit, and her knees buckled, and then the next thing she knew, her cheek was pressed against something hard. It was a button. A button on a large bosom. The same bosom that belonged to the mother of the boy, it must be. The woman was clutching her arm on one side, and Otto had her on the other.
“Blimey, love. You all right?” the woman said. She turned to Otto. “You’d better find her somewhere to sit.” She stroked Lena’s shoulder. “There, there, dear. It’s all right.”
Lena felt the blood returning to her face, her head beginning to clear. What had happened? The woman whispered, “You’re not in the family way, are you, love?”
Lena shook her head. “No, no. I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
People stared at her. She felt like such a fool. They cleared a path as Otto led her to the edge of the square. He helped her perch on a concrete ledge.
“Are you all right?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Yes, I’m fine.” And indeed she was. The spinning had stopped. All back to normal. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Go back and listen. I’ll be fine sitting here.”
She wanted some breathing space, to sit with what she’d just heard. The information about the fate of the Jews under Hitler wasn’t really new, but it was too much to take in. The rumors couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be that bad. So why was everyone nodding in approval, agreeing, as if this were one more political debating point? These were real people they were talking about. People like Máma and Sasha.
Otto said, “I think they’re finishing.”
People were beginning to disperse, but someone was still speaking; Lena heard intermittent cheers. She wished Otto would go back to the speeches, but he hovered above her. She stood and brushed off the seat of her coat.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again.
“Yes. I said I’m fine.”
“Let’s walk around this way.”
He steered her toward the far side, but a phalanx of policemen blocked their way, so they retraced their steps.
“Yoo-hoo! Otto! Lena!” Where was that coming from? “Up here!”
Perched on the roof of a bus stop were five young men, relishing their prime vantage point, legs dangling over the edge with glee. One of them was waving. Lena knew that face, but it took her a moment to place it out of context.
“Just a jiffy,” he shouted. “I’m coming down.”
The face disappeared from the roof and reemerged seconds later at eye level. It was Milton Calder. He shook hands enthusiastically.
“I thought it was you! How wonderful to see you. I say, isn’t this a simply splendid affair?” He swung his arm in an effusive gesture over the square. “How have you been? How is everybody? My goodness, it’s been so long.”
It had been almost three years—years that he seemed to have worn well. Milton had a new sturdiness about him. Not so much a physical change, although he was perhaps broader across the shoulders; rather, he had settled into his body more, as if he were more prepared to own it. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and a blue-and-green tartan scarf. His hair was longer than the army-regulation short back and sides he had sported when they’d last seen him, his wavy chestnut curls neatly parted on the left and oiled into place. He smiled in obvious pleasure at this surprise encounter.
“We have to find somewhere to catch up,” he insisted. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s go to the Lyons Corner House. I love that place, don’t you? Elegance for the common man.” He flashed a big grin.
That warm, sparkling smile: Lena remembered it well.
CHAPTER 31
LONDON, MARCH 1944
They walked together up Charing Cross Road.
“Are you still at that place in the East End?” Milton asked Otto. “A munitions factory, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s right. I’m involved with the union. The shop steward is very left wing.”
“That’s good. What about your writing? Are you still working on your book?” Lena was sandwiched between them, trying to keep up with their long strides.
“No. Events just moved ahead too fast. The Spanish war seems like distant history.”
“But it’s so important to understand its lessons for building socialism after the war is over,” Milton said.
“Yes, perhaps. But, frankly, I don’t have much—how you say?—strength for writing after a long day at the factory.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Milton turned now to Lena. “And what about you? You must be working, too.”
“Yes. I’m at the Food Office.”
“How interesting.”
“If you ever have any questions about the points system, Lena’s the one to ask,” Otto said, his tone sarcastic, though he stared straight ahead, his face inscrutable.
Why does he have to belittle my work? Lena thought.
The teashop was bustling, crowded with women and couples and soldiers and families with young children. The waitresses
in their crisp black-and-white uniforms dashed among the rows of tables with great efficiency, presenting menus emblazoned with the slogan Food Is a Munition of War. Don’t Waste It! The high ceiling was covered with a ragged tarpaulin, stretched like a battered veil between the supporting pillars and remnants of art deco plasterwork.
“Is this the place that kept going right through the blitz?” Lena asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Milton said. “A bomb took out the water supply, but they managed to keep serving.”
They decided on sausage rolls and fish-paste sandwiches, along with a large pot of tea.
“So, what about you?” Lena asked Milton, once they had placed their order. “What have you been doing? Are you still in the army?”
“No, I’m not. Did you hear I was injured?”
“No!” Lena blurted out, rather too loudly. A couple at the next table turned to stare.
“Yes, back in ’41. Our AA unit took a direct hit.” He removed the serviette from his plate and spread it on his lap. “I was damn lucky. Got away with a messed-up foot. Some of the others . . .” He paused and gave a tiny shudder. “Some of the other chaps weren’t so fortunate.”
“I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t help looking down at his feet. She hadn’t noticed him limping.
“Oh, I’m all right now,” he said. “Made a full recovery. Just a few scars to show for it. But the army didn’t want me back.”
“Why ever not?” asked Otto.
“Purely political. I was deemed too dangerous, a radical stirring up trouble. All those bored soldiers with time on their hands. It’s fine for the Workers’ Educational Association to teach literacy. But political literacy, class-consciousness? No. The army didn’t take too kindly to that.” He laughed. He was no longer the charming but rather immature child that Lena remembered from three years earlier, but she could still see his playful side. “I became a convenient scapegoat,” he said, with a grin.
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