When It's Over

by Barbara Ridley

  The waitress arrived with a teapot, milk pitcher, and sugar bowl. “Thank you so much.” He picked up the teapot. “Shall I?”

  He poured the tea, carefully supporting the lid as he tilted the pot. Lena found herself staring at his hands. They seemed strong yet gentle, with a few fine hairs, long, slender fingers, and carefully trimmed nails. The middle finger of the left hand bore a scar, a jagged pink line extending over both knuckles.

  “So, where are you now?” Otto asked.

  “I’m working for Mass Observation.”

  “For what?” Lena asked.

  “Mass Observation. The social research organization. Surveying everything from eating habits to public reaction to the conscription of women.”

  “You must know Mass Observation,” Otto said. “It’s quoted all the time in the newspapers.”

  “What do you do, exactly?” Lena asked.

  “I pull together the information gathered from interviews, surveys, questionnaires, that sort of thing. I write it up in a report.” He took large gulps of tea, draining his cup in one swoop, and reached for the pot to pour himself more. “The Ministry of Information is very interested in our findings.” He smiled. “How to keep up morale and whatnot.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It’s marvelous. A real glimpse into public opinion.” He turned to Otto. “Speaking of public opinion, do you listen to German radio at all? Can you get it on shortwave?”

  “No,” said Otto. He looked at Lena. “I’ve been tempted, but Lena doesn’t think it wise for me to do that.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He smiled. “I see your point. Well, it’s very interesting, you know, quite an eye-opener.” Lena recalled now that he spoke German surprisingly well, thanks to a German governess in his childhood. “One gets such a different picture than from the BBC. I heard Goebbels and Göring the other day, speaking at a rally in Berlin.”

  “I don’t know how you can bear to listen to them,” Lena said.

  “But it’s fascinating, especially if you read between the lines. They spend most of their time talking about the Bolsheviks. One gets the impression the Germans are terrified of the Russians but almost contemptuous of the British.” He turned to Otto again. “Are you hearing anything about underground resistance inside the Reich?”

  The sandwiches and sausage rolls arrived, served on white china plates. Lena helped herself to a roll and bit eagerly into the pastry. It was surprisingly tasty. She quickly reached for some stray pieces crumbling down her chin.

  Otto said, “These days, I have no contacts inside Germany.”

  “Do you think there will ever be a workers’ revolt against the Nazis?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Otto’s tone became more animated. “Why has there been no effective anti-Hitler movement in Germany? It can’t be explained simply by the efficiency of the Gestapo or the indoctrination of the masses. Objectively, there must be something, some benefit for the German proletariat.” He was holding a sandwich in one hand, waving it in midair as he spoke. Lena was afraid he was about to launch into a major speech, but he appeared to think better of it. He took a bite and paused to chew. “This will all end with the defeat of the Reich,” he continued. “Then we’ll see. Then conditions may be ripe for revolution.”

  “Will you go back after the war?” Milton asked.

  “Yes, I will definitely go back.”

  Lena stared at him in amazement. This was the first she’d heard of this. Go back to Germany after the war? To live among people who had raised their arms in Nazi salute and cheered at the burning of books? Who had stood by as Jewish shops were vandalized and property confiscated? Did he think she was going to go with him? Didn’t he think this was something they should discuss? How could he sit there and make such an announcement when they had not even talked about it?

  Otto and Milton continued talking, planning the postwar socialist revolution, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was astonished and angry. What was he thinking, coming out with a statement like that in front of someone they’d not seen in years? It must be obvious that she was taken aback. Was he trying to make her look foolish? Or was he making it clear that he didn’t envision them having a future together?

  She looked at the couple at the next table, now engrossed in tender conversation. They were both in uniform, he in air force blue, she in khaki. They leaned into each other, foreheads pressed together, fingers interlocked among the tea things. Lena knew she shouldn’t stare, but she felt mesmerized by their obvious devotion. Had she and Otto ever been like that? Yes, of course they had. Those early days in Prague and Paris. She’d been enthralled by him—or at least by the thrill of walking into places on his arm, places where everyone knew him and knew that she was his girl. And when she had first come to England, hadn’t they been happy together then? It seemed like they had. She had been relieved to be out of Paris, and he had been released from internment—and then they had clung to each other in the first, terrifying months of the blitz, because what else could you do but cling to the person you found yourself standing next to? But surely, it was more than that; they had been in love. She had many happy memories: walks in the fields in Sussex, sharing a bath at The Hollow, living in their tiny flat on Essex Road. What had happened to all that tenderness?

  A month earlier, Lena and Lotti had gone to the cinema to see For Whom the Bell Tolls. What an amazing story—ordinary people displaying such courage against the fascists. Of course, Lena had read the book, but seeing it up there on the screen, Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman clinging to each other, she had felt something tugging inside her: she wanted to feel passion again, to feel the earth move. Was it her fault that she didn’t have that anymore with Otto? Now she realized it was not. If he could talk about going back to Germany, everything had changed. There was no treasure, no secret stash of ardor that could be rekindled if only she were more persistent. This realization opened up a whole new vista, a lifting of a weight that had been dragging her down without her even being aware of it. If Otto was going back to Germany and she was not— and most certainly she was not—then what? She wasn’t sure. But she viewed the prospect with a calm curiosity.

  Milton was looking at her and must have asked her a question.

  “I’m sorry?” she said. She leaned forward and cupped her ear with her hand, as if the noise was the reason she had not heard.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I don’t mean to pry. I just wondered if . . . I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your family? In Czechoslovakia, I mean.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Lena doesn’t like to talk about it,” Otto said.

  “It must be very difficult,” Milton said, “terrible, not knowing. And all these horrific accounts of deportations. You must be so worried.”

  “Yes,” she muttered.

  “Of course, some people are saying the reports are wildly exaggerated,” he continued. “But it’s one of the strongest arguments for the Second Front, on humanitarian grounds alone. I thought Gollancz was very eloquent on the matter today, didn’t you?”

  Lena hesitated. Otto jumped in and said, “Anyone who bothered to read Mein Kampf could have predicted this years ago. The original version, that is, not the sanitized English translation. Hitler made it quite clear what his plans for the Jews of Europe were.”

  “The situation is not as bad in Czechoslovakia as it is in Poland or the East,” Lena said. “I’m sure if they were in real danger, my mother would find a way to keep my sister safe, get her into hiding or something.”

  There was an image that often popped into her mind, as if on a motion-picture screen: Sasha sitting at an unfamiliar kitchen table, waiting for the war to be over and for Lena to come and fetch her.

  “Yes, I’m sure she would try that,” Milton said. He paused for a moment and then continued, “And your brother?”

  “He’s still in the Czech army. They’re stationed somewhere in Suffolk. Getting very bore
d. Waiting, like everyone else. My father was demobbed last year and is living with another retired officer near the base.”

  Milton smiled. “Mother will be so glad to hear that I ran into you,” he said. “I know she misses all of you.”

  Muriel: Lena missed her, too. She felt a pang of guilt for not having kept in touch. It had been difficult; she’d had so many changes of address in the past three years.

  “How is Muriel?”

  “She’s well, thank you. Although she’s practically blind now. But it doesn’t seem to slow her down. She’s busy with Women’s Voluntary Service work, organizing clothing exchanges for children and knitting socks for the troops. Then, every few weeks, she goes on a rampage against Churchill. She was furious when he forced the defeat of equal pay for women teachers. She stopped collecting salvage for two weeks and insisted on at least ten inches of water in the bathtub, saying it was immaterial who wins the war. Then she got over it.” Milton laughed. “That’s Mother for you.”

  Lena smiled at the image of Muriel on a rampage. “I feel bad for not writing to her. I meant to several times, but . . .” Why hadn’t she written?

  “The post has been so disrupted anyway.”

  “How is the village?” Lena asked.

  “Swarming with Canadians, but otherwise, much the same.” His face had a way of lighting up as he spoke. “The army has ruined the rhododendrons on the Manor House grounds, but otherwise the village has come through unscathed so far.” The smile suddenly drained from his face as he added, “East Grinstead wasn’t so lucky. You may have heard: the cinema was bombed last summer, and over a hundred people died. Mostly children, watching Hopalong Cassidy. Some of them were children from the village.”

  Lena shook her head. She had not heard. How could such a tragedy have gone unnoticed? Another scene of devastation among so many. When would it ever end?

  Milton checked his watch. “Good Lord, look at the time. I hate to end this delightful conversation on such a glum note. But I really must go.”

  “Are you still living in Upper Wolmingham?” Otto asked.

  “No, I have a place here in town. A flat in Mecklenburgh Square. But I go down to Sussex quite often.” He waved for the bill. “I say, why don’t you come down for the weekend sometime? Mother would love to have you.”

  “Well,” Otto said, “I don’t know . . . My shifts . . .”

  “That would be wonderful,” Lena said at the same time. “I would love to see her again.”

  Milton pulled out a small diary from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and extracted the miniature pencil nestled in its spine. “Let’s see. How about the thirty-first?”

  “Yes,” Lena said. She did not look at Otto. “That would be perfect.”

  “I’ll check with Mother, but I’m sure that will be all right with her.” He opened a page at the back of the diary and handed it and the pencil to Lena. “If you jot down your address, I’ll drop you a line to confirm.” He watched her as she wrote. “Donegal Street?”

  “Off Pentonville Road,” Lena said.

  “Of course. Not too far from me.” He smiled. “How delightful that we ran into each other.” He rose from the table. “Well, I hope to see you on the thirty-first. I usually take the 6:15 from Victoria.”

  “Six fifteen is perfect,” Lena said.

  CHAPTER 32

  LONDON, MARCH 1944

  Sheila O’Neill put down her pen and stretched, opening and closing her fist. The knuckles on her right hand were red and swollen, and the fingers acted as if they had a mind of their own, twisting away from the thumb. She massaged them gently, coaxing them straight. It was always worse on damp days. She looked at the stack of ration books she had completed and the much larger pile still left to go and looked at the clock: 12:15. She usually took her lunch at twelve thirty. Just a few more.

  Gladys Woodruff was hunched over her desk, dipping her pen into the inkwell, taking the next book from her stack. Gladys didn’t reveal her age to anyone, but with a grandson who was almost grown, she had to be old enough to avoid registration if she wanted to. But she worked harder than any of them and had terrible posture to show for it. Sheila straightened her own shoulders, rolled her head in a gentle circling motion to try to relax her neck, and returned to work.

  She was still on the Js. Ah—Jesus. How could there be so many Johnsons? She lowered the ruler to the next name on the list and carefully transcribed the information onto the cover of the new Ration Book Six. Name: Mrs. Eliza Johnson. Address: 37 Baldwins Gardens. National Registration number: OJA-6386-18. Then Sheila recorded the serial number of the ration book in the ledger: BJ 320517. You had to be so careful. One wrong digit, and there would be a discrepancy that could undermine the whole war effort, if Mrs. Manson was to be believed.

  The door leading to the front reception area swung open, and Lena Eisenberg walked in, carrying a stack of papers. Lena always preferred that the girls call her by her first name, even though Mrs. Manson frowned on such chummy behavior.

  “How is it out there?” Sheila said.

  “Pandemonium.”

  Lena was always using big words. You wouldn’t think she could be so clever, with her being a foreigner and all.

  “Everyone’s confused about the single sheet of counterfoils for meat, eggs, fats, and cheese. Amazing how a separate page of coupons for each food has become the natural order of things.”

  Sheila didn’t know what to make of this remark. She herself was still confused about the new system, even though Mrs. Manson had explained it in detail at last week’s staff meeting, drawing simulations of the new pages on the blackboard, with squeaky white chalk that had set her teeth on edge. But now, when Lena laughed lightly, she laughed, too, not wanting to have missed a joke.

  Lena looked at the heap of books in front of Sheila. “Do you want to change after lunch? I can have Mildred come in here, and you can go to the front, if you like.”

  “All right, thank you,” Sheila said. “To be sure, my hand’s really cramping up bad today.”

  Mrs. Manson emerged from the back office, waving a sheet of paper. She wore her usual tweed suit and crumpled white blouse, her gray hair escaping in turmoil from the hairpins above her ears.

  “Ah, Mrs. Eisenberg,” she said. “There you are.” She lifted the spectacles that dangled around her neck and placed them on the bridge of her nose. “New instructions from the ministry, ladies,” she announced. Her eyeglasses were coated with dust. “The National Milk-Cocoa Scheme is to be expanded for all young workers under the age of eighteen, not just those in factories.” She looked up, as if expecting a response.

  “Let me see,” Lena said.

  “They’re sending twenty-pound containers of milk-cocoa powder to be distributed directly from here,” Mrs. Manson said. “I don’t know where on earth we’ll put them.”

  Lena took the paper out of Mrs. Manson’s hand and examined it. “They don’t say how many will be delivered.”

  “No, they wouldn’t, would they?”

  “My sister says no one drinks that stuff anyway,” Sheila said.

  “I can hardly believe that, Miss O’Neill,” Mrs. Manson said. “It’s very nutritious.”

  “We can be getting some space in the cupboards under the counter,” Lena said.

  She still had a queer way of saying things sometimes. When Lena had started here three years before, Sheila had thought she must be stupid because she couldn’t speak well at all, worse than Sheila’s little niece Brigit, who was only five years old at the time. Lena had a funny accent, yes, but it wasn’t just that. Lena had a strange way of mixing up words and didn’t know the meaning of simple things like parsnips or pilchards. And then there was that time—which they still laughed about together now—when Lena had said confence milk, instead of condensed.

  No, you wouldn’t know it to listen to her, but in fact Lena was very brainy. For starters, she was always reading—big fat books with tiny print and no pictures. And when Sheila was
having a hell of a time trying to work the teleprinters, it was Lena who came to the rescue and helped her thread the perforated tape into the reader. Sheila liked her more than anyone in the office, even though she did speak funny—funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. Now, of course, Lena was the assistant supervisor and helped everyone, knew more than Mrs. Manson herself, if truth be told.

  Lena looked at the clock. “Why don’t you go for lunch now, Sheila?”

  “Lovely,” Sheila said. “I’m going to run over to that fishmonger in Covent Garden. Mildred said the queue wasn’t too bad yesterday. Mammy’s mad for a taste of fish. Will I pick some up for you, if I can?”

  “No, my husband hates fish,” Lena said.

  It was odd to hear her speak of her husband. She didn’t mention him often. She had when she first worked here, but not now. Sheila knew that Lena’s husband was foreign, too—had to be, with a name like Eisenberg—and that he was a lot older and worked in a munitions factory in the East End. When they were bombed out last year, he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take any time off work, and Lena had to do everything on her own, just as if her husband were away. But beyond that, he was a mystery. He had never been to the office, and Lena had never showed Sheila a photograph.

  Sheila grabbed her coat and walked through the front reception area to reach the street. The noise hit her as soon as she pushed through the door: women chatting and children running between their legs, and Sheila’s colleagues handing out Ration Book Six and the special pages for orange juice and cod liver oil, and trying to explain all this in voices straining to be heard above the din. She noticed that the large banner over the waiting area had come loose at the top corner, its message, Fair Shares for All, partially obscured. She’d better mention this to Mrs. Manson after lunch; she wouldn’t want the place looking slipshod.

  As Sheila approached the front door, she saw a young man conspicuously out of place among the sea of housewives. He was fresh-faced and handsome in a cheerful sort of way, broad-shouldered, with bright eyes and a strong, confident mouth. He wore a plain Utility overcoat, but it was in good condition, set off by a well-pressed white shirt and navy blue tie, and carried with that subtle panache that could make some people stand out even with clothing so scarce. Well-off but not posh: Sheila had an eye for these things. He had removed his hat upon entering, and he held it up now in a saluting gesture as he walked toward her.