When It's Over

by Barbara Ridley

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said with a very charming smile. “Is this the office where Mrs. Eisenberg is employed?” He sounded posher than he looked. Very fancy accent.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Should she not have said that? “She’s not in some sort of trouble, is she, sir?”

  This produced a hearty laugh. He opened his mouth wide to reveal perfectly straight white teeth.

  “Goodness, no. I was just wondering whether she might be free to join me for lunch.”

  Well, this was intriguing. “I’ll go fetch her.” Then she remembered her training from her brief stint as a parlor maid before the war. “Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

  He reached inside the breast pocket of his overcoat, retrieved a slim silver case, and produced a card.

  “Milton Calder,” he said.

  CHAPTER 33

  LONDON, MARCH 1944

  Lena ushered Milton out onto the street. Taken aback by his unexpected appearance, she didn’t want to engage him in conversation under the watchful eyes of the entire staff of the Food Office.

  “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” Milton said. “I was passing and thought perhaps you’d do me the honor of joining me for lunch.”

  “But how did you know where to find me?”

  His eyes sparkled. “You probably don’t have a lot of time. Will you permit me to take you somewhere special?”

  “What?”

  “The Myra Hess lunchtime concert at the National Gallery. Have you ever been?”

  “No. But—”

  “Shall we? We have to hurry.”

  He took her elbow and steered her toward the Strand. Perhaps she should have been cross at this presumption, but she couldn’t help smiling.

  “How did you know where to find me?” she asked again.

  “Ah, true confessions. It did require a bit of research.”

  She couldn’t help feeling flattered. “So you were not in fact ‘just passing’?” she asked.

  “Only in a manner of speaking.” He broke into a mischievous smile.

  They had to sidestep a pile of rubble in front of a shop. A middle-aged man in overalls was sweeping shattered glass from the pavement. Two other men were boarding up the windows with sheets of plywood; on one of these was painted, in uneven red lettering, Business as Usual, Mr. Hitler.

  “Did you get any damage last night?” Milton asked.

  “No, it was mostly east of us, I think.”

  Lena had spent the evening in the Anderson in the back garden, now serviceable again. Lena, Otto, Eva, and Mavis had made a foursome for whist. Otto was in a good mood, because he kept winning.

  Milton hurried on at a speed that discouraged further conversation. Lena rarely strayed this far from the office at lunchtime and felt naughty for doing so now. It was one thing to pop out for a bit of shopping, but a concert? A total indulgence. She could see Trafalgar Square ahead, with the dome of the gallery coming into view. Why had Milton sought her out like this?

  As if he had read her thoughts, he slowed down and said, “I feel I have to make amends; I’m afraid we have to postpone the plans for your visit to Sussex. I didn’t want you to think I was giving you the brush-off, as they say. I was very much looking forward to it.”

  “Oh.” Lena couldn’t hide her disappointment. “What a shame.”

  She had been eagerly anticipating seeing Muriel and having an excursion into the country. And Otto had come around to the idea. She thought it might make him more cheerful.

  “Unfortunately, I have to take fireguard duty this weekend,” Milton continued. “Someone else was signed up, an older chap who lives two doors down, but he’s taken ill, I’m afraid. I tried to find someone else to step in, but no one seems to be available. It’s most regrettable, but there it is.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Mother was so looking forward to seeing you. I do hope we can find another time soon.” Milton looked across the square. “I see there’s quite a crowd already. I hope we can get a good seat.”

  People were assembled in front of the National Gallery, inching up the steps to enter the building. Lena and Milton fell behind three older women; ahead of them, at the top of the steps, stood a group of men who looked like American army officers, their boisterous voices echoing in the portico.

  “I’ve started coming here quite regularly,” Milton said. “It’s simply marvelous. Now that most theaters and concert halls are closed and the wretched air raids are starting over again, London is so dreary at night. But this is a cultural oasis.”

  They shuffled into the foyer, where a row of women were collecting admission fees. Lena reached for her purse, but Milton gestured to stop her.

  “My treat,” he insisted.

  Surely there could be no harm in his paying. He handed over two shillings and, with a hand at her back, steered her through the inner doors. Lena gazed up at the lofty ceiling. A stream of late-winter sunlight poured over the supporting columns and their ornate cornices.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Milton said. “Even without the paintings, the building itself is a work of art.”

  “Thank goodness it hasn’t been hit.”

  “Yes, like St Paul’s. One can understand people believing that something seems to protect it.” He smiled. “Are you terribly hungry? They do serve food here, sandwiches and whatnot. But perhaps we could wait until after the performance?”

  “Yes, that would be fine.”

  The room to their left was functioning as a makeshift canteen. Through the open door came the sounds of teacups and cutlery echoing in a space too large, and the unmistakable smell of pea soup.

  “This way,” Milton said.

  They climbed a short staircase and turned right, following the crowd and the signs to the Barry Rooms, number 36. The walls were bleak, with pale scars and abandoned descriptive plaques. Cobwebs wrapped around the colossal doorways between galleries. The cavernous rooms were unheated, like tombs.

  “I wish I could have come here before they removed all the paintings. Where are they?” Lena asked.

  “Hidden away in caves in Wales, out of the reach of the Luftwaffe.” His hand was at her elbow again. “Here we are. Let’s go over to the right.”

  They had reached a spacious room at the center of a crossroads. More bare galleries stretched out in three directions from this hub; the fourth was blocked off by a huge golden curtain. In front of this stood a raised platform, about two feet high, supporting a grand piano and a bench. Rows of wooden chairs spread out from there. The room was filling up. Most people filtered down the center aisle in search of seats, but Milton scooted to the side and found a prime spot in the third row.

  Once seated, they fell into an uneasy silence. Lena looked up at another impressive domed ceiling, marveling at the intricate carvings on the supporting arches, and then over to an abandoned gilded picture frame with the artist’s name, Turner, engraved at the base. She examined the coat collar of the woman in front of her, with its few specks of dandruff. Now that the rush of getting here was accomplished, the awkwardness of the situation hit her with full force. How long was this going to last, and when would she get back to the office? Where was she going to make room for those tins of cocoa powder? And what on earth was she doing here with this man?

  She would have to think of something to say. She remembered how interested she had been in learning more about his work.

  “What are you surveying now?” she asked.

  “I feel perhaps I owe you an apology,” he said at the same time, their words bumping into each other in the space between them.

  “What?” They both laughed. Lena waited for him to go first.

  “I want to apologize if I appeared too intrusive last time.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I feel I overstepped when I pressed you for details about your family.”

  “Oh, no . . .”

  “No, I sensed your reluctance to discuss it, and I should not hav
e persisted. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Lena remembered now. That was after she had fainted, when Gollancz had spoken at the rally.

  “It’s all right. Otto thinks I’m ridiculously naive about all that.” She stared at the folds of the gold curtain. “And I suppose he’s right. But I can’t give up hope. I have to believe that somehow my mother and sister will be all right.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Lena turned to him with a flush of gratitude. But further conversation was precluded by an outburst of applause as an imposing woman approached the piano. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket and a plain white blouse. Her face was strong and full, with the hint of a double chin, and husky eyebrows; her dark hair was smoothly parted in the center and coiled up to sit just above the ears. Lena wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this; someone petite and delicate, perhaps, more glamorous. This woman strode to the piano and took her seat.

  There was no program, of course; precious paper could not be wasted. Lena tried to identify the piece: Beethoven? She always envied those people—dear Tomas had been one—who could immediately recognize any concerto or symphony from its opening bars. Dame Myra’s right hand hovered over the keys, as the left traveled down the keyboard in a descending trill. The acoustics were surprisingly good. The melody eased a tightness Lena hadn’t realized she was harboring. She needed more music in her life. Their secondhand gramophone and modest collection of records had been destroyed by the Essex Road bomb a year earlier.

  Lena glanced at Milton; his eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a gentle smile of appreciation. He was right; this was such a good idea. Now that she knew of it, she would try to come again.

  It was not a long performance. After two short pieces, it was over. But, in response to animated applause, Dame Myra nodded wordlessly and performed a brief encore, which Lena did recognize— Bach’s Joy of Man’s Desiring—played with great gusto, the pianist’s hands crossing over each other in sweeping gestures, her shoulders bending into the notes. The audience was on its feet, swaying and humming, clapping loudly again at the end, calling out for more—but to no avail. The great diva retreated behind the gold curtain.

  “Thank you so much, Milton. I really enjoyed that.”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  So wonderful that Lena allowed herself to linger for lunch— just for a while. After all, there had been two days last week when she’d hardly stopped all day; she’d nibbled on bread and cheese brought in from home, while trying to decipher the ministry’s latest instructions on the new ration book. Now, she sat at a corner table with Milton and a large bowl of the pea soup. Her mind returned to their conversation before the music started.

  “When my father and brother first arrived in this country, I went to see them at the army base.”

  It seemed easy to talk to Milton; she didn’t feel the need to tiptoe around her words.

  “I remember that. You were still in Upper Wolmingham at the time.”

  “Yes. My father was most insistent that I write to my mother and tell her they had arrived. He said he couldn’t write himself, not from the army. So I wrote.”

  Lena put down her spoon. The soup had seemed like a good idea at first, and she had gulped down half a bowl, surprised at her hunger. But now it had lost its appeal.

  “You worry that you should not have written?’

  “Yes! I tried to be vague, of course. I didn’t go into details. But I told her that I had seen them, that we were all in England.”

  “Do you know if she ever received the letter?”

  “She must have. I had a letter from my aunt six months later. She knew that Father and Ernst had arrived. But my mother obviously did not dare write herself.” Lena fell silent. She swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to cry.

  Milton said nothing. It was a soothing silence, not awkward. After a few moments, he said gently, “And you’ve heard nothing since?”

  “Nothing. I worry terribly that I somehow exposed her to danger, drew unnecessary attention to her and Sasha. I can’t bear to think of it.”

  Milton reached for her hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m sure your mother was relieved to hear that you all arrived safely. She must have been worried. There’s no way to know if there were any repercussions.”

  His hand rested on hers for only a moment. He withdrew it quickly and lifted his teacup.

  Lena kept her eyes low, staring at the fingers that he’d touched.

  “One still hears stories of children being hidden,” Milton continued. “Kept safe from the Nazis.”

  “Yes! Exactly.” Lena looked up. “That’s what I say, but Otto . . .” No, she wasn’t going to talk about Otto and what he thought. “When the war’s over, I’m going to find her and bring her to live with me.”

  Lena watched Milton, wondering if he would scoff at this notion, as Otto had. But he simply nodded quietly.

  “We have to hope for the best,” he said after a moment, “and be optimistic about the future. After all, that’s what drives us to be socialists, isn’t it? Believing that things can be better, that man can be innately good and fair, given the right conditions, that we can build a more perfect world.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” What would Otto say to that? He seemed to have lost all his optimism.

  “I think about this a great deal in my work,” Milton continued, “traveling around the country, interviewing ordinary people. It’s a marvel how much stock everyone’s putting in the future, in things being better once the ‘people’s war’ is over. They complain, of course, about the shortages and the queues and such. But now that they can see that we will win the war, there’s a tremendous sense of anticipation. Of knowing things can never go back to how they were before.” His voice was becoming more animated, but then he seemed to check himself and smiled. “Forgive me. I’m getting carried away.”

  “No. It’s very interesting.”

  “Don’t you think it was extraordinary that people queued for hours to buy the Beveridge Report?” He leaned forward over the table. “A three-hundred-page government paper. Over half a million copies sold.”

  “Yes.” Lena smiled. “Even the girls at my office know all about it. They’ve read the summary, at least.”

  “Yes, now everyone’s an advocate for social insurance and a national health system. They’ve seen what government planning can do in wartime, and they want the same for peace.”

  “But isn’t Churchill going to oppose it?”

  “Of course. But that’s one battle he’s not going to win.”

  Milton grinned, unable to conceal his glee. He rested his hands on the table, fingers interlaced. Lena noticed again that jagged scar over the knuckles of his left hand.

  “I’ve been going to Common Wealth meetings,” he continued. “They’re pulling together a coalition of the Left to push for full implementation of Beveridge now. And they’re getting a lot of support. You saw, I’m sure, their incredible victory in the Eddisbury by-election. There’s no turning back. People are not going to accept the old order of poverty, unemployment, lack of medical care. They know they deserve more.”

  Lena couldn’t help smiling. His enthusiasm was infectious. She was reminded of the days of the Popular Front in Prague, before the war: the meetings, the rallies, working together for a common cause. It would be nice to feel part of a movement again.

  “Yes, we certainly deserve something good to come of all this,” she said.

  Milton looked over her head. “It’s getting late. I do hope I haven’t detained you too long.”

  Lena had completely forgotten about the cocoa tins and cod-liver-oil pages lying a mile up the street. Now, in a mild panic, she looked at her watch. It was almost two o’clock! She jumped up. Mrs. Manson would be beside herself.

  “I must go.”

  Milton helped her on with her coat.

  “Thank you so much.” She didn’t want to appe
ar ungrateful in her rush to leave. “I’ve had a wonderful time.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said, with a small bow. “I hope we can do this again sometime. And let’s make plans for you to come to Upper Wolmingham next month. With any luck, we’ll have better weather by then. Sussex is beautiful in the spring, as you know.”

  CHAPTER 34

  LONDON, APRIL 1944

  They planned a party on Saturday evening at Lena and Otto’s place. Lotti came over after lunch to help Lena prepare. She had a recipe for a sponge cake made with dried eggs.

  “But aren’t you going to need butter or margarine?” Lena said. “I’ve used all mine.”

  “I swapped some sugar coupons for butter.” Lotti delved into a canvas shopping bag and extracted a small cube wrapped in wax paper. “There’s a girl at work with a very sweet tooth; she goes for anything that will get her more sugar.”

  “I hope it will work in this little oven. I’ve never tried to bake a cake in here.”

  Lena inspected the oven. A few black spots lay encrusted on the bottom shelf. She tried to scrape them off with a cloth.

  “I’m excited that both Peter and Emil could get leave on the same weekend,” Lotti said.

  “I haven’t seen Emil for ages.”

  “You’ll hardly recognize him.”

  “I’m going to try to make dumplings and Czech cabbage.” Lena checked her watch. She still needed to get to the shops. “And I think I have enough points for a can of sausage meat. It’s not quite the same as goulash, but I just don’t trust the meat at the butcher’s. Mavis is convinced it’s horse meat.”