Lotti smoothed out the recipe, torn from a women’s magazine, and started to reconstitute the dried eggs. She measured three tablespoons of powder from the packet she had brought with her and then counted out six tablespoons of water into a separate cup.
“The secret is to add the water a little at a time,” she declared.
Outside, a steady rain fell, pounding against the windowpanes in powerful, frenzied gusts. The muck on the bottom of the oven was stubborn. Lena reached for a knife.
“What time is Otto getting home?”
“I don’t know. His shifts are always changing.”
“Don’t they have Saturday afternoon off at the factory?”
“They work all hours. There’s no end to the work of making bombs and bullets, I suppose.” Lena scraped away at the oven. “At least, I assume that’s what he does. He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t tell me much of anything these days.”
“I’m sure he’s not allowed to talk about his work at the factory.”
“I don’t mean just that,” Lena said.
That would have to do for the oven. She scooped up the black fragments with a damp cloth and tossed them into the sink.
“Two weeks ago, we were talking to someone, and out of the blue he announced he’s going to go back to Germany after the war. He hadn’t said a word to me. I couldn’t believe it. Going back to Germany!”
“I don’t blame him for thinking about it,” Lotti said. “I think about going back home all the time.” Her hand drifted to the soft bulge at her belly. “Especially now.”
Lotti’s skirt was stretched taut, and as she reached for another spoon, Lena noticed the button at the back was undone, the waist-band gaping open a couple of inches.
“I hate the idea of my baby being born here, in a foreign country. And my mother not even knowing she’s going to be a grandmother.” Lotti beat the cake mixture vigorously.
“Did you try writing to your mother?”
“Yes, I wrote. Of course. But”—she sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve—“what do you suppose happens to all those letters? I imagine them piling up in some huge warehouse in Geneva or Lisbon or wherever it is they land.”
“Perhaps the letters do get through but they just can’t reply,” Lena said softly.
“I don’t know.” Lotti’s voice quivered.
Lena watched as she continued beating the mixture. Suddenly, Lotti slammed the bowl down on the counter so loudly Lena flinched.
“I’m so sick of this. I want to go home.” She had tears in her eyes. “Do you think the war will be over before my baby is born?”
Lena put her arms around Lotti and felt her friend relax into the embrace. She didn’t know what to say. Empty reassurances seemed pointless.
“I’m sorry,” Lotti said, pulling away and wiping her nose on her sleeve again. “I’m so emotional these days. Forgive me.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s selfish, really. Everyone’s suffering. Everyone wants to go home.”
They fell into silence. The rain slashed at the windows, unrelenting. From the sink, Lena looked out at the slate rooftops and the rows of chimneys. There was one spot where you could catch a glimpse of the spire of the church opposite King’s Cross. Leaning forward, she could see the street below, people hurrying by, umbrellas bobbing as they went about their errands. The young man from the house next door, hobbling on his crutches, pulled his cap down around his ears. He’d lost a leg at Dunkirk, according to Mavis, yet he was always ready with a soft, gentle smile. An ordinary rainy London street, gray and grimy and nothing fancy, yet it was oddly comforting to Lena. She couldn’t explain it to herself.
Lotti was scooping the batter into a cake pan. “I really don’t think about going home,” Lena said. “I do think about going back to get Sasha. But then I imagine bringing her to live with me here.”
Lotti stared at Lena. “You want to stay here? And always be a foreigner? Always have people ask you all day long ‘Where’re you from?’ Never really belong?”
“I don’t feel that way. I do feel at home here. It would be wonderful to be here in peacetime, without having to worry about bombs or bread queues or blackout blinds. Doing ordinary things like going to art galleries or theaters.”
“I think it will be wonderful to go home. Eat real Bratwurst. Klobásy. Wiener Schnitzel. Drink good coffee.” Lotti grew more animated. “Walk across the Charles Bridge. Hear Czech spoken in the street. Be among our own kind.”
“But the English people have been so kind and decent. And determined to carry on in spite of everything. Look how readily they accept rationing, everyone getting a fair share. You can bet back home they’re all fighting and scheming about how to get more for themselves on the black market.”
Lotti laughed. “There’s plenty of black-market activity here, Lena. You just choose not to notice it.” She picked up the cake tin, and Lena opened the oven door.
“Of course, there’re always a few people breaking the rules. But I mean in general. The way people stand patiently in queues. In Prague, I’m sure everyone’s pushing and shoving and trying to get more than the next person.”
“We have no idea what’s happening in Prague.”
The oven door closed with a thud. Lotti’s words hung between them like a thick fog. After a few moments of silence, Lena said, “I’ll make some tea.”
Lotti read The Times while Lena tidied the living room, picking up dirty cups and discarded clothing. There was a coating of dust over all horizontal surfaces.
“There seems to be no stopping the Russians,” Lotti said from behind the newspaper. “The Red Army has retaken almost all of Ukraine.”
“Still no Second Front.”
“They’ll have to make a move as soon as the weather improves, don’t you think?”
Lena heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the flat. Not Otto’s big strides—a quicker, lighter step. There was a soft tapping at the door. Mavis, in raincoat and headscarf, held an offering in her right hand.
“Letter for you, by second post.”
Lena’s heart somersaulted, but she quickly saw this was no news from home; it was a small manila envelope with just a single brown stamp, postmarked London WC1.
“Thank you. You didn’t need to bring it upstairs. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea? I have the kettle on.”
“No, I can’t stop. My mum’s coming over in a bit. Oh, hello, Lotti. Didn’t see you there. How you doing?” Mavis’s face lit up with a huge smile. “Looks good, doesn’t she?” she said to Lena. “How exciting to have a new baby coming along.” She laughed. “Gives you something to look forward to, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” Lena smiled. “It does.”
“She’s in a cheerful mood,” Lotti said, after Lena closed the door.
“Mavis is a good soul,” Lena said.
“Who’s the letter from?”
“I don’t know.”
But Lena did have an inkling. The envelope was very thin, smaller than a postcard. Lena’s name and address were typed with a well-worn ribbon. There seemed to be a problem with the n key, because it was consistently out of alignment. She looked at the postmark again. WC1? Yes, that would fit.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Lotti said, peeking over Lena’s shoulder.
She could see no way to avoid opening it in front of Lotti. She found the letter opener on the table and extracted a tiny piece of paper, typed on both sides with the same faded ribbon.
She scanned it quickly and replaced it in the envelope. Lotti was staring at her intently. “Well?”
She would have to come out with it. “It’s from Milton,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Who?”
“Milton Calder. I told you we ran into him at the rally in Trafalgar Square.” She stuffed the envelope into her skirt pocket and went in search of a rag for dusting.
“Why’s he writing to you?”
“He invited us to g
o to Sussex, but he had to change plans at the last minute. So he wants to reschedule. In two weeks. That’s all.”
“Why would he write to you, and not to both you and Otto? Aren’t you both going?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Lena tried to wave the conversation to an end with a vague gesture with her rag, but she could feel her cheeks flushing.
“Lena, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Lotti continued to stare at her. “Nothing,” she repeated, with more emphasis. She almost said, I’m dusting but knew that would sound ridiculous.
“I hope you’re not doing anything stupid, Lena. Otto’s very fond of you. He doesn’t always show it, I know that, but he really cares about you. You’ve been through so much together. You can’t just toss that aside.”
Lena sniffed. A sweet aroma emanated from the oven. “You’d better check the cake,” she said.
CHAPTER 35
LONDON, APRIL 1944
Peter brought the gramophone from his place, along with two records of Czech music. He made space on the table in the corner, briskly turned the handle, and placed one of the records on the turntable. The beginning was scratchy, but then it cleared and the swinging notes of a gentle jazz melody filled the room.
“Oh my God!” Lena exclaimed. “Is this . . . ?” She picked up the record cover.
“Jaroslav Ježek.” Peter beamed. “Remember?”
“Of course. Where on earth did you find this?”
“A little shop on Portobello Road.”
“We have to dance to this,” Lotti said, grabbing Peter and dragging him into the center of the room. “Otto, Lena, come on!”
Otto was trying to get the coals in the grate to light. “There’s no room to dance in here,” he said.
Lotti picked up one of the dining chairs and moved it to the corner. Peter pushed the table over to the kitchen area, and the armchair against the bedroom door.
“There’s room. Come on!”
Peter and Lotti launched into a sort of modified polka with a touch of swing, with Peter adding some slapstick features of his own invention. Lena was unable to resist. She took Otto’s hand and pulled him toward her. He had never been much of a dancer; as for Lena, her feet often behaved like a wayward two-year-old’s, stumbling forward when they should go backward, moving fast when they should go slow. But she remembered once—in the back room of a place on the rue de Rennes—when they had twirled around the dance floor and had fun. He had his hand at her back now and swung her around, surprising her with his sudden vigor.
“Wasn’t this the music those fellows used in the . . . What was it called?” Otto said. “The Liberated Theatre? What were their names?”
“The Osvobozené Divadlo.” Lotti shrieked with delight.
“Voskovec and Werich,” Peter said, twirling Lotti around. “Their plays were so hilarious.”
“And that motion picture,” Lena said. “Remember that? Hej Rup! That scene with the industrialist and the unemployed laborer, it was so funny. Those hats . . .”
“And Svĕt patří nám,” Lotti said. “The world belongs to us.”
“Whatever happened to those two?” Otto said.
He tried to spin Lena around under his arm, but she turned the wrong way and ended up bumping into the sofa. She fell onto the cushions in giggles.
“They got out,” Peter said. “I read they’re in New York now.”
“Oh, good.”
Was that a knock at the door? Lena hadn’t heard the usual sound of the doorbell downstairs, or ascending footsteps. She jumped for the door, feeling dizzy for a moment. A tall young man in uniform was standing before her. She tipped her head and saw Emil smiling at her. He held a large brown bottle in each hand.
“Look at you!” she said, pulling him into a hug.
He wrapped her in a strong embrace. The bottles clanked together behind her, cold against her back. She looked up at him again: what a transformation from the gangly youth of the Oak Tree Cottage days. He filled out his uniform with a solid presence. His jaw was firmer; coarse stubble coated his chin. His baby-faced innocence was gone, but he smiled at her with genuine delight.
“Jsem tak rád, že tě vidím,” he said. “How lovely to see you.” Another figure lurked behind him in the dimly lit hallway.
“I’ve brought Vladimír with me. I hope that’s all right.” He introduced his friend. “Flight Lieutenant Havel. He’s in my squadron. We have to take the train back to base later tonight, so I hope you’ll forgive our attire.” His thumbs pointed to the lapels of his air force blues.
“You look very handsome,” Lena said, smiling. “Come in, come in. Hello, Vladimír, welcome.”
There were introductions, handshakes, hugs. Emil placed the bottles of beer on the table. Vladimír produced two more. Otto gathered glasses from the shelf. “Where’re you from, Vladimír?” Peter said.
“Plzeň. But my family’s originally from Prague.”
“His brother was in Prague in ’38,” Emil said. “You remember Karl from Die Tat? Tall, dark hair, a beard.”
“Of course. I can see the resemblance.”
“Karl often talks about those days,” said Vladimír, slipping into German. “I remember he much admired you, Otto. Ich bin so froh, Sie endlich kennen zu lernen. It’s a privilege to meet you.”
“Where’s Eva?” Emil said. “Isn’t she living with you now?”
“She’s staying in the downstairs flat,” Lena said. She watched Otto for his reaction, but he was back at the fireplace, poking the coals. “I invited her, but I don’t know if she’ll come. She’s usually off chasing American servicemen.”
She checked on the food. The cabbage was simmering on the back burner, just a splash of water in the bottom of the pot to prevent burning: perfect. But the dumplings: maybe this had not been such a great idea. They looked gray and heavy, barely afloat in the bubbling water, nothing like the knedliky of home. If they were a complete disaster, she could serve that extra loaf of bread instead.
The cheerful chatter continued behind her, Czech mingled with German, Salz and pepř, chléb and Käse intertwined as though inseparable, hard to tell them apart. Soothing background music, the languages of her childhood.
“Where is your brother now?” Otto was asking Vladimír. “Did he make it out?”
“Yes, we left together, through Poland, just before the start of the war.” He helped Peter rearrange the furniture into its original configuration. “He’s in the army, the Czech Brigade, based near Northampton.”
Lena turned. “My brother’s in the Czech Brigade, too.”
“At Arthingworth?”
“Yes, that sounds right. He’s coming to London on leave next weekend.”
“Karl says they’re all very bored. Nothing but endless maneuvers. Can’t wait to see some action.”
“Any hint of them making a move?” Peter asked.
“The rumor at work is that they’re going to launch the invasion from Essex,” Otto said. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, leaning against the mantel. Lena looked at him with surprise. Another thing he’d said nothing to her about. “A fellow at the factory has family living out near Harwich,” he continued. “There’s lots of activity down there. All very hush-hush. No one’s allowed anywhere near the beach, but anyone can see they’re building huge docks, launching pads or something. They’re going to take the Nazis by surprise by landing in Holland.”
Lena said, “It’s not going to be much of a surprise if people keep talking about it.”
“I heard they’re going to land in Norway,” Lotti said.
“Not with all those fjords,” Emil said.
“They’re not going to be able to pull off such a massive invasion from anywhere except Dover,” Peter said. “They have to take the shortest route across the Channel.”
“But that’s exactly where the Nazis are expecting the attack,” Otto said. “That’s where they’ve fortified the most.”
The beer was making e
xperts of them all.
“Well, where are you boys bombing?” Lotti turned to Emil. “That should give us a clue.” Everyone looked at Emil. He fell silent.
“It’s all right,” Lena said. “We know you can’t tell us.” He gave her a grateful smile.
“Anyway, they seem to be bombing everything these days,” she continued, trying to shift to the kind of vague conversation you could have with anyone. “Sounds like the Germans are getting a pounding.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Otto said. “When the invasion finally comes, we’re the ones who’re going to get a pounding.” His eyes narrowed as they did when he was priming for an argument. “Hitler’s not going to sit back and just take it. Things are going to be terrible here.”
Lotti asked, “Are you talking about Hitler’s secret weapon that we hear—”
Otto interrupted her. “The Nazis will surely launch a major attack, like nothing we’ve ever seen before.” He gave the coals another poke, before adding, “It’s curious how everyone is so desperate to see the Second Front but no one talks about the consequences.”
“Anything to end the war,” Lotti said. “That’s what everyone wants.”
“I think people are ready,” Lena said. “No one’s under any illusion that this final stage is going to be easy.”
“On the contrary,” Otto said. “Everyone’s talking as if the war is practically over, whereas in fact the worst is yet to come.”
“It can’t be worse than the blitz,” Vladimír said. “And the Luftwaffe is seriously depleted. Nothing like its former strength.”
“I think it’s going to be brutal. Massive casualties. Wait and see.”
Otto hurled out the words like a knight throwing down the gauntlet. There was another uneasy silence. No one jumped at the bait.
“Well, on that cheerful note,” Lena said, “let’s set the table for dinner. I think the food’s ready.”
She was barely able to control her irritation. Otto could never miss an opportunity to issue a dismal forecast about something. She drained the water from the knedliky, banging the saucepan down on the counter with far more noise than necessary, and pulled the casserole out of the oven. She hadn’t been able to find sausage meat, canned or otherwise, so it was Spam again, but she’d used a recipe they’d distributed at the Food Office, layered it with beets and carrots. It looked all right. Smelled pretty good, in fact.
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