When It's Over

by Barbara Ridley

  She suddenly remembered the letter from Milton, still sitting in her pocket. It tugged at her now like a warm current, pulling her toward something alarming and irresistible at the same time.

  “Need some help?” Emil was at her side.

  “Please. Bring the plates over. I think I’ll serve from here.”

  “You made dumplings?” He put an arm around her waist and squeezed her with delight.

  “I’m not sure how they’ll taste. It might have been a mistake with this bread.”

  He laughed. “Knedliky with English National Wheatmeal: what a combination!”

  “I tried to find white bread, but of course there was none.”

  There was a shortage of chairs, so Emil perched on the arm of the sofa and Peter stacked two wooden crates and a cushion to make a seat for himself. Everyone was hungry; they all ate with enthusiasm. Lena kept apologizing for the dumplings, which seemed stodgy to her, but no one was deterred. They were soon all gone. And the cabbage was delicious.

  “What a relief after all that cabbage they serve the English way at work,” Lotti said.

  “Yes, on base, too!” Emil said. “Dreadful stuff. What do they do to it?”

  “It’s boiled for hours, until it’s completely tasteless,” Lotti said, with a laugh.

  Vladimír chuckled, too. “And the carrots,” he added.

  “The English have no idea how to cook vegetables,” Lotti said.

  Lena waited for Otto to contradict her, but he did not. Finally, this was something they could all agree on.

  She remembered Emil’s brother, who had been arrested trying to get through Poland back in ’39. While Peter and Otto were engaged in a loud debate about the Allied bombing of Berlin, Lena turned to him softly and asked, “Did you ever hear from Josef?”

  “Yes!” He smiled. “He made it to the Soviet Union. I got a letter finally, a few months ago, from Kiev. He had obviously written others, but I never received them. He’s with the Czech Brigade on the Eastern Front. Sweeping toward Germany now with the Red Army, I suppose.”

  “That’s wonderful. You must be so relieved.”

  “Yes. I’m very proud of him.” Emil reached across the table for more beer. “But, do you know what’s strange?” He spoke quietly, close to Lena. “I fear more for him now I know he’s at the front. When I had no idea where he was, I worried in a general sense, but it was a vague sort of anxiety. Now, I read about casualties on the Eastern Front and I’m afraid.”

  His frankness took Lena by surprise. It was like getting a sudden peek into someone’s home through a crack in a curtain.

  “But aren’t you afraid for yourself whenever you go on a mission?”

  “No, that’s different. I’m too busy to be afraid.”

  She knew that couldn’t be true. He took a swig of beer, and the crack in the curtain closed. Of course he was very brave; all the pilots were so brave. But she knew his unit must have taken heavy losses; he must think about his own vulnerability all the time. And he must have seen horrifying destruction from the air, destruction wrought by his own hand, which he also could not dwell on. What terrible things we expect from these men, she thought.

  Lena cleared away the plates and brought over Lotti’s cake— now transformed into a delicious-looking concoction, perfectly risen and golden and topped with canned peaches. We carry on as if all this is normal, she thought. We do everyday things, like make the tea and find clean cups. The mundane normalcy: we have to cling to this.

  She thought of Ernst, too. If the assault really was coming soon, presumably the Czech Brigade would be in the thick of it. She was going to meet him for lunch in the West End the following Saturday. She had seen him only a few times over the past four years, and she had always felt disappointed, wanting an intimacy that wasn’t there. But he was her brother, a tangible link to her fragmented family. What was Ernst feeling about the invasion? He liked to boast that President Beneš had assured them they would play a key role in the liberation of their country. Did he feel prepared? Or terrified? Would he ever tell her if he was? Since his safe arrival in England, she hadn’t believed him to be in danger. But if he were to cross the Channel, if he were to be part of the attack, he would be in real peril. She knew she would be fearful for him. Just as Emil was for Josef.

  Otto was probably right. Yes, they all wanted the Second Front, the invasion they had been advocating for months, years. But it would come at a price. A terrible price. Everything came with a price.

  Emil and Vladimír left at nine o’clock to take the train from St. Pancras. Peter and Lotti lingered awhile. Peter and Otto finished off the beer. Peter put the Voskovec and Werich record on again, but the mood had shifted; no one felt inclined to dance this time. The dishes lay in the sink.

  “We must help you clean up,” Peter said. “Then we should go. I have an early start tomorrow.”

  “You can leave the dishes,” Lena said.

  “No, that’s not fair.”

  Otto didn’t stir, but Peter and Lotti set to work at the sink while Lena wiped the table. “When are you next on leave?” Lena asked.

  “The sixteenth. If there’s no Second Front, of course.”

  “You won’t be going over with the invasion, will you?”

  “No, but all leave will be canceled, I’m sure.”

  “Of course.”

  “I hear that all the time,” Lotti said: “‘if there’s no Second Front . . . if there’s no Second Front.’ Everyone’s holding their breath. Waiting.”

  The room was soon tidied, and Peter and Lotti gathered up their things. There was a lot to carry: the cake tin and extra plates they had brought over, plus two umbrellas and three bags of maternity clothes that Mavis had proudly presented just before the party, hand-me-downs from a woman next door to her mother. And the gramophone.

  “Lotti, you shouldn’t be carrying all that,” Lena said. “Otto can walk over with you and give you a hand.”

  Otto relieved Lotti of the two largest bags and they departed, leaving Lena to herself. She sank into the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and reached into her pocket. She had been yearning for a moment of privacy to reread Milton’s letter. She wondered if she had misread it in her haste when she’d opened it in front of Lotti. Perhaps its tone had been formal and perfunctory, or merely casual and friendly, and she had deluded herself, imagining an intimacy that had no basis in reality. She had been itching to read it again but postponing it, too, not wanting to be disappointed—yet she wasn’t sure what she wanted the verdict to be. She took a deep breath and extracted the flimsy paper from the envelope.

  Dear Lena,

  Thank you so much for joining me for lunch at the National Gallery. I enjoyed myself immensely. The music was most agreeable, of course, but the presence of your company made it absolutely marvelous.

  I very much hope that you can accompany me to Upper Wolmingham in a fortnight, for the weekend of the 13th–14th. Indeed, Mother is counting on it. I suppose it was presumptuous of me, but I assured her you would come, before ascertaining whether Otto’s shifts could accommodate this arrangement.

  Naturally, it would be most enjoyable to have both of you visit, but if he is unable to make it, I have to confess that the prospect of having your undivided attention is utterly delightful.

  Does the 6:15 from Victoria on Friday still suit you? Yours sincerely,

  Milton

  Lena stared at the faded type and the sunken n’s. What was he suggesting, exactly? Was this merely English politeness? Was she mistaken in thinking it was more than that?

  There was certainly no mistaking the excitement in her chest at the thought of Milton’s undivided attention.

  Downstairs, the door slammed. Otto’s footsteps were on the stairs. She slipped the letter into her pocket.

  CHAPTER 36

  LONDON, MAY 1944

  Lena looked at her watch: eight thirty. Otto had said he would be home by nine, after his union meeting. She had to make a decision about next
weekend. She had sent Milton a short note saying Friday the twelfth would be wonderful but had left it ambiguous whether she would be traveling alone or not. She had said nothing yet to Otto. He’d worked the late shift all week, and every night she was asleep, or pretending to be, when he slipped silently into bed beside her. She told herself she was waiting for the right moment.

  The idea of going alone was tantalizing. Milton seemed to understand her and not feel the need to dispute everything she said. At work, whenever her mind drifted to the time he’d whisked her off to the National Gallery, she broke into a broad grin and Sheila said, “What’s your little secret, then?” and Lena would blush and find an excuse to go into the back office.

  She felt pulled toward Milton as if by an irresistible force.

  But she had to resist. She couldn’t go without Otto. Not to Upper Wolmingham. It seemed wrong, inconceivable.

  She remembered those nights years ago, in the Café Slavia, when everyone had swarmed around Otto to hear his analysis of the situation in Sudetenland; when she alone had shared the secret of his role in discovering the Nazi troops’ movements; how he’d clung to her in the darkness in Oak Tree Cottage, telling her about the boy who’d drowned on the Arandora Star. She thought of how he could still, when in a good mood, call her mein Schätzchen when she lay nestled on his shoulder. She thought of Lotti’s words: You have been through so much together. You can’t just toss that aside.

  She heard the front door bang. He was home.

  “How was the meeting?” Lena asked.

  He threw his jacket onto the floor and sank into the armchair, sprawling his long legs out in front of him. He grunted but said nothing.

  “How did the meeting go?” Lena asked again.

  “Ugh. It’s impossible to organize in that place.” He looked over to the kitchen table. “Do you have any tea made?”

  “I’ll make some.”

  He’d brought home the Evening Standard; he picked it up now and hid behind the pages.

  The only sounds in the room were the rustling of his newspaper and the water hissing in the kettle. The discussion waiting to happen hovered in the air.

  “What shift are you working next week?” she asked.

  “Same. Evenings. Days on Friday.” He didn’t look up. He was chewing on his lower lip again; she hated the way he did that.

  “Will you have to work on Saturday?” If he had to work, his coming to Sussex would be a moot point.

  “Don’t know yet. They’re piling on a lot of overtime.” He returned to the newspaper. “See, this is what I was talking about.” He poked his finger at a headline: London: Get Ready. “Hitler has a new type of bomb ready to launch as soon as the invasion starts.”

  That night, he seemed farther away than ever on the opposite side of the bed. He didn’t call her mein Schätzchen. He hadn’t called her that in a long time.

  Ernst said he could be in London by noon, so Lena proposed meeting for lunch. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. She suggested the Lyons Corner House on Tottenham Court Road—the same place where she and Otto had gone with Milton on the day of the Second Front demonstration. Now, Lena sat in the same section of the restaurant where they had eaten that day, waiting for Ernst. The waitresses bustled about as the lunchtime crowd filtered in.

  From the next table, the sound of laughter: two couples, giddy and flirtatious, one woman brushing her hand against her escort’s sleeve. Lena thought of Milton’s face and gestures that day, his bright eyes, the fine hairs on the back of his hands as he poured the tea—vivid images seared in her memory.

  She caught a whiff of sausages and mash from a plate that whisked by at nose level. Her stomach twisted in hunger. Otto had eaten the last remaining egg that morning and finished off the bread, leaving nothing for her. She’d intended to stop at the baker’s on the way here, but the queue had been too long and she’d been afraid she would be late; now she was starving.

  She was expecting Ernst to be in uniform and half raised her arm to wave to three different soldiers of similar build, before realizing they were not her brother. He was almost twenty minutes late. Was he lost? He didn’t know London well. She should have included better directions. And she could have stopped for bread, after all.

  “Ty budeš tady.” His voice was behind her. “There you are.”

  She jumped up to give him a hug. He was in mufti: brown trousers and a crumpled beige jacket, a white shirt and maroon necktie. His cheeks were flushed.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he gushed. “I missed my stop on the Tube. I was afraid you might give up on me.”

  “Of course not.”

  He sat opposite her. His hair was incredibly short, cut in the style of the American servicemen, flat across the top. His face was losing its boyish fullness, the cheekbones becoming more prominent, the eyes more deep-set. It was startling how much he was beginning to resemble Father. He smiled at her, relaxing now. He had a healthy glow; his forehead was slightly sunburned, with a speck of skin peeling on the bridge of his nose. Like her, he never tanned easily.

  “So, how are you?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “No more bombing in your area, I hope?”

  “No. A few close calls, but we’ve had no damage.”

  “The raids have eased up a bit, haven’t they?”

  “A bit.” She picked up the menu. “I think we should order.” She looked around for the waitress. “There was heavy bombardment in the East End last week,” she continued. “Near where Otto works.”

  “Ah, yes. Otto,” Ernst said. “What does he do, again?”

  “He works in a munitions factory.”

  “Really?” This seemed to surprise him. But he said no more.

  The waitress arrived, and they ordered the same thing: sausages, mashed potatoes, and peas, with a pot of tea.

  “How are things with you?” Lena said. “How is the new base?”

  Ernst shrugged. “Much like the last one. The food’s a bit better.”

  “And Father? How is he doing since his retirement? You wrote that he’s still with you?”

  “Nearby. They moved him and another retired officer to a village a few kilometers away.” He ran a hand through his short-clipped hair, which bristled like a soft brush.

  “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know. He’s difficult to talk to.”

  “You’ve only just noticed that?”

  Ernst gave a thin smile. “I know you’ve been arguing with him for years. But he seems changed to me. Bitter, angry, resentful . . . I don’t know.”

  “About what?”

  “Take your pick: no one listens to him, nothing is run the way it should be, they more or less forced him into retirement.” Ernst spread his hands wide, palms up: a gesture that looked like Father’s. “He hates that he won’t be part of the invasion, won’t be there to defeat the Nazis.”

  Lena poured the tea and took a sip. “He hasn’t heard anything from Máma, has he?” she asked.

  “No. He would let you know if he had. He’s not that bad.”

  “He must feel guilty about leaving Máma and Sasha behind.”

  Ernst gave her a sharp look. “There’s no way Sasha could have made that journey. Or Máma, for that matter. You have no idea—”

  “I mean before that. He shouldn’t have waited so long, making their plans to emigrate. All those months they wasted, trying to make arrangements to bring the carpets and silver, or whatever it was they were doing.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “It was. The whole time I was in Paris, Máma would write saying they were working on this plan or that, or going to send Sasha out. You don’t remember?”

  “Of course. It wasn’t that simple. The Nazis didn’t make it easy for people to leave. There were complications at every turn.”

  “Sounds like they just left it too late.”

  “They were trying to do what seemed best at the time.”

  She let it rest. She didn’t want to quarrel wi
th him. Not now.

  When the food arrived, they ate in silence for a while. The mashed potatoes were lumpy but tasty, and the sausages succulent; perhaps they even contained real meat. Ernst ate heartily, shoveling chunks into his mouth. Lena watched in amusement.

  “All everyone’s talking about here is the Second Front. What are you hearing?”

  “We’re kept guessing, like everyone else. Last week, we were confined to barracks for two days. No explanation. We all thought, This is it—we’re finally going. But it was a false alarm.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No,” he said, too quickly. “It’s what we’ve been training for. We want to get moving.”

  She wanted to say, Be careful, but it sounded so trite. “If . . . when . . .” She didn’t know how to say it. The weight of terrible possibilities loomed in front of her—fears that refused to claim a voice. She stared over Ernst’s head at the crowded room. A woman sat with two young daughters—were they twins?—ages twelve or thirteen, in matching blue frocks, the fabric stretched taut across tiny breast buds. An “awkward age,” Máma always called it, neither child nor adult. Sasha would be about the same age now. It was hard to imagine.

  “I often think . . .” Lena tried again. “I would like to have Sasha come and live with me here in England after the war is over.”

  “What makes you think she would want to do that?”

  “She would love it here.”

  “She doesn’t speak a word of English.”

  “She could learn fast enough.”

  “Well, we’ll see.” Ernst shrugged. “Have you thought about what you’ll do after the war?” Lena asked. “If your brigade ends up . . .” She hesitated. “Will you stay in Czechoslovakia?”

  “I suppose. Why not? Try to get an apprenticeship or something.” He shrugged again. “I don’t think about it much. They say it could jinx you.”