“I just . . .” She wanted to say more. But now she was afraid. Images of what could happen between here and Prague were too scary to contemplate. They fell into silence again.
Lena took another bite of sausage, but she couldn’t finish all those potatoes, even though she’d been so hungry earlier. Ernst was still eating. He had worked his way through the sausages and peas and was now on the potatoes. She laughed.
“You eat just like you did when you were little,” she said.
“What?” He looked taken aback. Now she had offended him.
“One thing at a time.”
“I don’t.” He searched his plate, offered a few isolated peas as evidence.
“You do!” She laughed again. “Don’t you remember the argument we used to have? I would always eat first the things I didn’t like much, like carrots or peas, saving the good stuff for last. You said you should eat the best things first, because you never knew what might happen before the end of the meal.” Lena shook her head. How odd that he should have said that; he was just a child. “Do you remember?”
Ernst nodded, suppressing a grin, his mouth full.
“It was a very serious debate. And then when Sasha got older, she declared that the most sensible solution was to eat one bite of everything in turn.” She paused. “She was always so wise, from such an early age.”
“I think I was right,” said Ernst. “Now more than ever, it makes sense. You have to take what’s in front of you. You may not get another chance.”
When Lena returned home, Otto was sitting at the desk, combing over his old manuscript. He didn’t look up.
“I’m going to Sussex next weekend,” she blurted out, without preamble. Just like that, the words were out. She spoke in English.
“Was hast du gesagt?” He always responded in German.
“To see Muriel.”
“That’s nice, I must say,” he said. “I thought we were both invited.”
She was surprised he remembered Milton’s original invitation—from the day of the rally. It had been weeks ago, and he’d never mentioned it again. “You said you had to work.”
This wasn’t exactly true, and she knew it. Half-truths: the room reverberated with them. She looked at their meager belongings, the trappings of their life together: the improvised lamp with the shade she had tried to patch, the dilapidated green armchair, their combined books sitting shoulder to shoulder on the shelf, her Austen and Brontë and the Proust she’d brought from Paris, his Marx and Engels. She often took comfort in these objects, in this little home of theirs, as if they could be the glue to hold them together. But it was a sham. These things could all disappear in a flash, under a pile of rubble, courtesy of the Luftwaffe.
“Actually, I want to go on my own,” she heard herself say, holding his gaze. “I haven’t been anywhere on my own in a long time.”
He picked up his pipe and poked at the tobacco in the bowl. “It doesn’t sound as if you’re going on your own,” he said. His voice was gray, like steel.
Lena steadied her breathing. She crossed her arms across her chest, preparing herself for battle. “I think it would do us good to have a couple of days apart,” she said, keeping her focus resolutely on a spot above the mantelpiece.
“Fine. Suit yourself. I don’t care.”
He turned back to his manuscript. End of conversation.
Lena leaned against the sink, absentmindedly wiping the counter. That was it, then. She was going without him. Her stomach churned. Perhaps the sausages had been too rich after all.
CHAPTER 37
LONDON/SUSSEX, MAY 1944
Victoria Station was crowded. She should have expected it: Friday evening, the weather suddenly glorious, everyone happy to get out of London for the weekend. Where were they supposed to meet in this sea of people? She could see the ticket office ahead and edged in that direction; it seemed as good a spot as any. She pushed through the throng, clutching her holdall close to her chest, scanning the crowd for Milton. She couldn’t see him anywhere. She decided to take her place at the end of the ticket queue.
A man emerged from the ticket office and created a handwritten announcement on the board outside. The news was passed down the line: the 6:20 to Canterbury was canceled. Someone behind her groaned; apparently, the 5:45 had been canceled, too. Lena kept her eyes on the board, as though she might miss something else if she looked away.
She and Otto had hardly spoken all week. They’d brushed past each other, the air thick with tension. Each morning when she’d left the flat, her jaw had been clenched so tight it ached. She wished she’d waited until the last minute before she’d told him she was going to Sussex. She’d searched for words that might smooth things over, but they’d all stuck in her throat. Perhaps she should have talked it over with him before making a decision. Was he truly upset, or was it true that, as he’d said, he didn’t care? She couldn’t tell. She reminded herself about the times he’d pulled away from her in the past, or made a fool of himself chasing after Eva. But she didn’t like to hurt him. Perhaps she should call the whole thing off. She could just walk away now and go home.
“You’re here!”
Milton stood before her, impossibly handsome, smiling, shamelessly thrilled to see her. “How clever of you to save a spot in the queue. I was terribly afraid we might miss each other when I saw the crush of people.” He glanced around. “Is Otto . . .”
“No, I came alone.”
“Marvelous.”
His deep-brown eyes focused intensely on hers. He wore a linen jacket and open-necked white shirt, simple and casual yet with an unmistakable touch of elegance. He extended his hand toward her, and Lena realized he was offering to carry her luggage, which she was still clutching to her chest. She relaxed her grip and lowered it to her side.
“It’s all right. I’ve got it,” she said, and looked ahead to the announcement board again, to prove that she could take her eyes off him. “There’s something up there about a train being canceled.”
“The timetable is always somewhat arbitrary these days. But the six fifteen to Brighton is usually all right, for some reason.”
“That’s good.”
“With the pleasure of your company, any delay will be inconsequential.”
She couldn’t help laughing. And then blushing and looking away again. The queue was moving forward more rapidly. She reached for her purse, but Milton insisted on paying: two second-class returns to Bigglesmeade.
“Platform nine, sir.”
He steered her off to the right, navigating through the crowd, dodging a cart piled high with luggage, skirting around a group of excited schoolchildren, swimming upstream through a swarm heading to the platforms at the other end of the station. Lena saw all this though a daze; more than anything, she was aware of a tingling sensation where his hand lay on her arm. They somehow found their way to the platform and, at Milton’s suggestion, all the way to the front of the train to good seats, in a compartment to themselves, facing each other by the window.
“This is perfect,” Milton said, lifting their luggage into the overhead rack. “I’m so glad to be getting out of London this weekend. It’s going to be insufferably hot in town, I suspect.” Other passengers were wending their way down the platform, peering in, searching for seats. “Obviously, everyone else has the same idea,” he continued.
“I thought the government was trying to discourage people from traveling. Keep the railways free for the troops or something.”
Milton grinned. “It’s nice to see that the populace can still display some defiance, don’t you think?”
Lena laughed. “I suppose so, yes.”
“Of course, the coast is out of bounds. Restricted access. Did you notice the poster at the entrance to the station?”
She had not. She must have walked right past it.
“Just these past two weeks.” He hung his linen jacket on the hook by the window. “One can’t go beyond Burgess Hill without proof of residency.”<
br />
“So where’s everyone going?”
“Lewes, Canterbury, Midhurst. All those towns are advertising being ‘not in the banned areas.’ It’s quite a boon for them.”
“I suppose it can’t be long, then,” Lena said. “Before the invasion, I mean. If the coast is sealed off.”
“No, it can’t be long.”
An elderly couple entered the compartment and settled into the seats by the door. The man tipped his hat at Lena and Milton; the woman smiled. Two middle-aged women followed with two teenage boys. The compartment was full now.
Lena hadn’t ventured out of London in a long time. As the train chugged through the sprawling capital south of the Thames, she was shocked by the damage. You got used to it in your own neighborhood, no longer noticed the heaps of rubble, the exposed layers of flapping wallpaper and gaping fireplaces, the bizarre sight of half a bathtub or a truncated bed frame hanging precariously from a third story. Official reports of “incidents” elsewhere were kept vague. Now, it was terrible to see for oneself the extent of the ruins: rubble, flattened houses, blocks of flats shorn in two.
She averted her eyes. She couldn’t take any more. And she was suddenly nervous at the prospect of seeing Muriel again.
“What did you tell Muriel about . . .” She lowered her voice. “Did you say Otto would be coming, too?”
“I told her I didn’t know.” He smiled. “Because I didn’t.”
“Whatever will she think?”
“Mother will be delighted to see you. And she’s very broad-minded. Surely you remember that about her.”
Lena felt herself blushing again and looked out the window. The devastated urban landscape had given way to lush green fields.
There were a few telltale signs from the train: a glimpse of dark, amorphous shapes bunched next to a riverbank and, just south of Purley, a clear view of a convoy of lorries crossing a field. But it wasn’t until Lena emerged from the station at Bigglesmeade that she understood the extent of the transformation of the countryside.
It was beautiful and green and filled with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and lilac, just as she remembered. But every possible tree had been called into service to provide cover for tanks and jeeps covered with olive tarpaulins. They lay camouflaged, huddled along the narrow lanes, forcing what little traffic there was—a farm tractor, a delivery van, even the villagers on bicycles—to navigate around these obstacles. There was no sign of the army itself. The vehicles lay dormant, like the toys of a sleeping giant.
“This is quite a sight,” Lena said, as they walked up the hill to Upper Wolmingham.
“Yes, they’re everywhere. They rumble through the lanes at night. In the morning, there are dozens more in new hiding places.”
“Where are the men?”
“The officers are staying at the Manor House; the men camped out in Copley Woods. Canadians, mostly. Nice chaps. They spend a lot of time in the village.” Milton smiled. “Mostly in the Fox and Hounds.”
When they reached the central square of the village—bordered by the church, the Manor House, and the neat little cottages, their front gardens in full May bloom—the scene was so picturesque, it stung Lena’s eyes. She thought of those few months at Oak Tree Cottage: the night when she first arrived, when Otto explained the rules of the commune, showed her the jar in the kitchen where they pooled their income, laughed about the rudimentary plumbing. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“The village hasn’t changed much,” Milton was saying. “Except for all that.”
He nodded at a group of officers emerging from the Manor House, heading for the pub, laughing together. They were mostly absorbed in their own company, but one, a tall redhead, raised his hand to wave. Milton returned the gesture.
“As I say, they’re not bad chaps. But they’re totally ruining the Manor House and the grounds. Mother can’t wait for this to be over so she can move back and get the place in decent shape again.”
“Oh.” This remark took Lena by surprise. She’d known Muriel only at The Hollow, where she seemed completely at home. “But it’s so lovely at The Hollow.”
“Yes, in a temporary sort of way. One never imagined it would go on this long.”
They passed two more tanks, partially hidden under trees at the side of a house, before turning into the driveway leading to Muriel’s place. Sunlight dappled the trees, and a soft carpet of wisteria petals lay underfoot. Lena imagined every day would be filled with delight if she lived here. She let out a sigh of contentment. Milton took her hand in his. His touch was strong yet tender, and thrilling. But as they reached the clearing in front of the house, Lena withdrew her hand.
Muriel was on the back terrace. She came toward them, one hand outstretched to feel her way. Lena moved forward into her embrace.
“Lena, my dear.” She stroked Lena’s hair, her touch compensating for what her eyes could not see. “How wonderful that you’re here! How are you?” She led Lena back to the bench. “Come, sit beside me. I want to hear everything. Milton tells me you’re working in the Food Office. Such important work.”
Lena told her a little about the office, and Muriel listened attentively. Milton sat opposite them on the low terrace wall, his eyes on Lena. They were interrupted by Lancelot bounding up the steps, still full of energy but with soft gray hairs now surrounding his eyes and mouth. He was followed by Alistair, carrying a pair of gardening clippers and twine.
“I’m so sorry I missed your arrival,” he said, setting down his paraphernalia and greeting Lena with a hearty handshake. “I was checking on the strawberries. You’re just a bit too early, I fear. You’ll have to come back and see us again in about three weeks.”
“I haven’t seen strawberries in years!” Lena laughed.
“You have to tell us everyone’s news,” Muriel said. “We worry so much about you being in London. We lost track of you. The last address I had for you was in Landsdowne Road, I believe.”
“I’m sorry.” Lena was glad Muriel could not see her blushing. “We had to leave because the landlady’s daughter was bombed out, and then we were bombed out ourselves a few months later. It was difficult to keep in touch.” This wasn’t much of an excuse.
“Of course. I understand, dear.” Muriel reached out with her hand, which Lena took in gratitude. “The post to and from London has been so erratic anyway. Tell me, how is everyone? How is Lotti?” Lena was grateful that, with perfect English tact, Muriel had not asked first about Otto.
“She’s working as a nursing assistant at Barts. And she’s pregnant. Due in October.”
“How exciting.”
“Supper’s almost ready,” Alistair said from the doorway. “We’re having chicken. I hope that will be to your taste.”
“We don’t see much chicken in London,” Milton said.
“We’re fortunate. Old Hubbs down at Snaresbrook Farm keeps us well supplied.”
“Let me get drinks,” Alistair said. “The usual for you, Milton? Lena, what about you?”
It was almost like the old days, those enchanting summer evenings. Milton opened the gramophone and selected a Mozart concerto. The cowslip wine was soon buzzing through her veins. She caught the delicious aroma of roast chicken from the kitchen.
“Yes, I believe the strawberries are going to be rather successful this year,” Alistair said. “But I’m afraid I utterly failed with the broad beans. Of course, before the war, one had gardeners to take care of all that sort of thing. But here we are, digging for victory.” His eyes sparkled.
Lena smiled politely, but she was distracted by the conversation to her left.
“The ILP disgusts me more every day,” she heard Milton say. “They’re rejecting everything CW and the Labour Party are pushing for.”
“What about the WIL and the PBI? Are they still going strong?” Muriel said.
Milton said something Lena didn’t catch, and they both collapsed into peals of laughter. They seemed to be talking in their own private code.
“I see the Trotskyists are getting all the credit for the Tyneside strikes,” Muriel said.
“Yes, much to the fury of the CP.”
It wasn’t so much that Lena couldn’t follow the conversation. She’d read about the engineering strike and the threat to jail the strikers and had some understanding of the factions on the Left. And when Milton turned to include her in the discussion, she managed to say something semi-intelligent about the need for a united progressive front. But it seemed utterly unfair that Milton could have this kind of conversation with his mother; that he could be talking to his mother about anything, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. Perhaps that was why it had been difficult to write to Muriel. She wanted to be able to write to her mother, not to someone else’s. Not that she could have this kind of conversation with Máma. They would have to steer clear of politics. But she’d be happy to talk about anything—even stupid things, like Mrs. Svobodova’s curtains in the upstairs flat, or why Lena’s handbag didn’t match her shoes. It wouldn’t matter—just to be able to see Máma and touch her and know that everything was all right, that would be enough.
Muriel, Alistair, Milton—they were all kind and generous and had the best political sympathies, but they didn’t realize how lucky they were. Other families were torn apart. It wasn’t their fault, they were not to blame, but they had everything; they had each other, together in the same country, they had a beautiful home, they had strawberries, real meat. This might be the “people’s war,” but some people were suffering a lot more than others.
Yet when they rose for dinner and she found Milton at her side, she looked into his eyes and the resentment melted away. “It’s a different world here, isn’t it?” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s slip away after supper and go for a walk. There’ll be plenty of daylight left.”
CHAPTER 38
LONDON, MAY 1944
The lunch bell rang—a piercing noise that Otto would have found unbearable if it didn’t signify a welcome respite. The workers spilled out of the workshops and headed for the washrooms to change out of overalls before eating. That was one union victory: the extra time allowed for changing and washing had eliminated a lot of the “tummy trouble” they used to get. Yes, the girls had been worked up about that, all right, had even threatened to strike.
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