Otto stood in the queue at the counter, waiting for his serving of buttered Spam and chips, scanning the crowd for Harry. He was hungry. He had missed breakfast. He’d worked overtime last night and had suddenly remembered as he turned into Donegal Street that Lena would be gone and there was probably no food at home. In a mild panic, he realized he had no idea where his ration book was or who they were registered with. But Lena had left his book on the kitchen table with a note giving directions to Edwards and Son on Pentonville Road. There had been no time to shop, however. This morning, he’d had only a cup of black tea and a few spoonfuls of plum jam scooped from the jar.
Harry waved him over to a table by the window.
“Wait till you ’ear this,” he said in a conspiratorial half-whisper as Otto squeezed into the seat opposite him. “Had a drink with Dobson from the Branch Office last night. Gave me all the scoop on Spencer, ’e did.” Harry slurped his tea loudly. “You won’t believe the profits they’re rakin’ in. Up more than ferr’ee percen’ from last year.”
It took a moment for Otto to catch his meaning. “What?”
“Yup. Ferr’ee percent, mate.”
He must mean 30 percent. A 30 percent increase over last year’s profits? That was scurrilous.
“And get this,” Harry continued. “The men in the ROF filling factories make seven quid a week.”
“The government factories are paying more?”
“Yeah. Took them for bleedin’ ever to let us know that, didn’t it?”
“What about the girls?”
“Same difference, mate. They get five smackers in the ROFs.”
“Five what?”
“Sorry, mate. Five quid. Ten bob more than what they get ’ere.”
Smackers, quid, bob: the English money was complicated enough without these slang words. And you didn’t say quids or bobs even when it was clearly plural. He’d made himself a laughingstock with that mistake.
“Dobson’s comin’ over for the meetin’ on Monday,” Harry was saying. “Think you could get some of the girls in your section to come along?”
Otto said he’d try. Monday evening: Lena would be back, and he’d be glad of a good excuse not to be home. Not that he cared what she did. They’d been just going through the motions of staying together for months now. Years. If housing hadn’t been impossible to find, he would have moved out long ago. He didn’t find her attractive anymore. She was too strident, harsh. Still hopelessly naive about some things, but not in the endearing way she’d been in Paris, when she’d listened to his every word.
Perhaps Eva would be free tonight. They could go back to her place again. He remembered her shapely legs and the way she moved on top of him, and felt a quickening in his groin. But last week, she hadn’t let him into her flat. She’d made an excuse about that stupid Mavis woman she lived with, was afraid she’d prattle to Lena. Later that night, he saw her leaving with her American boyfriend.
Harry waved to a man returning his tray to the shelves by the door, a young man with a marked limp, thin and scrawny-looking. Most of the women were making their way to the adjoining room, where Workers’ Playtime was on the wireless. Otto could hear that nauseating “White Cliffs of Dover” song wafting over the airways.
“Mickey!” Harry shouted. “Over ’ere, mate.”
The youngster waved back enthusiastically and scooted around the tables.
“This is Otto. The one I was tellin’ you about.” Harry turned to Otto. “Mickey ’ere has been coming to the Party meetin’s.” He beamed with pride.
“Next meeting on Wednesday—right, Mr. Robinson?”
“I keep tellin’ you to call me Harry, son.”
“Sorry. Harry.” The boy grinned. “Comrade Harry.”
Harry turned to Otto. “We have a lecture this week on the . . .” He pulled a leaflet from his rear pocket and unfolded it. He held it at arm’s length and squinted at the print. “‘The Class Struggle in the Nazi-occupied Territories’. Right up your alley, mate.”
Harry was always trying to get him to CP meetings. Sometimes the prospect intrigued Otto. The communists were probably the only ones with the organization to create revolution in the aftermath of the war. He wondered who was giving this talk. He looked at the paper—no one he’d ever heard of. Otto couldn’t imagine he’d have anything new to say. But having another excuse to be out in the evening was appealing.
“Did you hear the news this morning?” the boy said. “The Red Army has taken another town in the Ukraine. There’s no stopping Uncle Joe! Won’t be long before he’s in Berlin!”
That was why Otto wouldn’t go to the meeting: he had no stomach for the idolization of Stalin. One thing he was curious about, however: “What is the Party saying about the Second Front these days?” he asked Harry.
“Dunno, mate. Haven’t heard a word.”
It must be imminent, then, if the Party was quiet on the subject. The communists were the earliest and loudest in agitating for the invasion. If they were silent, Moscow must have received the word from Churchill.
Marge and the other girl waved to Otto as they passed by. You could see their figures when they weren’t encased in the white overalls. That other girl was very attractive, with thick blond hair and a sassy sway in her walk. He must find out her name.
“Comrade Harry,” Mickey was saying. “Did you read in the Daily Worker about the counterrevolutionary Trotskyists responsible for the Tyneside strikes?”
Otto opened his mouth to say something in protest but then stopped himself. What was the point? This was an ignorant youngster being taken in by the Party hacks, wasting their energy attacking the noncommunist Left. You couldn’t have a serious political discussion with the likes of him—or Harry, for that matter, who was a good sort but hardly what you would call intellectual. He followed the Party line and was oblivious to the twists and turns that line took.
Otto yearned for the lively political discourse of the Berlin and Prague days. And even in Upper Wolmingham—those evenings with Peter and the group, and with Muriel and Milton—he missed all that. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but it had been stimulating.
The work in here was mind-numbing; the war dragged on with endless monotony. He was surrounded by idiots. That was why he was so bad-tempered with Lena. He didn’t mean to be—it just came out that way. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to go off with Milton. Milton was young, charming, much better looking. And Milton had stirred up enough political trouble in the army to get himself kicked out—quite an achievement. Otto had to admire him for that. Of course Lena wanted to go to Sussex. He would like to see Muriel himself. He didn’t know why he’d been so lukewarm about the idea. Yes, Muriel and Milton were firmly entrenched in the English upper class, but they had progressive views, and Otto owed his life to Muriel—he couldn’t forget that.
The bell rang. The canteen echoed with the sounds of chairs scraping on the floor, plates clattering against each other, cutlery being thrown into the steel pot on the counter. Time to head back to the washrooms, to change into overalls again for the afternoon shift.
“See you later, mate.” Harry patted Otto on the shoulder.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr., er, Otto, sir,” chirped the boy.
Otto picked up another load of cordite boxes from C Block and returned to the shop.
Even before he pushed his cart through the door, he sensed the commotion. The girls weren’t at their stations; they were huddled in the corner, some screaming and yelling, someone was sobbing, there was blood on the floor. Bert rushed over, pushing to get in the middle of things. A girl ran in front of him, carrying a wet cloth and a small metal box.
“What happened?”
“Doreen’s gone and smashed her fingers in the cutting machine.”
The circle parted like grass in the wind. In the center sat a girl, perched on an upended crate, deathly pale, quiet tears streaking down her cheeks. She bit down on her lower lip, both hands clenched in her lap. A bright re
d stain oozed across her overalls. Marge grabbed the first-aid box and pulled out bandages, shouted out instructions for the other girls to open this, hold up that.
“She’s gonna need an ambulance, Bert,” Marge said, without looking up. She added more layers, creating a massive fist of padding.
Doreen grimaced in pain.
A girl next to her was crying, “Oh my God. She lost at least three fingers in that machine.”
“I think I’m going to pass out,” someone else said.
Otto felt light-headed himself. On the floor next to the cutting machine lay something red, gelatinous, horribly digit-looking.
“Just calm down, calm down, the lot of you,” Bert shouted. “For Christ’s sake. Here, let me have a look.”
“I always said that machine was going to get someone one of these days.” This was from an older woman to Otto’s right: Connie. Tiny, she stood barely to his shoulders, but she had a feisty streak. “They don’t care. We ain’t nothing to them.” She spat out the words.
Bert tried to pull the wounded girl to her feet. Somehow she managed to stand. Marge supported her on the other side.
“Come on. That’s enough gawking,” Bert said. “Back to work.”
There was a stunned silence.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Marge said.
“I’m not kidding. I said get back to work.”
“Doreen’s gonna need a doctor.”
“What Doreen needs is to get back on that line. Back in the saddle, as they say. Come on. Jump to it.” He clapped his hands and propelled Doreen forward.
“No!” Marge shouted. “No way, mister.” She narrowed her eyes and looked over to Otto with such a fierce expression, he flinched. “Go and fetch Harry Robinson,” she barked at him. “Come on, girls.” She marched to the door, leading Doreen with her. “We . . . are . . . walking . . . out.”
And that was what they did. Just like that. Bert was screaming and yelling for them to get back right now, but they ignored him and poured out into the yard. Otto beamed with pride. He ran over to Caps and Detonators to tell Harry Robinson, and Harry called for an ambulance.
CHAPTER 39
SUSSEX, MAY 1944
On Saturday, they went for a long walk across the fields to Elminghurst. Lena’s arms tingled in the warm sunshine. Bright clusters of buttercups adorned the gateposts, as if they were smiling back at her. They talked comfortably and endlessly. Milton described his plans for the future. He was thinking of studying law.
“There’s going to be a tremendous need for progressive lawyers in the postwar reconstruction,” he said. “We’re going to have to defend the nationalization of industry, build a whole new legal system, and support the education, health, and welfare services.”
She loved his absolute faith in the possibility of change. They stood at the top of the Long Field, with its view of the South Downs. His grand plans seemed to match the sweeping vista.
“That will be something to look forward to. After all we’ve been through.” Lena paused. “After all that’s still to come.”
“Yes.” He paused, too. “I feel guilty that I won’t be taking part in the invasion,” he confessed. “So many will be risking their lives while I sit on the sidelines and cheer them on. That’s why I have to be involved politically. I have to make a contribution.”
He invited her to a meeting at Conway Hall the following week. He told her more about the Common Wealth Party platform. He asked her opinion, wanted to hear about the attitudes of the women she worked with. What did they think of the government? How would they vote in the next election?
“Do you think anyone is fooled by Churchill’s feeble attempts to hop on the bandwagon and pretend he supports reform?” He picked up a thick twig and impersonated the prime minister puffing at his cigar, then lowered his voice to a Churchillian growl. “I suppose one will have to give the damn peasants something for fighting this war, just as long as we can go back to capitalism as it was in the good old days.”
Lena laughed. Puffy white clouds danced across the sky.
They stopped for a beer at the Green Man, sitting at a tiny table under dark oak beams. He talked about the report he was working on for Mass Observation, on the need for state-sponsored nurseries for working mothers. He asked about the children of the women she worked with, who took care of them during the day.
Lena’s mind felt alive, as though her brain cells were jumping for joy. But her body was feeling something else. A feeling she hardly dared name. She watched his hands as they cradled his beer glass. She saw that scar again, on the middle finger of his left hand. It was fainter now.
Milton behaved like a perfect gentleman, flattering and attentive. He placed his hand on her back as he guided her over the stream behind Snaresbrook Farm. He took her elbow as they walked down a steep, narrow path that led into the wood. A carpet of bluebells covered the ground, brilliant in the dappled sunlight.
“I’d forgotten the bluebells,” Lena said. “They’re spectacular.”
“Yes. This is my favorite time of year.”
They stood close, shoulder to shoulder, sharing this sight. And when they reached the kissing gate at the other end, he lingered, he on one side of the swinging barrier, she on the other. He looked into her eyes, and Lena held her breath—but then she looked away, overcome with nerves. He pecked her on the cheek, and the moment passed.
She wished she had not turned away. He would think she was brushing him off.
They enjoyed another evening at The Hollow, eating, drinking, talking, listening to music. It was warm enough to keep the windows open, delaying as long as possible the moment of turning on the lights and putting up the blackout shades. While Muriel sang some of her traditional Sussex folk songs in her rich, strong voice, Milton sat next to Lena on the sofa, his knee brushing against hers.
It was very late when Muriel and Alistair retired for the night. After Milton cleared the glasses, Lena said, “I’ve had a wonderful day. Thank you so much.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He gave a little bow, almost in mock deference.
Lena laughed. She imagined throwing herself into his arms. But then she heard the sound of something dropping on the floor upstairs, and the soft, deep murmur of Alistair’s voice, followed by Muriel’s light laugh. Milton turned his head toward the sound. It seemed impossible to embrace with his mother’s presence looming over the room.
He kissed her hand and bade her good night. Lena retreated to the attic guest room under the eaves. She lay in the narrow bed, in its smooth white sheets, astonished at the boldness of her body as it yearned to be with him. Yet she was also terrified at the prospect. Otto was the only man she’d ever been with. She was so familiar with the landscape of his body—the crook of his shoulder where her head nestled so perfectly, the wiry hair on his chest, his knobby knees. Recently, their lovemaking had seemed empty and mechanical. But it was comforting in its own way; she was used to it. She wasn’t sure she would know what to do with anyone else.
Sleep did not come easily. She tried to quell the chatter in her head and the squirming of her legs, but at the moment when she felt perhaps she was sinking into the velvet comfort of oblivion, she jerked awake again, remembering Milton’s shoulder rubbing against hers as they admired the view, and the urge she’d had to touch him. She tugged at the counterpane to loosen its grip at the foot of the bed. She could faintly discern the outline of the window behind the blackout shade, with a slim streak of moonlight seeping through. She thought guiltily of Otto lying at home alone.
She must have drifted off eventually. She overslept, missed breakfast. “Good for you,” Muriel chuckled. “Must be all the fresh country air.”
She seemed unperturbed by Lena’s late appearance. Máma would have been cross; she always acted as if the flat were untidy if anyone was still in bed after 9:00 A.M.
“What can I get you, dear?” Muriel asked. She sat by the parlor window overlooking the terrace. She was arranging yellow r
oses in a small pewter vase. “Hubbs brought over some eggs this morning.”
“Oh, no. Please don’t go to any trouble. I’ll just make myself a quick cup of tea.” Lena was still stuffed from dinner.
“They say it’s going to be even warmer today.”
Lena couldn’t take her eyes off the window, scouring the terrace and back garden for any sign of Milton. She longed to see him yet dreaded it, too, afraid that her yearnings of the previous night would be painted across her face.
“Milton walked back with Hubbs to look at the barn door. He’ll be back soon. Hubbs is insisting it has to be replaced.” Muriel moved to the terrace, carrying the roses, arranged just by touch into a perfectly symmetrical bouquet. “I don’t know where he imagines we’re going to get the materials. One simply can’t get lumber anywhere these days.”
Good heavens. Muriel owned the farm, too? Somehow Lena had not realized that.
“Feel free to take a bath, dear,” Muriel said. “There’s plenty of hot water.”
Lena politely declined. Every time she used the toilet, she had to avert her eyes from the tub. She had such vivid memories of being there with Otto, stretching out together, scrubbing each other’s backs.
She and Milton went for one last stroll before they took the train back to London. He walked ahead of her on the path that led back to the churchyard. He was not as tall as Otto but was broader across the shoulders, more solid. His muscles were supple under his shirt, and a patch of sweat seeped through below the collar. When it was just the two of them, it seemed simple to laugh and talk without worrying about the repercussions. But the repercussions were fast approaching, beginning on the other side of the churchyard, where they would bid farewell to Muriel and Alistair and return to London.
Lena recalled the uncomfortable scene at lunch. No one had mentioned Otto since she’d arrived. All this time. The longer this went on, the more embarrassing his absence from the conversation became. Finally, at lunch, Alistair asked after him, as if suddenly remembering a long-lost friend. Lena felt herself blushing and muttered something about his work. She probably sounded incoherent.
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