Thankfully, Muriel changed the subject. But soon the conversation turned to complaints about the old farmer who wanted to have the barn repaired.
“Doesn’t he know there’s a war going on?” Muriel grumbled.
A familiar refrain, but it seemed to have a hollow ring coming from her. Lena looked down at her plate, at a delicious rabbit stew, courtesy of this same farmer.
“We’re all making sacrifices,” Muriel continued. “After all, I’ve been unable to live in my own home for four years.”
Lena found the tone disturbing. She had not remembered this from before. Had Muriel changed, or had Lena forgotten? She’d always known that Muriel was privileged. Why did it bother her now? Coming here was like stepping into a different world. Did she despise it or envy it? And how did Milton fit into it?
He rose to fetch the water jug from behind where Muriel and Alistair sat. They were outbidding each other in complaints about the cramped living conditions at The Hollow. Milton looked at her over their heads and rolled his eyes, and made a silent snapping gesture with his thumb and fingers, pantomiming their conversation. Lena had to concentrate on her roast potatoes to hide her amusement. Yet Milton did not protest or challenge them. When she thought of her tiny flat, or how Gladys from work was now living with her granddaughter and three nieces in a two-up-two-down, or the thousands of Londoners who had been bombed out and lost everything, she wanted to scream.
A heavy uneasiness settled in her chest. She’d pushed it aside for her walk with Milton, enjoying the green fields one more time. But it came flooding back now as they returned to The Hollow. They collected their luggage and stood awkwardly in the doorway, saying good-bye.
Muriel was back to her cheerful self, and Lena thanked her profusely for a wonderful time, but the repeated invitations for her to return begged questions that hung in the air, unspoken, unanswered.
What was she doing with Milton? What did this all mean?
The train to London was crowded. They were lucky to find seats, packed in a compartment with three noisy young boys. There was no chance to talk. Milton gave up his seat at Croydon to a middle-aged woman with a bulging canvas bag. The fatigue from her restless night caught up with Lena, and she nodded off with the rhythmic rocking of the locomotive. Twice, her head jerked forward, snapping her awake.
On the Tube, Milton again invited her to join him on Friday for a meeting at Conway Hall. She said she would love to go. He smiled and said, “Splendid” in the way that made her melt. He got off at Russell Square, with a quick squeeze of her hand and a wave as the train pulled out of the station. She missed him as soon as she was in the tunnel.
Now, she was nervous about seeing Otto. How would he react to her return? Would they immediately argue? Had he found himself something to eat over the weekend?
She opened the door to the flat with trepidation. The room was empty, relatively tidy. There was a note for her on the table. A cheerful note from Otto. He hoped she’d had a nice weekend. He was sorry that he would be home late. The workers at the factory had walked out in a wildcat strike, and he was on the picket line.
CHAPTER 40
LONDON, MAY 1944
A week had never passed so slowly. Lena could not put Milton out of her mind. She thought of him when she first woke in the morning, with Otto far away on the other side of the bed. She thought of him as she walked to the Tube station, past the bombed-out wreckage on the corner of Killick Street, where the purple flowers of the firebrand willow herb sprouted idiotically from the depths of the rubble. She thought of him as she checked the eight-week reporting returns from the Holburn retailers, queued for butter and tea at the grocer’s, and washed the dishes at the sink, gazing over the rooftops toward King’s Cross.
Lena’s thoughts fluttered back to Milton a hundred times a day, like a moth toward the light. Most of all, she remembered the view of his back as he walked ahead of her on the path through the woods, the feel of his shoulder against hers as they looked out over the rolling fields, the sight of his hands as he cradled the beer glass in the pub.
Why had she turned away as he’d been about to kiss her? Had he concluded she wasn’t interested? Did she really have the courage to allow her feelings for him to run free? What if there was no way to reconcile their utterly different backgrounds? Or what if she just didn’t want her life to become tangled and messy?
Otto seemed preoccupied with events at the factory. He stayed out late every night; they hardly saw each other. Lena spent the evenings alone. She wanted to tell him she was going to the meeting with Milton. Why sneak around, weaving a web of deception? Didn’t he always say marriage was a bourgeois institution? Why should he care if she saw someone else? Yet, somehow, it didn’t seem that simple.
Thursday evening, one more day until Friday; Lena could barely sit still. To calm herself, she took out her mending. There were socks to darn, her gray skirt was missing a button, and Otto’s tweed jacket needed new elbow patches again. She made herself a cup of tea, turned on the wireless, and began to relax. There was something soothing about the repetitive motion of needle and thread, the firm pressure of the thimble against her fingertip, the sense of accomplishment when she could tie a final knot and trim off the thread, task completed.
And on the wireless, It’s That Man Again, a favorite of everyone at work. It was difficult to follow Friday-morning conversation if she missed a week’s episode. Lena laughed out loud at Mrs. Mopp and Colonel Chinstrap and their double entendres. She found herself distracted by some of the most salacious repartee, her mind wandering to a certain hillside in Sussex.
It was almost eight o’clock when she heard the front door slam and Otto’s footsteps on the stairs. Her chest tightened.
“We won!” He stood in the doorway, a huge smile on his face. “The management, they give in. We’ll be having a Joint Production Committee, like in the government ROF factories. Inspect all the machines for safety.”
He strode across the room and helped himself to a glass of water, which he drank in huge gulps.
“And we all get more pay.” He turned to face Lena. “My earnings will be seven quid a week.”
She’d never heard him say quid before; it was always pounds, and always with a hint of contempt in his voice, as if he didn’t approve of the currency of the realm. What’s more, he was speaking in English.
“That’s wonderful,” she said.
Seven pounds: a lot more than she earned. His hair was disheveled, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He sat in the armchair opposite her. “You won’t believe how militant they were. They refused to go back until we got—how you say?—a commistment . . .”
“Commitment? Eine Zusage?”
“Ja, ja. Eine Zusage.” He reverted to German. “They agreed to slow down the line for all the cutting and necking machines. And Harry—now, he did a good job.” He jumped to his feet. It was as if his enthusiasm could not be contained in a seated position. “Can I turn this off?” He switched off the wireless without waiting for a response. “Of course, Dobson and all those idiots from the Branch Office had to keep their distance,” he continued, “with all strikes being illegal, blah, blah. Proved to be utterly spineless. Spineless.” He spat out the words.
“Well, you won. That’s marvelous.”
“The workers really learned a lesson about the power of collective action.” He looked directly at Lena for the first time since he’d entered and, with an almost imperceptible flinch, said, “How was your weekend in the country, by the way? You haven’t told me anything about it. How is Muriel?”
“Well, you’ve been gone.” Lena tried to keep her tone light. “Muriel is fine. She seems to be completely blind now. But she’s otherwise well. It was lovely down there. They have so much food.” She gave a light laugh and picked up her darning again, avoiding Otto’s gaze.
“I suppose they’re pretty much untouched by the war.”
“Yes.”
Lena remembered the rumblings of re
sentment she had felt in Sussex, but she didn’t want to voice these to Otto. “But they’re overrun with troops, gearing up for the invasion.” A safe topic—he would be interested in this. “Everywhere tanks and army lorries, lying in wait.”
“Ah. Interesting.” He took out his pipe. “That means they’re going to cross at Calais after all.”
They fell into silence. Lena wished the wireless were still on. She concentrated on her darning, smoothing out the woolen lattice at the heel.
“I’m going to be out again tomorrow evening,” he said finally. “We’re all going out to celebrate.”
“All right.”
She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. No need, then, to mention her own plans. But a moment later she heard herself say, “I’m going out, too.” She paused. He waited. She forced the words out. “Milton told me about a Common Wealth meeting. It sounds interesting.”
“Common Wealth Party? Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Lena looked up at him in surprise. “Well, I . . .”
“They’re just a tiny splinter group. What could they ever hope to achieve?”
“I just want to learn more about it.”
Another silence. Then Otto said, “Suit yourself. But it’s a waste of time, if you ask me.”
At five thirty on Friday, Lena finished the retailers’ ledger, gathered up her handbag and cardigan, and hurried through the lobby. Milton stood outside. He had just bought an Evening Standard from the boy on the corner, and his face lit up when he saw her. He looked relaxed yet elegant, his linen jacket falling smoothly from his shoulders, his open-necked shirt revealing sun-bronzed skin. In that moment, she knew there was no turning back. She didn’t know what lay ahead, but she didn’t care. It was as if she were poised at the top of a steep slope on her long wooden skis, high above Ždiar in the lofty Tatra Mountains, pausing for a moment before plunging forward.
She moved toward him, and he enfolded her lightly in his arms.
“How wonderful to see you again,” he said. “I know a little place just around the corner from Red Lion Square. We could get a bite to eat, if you like.”
Lena smiled. There was no need to talk. After hours scrunched over columns of numbers, she was delighted to throw back her shoulders, inhale the warm evening air, and stride arm in arm through the streets.
“Do you notice something different?” Milton asked, his tone more subdued.
Now that he mentioned it, there was something—a stillness in the air—in spite of this being central London. But she couldn’t name it.
“There’re no soldiers on the streets,” he said. “The Americans: all gone. The pubs: empty.”
“Oh my God.”
“The proverbial calm before the storm, as it were.”
Yes. The city was empty. This could mean only one thing: the invasion was imminent. Lena’s gut twisted in fear. This was what they’d been waiting for, hoping for, for so long. But what if it failed? And what about Ernst? Would he embark with the first wave?
“It’s exciting and awful at the same time,” Milton said. “Yes, exactly.”
“I suppose your brother will be going over?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“You must be worried about him.” He faced her directly. “You know, we don’t have to go to this meeting, if you would rather not. We could take a walk. It’s a lovely evening.”
It was. She was comfortable sleeveless; she held her cardigan in her free hand. “Tell me more about the meeting.”
“Hugh Lawson will be there. He’s the Common Wealth MP who won that sensational by-election in January, overturning a huge Tory majority. He’s a great speaker.”
“Can we go just for a little while?”
“Of course. We can sit at the back and leave whenever we want.” Forty people were already seated by the time they arrived; a dozen more hovered by a table covered with broadsheets and pamphlets. Lena did a quick survey: a mixed crowd of men and women in their late fifties or sixties, dressed in sensible Utility apparel; workingmen in overalls; young office girls; a few couples. The room rumbled with easy conversation. A man at the literature table waved to Milton; his right shirtsleeve dangled empty, tied in a knot just below where his elbow should have been.
An older man, completely bald, with a ruddy complexion, shook Milton’s hand with vigor. Milton introduced her. Did he say “Mrs.” or “Miss” Eisenberg? Lena wasn’t sure. She hid her left hand behind her back to conceal her wedding ring. Why did she still wear it?
The bald man moved to the front of the room and called the meeting to order. He mumbled through some procedural matters about minutes and forthcoming meetings. He was barely audible from the back row. Lena looked at Milton, trying to catch his eye. Perhaps she could still take him up on the offer to go for a walk instead. But he was focused on a pamphlet he’d picked up from the literature table. She looked at his hands, lying gently on his lap, and his knee, almost touching hers.
The man up front seemed to pull himself together, as if snapping out of a trance. “Ahem. Yes, well,” he said, raising his voice. “Enough of all that. I’m sure you haven’t come to hear me go on and on.” There were a few titters of polite laughter. “Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, allow me to introduce our guest of honor, the Right Honorable member for Skipton, Mr. Hugh Lawson.”
The room erupted into applause. A tall, imposing figure rose from the front row. Handsome in an unpretentious way, he was younger than Lena had expected, in his thirties, perhaps, with relaxed self-confidence. He wore a gray suit, in spite of the warmth of the evening.
“Thank you so much.” He raised a hand to quiet the applause. “Thank you. I do appreciate your coming here on this beautiful evening. I’m sure you have more exciting things you could be doing.” He smiled, and Lena could have sworn he looked directly at her. “But, my friends, we are at a critical moment in our country’s history. Victory over the Nazis is now in sight. I believe we all understand that the invasion of the Continent will occur any day now. Of course, the war isn’t over yet. We will have to endure retaliation, more raids, many more casualties. But the end is in sight.”
He strode back and forth as he spoke. “That is precisely why it is so important for us to lay the groundwork for the postwar reconstruction we want to see.” He stopped pacing and turned to face his audience square-on. “The Labour Party cannot provide the leadership on this. Its hands are tied by its coalition with the Tories in the National Government. And make no mistake: Churchill has made it clear he wants to return to full-blown capitalism after the war and roll back the progress we’ve made on a planned economy. Now is the time. Our soldiers returning home from the battlefields truly do deserve a ‘land fit for heroes,’ a nation with equality and justice for all.”
As he continued to expound the platform, Lena found herself agreeing with everything: the need for decent work, fair pay, good education, and adequate housing and health care for everyone. If the government could organize a massive system of production and distribution for the war effort, it could do the same for peacetime.
Watching him hold the attention of the room, Lena was reminded of Otto in his heyday and the movement back in Prague, the sense of shared struggle, of devotion to something big and noble. The presentation went on for more than an hour, but Lena wasn’t bored. There were questions from the audience, lively discussion. Milton raised his hand and asked a detailed question about levels of taxation, which drew a thoughtful response from the speaker.
As the meeting drew to a close and people rose to leave, Milton took Lena by the hand and led her out into the late-evening sunlight.
“That was interesting,” she said.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” They were still holding hands. This time, she would not let go.
They walked on, the words flowing freely, their feet following with no regard to where they were headed, Milton’s hand firm around hers.
“Are you a member of the Common Wealth Party?” Lena asked.
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br /> “No, but I’m considering it. They don’t use the term Party, by the way. That’s one appealing aspect. They consider it too restrictive, too reminiscent of the communists. The initials would even be the same: CP. So it’s just Common Wealth: CW.”
“Do you think they’re big enough to achieve anything?”
She was playing devil’s advocate here—she knew that. More precisely, Otto’s advocate. It was hard to get his voice out of her head. It was Otto who had patiently explained to her the various factions in Barcelona and the history of the divisions in the socialist movement. Otto had taught her to distinguish short-term goals from long-term strategy. Eventually, by a process of osmosis, his knowledge had become hers, too. What did she—Lena by and of herself—what did she believe?
“It remains to be seen,” Milton was saying. “Their by-election victories are certainly impressive. The Tories are rattled.”
“What about the CP? Especially on the Continent. Don’t you think the communists are going to be poised to seize control as the Red Army advances?”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think we’ll have the same conditions here.”
It was different from her conversations with Otto. Milton’s tone was tender, not argumentative. It was like floating in a gentle sea of ideas, not butting heads in conflict.
“Besides,” he continued, “the CP won’t have me.”
“What do you mean?”
They were ambling through the back streets of Bloomsbury; Milton seemed to know where he was going. The streets were eerily quiet, as though the city were holding its breath.
“I dabbled briefly in the ILP during my Oxford days—and later, too.” He hesitated for a moment. “So I’m considered persona non grata, as it were. The Party would accept me only if I were to provide a written ‘confession’ and break off all personal relations with any Trotskyists!” He laughed. “It’s ludicrous. When they’re opening the doors to any ordinary bourgeois with an ounce of vaguely progressive views!”
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