“That’s absurd.”
“Yes. It would be amusing were it not also tragic, a sad commentary on the state of the Left.”
“I hate that sort of bickering. It won’t get us anywhere.” She didn’t want the enthusiasm she’d felt at the meeting to be deflated so soon. “Can’t there be a way to find common ground for the election and the postwar reconstruction?”
“Precisely. It will be crucial to have a united progressive front.”
He came to a halt outside a three-story building in an imposing row; they had reached Mecklenburgh Square. The houses seemed to be struggling to retain their former dignity in the face of peeling paint and windows boarded with plywood. Milton let go of Lena’s hand and looked at the ground-floor window.
“I’m afraid I’ve not paid attention to where we were walking,” he said, with a sheepish laugh. “I seem to have led us back to my flat.”
Lena felt her cheeks color. Could this really be an unintentional slip? It seemed unlikely. But he smiled at her, his face alight, and she realized she didn’t care.
“Would you like to come in for a moment? I can’t say I keep a full pantry, but I believe I can muster up the wherewithal for a cup of tea.”
“All right.”
His flat was larger than hers, with its own hallway directly inside the front door, and a small kitchen area, separate from the living room. It was sparsely furnished. The most striking feature was a large bookcase in the living room, stocked floor to ceiling. There were rows of historical biographies and volumes of political theory—Marx, Lenin, and Trotsky—as well as more recent contributions from Sartre, Orwell, J. B. Priestley, and George Bernard Shaw. But also poetry and drama: several volumes of Oscar Wilde, and Shakespeare, and a slim anthology of Keats. Lena idly browsed the shelves while Milton went into the kitchen.
When she thought about it later, Lena could not recall exactly what happened next. Or, rather, she remembered the what but not the how. He must have returned from the kitchen and encircled her from behind. She turned to face him, and he kissed her full on the lips, soft and moist, and there was a fumbling of clothes, and a moment later he was waltzing her backward to the bedroom, discarding garments en route. There was no way to stop. They stumbled onto the bed. He paused for a moment, raised on his elbows above her, his hands cupping her face.
“Is this . . . Is this all right?”
She wasn’t sure if he meant all right to proceed, or to proceed without taking precautions, or to proceed in this position. But the answer was the same.
“Yes, yes.” To all of the above. The words escaped in tiny gasps. She arched her hips to meet his.
CHAPTER 41
LONDON, JUNE 1944
The following Tuesday, Gladys Woodruff was the first with the news. She rushed in from the front office, flapping a stack of counterfoils in excitement.
“It’s started.”
For an instant, Lena was bewildered. What on earth was she talking about? The new cod-liver-oil counterfoils had already been introduced. Even Gladys could not be that confused.
But Gladys stood with her eyes wide as teacups, and then Lena knew what she meant. “They landed in Normandy early this morning. They say it’s on the wireless.”
Lena’s hand flew to her mouth. Sheila jumped up, knocking her chair to the ground with a thud. Mrs. Manson emerged from her office. She had a wireless in there.
“Special bulletin coming up,” she announced. “They’re interrupting the usual program.”
They stood in a circle around her desk. No one said a word. Mrs. Manson fiddled with the wireless, trying to eliminate the static. The BBC announcer intoned in a solemn voice that there was a special proclamation from Westminster. Mr. Churchill had just made a statement to the House. The first in a series of landings on the European continent had taken place, “on a scale far larger than anything that has been seen so far in the world.”
Sheila crossed herself and muttered a prayer.
“Do you think this means the war will be over by Christmas?” asked Mildred.
“Praise be to the Lord, let’s hope so,” Sheila said.
“I wouldn’t count on it, girls,” Mrs. Manson said, switching off the wireless. “Now, back to work. We can’t be slacking off now, not when our boys are crossing the Channel.”
Lena tried to go back to her ledgers but couldn’t concentrate. It felt surreal, finally, after all the years of waiting. She thought of the tanks rumbling through the lanes of Sussex, suddenly remembered the fresh-faced redhead she’d seen walking to the pub, one of thousands marching headlong into the melee. And Ernst. Where was he? She hadn’t heard from him since their lunch together. And Máma. Dear Máma. Would she hear this news and know that help was on its way?
The whole world had turned upside down in the space of a few days. The Second Front had been launched at last and Lena had a new lover. She yearned to see Milton, to see him and hold him and to share this historic news with him. But he would not be back in London until the following week; he was on assignment in the Midlands. Perhaps Lotti would be home tonight. She couldn’t bear the thought of another tense evening in the flat with Otto. They were living in a foggy no-man’s-land. He came home late, and had slept on the sofa one night, but they hadn’t talked; she hadn’t explicitly told him she had slept with Milton, and he hadn’t asked. But she knew he knew.
“Will I have to challenge Otto to a duel at daybreak?” Milton had said that first night as they lay in his bed. He was propped on his side, gently stroking her forearm with his fingertips.
He was joking, of course. But Lena would almost rather that than this stifling stalemate of silence.
The following week, Lena received a note from Lotti: she wanted to get together for dinner on Thursday. Lena had not yet told her about Milton. She had started to say something when she went over on D-Day, but then Lotti’s neighbors, Wilma and Peggy, from across the street had come over, too, everyone wanting to listen to the BBC, since Lotti had the only functioning wireless, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk more.
The truth was, she was nervous about Lotti’s reaction. Lotti liked to talk about them all going back to Prague together after the war—she and Peter, Otto and Lena—and raising their families together. It was a picture Lena could never imagine herself fitting into, but she never challenged Lotti on this. Now, Lotti would see that she was throwing all that overboard.
But Lena really didn’t care. Milton was returning to town later that night, and she couldn’t wait to see him.
Lotti’s note suggested meeting at six and going to the British Restaurant on Tottenham Court Road. Lena went to Lotti’s straight from work.
“You’re early!” Lotti greeted her, as they embraced. “Come in. I’m almost ready.”
“I thought we could eat early and then go on to the News Cinema on Oxford Street.”
“Yes, good idea. You know me, always ready to eat these days.” Lotti was five months along, and seemed to be hungry all the time. “I have this terrible craving for sauerkraut, but I’m sure they won’t have that anywhere!”
“But at least the portions will be huge at the restaurant,” Lena said.
Lotti stepped back and looked Lena up and down. “You look very nice. My goodness, is that a new skirt?”
“Yes.” Lena pirouetted, with her hands on her hips. The skirt was a delicate, pale blue with a soft sheen that glistened in the light from the window.
“It’s lovely! How much was that?”
“Twelve points. I haven’t bought any clothes in months, so I have plenty of coupons. It was three guineas. I got a frock, too. At Selfridges.”
“It’s even got pleats.” Lotti fingered the material. “Goodness! What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.”
“I’m so jealous! Just when those horrid restrictions are lifted and clothes are pretty again, I’m stuck with these ugly hand-me-downs.” She pointed to her shapeless beige dress.
They
laughed and walked arm in arm to the Tube. Lena started to tell Lotti about a woman at work who had confused Normandy with Norway. They were waiting to cross the street, and Lena was gesticulating with her hands to illustrate how she’d drawn a map of Europe for the poor girl, when Lotti suddenly noticed.
“What happened to your wedding ring?”
Lena halted midair, both hands outstretched. Then she turned to Lotti with a smile, linked arms with her again, and strode across the street.
“I took it off. I don’t want to wear it anymore.”
“What’s going on?”
Lena did not respond. She continued walking, with a smile like a pancake spread across her face. She saw Lotti’s eyes widen as the pieces slid into place.
“Lena Kulkova! Are you having an affair?”
“Don’t you think you’re making a mistake?” Lotti asked, as they left the restaurant, hurrying now, because they had talked so long. They were trying to make the seven thirty show. “Isn’t this just a little infatuation?”
“I don’t know what it is, but I can’t remember when I felt this happy.”
“You do look radiant,” Lotti said.
As they turned into Oxford Street, they saw a huge queue at the cinema.
“Oh no! Look at that.” Lotti said.
“I suppose everyone’s eager for news on the progress in France,” Lena said.
As they walked to the end of the line, she saw a familiar face in the crowd. “Eva!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”
And then stopped in her tracks, her smile frozen. Otto stood next to her. And Mavis, too.
Eva giggled nervously. Otto peered over everyone’s heads, staring at the front of the queue.
Mavis broke the silence. “Hello, Lena. Lovely to see you, Lotti.” She was the only one oblivious to the tension. “Fancy seeing you here! I’m just bumping into everyone this evening. I ran into Eva and Otto as they were leaving and invited myself along! You look wonderful, Lotti. Look at you! You’re blooming! Here, come and join us. We can all go in together. That’s it. Lovely!” Mavis pulled them into small talk as the queue shuffled forward.
“Isn’t this civilized?” Otto said to no one in particular, curling his upper lip around the words.
They sat near the back, Lotti positioned between Lena and Otto, as the screen played dramatic footage from Normandy: a cloud of paratroopers descending like locusts onto French fields, tanks storming the beaches, the villages of Bayeux and Sainte-Mère-Église falling to British and American forces. The announcer praised their heroic efforts to the sound of stirring music. The audience cheered loudly, stamped their feet, whistled in appreciation. No one could resist being swept up by the spectacle.
But as the next feature was announced, Lena gripped Lotti’s hand. “Oh my God! Look! Terezín!”
The people seated immediately in front turned in surprise. Otto jerked his head toward Lena in obvious disapproval.
The cursive script unfolded across the screen: the International Red Cross had paid a visit to Terezín, or Theresienstadt, as they called it, using the German name. The announcer’s tone remained buoyant. The Red Cross, with representatives from the Danish government, had inspected conditions in the special town for Jews located just outside Prague. An idyllic city protecting them from the stresses of the war. The camera spanned the low concrete buildings. Young women tended a garden. Two bakers unloaded heaps of fresh bread from wood-fired ovens. In the cultural center, an orchestra rehearsal was in session.
Lena continued to grip Lotti’s hand. She knew Lotti remembered Terezín well—it was a garrison town where Peter had done his military service, back in ’36. They exchanged a brief, fearful glance. Was this where Máma and Sasha were now? And Lotti’s Matka and Father and Babička? And Rosa, Rudi, and Max? All those left behind?
The camera swept past the orchestra to a stage where a group of costumed children were singing. Lena was riveted. Was Sasha there? She couldn’t see very well; there were no close-up shots. And Sasha would be much older now, of course, almost grown. But there were some older children in the group, too. It was an opera, the announcer said, written and performed by the town’s inhabitants. Brundibár, it was called: The Bumblebee.
They sat there, stunned, while the rest of the audience filed out. The lights came up to reveal a yellowish, smoke-filled haze.
“That didn’t look so bad,” Lotti said.
“Those terrible reports you hear must be grossly exaggerated,” Lena said.
“You believe that balderdash?” Otto said. “It’s obviously pure propaganda.”
“What are you talking about?” Lena said. “That’s from the Red Cross.”
“You can’t seriously think that’s an accurate portrayal of a Nazi camp.”
“But the cameras were there. You could see for yourself what it’s like.”
“They were clearly duped. It’s a complete fraud.”
“But the worst rumors have all been from Poland. The—”
“You really believe that Hitler is going to spare the Czech Jews?”
Lotti, sitting in the crossfire, sandwiched between them, tried to jump in as mediator: “Well, perhaps there’s some truth—”
But Lena jumped up. “I’m sick and tired of you always being so damn pessimistic!” she shouted at Otto. “Always, every single time, you have to see the worst possibility. Why can’t you just once say, ‘Maybe it’s going to be all right’? Would that be so terrible? Just once to allow people to keep a glimmer of hope alive? To refuse to accept that the only outcome is unimaginable horror?”
Lena turned on her heel.
“Lena!” Mavis wailed. “Where’re you going?”
No one else needed to ask.
CHAPTER 42
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1944
Are you sure you don’t mind?” Lotti said.
“No, go on. Enjoy yourselves.” Lena picked up the newspaper. She scanned the headline: CANADIANS CAPTURE ZEEBRUGGE.
“We won’t stay long, I promise. He’s just been fed and changed. He should sleep for a while.”
Lena shooed Lotti and Peter out of the flat. “Go on. If you stand here and talk about it much longer, it will be time for the next feeding.”
“We’ll be at the Rose and Crown on the corner,” Peter said, “if you need us for anything.”
It was his last night of leave. He had been home for three days but was soon to depart for an overseas assignment.
“Go on,” Lena said. “I’ll see you later. Take your time.”
Lotti cast a last, lingering look at the crib in the corner—fashioned from the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers, well-padded with small pillows and blankets. Almost as soon as the door closed behind them, Charles startled awake with a small cry, but then he gurgled and went back to sleep. Lena walked toward the crib and stared at the infant.
He had a wisp of brown hair in the center of his forehead, soft, chubby cheeks, and definitely Peter’s chin. He was snuggled in several layers, warm and cozy. She gave the blanket at his feet an extra tuck for good measure and opened the newspaper. She flipped through the inside pages, searching for news about Czechoslovakia. Nothing. The RAF had sunk the battleship Tirpitz in a Norwegian fjord, and the Red Army had entered the suburbs of Budapest. All good news, but Lena could feel no elation. The Allies seemed to be stalled on the Western Front. France may have been liberated back in August, but the Germans were not conceding Belgium or Holland without a fight to the death. The Doodlebug rockets were still hammering London; the Nazi launching sites on the Continent were functioning with impunity.
She’d had enough. She wanted this to be over. Everywhere around her, there was an overwhelming sense of weariness. Gloom and weariness.
Charles stirred again, kicking his little legs under the blankets. A rivulet of drool escaped from his lower lip. Such sweet innocence, such a marvel, this new life perfectly formed, oblivious to all the death and destruction in the world, impervious to the lack of news about the fate
of his grandparents or his aunts and uncles, unfazed by the latest devastation from flying bombs. Lena remembered Sasha as a baby: her rosy cheeks, the softness of her skin, that smell, almost sickly sweet.
Lena yearned for news from Prague. She’d received a letter from Ernst a few weeks earlier; the Czech Brigade was bogged down, besieging the port of Dunkirk. They were still in France! The Germans were refusing to surrender the city. So, after all this time, Ernst was still hundreds of miles from Prague. Perhaps Peter would get there first. He said he would be traveling to Czechoslovakia via a tortuous route—sailing through the Strait of Gibraltar—on assignment with the RAF and the Czech Ministry of Information, laying the groundwork for postwar Czech broadcasting services. She couldn’t imagine how long his journey would take—he thought he would be gone for months—but perhaps he would be the first to reach home.
She realized it had been unrealistic—and Otto never missed an opportunity to point out how absurd she’d been—but somehow she’d imagined the Czech Brigade charging through with breakneck speed, and Ernst writing that he’d found Sasha. And Máma. Although Lena found it hard to picture Máma these days. When she looked at the photograph she had, of herself and Máma walking back from the bakery in Staré Mĕsto, she tried to imagine where Máma was, what she was doing now, but nothing came into focus. Mostly, she envisioned holding Sasha, having Sasha come live with her here in England.
She thought often of the newsreel they had seen of the Red Cross visit to Terezín, the grainy images of the children in the opera Brundibár, the conductor waving his arms in the air, the bright-eyed faces singing in earnest. Those children looked happy, well fed. She held on to this image with dogged determination.
The news from eastern Poland a few months earlier, after the Red Army liberation of Majdanek—and the discovery of a gruesome camp, a gigantic murder factory—was preposterous, impossible to accept. Many dismissed it as Soviet propaganda. Lena refused to believe it. But she could not shake a sickening, black fear.
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