“Abraham Lincoln.” Milton smiled. “One of Mother’s heroes. But there’s such idealism about the new world after the war. It’s all people talk about—when they’re not talking about what they’re going to eat next.”
Lena laughed. “I’m going to eat more of that bread. The crust is wonderful.”
And it was wonderful to feel so at home. There was none of the discomfort she had felt on her previous visit. After lunch, she sank into the big armchair in front of the fire and relaxed. Alistair returned from East Grinstead with amusing anecdotes about the pompous Colonel Knowles at the hospital board committee meeting. There was the promise of a walk in the woods later if the rain let up. While Muriel played the piano, Lena drank tea and Milton smiled at her from the other side of the hearth.
Later, when it was time for bed, without any comment or fanfare, she and Milton took the spare room, where a double bed had been made up. Milton pulled her onto him.
“I want you to stay with me here in England after the war,” he whispered, cupping her face in his hands. He spoke with such tenderness.
“But I have to go and find Sasha.” Lena’s eyes filled with tears.
“Of course. But then bring her back here to live with us.”
It was such an idyllic fantasy; Lena hardly dared speak, as if the notion were a fragile ornament that might shatter if touched. She nodded and closed her eyes to fight back the tears, burying her face against his chest. Their lovemaking was long and soft and delicious, like a sweet orange. Lena hoped the thick walls of the ancient house were soundproof.
When Lena returned home from work on Friday, Lotti announced, “I ran into Eva today on Pentonville Road.”
“Eva?” Lena had not seen her in months.
“She wanted to know if you could meet her tonight in the Rose and Crown. She said something about receiving a letter from Paris. From someone she said you’d remember . . . Margarita?”
“Marguerite! Oh my God! When?”
“Seven thirty.”
“I can’t believe it. Marguerite!”
“Who is she?”
“My friend. You remember—I told you about her. She was Eva’s friend first. But I lived with her in the rue Cassette. Eva lost touch with her in the chaos of the Nazi invasion, and we haven’t heard from her since.” Lena looked at her watch. “I have to go.”
Lotti laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have over an hour. Let’s eat. I tried that nut loaf again. I hope it tastes better this time.”
It did. It was delicious, in fact, and Lena ate rapidly, partly out of nerves. For months, she realized, she’d been avoiding Eva; now she couldn’t wait to see her. They’d had one awkward conversation back in September, soon after the liberation of France, when Lena had run into her and Otto in Regents Park. Lena had asked her then about writing to Marguerite, but Eva had said she had no idea how to reach her.
The Rose and Crown was full of noise and smoke. There was no sign of Eva. Lena bought herself a half of shandy and elbowed her way to a table in the corner. She had to ward off advances from three men, all drunk already, before Eva appeared, glass of Guinness in hand. She took a sip of her drink, leaving a coating of creamy foam on her lipstick.
“Did Lotti tell you? I heard from Marguerite.”
“How did you find her?”
“She found me. She wrote to the Czech embassy, and they forwarded it on to the Czech Institute.” Eva pulled a flimsy beige envelope out of her handbag. “It was sent to my old address and eventually on to me here. It took four months.”
“Thank goodness she’s all right. Where is she?”
“Back in Paris. She has quite a story. Here, you can read it. Your French is better than mine. I couldn’t really understand all that stuff at the bottom of the second page.”
It was unbelievable to see Marguerite’s neat cursive, with the elaborate curly tails on the tips of the capital Ms and Bs. She was writing from an address in the tenth arrondissement. She had survived against all odds, with several narrow escapes. She’d fled Paris on a bicycle, crossing the line into the unoccupied zone with only one day to spare. She reached her aunt and uncle’s farm near Millau, but two years later her whole family was deported; she got away by hiding in the orchard. During another raid, she lay concealed under the floorboards in a neighbor’s house. Since liberation, she’d been trying to find her family. They had not yet returned from the East. She’d also been unable to find Heinz. She’d made inquiries: he’d last been heard of in Drancy in ’42. But Marguerite was fine, beginning to regain weight, and applying to return to the Sorbonne in the autumn.
“She doesn’t even mention the quarrel we had before I left,” said Eva. “You know, when I thought she and Heinz . . .”
“I imagine that has faded in significance, in view of everything else she’s been through.”
“Yes, but still. What’s all this about?” Eva pointed to the second page.
“On ne reçoit pas la sagesse; il faut la découvrir soi-même,” Lena read. “‘We are not provided with wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves.’ It’s a quote from Proust, I think. À la Recherche du Temps Perdu. She’s reflecting on the meaning of all the suffering she’s witnessed.”
“Ah. Well.” Eva drained her glass. “Anyway, she’s all right.”
Yes, Marguerite was all right. It was possible to survive. A person could find a place to hide, conceal herself like a mussel in its shell. It was possible to elude capture against all odds, emerge unscathed into the light. There was hope. It wasn’t foolish to believe that, to wish and hope and dream every single day, to pray. No, not pray, but hope more fervently than anyone had ever hoped for anything.
“Do you want to take Marguerite’s address?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
Lena made a note of it in her diary. They sat in silence, a veil of awkwardness lingering, intermingled with the smoke. Two men at the next table eyed them with interest. Eva threw them a flirtatious glance and, with a flick of her head, swirled her curls over her shoulder. Lena didn’t want to stay here much longer. She took another sip of her drink; it was too bitter for her liking.
“How are you?” She turned to Eva. “Are you still working in that butcher’s shop?”
“Yes. The boss is very strict about all the rules, but I do get extra meat now and then. The scraps no one else wants.”
“And how’s Otto?” Lena made an effort to sound nonchalant.
“He’s all right. Working long hours, as usual.”
“Does he still talk about going back to Germany after the war?”
“Yes. That’s what he says. I don’t know if they’ll take him.” Eva pulled out a pack of Players cigarettes. She offered one to Lena.
Lena shook her head. “What about you? Would you go with him?”
Eva snorted with laughter. “God, no. It’s not that sort of a thing. Me and Otto, I mean. No. I don’t really know what I’ll do. My cousin—you remember her—used to live in Normandy. Her family made it out just before the invasion. Got to Lisbon and then on to Shanghai, of all places. They’re now trying to get into America. She wants me to go, too.”
Lena hadn’t heard Eva speak of her cousin in years, but she didn’t want to pursue the topic. There was something more important.
“I’m going to need a divorce from Otto before he leaves. Do you think he’ll agree to cooperate?”
Eva shrugged. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Obviously, either of us could sue for divorce on the basis of adultery,” Lena continued. “The law was changed just before the war, I’m told. But there still has to be one guilty party, and we can’t be seen to be colluding.”
Eva looked puzzled.
“One of us has to pretend to be upset by the adultery of the other.”
“I see you’ve studied this.” Eva smirked.
Lena continued, undeterred. “And we have to prove the adultery. Name names.”
“Has Milton proposed to you?” Greedy for gossip, Ev
a’s eyes lit up.
“No. He can’t propose to me if I’m still married to someone else, can he?” Eva was regarding her with a quizzical expression. “Well, we’ve talked about it. Just hypothetically. But I need Otto to agree for me to divorce him.”
Eva tilted her head, blowing a circle of smoke over their heads. “You know, I can talk him into just about anything.” She paused. “But what do I get out of this?”
“What do you mean?”
Eva lowered her voice. “I really need some extra clothing coupons.”
For a moment, Lena thought she must have misheard. But there was no mistaking the look on Eva’s face. Lena quietly shook her head, stood up, and left.
She heard Eva say to her back, “Just joking!”
But Lena had already committed to walking out.
CHAPTER 45
LONDON, MAY–JUNE 1945
Mrs. Manson closed the Food Office early. In an uncharacteristic gesture of goodwill, she announced at three thirty that they were done for the day. Or perhaps she was merely acknowledging that nothing more would be accomplished. No one could concentrate on ledgers or accounts. The whole city was on edge.
The Times had declared that morning, with a six-column headline, THE END OF THE WAR AT HAND. Gladys Woodruff ’s Daily Mail said, IT MAY BE TODAY.
Mrs. Manson had turned on the wireless for the one o’clock news, but there was no proclamation. “This suspense is dreadful,” she said.
“Hard to get excited about it after all this time,” Gladys said. “Not like last summer, when we thought it was going to finish so quick.”
Nevertheless, at lunchtime she’d made an excursion to the tobacconist on Drury Lane and returned with three small Union Jacks. She gave one to Lena.
“They’re going fast,” she said. “Wouldn’t do to be stuck without.”
Lena took advantage of her early day to meet Milton at Euston. He was returning from Birmingham at four; she would surprise him. At the entrance to the station, people were already queuing around the block for the evening newspaper. An elderly woman had set up a makeshift stand under the central archway, selling twelve-inch strips of red, white, and blue ribbons. With a toothless grin, she demonstrated how these could be fashioned into a decorative hair tie. Red, white, and blue: the colors of the Czech flag also. Lena purchased two sets, one for herself and one for Lotti.
She made her way to platform four. The station seemed crowded for a Monday afternoon; the sun poured down from the high windows above the great hall. The scene was dotted with girls in colorful summer frocks and men in linen trousers and bright white shirts, like an Impressionist painting. A young woman also waiting for the Birmingham train had adorned her hair with three sets of the tricolored ribbons, in a very creative design, one bow at each temple and the third on the crown of her head. Lena wondered whom she was meeting. What private thoughts filled her head? Was she worrying about how to scrape together dinner tonight, or whether she would ever get rehoused? Or was she, like Lena, worrying every day about someone far away, excited and frightened as the end drew near?
The Czech Brigade was approaching Prague. Peter was getting close, too. There had been another letter from him, this one from Košice. His group was bartering its way across the continent—easy to do, he reported, equipped as they were with large bags of Lend-Lease white flour from America. The countryside was devastated and the roads congested with Russian and German tanks going in opposite directions. Nazi forces were retreating everywhere, in disorganized, unescorted chaos, their finely tuned war machine in tatters. But there was no hint of what might lie ahead in Prague. Rumors abounded, he said, but he had no reliable news.
The Euston concourse echoed with the hum of feet and voices, the screech of whistles, and the slammed doors of departing trains. Suddenly, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker: “Attention, please, ladies and gentlemen. Attention, please. Here is an important announcement.”
The entire station halted in silence, with a collective sharp intake of breath. The pretty woman with the ribbons grabbed Lena’s arm.
After what seemed like an interminable pause, the announcer continued: “The four-oh-nine for Nottingham will now depart from platform seven.”
The crowd erupted with a groan of indignation and disappointment.
“This is tearing me nerves to shreds,” the girl said, and then she laughed and withdrew her hand. “Ooh, sorry!”
The Birmingham train puffed its way into the station. Lena saw him as soon as he disembarked—tall, square-shouldered, confident in his stride. She ran to him. Milton lifted her into his arms and spun her around, almost knocking her into a couple of RAF airmen, who laughed.
“Is it official?” Milton asked.
“Nothing yet. But the office closed early. It’s expected any moment.”
They hurried, arm in arm, through the streets to Mecklenburgh Square and tumbled into bed. They emerged from the covers an hour later and turned on the wireless. They were just in time. The deep, gruff voice of the Prime Minister boomed over the airways.
“Yesterday morning, at 2:41 A.M., at General Eisenhower’s headquarters in Rheims, France, the German High Command signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Force and the Soviet High Command. Hostilities will officially end at one minute past midnight tonight, Tuesday, the eighth of May.”
Lena was covered with goose bumps, standing in her under-clothes. Milton wrapped her in a hug. They stared at the wireless, listening to Churchill’s words.
It was over. No more bombs, no more rockets.
Outside, on the street, someone whooped in delight. Loud horns pierced the evening air.
Churchill went on to announce that the next two days were to be observed as public holidays: “Tomorrow, perhaps, we will think mainly of ourselves. On Wednesday, we will pay particular tribute to our heroic Russian comrades.”
Milton laughed raucously at that. “Our heroic Russian comrades, indeed,” he said. “We have to celebrate.” He clasped her waist and lifted her feet off the ground. “Get dressed.” He kissed her on the lips.
“Let’s see if Lotti wants to come with us.”
They collected Lotti and joined the throng in the streets, making their way to the West End. Milton carried Charles high on his shoulders. Lena walked between him and Lotti, an arm around each. Light flooded out through the open doorways of pubs and restaurants. The whole city was exuberant. The crowd took over the streets, stopped the buses, and some young boys clambered onto the roofs of the red double-deckers. People swarmed over the statues in Piccadilly Circus and the fountains of Trafalgar Square. Lena embraced the euphoria, the incredible relief, the sweetness of the moment. She felt she utterly belonged in this crowd. She’d shared the hardships; she understood the jubilation. She joined in the singing of “Knees Up Mother Brown” and “Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty.” In this mob, who would care if you didn’t know all the words or couldn’t carry the tune? On Shaftsbury Avenue, after they’d walked Lotti and Charles to the Tube, they came upon an impromptu bonfire, showering bright embers into the night sky. On the Embankment, the fireboats shot river water in wide arcs of delight and the floodlit Houses of Parliament blinked in the unfamiliar brightness.
Yet every now and then, Lena felt a twinge, a pull, the same nagging fear deep in her gut. She saw a poster in Trafalgar Square advertising the Daily Express exhibition on Regent Street: SEEING IS BELIEVING: IMAGES FROM BUCHENWALD AND BELSEN.
She turned her back, steering Milton away.
Two weeks later, the Coalition National Government was dissolved and a general election called for the fifth of July. Milton plunged into a whirlwind of political activity. With the coalition dissolved, he declared, the pragmatic course was to support the Labour Party as the only effective opposition to the Tories. He spent every evening at meetings, composing broadsheets, knocking on doors, putting up posters.
Lena felt too distracted to
follow his exuberant reports. She briefly wondered if her work at the Food Office would continue but soon realized her job was secure. Anyone who believed rationing would cease with the end of the war in Europe was quickly disappointed. In fact, bacon and cooking-fat rations were reduced three weeks after V-E Day, and Lena had to deal with the usual confusion among the staff and the frustration of the customers.
Yes, life at work continued much as before, but Lena found it hard to focus. She was desperate for word from Prague. From Ernst, there had been only one cryptic telegram: Arrived in Prague stop. Trying to find them stop.
Nothing since. From Peter: nothing. Emil came over to the flat; he also had no news from his parents or from his brother, Josef. The Soviets were in control in Czechoslovakia, and new barriers to communication were quickly replacing the old.
Lena stayed home most evenings with Lotti. Partly, Milton was so busy, but mostly she needed to be with Lotti as they waited for news. Milton was sympathetic, but it just wasn’t the same as being with someone who knew, who felt the same panic.
Then, one Thursday morning, just after Charles dumped a bowl of semolina from his high chair, Lena heard a plop on the front doormat and ran out to the hall. She found a letter for Lotti. Postmark: Exeter, Devon.
“Who do you know in Devon?”
“No one.”
Lotti tore open the envelope. It contained a single sheet wrapped around a bundle, several pages thick, of a wider, coarser paper. As Lotti unfolded the package, Lena recognized the handwriting.
“It’s from Peter!” Lotti cried.
Lotti glanced briefly at the cover sheet and passed it to Lena, before plunging into Peter’s letter. Lena saw Lotti’s hands shaking and had trouble controlling her own.
The cover letter was from a Lieutenant Wilson, who introduced himself as a British serviceman and prisoner of war, recently freed in Prague and flown back to England.
Please find the enclosed letter entrusted to me in Prague. I’m afraid your beautiful city is badly damaged, but your husband is in good health. It brings me great pleasure to be the bearer of this message. I hope, madam, it brings you some relief. . . .
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