by C. J. Sansom
Mrs Templeman clutched her handbag to her chest with her gloved hands. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They can’t do this. Not here, not in England.’
‘They’re doing it,’ Sarah answered bleakly.
‘Where are they taking them?’ Mrs Templeman’s face was anguished now, white beneath her powder, all her brisk confidence gone. A big Vauxhall passed by slowly on the other side of the road, a middle-aged woman looking out from the passenger side in astonishment. An Auxie waved it briskly on. Sarah looked at the Jews shuffling past. An old man in a bowler hat marched stiffly by, like the old soldier he had probably once been, marching as though to the front. Behind him a middle-aged woman, still wearing a flowered pinny and headscarf, held a skinny little boy in shorts and school pullover tightly to her. A young couple in fashionable duffel coats and bright university scarves held hands; the boy, tall and squarely built, had a defiant expression; the girl, slight with long dark hair, looked terrified. The squeaking pram passed; Sarah glimpsed a baby bundled up inside.
Then there was a shout, a yell, from the other side of the road. Everyone, Jews and policemen and the people on the pavement, turned to look. The door of a shabby building between two department stores had opened and a group of a dozen men in Sunday-best clothes had come out. They were carrying, of all things, musical instrument cases of various sizes. Sarah saw a notice board on the wall, University of London Department of Music. They must have been at some sort of practice. As Sarah watched a big, elderly man with untidy silver hair, wearing a rumpled suit, marched straight out into the road, shouting out in a deep voice, ‘Stop! What’s happening here?’ He halted right in front of the two mounted policemen. They had to halt or knock him down. The younger officer’s horse whickered in alarm. The other men who had come out with him stood on the pavement, uncertain and frightened, staring at the old man. One called out, ‘Sir! Be careful!’
The old man’s face was red with fury, fierce little eyes under white brows fixed on the mounted sergeant. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted in anger. ‘What’s happening to these people?’
The older policeman’s back was to Sarah but his voice carried back, deep and firm. ‘Move along, sir. All the London Jews are being moved out of the city.’
The Auxie nearest Sarah, a middle-aged man with the white flash of a Blackshirt badge on his coat, laughed scoffingly. ‘Bloody academics.’ He turned to the Jews, putting a hand to the pistol at his belt and said threateningly, ‘You lot stay put. This show won’t last long.’
Sarah felt shocked, frozen to the spot. Beside her Mrs Templeman was breathing hard, a strange expression on her face, her fingers digging into Sarah’s arm. The old musician didn’t move. He gestured wildly at the group of Jews. ‘You can’t do this! These are British citizens!’ The young policeman’s horse, frightened, tried to step back. The sergeant turned, snapping, ‘Keep that bloody animal steady.’
Someone shouted from the pavement, ‘They’re Yids, you old nosy parker!’ One of the men outside the music department turned up his coat collar and began walking quickly away. Another followed, then another.
The mounted policeman’s voice was loud and clear, still steady. ‘We’re following official orders. You’re causing a breach of the peace, sir. Move on or you’ll be taken into custody.’
Then, letting go Sarah’s arm, Mrs Templeman stepped out into the road. She walked up to the old musician and stood beside him. Sarah could see she was trembling, grey curls shaking beneath the fur hat.
‘Fuck this,’ the policeman nearest Sarah said, fingering his holster. The Jews were shifting uneasily, looking frightened.
‘Right, that’s it,’ the sergeant said. ‘You two are both under arrest.’ The musician looked appealingly across to those of his people who remained standing on the pavement. They looked at each other. Three more men walked away. One young man carrying a violin case stood where he was with an agonized expression on his face, but the four remaining others stepped hesitantly into the road, walked across and stood beside the old man and Mrs Templeman. The sergeant called over his shoulder, waving an arm. ‘Get these people out of the road!’
‘You turn this world into hell!’ the old musician shouted. He was beside himself, spittle at the corner of his mouth. Along the line, some of the Auxies began to move forward, reaching for the batons at their belts. Sarah’s heart began to pound, thumping in her chest. Mrs Templeman looked at the approaching Auxies and then suddenly sat down on the cold tarmac, the skirts of her coat billowing out, fat stockinged thighs exposed. Her white face was determined now. The old man stared at her for a moment, then sat down as well, stiffly putting a hand on her shoulder as he got down. The four other men, all younger, hesitated for a moment then sat down too. On the pavement, the one who hadn’t been able to make up his mind turned and walked away.
Four of the Auxies ran forward, past the horses. The one ridden by the young policeman bucked and reared. The rider cried out, trying to bring the animal under control. It jolted forward and Sarah watched in horror as a big flailing hoof struck Mrs Templeman on the forehead. She gave a little moan and fell backwards, her hat and the fox-fur stole falling off onto the road. She lay quite still, her arms flung out backwards, blood spilling from a huge gash on her forehead and dripping, shockingly red, onto the grey tarmac. Her eyes were as still and glassy as Charlie’s had been that terrible day, and Sarah realized with horror that she was dead. The demonstrators and the Auxies both looked at the bucking horse; somehow amid the mayhem, the young policeman managed to bring it under control.
On the kerb Sarah froze. All the instincts of self-preservation made her want to do what the young man with the violin case had done, turn and walk away. An image of David flashed into her mind, of home and safety. Then something firm and cold rose up in her and she gripped her handbag tightly and strode into the road. As soon as she stepped off the pavement she thought, quite coolly, there, that’s it, everything’s over. Two Auxies had grabbed the white-haired musician under the arms and were hauling him to the pavement. He was shouting and struggling furiously. Sarah went over to where Mrs Templeman lay sprawled on the street in that awful indignity, and sat down beside her body. She looked over at the pavement, hoping desperately that others would follow her example. A thin young man in a muffler stepped out and sat down with them, sweating with fear. Four more Auxies ran forward. Sarah stared at them, her heart pounding so fast it made her gasp.
The Jews stood huddled together, terrified, though some of the younger ones were looking around them now, perhaps wondering if they could run. The remaining Auxies pulled out their pistols, covering the prisoners. The old musician had been pushed roughly down onto the pavement but was still struggling, shouting and swearing. The other Auxies began hauling the demonstrators to their feet. Sarah felt hard, strong hands grip her under the arms and pull her up. One of the musicians tried to resist and was hit over the head with a truncheon, slumping forward unconscious. As Sarah was lifted up she realized she might never see David again and thought, how I love him.
Then she heard more shouts. Glancing round, she saw half a dozen Jive Boys rushing down the street towards them, quiffs bouncing absurdly, the tails of their long coats flapping behind. They looked the worse for wear, unshaven. One had a black eye, another carried a near-empty whisky bottle. They were probably on their way home from a long night out, drawn by the noise. One shouted, ‘It’s a ruck! Pig down! Get the fuckers!’ The whisky bottle sailed up and out, just missing the sergeant, as the Jivers pitched into the Auxies who were moving the demonstrators. The one who was lifting Sarah said, ‘Shit!’ as one of the boys went for him. Sarah saw the flash of a blade in the Jiver’s hand. The Auxie let her go and she fell sideways into the road. The sergeant pulled out his pistol and fired into the air. It was too much for the nervous horse. It reared right up on its hind legs, throwing the young policeman into the road. He lay there, screaming and clutching his leg, as the horse turned and ran off down the empty road, hooves clattering.
The sergeant’s horse was uneasy now too, trying to turn in a circle. It was pandemonium. Sarah looked wildly round, and saw a glimpse of Mrs Templeman’s dead face, her bloodied head.
Then the group of Jewish prisoners seemed to surge outwards, like a wave, as some began to run. Others, the older ones mostly, huddled closer together. The woman with the pram leaned protectively over her baby. Half a dozen of the younger Jews ran into the fight. A shot was fired and one of the Jive Boys pitched forward, his chest gushing blood. There were screams, another shot.
Sarah felt herself being picked up again and hauled to the pavement. She lunged out and an angry Yorkshire voice shouted in her ear, ‘We’re trying to get you out of here, you stupid cow!’ She turned and saw it was the boy with the university scarf and duffel coat she had noticed earlier, the girl beside him. Sarah scrambled to her feet and joined them, running for the pavement. Other Jews were fleeing all round them now, making for a little alleyway that ran down the side of a pub. There were more shots, loud cracks. Beside her Sarah saw the old Jew in the bowler hat tumble over. On the other side of the road the shop assistant who had been putting up Christmas decorations could be seen cowering behind a counter. A long piece of tinsel hung forlornly in the window.
Sarah followed the young couple into another alley. Then the boy ran into the open door of some flats, leading them into a dark, smelly hallway. They stopped, taking long whooping breaths. Other people ran past, feet pounding on the paving stones. In the distance Sarah heard more shots, then the sound of a police whistle being blown, over and over again.
‘Joe,’ the girl said breathlessly. ‘We’ve got to run!’ She had a middle-class accent like Sarah’s.
The boy shook his head impatiently. ‘No. There’ll be dozens of them here in a minute. Hide under here.’ He pushed his way into a dank alcove under the stairs. The girl followed. ‘Come on, lady,’ he said impatiently to Sarah. She squeezed in beside them, feeling the warmth of their bodies. There was a big metal dustbin there, stinking of rotten vegetables. Sarah felt cold and clammy, though strangely calm.
‘Bloody hell,’ Joe said. ‘I thought we were stuffed.’
The long wail of a police siren sounded in the distance. The girl began to cry. ‘They shot people, they’ve killed people.’ Her voice was rising hysterically. Sarah grasped her shoulders. ‘Please, please,’ she said. ‘We have to keep quiet.’
The girl took a couple of heaving sobs, then looked past Sarah at the boy. ‘What are we going to do, Joe? Where can we go?’
‘Wait till dark, then we’ll head out to Mark’s friend in Watford.’ He raised a hand to the yellow badge on the front of his coat. ‘I’m getting rid of this fookin’ thing. The identity cards can go too.’ He pulled at the badge but his fingers were shaking and he couldn’t get it off. The girl, calmer now, laid a hand on his. ‘No Joe, unpin it. If they see you with a tear on your coat they’ll realize you’ve pulled something off.’
‘Okay. Can you do it, Ruth? I – I can’t seem to manage.’
They worked together to remove their badges, then pulled out their identity cards, yellow stars prominent on the front, tore them up and dropped the pieces into the fetid bin. Sarah listened, frightened someone might come out of one of the flats and find them. But the people who lived there had probably heard the shots and were cowering indoors. She turned to the young man. ‘Thank you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Thank you for rescuing me.’
Joe smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dark space. ‘That’s all right.’ Though it was hard to tell in the dimness Sarah sensed he blushed. They’re just children, she thought with a desperate ache.
Ruth said, ‘You helped us. You and your friend.’
Sarah felt a catch at her throat. ‘My friend’s dead.’
‘I know. I saw.’ The girl began to cry again.
Joe peered cautiously out of the alcove. ‘There’s a good few dead out there now.’ His voice was trembling.
‘What happened to you?’ Sarah asked Ruth. ‘Where were they taking you?’
‘They’re taking every registered Jew in London out of the city. We don’t know where. I live at the university halls of residence, they came for us at seven this morning.’ She put her head in her hands.
‘I thought Jews weren’t allowed in the universities any more.’
Joe said, ‘We started just before the law came into force. There’s still a few of us third years left.’ He looked at his girlfriend. ‘You were right, you said they’d come for us one day.’ He turned back to Sarah, his face working with emotion. ‘I thought we were safe, I thought our government wouldn’t let us be shipped off. Offence to national pride, against British fair play,’ he added bitterly. ‘Though they might kick us out of our jobs and businesses, I thought they’d stop short of handing us over to the Germans. But that’s what they’re doing now, it has to be.’
Ruth spoke quietly. ‘Beaverbrook must have agreed this with the Nazis in Berlin.’
Joe shook his head. ‘This must have been planned for some time.’
‘Maybe there was a contingency plan,’ Sarah said. ‘And now the Germans have forced them to implement it. The Civil Service are always making contingency plans, my husband’s a civil servant—’
Joe’s look became instantly hostile. ‘Is he?’
‘He’s in the Dominions Office, they’re not involved in anything like this—’
‘They’re all involved, everyone who works for Beaverbrook and Mosley.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Ruth urged him.
Joe went on, quietly now, but his voice was still savage. ‘Well, now we know what British fair play’s worth when the chips are down. From the moment we were picked up people just stood watching, drove past in their cars. Kept their heads down.’
‘Except that old man,’ Ruth said. She looked at Sarah. ‘And your friend.’
‘What really turned it was those Jive Boys.’ Joe smiled sadly. ‘Not that they’d care what happened to us, I’ve heard plenty of stories of them beating Jews up. They just saw a fight and joined in.’
Sarah found thoughts rushing through her head. It was because of her that Mrs Templeman came that way. She’d thought her just a bossy old woman. Then she did that incredible act of bravery. Sarah shivered as she realized she could have been killed too. She had feared David might abandon her but it was she who would have abandoned him had she been shot.
The boy took her arm, jolting her back to reality. He said, ‘It’s quiet out there now. It won’t stay that way for long. I’d get out of here while you can. You’ve got your ID card?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Kenton. Out towards Pinner.’
Ruth said, ‘You shouldn’t wear that coat, it stands out. You sat down in the street, they’ll be looking for a fair-haired woman your age in a grey coat.’
Sarah said, ‘Swap coats with me. Lots of people wear duffel coats.’
They stepped out of the alcove, and while Joe watched the entrance the two women switched coats. Ruth’s duffel coat was tight on Sarah. She picked up her handbag and took out her purse. ‘Here, take my money.’ She held out two ten-shilling notes, a handful of silver. ‘Please. I’ve got a return ticket, I don’t need money for anything else.’
Joe looked reluctant but Ruth took the money. ‘Thank you.’
Sarah asked, ‘Where do your families live?’
Ruth said, ‘Mine live in Highgate, they’ll have been picked up too.’ She blushed. ‘I was spending the night with Joe.’
‘Mine are in Bradford. They’re probably rounding up Jews there too.’ Joe’s voice cracked, and Sarah could see he was at the end of his tether. ‘Go now, lady,’ he said roughly. ‘Go on.’
Ruth took her arm. Sarah’s grey coat looked big on her. She said, ‘We’ll never forget what you and your friend did.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Good luck,’ she said, then took a deep breath and stepped outside. Everything was quiet now, nobody in sight. She
adjusted her bag on her arm and walked away, in the opposite direction to Tottenham Court Road. More sirens sounded in the distance. Her legs shook like jelly but she made herself walk on, towards the tube station and home.
Chapter Eighteen
IT TOOK LONGER THAN DAVID had expected to find the hospital. Although they were so near Birmingham, they were on narrow country roads shaded by trees, with few signposts, and after a brief period of wet snow it had begun to get foggy. They discussed, again, how he should tackle Frank Muncaster: with sympathy, caution. Afterwards they drove on in silence and David thought about what Natalia had told him about the Slovak Jews. He knew she could have done nothing to help those people and it frightened him. He wondered how Sarah would react if she found out he was half Jewish. She hated what had been done to the Jews in England but that was different from being married to one. He knew prejudices ran very deep, had done even before anti-Jewish propaganda began in the 1940s.
His thoughts were interrupted by Geoff. ‘We’re here,’ he said quietly. They had come to a fork in the road, and a wooden signpost pointed to Bartley Green Asylum. They passed through a little copse and then saw an immense redbrick Victorian building a little way ahead, on top of a low hill, with a big water tower and well-tended grounds surrounded by a high wooden fence, lights shining through the mist. David hadn’t expected it to be so big and imposing.
The road followed the side of the fence to high, iron-barred gates. Beside them was a porter’s lodge with a window overlooking the road. They drove up to it, passing a woman in a dark nurse’s cloak walking towards the gates, and an elderly couple, heads down. David looked through the bars of the gates, down a long straight drive to the big building. Natalia stopped the car. ‘You two go and talk to the porter,’ she said.
Geoff and David got out. It was slightly warmer, but a clammy mist clung to them. They walked up to the window, where the nurse was talking to a porter through a panel. Ahead of them, the old couple stood, silent. The porter was small, elderly, his black uniform reminding David of old Sykes on the Dominions Office front desk. There was even a similar large rack of keys on the wall behind him. Another younger porter was working at a desk beside the plugs and sockets of a switchboard.
