Of Love and Other Wars

by Sophie Hardach

  It was the letter she had been expecting for two decades: the letter asking her to return. And yet her trembling fingers were tearing the envelope into tiny pieces.

  Her answer must be no. She had rehearsed it for so long, the politely withering refusal. But as her hands continued to tear the paper, her mind was already digging up the ancient burial ground and opening the well-sealed graves. She dipped a piece of film into a tub of developer and watched it darken until a pattern of scattered white dots emerged and made the invisible visible. She heard herself breathlessly tell Gottfried about the Wizard’s praise for their project, and Gottfried reply in his German accent, ‘And to think I used to sell shoes in Passau!’ She felt the metallic taste of anxiety at the start of an experiment and the sweet rush of triumph at its conclusion. And even the memory of the Wizard’s green armchair, and the rough cold fabric pressing against her bare back while his sick wife’s muffled coughs seeped in through the walls, could not quite dispel that rush of triumph.

  *

  That night Mrs Morningstar fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Her husband, who knew the signs, studied her fearfully twitching face with concern. Around midnight, he was woken by low hisses and murmurs. His wife, the respected scientist, was sitting up with her back against the headboard, her white nightdress dark and translucent with sweat. She was rocking back and forth and muttering to herself with the aimless fury of a tramp in the gutter.

  ‘Oh, Essie,’ he sighed. ‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’

  He moved the heavy bed away from the wall, which was more difficult than it used to be. And then he began slowly, slowly circling the bed, not unlike the way his sceptical young bride had circled him so many years ago on their wedding day.

  Worship

  ‘I’m not going,’ Charlie said.

  But Paul needed him to come. Everyone knew what was going to happen, everyone was resigned to it. The fire was lit and they were walking towards it, and now suddenly Charlie was leaving him to pass through it alone. He patted Paul’s shoulder, ignored his stammered protest and grabbed his coat.

  ‘That’s bloody unfair,’ Paul shouted after Charlie when he was already half-way down the street. ‘You can’t just leave me to go by myself.’

  Charlie turned around, walked backwards for a few steps and waved at him.

  ‘You won’t be by yourself. All the chief troglodytes will be there.’

  *

  Church Square in Highgate was just large enough to accommodate two houses of worship and a pub. On the first Sunday in September 1939, the pub was closed and the most impressive building on the square, St Matthew’s Church, received only a trickle of faithful. Paul cycled past the open doors, then stopped to watch the worshippers. Usually they lingered outside and traded gossip between the notice board and the saviour on his crucifix. Today, they crunched briskly across the wet gravel and hurried through the entrance, ushered in by the bells like serfs into a fortress.

  A wall of sandbags shielded the portal. The tall stained-glass windows were latticed with strips of sticky paper. Someone clever had remarked that Britain was reverting to the Norman style of architecture, sacrificing comfort for security. Walls were fortified, windows covered. All those vast glass panels, the pride of the modern movement, now looked vulnerable and foolish.

  Paul tucked his scarf tightly around his neck and pushed his bicycle across the square towards a small brick cottage with plain, low windows and a white porch. Nothing distinguished it from the residential cottages around it except for the fact that it was entirely unprotected. No sandbags blocked the doors, no blast-proof tape secured the windows. A white banner hung from the fence, probably imprinted with some soothing psalm, but the previous night’s thunderstorm had drenched the fabric and blurred the letters.

  He leaned his bicycle against a discreet sign that said ‘Highgate Meeting House’, rubbed his hands together and looked back at St Matthew’s, tall and dignified between the lime trees. The square was strewn with leaves and fallen branches. There was a chill in the air; the year had not fulfilled the promise of its May.

  *

  The two bell-ringers of St Matthew’s, local boys who many years ago had played bee-on-a-string on the Heath, yanked their ropes in rhythmic alternation. One pair of feet lightly left the stone floor just as the other pair touched down.

  ‘Sixpence says they’re going to sing “Onward, Christian Soldiers”,’ said one of them.

  ‘Sixpence says “For Those in Peril on the Sea”,’ said the other.

  One pair of feet touched the floor; the other was gently pulled towards Heaven.

  *

  In Highgate Meeting House, the Friends had already gathered on their bare wooden chairs, hands folded, heads bowed in silence. When Paul slipped through the door, they broke their circle to let him in. He leaned forward and crossed his forearms over his thighs. Mary Pye was there, of course, and his parents. His father in a worn tweed jacket, his mother in a brown skirt suit. His cousin Grace, who preferred to worship separately from her parents and sisters, had joined them, and next to her sat a little girl whose ears barely poked out of her coat.

  Paul caught Grace looking at her watch. She was good like that. Instilled order, made sure everyone was on time. Her pragmatic efficiency was wonderful, really, and it was quite unfair that Charlie had taken to calling her Major Spank.

  They were breathing quietly now. The silence was so peaceful it might have been sleep. Some meetings were entirely silent, though Mary Pye could usually be relied on to say something appreciative about the dahlias in Tavistock Square. Grace, on the other hand, had lately developed a worrying tendency to aim her words directly at Paul, smiling at him while she spoke, not always with flattering results: ‘And thou, faithful babe, though thou stutter and stammer forth a few words in the dread of the Lord, they are accepted’. Paul, the faithful babe, had never spoken in Meeting. Every Sunday he waited for the spirit to move him. Every Sunday the spirit stayed silent, and then it was tea and biscuits and he had missed another chance to minister.

  Through the low plain windows he could see the doors of St Matthew’s swinging shut.

  Today, he decided, he would speak. Yes, he was quite certain that on this strange and rather frightening day, he would finally speak.

  *

  ‘Onward, Christian soldiers,’ the congregation sang under the red and blue windows of St Matthew’s Church, ‘Marching as to war! With the cross of Jeee-sus going on before!’

  Sixpence was passed from one sticky palm to another.

  *

  Paul tried to savour the presence of stillness rather than the absence of noise. His mother’s stomach rumbled. For as long as he could remember, this had been her only contribution to meeting for worship. Oh, and once she had stood up and read out her favourite quotation: ‘You will say, Christ saith this, and the apostles say this; but what canst thou say? Art thou a child of Light and hast walked in the Light . ⁠. ⁠.?’

  George Fox. An appropriate piece of ministry for today, perhaps.

  *

  ‘Is God on our side?’ thundered the vicar of St Matthew’s. He leaned out of his pulpit and shook his fist. ‘I ask you again: is God on our side?’ His flock cowered under his bushy grey glare. ‘The answer is, only if we make ourselves worthy of his help! Only if, like the disciples on the Sea of Galilee, we pray and row. Only if every young man, every able-bodied young man in this parish, is willing to fight the enemies of God. Yes! The enemies of—’

  *

  —George Fox then. Paul took a deep breath, squeezed his hands together and in doing so glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost eleven o’clock. Charlie had been right. It was absurd to be sitting here when the whole world was waiting for that one voice on the wireless to seal their transition from a nervous peace to a catastrophic—

  Grace stood up, opened a book on the table in the centre of the room and read: ‘Art thou a child of Light and hast walked in the Light, and what
thou speakest, is it inwardly from God?’

  She sat down again.

  Paul was gripped by an urge to run into the pantry and switch on the blasted wireless. The bowed heads around him in their potent, worshipful silence looked to him like insects in a clear resin paperweight. And then he realized that he, too, was trapped in that resin and bound by that spirit. Even now with all his doubts and irritated impatience he would find it impossible to walk out.

  Art thou a child of Light? Perhaps this, then, was the Lord’s gift to the Children of Light. Everywhere on this island, men, women, families might be dashing this way and that, packing bags, seeking shelter, gathering up hideous gas masks, and the fellowship around him, stubbornly resisting the news, was the last remaining circle of peace.

  It was then, as he settled against the backrest of his chair, that they heard the faint moan of the siren. Paul stood up.

  ‘Well, Friends, it looks like that is that, then,’ he stammered through the strangely mournful sound. ‘We’re at war with Germany.’

  *

  The vicar fell silent.

  One of the bell-ringers thought of his brother, who was out at sea.

  The other stared at the stained-glass window to his right and noticed for the first time that it depicted St Matthew writing the gospel.

  The strips of sticky paper that crossed the pane were flimsy enough to let the weak September sunlight through. It was very unlikely, the bell-ringer thought, that they would hold even a third of the glass if it shattered.

  *

  Paul sat down again. After a respectful pause, his mother got to her feet and slid her finger down the page of her Bible: ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me . ⁠. ⁠.’

  He closed his eyes. From the outside came the noise of the vicar of St Matthew’s leading his congregation to the nearest shelter. A rhythmic knocking sound rose through his mother’s voice.

  ‘. ⁠. ⁠. goodness and mercy shall follow me . ⁠. ⁠.’

  It took Paul a few seconds to work out what it was.

  ‘. ⁠. ⁠. all the days of my life . ⁠. ⁠.’

  Someone hammering on the front door.

  ‘. ⁠. ⁠. and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’

  Someone gave the door a determined push; it swung open and Miriam Morningstar walked in. She wore a pair of overalls, an air-raid precautions armband and, on her head, what looked like a battered saucepan.

  ‘Oh!’ She gave a little start when she saw Paul. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . ⁠. ⁠.’ They exchanged uncertain smiles. She collected herself, quickly turned to the rest of the group and introduced herself as the air-raid warden for the neighbourhood.

  Paul’s father put his hands on his knees and stood up in that heavy ponderous way of his. Miriam misunderstood the gesture.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him. ‘If the others would kindly follow this gentleman, there’s a shelter just underneath St Matthew’s Church.’

  Paul interceded before his father could respond. ‘I suppose she does have a point. It may well be a false alarm, but it would be foolish to sit through it none the less. Just look at all these windows, all this glass!’ He could see the Friends from Miriam’s perspective now: a group of confused innocents huddling together in an impossible flimsy and vulnerable cottage.

  No one spoke. For a moment, he thought they had not heard him. Then his father cleared his throat and addressed the others without looking at Paul: ‘Our Friend is a little disturbed. We can easily understand his upset.’

  He put his hand on Paul’s back and applied gentle pressure to guide him out into the entrance hall. It ought not to have surprised Paul: this was how these things were handled. One did not stand up and start an argument in Meeting. One did not answer back. But the pressure of his father’s hand combined with Miriam’s confused gaze made him tingle with irritation.

  ‘I’m not disturbed.’ He tried to stand firmly. ‘I may be breaking the spirit of worship, but I’m not disturbed. We all heard the signal.’

  This time his father remained silent. The others sat with bowed heads. The thick resin enclosed them all and he knew that even if he were to shout and stomp his feet, he would not be able to stir them. Helplessly furious, he left the room.

  Miriam followed them outside and whispered to his father: ‘Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but there’s a penalty for refusing to cooperate.’

  A single note sounded.

  ‘That’s the all clear,’ Miriam cried out with relief. ‘You may continue your worship now. There’s no need to go to the shelter. All clear! All clear! Thank you for your co-operation.’

  She tipped her saucepan-hat and hurried out of the door. Paul waited in the entrance hall until his mother shook Grace’s hand, which was their own all-clear signal, the sign that Silent Meeting was over. Limbs were stretched, crumpled clothes patted down. No one mentioned the sudden intrusion, nor Paul’s misplaced agitation.

  Paul was the last to leave the cottage. He locked the wooden front door that he had entered in peace and exited at war.

  The Ladies’ Pond

  1

  Ten days into the war, Liverpool Street Station was swarming with children: scrawny East End boys, stout girls like miniature fishwives. Mothers shouted last-minute instructions. Busy men in uniform blew whistles, waved children in and mothers out and dogs out of the way. Trains pulled into the station, scooped up a platform-load of boys and girls, then hurried off into the distance. Londoners waved handkerchiefs like the burghers of Hamelin. Grace handed over Inge, one of her little evacuees, to a relation who would take her to a country house in Hertfordshire. It was difficult to concentrate on the farewell, difficult to put sufficient warmth into the hug and the promise of visits in the near future. Her mind was on the other train.

  She walked to the far side of the station, to a quiet platform where only a handful of people were waiting. One or two women greeted her with smiles and chatter. There was an elderly couple in Sunday clothes, their hands folded, faces set into pleasantness. Grace pictured them sitting by a black range, listening to one of the appeals on the wireless. The husband would have said: ‘We’re a bit too old for that kind of thing, don’t you think?’ The wife would have persuaded him. She had set her grey hair and put on a fur collar. You could see from her scuffed shoes that she did not usually go in for such extravagance. ‘To give the children a friendly welcome and show how glad we are to have them. And I’ll love them as if they were my own.’

  Grace introduced herself to the elderly couple. The woman touched her curled hair and said nervously: ‘We were told there might not be a train.’

  ‘These things are very difficult to judge with any certainty.’ It was one of the stock phrases she used on these occasions. ‘We can only pray.’ That was another.

  The man pursed his lips and studied her carefully, trying to establish her credibility.

  ‘You’ve negotiated with them directly, have you? You’ve actually spoken to them?’

  ‘Not exactly. There are others who deal with that side of things.’

  The man looked as if he wished he could speak to those others instead of Grace. ‘We were told this lot isn’t from Germany.’

  ‘No. They’re children from—’

  ‘Vienna, we were told.’

  Grace nodded. She could see that he was on the verge of asking whether there was someone he ought to be introduced to, someone who could explain things better than she could. In a prickly attempt to assert her authority, she said: ‘Of course Vienna is where it all began. I travelled there last year, when we negotiated over the very first train.’

  The Nazis had set up an office for Jewish emigration in a mansion formerly owned by the Rothschild family. The tall oval mirrors, silver candlesticks and marble angels had been made for a world of sparkling delight, as if any moment the white double doors would open to display waltzing c
ouples in morning suits and cream chiffon dresses. But when they did open, they revealed only an empty ballroom patrolled by men in black uniforms. Heavy boots creaked over the herringbone parquet. Alsatians strained against leather leashes wrapped tightly around gloved fists.

  ‘Gosh.’ The man’s voice yielded a vague note of respect. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was? I’m organizing a lecture series, you see, and I’m sure everyone would be tremendously interested in your testimony.’

  ‘Oh.’ Grace blushed and frantically picked at a piece of dry skin on her thumb. ‘There was a Dutch lady, Mrs Wijsmuller, who had some experience in humanitarian matters, and she negotiated with Mr Eichmann himself. Now if you wanted to invite her to your lecture series . ⁠. ⁠.’ the dry skin came away, ‘. ⁠. ⁠. then I’m sure that could be arranged.’ And she added somewhat stubbornly: ‘She did of course tell me all about it in great detail right after she came out.’

  He must think her a complete fantasist now. There was an awkward silence, and then the wife murmured that they should go and see the station assistant to enquire about the train.

  It was like that time when she had told Paul and Charlie about the great bank robbery near Piccadilly; Paul had listened with awe but Charlie had needled her until she admitted that she had not exactly seen the robbers, nor the masks and guns she had so vividly described, but had arrived at the bank just when the police were taking witness statements.

  *

  Grace had always assumed that stories only happened to other people, that it was other people who came and went and won and lost, and that she would be forever the observer waiting outside the office, the bystander living on the experiences of others.

  But then, about a month ago, her own story happened.

  It began with a train. She had stood on this same platform at Liverpool Street Station, waiting for the train from Harwich. An ordinary day on a crowded platform. Quaker women kept food trolleys and tea urns at the ready. She had worn her ordinary hand-me-downs. That was how she’d looked when he first saw her: dowdy, in hand-me-downs, standing next to a tea urn. He’d hopped off the train and looked around. At first she mistook him for an older boy who had squeezed in just below the age limit, with his freckled stub nose and the open roundness of his face, still unformed, the unkempt sandy hair asking to be raked through with a comb. Then she spotted the packet of documents in his hands. She waved her list.