“I picked up the articles from the censor’s office, and both pieces passed with flying colors.” Cora smiled and waved a sheaf of papers at Van as he entered the typing room in Broadcasting House. “I’ve already transmitted them, and I hope you’re interested in grabbing a bite to eat while we discuss the next assignment. I’m starving.”
Van rubbed his stomach. “Excellent. We’ve been so busy this week I haven’t been to the market in days. The lone item in my icebox is a shriveled lump of cheese, and the canned meat in my cabinet held no allure this morning. There’s a wonderful sandwich shop around the corner.”
They hurried downstairs and out of the building.
Cora squinted at the brightness as sunshine warmed her head. “I was pleased at how forthcoming DS Graham was with his comments about crime statistics. Too bad he wouldn’t let us speak to the suspected black marketers.”
“Not surprising.” Van stuffed his hands in his front pockets. “Guess he figures the men might try to garner sympathy through the press. We don’t want to make these guys look good.”
“What did you think of the detective?” She gave him a sidelong glance trying to read his expression. He’d been alternately standoffish and pushy, almost like his former self when she’d first met him. They barely knew the policeman, yet Van seemed to exude a strong dislike as soon as the man entered the interrogation room.
“A little too enamored with himself, but helpful.” He waved his hand as if brushing away a gnat. “I’d rather focus on our next piece than discuss the intrepid detective sergeant.”
“Okay, but one question.” Cora narrowed her eyes. Van was definitely snippy about the guy. “What gives with you and Graham? Have you met before? Did he say something that angered you?”
“There’s nothing between us. He did his job, and we did ours. End of discussion.” His nostrils flared. “Now, for the new assignment, I was able to unearth quite a bit of information about the internment camps. We can start with the Parliament’s decision to pass the Defence Regulations and invoke section 18B for British nationals. Something called the Royal Prerogative was used against enemy aliens.”
Cora looked at him for a long moment. She’d only known him for a few weeks, but her reporter’s senses said he was hiding something, and that something seemed related to DS Graham. But Van had made it clear any conversation about the man was finished. So be it. Maybe she’d do some digging of her own. She blew out a sigh. “Fine. We don’t want the article to sound like a term paper, but we’ll have to give the American people enough background so they’ll understand how British government differs from the US.”
“What do you think about comparing internment here with that of Japanese, Italian, and German people at home?”
“The contrast would be an interesting study considering the bulk of the internees here have been released while those at home are still being held. My research shows that of the more than seventy thousand people initially confined within Britain, fewer than a thousand still remain in custody.”
“I can’t imagine how these people feel about being arrested because of their heritage. Lots of the detainees have lived here for decades. Fear and mistrust seem to be the basis for the decisions.”
Van frowned. “Not necessarily. I’d say prudence entered into their ruling. Better to be safe than sorry, as they say.”
She cocked her head. “Let me get this straight. If my family emigrated from Switzerland to America when I was a child, and the US went to war with the Swiss, we should be arrested and detained because we might be spies.”
“That’s not a good example. Switzerland is neutral.”
“Don’t be obtuse. You know the point I’m attempting to make.”
“I’m just saying that a country has to make the decision it feels is in the best interests of its citizens.”
She threw up her hands. How could he believe the government should be allowed to ignore its taxpayers’ freedoms? “But what if some of the folks they detain are citizens? I don’t know about here in Britain, but a percentage of the Japanese in the camps aren’t just residents. They were born in the US. Look at the 442nd Infantry Regiment comprised completely of second-generation Japanese-Americans. Citizens whose rights have been stripped.”
Van’s stomach rumbled, and his face reddened. “Apparently, it’s time to quit bickering so we can grab lunch.” He smiled. “Guess we know that our article is going to create some conversation, huh?”
A giggle slipped out, and she tugged at her skirt. Nice of him to smooth over their words. “So much for me remaining an impartial journalist.”
“Nothing wrong with being passionate about your topic.” They arrived at the restaurant, and he opened the door for her. “I’ll bet you five shillings today’s menu is fish.”
“Ha. I’m not taking that wager. Fish is about the only plentiful food in England. If I eat any more fish, I’m going to start growing scales and gills.” She sobered up. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. Fish is better than nothing, and many people around the world are starving.”
They made their way to a vacant table, and the waitress arrived seconds later. A young woman of perhaps twenty-five, she had short ginger-colored hair and startling green eyes. Though tired looking, she wore a broad smile. “Some tea for you? We’re serving a lovely potato soup with bread.”
Cora grinned at Van. “I should have taken the bet after all.” She looked at the young woman. “Soup and tea sounds lovely.”
“You’re Americans.” She poked her pencil behind her ear. “How come you’re not in uniform?”
“We’re journalists with the United Press. Van Toppel and Cora Strealer.”
The girl squealed. “Reporters. My name is Molly. Maybe you should interview me.” She lowered her voice. “I could tell you all kinds of things I’ve heard. Waitresses are invisible, and people talk in front of us as if we can’t hear them.”
Cora exchanged a glance with Van. Did Molly have information of value? Surely, her customers obeyed the directive not to discuss topics of national importance. Loose lips sinking ships as one poster proclaimed.
Van unfolded his napkin and placed the cloth in his lap. “Perhaps after your shift, but for now we’d appreciate our food.”
Molly slapped her forehead. “Of course. Shame on me, standing here blathering like you’re Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. I get off work at two o’clock if you decide you want to talk to me.” She scooted between the tables and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Likening us to movie stars.” Van puffed out his chest and lifted his chin, rubbing an imaginary mustache. “Maybe we should leave her our autographs.”
“Don’t get too full of yourself, Mr. Toppel.” She snickered. “Especially if we question her for our upcoming article about internees. She could have very strong opinions, and not necessarily ones that agree with yours.”
“Like yours.” His eyebrow arched high on his forehead.
She shrugged. “I just had a thought. How does the government know they’ve detained the right people, and by that, I mean the ones who really could be spies or fifth columnists? Someone could change their name, get false papers, and blend into society.”
He froze, but the muscle in his cheek jumped.
Was that an indication he was hiding something?