November 1941
It was Sunday morning, the only day of the week that Ruby didn’t wake up and instantly feel gloomy, for an entire day free of PW beckoned. She rose early, went for a walk to the river and back, and was finishing off the morning with some satisfyingly aimless work mending socks and turning cuffs. If only every day could be so pleasant.
“Ruby!”
She looked up from her darning and spied Vi in the front hall.
“Hello to you. You’re early.”
“I am. I was thinking of going through the trunks in the attic again. Nearly everything I have is threadbare.”
“Do you want to take back any of your clothes? I hate to think you’ve gone without nice things because of me.”
“No—I should have said I was looking for something to make over. A frock for evenings out. Even if I come across something that’s hopelessly out-of-date, it shouldn’t be too hard to have it altered. I’m sure I can find a tailor or seamstress to help.”
“I can help,” Ruby offered. “I was taught to sew by nuns. If there’s one thing they’re good at teaching, it’s needlework. The rest of my education didn’t amount to all that much, but I do know how to sew.” In point of fact she hated to sew, but the look of delight on Vi’s face more than made up for any tedious moments she was bound to suffer.
“That would be lovely—thank you. And I think we still have Mama’s old sewing machine up in the attic.”
They trooped upstairs and began sorting through a trunk of Vi’s old things, most of them fancier dresses that had been packed away for the duration. They were gorgeous things, for the most part, but the change in fashions over the past couple of years hadn’t been kind to them. Everything they pulled out was awash in excess fabric, the skirts too full and long, the bodices too unstructured and voluminous.
“These will be easy to fix,” Ruby promised. “They just need a more, well, military cut. It’s really a case of removing material. If it were the other way around, we’d be in trouble.”
“What do you think of this frock?” Vi asked. “Do you think we can save it?”
She held up a dress—a gown, really—made of silk chiffon, each layer a steadily lighter shade of blue. It was swoony and romantic and almost comically dated.
“I think so. Just hold it up so I can see. Yes, yes . . . I think we can do something with it. I’ll unpick the waistband, flatten out the layers in the skirt, and take out enough to straighten the lines. I can add in a few darts, too, so everything fits properly. And I’ll do the same to the bodice. See how the sleeves are so full here? I just have to unpick them, take out the excess, and sew them back on. It’s the work of an afternoon, no more.”
Vi hugged her suddenly, crushing the dress between them. “You’re a genius, Ruby. I’d never be able to do this.”
“Oh, it’s easy enough once you know how. Do you want to try it on? I’ll find some pins—I think I see your mother’s sewing things over there.”
Vi took off her skirt and blouse and slipped on the gown, which, considerations of current fashion aside, really was beautiful. As she was changing, Ruby rummaged through Vanessa’s old sewing box and found a pincushion, its pins still sharp and rust-free.
“This looks like something you’d wear to a ball,” she said as she got to work.
“It was. I wore it to a ball in Oxford, at the college where Hugh was an undergraduate, the summer before the war. It was a magical night. I hardly knew him—I was only eighteen, and he wasn’t much older—but I’d already decided I was in love with him.”
“What was he like?”
“So very handsome. A bit like Ronald Colman, only without that silly little mustache. Ever so funny and kind. I know it happens that sometimes you lose someone, and before long you start to realize they weren’t as wonderful as you’d believed. That they had feet of clay like everyone else. But Hugh was different. He really was just as perfect as I imagined him to be.”
Ruby knelt by her friend, busily pinning back layer after layer of chiffon. “I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”
“He’d have liked you very much. He’d been to America with his family when he was younger, and he loved it. He promised me we would go there after the war. He was so certain I’d become a movie star in Hollywood.”
Ruby kept pinning, methodically, gently, taking care not to scratch Vi’s skin. She was so close to her friend that she couldn’t fail to notice how Vi was trembling.
“He signed up straightaway. I knew he would. He’d joined a flying club when he started at Oxford. It was a sort of lark to him and his friends, you know. They all signed up. They’re all . . . they’re all dead now.”
“Oh, Vi.”
“There were five of them, and they were killed last summer. Hugh was the oldest, and he was only twenty-one. It was before I knew you, of course. Were you living in England then?”
“I’d only just arrived. I was still learning my way around. Finding my feet, I guess you could say. I didn’t realize, then, what they were doing. How they were saving all of us.”
Vi nodded, just the once, and breathed in deeply. “It was such a beautiful day. The sky was so blue that it hurt my eyes to look at it. He was . . . Hugh was on his third sortie of the afternoon. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, so he must have been terribly tired. There were so few of them, you know, and each day there were fewer. He went out and he never returned. I didn’t find out until the next day. His parents had been sent a telegram, and his sister drove through the night so she might tell me, face-to-face, and spare me the shock of a telephone call or telegram. I’ll always be grateful to her for that.”
Ruby was working on the sleeves now, the pins marching south along Vi’s slim arms. “Had you been engaged for long?”
“Only since that Christmas. After he was killed, I wore the ring for a while, but it had been his grandmother’s, and it didn’t seem right to keep it. I gave it back to his mother.”
“Do you have a photograph of him?”
“Oh, yes,” Vi said, and the smile she gave Ruby was wide and tremulous. “It’s in my handbag. Remind me to show you before dinner.”
“I’m all done. Let me help you out of it. Slowly now, so you don’t get stuck with any of the pins.”
As Vi was changing back into her skirt and blouse, she paused for a second to wave her hand at the still-open trunk. “You should choose something. Please do.”
“Oh, no. I already took too many of your things when I moved in with your mother. I don’t need anything more.”
“Of course you do. Christmas will be here before you know it, and you’ll want a pretty frock. Oh—and I’ve a charity evening with my ENSA company coming up next week. You’ll need something nice for that. Did anything catch your eye earlier? Be honest—I really and truly do want you to have something.”
“If you’re sure . . . perhaps that red dress? Only it looked almost new.”
“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, I bought it on a whim and never wore it.”
Vi delved into the trunk and emerged with the exact dress Ruby had admired earlier. It had a long, swirling skirt, not too full, with little puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was a dark tomato red with tiny white polka dots, and had a row of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons down the front.
“The color is awful on me,” Vi said, “but it will be wonderful on you. I insist you take it.”
RUBY WORE THE dress, which had only needed the tiniest bit of alterations, to Vi’s ENSA show the following Friday evening. It was held at the Fortune Theatre in Covent Garden, just next door to the Scottish church where Mary’s funeral had been held. Vanessa came to the show, too, but was unimpressed when the usher at the theater’s entrance informed them they were sitting upstairs.
“You’re in the upper circle, ma’am. Up the stairs and all the way to the top. Usher there’ll show you where to go.”
“I hadn’t realized we’d be seated on Mount Olympus,” Vanessa grumbled as they trudged up the stairs.
“Yes, but we’ll be able to see everything so well,” Ruby said brightly, too excited to care a bit where they were sitting. “Is this the same show Vi does on her factory visits?”
“I believe it’s an expanded version,” Vanessa answered, a little out of breath from their ascent. “They’ve done it a few times for fund-raisers.”
At the top of the stairs, a waiting usher handed them a program and directed them to their seats. It had been worth the climb, for they were seated in the front row of the upper circle, with a terrific view of the entire stage.
“There she is,” Vanessa said, pointing to Vi’s name on the program.
ENSA Proudly Presents
A Variety Showcase
In Aid of the British Red Cross
Starring
Danny Styles and His Swingin’ Syncopators
Morton and Milly
Arthur Latimer
Eva and the Starlettes
Jimmy Cole
Miss Viola Tremaine
***
There will be a brief intermission
Refreshments are available at the bar
Mr. Styles and his band began the show with a round of popular music, the highlight of which, for Ruby, was “Chattanooga Choo-Choo,” one of her favorite tunes. It was all she could do not to get up and dance in the aisle. The band was followed by Morton and Milly, a pair of tap dancers who offered a credible imitation of Fred and Ginger, and then by Arthur Latimer, who performed several brief but showy piano solos on a gigantic Steinway that was rolled out from the wings.
After a brief intermission Eve and the Starlettes, a troop of acrobatic dancers, took to the stage, and then it was time for the comedian.
“He’s awful,” Vanessa warned Ruby as the man took to the stage. “It’s the worst sort of jingoistic tripe. Why they keep him on I have no idea.”
“Too bad Nigel isn’t here. He’d probably love it.”
Vanessa wasn’t wrong. The man was a cretin, and after an especially distasteful limerick about “Japs, wops, and krauts,” Ruby was ready to put her fingers in her ears.
“I can’t believe people are laughing,” she whispered in Vanessa’s ear.
“I suppose he appeals to the lowest common denominator. But at least—oh, thank goodness. Off he goes.”
As soon as the stage was empty again, the lights went down and the audience fell silent. A circle of light appeared at center stage. Out of the darkness, a lone figure appeared. It was Vi, costumed in the chiffon dress Ruby had altered, her hair swept back from her face to fall in loose curls around her shoulders.
“Good evening, everyone. My name is Viola Tremaine, and I’m here to share some songs with you.”
She paused, her hand coming out to steady the microphone on its stand. And then her voice rang out alone, sweet and true and achingly beautiful.
“I’ll never smile again . . .”
“I love this song!” Ruby hissed in Vanessa’s ear. From the cheers coming from the audience, she wasn’t alone in that opinion.
Vi waited until the applause had died down, smiling and laughing as GIs in the audience called her name and shouted out song requests. Then she launched into “When the Lights Go on Again,” and the bittersweet yearning of its lyrics left Ruby struggling to catch her breath.
Taking only the briefest pause, Vi moved on to “Why Don’t You Do Right?” and “I’ll Be Seeing You,” another standard that left Ruby hovering on the edge of tears.
“Thank you, everyone, for your generosity in coming out tonight and supporting the work of the British Red Cross,” Vi said. “We’ve just enough time for one last song, and it’s a favorite of a dear friend who is here tonight. Ruby—this is for you.”
“Somewhere over the rainbow . . .”
This time, without any encouragement from Vi, the audience joined in, singing of lemon drops and bluebirds and happiness forever out of reach. The final bars of music faded, everyone leaped to their feet, and the rapturous applause that ensued was positively deafening.
“Should we try and go backstage?” Ruby asked when the applause had died down and the audience was making for the exits.
“We’ll never get through, I fear. There will be GIs ten deep outside the stage door. And we will be seeing her on Sunday.”
Ruby had known Vi could sing—that had been apparent from their first sing-along in the shelter. But the woman she’d seen onstage tonight? She was a different sort of creature altogether, her talents so superior to everyone else who’d preceded her that it was almost laughable. Vi was Ruby’s friend, but Miss Viola Tremaine? She was a star.
RUBY WAS STILL in a wonderful mood the next day, and not even the prospect of seeing Nigel could faze her. She left for work early, hoping to have some time to herself; Evelyn would certainly be there, but Nigel wasn’t likely to roll through the door until closer to nine o’clock, and perhaps even later since it was a Saturday.
The office was silent when she arrived, and after hanging up her coat and hat, Ruby walked down the hall to Kaz’s office. She opened the door, but the chair behind the desk was occupied.
Kaz had returned.
She stared at him, tears gathering in her eyes. “I thought you weren’t coming back until the end of December.”
He was marking up a piece that Nell had left for Ruby the night before, his head bent low, and when he did look up she was taken aback by the weight of sorrow in his pale, wise eyes.
“I felt better,” he said, and smiled. “How are you?”
“Seeing you at your desk? So much better than when I woke up this morning.”
“I see you’d set up shop in here. Do you mind if I reclaim my office?”
“Of course not. And I only came in here when I needed a bit of quiet.”
“Or to get away from Nigel?”
“That, too. From time to time. Are you . . . are you better?” It felt wrong to ask, and yet it would be worse to pretend that nothing had happened.
“I am, or as better as I’ll ever be. Losing Mary was a wound that won’t ever heal. I had to learn how to live with the pain. To accept that my life isn’t over and I have useful work to do. Not to mention friends who care for me and want me to be well.”
“We do,” she insisted. “I ought to have made that clearer to you. We all should have.”
He grimaced theatrically at this. “Remember that the rest of us are English, and we’d rather chew on broken glass than talk about our feelings.” His expression grew somber. “I read through the back issues this morning. I’ve a lot of damage to undo.”
“I know you and Nigel are old friends,” she began, not wishing to offend or further distress him, “but it was awful while you were gone. Nell and I were counting the days.”
“I’ve spoken to him, and he has tendered his resignation. He’s gone already.”
“Oh,” she said, taken aback by the speed of Nigel’s departure. “Will you be able to find anyone else?”
“I think so, but I wanted to speak with you first. The position is yours if you want it. If you see yourself turning away from writing, at least for the time being.”
“Are you sure? It’s not as if Nigel gave me much to do.”
“I am sure, Ruby, and once again I feel very badly that he was so obstructive. But the question remains: Do you want the job of assistant editor? Or would you rather be a staff writer?”
It would be a step up, a big one. Certainly it would be sensible of her to accept. But she didn’t want to be an editor—she was a writer down to her toes, and that was the work she wanted to do.
“If you need me to help with the editing, I’ll do it, but I really have missed the writing. Nigel preferred to bring in freelancers. I don’t think I’ve written an original piece since you left.”
“I know, and PW has suffered for it. Consider yourself freed from editorial purgatory.”
“Thank you. And I will stay on until you find someone else. You did say you have someone in mind?”
“I do. An old friend. Czech by birth, but he spent most of his childhood here. He worked in Germany for a number of years—the man speaks half a dozen languages—and was imprisoned by the Nazis for a time. Fortunately, he had the good sense to come here as soon as he was released in early 1939, otherwise God only knows where he’d be now.”
“Where has he been working since coming to England?”
Kaz’s expression darkened. “Nowhere. He was sent to an internment camp last year, and despite my best efforts, and those of Harry and Bennett and a host of other friends, he remained in detention until earlier this summer. None of it makes any sense—Emil is the most fervent opponent of fascism I’ve ever met.”
“There’s another story we should be covering—conditions in the internment camps. I’ve wondered about them before. How people are treated there.”
“Emil says the camp where he was sent was pretty decent, but his point of comparison is a Nazi prison. I think for the average interned person, simply being deprived of his liberty is injury enough. We could put them all up at the Savoy and it would still be unjust.”
“Have you asked him yet?”
“No. I was waiting to speak with you. In case you wanted the job.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Can you ring him up? See if he’s free for lunch one day soon? That way you can introduce him to all of us.”
“And allow him to make an informed decision as to whether he wants to sign up to work in this madhouse?”
“Yes, Kaz. Exactly that.”
EMIL BERGMANN MET Kaz and Ruby at the Old Bell later that week. Slight and slim, with thinning hair that was carefully combed back from his brow, and elegant hands that fluttered around his face when he talked, he looked many years older than Kaz, though Ruby suspected they were about the same age.
He was friendly but reserved, the sort of man who listened while others spoke, but when he did offer his opinions they were thoughtful and considered. He let Kaz tell him about the struggles the magazine faced, the need to reclaim readers who had been driven away by Nigel’s disastrous stint in the editor’s chair, and apart from nodding his head, and occasionally murmuring “of course, of course,” he remained silent throughout.
“So? What do you think? Are you interested?” Kaz asked.
“I am. As far as turning the magazine around, it will take time. To begin with, you need a big story. Something that gets everyone’s attention. Gets readers talking. But not in a reactionary way, as your previous editor attempted.”
“Have any ideas?”
“Yes. It is not an easy subject. I think your readers may find it difficult to read about. It will certainly be difficult to persuade the Ministry of Information to let you run it. But I think it can be managed. I think they’ll agree it will help the war effort.”
“Go on.”
Emil leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the dregs of his beer. “This past summer, the Catholic bishop of Münster gave a sermon that condemned the Nazis’ so-called euthanasia program of invalids, which was nothing more than the targeted extermination of innocents. The program has since been wound down, which is to say it has simply gone underground, and the bishop has been placed under house arrest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in one of their gas chambers.”
“Gas chambers?” Ruby asked.
“That’s how they kill them. Children and cripples and old people who’ve become senile. They kill them with poison gas. Tens of thousands under the official program. And heaven knows how many more are being killed in secret. We won’t know the full extent until the war is over, but my gut tells me it will be the stuff of nightmares.”
Kaz took off his spectacles and began to rub at his temples. “Do we have any firsthand accounts? Anyone who can speak to the full extent of the horrors?”
“Not as yet, but it’s only a matter of time. For the moment, I propose that we print a translation of the bishop’s sermon alongside your editorial. It will cause an uproar. It may even become a point of debate in the House of Commons. And it will remind readers that Picture Weekly is a force for good in this country.”