4
LONDON
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, 1940
Aleida stroked Oli’s trunk twelve times. A perfect number.
She could still see little Theo cradling the elephant’s trunk around his cheek, and her eyes filled. What horrors had he endured? What fears?
With a strengthening breath, she positioned Oli precisely on her bureau. She hadn’t seen her son for forty-seven days.
Elephants might never forget, but little boys could.
Aleida pinned on the dove-gray hat that matched her suit, applied lipstick in a subtle shade of rose, and left for the Ministry of Health in Whitehall.
On the Piccadilly Line, she opened her notebook. On each page, she’d listed places Theo might be or places to inquire. She’d listed the worst possibilities in the back.
The worst—Bas had lied and abandoned Theo by the road. The English couple had abandoned him. The couple had been stranded on the continent.
Holding her pen in her right hand, she tapped her knuckles with her left index finger. One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one.
She could do nothing about those possibilities. Besides, a couple wealthy enough to own a car had the means to return home, and anyone with half a heart wouldn’t abandon a child.
Her vision blurred. She glanced out the window and blinked until the circular red signs for Piccadilly cleared before her.
Aleida disembarked, switched to the Bakerloo Line, and took a seat.
She had to assume the couple had brought Theo to London. They could have left him at a refugee center or an orphanage or a hospital. She listed each institution she found in her notebook and checked them off with notes after she visited.
The Dutch Embassy had its own page. They’d promised to do what they could.
What if the couple had sent Theo to the country as many parents had done? The Ministry of Health oversaw the evacuation process.
Only sixteen more items to put on her list until she reached forty, the biblical number of trial and fulfillment. Forty years in the desert, then the Promised Land. Forty items on the list, then she’d find Theo.
At Trafalgar Square, she stepped outside to a blue sky streaked by plumes of clouds. Using Nelson’s Column to get her bearings, she headed down Whitehall past government buildings of cool gray stone.
Aleida entered the Ministry of Health and consulted a directory to find the correct department. Up stone steps smoothed by time, down a hallway, and Aleida entered an office.
At a desk behind the counter sat a young woman with rich brown skin and shiny black hair curling below her chin in a fashionable style.
“Good morning,” Aleida said. “Is this the department that oversees the evacuation of children?”
“Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”
Aleida took a deep breath. “My name is Mrs. Martens, and I fled from the Netherlands. On the road when I was sleeping, my husband—without my consent—gave our three-year-old son to an English couple who promised to bring him to London. My husband was killed the next morning before he could tell me their name or address.”
“Oh no.” Distress shivered in the woman’s large dark eyes. “Do you think your son arrived in London and was evacuated?”
Aleida gripped the edge of the counter. “I must believe the best.”
“Evacuation is the right thing to do.” The woman tipped her head to a poster on the wall stating, “Children are safer in the country . . . leave them there.”
Safer, yes. But “the country” meant many different places. “Do you have records of where the children are?”
The woman came to the counter. “Children are evacuated in three ways. Schoolchildren are sent with their school. Younger children are sent with their mothers—this department oversees those arrangements. And certain families, especially those with means, make private arrangements.”
Filing cabinets lined the wall behind the desk. “You have records for each child?”
The woman frowned. “We know which schools went to which towns. The other children are gathered at the train station. When they receive their billets in the country, they send a postcard home with their address. And we have no records of private arrangements.”
A bleak void opened inside her. The couple who had Theo had means.
“Miss Sharma?” a woman called from an office in the back. “Where’s the report?”
“Soon, Miss Granville.” Miss Sharma gave Aleida an apologetic look. “I wish I could help. We’re extremely short-staffed. Now that France has fallen, the government has ordered another round of evacuations—for the children who returned home during the Bore War.”
“Oh.” If only she could peek in those filing cabinets.
“Perhaps you could work here.” Miss Sharma tipped a smile.
“Work here?” Aleida already had a job—finding her son—and the Ministry of Health was only twenty-fourth on her list. But learning how the system worked might create leads.
“Would you like to?”
She could still search in the evenings and on Saturdays. “Why, yes, I would.”
Miss Sharma bolted to the office door. “Miss Granville, a lady would like to work here.”
“Oh?” A woman in her thirties came out, tall and big-boned, with dark red hair and a friendly smile. She extended her hand to Aleida. “I’m Miss Granville.”
“How do you do? My name is Mrs. Martens.”
Miss Granville snatched her hand from Aleida’s. “You’re German?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Dutch. I fled from the Germans.”
“Yes,” Miss Sharma said, “and she was tragically separated from her young son. As a mother, she’ll have compassion on the evacuees and rapport with the mothers.”
Miss Granville looked as if she’d swallowed bad mustard. “Mothers belong at home.”
“I’m a widow,” Aleida said, “and I have no other children. What better way to fill my time than helping other women’s children?”
The mustard remained. “This position requires a certain knowledge of the special needs of English children and an understanding of English ways.”
“I am not deficient in that area.” Aleida would need to appeal to the woman’s snobbery, and she named the elite boarding school she’d attended.
Sugar replaced mustard. “That’s my school too.”
In British society, school ties were everything, and yet the woman’s eyes narrowed again.
Miss Sharma’s eyebrows rose, then she turned to Aleida. “Do you do your bit for Britain? I volunteer at an Air Raid Precautions post with Miss Granville.” She inclined her head toward her boss in a deliberate way.
Was that how Miss Sharma had overcome Miss Granville’s dislike of foreigners? “I’d planned to volunteer after I became more settled,” Aleida said.
Miss Sharma pressed one finger to her chin. “After you found a job, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” She gave Miss Granville her most innocent look. “Do you need more volunteers at your ARP post?”
She did. Aleida received the job.
Twenty-four was a good number indeed.
TUESDAY, JULY 9, 1940
“On this day, our illustrious government banned the spreading of rumors. Are we to fight censorship in occupied lands by practicing it here?” Hugh fastened his necktie in a Windsor knot. “My dear Lennox, you are the only creature who shall hear that speech.”
Across the room, Lennox sat on an armchair, unimpressed.
Although the cat acted annoyed by Hugh and the household staff, he never escaped through open doors, possibly due to the bounty of mice in the attic. Since he hadn’t aggravated Hugh’s asthma, Lennox remained, as sour as his namesake, but no devil cat.
After Hugh buttoned his suit jacket, he donned his gray fedora. “And now, Lennox, you are about to witness broadcasting history, in which Hugh Collingwood actually pleases his editor. Wish me the best.”
With one lazy blink, Lennox did so.
In fifteen minutes, Hugh arrived at an Air Raid Precautions post near Green Park Station. A BBC mobile recording van was parked outside, and Hugh greeted Tom Young and his crew.
“We’re already hooked into the telephone line.” Young leveled his gaze at Hugh. “Remember, this is a live broadcast.”
Fletcher had put faith in Hugh to allow an outside broadcast. Misguided faith on Fletcher’s part, but Hugh intended not to break it. “Someday gold shall aspire to be as good as Collingwood.”
A smile twitched in the corner of Young’s mouth. Then he tapped his wristwatch. “You’ll have three minutes. I’ll give you signals at thirty seconds, ten, and five. I’ll bring the microphone when it’s ready.”
“Thank you. I’ll go inside and arrange my interviews.” Hugh entered the building, housed in a school that had evacuated to the country.
A petite middle-aged woman crossed his path, wearing the ill-fitting blue mackintosh coat used by female wardens.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m Hugh Collingwood with the BBC, and I’m—”
“Hugh Collingwood!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “That voice—it’s as handsome in person—that is—I mean—”
“Mrs. Byrne, why don’t you see to your duties?” Beatrice Granville approached. “Ah, Hugh, it’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”
“It has.” Hugh shook the hand of the tall redhead who had once been good friends with Cecil. “I’m afraid I have little time before our broadcast. Would you please introduce me around? I’d like to interview three volunteers. I’ve already met Mrs. Byrne.”
Mrs. Byrne giggled like a schoolgirl.
With not much work, Hugh could put her at ease and have a charming interview.
“You’ll interview me only,” Beatrice said. “No one else is capable or willing. And two are foreigners. They have accents.”
He’d judge capability, willingness, and accents for himself. “Please introduce me.”
Beatrice dipped her chin and introduced half a dozen men and women, none beyond hope. In Hugh’s experience, keen interest and stimulating questions never failed.
Last, Beatrice introduced him to Nilima Sharma and Aleida Martens. Each had a confident carriage and a light accent. This was exactly what Hugh wanted, to show all of London rising above differences and pulling together. “Would you ladies be interested—”
“Miss Sharma, you’re late for your duties,” Beatrice said. “Please take Mrs. Martens with you, as she is still training.” She clapped her hands twice, a woman accustomed to dismissing the help.
“Yes, ma’am.” The two ladies hurried off.
And . . . the other volunteers had disappeared too.
If Hugh weren’t careful, he would have the dullest of interviews as Beatrice pontificated for three minutes.
He had Beatrice describe the volunteers’ duties so he knew which questions to ask, and he planned the order for his interview.
Soon Young brought in Hugh’s microphone and headphones, trailing yards of cord back to the recording van. Young also wore headphones. They could each hear the BBC broadcast, and Young studied his wristwatch, synchronized with the clocks at Broadcasting House.
After Hugh heard his introduction on the air, he smiled at Young as if he were every man, woman, and child seated around a wireless set tuned to the Home Service. “This is Hugh Collingwood reporting live from an Air Raid Precautions post somewhere in London. The volunteers at this post have left for their rounds, armed only with helmet and torch. And on those meager tools and on those watchful eyes rest the safety of a nation.”
Hugh lowered his voice a grim notch. “Whilst we are loath to imagine German bombers over our fair isle, we must prepare ourselves for that possibility. Taking proper air raid precautions applies not only in London but in every village and town. Although Hitler might not wish to bomb your village green, the lights in your cottage could lead his pilots to the airfields and ports he does indeed wish to destroy.”
Hugh faced Beatrice and let light back into his voice. “I’m standing here with Miss Beatrice Granville. Miss Granville, would you please describe the duties your volunteers will perform tonight as the city sleeps?”
Beatrice pontificated, but in an articulate way and with a refreshing touch of self-effacing humor. Hugh guided her with questions and comments as she discussed blackout regulations.
When Young signaled thirty seconds remaining, Hugh helped Beatrice complete her final thought. And when he signaled ten seconds, Hugh spun to face his engineer.
“So tonight, if your air raid warden should chide you for the sliver of light peeking from your kitchen window, please be understanding and leap to close the curtain. The wardens are seeking the safety of your family, your town, and your nation. This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from somewhere in London.”
He finished just as Young made a fist to say his time was up.
Hugh thanked Beatrice warmly, then helped Young roll up cord on the way back to the van. “Wasn’t I indeed as good as gold?” Hugh asked Young with a grin.
“Blindingly so.”
Out on the dusky street, Hugh passed the microphone and headphones to Gerald MacTavish in the back of the van. Not a gripping broadcast but full of information for the public good. No one at the Ministry of Information would complain, not even his old family friend, Albert Ridley.
“Excellent work, men,” Hugh said to the crew. “Thank you.”
“Good night.” Young shut the door and drove away.
“Excuse me, Mr. Collingwood.” A woman stood behind him—the attractive blonde with the light accent. She wore a blue mackintosh and a blue helmet printed with W for warden.
“Yes. Mrs. Martens, was it?”
“Yes, sir.” She glanced around him toward the door of the post, then across the street where Miss Sharma stood, then back to Hugh. “Would you please tell my story on the BBC?”
“Your story?” The lady would earn Beatrice’s ire if she were seen talking to Hugh, so he angled his body to block the view from the door. “What would that story be?”
Her hands twisted around her darkened torch. “When I was fleeing the Netherlands in May, I was separated from my three-year-old son. He is probably in London. If you were to broadcast about him, someone might recognize him.”
Hugh’s chest collapsed at the anguish in the young mother’s eyes, dim though they were in the twilight. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martens. What an ordeal this must be for your family.”
“His name is Theodoor—Theo for short. He has light blond hair and bright blue eyes, and on his right hand he has no fingers.”
Hugh’s breath lodged in his throat. “You talk about it so—openly.”
She glanced down at her torch, twisting and twisting. “In Dutch, we have a word—rechtdoorzee. It translates as ‘right through the sea’—direct and straightforward. I must be rechtdoorzee to find my son. There are many little blond boys in England, but very few with a hand like his. If you tell about him on the BBC, I may find him.”
The BBC had a policy not to broadcast about missing persons. But ideas swarmed in Hugh’s head, buzzing, and all the bees lined up. During the exodus from France and the Low Countries, millions had fled in great chaos. How many families had become separated? He could broadcast that story—and include the story of Theo Martens.
Mrs. Martens lifted a jaw too sharp to be beautiful but with dignity that was beauty itself. “Besides, I am not ashamed of my son. Far from it. His hand is . . . sweet.” Her voice trembled.
She was a brave woman, Mrs. Martens, and a loving mother.
Hugh pulled out his notepad and found a bit of space. “I would like to tell your story, but I must receive approval from my editor. May I please have your address and telephone number, if you have one? If I receive approval, I’ll ring.”
A smile transformed her face from attractive to lovely. “Thank you. I’d be forever grateful.” She gave her address and telephone number, and he bid her goodbye.
“Rechtdoorzee,” Hugh whispered as he walked home on the blacked-out streets. The English prized circumspection above directness, propriety above openness.
Hugh’s infirmity was invisible, one he could hide most days.
What if he were rechtdoorzee about it?
He knew full well what would happen. He’d be told he couldn’t do this and shouldn’t do that and was he feeling quite well? Would he like to sit down? Take a rest?
No, he wouldn’t.
The good stories and exciting stories would no longer come his way.
If he plunged right into the sea, he’d drown.