LONDON
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1940
Outside Charing Cross Station, workmen removed rubble and carted building materials.
Aleida stepped around a wheelbarrow and crossed the pavement to an ornate monument topped by a cross.
Under a cloudy sky, Hugh stood by the monument in his tailored black overcoat, a gray homburg, and a big smile.
Her heart made a little hop in her chest, and she met him halfway.
Hugh nodded over her shoulder. “Jouveau’s right behind you.”
Aleida turned and greeted François Jouveau. “Thank you for taking me to the hotel. If there’s any chance someone’s seen my son—”
“Think nothing of it.” Jouveau waved one hand. “It was Collie’s idea.”
“But you have the connections in the refugee community,” Hugh said. “Come. It’s only a few streets away.”
They headed along the Strand, past stately buildings of cool gray stone. Aleida counted her steps. Stopped herself. Counting would neither bring Theo to her, nor would failing to count keep him from her.
But her steps lengthened and quickened.
“Most of the refugees at the Strand Palace Hotel are French.” Jouveau took a drag on a cigarette. “But Dutch refugees stay there too. Belgian, Czech, Polish. I visit when I can. The refugees are often overlooked now that tens of thousands of British subjects have lost their homes in the Blitz.”
“Nationality shouldn’t matter. British, foreigners—they’ve all lost their homes due to the Nazis.” Hugh’s mouth shifted to one side. “If only I could tell the story of the refugees, but it isn’t the story for the time.”
Aleida passed the remains of a building. Three walls reached high, jagged along the tops, but the insides poured out toward the street, a heap of stone and glass and twisted bits of furniture.
The Blitz was the story for the time, the only story, the only part of life for most.
Every night the bombers came. Every night, hundreds of buildings were destroyed. Every night, hundreds of people died.
Aleida had become accustomed to snatching sleep in the damp Anderson shelter in the garden, to changing Underground routes due to bomb damage, to making do with interrupted electricity and gas.
The Germans bombed in the hopes of demolishing morale so the people would rise up and force the government to sue for peace.
Hitler didn’t know these people, who passed Aleida with purposeful strides, their chins high, their clothes neat.
“Fletcher would never let you tell the refugees’ stories,” Jouveau said with a sniff. “He’s become Ridley’s pet dog.”
“Fletcher?” Hugh gaped at his friend. “He rather dislikes Ridley.”
“And Ridley rather dislikes me.” Jouveau leaned closer to Aleida. “That means he despises me.”
Aleida gave him an understanding nod. “These English never say what they mean.”
They crossed a street, and Jouveau led the way. “Ridley despises me, because I criticize the British government.”
“You do on occasion,” Hugh said. “But overall, you’ve been most appreciative, and your broadcasts to France promote the Allied cause. You encourage resistance and support de Gaulle and the Free French.”
Jouveau brandished his cigarette. “All of which Ridley forgets the instant I breathe a critical word. Then he yells at Fletcher.”
“Fletcher?” Hugh frowned. “He isn’t your editor.”
“Ah, but my actual editor ignores Ridley, so Ridley yells at Fletcher and Fletcher yells at me. Not only is Fletcher angry at my transgressions, but he’s angry that Ridley unjustly blames him for my actions and causes trouble for him at the Ministry of Information.”
Aleida hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “That isn’t fair.”
“I care not.” Smoke plumed alongside Jouveau’s cheek. “My editor is pleased with my stories, de Gaulle is pleased, the French people are pleased, and the Germans hate me. So I am pleased.”
“Perhaps I could speak to Ridley.” Hugh gave his head a sharp shake. “No, he wouldn’t listen. He has no respect for me.”
“And I have no respect for him,” Jouveau said. “Did I tell you Ridley accused me of flirting with his wife at a reception, because I made her smile? Meanwhile, he was making eyes with the daughter of an MP.”
A group of businessmen approached, and Hugh motioned for Aleida to precede him. “If we Englishmen learned how to make ladies smile, we’d be less suspicious of you Frenchmen.”
Aleida smiled to herself. Hugh had already learned that lesson well.
“Do you know what I dream at night?” Delight glistened in Jouveau’s brown eyes. “I dream of the police arresting Ridley for your uncle’s murder. Ridley hated Hastings, called him ‘quite indiscreet.’”
“So sorry to disappoint you.” Hugh flashed half a smile. “Ridley has an alibi.”
“Hugh says the police suspect a Frenchman,” Aleida said.
“The police are wrong.” Dark eyebrows drew together. “We French know Hastings’s mistake was an honest one. Hastings was our champion in Parliament. He worked with aid societies, and he was about to introduce a bill to increase funding for refugees. Sadly, that bill has died with him. He is much mourned by my countrymen.”
“Thank you.” Hugh’s voice sounded rough. “Ah, here we are.”
The entrance to the Strand Palace Hotel was an Art Deco wonder of glass and mirrors and polished steel. Inside the lobby, glass-and-steel columns and balustrades glowed with light from inside.
Jouveau led them through a mirrored revolving door and to a large restaurant, full of long tables to feed the hundreds of refugees at the hotel. The smell of potato soup filled the air.
Families huddled at the tables, their clothes drab, and muted voices in a dozen languages bounced off the mirrored walls.
Aleida’s chest seized. These people had neither money nor family in England. Without Sebastiaan’s gold or her aunt and uncle in Britain, this would have been her.
A woman passed, holding the hand of a brown-haired girl.
Aleida swept her gaze around the teeming dining hall, searching for little blond boys. How much had Theo grown in the last five months? No matter how he’d changed, she’d recognize him instantly.
“Come along,” Hugh said with a soft look in his eyes.
Aleida sucked in a breath and followed the men.
Speaking French, Jouveau greeted a middle-aged man, someone he obviously knew, and he asked where the Dutch refugees were. His friend led them across the dining hall.
The familiar sound of Dutch filled her ears, and a sweet pain flooded her chest.
A ruddy-cheeked man in his forties rose and shook Jouveau’s hand, and Jouveau introduced Aleida in French.
Aleida switched to Dutch, and her story poured out, her description of Theo. Her sorrow.
The gentleman introduced her to dozens of other Dutch men and women. Over and over, she told her story. Over and over, eyes widened at the horror of Aleida’s plight. Over and over, heads shook. They hadn’t seen Theo.
No one had.
At Hugh’s suggestion, she asked about other locations where Dutch refugees were billeted, and she wrote them in her notebook.
Her hand trembled. Her breath became erratic.
She smoothed the page once, twice, three times. She grimaced and added a fourth, but that only made her breath choppier.
“Is there anyone else she can talk to?” Hugh asked the Dutch gentleman in French.
“No, that is all of us.”
Aleida managed to slip her notebook into her purse, and she extended her hand to the Dutchman. “Heel erd bedankt.”
“Graag gedaan,” he said. “I hope you find your son.”
Aleida’s throat constricted, and she could only nod in reply.
“I’m sorry.” Hugh led Aleida and Jouveau out of the dining hall. “At least you have a few more places to search.”
She didn’t want more places to search. She wanted her son, and her breath wrapped around her vocal cords and strangled them.
In the lobby, Jouveau gave her a sympathetic frown. “I’ll keep asking. Collie—will I see you tonight at the Hart and Swan?”
Aleida plunged one hand into her coat pocket to prevent tapping. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll see you later.”
Jouveau departed, but Hugh stayed, a slight frown on his face. “Do you have further appointments today?”
“I need to ring these other hotels.” Her voice wavered.
“Not yet.” He set his hand in the small of her back. “Let’s walk.”
Did she want to walk? She had appointments to make. Yet she was in no state to do so, and the gentle pressure of his touch slowed her breathing. “All right, then.”
After Hugh guided her outside, he lowered his hand.
Aleida clenched her purse strap with one hand and her pocket lining with the other, trying to keep the two magnets from colliding and tapping and luring her with false hope of control.
“Let’s go to the river.” Hugh led her across the street toward the Savoy Hotel, down a lane, and to the Thames.
Trees lined the embankment, and Aleida and Hugh headed to the walkway alongside the gray waters.
The Waterloo Bridge stretched incomplete across the Thames, its reconstruction slowed due to the wartime shortage of labor.
Beyond it, black clouds billowed from fires from the previous nights’ air raids.
Hugh led her west, away from the worst of the bomb damage. “I have a suggestion. I’d like you to list all your fears about your son.”
Aleida’s step faltered. “List them?”
“You like lists. List your fears. Name those monsters, so you can fight them.” A fierce light burned in Hugh’s eyes.
Her pocketed hand stretched toward her purse-clenching hand, straining her coat.
Hugh slipped to her left side. “Hold my arm, walk, and list.”
She stared up at him, breathing hard. She didn’t want to name those monsters. Yet their names howled inside her mind, all day and all night. Named or unnamed, they howled.
With a sudden inhalation, she wrenched her hand from her pocket and gripped Hugh’s arm.
“Name them.” Hugh proceeded down the concrete embankment. “What’s your worst fear? That Theo is dead.”
Aleida slammed her eyes shut. “Yes.” So many ways he could have died—strafing, starvation, accident, illness.
“What else?” His voice managed to be both strident and calming.
“That he—he’s abandoned. Alone. Wandering.” Her fingers dug into fine wool, into Hugh’s solid arm. “That he’s still on the continent, in an orphanage, living under the Nazis. That the British couple brought him here but left him in an orphanage or a refugee camp. Or they’re beating him. Or neglecting him. Or they sent him to an even worse home in the country. Or they didn’t send him away, and he’s living through the bombings.”
“Mm-hmm.” Hugh covered her digging hand with his. “What can you do about those?”
Her eyes burned, and her breath snagged on her airways. What indeed could she do?
“You can do what you’re already doing.” Hugh squeezed her hand. “Keep searching in your diligent way. What else?”
Clouds filled the sky, but on the horizon . . . a band of pale blue. “I can pray.”
“Yes. What does the Bible say? ‘Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.’”
So many cares, and her chin quivered. She put all her effort into firming it. The Lord was strong enough to carry her burdens. Certainly stronger than she was. So why did she cling to her cares as if the clinging connected her to her son?
“And you can hope.” Hugh’s voice drew out in golden strands. “Hope Theo’s in a good home with people who care for him.”
Her stomach contracted, her eyes squeezed shut, and she stopped and covered her mouth.
“Aleida?” Hugh said. “I thought that might bring a feeble smile of sorts.”
She shook her head. Why was that thought almost worse? She wanted Theo to be happy, didn’t she? So why was she trying to burn away the image of Theo in a happy home, looking on the English couple with love . . .
A sob burst between her fingers. “What if he forgets me?”
“Forgets you?” Hugh set his hand on her shoulder. “How is that even possible? You’re an extraordinary woman.”
“He’s only three. How much do you remember from that age?” Her throat clamped shut.
Hugh rubbed her shoulder. “I know he’s young. Over time, he may forget your face. But he’ll never forget your love.”
The emotion in his voice pried open her eyes, and the compassion and hurt on his face pried open her heart.
“I . . .” He coughed and cleared his throat. “I’ll never forget my sister’s love.”
“You have a sister?”
“She died when she was six. An asthmatic attack.” His gaze darted to the side, then back to her. “I was three and a half, about Theo’s age. We do have photographs, but we don’t talk about her. Caroline. Her name was Caroline.”
“Caroline. I can see you loved her.”
The sound of his sister’s name cleared some of the pain from his hazel eyes. “I loved her very much. Caroline played with me and fussed over me like a little mother. I will never forget.”
Memories flashed through her mind, of playing with Theo and reading to him and singing with him and holding him when he cried and scolding him when he was naughty. Of loving him with all her heart.
“He won’t forget?” Hope threaded through her words.
Hugh’s gaze settled on her, soft but firm. “Never.”