Ella ached all over. Her hand felt cold and stiff as she held onto a silent Lonia. They stood looking at the huge gates. She knew they were still in France, somewhere south of Reims, as she had seen signs for that city on the journey, but exactly where they were, she had no idea.
After the soldier had raped her, he’d bundled her into the back of the truck. She’d waited, praying that Flors would be brought back, but at the sound of gunshots, the soldier had slammed the tailgate and driven off at a roaring speed. He’d driven all night without stopping. Ella had slept some of the time, but most of the journey she’d fretted about being separated from Flors, and with worry about what had happened to her dear friend. She felt certain Cyrus was dead, and she feared that Flors was, too. The thought was unbearable to her, and yet she couldn’t cry out against it. Her soul had been drained.
When they’d reached a checkpoint she’d heard the soldier shout out what had happened to the convoy, and demand that they radio HQ and report the incident. Leaving her lying in the back of the truck, he’d disappeared. Ella was glad of this, as she never wanted to look into his hateful face again or smell him anywhere near her. He’d conjured up terrible memories from her past that she’d tried to suppress – of her time with Shamus – but at this moment she thought of the soldier as the viler of the two.
But now she had knowledge of even greater evil. Having been picked up from the checkpoint, she’d been taken to Paris, a long, arduous journey crouching in the back of another truck, clinging onto poor Lonia. Having been separated from Lonia, she’d been shoved into a cell in Gestapo headquarters and interrogated for hours.
‘Who helped you? And who were the others you were travelling with? Where is your husband?’
‘No one helped me. My friends are dead. They, too, were British, but your soldiers killed them – they raped us. RAPED ME AND MY FRIEND!’ This scream had earned her another slap, which calmed her. ‘My husband is dead also.’
‘LIAR! Your child says that he left you to go back to your home. Where is he?’
The realization that they were questioning Lonia terrified her. ‘I don’t know. I – I had to leave him and take my child. I had to try to get her to safety.’
‘But not your other child – your son?’
Oh God, Lonia has mentioned Paulo. My son, my darling son, is in danger!
‘Where is your son? Paulo Rennaise? Oh yes, your child told us that he has a different name from her. And do you know what else she told us? She told us all about her family. That she has an aunt and uncle and a cousin living in Poland, and that you are sad because you cannot get any news of them. Aunt Calek and Uncle Abram. And she told me that she thinks their surname is Wronski. Ha! I have news of them. I wired my comrade who is on the occupying force in Poland, and they are dead. Dead, like you will be! You are a Wronski. YOU ARE A FILTHY JEW!’
Ella had wanted to scream out the pain of hearing this news, which she’d prayed so hard not to be true, though the fate of her darling Calek had been preying on her mind.
‘Answer me!’
‘No! No, we are British . . . I have a British passport. Calek and Abram . . . they are friends. I – I went to Poland as a girl. I made friends with Calek. I – I have always said to Lonia that Calek is like the sister I never had.’
‘LIAR!’
This time the blow to her head was more severe, making her ear smart and jarring her neck on her shoulders.
‘We will make further enquiries. Your child will tell us so much more, if we start to slap her.’
‘No-o-o . . . No, please don’t hurt her.’ Between rasping sobs, with tears running from her eyes, Ella had gasped out, ‘I – I am of Jewish descent. I’m not a practising Jew. I . . . was brought up in Britain and never knew my family in Poland. Then, I – I discovered my father had married again. He had a daughter, Calek. I visited her. But not with my daughter, she has never been. She is British. Sh – she has a British father.’
‘Ah – so, Jew, you talk when you know your child may be hurt; well, we can hurt her to get to the truth, especially now that we know she is a Jew, like her mother.’
‘No . . . Please, please . . .’ Oh God, help me – help me! ‘I will tell you everything you want to know.’
‘Lies, you mean.’
‘No . . . If you promise not to hurt my child, I will tell you the truth. Please . . . Oh God, please don’t hurt my child.’
The questions and the torture had gone on for hours, until finally they took Ella back to her cell. Lying on the stone floor next to Lonia, she had taken comfort in seeing a glass that had once contained milk lying empty on the floor. But no comfort alleviated the hatred that she felt for herself. She had sacrificed one of her children to save the other.
She had betrayed her husband and her son. She’d admitted that they had stayed behind to fight. Telling the soldiers who Flors and Cyrus were hadn’t felt so bad, as Ella was certain they were dead. Oh God . . . That’s if there is a God! If there is, how can He let such things happen? And what about me? Isn’t He meant to love me? I have suffered so much in the past, and now I’m going to die. My daughter is going to die . . . And all because my father was a Jew!
After this, the days had come and gone, marked only by the occasional bowl of slop being shoved through the door, and a trickle of light coming through the bars on the window. Ella had no idea how long she was kept there. Her fears for Lonia got her crying out in a pitiful voice for help, but no one came, and Lonia’s health deteriorated.
When the door had been finally, and very suddenly, kicked open, the soldier who entered almost vomited. The smell in the cell was repugnant, as the bucket left for them to use had long overflowed. To Ella, it had become the normal smell on waking up, and was nothing worse than she’d experienced in her past life as a nurse.
‘Go! Get out!’
For one wonderful moment, Ella had thought they were releasing her. She had stepped outside the cell, only to gasp as a bucket of freezing water was thrown over her. Trying to protect Lonia, she grabbed her child, but the woman in front of her forced her to let go.
‘The child comes with me.’
‘No, no – please.’
‘What kind of mother are you? The child is ill. We will look after her.’
Ella’s misery had deepened when Lonia made no protest, and for the first time she realized the true state of her darling baby. Lonia’s eyes were like saucers, in a face that had no flesh on it. Her teeth protruded, because her cheeks had sunk inwards.
Before Ella could say or do anything, she had been pushed back into the cell. ‘Take it! Go on, take that bucket.’
Lifting the bucket caused more of its stinking contents to spill over.
‘Hurry!’
The soldier’s words were hard to discern from behind the handkerchief he held over his mouth and nose.
Dragging the bucket out of the cell, Ella moved towards the door that the soldier indicated. The door was opened and she found herself in a yard. ‘Empty! There!’
Ella did as she was told and emptied the bucket down the uncovered hole.
‘Put it back. That lid – put it back.’
The English, interspersed with German, was easy for Ella to understand.
Dragging the manhole cover back into place proved too much for her. She had collapsed into a heap. The world around her spun and, as it did so, Ella had sunk into a deep, dark hole that welcomed her into its depths.
More time had passed – Ella had no notion of how long it was – and she had found herself in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses. Not daring to speak, she had waited. A nurse said, ‘You have had pneumonia. Do you know what that is?’
‘Yes . . . I – I am a nurse.’
‘You are?’
‘Where’s Lonia, my child – where is she?’
‘She will join you tomorrow. You are going to a camp for the British.’
Ella had felt gladness enter her, as she’d realized that perhaps her troubles were over.
On the journey, she’d sat in the back of a truck with two soldiers. She could feel their eyes on her. Pulling her coat around her, against the bitter cold coming in from the top half of the truck’s door, she made sure the blanket they’d been given was tucked around Lonia.
Lonia hadn’t spoken a word to her. She hadn’t smiled, and neither had she cried; nor had she shown any emotion on seeing her mother, after Ella didn’t know how long apart.
Now the huge gates swung open. The man attending them seemed too old for the German uniform he wore. Ella stepped inside and looked around her. In front of her was a building that looked like a hotel. To her left, she could see two ladies playing tennis on a court that appeared to have a green carpet covering it. Groups of women sat around chatting to each other, and children played nearby. Ella’s heart lifted. She and Lonia were safe. Interned, but safe. There is a God.
A bitter wind cut through Flors as she stood with Cyrus on the landing strip prepared by the Resistance workers. Trying to get some warmth from the nearness of him, she followed his eyes heavenwards. They were hoping against hope that the pilot of the plane that had a drop for the Resistance would be able to fly them into Switzerland.
Cyrus had taken them back to the safe house, after the terrible incident. This one was also a farmhouse. The farmer had converted the roof space of his barn into a hiding place. It was accessed through a hatch that was so cleverly done. It lifted out, rather than being on a hinge, and was cut to precision, so that when the hatch was in place, it was difficult to see the joins and discern that there was anything different about the wooden-beamed ceiling, especially as the hatch was situated above a beam, which gave it even more camouflage. Access was by a ladder, which they climbed up into the loft, pulling the ladder up with them by the rope attached to it, before replacing the hatch.
Inside the loft the floor was covered by straw, to deaden the sound of movement, and contained a chair and two beds piled with blankets, as the only warmth came from the sun through a skylight that couldn’t be seen from the ground. At night it was bitterly cold. A bucket was the only sanitary arrangement. This was lowered in the morning and emptied into the cesspit, then cleaned out, using the only access they had to water – a tap in the farmyard.
The farmer would whistle a certain tune when all was clear, and periodically he’d bring them some food and drink. There was another tune if danger was in the vicinity, but luckily that had never been whistled.
Flors, though happy that Cyrus was unharmed, and in awe of his bravery and the skills he’d shown, had suffered deeply from what had happened to her at the hands of the soldiers. All the heartache that had happened in her life took its toll and she had been taken ill. Weeks had passed, during which the emotional trauma had ripped them both apart, leaving a schism in their relationship.
It was one they both tried to ignore and pretend wasn’t there, but Flors knew it was. She knew the look on Cyrus’s face, which spoke of his feelings at coming across his wife being raped. They couldn’t broach the subject, but it was there like an invisible cord holding them apart.
When Flors’s health had recovered, Cyrus came to her as she lay in bed and told her that he’d been back to the bunker and had found that their cases and Ella’s were still in the long grass where they’d thrown them. ‘Everything is as it was – no dampness or anything. I’ve opened Ella’s case and taken out the money that she told us Arnie had placed there, and I’ve put it into yours. We can pay it back, but it will greatly help our cause.’
With her heart breaking, Flors had asked, ‘Was there anything personal in there – any mementoes?’
‘Yes. A photo of Arnie and Ella with Paulo and Lonia – the one that stood on her sideboard; and another, an old one of her husband Paulo, with the baby they lost. And – and Lonia’s blanket, the pink one that she was never without as a toddler. I’ve put those into your case, too.’ Cyrus had lowered his head and she’d seen his body jerk, in a movement that told Flors that he was crying. Although she’d thought her body drained of emotion, her own tears flowed from her.
They’d held each other, in a way they hadn’t been able to previously. Cyrus had got onto her bed and lain beside her. For the first time, Flors knew Cyrus wanted to make love to her, but she hadn’t been able to bear the thought. She’d turned away.
But now she had a happier memory. Last night they had sat and talked excitedly about the prospect of today bringing them freedom, and Cyrus had joked with her, making her laugh till she’d ended up in his arms. Then he’d made love to her and she’d accepted him willingly. It was nothing like their usual passionate joining, but was nice and gentle – a beginning.
The sound of the plane came to them now, before they caught sight of it. Flors’s heart lifted, though she prayed fervently that the pilot could take them, not taking it for granted that he would do so.
Cyrus held her closer, kissing her hair, before clinging to her. Flors’s heart now beat a different rhythm. Something wasn’t right.
‘Cyrus?’
‘Hush, darling. Don’t ask me anything. Just hold me.’
Fear zinged through Flors as the realization came to her. Cyrus hadn’t taken his rucksack out of the car that had driven them here. ‘Cyrus, no. No, please don’t leave me. I – I couldn’t help what happened. I couldn’t . . .’
‘My darling, this has nothing to do with that. I wish we’d spoken of it, but I didn’t want to cause you further pain.’
‘I thought you blamed me.’
‘No, my darling. It hurt me. It cut me in two, but I never blamed you. I just felt the terrible pain of not being able to protect you. I ran off to do that. I hoped the soldiers would follow me. I nearly won, but two escaped – the two that . . . Oh God, I’m sorry; I’m so sorry, Flors. Forgive me.’
‘I have nothing to forgive, my darling. You did all you could. And to know that you don’t blame me releases me from so much. Yes, we should have talked.’ With her thumb, Flors wiped away the tear that had trickled down Cyrus’s face. ‘But don’t leave me now, please don’t.’
‘I have to, my darling Flors. Oh, if only my mother and aunt were still alive and living in Switzerland, then you could have been with people who loved you and could have waited out the war till I came. But you have to go back to England, darling. It’s too dangerous for you here. And I have to get back to Paulo and Arnie. I have to tell them what happened, and I have to fight with them. I cannot leave.’
‘No . . . no!’
‘Oh, Flors, help me. Help me to do this, for Ella. Arnie will have organized the Resistance by now and may have agents in from Britain. If he knows what has happened, he may be able to save Ella. Remember, darling, that dear Ella is a Jew. What if they find that out? Oh God, it doesn’t bear thinking about. And little Lonia, she will perish, too. But who knows what she will tell the Germans, before she does so? Help me. Flors, help me to help them.’
Clinging to him as they both sobbed, Flors knew Cyrus was right. If he stayed and found Arnie, then Arnie could do something to save Ella. She had to make this sacrifice. For her dear friend, she had to.
‘Go with my blessing, my darling Cyrus. I love you so much. And if it is possible, I love you even more for this courageous act.’ Flors’s heart was breaking as she said the words she least wanted to say.
‘Thank you. Now, I can do this. And I will find Arnie and, together, we will save Ella and Lonia, I promise.’
His kiss was made with quivering lips, as his emotion almost spilled over. Leaning back, Cyrus looked intently at her. ‘I have put most of the money we have into your haversack, because paying the pilot will take all of Ella’s money, but I need a little, to help me to get back to Hérault. Now, you know how to access the money in our bank in England. There is plenty there for your needs. Take care, my darling. Don’t get involved in anything dangerous. Help the war effort by knitting, or something.’
‘Knitting!’ Flors felt a smile coming to her. ‘Knitting, indeed. I’m more likely to be an ambulance driver, or something like that.’
‘Oh, Flors, I know. But promise me it won’t be anything more dangerous than that. Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
The noise from the plane was now too great to talk over, as the pilot landed expertly on the landing strip.
‘Go, my darling – and my love goes with you.’
‘Oh, Cyrus. Cyrus!’
‘Let go, my darling; let go and walk to the plane. I will wait to make sure the pilot will take you. Wave to me with a smile. I need that. I need your help, Flors.’
With acceptance from the pilot, Flors felt as though her heart had split in two, but she did as Cyrus bade her to. She boarded the plane and waved through the tiny window, with a smile on her face. She hoped he couldn’t see the tears running down her face, as she could see them running down his. And then the plane was roaring down the runway and Cyrus was gone from view. When they were airborne, she could see the car going back along the road they had come along. In that car was her love. Her life. When she would see her Cyrus again she didn’t know.
Letting herself into her old home in Brixton, Flors felt exhausted in every way. Memories flooded through her: of Rowena and her Nanny Pru. All she could do was collapse into a chair and stare around her. Everything looked shabby and grey, and she shivered with the cold. Even opening the curtains didn’t help, as it was almost Christmas and the grey sky covered a grey-looking world. She wanted to rid the place of the staleness that had permeated every corner, but it made her shiver even more.
‘Hello, love, I saw you get out of a taxi. My, it’s good to see you. Though I can see, from your face, that all’s not well. I brought some tea, but I’ve no milk or sugar – bloody Hitler! Not to worry, though, he’ll go the same way that Kaiser did. We’ll soon kick this one’s arse for him.’
‘Mrs Larch! Oh, Mrs Larch, it’s so good to see you. And you look amazing.’
‘For me age, you mean. Ha, at eighty, I can still beat all these youngsters: me step’s scrubbed before they get out of bed.’
Flors laughed out loud. It was a good feeling – that she was back among friends. Back in Brixton, among those she’d come to think of as her own. ‘Come here and let me give you a cuddle. I feel as though I walked out of the door only a few minutes ago, instead of twenty-odd years ago. Thank you, Mrs Larch, you’ve made me feel that I can cope.’
Coming out of the cuddle, Mrs Larch giggled. ‘Nothing round ’ere’s changed, luv. Well, a few have turned up their toes and I visit them in the graveyard, but there’s still Mrs Harper – you remember, she used to read to us. And Mrs Randall, who lost her son Tommy in the last lot; she’s a wiry little soul, nothing will see her off. Now, let’s get that kettle boiling. I assume you have got one? There’s nothing like a Rosy Lee to put you to rights. And shut those bleedin’ windows – it’s like the Arctic in here.’
Flors laughed again. It was as if all her troubles were leaving her. ‘You’ll need to turn the gas on, Mrs Larch, and I can’t remember where the tap is.’
‘I guessed that much, luv. I know where it is. It’s in your cellar. I even brought a copper for the meter and some matches with me. We’ll soon have the kettle whistling. But while it’s coming to the boil, write out an order and I’ll pop it to the shop. Put anything on it, you never know your luck. I’ll tell Percy that you can pay – I assume you can?’
‘Thank you, you’re still the darling I remember.’
Mrs Larch grinned at her. The grin crinkled her already deeply lined face and showed gaps in her teeth, which hadn’t been there before. Her kindly eyes lit up. And as she nodded, the few grey curls sticking out from her scarf – wrapped around her head and tied at the front – bobbed up and down.
Flors smiled back. ‘And you don’t have to worry. I’m all right financially, though he will have to take a cheque, as I only have francs on me.’
‘That’s good. That you can pay for extras, I mean. But you can forget the cheque – Percy wants cash, especially for stuff such as sugar and the like. Gets it on the black market and charges through the nose. Bleedin’ swizzler. He forgets we’re his bread-and-butter customers, war or no war. But you’ll get no favours from him.’
‘Well, just something to see me through will do. I’ll write a list and you can tell me what I’m likely to get, and what he’ll need cash for.’
Once Flors knew the gas was on, she borrowed a match and lit the gas fire that Cyrus had instructed their agent to put in, a couple of years ago. He’d thought it simpler for their tenants, and easier to get tenants, the more modern equipment they had. It was already proving a godsend, as its warming flames began to thaw out the chill of the place.
With the tea made, Mrs Larch settled down by the fire. ‘Now, luv, I want to hear all the news. I’m guessing as old Rowena turned her toes up, or you would have brought her with you. But how’s your Cyrus, and what about your children?’
By the time Mrs Larch left, having been on the errand she had promised, the groceries were delivered, the bed was aired with hot-water bottles, the bedding was aired around a roaring fire they had lit in the front parlour, and all Flors had to do was make her bed and soak in the bath. Even her evening meal was taken care of, as Mrs Larch took herself off to the pie shop, which hadn’t been there when Flors was last here. ‘You’ll love pie ’n’ peas. There’s nothing like it to compare. My treat. I’ll see you in an hour.’
As Flors lay back in the bath, she realized that she’d not given a thought to how she was all alone, and how all those she loved were in danger. It all crowded in on her now and the floodgates opened, leaving her a sobbing wreck.
But she didn’t mope for long. She had always been one to do something about her situation rather than dwell on it. Thinking everything through, she decided that the first thing she would do was write to Marjella. Please, God, make it possible that I can see my beloved daughter again and hold her close to me.
With this plan settled, Flors thought of her dear friend, Mags. How is it that so much was asked of us all in the last war, and now here we are, all suffering again?
Thinking about their friendship during such times and how it sustained her, Flors made her mind up that as soon as she’d heard from Marjella, she would visit Mags. It would be so nice to be with her. And maybe she could arrange a visit to Scotland, as she’d heard so much about Betsy and Susan.
Then came the thought she’d avoided: her need to visit her little Alice’s and Nanny Pru’s graves. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift back. Beautiful memories came to her, but so did some very ugly ones. The past was buried and should remain so, but oh, how it still hurt at times. Maybe I will visit my parents’ grave. Perhaps take them some flowers.
The thought cheered her a little, but the feeling soon died, to be replaced with a bitter one: How could two people treat their only daughter as if she didn’t exist?
As the tears prickled her eyes once more, Flors sat up and prepared to get out of the bath. There was too much sadness to deal with today, without visiting that of the past. Oh, Cyrus, my beloved, if only you were by my side, at least some of this would be bearable then. Her thoughts turned to Ella, and she prayed that Cyrus, Paulo and Arnie would find Ella and Lonia and make them safe. Prayers tumbled from her – for her sons, especially Randie. Where is he, dear Lord? Please let us find out soon. And look after Freddy. Keep him safe. And Marjella, and Monty. Oh God, how am I to bear it all?