12
The simmer had heated to a boil. On September 1, Hitler waltzed into Poland with the confidence of Fred Astaire. In the two days since, herds of civilians had evacuated from London in anticipation of aerial bombings. The German embassy advised all German residents to clear out of Britain; Brits in Germany, Vivian heard, were urged to do the same.
Keeping her promise, she passed along such snippets at her daily meetings with Isaak. While she hated to heighten his nerves, he repeatedly assured her: It was always better than not knowing.
Vivian didn’t necessarily agree. A large part of her wished she had not learned of the update over breakfast. Our plans have been set, her mother said while buttering a slice of toast. We’ll depart for home next Sunday.
We, however, did not include Vivian’s father. From behind his newspaper and between sips of coffee, he claimed he would follow once affairs allowed. This, Vivian realized, was the reason he had been so grave that night when inquiring about her feelings over moving back. She had answered him without knowing what he was truly asking.
After breakfast, on the way to church, she had voiced her wish to stay, to wait and travel as a family. He told her a delay would be too dangerous.
Yet if that was the case, should he not retreat as well? The same went for Isaak. How could she possibly leave him behind?
All morning these were the thoughts that plagued her, through the drone of hymns and now the solitude of her room. The clinking of china and rustling of paper traveled from downstairs, where the maid was busily packing.
Vivian sat at her small desk and flipped her diary to a clean page. She penned her dilemma in hopes of conjuring an answer. Time was running short. Isaak would be waiting by the river at half past eleven. Their frequent meetings had required an equal number of alibis to excuse Vivian from the house. Thankfully today, with political urgency trumping the Sabbath, her father was at the embassy, leaving only her mother as an obstacle.
Vivian scrolled through her options. It had been a while since she and Alice, a British diplomat’s daughter, had shared an outing in the city. It was plausible they would have made plans for ... a picnic ... or lunch in Piccadilly ... to say good-bye.
“Vivian, honestly.”
At her mother’s voice, she covered her diary with a magazine.
The woman appeared in the doorway wearing a yellow sweater and brown A-line skirt. Face powdered and rouged, she posed a cigarette like Greta Garbo. In fact, much about her resembled a film star, but aged from being too long on display.
“We’re not waiting until the last minute to pack all of our things,” she said. “You haven’t emptied a single drawer, have you?”
Vivian’s jaw clenched as she leafed through an issue of London Life. “Good grief, Mother. We have a whole week.” When it came to her parents’ marriage, she had never witnessed the slightest spark of passion. But given the current crisis, the woman could at least feign concern.
“Yes, and a week will be here before we know it. Dear, sit up, or you’ll ruin your posture before its time.”
Vivian obeyed from force of habit. When her mother crossed the room and opened the armoire, she deliberately slouched in her chair.
“You really don’t need half of these dresses. A single trunk should be sufficient.”
“Most of those are my work dresses. And yes, I will need them.” Vivian had resigned from the store solely to aid Mr. Harrington’s budgetary needs. It wasn’t a sign of her conforming to the dull aspirations of a housewife.
Her mother’s mouth sank into its standard frown. Smoke from her cigarette plumed past her hair, a brown swoop of proper style. Exasperated, she closed the wardrobe.
“So be it,” she murmured. For now, her tone affirmed. “I’ll be at Mrs. Jewett’s for an early lunch. Please, at the very least, pack up your winter clothes before I return.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Very shortly, yes. I’d invite you to come along, but the last time I took you there, all you did was pout through their tea and crumpets.”
Vivian knew there was relief to be found, not having to craft an excuse to slip out. But it was difficult to celebrate when being treated like a child. More than that, she hated how often in her mother’s presence she reverted to exactly that.
“I did not pout.”
“You scarcely said two words, Vivian.”
“I just didn’t have anything to contribute to their snooty gossip.” The truth of it was, her mother’s desperate attempts to fit in always made for a disquieting visit. Presumably the woman’s pretenses could be traced all the way back to New Hampshire, where a suitable marriage had raised her from mediocrity. The family of Vivian’s father was far from the Vanderbilts, but enough successful investments and political ties had lent notable prestige. Then the Crash of ’29 took a decent bite out of those funds and, seemingly, out of the love between Vivian’s parents.
“Be that as it may,” her mother said, “I am in no mood to watch you scowl over lunch, as you did at breakfast and then at church. Heavens. For months after moving here all you could talk about was going home.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Yes, yes,” she replied tiredly. “Mothers never do.” When she turned to leave, Vivian’s frustration sharpened, an arrow of unsaid words. She could hold them in no longer.
“Aren’t you worried at all about Father staying here? Or are you secretly hoping something will happen to him?”
Her mother froze, facing the doorway.
Vivian girded herself for a glare, a reprimand. Perhaps even a slap, partly aware she deserved it. Instead, a sheet of silence erected, so brittle it could shatter from a single tap.
When the woman eventually spoke, she did so over her shoulder in a tone cool as steel.
“I was once your age, Vivian. Believed I knew everything about life and love, how the world worked.” After a pause, a wrenching mournfulness entered her voice: “Enjoy it while you can.”
Vivian did her best to shake off the remark. She realized how greatly she had failed while ascending from the Underground, having little recollection of the trip.
On the sidewalk, someone bumped her from behind and shot forward to pass her. No apology. Such rudeness was more typical of a kid in knickers than a gentleman in a suit. Her gaze trailed him to a barbershop, where a group had assembled outside. The presence of women made it clear that something other than a free cut and shave had beckoned the crowd.
Vivian warily approached. The people held in place, still as stone, listening. The stout barber in a white apron adjusted the radio on the counter. The speaker’s voice belonged to Prime Minister Chamberlain. Through the crackling static came the formal announcement: Britain had declared war.
War ...
It was now official. Inevitable, really. The ultimatum had been made; the treaty had been breached. Nevertheless, the surrounding expressions confirmed Vivian was not alone in her shock.
As if that weren’t enough, France, Australia, and New Zealand had also joined the cause. Another world war was upon them, all thanks to Hitler and his Nazi regime, dragging with them the populace of Germany.
Isaak. She had to reach him.
She glanced at her watch-eleven seventeen-and made her way toward the Thames. Storekeepers mounted sandbags and crisscrossed windows with fresh tape. Strangers toted boxes stuffed with gas masks on the ready. Optimists would no longer view these as overly cautious measures.
From Vivian’s childhood, a nursery rhyme echoed in her memory. “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” She dreaded to think the same fate could befall the city. The whole country.
She increased her pace, bordering on a run. When she reached the designated lamppost-no longer her special spot, but theirs—she checked her watch again.
Eleven twenty-six.
Four minutes to wait, at the most. Isaak was never late. Punctual as a German train, he’d once boasted. Though she hadn’t considered how telling the phrase was until this moment.
A growing rumble caught her ear. She turned toward the water, where boats had become rather scarce. The image of a German bomber flashed in her mind. She scanned the overcast sky. Patches of clouds were stitched into a quilt, a convenient disguise for the Luftwaffe.
But then she traced the sound. The muffler of an old Ford grumbled down the street.
“Just a car,” she sighed. She almost laughed from relief, when a siren wailed. An actual warning. Not a practice drill. A passing mother yelled at her child to keep up. Couples set off in a sprint, retreating to shelters.
Where was Isaak? Vivian searched for his face. Panic coursed through her veins. The siren pierced all thought. She cupped her ears, muting the nightmare, and prayed that any second she would wake.