The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach (20 page)

I began to walk as I did each day at lunchtime, slipping into the crowd and moving with it. I loved winding through the back streets of the city, enjoying the freedom of life here, where no one knew me or my past.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Teddy had said more than once, his mouth pulling downward. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m just as likely to get hit by a bomb here as outside,” I’d protested. But in truth I walked because of the devastation, not in spite of it. It had started one day as I made my way home from the bureau to my flat, which was just north of Hyde Park. As I reached the northern edge of the park, I’d been stunned to see a giant crater in the middle of the street, an empty bus dangling precipitously from it. Had there been passengers? It seemed unlikely, or I would have heard about it at the paper. Bombings were so commonplace that only those with large-scale casualties seemed to be making the news these days. I pulled out Uncle Meyer’s camera from my bag and began snapping photos. After that, I walked every day, at lunch and on the weekends, too, wanting to capture it all in pictures. Most of all, I was struck by the ordinary life that persisted, like women queuing at the shops and the group of children (among the few that begun to return to the city) I’d seen playing soccer by a gaping patch in Notting Hill where a house once stood, so much like the games of our childhood.

It was a childhood that despite my best efforts I could not forget. It had been months since I left Washington and nearly a year since I left Philadelphia, but the assaults of the past were nonstop on my mind, despite my best attempts to block them out. The memories, when I allowed myself to have them, were always bathed in a kind of gold—sunshine soaking the yard where we’d played, lifting the flecks of Charlie’s hair and magnifying them. Other times I imagined myself back on the Connallys’ worn sofa in the city, wedged into the corner where I always sat beside Jack, Robbie sprawled across the three of us despite his mother’s admonition to keep his feet down.

Liam popped improbably into my mind now. Though I thought often of the others—Charlie, of course, and Jack and sweet, sweet Robbie—I missed Liam, too, in a way that I probably shouldn’t. It was the good Liam I saw, with his irreverent humor, before he had become so dark and troubled. He would know exactly how I felt among the other typists, as though I did not fit in at all.

I walked east, stepping over the edge of a curb that had been painted a striped black and white to make it visible during the blackouts. Then I skirted around St. Paul’s churchyard, feeling my way south to the river. The street ended and I stepped into the full, cutting wind of the Thames. The air was sharply cool, winter not ready to cede to spring. I sat down on a bench to pull out my gloves. A couple walked down the pavement, holding hands. An unexpected pang of longing ran through me. Charlie appeared in my mind, large and unbidden, images cascading upon me like books falling from a shelf. I saw him now as I had at the State Department that day, tall and lovely in his uniform. Had he shipped out yet or was he still in training?

I opened my purse and pulled out a letter. It had been waiting for me when I returned home from work the previous evening, addressed in Aunt Bess’s flowery script. Inside was another envelope, my name printed in what looked like Charlie’s blocky writing. My breath had caught. The postmark was weeks old, though whether Aunt Bess had delayed in sending it or it had been slowed by the wartime post, I did not know. I’d held up the still-sealed envelope with trembling hands. Was Charlie begging me to come back or cursing me for having left? Dangerous thoughts, the kind I had kept at bay for so long, leapt up at me, a flicker becoming a flame. If I opened the letter, I would know the truth and be forced to respond. No, better to leave the past alone. I’d dangled the letter over the fire in the grate. Then thinking better of it, I tucked it in my bag.

I held it aloft now, edges flapping with the breeze. A bell rang out, signaling that my lunch hour was half over and so I returned the letter to my bag and began to make my way back to the bureau. Inside I scanned the office to see if Teddy had returned, and felt a mild pang of disappointment that he had not. I unwrapped the leftover toast and beans I had brought for lunch. I found English food bland, lots of breaded whitefish and shepherd’s pie filled with potatoes and little else; it reminded me of my aunt’s cooking back home. But thanks to Teddy, I had an extra book full of ration coupons and was able to get plenty of whatever there was to be purchased; I had no business complaining.

I walked through the typing pool, where the air now hummed with chatter. But the conversation stopped abruptly as I entered, signaling something I was not meant to hear. “Is there any post?” I asked the secretary Joan, trying to act as though nothing was amiss.

“I’m sure you can check for yourself.” She turned away.

“Is that any way to treat a coworker?” a voice behind me rebuked sharply. I turned. Teddy was back. At the sight of him, I was filled with warmth. I had grown to appreciate his flaxen blond hair and eyes that crinkled when he laughed.

But now his normally cheerful face was stormy. “No, of course not, Mr. White.” Joan turned and passed me the mail.

“You’re welcome,” he said, when I had followed him into his office. He closed the door behind us. There was a heavy stubble across his cheeks and rings around his usually bright eyes. Teddy had always been a constant worker, but now the news flowed so fast even he couldn’t keep up.

“I wish you wouldn’t say anything,” I fretted. “Your sticking up for me just makes them hate me more.”

“Why should you care about that?’

Because in some ways I would always be that new girl at Southern, looking for a friend. But I couldn’t tell him that. “You should have me sit out there with the others.”

“I need you here.” I knew from the way his mouth set stubbornly that I would not win on the point. “It’s not personal to you, how the girls act,” he added. “Those girls have just been through a lot. Most of them are from the East End.” I nodded. The devastation had been so much worse in Stepney and Bethnal Green. “Midge, for example, lost almost her whole family in the Blitz.” The girls did not just resent me for my closeness to Teddy. I had not been here through the worst of the bombings, was not one of them. “And Edie’s husband is missing in North Africa.” I was surprised that Teddy, who scarcely seemed to speak to the other typists, knew so much about their personal hardships.

No, simply changing the location of my desk would not make things better. But perhaps, understanding what all the other women had been through, I could try a bit harder to be friendly. I noticed then the fine coating of soot and ash on his jacket, which he had tried without success to brush off. “You’ve been over there, haven’t you?” As he poured two glasses of water from the pitcher on the windowsill, my concern grew. I’d suspected for months that Teddy had been making secret trips across the Channel to France, trying to learn what was coming.

“Only as far as Guernsey this time. That’s still Britain.”

“But it’s occupied. You could have been arrested by the Germans. What were you thinking?” But I already knew: Teddy’s doggedness went beyond good journalism; he was trying to prove himself. Part of him felt less than enough because he was not a soldier fighting.

He waved his hand, brushing away my concerns. “There’s something coming, Adelia. I saw it, a build-up at the coast. The Americans are really going over.”

Hope rose in me that someone might finally be able to stop the Germans. “How soon?”

His brow wrinkled. “I couldn’t tell. Weeks or months maybe. I need to do some more digging.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” How much farther into danger would he go next time?

“Worried about me now, aren’t you?” His tone was more than a little pleased. I turned slightly away, warmth creeping up from my neck. My affection for Teddy had grown these past few months, in spite of my determination to remain unattached. “Adelia, going to the story—that’s my job. I like you worrying about me, though.” His lone dimple appeared.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I do wish the photos were a bit better.” He had to rely on stock images from the Associated Press pool photographers.

“I could show you how to take the photos,” I offered.
Or go with you myself
, I thought, though that was out of the question.

But he shook his head. “I need my eyes on the story to digest it all and take notes. Anyway, there’s no time to worry about all that now. I need you to come with me.”

“Where?”

“Eden’s called an urgent press conference without saying why. I want photos.” The correspondents usually worked alone, and Teddy did not have a colleague to ask for help—except for me. He started for the door. I hesitated. Teddy had never asked me to help him with a story before. “Come on!”

I gestured to his clothing. “You can’t go like that.”

He looked down blankly. “Oh, right. Meet you there, then.”

Twenty minutes later I stood uneasily outside the massive Foreign Office, waiting for one of the guards to decide I did not belong and ask me to leave. Teddy soon arrived in a freshly pressed jacket and polished Oxfords, the aroma of steam and sandalwood soap rising from his collar. As I followed him through the stale marble corridor, I was reminded of the day Mr. Steeves had brought me along to the meeting at State, where I had run into Charlie. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Just take down what they say. We’ll see if they’re allowing photos—or if there’s anything worth shooting.”

The pressroom was full of men, correspondents like Teddy smoking and talking and jostling for space. I was suddenly separated from him and he looked back helplessly. “You go on,” I called. “I’ll circle around.”

“And bring us some coffee while you’re at it, love,” a man overhearing us joked. Ignoring him, I slid to the back of the room, trying to peer over the sea of tall shoulders. Through the crowd, I could see Teddy striding to the front, his style sure and easy among the room of stiff, suited men. Impulsively, I reached in my bag and pulled out my camera, then and took a snapshot of the scene.

A hand clamped down on my shoulder. A red-coated guard towered over me, glaring. Without speaking, he led me from the room, then ripped the camera unceremoniously from my hands. “No photos,” he said, ushering me toward the security desk. Was he going to arrest me or simply kick me out? I searched over my shoulder, hoping to signal to Teddy for help. But he had vanished from sight.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I stammered. The guard still held my camera as he led me to the front door of the building and opened it.

“My camera. May I have it back please?”

He pulled it out of reach. “I’ll have to keep it. Security reasons.”

“But it’s mine.” My cheeks began to burn.

“Say now,” a voice interjected behind the guard. We both turned. A sturdy woman in a wide-shouldered pinstriped navy blue suit stood behind me. “There’s no need for that. Just take the film and give the girl her camera back.”

The voice of the strange woman was surprisingly firm and the guard complied. “She still has to go.” Reluctantly, I walked from the Foreign Office building, grasping the camera in both hands. Teddy had given me a chance to do something more and I had failed. I started down the street, past two man in dark suits and caps who leaned against a low wall.

“Wait!” The woman in navy had followed me out the door.

“Thank you.” I raised the camera slightly.

“I’m Claire.” She extended her hand. She stood a good six inches taller than me with posture that Aunt Bess would have loved.

“Adelia.”

Her grip was firm, just shy of masculine. “You’re a correspondent, aren’t you?”

“I’m helping one out. Or was,” I added, gesturing toward the door that had slammed behind me. “I kind of messed it up.”

“Not at all. Those blokes are missing the real story anyway.” I cocked my head, curious. “The prime minister is going to tell them about the Polish émigré who has come to England with stories of what Hitler has done to the Jews. Where’s the man himself, though? Come.” She led me around the corner and through a door on the side of the building. I held my breath, wondering if I might be stopped again. But a different guard nodded and let us pass. Was the woman some sort of government worker? I looked over my shoulder uncertainly, past one of the suited men I’d seen outside. Teddy would not know where I had gone. But Claire was moving swiftly and I had no choice other than to follow or be left behind.

We crossed a corridor and entered a small study. A man, pale and slight, sat alone in a chair, smoking. “This is Jan Tomaszewicz from Poland.” I understood then that this man, who might have been a schoolteacher or an accountant, was the refugee who had made such a brave journey to tell the world about the Jews.

“Mr. Tomaszewicz, can we get you anything?” Claire asked. The man shook his head, just barely understanding. “He’s too nervous to speak to the press himself,” Claire explained in a low voice. “The Foreign Minister is just going to introduce him and tell the press generally what they’ve learned from him. But if someone could speak with him first, it might put his mind at ease.”

I looked up at Claire, surprised. “Me?” She nodded and I sat down beside him. “You came from Poland?” I asked tentatively in Yiddish.

“You’re a Jew?” he asked. A light seemed to dawn in Tomaszewicz’s eyes as I nodded slightly. “I’m not,” he said, his voice almost apologetic. “But the language, it’s close enough to German.”

“Can you tell me about your trip?”

He dipped his chin. “I’m not supposed to talk about the information I brought.”

“I’m not interested in the information. I’m interested in you.”

The man seemed to relax slightly. “I was raised in the town of Lodz. My wife and daughter—she’s nine—are still there.” A shadow passed his face. “I really shouldn’t say more.”

“I understand. My parents put me on a boat to America when I was sixteen. They stayed behind in Italy.” I could hear Teddy admonishing that I should not make myself part of the story.

But doing so seemed to gain Tomaszewicz’s trust. “One day when making deliveries I came upon a horrible sight in the woods,” he began. “They were forcing Jews in a truck, a regular delivery truck, you know, one that might deliver boxes to the store.” He was talking fast now, telling me more than he should in the rush of emotion. “They were putting them—men, women and children—in the back and connecting something to the exhaust pipe.” My pulse thudded in dreadful anticipation. “There were screams and then there were none.”