London Calling (10 page)

Pinak did not usually ask this much. Perhaps he had forgotten the rules. I wrote back:

After a long pause, he wrote:

During a pause with no messaging, I considered asking Pinak a direct question about my mental health. Something like
Am I crazy if I think I’ve traveled through time?
But I knew what he would say. He would try to steer me to his father’s office. So I typed “Goodbye” and logged off.

After the first time travel, I had made a list of people I might be able to talk to about the experience. Pinak was one of them. But since he came from a psychiatrist’s family, I doubted he could ever accept it. Margaret was another. But she was so tied up in facts, she was so logical, that I didn’t think she could accept it, either. Dad was the third person on that list. I still didn’t know what was possible with him.

A LOGICAL PARADOX

On Monday morning, Mom, Margaret, and I sat at breakfast and listened through the walls to the sounds of Dad throwing up. We stared glumly at our food until he walked in, pale and sweating, and said, with as much dignity as someone could under the circumstances, “All right, Mary. I’ll be leaving now.”

Mom did not look up.

Margaret did. “Goodbye, Dad. Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you, Margaret. Have a merry Christmas.”

He turned to me with red, watery eyes. “You, too, Martin. Don’t spend too much time in that room down there.” He glanced at the basement door. “You should get out as soon as you can. You don’t want to wind up like me.”

He carried his travel suitcase to the kitchen door. I told him, “Have a good trip, Dad, and a merry Christmas.” He turned and looked at me with such gratitude that I was glad I had said something.

Margaret offered to take me to the Millennium Encyclopedia after breakfast. Usually she had to coax and coerce me. Today I was eager to get out of the house, and I quickly agreed. We rode there in virtual silence, both of us thinking, I guess, about the latest parental spat and the latest holiday disaster.

When we got into the building, Margaret sat down with Steve in the first cubicle to learn how to use some new super software. I hung out in Margaret’s cubicle, surfing for new information about early radio. At one point, I sensed someone in the cubicle’s doorway behind me. A short man was standing there. He was about forty, with slicked-back hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a red bow tie. “Hello. I’m Dave Wissler,” he said. “And you must be Martin Conway.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Dave. I hear you have a keen interest in the Battle of Britain.”

I didn’t know what he meant. I answered, “Sir?” and then, foolishly, changed that to “Dave?”

He smiled. “The bombing of London between 1940 and 1944.”

“Yes. Yes. Especially 1940.”

“Ah. The Blitz.”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

He turned toward the first cubicle. “Your sister mentioned it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Is there anything I can help you with? I’ve read a lot about that era.”

I thought about the
Wrong
items on my list. The silliest one came to mind. I grinned and asked him, “You never heard of something called Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred, did you?”

Mr. Wissler’s eyes registered surprise. “I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before, and I’ve always been ready to answer it. Yes, Martin, I have heard of it, or of them. ‘Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred’ refers to a set of medals awarded to World War One veterans in England—the 1914 Star, the British War Medal, and the Victory Medal. It was a popular nickname, taken from three comic book characters of that time.”

I stopped grinning. “I see. Did a lot of the medals go to men from Yorkshire?”

He took a step inside. “I am sure they did. Yorkshire has quite a military tradition, you know. The Duke—”

I finished the sentence for him: “—of Wellington’s Regiment was raised there.”

He smiled and said, “Yes. That regiment alone lost over eight thousand men in World War One, ‘the war to end all wars.’ Their names are all recorded in the York Minster.”

All I could do was shake my head and repeat, “The York Minster.” I tried to think of another question. I raced through my last conversation with Jimmy. I asked him, “What about the kids in London? Did they get evacuated?”

“Oh yes. In June of 1940, for a week straight, one hundred thousand kids got sent out of London to the countryside. There were other, smaller evacuations, too.”

“Uh-huh.” I thought about Jimmy’s mother. “And did a lot of people die of pneumonia around that time?”

“Oh yes. Pneumonia, and scarlet fever, and mumps, and measles, and chicken pox. There were a lot of different ways to die back then.”

Margaret suddenly appeared in the cubicle entrance. She looked surprised to see Mr. Wissler. He immediately put her at ease. “Come in, Margaret, and join us. We are having a delightful talk about one of my favorite times in history, the London Blitz.”

Margaret held up one finger, stepped into the next cubicle, and returned with a chair. Then the three of us sat and talked about my obsession, my dream, my time-travel destination—whatever it was. I asked Mr. Wissler straight-out, “Do you think time travel is possible?”

He answered seriously. “No. Time only moves in one direction, forward, so travel to the past is impossible. You are here, in this year, so you can’t be simultaneously in another year. It’s a logical paradox.”

“Okay, but knowing all you do about that year and that place, can you imagine what it felt like to be there? What it really felt like?”

He adjusted his glasses. “Certainly. I can draw parallels, which is something that historians always try to do. For example, the destruction that the Londoners experienced was massive. One German bomb could destroy twenty to thirty houses. The only thing I could compare it to, as an American today, is the destruction that occurred in New York on September 11, 2001. Now, imagine if you lived in Manhattan and you experienced that kind of destruction, and then you had to wait for more planes to come back the next day, and the next night, and the next day, and so on for months. That’s what it would feel like. Numbing. Horrifying. I don’t know how those poor people did it.”

I said, “Well, they didn’t have any choice, did they? They couldn’t leave.” Mr. Wissler nodded thoughtfully; Margaret looked at me, impressed; so I went on: “Unless they were the Kennedys.
They
could leave.”

Mr. Wissler confirmed, “That’s right. Ambassador Kennedy sent his wife and children home before the Blitz started.”

I heard myself talking like Bill Lane. “And he didn’t even stick it out in London himself. He hightailed it out of there every night. That’s why the Londoners hated him so much. Right?”

Mr. Wissler smiled at my intensity. “I think there was a little more to it than that. But yes, certainly, that’s a part of it. It’s more like the Londoners hated the things that he was telling them. They had Prime Minister Churchill on the radio telling them that they would definitely defeat Hitler, no question about it. Then they had Kennedy telling them that Britain would fall to Hitler, just like France had, just like every other country had.”

“So who was telling the truth?”

Mr. Wissler looked at Margaret. “I’m sorry. I’m monopolizing this conversation, and I know your sister is also an expert on this.”

Margaret smiled to acknowledge the compliment. Then she said, “We will never know who was telling the truth, because something unexpected happened: Hitler never invaded Britain.”

“Why not?”

“The bombing was supposed to take the place of an invasion. Hitler assumed the British people would surrender, but they never did. They took everything that the Germans threw at them. That’s why they call it their finest hour.”

“So Kennedy was wrong?”

“I’d say Kennedy was wrong in the short run but right in the long run. Kennedy said the only way Britain could defeat Germany was with American men and material, and that turned out to be true. Once we entered the war, Detroit started pumping out more tanks in one month than Britain could produce in one year. And tens of thousands of American men went over there to fight and die, including Joe Kennedy’s sons. He lost Joe Junior, and he nearly lost Jack.”

I knew I shouldn’t, but I asked, “And what about General ‘Hollerin’ Hank’ Lowery? Did he think the British could win? Wasn’t he there on a mission from FDR or something?”

Mr. Wissler glanced at Margaret. “There’s . . . a legal matter involved with him. We can’t discuss him.” He seemed annoyed, but not at me. “I will say that his encyclopedia entry is still under review.”

Margaret said, “I don’t think Lowery really matters. The heroes, clearly, were the people of London, who took such a beating and yet wouldn’t surrender.”

Mr. Wissler picked up on her theme. “Indeed. History turns on certain key moments. If London had surrendered during the Blitz, then the war would have gone in a very different direction. I think any historian would give his right arm to travel to one of those key moments in time.”

I looked right at him. “If you could pick one day, Mr. Wissler, to travel back to, what would it be?”

He answered without hesitation: “December twenty-ninth, 1940.”

“Why?”

“That was the biggest raid of all. FDR delivered one of his fireside chats on December twenty-ninth, 1940, which became known as the Arsenal of Democracy speech. There was great hope in Britain that Roosevelt would come out in favor of sending weapons to help them, and he did. He devised a program called Lend-Lease.”

“What did that mean?”

“That we’d lend them weapons and they’d lease us naval bases. Hitler was furious. He ordered a massive bomber assault on the heart of London.

“Six hundred people were killed in that attack. Hundreds of buildings were reduced to rubble, including some of London’s most historic churches and halls. St. Paul’s Cathedral took another terrific pounding and everything around it was destroyed, but the cathedral itself survived. That great dome, still standing in a hellish scene of fire and smoke, became a powerful symbol of hope for the British. They took it as a sign that God was on their side.”

He ran one finger under each eyeglass rim. “I’m not embarrassed to say I find that time, and those people, very moving.”

I sat forward. “I do, too. It’s like
everything
mattered to them. Life really mattered. Every minute mattered.”

“That’s true.”

“Not like us.”

Mr. Wissler nodded sadly. Then he glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late. I have to be going. But I’d be happy to talk to you about this anytime, Martin. I mean that. All right?”

“All right, Mr. Wissler. Thank you.”

He pointed at his chest. “Dave.”

Margaret laughed.

I said, “All right, Dave.”

Mr. Wissler added, “Merry Christmas.” But then he paused. “I’m sorry. I should ask: Do you celebrate that holiday?”

I thought of Mom and Dad and our angry Christmases past, but I answered, “Yes, we do celebrate it. In our own way. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

NEW HOPE

Margaret carefully watched Mr. Wissler go, as if she were waiting for him to get out of earshot. Then she leaned toward me. “Steve showed me some new software that is amazing. I’ve just been in sites that we’ve never heard of before. Anyway, I was thinking of you when I was using it. I looked up that name, Daisy Traynor. And Martin, I established that she
was
in London in 1940.” She looked at me curiously. “So how did you know about her?”

I lied easily. “I found her name in one of my independent studies.”

“Really? As what?”

I blanked for a moment. Then I came up with “As someone who might have worked at the U.S. Embassy, with our grandfather.”

Margaret held up an index card. “Well, you’re right. At first she worked as a secretary for
Life
magazine in New York, from 1935 to 1939. Then she transferred to the U.S. Embassy in London in 1940.”

“Did it say why?”

Margaret lowered her voice even more. “Kind of. It was at the request of a member of Ambassador Kennedy’s staff. No official reason is given for it. However, we do know that Ambassador Kennedy really liked the ladies. And we know that he was friends with the owner of
Life
magazine, Henry Luce.”

“Uh-huh. So is Daisy still alive?”

“No. She died about ten years ago.”

“Did she have a husband? Or kids?”

“No. She never married; she had no children. Listen to this, though: Her next of kin, her brother’s daughter, got all of her property. And the daughter lives near here, in New Hope.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Pennsylvania, but right across the Delaware. Her name is Joan Traynor-Kurtz.”

I pointed at the screen. “Can we pull her up?”

“Sure. You go ahead.”

I typed in Joan Traynor-Kurtz’s name and hometown. I found two listings—a home address with a phone number and a business address with a phone number, both in New Hope, Pennsylvania. I pointed at the business name and read it aloud. “Seraphim. What does that mean?”

“It’s a kind of angel. Scroll down. Let’s see if there’s a Web site.”

There was. I clicked on the link, which opened up onto a beautiful screen. It showed a pair of billowing white wings that parted to reveal the inside of a gift shop.

Margaret examined the store items. “Wow. That stuff looks very arty. And very expensive.”

“Is it religious stuff?”

“Yeah. Most of it.” Margaret pulled her chair closer. “We have her phone numbers. Do you want to call her?”

I froze. “I don’t know.” I turned to Margaret. “Do you think you could call her for me?”

“Sure. No problem. What should I say, though? That we want to come up there? That you want to find out about Daisy Traynor?”

I gulped audibly. “Yeah. That we both do, for the encyclopedia.”

Margaret smiled. “You know, Martin, it’s great to see you so interested in . . . something. Anything.”

I smiled back weakly.

Margaret checked once more to make sure Mr. Wissler was gone. Then she picked up her phone and dialed. “Hello? Is this Joan Traynor-Kurtz? Yes? Ms. Kurtz, this is Margaret Conway from the Millennium Encyclopedia. How are you?” Margaret gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Let me get right to the point, Ms. Kurtz. We’re researching people who survived the London Blitz in 1940, and I see that your aunt, a Ms. Daisy Traynor, was one such person.” Margaret’s thumb rose up again, higher, and then higher. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am, I would love to see that photo album. Yes, I know where that is. In the Premiere Gallery. Got it.”

Margaret hung up and held out her hand for me to slap, which I did. “Totally cooperative. Eager to help. Daisy Traynor made a photo album of her time in London. Ms. Kurtz said to come to her store and she’ll show it to us. She’s going home to get it now.”

All I could think of to say was “Awesome job.”

*                           *                           *

Twenty minutes later, we were driving in Margaret’s Camry with the Delaware River on our left and walls of dark rocks on our right.

Margaret pointed at the scenery. “Do you know what we’re doing? Right now?”

“Going to New Hope, Pennsylvania?”

“No, I mean historically. Do you know what road we’re on?”

“The River Road?”

“Right. This is the exact road that General George Washington took on Christmas 1776, on his way to attack the Hessians at Trenton. It was a turning point of the Revolutionary War.”

I stared at the road and tried to picture it back then.

“Everything was crumbling around him: His soldiers were deserting; the Continental Congress wanted to replace him. Washington knew that he had to do something. So he got up and he did it.” Margaret pulled in to the parking lot of a convenience store. She turned the car back toward the river, and we sat looking at a two-lane bridge with a steel roadway. “This is it. This is the actual spot where Washington crossed the Delaware. He had known nothing but defeat. But on that night, at this very place, he knew victory. Can you imagine being here that night?”

I told her, “Yes, I can.” Then I went further. “I think people can travel back into the past.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Like in that book
The Time Machine
?”

“I haven’t read it.”

“Did you ever see the movie
Back to the Future
?”

“Yeah.”

“Like that?”

“That’s the one where the kid goes back and meets his own parents when they were kids?”

“Yeah. He helps the dad to change his life by standing up to the bully.”

“Then no, not like that. I don’t think people can change things. All they can do is observe them.”

Margaret never even looked at me. She just replied, “Okay.” But I could tell she thought I was being stupid, or crazy.

We soon reached Lambertville and turned left, driving over a bridge made of bumpy wooden boards to New Hope, Pennsylvania. We saw rows of small shops ahead. Margaret rolled down the window and asked a woman with a huge dog where the Premiere Gallery was. The woman pointed across the street and up the hill.

Seraphim was a colorful, crowded store on the lower level of the Premiere Gallery. Two huge angels stood in the plate-glass window. The stuff inside seemed to be all angel-oriented, too—books, CDs, and lots of artwork. A tall woman with long gray hair sat behind the counter. She guessed who we were right away. “Margaret Conway?”

“Yes. Are you Joan Traynor-Kurtz?”

“That’s right. You can just call me Joan.” Joan smiled kindly at me. Margaret added, “This is my brother, Martin. He’s interning at the encyclopedia over the holidays.”

I was surprised at how well Margaret lied. The woman said, “That’s nice.” She pulled an old leather photo album from under the counter. “It’s still early for customers. I think we can look at this in my office. All right?”

Margaret answered, “That’d be great,” and we all walked into a small back room.

“My aunt Daisy left this album to me in her will. I love it for its sentimental value, but I’m excited that it might have some historical value, too.” Joan opened the pages, and Margaret and I leaned over, scouring the faded black-and-white images for faces we knew. There were many photos, and most were captioned in a light, feminine hand: “Vera Lynn at the Mayfair Hotel”; “Edward R. Murrow at the BBC”; “General Henry M. Lowery at Cliveden.”

Margaret commented, “This is fascinating. And extremely valuable. History is built, piece by piece, with primary sources just like this.”

“I know some of the photos are of famous people. Daisy knew lots of famous people. She was a personal secretary to Henry Luce.”

Margaret turned the page to a formal portrait of Daisy and commented, “She was a beautiful woman.”

I looked at the picture and nearly gasped. There was Daisy Traynor, just as I had seen her, ready for a night out on the town. I muttered, “Yeah. She was really beautiful.”

Joan smiled. “That she was. She knew it, too. But don’t get me started on that.”

Margaret turned the page again, and Joan pointed out, “There’s Joseph Kennedy, with his sons Joe and Jack, and his daughter Kick.”

Margaret turned many pages, and she and Joan made comments about many people, but one remained missing. There was no photo of Mickey Mouse—Martin Mehan.

“What did your aunt do after the war?” Margaret asked.

Joan answered proudly, “Daisy remained a strong and independent woman. She moved back to New York City and worked at Time-Life. She loved the city.”

As soon as Margaret reached the last page, I wondered out loud, “Is it possible that Daisy wrote memoirs, like Grandfather Mehan’s?”

Margaret picked up on that thought. “Oh yes! A lot of people who lived through historic times, people like your aunt, published their memoirs, even if it was just for the family. Did Daisy ever do that?”

“No. No memoirs. She was a terrific letter writer—” Joan seemed to catch herself. She completed the thought hurriedly. “But none of those got saved.”

“What about diaries?”

“No. Not that I’ve ever seen. Or heard about.”

Margaret pressed her. “Is it possible that someone else in the family received memoirs or a diary or letters?”

Joan looked out toward the store. Then she looked back and told us, in a voice that was suddenly weary, “All right. If you dig a little further, you’ll find this out, so I’ll just tell you. There was a minor scandal late in her life. She needed money, I guess. She tried to sell love letters to a tabloid magazine called
The Recorder.
”

“I see. Love letters from whom?”

Joan pointed at the photo album. “That general in there. Lowery. He wrote her some letters—some pretty hot ones, apparently—while they were both serving in England. The Lowery family got wind of it and sued the tabloid to stop publication. My understanding is that they got possession of the letters and burned them.”

I asked, “Were there any other things, like official memos or telegrams or dispatches?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Nothing in German, or from a German guy?”

“Nothing.”

Margaret waited to see if I was through. Then she dug out a card. “Okay. Thanks so much. Here’s my number, in case you think of anything else.”

Joan took the card and then fished around for one of her own. “Here. In case you have any questions about Daisy, you can call me at home. I do want to keep the facts straight about her. She deserves that.”

Margaret held up the book reverently. “Might we possibly take this with us and study it at the encyclopedia’s offices? I promise you we will return it unharmed.”

Joan shook her head. “Sorry. No. Those photos are priceless to me, as you can imagine.”

“Of course. Well, can we possibly copy some?”

Joan thought for a moment. Then she pointed to her computer, nearly covered by a white, detached angel’s wing. “Okay. If you want, you can scan them here and e-mail them to your office.”

“Excellent. That’d be excellent. Thank you so much.”

Margaret walked quickly over to the scanner, leaving me with Joan. After an awkward pause, I made the hopelessly stupid observation “So, you’re interested in angels?”

Joan rolled her eyes, but she answered with patience. “That’s what this store is all about. That’s what I’m all about. Do you know anything about angels?”

“Me? No. Not really.”

“Well, do you believe in them, at least?”

I glanced over at Margaret, wishing she would hurry. I answered, “I’m not sure.”

Joan fluttered her hand in the small space between us. “Have you ever felt a presence, a benevolent presence, right next to you? Like this?”

A shiver went up my spine. I mumbled, “No. Never.”

Just then, Margaret turned toward us and announced, “Okay. That’s it. I just sent about a dozen photos to the Millennium Encyclopedia offices.” She handed the photo album back. “Thank you, Joan. Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome.” Joan led us to the front, where she stashed the album under the counter. We waved a final goodbye to her and exited past the bright displays of angel cards, crystals, and candles.

We located our car and were soon driving back, retracing General George Washington’s path toward Trenton. Margaret looked at me and did a double take. “Martin! You’re actually smiling. From ear to ear.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

Margaret poked at me playfully. “Come on, tell me. Why are you so happy?”

I looked at the river passing by. I thought about the photos of Daisy Traynor, young and alive, and I smiled even wider. “Well, everything was crumbling, and I had to do something, and I did it. With your help, of course. I did it.”

“Did what?”

“I just crossed the Delaware.”

After a pause, Margaret admitted, “I don’t get it.”

“Let’s just say, after many defeats, I’ve just known victory.”

And we left it at that.

When we got back home, I went down to the basement and checked for messages. There was an urgent one from Pinak that just said, “Read this, Martin! Right away!” I clicked on it, and saw:

I clicked on the attachment:

I thrust my fist up in the air. Then I pulled my list out of the drawer. I quickly changed the status of Daisy Traynor and White Hart Lane. I pounded my fist on the desk. Then I typed in furiously: