Winter of the World (57 page)

Ethel put a hand on her shoulder for a moment in a gesture of compassion.

Daisy said: ‘And we’re doing the same to families in Germany.’

Ethel said: ‘Including my old friends Maud and Walter and their children, I presume.’

‘Isn’t that terrible?’ Daisy shook her head despairingly. ‘What’s wrong with us?’

Lloyd said: ‘What’s wrong with the human race?’

Bernie, ever practical, said: ‘I’ll go over to Orange Street later and make sure everything’s being done for the children.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Ethel.

Bernie and Ethel thought alike and acted together effortlessly, often seeming to read each other’s mind. Lloyd had been observing them carefully since he got home, worrying that their
marriage might have been affected by the shocking revelation that Ethel had never had a husband called Teddy Williams, and that Lloyd’s father was Earl Fitzherbert. He had discussed this at
length with Daisy, who now knew the whole truth. How did Bernie feel about having been lied to for twenty years? But Lloyd saw no sign that it had made any difference. In his unsentimental way
Bernie adored Ethel, and to him she could do no wrong. He believed she would never do anything to hurt him, and he was right. It made Lloyd hope that he, too, might one day have such a
marriage.

Daisy noticed that Lloyd was in uniform. ‘Where are you off to this morning?’

‘I’ve had a summons from the War Office.’ He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’d better get going.’

‘I thought you’d already been debriefed.’

‘Come to my room and I’ll explain while I’m putting on my tie. Bring your tea.’

They went upstairs. Daisy looked around with interest, and he realized she had not been in his bedroom before. He looked at the single bed, the bookshelf of novels in German, French and Spanish,
and the writing table with the row of sharpened pencils, and wondered what she thought of it.

‘What a nice little room,’ she said.

It was not little. It was the same size as the other bedrooms in the house. But she had different standards.

She picked up a framed photograph. It showed the family at the seaside: little Lloyd in shorts, toddling Millie in a swimsuit, young Ethel in a big floppy hat, Bernie wearing a grey suit with a
white shirt open at the neck and a knotted handkerchief on his head.

‘Southend,’ Lloyd explained. He took her cup, put it on the dressing table, and folded her into his arms. He kissed her mouth. She kissed him back with weary tenderness, stroking his
cheek, letting her body slump against his.

After a minute he released her. She was really too tired to canoodle, and he had an appointment.

She took off her boots and lay down on his bed.

‘The War Office have asked me to go in and see them again,’ he said as he tied his tie.

‘But you were there for hours last time.’

It was true. He had had to dredge his memory for every last detail of his time on the run in France. They wanted to know the rank and regiment of every German he had encountered. He could not
remember them all, of course, but he had done his homework meticulously on the T
ŷ
Gwyn course and he was able to give them a great deal of information.

That was standard military intelligence debriefing. But they had also asked about his escape, the roads he had taken and who had helped him. They were even interested in Maurice and Marcelle,
and reproved him for not knowing their surname. They had got very excited about Teresa, who clearly could be a major asset to future escapers.

‘I’m seeing a different lot today.’ He glanced at a typed note on his dressing table. ‘At the Metropole Hotel in Northumberland Avenue. Room four two four.’ The
address was off Trafalgar Square in a neighbourhood of government offices. ‘Apparently it’s a new department dealing with British prisoners of war.’ He put on his peaked cap and
looked in the mirror. ‘Am I smart enough?’

There was no answer. He looked at the bed. She had fallen asleep.

He pulled a blanket over her, kissed her forehead, and went out.

He told his mother that Daisy was asleep on his bed, and she said she would check on her later to make sure she was all right.

He took the Tube to Central London.

He had told Daisy the true story of his parentage, disabusing her of the theory that he was Maud’s child. She believed him readily, for she suddenly recalled Boy telling her that Fitz had
an illegitimate child somewhere. ‘This is creepy,’ she had said, looking thoughtful. ‘The two Englishmen I’ve fallen for turn out to be half-brothers.’ She had looked
appraisingly at Lloyd. ‘You inherited your father’s good looks. Boy just got his selfishness.’

Lloyd and Daisy had not yet made love. One reason was that she never had a night off. Then, on the single occasion they had had a chance to be alone together, things had gone wrong.

It had been last Sunday, at Daisy’s home in Mayfair. Her servants had Sunday afternoon off, and she had taken him to her bedroom in the empty house. But she had been nervy and ill at ease.
She had kissed him, then turned her head aside. When he put his hands on her breasts she had pushed them away. He had been confused: if he was not supposed to behave this way, why were they in her
bedroom?

‘I’m sorry,’ she had said at last. ‘I love you, but I can’t do this. I can’t betray my husband in his own house.’

‘But he betrayed you.’

‘At least he went somewhere else.’

‘All right.’

She had looked at him. ‘Do you think I’m being silly?’

He shrugged. ‘After all we’ve been through together, this seems overly fastidious of you, yes – but, look, you feel the way you feel. What a rotter I would be if I tried to
bully you into doing it when you’re not ready.’

She put her arms around him and hugged him hard. ‘I said it before,’ she said. ‘You’re a grown-up.’

‘Don’t let’s spoil the whole afternoon,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to the pictures.’

They saw Charlie Chaplin in
The Great Dictator
and laughed their heads off, then she went back on duty.

Pleasant thoughts of Daisy occupied Lloyd all the way to Embankment station, then he walked up Northumberland Avenue to the Metropole. The hotel had been stripped of its reproduction antiques
and furnished with utilitarian tables and chairs.

After a few minutes’ wait, Lloyd was taken to see a tall colonel with a brisk manner. ‘I’ve read your account, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘We expect more people to follow in your footsteps, and we’d like to help them. We’re especially interested in downed airmen. They’re expensive to train, and we want them
back so that they can fly again.’

Lloyd thought that was harsh. If a man survived a crash landing, should he really be asked to risk going through the whole thing again? But wounded men were sent back into battle as soon as they
recovered. That was war.

The colonel said: ‘We’re setting up a kind of underground railroad, all the way from Germany to Spain. You speak German, French and Spanish, I see; but, more importantly,
you’ve been at the sharp end. We’d like to second you to our department.’

Lloyd had not been expecting this, and he was not sure how he felt about it. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m honoured. But is it a desk job?’

‘Not at all. We want you to go back to France.’

Lloyd’s heart raced. He had not thought he would have to face those perils again.

The colonel saw the dismay on his face. ‘You know how dangerous it is.’

‘Yes, sir.’

In an abrupt tone the colonel said: ‘You can refuse if you like.’

Lloyd thought of Daisy in the Blitz, and of the people burned to death in the Peabody tenement, and realized he did not even want to refuse. ‘If you think it’s important, sir, then I
will go back most willingly, of course.’

‘Good man,’ said the colonel.

Half an hour later Lloyd was dazedly walking back to the Tube station. He was now part of a department called MI9. He would return to France with false papers and large sums in cash. Already
dozens of German, Dutch, Belgian and French people in occupied territory had been recruited to the deadly dangerous task of helping British and Commonwealth airmen return home. He would be one of
numerous MI9 agents expanding the network.

If he were caught, he would be tortured.

Although he was scared, he was also excited. He was going to fly to Madrid: it would be his first time up in an airplane. He would re-enter France across the Pyrenees and make contact with
Teresa. He would be moving in disguise among the enemy, rescuing people under the noses of the Gestapo. He would make sure that men following in his footsteps would not be as alone and friendless
as he had been.

He got back to Nutley Street at eleven o’clock. There was a note from his mother: ‘Not a peep from Miss America.’ After visiting the bomb site, Ethel would have gone to the
House of Commons, Bernie to County Hall. Lloyd and Daisy had the house to themselves.

He went up to his room. Daisy was still asleep. Her leather jacket and heavy-duty wool trousers were carelessly tossed on the floor. She was in his bed wearing only her underwear. This had never
happened before.

He took off his jacket and tie.

A sleepy voice from the bed said: ‘And the rest.’

He looked at her. ‘What?’

‘Take off your clothes and get into bed.’

The house was empty: no one would disturb them.

He took off his boots, trousers, shirt and socks, then he hesitated.

‘You’re not going to feel cold,’ she said. She wriggled under the blankets, then threw a pair of silk camiknickers at him.

He had expected this to be a solemn moment of high passion, but Daisy seemed to think it should be a matter of laughter and fun. He was willing to be guided by her.

He took off his vest and pants and slipped into bed beside her. She was warm and languid. He felt nervous: he had never actually told her that he was a virgin.

He had always heard that the man should take the initiative, but it seemed that Daisy did not know that. She kissed and caressed him, then she grasped his penis. ‘Oh, boy,’ she said.
‘I was hoping you’d have one of these.’

After that he stopped being nervous.

1941 (I)

On a cold winter Sunday, Carla von Ulrich went with the maid, Ada, to visit Ada’s son, Kurt, at the Wannsee Children’s Nursing Home, by the lake on the western
outskirts of Berlin. It took an hour to get there on the train. Carla made a habit of wearing her nurse’s uniform on these visits, because the staff at the home talked more frankly about Kurt
to a fellow professional.

In summer the lakeside would be crowded with families and children playing on the beach and paddling in the shallows, but today there were just a few walkers, well wrapped up against the chill,
and one hardy swimmer with an anxious wife waiting at the waterside.

The home, which specialized in caring for severely handicapped children, was a once-grand house whose elegant reception rooms had been subdivided and painted pale green and furnished with
hospital beds and cots.

Kurt was now eight years old. He could walk and feed himself about as well as a two-year-old, but he could not talk and still wore diapers. He had shown no sign of improvement for years.
However, there was no doubt of his joy at seeing Ada. He beamed with happiness, burbled excitedly, and held out his arms to be picked up and hugged and kissed.

He recognized Carla, too. Whenever she saw him she remembered the frightening drama of his birth, when she had delivered him while her brother Erik ran to fetch Dr Rothmann.

They played with him for an hour or so. He liked toy trains and cars, and books with highly coloured pictures. Then the time for his afternoon nap drew near, and Ada sang to him until he went to
sleep.

On their way out a nurse spoke to Ada. ‘Frau Hempel, please come with me to the office of Herr Professor Doctor Willrich. He would like to speak to you.’

Willrich was Director of the home. Carla had never met him and she was not sure Ada had either.

Ada said nervously: ‘Is there some problem?’

The nurse said: ‘I’m sure the Director just wants to talk to you about Kurt’s progress.’

Ada said: ‘Fräulein von Ulrich will come with me.’

The nurse did not like that idea. ‘Professor Willrich asked only for you.’

But Ada could be stubborn when necessary. ‘Fräulein von Ulrich will come with me,’ she repeated firmly.

The nurse shrugged and said curtly: ‘Follow me.’

They were shown into a pleasant office. This room had not been subdivided. A coal fire burned in the grate, and a bay window gave a view of the Wannsee lake. Someone was sailing, Carla saw,
slicing through the wavelets before a stiff breeze. Willrich sat behind a leather-topped desk. He had a jar of tobacco and a rack of different-shaped pipes. He was about fifty, tall and heavily
built. All his features seemed large: big nose, square jaw, huge ears, and a domed bald head. He looked at Ada and said: ‘Frau Hempel, I presume?’ Ada nodded. Willrich turned to Carla.
‘And you are Fräulein . . . ?’

‘Carla von Ulrich, Professor. I’m Kurt’s godmother.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘A little young to be a godmother, surely?’

Ada said indignantly: ‘She delivered Kurt! She was only eleven, but she was better than the doctor, because he wasn’t there!’

Willrich ignored that. Still looking at Carla, he said disdainfully: ‘And hoping to become a nurse, I see.’

Carla wore a beginner’s uniform, but she considered herself to be more than just hopeful. ‘I am a trainee nurse,’ she said. She did not like Willrich.

‘Please sit.’ He opened a thin file. ‘Kurt is eight years old, but has reached the developmental stage of only two years.’

He paused. Neither woman said anything.

‘This is unsatisfactory,’ he said.

Ada looked at Carla. Carla did not know what he was getting at, and indicated as much with a shrug.

‘There is a new treatment available for cases of this type. However, it will necessitate moving Kurt to another hospital.’ Willrich closed the file. He looked at Ada and, for the
first time, he smiled. ‘I’m sure you would like Kurt to undergo a therapy that might improve his condition.’