The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach (33 page)

“Addie, come sit down.” I started to protest, then lowered myself to the leather sofa he indicated. “There’s something else.” His face bore that bearer-of-bad-news look I had come to know only too well. But I was nearly immune to pain, like a wound that had not healed properly but had grown callused and scarred. “You know I reached out to a Red Cross contact.”

“Yes.” He had told me the plan a few days earlier. Though so many leads had fallen through before, I could not help but hope.

“They can’t manage it. The area where the children are has been cut off by the Germans as they’ve fallen back. Not even food or other basic aid can get through.”

My heart sank. Leo’s sister and the others were not only trapped, but hungry. I cleared my throat. “So what’s next?”

His shoulders slumped and he looked away. “There is no next.” His voice was scratchy. He was more upset than I had ever seen him at the idea of disappointing me. “We can’t chance putting the visas in the mail, and none of our couriers are going now.”

“What about taking them yourself?”

“What are you talking about? One can’t just go sailing across the Channel these days.”

“It’s possible. You’ve been over dozens of times.” I looked him squarely in the eyes, challenging him to deny it.

He shook his head. “That was before the invasion.”

“But you could manage it now. You have enough clout to get a pass. If we come up with a story about why we’re traveling together...”

“We? You want to come with me?” He stared at me disbelievingly. Perhaps this time I had gone too far. “You can’t be serious.”

“You said yourself the photos are awful. I can take better ones for you.”

But he refused to take the bait. “It’s nearly impossible to get accredited. Especially if you’re a woman.”

This last bit rankled me. How many times had I heard that as a reason why I could not do something? “But just think of the stories we could get. The photographs alone could win a Pulitzer.” He blanched, offended by the notion that a prize was what he was after. “I mean, think of all the people we could help by telling their stories to the world.”

“You’re not a correspondent, goddammit! You’re a secretary.” His words cut through me like a knife. Ever since the Tomaszewicz interview, Teddy had treated me like an equal partner. But his words were not intended to hurt—he was just trying to stop me from going.

“Addie,” he said, more softly now. “This isn’t about your being a woman.”

“Then what?”

“You’re Jewish.” He blinked hard. “And with the things they’re doing to Jews...” I turned away, not wanting to hear what was coming next. “You heard Tomaszewicz, interviewed him yourself.”

The story of the Jews being gassed was never far from my thoughts. “That was just one village.” But my voice was hollow and I knew even as I said it that it was not true.

He shook his head sadly. “Only it isn’t. There have been reports just like it of killings all over Europe like the one he described. Jews. Gypsies and homosexuals and clergy, too, but mostly Jews. In trucks and factories and camps—by the thousands.” My stomach turned. There were stories in the papers of Jews being relocated and detained in camps, but if what he was saying was true, then why was no one writing or screaming about it?

He raised his hand, cutting me off. “It’s out of the question. I’m not taking you. It’s too dangerous. And I’m not going myself,” he added before I could jump in again. He took both my hands in his.

Teddy was forever chasing stories. So why was he refusing the challenge now? “I thought you wanted to make a difference.”

“By reporting the news. Not becoming part of the story. Addie, this is daft. You know I’d do anything for you. But I’d be jeopardizing my credentials and risking all the important work we are trying to do. Surely you see the big picture.”

I sniffed. “I suppose.” His point was a fair one, but all I could see was Leo’s sister and the other children left behind. A few years earlier and one of them could have been me. “But we have to help the children—”

“We don’t even know if they would still be there when we arrived.” His words were like a slap. With the Germans killing Jews and the children behind German lines it was only a matter of time. “Addie, I don’t mean to be hard-hearted. But children are suffering everywhere, even in Britain. Eighty died in a bombing at a school north of here months back. And that bloody awful bombing at the underground station.”

I nodded. But he seemed to suggest that these things made saving the orphans somehow less important. For me, it meant more now than ever. “If there’s a chance to save them, we must try,” I pressed.

“Is this about Charlie?” he asked abruptly, and I saw he was unable to hide the depths of his feelings for me. I still hadn’t told him what I’d learned about Charlie at the embassy. “Saving those children won’t bring back Charlie—or his brother,” he added gently. I wanted to snap back at him: How dare he presume? But looking into his eyes, I realized that Teddy had come to know—really know—me. He was right: I was trying to rewrite the past.

This was about more than the Connallys, though. And I wasn’t about to give up on these kids. “No, these children really need our help.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” His eyes darted back and forth, searching for my reaction. “Addie, I want to help. You know that. Helping a few dozen children isn’t going to change what they’re doing to all of those people—your people.” But it would be something. “And I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let you go, knowing now what they would do to you if you were caught. Don’t be a hero,” he added. “Do you know what they do to heroes? What they did to Tomaszewicz’s family?”

“No,” I breathed. Though I had only met Jan Tomaszewicz once, his family and especially his nine-year-old daughter had become real to me. I often wondered how they were doing.

“They were hung in the town square.”

“Stop!” I cried, covering my ears although it was too late.

“And that is why I won’t help you with this. Even if you hate me for it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again. “Okay,” I said simply. I would get no further with him and neither of us needed a fight right now.

“I really am sorry about them—and about Charlie, too.” I pulled back, the unexpected mention of his name stinging. “I know how hard this is for you. He was a brave chap, and well, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” In that moment, I was drawn to Teddy and his straightforward views of the world. He liked me and wanted me safe; it was as simple as that. I moved closer and let him put his arm around me, draw me close. When I looked up, our lips were just inches apart. For a second I was tempted: Charlie was gone and Teddy was here, wanting to protect me. Why not accept the comfort he was still so eager to give?

Because Teddy was not Charlie. I could never feel anything close to what I had felt. And it wouldn’t be fair. Instead, I leaned my head against his shoulder and we both sat in silence. The record reached the end and the needle began to skip. Teddy’s weight grew heavier above me. I pulled away and he did not protest, so I knew even before looking that he was asleep.

I watched Teddy, with his head tilted back on the sofa. He breathed lightly, giving off the faint smell of sour liquor. His face was clear. There were none of the demons I’d seen as I lay beside Charlie. Even at his darkest, Teddy was placid, removed from the tragedy and despair that surrounded him. I reached for the throw blanket at the bottom of the sofa and covered him with it. I looked around. What now? I’d come to try once more to persuade him to help me, but that had failed. My eyes traveled to his coat, hung over the edge of one of the chairs. His press pass dangled from it. If I had one of those—actual correspondent’s credentials, not a secretary’s— for myself, I could find a way to have the visas delivered—or at least I could try.

But I did not. Standing quietly so he would not wake, I walked over to his desk. Teddy had said he’d learned that the orphans were unreachable by the Red Cross, but how? Perhaps there was some information, something he had missed, that might provide a clue to their whereabouts. I scanned his desk. I should not be looking through his things, I knew. But, my curiosity piqued, I opened the top drawer. It creaked loudly. I froze, then looked in the direction of the sofa, but he slept undisturbed. Inside was a folder thick with papers. I was surprised; I assumed Teddy did all of his work at the office. What did he have here? There were news clippings of his own stories and at first I thought it was simply a collection of everything he had written. But the typeset was strange, certain letters dropped ever so slightly. To the untrained eye, it would not have been apparent. But having spent months working with the close typeset of the newspaper, I could discern the pattern immediately: it was some sort of code. Teddy was not just writing articles for the
Post
; he was sending encrypted messages in the stories. He had refused to help with the orphans not just because he was worried about his career, but in order to protect some sort of operation.

Why hadn’t he told me? I wanted to run over and wake him and demand answers. But if hadn’t confided in me before, then there was no reason to think he would now. I rifled deeper in the desk. There was something else, a thin yellowed paper, a mimeo of some sort of report. I lifted it up and as I saw the familiar language, my heart skipped: Italian. I recalled then how Teddy had gone checking for my family. But he had found nothing and said that it was best to leave it alone. He had not mentioned this.

I scanned the paper, translating the language that always came back to me like a forgotten prayer: Gustavo and Ilena Montforte—arrested for helping Jews escape. I paused, puzzled. My parents had been political activists; they had not been in the business of helping refugees. The report was dated July 10, 1941—less than a month after I had left Trieste. The horrible truth hit me then: the police must have come to check registration cards and I was missing. My parents were arrested—and likely killed—because they had helped me flee.

A sob rose in my throat. It was my fault that my parents were gone. Grief tore through me anew, sharp as the day I’d learned they’d been taken. I stood helplessly in the middle of the room. I was completely alone. I hadn’t been able to help my parents any more than I could help Charlie. But the children might still be there waiting.

I walked numbly to the chair where Teddy’s coat hung. I picked it up and unclipped his press pass, which bore a blurry nondescript photo of Teddy plus stamps in several languages. He had a ticket to get into France and he wouldn’t even use it. A pass like this, if I had one, could get me into Europe. My anger grew, not so much toward Teddy but at a system that made me dependent on men like him, unable to help on my own. If only I could use his. I picked at the plastic which covered his photo with the nail of my index finger. But I could not get off the coating without tearing it and making obvious I’d tampered with it. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. If my hair was lighter and shorter, or covered with a hat, I might be able to pass.

I stopped, taken aback by the audacity of my own idea. The pass clattered to the floor. I picked it up hurriedly, glancing at Teddy, who had slept through the noise. I’d come here to persuade Teddy, not betray him. But he would not help and this might be the orphans’ last hope. I would not get all the way to France on this, of course—my passport and credentials would not match. But I could at least get into the staging area at Portsmouth and perhaps find someone who was going over and might be able to help. I could go tonight and be back before he even awoke in the morning. Hurriedly I rolled my hair up tightly and put the hat atop it. I could just about pass for a man. I went to his wardrobe and hurriedly dressed in his clothes. Then I took his hat and coat and slipped from the flat.

I stepped out of a taxi onto a darkened country road near Portsmouth. “Here?” the driver asked in disbelief, after I asked him to stop a good half mile outside the naval base. “It’s the middle of nowhere.” That was the idea. I didn’t want to attract attention by having him drive any closer. He eyed me warily, as though I might be a German spy, and I hoped he wouldn’t call the Home Guard to report me. I paid him the fare up front, plus a tip in hopes of showing my goodwill, trying not to wince at the exorbitant total, nearly twenty pounds and a good chunk of my savings. There hadn’t been a choice; buses didn’t run at this hour and I didn’t want to risk waiting and having Teddy wake and come after me. I’d lucked out finding the lone cab sitting with its lights dimmed at the third taxi stand I’d tried.

As the city had faded behind us and we’d bumped along the winding roads of rural Hampshire, I’d stared off into the darkness. My mind reeled from the truth about my parents’ disappearance. I was to blame, just as surely as Liam had been for Robbie’s death. Teddy hadn’t told me what he’d learned, of course, to spare me the pain of knowing. But he hadn’t told me about his other work either. So many lies.

I buttoned the top of Teddy’s coat and drew his hat low over my eyes, then hurried along the road in the chilled night air. It dead-ended at a high fence topped with barbed wire, the naval base on the other side. Steeling myself, I started for the gate. It was hard to see how the invasion had been a surprise to anyone. Even at night, the naval station at Portsmouth was a hub of activity. Large battleships lined the harbor. Planes roared low overhead as though they might crash upon us at any second, leaving a heavy petrol scent in the air. Uniformed men scurried between trucks loading on pallets of supplies in the semidarkness.