WC02 - Never Surrender (25 page)

"Ridiculous."

She grabbed his sleeve; he could feel she was still trembling. "It was only a little time after Hitler had come to power. In some ways so much seemed the same. The post was still delivered, the coffee houses still open, the trams still ran along the same tracks. Then red posters began to appear. We found them on every street corner, on every bridge, just like the one we're standing on now. The posters went up alongside all the other everyday things like programmes for the theatre or announcements about a new restaurant. Notices of executions, Mr. Churchill. When they first happened we read them with surprise and alarm, even disgust, but they kept appearing and soon, like all the other announcements, they began to be taken for granted, read scarcely at all. Each one became just another notice. You heard of bodies washing up along the shores of the Spee, and so you would find yourself setting out a little later than usual when you took the children for a walk along the river on a Sunday morning, just to give the authorities a little time to make sure that everything was .. . tidy. Or you would hear about yet another of those strange people called Communists oh, it was astonishing how many of them chose to rant and to rave, and to be shot while trying to escape. But if they were trying to escape, they must have done something wrong, deserved it in some way, or so you thought. And then he started on the Jews and before long you wanted your Jewish friends to what? To go sick. To break down. To hit or insult you so they would no longer be your friend; even better to leave and emigrate. Anything to get them out of the way. To relieve you of the responsibility of being their friend. Mr. Churchill, I don't know what is happening to the Jews in Germany right now there are too many of them to put on lists at street corners but whatever is happening and wherever it is happening, the rest of Germany will be looking elsewhere."

"What is your point?"

"You talk to me about your rules, but this isn't some quaint English game where you do your best and then go off to your country home for tea and wait for the pendulum to swing back in your direction. That's what you like, isn't it, you English? A little give and take, play the game, all gentlemen together and hooray for the underdog. But you can forget the swing of the pendulum once Hitler is here, because all you will encounter is the swinging of his axe. If you fail, Mr. Churchill, you will have far more on your conscience than Jack Milbanke and those who died at Calais. You will have to cope with the death of your country and of reason itself. So don't you dare preach to me about your wretched gentleman's rules. They simply won't apply."

"You seem to hate him so very much."

"More than you will ever imagine."

"Why?"

"How many ways are there to hate someone? I hate him as a German for what he has destroyed. I hate him as a Christian for expropriating my God. I hate him as a neighbour because I will never again feel trusted by those I live with, and I hate him as a schoolteacher for ripping children from my arms and poisoning every value I tried to teach them. I hate him for his red posters, for the fear he has created, for the friends I have lost, for the times I looked the other way, for the guilt I feel because I was part of it." She pulled the coat more closely around her. "But above all I hate him because I am a woman and a mother. A woman's love is like an ocean, endless, yet he took that ocean and drained it dry. I hate him for that moment in my life when I looked at those I loved most in the world and realized that I no longer knew them."

She was shivering violently. Churchill turned in the direction of Thompson and waved to him. "You must go home, Frau Mueller. I have kept you too long."

She could hear the coughing of a car engine as it approached from the end of the bridge. It stopped and Thompson opened the door.

"Don't you dare give up, Mr. Churchill."

"I will do everything I can," he said, climbing in and lowering the window. A grey dawn was streaking the sky. "I would happily give my life if that were the price for saving my country as doubtless would Hitler. But unlike him, I have family. You know what I think of family, Frau Mueller. And I have my only son serving in the armed forces, willing to give up his life in this war."

"As I have, too," she whispered, watching the car drive away.

ELEVEN

Ramsay watched Mona's Isle return. A destroyer had guarded her until she had reached the gates of the harbour, and now two tugs guided her through. She was without a rudder and there were gaping holes in several parts of her superstructure. Even from a distance he could see that her decks were crowded with wounded. She was the last of the once-proud ships to limp back that morning; several of the others he had sent would never return. She had been shelled by shore guns and hammered by bullets from half a dozen Messerschmitts. Of the 1420 troops who had embarked upon her from Dunkirk, twenty-three were already dead and sixty wounded. The three-hour trip that Ramsay had planned had taken Mona's Isle almost twelve.

Very late the previous night, Ramsay had snatched a moment to write a short note to his wife, Mag. "I have on at the moment one of the most difficult and hazardous operations ever conceived," he said, 'and unless le bon Dieu is very kind there are certain to be many tragedies attached to it. I hardly dare think about it, or what the day is going to bring."

As he feared, the day brought its many tragedies. It also brought back a total of 7669 English soldiers from Dunkirk.

At that rate it would take Ramsay more than forty days to evacuate the BEF.

King George could see from the impatient stride and prominent scowl that his Prime Minister had arrived on usual form. And in his usual time.

"Your Majesty, pray forgive my tardiness," Churchill offered, bowing deeply.

It had become standard practice. The phone call ten minutes before he was supposed to arrive to inform the Palace that he would be half an hour late, then leaving the King to hang upon his own devices for another stretch of time. It would be followed by an audience carried out with as much speed and as little dignity as the King's sister-in-law reputedly displayed in bed. Not that George knew for certain, of course, he could never entirely trust the intelligence reports, but there were so many stories about her; some of them had to be true.

There were stories about Winston, too. About his temper, about his drinking, his constant interfering, his unpredictability, his ... well, the word had been used. His madness. George had tried to sail in formation with his Prime Minister. He studied his papers, wrote the letters, offered advice, tried not to be a burden, indeed did everything he could to support. But every time he drew alongside, Churchill took off at full speed again, leaving the King twisting in his turbulent wake.

"May I be allowed to congratulate you on your broadcast, sir?"

"Thank you, Winston. Not without its trials."

"But if I may say so, it was not without its triumphs, either. It was what the people needed to hear. The words were magnificent. Couldn't say it better myself. That Hitler, unchecked, would mean," he plucked the words from his memory "'the overthrow, complete and final, of this Empire and everything for which it stands, and after that, the conquest of the world, too.'"

"Yet people don't talk about what I said, only how I said it. That I didn't stutter, didn't falter." George shook his head. "So frustrating."

Churchill cleared his throat. He didn't have time to conduct an elocution lesson. "The war presses, sir. And far from favourably'

"Yes," the King interrupted, determined to make his own point. "That's one of the things I wanted to see you about. Just had a letter from Leopold. Handwritten. Says it's hopeless."

"As much as I had feared." The King of the Belgians was becoming a new nightmare on Churchill's horizon.

"I've written back, counselling him to come here. He won't hear a word of it. Intends to stay in his own country."

"That might not be wise."

"It's what you want me to do. To stay. Not to take my family and flee."

"The situations are not comparable."

The King chose not to respond, drawing heavily on his cigarette, examining Churchill through the smoke.

"They are in one respect. Belgian Government's split about what to do. French, too. Dangerous situation. Wouldn't like it to happen here, Winston."

Ah, so he'd heard. Of course, his friendship with Halifax. They'd probably discussed the whole thing over tea.

"It would put me in a difficult position," the King continued.

"Personally?"

"Constitutionally."

Ah, the constitution. Churchill's life was suddenly overflowing with lectures about the bloody constitution.

"Frankly, Winston, we wouldn't be in much of a position either to negotiate or to wage war if my Government were openly divided. Couldn't accept that. Would have to do whatever I could to prevent it."

Churchill's mind raced around the corners of the King's words to see what lay on the other side. It hit him with a blow sufficient to make his heart flutter. He was being warned. The King wouldn't allow his Government to be split. He would rather change it, change his First Minister. Get rid of Churchill. There wouldn't be many who would object to such a move, and a score of constitutionalists would line up to say he was entirely within his powers to do so.

"I understand, sir."

"Do you, Winston? We live in times of such change and very great sacrifice."

Churchill noted the emphasis, which was entirely unnecessary. He'd already got the point, It was exactly the point that Ruth had made. Play the game, drink your tea, die. Except his colleagues wouldn't even wait for Hitler to get here, they would do the job themselves. Churchill knew that this was a battle he was unlikely to win, not when he was fighting on two fronts. He didn't blame the King, he didn't even particularly blame Halifax, the man was only doing what his conscience dictated. Playing by the rules of a gentleman. But Churchills came from a different mould; they didn't accept the rules. Most people didn't even regard them as gentlemen.

And he hated tea.

Ruth Mueller sat at the corner table of the cafe, sipping her cup of hot coffee essence mixed with sweet evaporated milk.

It was her lunch. The illustration of red coats and rifles on the bottle of the liquid essence had suggested it was a drink that had got the British Army though the Boer War; Ruth had rather lower expectations. She wanted it only to get her through to her simple evening meal. She tugged selfconsciously at her sleeve; the cuff was growing seriously threadbare and her attempts at repair were proving more and more pointless. She would have to forage amongst the second-hand stalls and church jumble sales to find a replacement. And a smaller size: this one was beginning to hang loosely, she'd lost weight. Not that clothing or even lunch was important in the grand scale of things, but there were standards to maintain. It was important to maintain standards; she remembered what could happen when you didn't.

She had spent all morning in the library across the way reading the communal copy of the newspapers and finishing off the last trickle of translation work that she had been able to get. Since the war began there had been plenty of calls for translators, but every time she applied, it seemed she knew German just a little too well. When it came down to it, the life of a refugee wasn't much of a life at all. She made up her mind to ask Mr. Churchill for advice well, help, really the next time they met. She'd wanted to do that on the last couple of occasions, but they always seemed to get to arguing and the thought had entirely slipped her mind until it was too late. Next time if there were a next time she'd make a special effort not to lose her temper or insist that he lose his.

She'd also made a special effort with the librarian. For days there had been nothing but frost blown across the polished wood counter as though she had a dozen books overdue, and Ruth refused to be dragged down into a pit of mutual ill feeling. Standards, once more. But when she had nodded her head and wished her goodbye, it had been like walking through a winter's gale. At least she had tried.

She could see the librarian even now, arms folded tightly across her bony chest, standing on the steps of the library and staring across the street. Two men had also come into the cafe and were looking around at the handful of customers. They nudged each other. Were coming towards her. She thought she could sense the librarian smiling.

"Frau Mueller?" The two men had stopped in front of her. "Ruth Mueller?" They were both wearing raincoats in spite of the weather. More memories. Her heart had stopped.

"We are police detectives from Rochester Row, Frau Mueller. Please come with us."

"Why?" She tried to sound confident, to believe it was a mistake, but the cup was spilling coffee as she replaced it in the saucer.

"The Emergency Powers Act, Frau Mueller." He waved a crumpled sheet of official paper at her.

"But what have I done?"

"Done? Done?" The two men looked at each other, puzzled. "You're German."

"I am a refugee."

"A German refugee."

"What crime have I committed?"

"Apart from being a Jerry? Maybe none. But we'll want to know why you've been asking so many questions. Why you're taking such an interest with all the books and newspapers you've been reading. And where all that foreign stuff you've been writing goes."

The librarian now had two other women at her side and was gesticulating in the direction of the cafe.

"You cannot arrest me without a charge."

"Of course we can. Come on, let's do it quietly. We don't want a to-do. Disturbing the neighbours and all."

This is ridiculous. You cannot arrest me simply because I am a refugee. This is England!"

"And this bit of paper's got your name on it. Come on, Mrs. Mueller. Let's have no fuss." He reached for her.

"A fuss? You think I am going to let you do what Hitler's Gestapo couldn't without a fuss? Take your hands off me!"

The repair on the cuff had gone again. The policeman renewed his grip and wouldn't be shaken off. She struck out at him, and immediately her other arm was pinned. So she kicked out. The table and what was left of the coffee went flying.