“Nora and I have been calling you all day,” Hazel was saying on the other end.
Herr Gunter stuck his head out of his office door. “Fräulein Bohn.”
“Hazel, I need to go,” she said.
“No, you need your friends. Meet us at the Harlan as soon as you can.”
“It’s not our usual Friday,” she said, numb.
“Take a cab, take the bus, walk. Just get to the Harlan,” said Hazel.
Herr Gunter was glaring at her, so she agreed and carefully set the phone down in its cradle.
“I thought I made it clear that there are to be no personal calls in this office, Fräulein Bohn,” he said.
Marie pushed by him.
“Fräulein!”
He could chastise her. She didn’t care. She made straight for the small radio sitting on a card table to the right of his desk and switched it on. The radio gave a crackle and then came to life.
“This is the BBC World Service. The time is six o’clock,” a presenter intoned.
“What is the meaning of this?” Herr Gunter raged behind her.
The presenter continued. “Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain is due to speak to Parliament after reports of the German invasion of Poland before dawn this morning.”
Marie turned to see the blood drain from Herr Gunter’s face. He knew just as well as she did what this all meant. Britain had signed a treaty with Poland. Any act of aggression against that country would mean war for Britain.
“German airplanes have begun to bomb Polish cities, including Warsaw,” the presenter said in clipped, restrained consonants.
“That was my friend calling to tell me. We’re at war,” she said.
“Not yet,” he said, edging away with his eyes locked on the radio as though it was the cause of all of this chaos. “Not yet. The British will give Hitler a chance to withdraw.”
“Hitler won’t withdraw.”
“You don’t know that,” Herr Gunter barked so sharply she started. “I am sorry, Fräulein. Please turn that off.”
She switched the dial off and hovered, not knowing what to do. Herr Gunter, however, began muttering to himself. He pulled his battered leather briefcase up onto the desk and began to open his drawers. In went a few papers and a leather-bound notebook.
“Is there something I can do, Herr Gunter?” she asked.
Not looking up, he said, “Call Emily. Tell her I must cancel dinner.”
Marie frowned. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know who Emily is.”
Herr Gunter froze for a second, his eyes wide, but then he again dropped his attention to his bag. “Never mind, never mind.” He shut the briefcase then and snapped the locks closed. “You may go, Fräulein. I will see you on Monday.”
Marie walked quickly to her own desk, tossed her notepad into the top drawer, and pulled on her coat. Herr Gunter was still clattering around in his office, but she didn’t want to stay to see if he would change his mind. She jammed her hat on and left.
Outside on the street, Marie thought about hailing a cab, but when she turned to stick out her hand, she caught a glimpse of a headline under the arm of a man waiting to cross the street: “Germany Invades Poland.” Even after so many years, her accent was still unmistakable, and she didn’t know what would happen if she approached a cab and asked to be taken to Mayfair.
Halfway down the block, a bus pulled up to the stop. Marie clamped her hand on her hat and sprinted for it as fast as she could in her heeled shoes. The mist made the pavement slick, but she managed to make it just in time. Handing her fare over to the man collecting it, she stopped herself before thanking him.
The bus was nearly empty, and she huddled in the back left corner for the entire trip until her stop on Park Lane. The rain had begun to pick up, and her hat and coat were soaked through by the time she made it to the club’s front door.
“Miss Bohn,” said Wallace, springing forward to put an umbrella over her even though the rain had already done its damage.
“Are they here, Wallace?” she asked.
“Miss Walcott and Mrs. Carey are just inside, miss.”
Wallace held the door open for her and hurried her inside like a mother hen. Just inside the doorway stood Nora and Hazel. They both rushed to envelop her in a hug.
“You’re here,” said Hazel at the same time Nora asked, “Marie, how are you?”
She shook her head, her wet hair sticking to her forehead. “I don’t know.”
“Come,” said Hazel, catching her by the elbow. “Sit down right here.”
Her friends maneuvered her onto a red velvet sofa. “Let’s get this off of you,” said Hazel, lifting Marie’s hat from her head. Without a word, Nora unbuttoned Marie’s coat and helped her ease out of the clinging, wet fabric.
Marie watched as both of her friends fussed over her. Neither of them met her eyes, and her heart pinched. They didn’t know what to say to her. These were her best friends in the world, and they didn’t know what to do because everything had changed.
“When did you find out?” asked Marie quietly.
“I came to work, and the office was already in chaos. The journalists hadn’t gotten hold of it yet and nothing official had been announced, but details were coming in over the secure channels. Sir Gerald was called into an emergency meeting to assess our preparedness, and I sat in to assist him. I rang you and then Hazel as soon as I could catch a moment,” said Nora.
“Nora asked me to keep trying you because she wasn’t sure that she would be able to stay by her phone,” said Hazel.
“I see,” said Marie.
Hazel covered Marie’s hand with one of her own. “It could still be stopped. The prime minister has given Hitler until Sunday to withdraw his troops from Poland.”
She shook her head. “He won’t withdraw. We’re going to be at war again soon, and I don’t know… I don’t know what that means for me or my family.”
“Miss Bohn.” They all looked up to see Pierre standing before them, a neat row of crystal glasses of two fingers of whisky each balanced on a silver tray. “If I might be so bold as to suggest that a little refreshment might be welcome.”
“Thank you, Pierre. That’s very kind of you,” said Nora.
Marie was just reaching for a glass when Mrs. Harper swept around her battlements and descended on them. “No drinks in the foyer. Club rules.”
Pierre straightened. “Given the circumstances, I thought an exception might be made.”
“No exceptions,” said Mrs. Harper.
“If any club member complains, I will be happy to speak to Lady Dora myself,” said Pierre, invoking the name of the club’s chairwoman.
With Pierre assuming the responsibility for any blame to be handed out that evening, Mrs. Harper turned, but not before muttering, “No need for any bowing and scraping to her kind either.”
Nora shot to her feet, towering over the woman. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harper? Perhaps you would like to repeat what you just said.”
Mrs. Harper stilled, and Marie died a little. Her hands clasped together tightly in her lap, and she prayed that Mrs. Harper would mutter an apology and this would all be over. Instead, the woman rolled her shoulders back and stared straight down her nose at Marie.