“I said that her kind should never’ve been welcome in a place like the Harlan. Now more than ever,” said Mrs. Harper.
Marie grabbed at Nora’s hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” said Nora, not looking at Marie. “Miss Bohn is my guest. Where she was born shouldn’t matter to anyone, but within these walls it is completely inconsequential. I expect her to be treated with the same sort of courtesy that you would extend to any other guest of this club. Am I understood?”
“Young lady—”
“That is Miss Walcott to you,” said Nora sharply. Marie could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her friend unleash the full imperious nature that so many of her class wore proudly. She’d always loved Nora for her restraint, but in this moment she couldn’t deny that her friend’s fury was glorious.
However, Mrs. Harper still set her jaw and said, “I don’t care if you’re a Founding Few’s granddaughter. I won’t be told what to do by some jumped-up deb thirty years my junior.” Mrs. Harper’s voice broke, but she held her head up nonetheless. “It’s the Germans that killed my Johnny.”
Marie wished the floorboards would crack open and swallow her whole. The widow’s grief was so acute it didn’t matter that everyone had lost someone during the last war. And now to see it happening all over again…
“Nora.” Marie tugged on her friend’s hand. Nora looked down at her, some of the fire gone out of her eyes, but still she could feel her friend’s body primed for a fight.
“We’re very sorry about the loss of your husband, Mrs. Harper,” offered Hazel.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that Marie had nothing to do with it. You have no right to treat her that way,” said Nora.
“You may put on airs, but that doesn’t change anything. You’re still a bloody kraut, and they should lock you up,” Mrs. Harper hissed at Marie.
“What is the meaning of this?” The commanding voice of an older woman froze the foyer. At the head of the club’s stairs stood Lady Dora, Countess of Dartman and Harlan Club chairwoman. Pierre wrung his hands next to her.
“Lady Dora, I must insist on making a complaint about the treatment of my friend. Miss Bohn came to the club at my invitation because she is understandably in some distress over the invasion of Poland and Mrs. Harper verbally attacked her. Completely unprovoked!” Nora exclaimed.
“And I say that her kind shouldn’t be allowed past these doors. There is a war on, and we know what the Huns did the last time,” said Mrs. Harper, the vehemence and vitriol back in full force.
Lady Dora arched a snow-white brow. “Mrs. Harper, unless you know more than the prime minister, I believe you will find that we are not yet at war. I would also remind you that you are not employed to impose your opinions upon the Harlan. You greet members and make a record of their guests.”
“But—”
“Miss Bohn is German?” Lady Dora preempted as she began to descend the stairs, elegantly austere in a prim olive suit. “Of that I’m quite aware, as are the rest of the members of the club and its staff. You will also remember that Miss Bohn is the very good friend of Miss Walcott, which means that she is welcome at this club as long as Miss Walcott is.”
When the countess reached the bottom, she turned to Marie. “I have no doubt that you will encounter your fair share of ugliness if this nonsense with Germany is not called off. However, I hope that you will find the Harlan always to be a place of comfort, good manners, and rationality in what will no doubt be irrational times.”
“Thank you, Lady Dora,” said Marie, rising from the sofa on shaky legs.
“Good, now I expect you ladies may need something fortifying given the day’s events. Pierre will escort you to the bar.” Lady Dora looked over her shoulder. “I will find someone to relieve you of your duties at the desk tonight, Mrs. Harper. Then you will come see me in my office.”
As they followed Pierre up the stairs, Hazel let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so in awe of someone in my life as I am of Lady Dora right now.”
“I should’ve just left,” Marie murmured.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” said Nora firmly. “You have every right to be here.”
“But I don’t really, do I? And if something like that can happen at the Harlan…”
“You’re almost as British as British can be. You’ve been here since we were girls,” said Hazel.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Marie. “Everyone knows I’m foreign. I still have to register at the police station if I move. And—”
“It does matter. This is Britain. We’re nothing if not logical. You’ve nothing to worry about,” said Hazel.
But, although Nora nodded along, Marie couldn’t miss the wariness in her friend’s eyes.
five
CHURCHES EXPECT RECORD NUMBERS AS CHAMBERLAIN’S DEADLINE APPROACHES
—London Sunday Chronicle, September 3, 1939
The waiting was the hardest part. All weekend, Marie pored over the morning newspapers that Onkel Albrecht discarded after his breakfast. On Saturday evening, even Henrik had lingered to sit around the radio in the flat’s front room, listening to the news bulletin at half past seven.
“The British don’t want another war,” Onkel Albrecht had said after the bulletin had ended, looking to each of them. Tante Matilda had smiled tightly, Henrik had snorted and left the flat without a word, and Marie slipped off to her room, because if she had to pretend she wasn’t frightened any longer she might scream.
Now, on Sunday morning, with the deadline for Germany’s withdrawal inching ever closer, Marie and her aunt and uncle sat in the front room, the only sound Tante Matilda’s knitting needles as she worked on the pale yellow cardigan for Marie. Finally, Tante Matilda clucked her tongue and muttered to herself in German, “It cannot be. It won’t be.”
“Chamberlain promised that appeasing Hitler and the Munich Agreement would work. It must work.” Onkel Albrecht put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but Tante Matilda’s mouth stayed a rigid line.
“All that we’ve done. Everything we gave up to come here. It could all be gone in a moment,” said Tante Matilda.
“We left for Henrik,” said Onkel Albrecht. “That was reason enough.”
Marie had heard the stories in bits and pieces. Her aunt and uncle had lived through the Great War only to face hyperinflation as Germany tried to pay off its crippling war debt. While Tante Matilda’s sister, Marie’s mother, had married a man wealthy enough to survive on their foreign investments, the Müllers didn’t have that luxury. Seeking stability and a better life, they’d moved in November 1923—just a few days before Hitler’s failed Bier Hall Putsch.
Marie’s aunt and uncle couldn’t have known that Hitler’s attempt to seize control of Bavaria, which landed him in jail, would be a sign of something much more sinister on the horizon. Instead, they continued to send Henrik back for the summers to stay with Onkel Albrecht’s family. That is until August 1933, when over breakfast with her aunt and uncle in their flat, Marie had watched Onkel Albrecht open a letter from his brother.