She would’ve come to the party meeting with Neil, only he had headed off early from campus, telling her he was determined to arrive well ahead of the start. He was supposed to speak that evening, so it only made sense, except a selfish part of her wished that she’d traveled with him as they usually had.
She hadn’t been able to shake the unsettled feeling that had crept under her skin since the day of Herr Gunter’s disappearance. Everywhere she looked, she expected Dennison to pop out from hiding and arrest her on the spot even though she’d done nothing wrong.
But you don’t need to do anything wrong, do you?
On Wednesday morning, the Müller family and Marie’s tribunal hearing letters had come in the morning post. Tante Matilda had been waiting when Marie came home, her own letter already open on the sofa next to her. She’d handed Marie her own envelope and began to cry. Marie opened it carefully and slid the letter out. She was required to report to her hearing on October 26 at half past two. She would be permitted to bring character witnesses who were not related to her. She waited until Onkel Albrecht came home and then telephoned Hazel and Nora to ask them to stand with her. They’d both said yes.
A few days later, Tante Matilda and Onkel Albrecht had entertained two other couples—both German. She’d just been leaving to go to the cinema with Nora when she overheard them as she passed the sitting room door.
“But how could someone throw paint by accident?” one of the men had asked in German.
“I don’t know, but surely—”
The same man cut Onkel Albrecht off with a derisive laugh. “And how many projects have you been put on since war has been declared?”
There was a slight pause. “It is a slow time. That’s only normal. People are more worried about fighting than they are about building,” her uncle said.
“Six of my British patients have canceled their appointments. I have enough German patients for now, but what happens if they decide to send them away to one of these internment camps they’re opening in North London? That will be the end of my practice,” said Herr Scharr, whom Marie recognized from the few times she’d accompanied her aunt to church.
“Things are changing, and not for the better,” said Frau Scharr.
“These people are not your friends, Albrecht. The longer it takes for you to accept that, the more painful it will all be in the end,” said the first man.
“But England is our home.” Her aunt’s voice was muffled, as though she was losing the belief in her own words.
“It won’t be for very much longer, Matilda,” said Frau Scharr.
Marie had squeezed her eyes closed so hard that she saw starbursts behind her lids, but forced herself to walk out the door and into the already darkening street. By the time she arrived at the cinema it was already pitch-black out, and she had to use her torch in the blackout. Once she passed through the black-cloth-covered doors, she’d blinked in the light and fixed a smile firmly in place to greet her friend.
But the moment Marie was alone, her forced jolliness had slipped away. Back at home, she hurried past the door and locked her bedroom door behind her. She applied her thick cold cream, just as usual, and slipped into bed, praying she might dream it all away. But the next morning the newspaper next to her uncle’s breakfast plate ran another headline, another reminder that there was no escaping any of this.
In the CPGB’s meeting hall, young couples—too young for the men to be able to join up—walked arm in arm, while stern middle-aged ladies stood in buttoned-up cloth coats, surveying the room. There were far fewer men about than had been at any other meeting Marie’d attended, but she’d missed the last couple so she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Half of the university’s campus seemed to be donning tan or blue uniforms, and there was talk around campus that a few of the department secretaries might even join the WRNS or the WAAFs or another of the women’s auxiliary branches.
Marie finally spotted Neil near the stage. His tweed jacket hung unbuttoned, revealing a crisp white shirt and a red tie. He was speaking to another man, and as she drifted up his companion glanced at her.
“Who is this?” the man asked with a nod.
Neil started when he saw her, as though he’d forgotten that they’d agreed she would meet him. But then he gave her a little smile.
“Marie, meet Harvey Lambeth,” Neil said.
“Like the neighborhood.” Harvey laughed. “South of the river, just like me.”
“Or like ‘The Lambeth Walk,’ ” she said, shaking the hand that engulfed her own.
“What’s that?” Harvey asked.
“ ‘The Lambeth Walk’? From the musical? The film came out earlier this year,” she said.
Harvey stuck his thumbs in his suspenders and rocked back on his heels as though mulling this over. “Don’t go in much for trips to the cinema. There’s too much needs changing in this country. Where are you from?”
Marie swallowed. “Munich, but I’ve lived here for my whole life.” It was almost true.
Harvey ran an assessing eye over her again, but this time there was a hint of suspicion there. “And what do you think of this war?”
“I hate it.”
Harvey grunted and turned his attention back to Neil so fully that he gave Marie his back. “Think about what I said. It’ll be a sacrifice, but it would be well worth it in the end.” Then Harvey walked away.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Neil said, turning his attention on her.
“I told my aunt and uncle I was having dinner with a friend and her mother. They worry whenever I leave the house now, but they also know that they can’t keep me locked up,” she said.
“Like Cinderella in her tower?” he asked, his eyes darting to something over her shoulder.
“You mean Rapunzel?” He frowned, so she clarified, “The damsel locked in her tower was Rapunzel.”
“Yes,” he said.
Something hung between them, heavy yet unacknowledged. She didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t like it.
“Are you ready for your speech?” she asked, attempting to find something—anything—that would once again forge the connection that she’d felt the night he’d kissed her.
This time she was rewarded. He gave her a little smile and let out a long, shaky breath.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, kleine Maus,” he said.
* * *
If Marie was being completely honest, Neil’s speech was adequate. He’d asked her to look over the draft a few weeks ago, before the entire world had gone mad. She’d rewritten large parts of it, smoothing out the language and coaxing poetry out of the prose of a man who seemed intent on transporting his audience but wrote more eloquently of facts and figures. However, as she watched him deliver the words at the podium on the stage, it was clear that the written word could only do so much. A speaker needed passion and conviction, and while Neil had those in spades, he didn’t have the charisma that made it impossible to look away from him when he spoke.
He was nearing the final page, Marie half following in her head, when suddenly he veered wildly off course from what she’d edited.