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I miss you always.
With love,
Minki
To her surprise, Leila found herself weeping. In spite of her feelings of betrayal, there was a deep well of affection for her oldest friend, and she was particularly concerned for Clara. Of all people, Leila understood the danger the child was now in. The new regime was not kindly disposed to children with disabilities. It would take all Minki’s strength and guile to keep her daughter safe.
She glanced up from the letter to see Sofia and Axel running across the fields towards the chalet. They had been gathering mushrooms for breakfast, and as they clattered onto the deck, their faces wreathed in smiles, she felt grateful to have two such healthy, happy children. Together, they stood on the brink of a new adventure – and with luck would make a success of their lives in London.
Minki, on the other hand, was trapped in a darkening world, with a child who faced a frightening and uncertain future.
PART THREE
1941–1945
Our starting point is not the individual:
We do not subscribe to the view that one should feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, or clothe the naked…Our objectives are different: we must have a healthy people in order to prevail in the world.
JOSEPH GOEBBELS, 1938
28
LONDON
August 1941
Leila Labowski darted between the buses careering down the Aldwych, arriving slightly breathless at the grandiose pillared façade of Bush House. As she walked into reception of the BBC’s European Service, the uniformed doorman tipped his hat. ‘Morning, MrsLabowski.’
Leila was constantly surprised at ‘Nipper’ Williams’ ability to remember the names of every member of BBC staff – even freelancers like her.
‘Good morning to you, MrWilliams. It’s a bit chilly out there this morning.’
‘Yes…but it’s bound to warm up later,’ he replied cheerfully.
With a heave, Leila parted the stout metal gates of the lift, closed them behind her and pressed the button for her floor; the lift plunged downwards into the basement. Walking along the airless corridor, she passed trays of half-finished food and drink, presumably left by the night staff for the cleaners to remove. Outside the brown door that led to the offices of the BBC German Service was a plate of congealed beans on toast and something that may have once been shepherd’s pie, but was now a beige mush smeared across a chipped canteen plate.
Yvonne, the English secretary, was already hard at work. ‘Morning, Leila,’ she said, scarcely looking up from her typewriter.
‘Morning…Someone didn’t like their supper last night,’ said Leila, gesturing towards the corridor.
Yvonne looked bemused.
‘The food…left outside.’
‘Oh that,’ said Yvonne. ‘It was Heinrich – he did the night shift. When I came in this morning he was having one of his hissy fits about it. “Bloody English food. Why can’t you people learn to cook?”’
Leila smiled at Yvonne’s uncanny impersonation of her German colleague, and raised her eyebrows knowingly. ‘I apologise for my countryman,’ she said, laughing. ‘Anything interesting today?’
‘Just the usual…Alec left the bulletin in your in-tray. He asked if you could get it translated by nine thirty – he wants to run through it with you before your meeting with the new chief at ten.’
‘Oh yes…Hugh Carleton Green. I heard he was taking over as Head of Service this week. Have you met him yet?’ asked Leila, hanging up her coat.
‘Yes…he popped down here last night. Took Alec and me for a drink in the bar. I liked him. He’s quite young and rather good-looking.’
‘Yvonne!’
‘Well, a girl’s got to dream,’ replied Yvonne, laughing. ‘He mentioned that he lived in Munich back in the early thirties – working for theNew Statesman, I think he said. That’s your hometown, isn’t it?’
