The Air Raid Book Club(25)

Fury poured lavalike through Gertie’s veins. “And what, may I ask, would be wrong with that? Would you rather we stood by while an entire race of people is persecuted?” Gertie could feel Hedy’s eyes on her. It spurred her on.

“Look,” said Miss Crow, shifting her weight a little. “The Jews have my sympathy, really they do, but I don’t see why it’s our problem. We can’t open our borders to everyone. We only live on an island, don’t forget.”

“No man is an island, Miss Crow.”

The woman flared her nostrils. “Oh, you think you’re so superior, don’t you, Mrs. Bingham? With your books and your ideas. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re no better than the rest of us.”

Gertie moved forward with such purpose that Miss Crow took a step backward. “How dare you?” she said. “How dare you enter my house, call me a fool, and insult my guest in this way. How can you be so unkind to a child who is merely asking for help? Call me a fool if you will, but at least I’m not heartless.”

Miss Crow stared at her for a moment, as if ruminating on her next move, before turning on her heel, hurrying from the room with a mumbled “Well, I never,” and slamming the front door behind her.

“Good riddance,” muttered Gertie, balling her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“I only want to help my family. To get them out of Germany,” sobbed Hedy. “I’m sorry, Gertie.”

Gertie longed to reach out and offer a reassuring embrace, but something hindered her. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. “Here,” she said, handing it to Hedy. “Dry your eyes. Don’t let Miss Crow upset you. Come and sit down. Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”

“I want to try and find a way on my own,” said Hedy, her shoulders stiff with determination as Gertie took a seat next to her on the sofa.

Gertie smiled. “You may find this hard to believe, but I was a little like you when I was younger.”

Hedy gazed at her. “Really?”

Gertie nodded. “So sure of myself. So determined.”

Hedy cast her eyes downward. “Sorry.”

“No,” said Gertie. “Don’t be sorry. It’s a good quality. You just need to use it in the right way.”

“How?” she asked, moving a little closer to Gertie.

“Well, for a start, you can’t go knocking on strangers’ doors asking for help. It’s not safe. Did you knock on other doors apart from Miss Crow’s?”

Hedy nodded. “Yes. Some people were kind, but others . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What happened?”

Hedy stared into the distance. “One man call me a dirty Jew.”

The furnace of Gertie’s anger was stoked once more. “I’m sorry, Hedy.”

Hedy shrugged. “I am used to this. It happen all the time in Germany.”

But not here, thought Gertie. It’s not supposed to happen here. It’s not supposed to happen anywhere. In that moment, Gertie knew exactly what she needed to do. She would use her fire and fury and turn them into something good. “We’re going to make a plan to get your family out.”

“Really?” said Hedy.

“Of course. Leave it with me. But you have to promise that you will stop knocking on strangers’ doors. And come to me for help next time.”

“I promise.”

Gertie gave Hedy’s hand the briefest of pats. “Good. I know just the person to ask.”





Chapter 7




I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson



For Gertie, stepping through the doorway into the hallowed calm of Arnold’s Booksellers was always like being transported back in time. Virtually nothing had changed. The ceiling-to-floor mahogany shelves lined with clothbound books in shades of chestnut, mulberry, and jade. The sliding ladders, which enabled booksellers to retrieve volumes from the uppermost shelves and which brought to mind one unfortunate incident, when she caught a young man peering up her skirt as she fetched him a particular book. Gertie chuckled to herself as she recalled her uncle Thomas chasing him out of the shop, brandishing a copy of Les Misérables, which at more than one thousand pages had the potential to be something of a deadly weapon.

She was delighted to see Mr. Nightingale, who had worked with her uncle ever since her father died, at the orders desk situated in the middle of the shop floor. Thomas Arnold was adamant that all customers should channel their requests via this desk and should be actively discouraged from browsing.

“This is not a public library,” he would fume. “If a customer wants a recommendation, then we will furnish him with one. Otherwise, he needs to make up his mind before he enters our premises. You do not handle the apples before the greengrocer sells them to you, do you?”

When Gertie told him that she allowed browsing in her bookshop, he shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, dear heart. To my mind, it can only lead to lunatic behavior. People do not thrive when they have choice. It addles their brains.”

“Good morning, Mr. Nightingale,” said Gertie, approaching the desk.

He glanced up from his orders ledger and uttered her name as if offering a blessing. “Mrs. Bingham. How wonderful to see you.”