Hedy nodded. “My mother thought you like, as she likes books too.”
Gertie held the volume to her chest. “Thank you. That is really very kind. I might suggest to Betty that she chooses this for our next book club. Perhaps you would like to go along, although we’ll probably have to read it in English.”
Gertie gave a brief chuckle. Hedy said nothing and clasped her hands together, watching Gertie, clearly willing her to leave.
“Well, good night then,” said Gertie, backing toward the door.
“Good night,” said Hedy, turning away.
As Gertie set about making tea and toasting crumpets for one, she could hear Hedy moving around upstairs. It felt odd after the years of echoing silence since Harry died and even odder to have this stranger in her home. “Tomorrow will be better,” she told Hemingway, who yawned in reply. She carried her tray into the living room, setting it down on the tea table in front of the fire, and sank gratefully into her armchair. She watched the flames skip and dance for a moment before pulling out the letter Hedy had given her. It was written in an elegant hand and perfect English.
Freising, 2 March 1939
Dear Mrs. Bingham,
I am writing to thank you for agreeing to take my daughter, Hedy, into your care. She is clever and kind, occasionally headstrong, and always full of opinions, but I know she will work hard at whatever task is set for her. She is a good girl with a good heart. I don’t know if you are a mother, Mrs. Bingham, but I do know from your actions that you are a kind woman, so I think you will understand when I say how hard it has been to send our daughter away. We are in a very difficult situation at the moment, but I remain optimistic that there will be better days ahead.
I will of course continue to write to Hedy at your home address. We are hopeful that we may be able to join her in England soon.
Thank you again for your selfless kindness. It is people like you who make me believe that there is still good in the world.
Yours,
Else Fischer
Gertie stared at the fire, feeling as if her entire body were cast from lead. She closed her eyes for a moment, the steady breathing of Hemingway at her feet lulling her off to sleep. She woke a while later to find both the tea and crumpets had gone cold and the dog had disappeared. The house was silent as she rose stiffly from her chair and climbed the stairs. The door to Hedy’s room was ajar, and she spied the girl, still dressed, lying fast asleep on her bed with Hemingway on the floor beside her, keeping guard. Hedy’s brow was furrowed, as though her worries had followed into her dreams. Gertie watched the girl’s troubled face for a moment and was aware of a long-forgotten but strangely familiar sense of purpose rekindling within her. If Else Fischer couldn’t be here for the time being, Gertie must assume that role. She picked up a blanket from the chair in the corner of the room and laid it carefully across Hedy’s sleeping form.
“Sleep well,” she whispered, before tiptoeing from the room.
Chapter 5
I declare, after all, there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.
—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Gertie was certain she’d made a terrible mistake. Her quiet, ordered life had been turned on its head, and she didn’t like it one bit. She would wake during the night to the creak of floorboards, shoulders stiffening with fear, convinced there was an intruder in the next room before she remembered. Or she would enter the living room, ready to flop into her armchair with a cup of tea after a long day, and find Hedy curled up asleep there. The child seemed to have a unique ability to nap like a cat at all hours of the day. Some mornings she didn’t appear before Gertie left for the bookshop. Having had no experience of fifteen-year-old girls, aside from the distant memory of being one herself, Gertie had no idea if this was normal behavior. In desperation, she turned to Betty for advice.
“Oh yes, I used to sleep for days and days when I was that age. It drove my mother potty,” said Betty as they restocked the poetry section.
“Well, that’s a relief. I was worried I was boring her. She’s very quiet.”
“How is her English?”
“Better than my German, but we never progress past the usual pleasantries,” said Gertie, sliding a slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets onto the shelf. “‘How did you sleep?’ ‘Would you like tea?’ ‘What a lovely day,’ and so on. I can’t seem to get much more than a polite nod out of her.”
“It’s early days, Mrs. B. It must be a terrific shock being ripped away from your family and friends. She’s probably just homesick.”
Gertie sighed. “I’m sure you’re right. I just worry that I don’t offer enough excitement for a young girl like her.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s not true, but here’s an idea. Barnaby and I are going for a drive into Kent at the weekend. She could come with us. I’ll ask my brother, Sam, along too. Provided you give your permission of course?”
Gertie was caught off guard. Truth be told, she would welcome a break from awkward, monosyllabic exchanges. On the other hand, would it be entirely proper to let this young girl go out for the day with Betty and two young men? In the end, Gertie decided that there was no one more trustworthy than her bookselling assistant.
“It would be nice for her to spend some time with people nearer her own age,” she reasoned.
“That’s settled then. We’ll pick her up at eleven.”
“Thank you, dear. I’m delighted that things are going well for you and Mr. Salmon, by the way. He’s a fine young man.”
Betty’s eyes sparkled. “I’m glad you think so too, Mrs. B.”
On Sunday morning, Gertie tapped against Hedy’s door at a little after eight o’clock. “Good morning, dear. I’m making breakfast for us. Something to set you up for the day before you head off with Betty.”
There was a grunt from the other side of the door.
“It will be ready in about half an hour.”
Half an hour came and went, and Hedy failed to appear. Gertie stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Breakfast time!” she cried with barely masked impatience.
A minute or so later she heard Hedy stomping down the stairs. She was wearing her dressing gown and a scowl as she sat down at the table. Gertie placed the plate in front of her.
“Kippers,” she said. “They’re an English delicacy.”
Hedy stared at the plate in bewilderment. “I am not hungry,” she muttered.
“You have to eat,” said Gertie. “And we can’t waste food.”
She picked up her knife and fork and began to attack the rubbery fish. As she placed a forkful into her mouth, her eyes widened. She’d forgotten how horribly bony they were. It was as if her mouth were full of smoked shoe leather.
“Excuse me,” she said, rising to her feet and hurrying from the room. When she returned, Hedy’s plate was empty, and Hemingway was looking very pleased with himself.
“Delicious,” said Hedy with an innocent expression.
“I tried to feed her kippers, Charles,” she wailed into the telephone after Hedy had left. “I don’t even like kippers. What is wrong with me?”