Gertie smiled. “I cannot.”
Thomas disappeared with the rest of the books. “That’s the last of them, Mr. Picket,” he called. “Jolly good job.” He climbed down the ladder, straightened his polka-dot bow tie, and smoothed his dusty white hair. “Now then, Gertie. You said you wanted my help. Let’s discuss it over tea, shall we? Mrs. Havers baked one of her heavenly malt loaves yesterday.”
Gertie brought her uncle up to date on developments with Hedy and explained how she longed to help this girl. She omitted to mention her lingering hope of retiring and that if she identified a suitable situation for Hedy and her family, this might yet be possible. Perhaps this was because she was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine this herself. It was a ship on the horizon, moving further into the distance with every day that passed.
Thomas Arnold listened carefully, his fingers steepled together, face grim with concentration. Dickens strolled across his path, and he plucked him onto his lap, absentmindedly stroking the cat’s rich orange fur as Gertie spoke.
“So you see, I made a list of people I thought I could ask for help, and you were at the top of it.”
“I’m sorry I can’t offer refuge here,” said Uncle Thomas. “I don’t have the space, but I could perhaps offer the brother a position in the bookshop. He’s studying to be an architect, you say?”
Gertie nodded. “That would be wonderful. Any ideas who might be able to help Hedy’s parents?”
Uncle Thomas chewed the inside of his lip for a moment before waggling a finger. “Let me make a telephone call.” He checked for a number before dialing. “Dicky Rose, please,” he said. Gertie stared in surprise as her uncle embarked on a long, friendly conversation with one of the richest men in the country. “Dicky? Tom Arnold. I need to ask you a favor, old boy.”
Half an hour later, Gertie felt like somersaulting with joy as her uncle secured posts as a gardener and seamstress for Hedy’s parents, as well as a cottage on Rose’s estate. “Her father is a music teacher, Uncle Thomas,” she said. “I’m not sure how much experience he has of gardening.”
Thomas shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll adapt. Dicky won’t mind. He’s already taken in a group of boys. He and his wife are happy to help.”
She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “I knew you were the one to ask.”
He kissed her hand as he led her to the door. “It’s good to see you still fighting, Gertie.”
Yes, she thought as she hurried home to give Hedy the good news. It feels good too.
As summer took hold, the world held its breath. People did their best to continue as normal, to picnic in the park or take day trips to the seaside, but a cloud of toxic uncertainty hung over Europe. No one could be sure what Hitler would do next.
Gertie and Hedy tried to steer an even path through the doubt. Their plan was afoot. Once her uncle had arranged positions for Hedy’s family, Gertie turned her attention to ensuring that their paperwork was in order. She anticipated their biggest hurdle would be gaining permits from the Nazis. As it transpired, making three Jews someone else’s problem was positively encouraged provided they left all their money in the German banks. As Else Fischer wrote in her letter delivering the good news, “We do not care if they take the clothes from our backs as long as we can be reunited with our daughter.” Hedy translated the words for Gertie with tears in her eyes.
It was something of a surprise, therefore, that the main obstacle in securing passage for the Fischer family came from the British government. The reply to Gertie’s letter was curt, to say the least.
“We regret to inform that we are unable to assist in your request.”
“We’ll see about that,” she told Hemingway with a frown.
Gertie dusted off her best suit, a scratchy damson-colored affair that was too hot for the time of year but seemed like the correct kind of armor when dealing with officialdom. She also wore her mother’s cameo brooch for courage. Gertie didn’t mention the letter or her plan to Hedy. This felt personal. It was as if her principles were being challenged and Gertie was the only one who could stand up for them.
She left Betty in charge of the bookshop, much to Miss Snipp’s annoyance, and caught the train to London. Gertie checked the address on the letter, swallowing down her nerves as she made the short walk to the government offices. The imposing white building shone in the morning sunshine, giving off an air of imperial confidence with its Union Jack flag fluttering in the breeze. Gertie took a deep breath as she pushed open the glossy black door.
The receptionist sat at a heavy oak desk flanked on all sides by dark wood-paneled walls, which gave the hall a suffocating atmosphere. She peered at Gertie over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles. “May I help you?”
Gertie cleared her throat. “I’d like to see Mr. Wiggins, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I have a letter.” She held it out for the woman to see.
The receptionist frowned. “It clearly states that Mr. Wiggins is unable to help you.”
“Please,” said Gertie. “I’m trying to unite a Jewish girl with her family.”
The woman’s face softened slightly. “Give me a moment.” Gertie’s spirits rose as she disappeared into Mr. Wiggins’s office. She reappeared moments later. “I’m sorry. He’s very busy this morning.”
Gertie glanced over toward the office. The door was ajar. Something stirred inside her. Deeds not words, Gertie. She dashed forward before she had a chance to change her mind.
“You can’t go in there,” called the woman after her.
But Gertie had already slipped through the gap and pulled the door shut behind her.
“What is the meaning of this?” cried the man behind the desk.
Gertie faltered. Now that she had taken action, she wasn’t quite sure what to do next. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I had to come. I sent you a letter about a Jewish girl who is staying with me. Her family is trying to leave Germany. They have visas and positions here. All they need is the British government’s permission.”
“Mr. Wiggins? Are you all right in there?” called the receptionist, rattling at the door. “Should I call the police?”
Mr. Wiggins looked Gertie up and down before replying. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Meredith.” He turned to Gertie. “Please. Take a seat.”
She did as he asked. Mr. Wiggins had the pale and weary appearance of a man who couldn’t quite believe the hand life had dealt him. He gestured toward a pile of documents that reached the height of his shoulder. “Do you know what these are?”
Gertie thought the question unusual but decided it best to answer honestly. “No.”
“They are applications from Jewish families and individuals requesting to come to Britain.”
“I see.”
“And these have arrived only today.”
“But surely—” began Gertie before Mr. Wiggins cut her off with a raised hand.
“And there will be the same number or possibly more tomorrow. And the day after. And so on.”