Mr. Barkly Hurr scanned the article with eyebrows raised before turning to Gertie. “You are the woman who criticized our prime minister.”
Gertie looked him squarely in the eye. “I am. I think his decision to intern all foreign nationals is wrong. And the public agrees with me.”
“My dear Mrs. Bingham. In Germany, the public appears to be agreeing with a madman. That is not necessarily a measure of what is correct.”
“Yes, sir, but we live in a democracy, where we are permitted to speak freely, and surely that’s what we’re fighting for. The right of people to speak and act and live their lives regardless of race. That’s what this case is about. Hedy came to this country to escape persecution. What kind of nation are we if we imprison her because of her nationality? What kind of hypocrisy is that?” Gertie was aware that everyone in the courtroom was staring at her now. The silence was all-encompassing.
Mr. Barkly Hurr gave an approving nod before turning to Hedy. “And you, young lady,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to explain why you came to this country?”
Hedy’s neck flushed scarlet. Gertie gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and Hedy shot her a grateful look before she began to speak. Her voice was small, but there was something compelling about the way she spoke. The courtroom leaned in to listen.
“It started when Hitler came to power. I was still allowed to go to school for a while, but then everything changed. People shouted names at us. I still had non-Jewish friends, but their parents would not let them speak to me anymore. Some children followed us and threw stones. My mother was scared and would not let me go to school.” She swallowed. “Then came the night when they attacked the shops and burned the synagogues. My father was sent to Dachau, and my mother hid my brother because she was worried they would take him too. When my father came back, he spent every day searching for a way for us to leave Germany. He got me a place on a train, and I came here, to live with Mrs. Bingham.”
The magistrate gave a grave nod. “And what of your parents? And your brother? Do you know of their whereabouts?”
Hedy held his gaze for a moment before shaking her head and casting her eyes downward. Mr. Barkly Hurr glanced toward the heavens as if pleading for divine intervention before addressing the court. “I am satisfied on the strength of the evidence presented here today that Hedy Fischer should be released with immediate effect and reclassified as a Class C alien with no further need for internment or investigation.” He turned to Hedy and Gertie. “Young lady, I wish you well, and Mrs. Bingham, I think you should consider standing for public office.”
Gertie shared a smile with Hedy. “It’s kind of you to say, but I’m afraid we have a bookshop to run.”
Chapter 10
There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.
—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
It was Gerald who gave Gertie the idea. He stood at the counter one day, his usually languid demeanor seeming positively animated.
“That Grapes of Wrath. What a book,” he said, eyes glittering in wonder. “It whisked me away entirely. I haven’t enjoyed reading so much in years. Got anything else by Mr. Steinbeck?”
“Follow me, Mr. Travers,” said Gertie, leading him to the fiction shelves.
“I’ve been recommending it to all the other ARP wardens,” he told her, as she placed copies of Tortilla Flat and Of Mice and Men into his hands. “Just the ticket for when the raids start. Something to take our minds off it all.”
It was as if a hundred tiny fireworks exploded in Gertie’s mind. She rushed through to the stockroom where Hedy and Betty were unpacking boxes and Miss Snipp was frowning at a customer letter. “We need to relaunch the book club,” she said.
“Beg pardon, Mrs. B?” said Betty.
“The book club. Bingham’s Book Club.”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious,” said Miss Snipp, peering over the top of her spectacles. “But have you forgotten that there’s a war on? You can’t stage book clubs and social gatherings if people need to run to the air-raid shelter every five minutes.”
Gertie threw up her hands and laughed. “Miss Snipp, you’re a genius! That’s it. That’s what we’ll call it.”
Miss Snipp turned to Betty and Hedy. “She’s experiencing a rush of blood to the head, if I’m not mistaken. It happens to women of a certain age. We should fetch the smelling salts.”
Gertie ignored her. “The Air Raid Book Club,” she cried, sweeping her hand through the air as if writing the words in lights.
“Ooh,” said Betty. “I like that name. How would it work?”
Gertie considered the question. “Well, we select a book every month for people to read during the air raids, and we read it too so we can discuss it with anyone who uses the public shelter.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” said Betty.
Hedy nodded. “I like this very much, Gertie.”
“Good, because we three are going to choose the books between us, and then Miss Snipp can order a dozen or so to start with. Perhaps we could advertise it to our postal customers in case they’d like to take part?”
“As if we haven’t got enough to do already,” said Miss Snipp with a deep sigh. “You’ll be setting us up as a book wholesaler next.”
“I can help you, Miss Snipp,” said Hedy.
Miss Snipp’s hangdog expression lifted. “Thank you, dear,” she said, before firing a withering glance toward Gertie. “At least someone understands the burden imposed upon me.”
Gertie folded her lips to suppress amusement as she caught Hedy’s eye. She had been working in the bookshop for the past few months and had proved to be a godsend, not least in appeasing the unappeasable Miss Snipp. The customers loved her, and as Hedy was now too old to attend school and needed employment, it was the perfect fit. It also offered her some distraction from fretting about her family and a little normality after what Gertie now dismissed as “that internment nonsense.”
“So what should we choose for our first book?” asked Betty.
“Jane Eyre,” said Hedy, smiling at Gertie. “We have to start with Jane Eyre.”
September proved to be blissfully warm that year as if summer were offering a final burst of glory before the season turned. Gertie’s garden was in its zenith. Plant stems drooped heavy with fat red tomatoes, onion sets nudged their papery bulbs up through the earth, the branches of the trees bowed with russet-and-green apples. She made her way across the dewy grass to gather windfalls and pick any ripe fruit. In light of the fact that oats were unrationed, she and Hedy had become rather partial to porridge with a liberal sprinkling of fresh blackberries. Gertie paused to admire the marrow, snaking its prickly stalks across the Anderson shelter, which now felt like a permanent fixture in the garden. Charles had helped her build it just after the war started. They had spent a happy morning digging deep trenches so that they could bury the corrugated construction before placing makeshift bunk beds inside and covering the whole thing with soil.
“It looks like a mud igloo,” said Gertie, wiping her hands on a cloth as they stood back to admire their handiwork.