“It’s started,” murmured Elizabeth.
“You should get home,” said Gertie.
“Goodbye, Gertie Bingham and Hedy Fischer,” called Billy over his shoulder as Elizabeth took his hand. “Remember, don’t be afraid of the Woozles. I’ll come and help you with the book club soon.”
Hedy and Gertie stood for a moment staring back toward London and the horror left by the first raid. “I’m scared, Gertie,” whispered Hedy.
Gertie rested an arm against hers. “So am I, dear.”
“I worry about Sam and Barnaby.”
“I know.” Gertie glanced back toward the bookshop. “All we can do is offer an escape to ourselves and one another.”
Hedy nodded.
“Come on. Let’s find Betty and go home.”
Hedy and Gertie squinted in the half-light of the bookshop as they walked back inside. Betty was standing stock-still in the doorway to the shelter, her face pale and expressionless as if carved from alabaster. She seemed to be in a trance, staring straight past them. Hedy shot Gertie a worried look.
“Betty,” said Gertie, “are you all right?”
Betty turned her gaze on Gertie as if seeing her for the first time. “I spoke to Mother,” she said.
Gertie’s first thought was that something had happened to Sam. Hedy clearly thought the same, as she gave a shuddering gasp. “What is it?” she whispered.
Betty’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “He’s dead.”
“No,” cried Hedy, clutching a hand to her mouth.
“Who’s dead, Betty?” asked Gertie, resting a hand on Hedy’s arm.
“Barnaby,” said Betty, blinking at them both as tears formed in her eyes. “His father telephoned this afternoon. He was killed on Sunday. Barnaby is dead.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Gertie as she and Hedy rushed forward to fold her into a sobbing embrace.
And so it begins, thought Gertie as she held the girls tight in a fruitless attempt to comfort and console. The next round of senseless deaths. Another generation who will mourn endlessly for the ones who never came home, who never got to live the lives they yearned for. How can this be happening again, and when will it end?
Chapter 11
Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.
—Charles Dickens, Sketches by Boz
“May I speak with Miss Godwin, please?”
Gertie glanced up from the counter to see Miss Pettigrew standing before her, a twist of worry creasing her elderly brow. She was a tiny lady with a delicate frame and an aroma of lavender that followed wherever she went. “I’m afraid that Miss Godwin doesn’t work here anymore, Miss Pettigrew.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Pettigrew, wringing her hands together. “That is sad.”
“It is. Very sad,” said Gertie, recalling the conversation when Betty had visited her at home a month after Barnaby’s death.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. B, but I’ve decided not to come back to the bookshop,” she said. “I’m taking a permanent ARP post, you see.”
“That’s brave of you, dear,” said Gertie.
Betty shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do, to be honest. I just know I can’t be in the bookshop. It reminds me too much of . . .” She clutched a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”
Gertie took her hand. “I felt the same after Harry died,” she said. “I shut up the shop for a month. I could barely put one foot in front of another, and I stopped reading for a good while.”
Betty gazed at her. “How do you feel now?”
Gertie considered the question. So much had changed over the past four years. “I miss him every day,” she said. “But the pain becomes bearable somehow. You will feel wretched for a while and always miss Barnaby, but you will find a way to go on. I promise.” They sat in silence for a while, listening to the tick of the hall clock, Hemingway snoring on the rug, Hedy humming to herself in the kitchen as she prepared tea for them. Life going on, carrying them with it. Onward. Ever onward.
“But whatever am I to do?” asked Miss Pettigrew, pulling Gertie back to the present.
“I can help you,” offered Gertie.
The woman shook her head. “It has to be Miss Godwin,” she said, her voice trembling as she spoke. “She’s the only one who knows, you see.”
“Knows what?” asked Gertie.
“Oh, Miss Pettigrew, there you are,” said Hedy, appearing from the back of the shop. “I was wondering when I might see you. Betty gave me your list.”
Miss Pettigrew stared at Hedy agog. “My Georgette Heyer list?”
Hedy nodded. “Precisely.” She fished a notebook from her pocket and leafed through the pages. “And I can see that the next book is The Spanish Bride. Would you like me to fetch you a copy?”
“Oh yes, please, dear. Thank you so much.”
“She reads everything Georgette Heyer writes,” explained Hedy later. “But she can never remember what she’s read, so Betty kept a list. She passed it on to me before she left.”
Gertie smiled. “Where would I be without you girls?”
It was now clear that Hitler had his deadly sights on London. The bombing was relentless. Every night and sometimes during the day, the planes appeared, littering the city and its outskirts with a carpet of fire. Gertie and Hedy got used to spending night after night in the shelter with the Chamberses and Hemingway. Gertie made it as cozy as possible. She would bring a flask of tea and whatever sweet treats her rations allowed that week. Elizabeth Chambers and Gertie would often play cards while Hedy read to Billy. The little boy always brought his sweets to share, although he saved the Fry’s Chocolate Creams for Hedy because he knew they were her favorite.
One night, Hedy was reading Billy’s latest children’s book club choice, Peter and Wendy, to him.
“I don’t ever want to grow up,” said Billy. “I want to be like Peter and stay a child with Mama and you and Gertie Bingham and Hemingway forever.”
“I know what you mean,” said Hedy, turning her gaze toward the framed photograph on the wooden shelf behind their heads. She had taken to always bringing the picture of her family into the shelter with her.
“Who are those people?” he asked.
“That’s my family. My mama, papa, brother, Arno, and dog, Mischa.” Hedy reached out a hand to Hemingway as she said this, receiving a friendly lick in reply.
“But I thought Gertie Bingham was your mother,” he said.
“No. She is my friend,” said Hedy.
Gertie’s heart sang. Friend. That’s exactly what they’d become.
“Why aren’t your family here with you?”
“Billy, don’t be a nosey parker,” warned his mother.
“It’s all right,” said Hedy. She turned to Billy. “My family is in Germany. We are Jewish, and Hitler does not like Jews.”
“He’s a bad man,” said Billy, frowning.
“Yes,” said Hedy. “He is a very bad man. My parents were able to send me to England to stay with Gertie.”
“Hooray for Gertie Bingham!” said Billy, throwing up his arms in celebration.