There was a tone to his voice that suggested he knew something. “Only that they’re still in Theresienstadt in Czechoslovakia after they were moved there last year. Why?”
He cleared his throat. “No reason. There are just a great number of rumors flying around at the moment.”
“What rumors?”
“Only that, Gertie. Rumors. I wouldn’t want to worry you or Hedy unnecessarily. Especially Hedy.”
Gertie sighed. “Oh, Charles. This blasted war. When will it end?”
“I think the bigger question isn’t when but how?”
Now, all Gertie could do was offer Hedy a reassuring smile. “I don’t think you should worry. This proves that your family is well and able to send you messages.”
“But where are they going?”
“I wish I knew, but war makes everything uncertain.”
Huge tears formed in Hedy’s eyes. “I want my mother, Gertie. I miss her so much.”
Gertie wrapped her arms around Hedy as she sobbed. She remembered when Hedy had first arrived, how reticent she’d been to offer an embrace, and yet now, it felt like the most natural action in the world. Hemingway appeared by her side, resting his great soft head on Hedy’s lap.
“I know you do, my dear,” said Gertie. “I know. I wish I could wave my magic wand and bring them all here. Your lovely mama, your dear papa, your handsome brother.”
“And Mischa?” said Hedy, stroking Hemingway’s ears.
“Oh, of course Mischa. She would be guest of honor.”
“You would like my family.”
Gertie reached over to brush away Hedy’s tears. “I feel as if I know them already from everything you’ve told me.”
“Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”
Gertie’s mind churned as she searched for the right words. “It’s my dearest wish that you will. All we can do is hope and pray.”
“I feel useless,” said Hedy. “What can we do to bring an end to all this if we’re not allowed to fight?”
Hedy had a point, and it frustrated Gertie to the core. They were urged to “Dig for Victory,” save for the war effort, “Keep Mum,” but what good would that do if the war rumbled on much longer?
“I think that if Margery Fortescue were running the show, we’d have the war done and dusted by teatime.”
“Maybe we should join forces.”
Gertie raised her eyebrows. “Maybe we should.”
Margery Fortescue was proving to be something of a thorn in Gertie’s side. It was clear that she deemed the bookshop to be small potatoes in the war effort. One day, an air raid caused their paths to collide.
“Could Mrs. Fortescue and her volunteers use your shelter please, Mrs. Bingham?” called Gerald from the bookshop doorway, as the siren sounded. “Theirs isn’t properly set up yet.”
“And whose fault is that, eh, Mr. Travers?” said Margery, sweeping through the door, scowling at the books as if they had caused her great offense. “This is highly irregular, but I suppose it will do. Come along, ladies. Follow me.” She led them toward the back of the shop. Gerald gave Gertie a wincing smile before he left.
“Yes, it’s this way,” said Gertie, grudgingly impressed by this woman’s ability to take charge of every situation she faced.
“Ooh, it’s cozy in here,” said Emily Farthing, one of Margery’s champion knitters, as they all gathered in the shelter and Gertie closed the door.
“Usually we discuss a title from our book club during air raids,” said Gertie. “This month’s book is The Code of the Woosters, by P. G. Wodehouse. Has anyone read it?”
“Usually, we sing songs to rally our spirits during air raids,” countered Margery.
“I’ve r-r-read it, Mrs. B-B-Bingham,” said a voice from the corner of the shelter. Margery glared at the voice.
“Mr. Sparrow,” said Gertie, throwing a relieved glance toward Hedy. “I didn’t realize you were here. Would you like to tell us a little bit about it?”
Archibald looked as if he’d rather run out into the street and take his chances against one of Hitler’s Messerschmitts than speak before this group of women, particularly Margery. She was regarding him with the flared-nostril disdain of a person who has recently encountered an unpleasant odor. “Um, well, I’m not sure . . .”
Another voice spoke up. “It all begins when Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Dahlia instructs him to dupe an antiques dealer into selling her an eighteenth-century cow creamer. However, when Bertie arrives at the shop, he discovers that Sir Watkyn Bassett, a local magistrate, is there with Roderick Spode, the fascist leader of the Saviours of Britain. Sir Watkyn has used trickery to obtain the creamer for himself. Aunt Dahlia then sends Bertie to the Bassetts’ house to steal the creamer. Things get jolly complicated when Bertie’s pal Gussie Fink-Nottle asks him for help in the matter of his forthcoming marriage to Sir Watkyn’s daughter, Madeline. However, due to various misunderstandings, Madeline thinks Gussie is being unfaithful and decides she loves Bertie instead. In the meantime, Aunt Dahlia steals the creamer and insists that Bertie hide it at his flat. Sir Watkyn wants to have Bertie imprisoned for theft, but luckily Bertie knows that Roderick Spode secretly runs a ladies’ underwear shop called Eulalie Soeurs and persuades him to take the blame, otherwise Bertie will discredit him by revealing this information to his fascist followers. In the end, Bertie’s butler, the ever-faithful Jeeves, helps to rescue Bertie from being engaged by mistake, and they embark on a cruise of Europe.”
Only the thrum and drone of the overhead planes could be heard as everyone turned in amazement toward Cynthia Fortescue, whose cheeks were burning scarlet and who was a little out of breath after this plot summation. “Gosh,” said Archibald.
“Bravo,” said Gertie, exchanging a smile with Hedy.
“Put me down for a copy, Mrs. Bingham,” said Emily. “You’ll have one too, won’t you, Mrs. Wise? You love a caper.”
The woman next to her nodded. “I do, dearie. This Bertie Wooster sounds like a good lad.”
“He’s a bit of a dolt,” said Cynthia, sitting up taller in her seat. “But the real hero is Jeeves. He’s jolly clever and makes sure Bertie doesn’t get into too many scrapes.”
“What about Roderick Spode?” asked Hedy. “What did you think of him?”
“It’s a b-b-brilliant piece of p-p-political satire by Wodehouse,” said Archibald, directing his comment to the far wall. “To p-p-pillory fascism makes it less frightening somehow.”
“And gives one courage to fight it too,” said Cynthia, nodding.
Archibald risked a glance in Cynthia’s direction. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Only Margery remained tight-lipped during this entire conversation, occasionally huffing with impatience like an old steam engine. When the all clear sounded, she leapt to her feet. “Right, come along, ladies. That’s enough time wasted. Thank you for your shelter, Mrs. Bingham.” She marched back out through the shop, throwing one final comment over her shoulder before she left. “Remember, we fight for victory, we save for victory, we dig for victory. We do not read for victory.”