After Bas’s death, she’d tossed his suitcase by the roadside. But she’d found another suitcase in the boot of the car, small but extraordinarily heavy.
Full of gold.
Aleida didn’t need funds, but she did need advice. “I placed adverts in the newspapers, and I’ll keep doing so. Do you know which government ministries are concerned with refugees?”
“I’ll make a list,” Uncle James said.
Tante Margriet paused at the front door. “If you give us a photo of Theo, we could show it to—”
“I have no photos of him.”
Her aunt pressed a hand to her lips. “You poor dear, fleeing in such a hurry.”
“I have never had a photo of him. Sebastiaan wouldn’t allow it.”
Uncle James’s upper lip curled. “Wouldn’t allow? Why ever not?”
Aleida’s cheeks warmed. “He didn’t want anyone to know about Theo’s deformity.”
“Deformity?” Tante Margriet said. “We never heard—”
“I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. Theo was born without fingers on his right hand.”
“The poor little thing.” Tante Margriet’s face crumpled. “And to have a father...”
Uncle James jutted out his chin. “If I’d known, I would have wrung that scoundrel’s neck.”
“And no photos.” Tante Margriet gripped Aleida’s arm, and fresh pity swam in her watery eyes.
All Aleida had to remember her son was a suitcase full of tiny clothes. And Oli.
LONDON
WEDNESDAY, JUNE12, 1940
The curved façade of Broadcasting House rose in Art Deco splendor, its sleek lines broken by heaps of sandbags, its gleaming white walls painted drab gray for camouflage.
At the door, Hugh showed his pass to a guard wearing the khaki-and-black brassard of the new Local Defence Volunteers.
“Mr. Collingwood, sir.” The man’s wide face brightened. “I listened to your broadcasts from Dunkirk. My grandson was there.”
“I’m so sorry. I do hope—”
“He’s back, safe and sound.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Hugh smiled at the man and entered the semicircular lobby.
Over three hundred thousand troops had been rescued at Dunkirk, but thousands had been captured, and thousands would never come home.
Like Cecil.
The black armband around Hugh’s suit jacket cinched tight as he crossed the lobby to the staff lifts, set in walls of pinkish-gray limestone.
On the fourth floor, he made his way down the curving corridor, stopping to shake hands with friends along the way.
He entered the office of Norman Fletcher, his editor.
Fletcher’s secretary, Miss Peters, smiled at Hugh. “Collie! What did you bring me from France? Perfume? Chocolate?”
