Hugh thanked Beatrice warmly, then helped Young roll up cord on the way back to the van. “Wasn’t I indeed as good as gold?” Hugh asked Young with a grin.
“Blindingly so.”
Out on the dusky street, Hugh passed the microphone andheadphones to Gerald MacTavish in the back of the van. Not a gripping broadcast but full of information for the public good. No one at the Ministry of Information would complain, not even his old family friend, Albert Ridley.
“Excellent work, men,” Hugh said to the crew. “Thank you.”
“Good night.” Young shut the door and drove away.
“Excuse me, Mr. Collingwood.” A woman stood behind him—the attractive blonde with the light accent. She wore a blue mackintosh and a blue helmet printed withWfor warden.
“Yes. Mrs. Martens, was it?”
“Yes, sir.” She glanced around him toward the door of the post, then across the street where Miss Sharma stood, then back to Hugh. “Would you please tell my story on the BBC?”
“Your story?” The lady would earn Beatrice’s ire if she were seen talking to Hugh, so he angled his body to block the view from the door. “What would that story be?”
Her hands twisted around her darkened torch. “When I was fleeing the Netherlands in May, I was separated from my three-year-old son. He is probably in London. If you were to broadcast about him, someone might recognize him.”
Hugh’s chest collapsed at the anguish in the young mother’s eyes, dim though they were in the twilight. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martens. What an ordeal this must be for your family.”
“His name is Theodoor—Theo for short. He has light blond hair and bright blue eyes, and on his right hand he has no fingers.”
Hugh’s breath lodged in his throat. “You talk about it so—openly.”
She glanced down at her torch, twisting and twisting. “In Dutch, we have a word—rechtdoorzee. It translates as ‘right through the sea’—direct and straightforward. I must be rechtdoorzee to find my son. There are many little blond boys in England, but very few with a hand like his. If you tell about him on the BBC, I may find him.”
The BBC had a policy not to broadcast about missing persons. But ideas swarmed in Hugh’s head, buzzing, and all the bees lined up. During the exodus from France and the Low Countries, millions had fled in great chaos. How many families had become separated? He could broadcast that story—and include the story of Theo Martens.
Mrs. Martens lifted a jaw too sharp to be beautiful but with dignity that was beauty itself. “Besides, I am not ashamed of my son. Far from it. His hand is ... sweet.” Her voice trembled.
She was a brave woman, Mrs. Martens, and a loving mother.
Hugh pulled out his notepad and found a bit of space. “I would like to tell your story, but I must receive approval from my editor. May I please have your address and telephone number, if you have one? If I receive approval, I’ll ring.”
A smile transformed her face from attractive to lovely. “Thank you. I’d be forever grateful.” She gave her address and telephone number, and he bid her goodbye.
“Rechtdoorzee,” Hugh whispered as he walked home on the blacked-out streets. The English prized circumspection above directness, propriety above openness.
Hugh’s infirmity was invisible, one he could hide most days.
What if he were rechtdoorzee about it?
He knew full well what would happen. He’d be told he couldn’t do this and shouldn’t do that and was he feeling quite well? Would he like to sit down? Take a rest?
No, he wouldn’t.
The good stories and exciting stories would no longer come his way.
If he plunged right into the sea, he’d drown.
5
TUESDAY, JULY16, 1940
Twenty-seven wasn’t a good number after all.
Aleida had such high hopes when she’d written it in her notebook with “BBC” at the top of the page.
