Under a cloudy sky, Hugh stood by the monument in his tailored black overcoat, a gray homburg, and a big smile.
Her heart made a little hop in her chest, and she met him halfway.
Hugh nodded over her shoulder. “Jouveau’s right behind you.”
Aleida turned and greeted François Jouveau. “Thank you for taking me to the hotel. If there’s any chance someone’s seen my son—”
“Think nothing of it.” Jouveau waved one hand. “It was Collie’s idea.”
“But you have the connections in the refugee community,” Hugh said. “Come. It’s only a few streets away.”
They headed along the Strand, past stately buildings of cool gray stone. Aleida counted her steps. Stopped herself. Countingwould neither bring Theo to her, nor would failing to count keep him from her.
But her steps lengthened and quickened.
“Most of the refugees at the Strand Palace Hotel are French.” Jouveau took a drag on a cigarette. “But Dutch refugees stay there too. Belgian, Czech, Polish. I visit when I can. The refugees are often overlooked now that tens of thousands of British subjects have lost their homes in the Blitz.”
“Nationality shouldn’t matter. British, foreigners—they’ve all lost their homes due to the Nazis.” Hugh’s mouth shifted to one side. “If only I could tell the story of the refugees, but it isn’t the story for the time.”
Aleida passed the remains of a building. Three walls reached high, jagged along the tops, but the insides poured out toward the street, a heap of stone and glass and twisted bits of furniture.
The Blitz was the story for the time, the only story, the only part of life for most.
Every night the bombers came. Every night, hundreds of buildings were destroyed. Every night, hundreds of people died.
Aleida had become accustomed to snatching sleep in the damp Anderson shelter in the garden, to changing Underground routes due to bomb damage, to making do with interrupted electricity and gas.
The Germans bombed in the hopes of demolishing morale so the people would rise up and force the government to sue for peace.
Hitler didn’t know these people, who passed Aleida with purposeful strides, their chins high, their clothes neat.
“Fletcher would never let you tell the refugees’ stories,” Jouveau said with a sniff. “He’s become Ridley’s pet dog.”
“Fletcher?” Hugh gaped at his friend. “He rather dislikes Ridley.”
“And Ridley rather dislikes me.” Jouveau leaned closer to Aleida. “That means he despises me.”
Aleida gave him an understanding nod. “These English never say what they mean.”
They crossed a street, and Jouveau led the way. “Ridley despises me, because I criticize the British government.”
“You do on occasion,” Hugh said. “But overall, you’ve been most appreciative, and your broadcasts to France promote the Allied cause. You encourage resistance and support de Gaulle and the Free French.”
Jouveau brandished his cigarette. “All of which Ridley forgets the instant I breathe a critical word. Then he yells at Fletcher.”
“Fletcher?” Hugh frowned. “He isn’t your editor.”
“Ah, but my actual editor ignores Ridley, so Ridley yells at Fletcher and Fletcher yells at me. Not only is Fletcher angry at my transgressions, but he’s angry that Ridley unjustly blames him for my actions and causes trouble for him at the Ministry of Information.”
Aleida hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “That isn’t fair.”
“I care not.” Smoke plumed alongside Jouveau’s cheek. “My editor is pleased with my stories, de Gaulle is pleased, the French people are pleased, and the Germans hate me. So I am pleased.”
“Perhaps I could speak to Ridley.” Hugh gave his head a sharp shake. “No, he wouldn’t listen. He has no respect for me.”
“And I have no respect for him,” Jouveau said. “Did I tell you Ridley accused me of flirting with his wife at a reception, because I made her smile? Meanwhile, he was making eyes with the daughter of an MP.”
A group of businessmen approached, and Hugh motioned for Aleida to precede him. “If we Englishmen learned how to make ladies smile, we’d be less suspicious of you Frenchmen.”
