FRIDAY, JANUARY31, 1941
On her way to work, Aleida passed vacant lots cleared of rubble. In January, the Luftwaffe had bombed London only a few times, and the city had repaired and rebuilt.
She adjusted the heavy satchel over her shoulder. She almost missed the regularity of nightly raids. Now she never knew when the bombers would come, which seemed more disconcerting.
At a newsstand, headlines proclaimed Australian troops had taken the city of Derna in Libya as the Allies drove the Italians westward.
Poor Hugh. His latest broadcasts lacked his usual luster. Much of his charm came from interacting with others in interviews, and his worry about the murder case and his position at the BBC further dimmed his glow.
Aleida sighed and entered the Ministry of Health.
In the office, Nilima Sharma rushed over, her dark eyes shining at the satchel. “Do you have it?”
At the desk, Aleida opened the satchel and pulled out her report on the evacuees, which had taken several weeks to type.
“Oh my.” Nilima gasped and thumbed the edges. “It must be a hundred pages.”
One hundred twenty-four. “I summarized hundreds of interviews and organized them by the types of problems faced by the children, the foster families, and the billeting officers.” She turned for Miss Granville’s office.
“You’re not giving it to Granny, are you?” Nilima asked in a fierce whisper.
“This is her responsibility.” Aleida gave her colleague a reassuring smile. “I know she’ll put this out for scrap, but I did make a carbon copy.”
“Don’t give it to her.” Nilima grasped Aleida’s forearm. “Take it to Armbruster.”
“Mr. Armbruster?” Miss Granville’s superior?
“He has a heart.” Dark eyes gleamed like onyx. “He was working on a bill to aid the refugees, with that MP who was murdered.”
“Elliott Hastings?” Aleida’s voice came out thin.
“That’s him. Armbruster cares about the children—the poor, the foreigners, the bedwetters—all of them. Granny cares only about the appearance of caring. Give the report to Armbruster. He’ll force Granny to act on it.”
The door beckoned, leading to the corridor, to Mr. Armbruster’s office, to an appreciative audience for her report. Yet it felt like Gil “ratting” on Hugh. She’d compiled the report for Miss Granville, under her authority.
Aleida eased Nilima’s hand off her arm with an understanding look. “I won’t bypass her. It wouldn’t be fair or proper.”
Nilima whirled away. “Propriety!”
The door to the office stood ajar, and Miss Granville’s voicerose through the gap. “You shut down those communist papers. Why can’t you do something about this?” Her gaze snapped to Aleida, and she motioned her in.
A man’s voice pleaded over the line.
“I’ll ring you back,” Miss Granville said, crisp and calm. “Good day.”
Aleida offered a little smile. “Not fond of communists?”
Miss Granville blinked rapidly. “Last summer we locked up the fascists, and rightly so. But the communists are just as evil a threat. They claim the British establishment is a greater danger than Nazi Germany. They undermine our war effort at every turn. Communism is a beastly foreign idea. You aren’t a communist, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” Aleida set her report on the desk. “Here is my report on the conditions faced by the evacuees.”
Red lips went taut. “I told you not to write that report.”
“I finish what I start. We agreed I would interview evacuees and foster families and would compile the information. I’ve done so. I do confess I continued my interviews after you asked me to stop.”
“Asked?” Miss Granville’s brown eyes burned. “I ordered you to cease.”
Aleida smoothed the top page. “It was incomplete. The stories need to be recorded. Most of the children are in good situations, but those who aren’t—those are the stories that return to London and cause parents to keep their children in town, in danger.”
