She broke off, her voice drowned out by the siren, its mournful wail rising up over the East End.
‘Leave now, Joyce, and get back to Swiss Cottage.’
Harry grabbed her hand and together they wove through the crowds and back outside, hurrying across what had once been the school playground.
As they moved away from the building, Harry stopped and looked back. His eyes traced up a jagged crack that sliced up two floors of brickwork to the reinforced concrete roof above.
‘The building’s already badly bomb-damaged,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s not safe!’
Joyce tugged him away, pulling him back in the direction of the library van again, where Adela was just stamping out the last book.
‘That’s it, sweetie,’ she said to a small girl, helping her out of the van as she did. ‘You go and find your mummy. Hurry now.’
The child ran back in the direction of the school, proudly clutchingBlack Beautyin her hand. The warden beckoned her in quickly before closing the door.
The three of them stared back at the school in silence. Funny how the newspapers never showed this side of the Blitz, Joyce thought. No mention of the woeful conditions of some of the filthy, overcrowded shelters, barely able to withstand the onslaught of high-explosive bombs, just stage-managed photos of ‘plucky Cockneys taking it’.
‘You’re right, Harry, this is inhumane,’ Joyce said quietly.
‘We need actions, not words,’ Harry growled.
He kissed Joyce’s cheek and she wanted to gather him in her arms, beg him to come with her to safety in the library van, but she’d have better luck talking the moon out of the sky.
‘Please stay safe,’ she whispered as he made sure she was buckled up tight, before shutting the van door.
Adela started the engine and they drove in silence, the siren boring through their thoughts. Back at Swiss Cottage, Adelaeased the car into the van’s underground parking space and sat motionless, her hands on the steering wheel.
‘Adela?’ Joyce asked, confused. ‘Come on, my love, we need to shake a leg... Adela?’
To her surprise, she realised Adela was crying.
She made no effort to brush her tears away, just sat, fingers clamped round the wheel, as if she was trying to steady herself to say something.
‘I know,’ Joyce soothed. ‘It’s very upsetting seeing those poor mothers trapped there. Can you imagine having a baby in the Blitz?’
A strange noise erupted out of Adela, and her head rested on the wheel.
‘Adela, what on earth is wrong?’
Adela lifted her head and turned slowly to face Joyce.
‘I don’t have to imagine... Soon enough, I too will be a mother.’
Her face blanched in fear.
‘My family... the shame will kill them. They still see me as a baby!’
13
Dorotha
Occupied Poland, April 1943
‘Libertatem per Lectio’
Bulletin No. 99
Their names are Ava and Gabriele Kaminski. They are thirty-five and eight years of age and are originally from Lódz. The father, Mordechai, was taken in the round-ups. I found them when I was searching for the books. We’re sharing our rations with them. Whatever happens to us, I want people to know their names. How many Jews are in hiding in Nazi-occupied territories, tucked away bored and terrified in attics, basements and other oppressive hidey-holes?
