She told him about her life in London, the Blitz, the ever-present threat of annihilation. But at least they were prepared. They had dug themselves in, the English defences were ready, and however scared they were, they were prepared. No-one would be caught unawares. Did he realise that there were hundreds of thousands of people out there who would be caught unawares, and what that would mean? Women of Emma’s age, with children, husbands, parents, they would burn to ashes. For once, Kate spoke in capital letters. She kept bringing Emma into it, she was sure that Emma knew what she was doing when she confided in her father. Emma had counted on Oscar to know what to do about the terrible secret. She was safe, she had the protection of Carl’s boss and of the ministry. That was true, wasn’t it? Emma would be alright. He had to do something, immediately, there was no time to lose. Her voice as she said these things was oddly quiet. Oscar did not interrupt, much as he wished to. The numbness that had come over him seemed to increase during her appeal. Because that was what it was: an appeal, on the brink of an accusation – the way she looked at him and did not see, the way she clung to his arm and did not feel. There was no judge, but there was a verdict.
“We don’t trust him, Verschuur” – anything of that provenance would be brushed aside. It was wasted on Morton.
Every fibre of his being rebelled against agreeing with Kate. Clearly, she needed to put things in perspective, he was sufficiently familiar with the Gestapo to know how they inflated the flimsiest evidence into a crime.
Yet he admired her for her outright rejection of violence and her ability to empathise with nameless Russians. For her strength of character in putting her daughter in the balance. She was discounting Emma, yet she could not abide the thought of other people’s daughters losing their lives. She did not know what she was saying.
As he stood beside her, his impulse was to cover her mouth with his hand, out of a tenderness he had not felt for a long time. He wanted to interrupt, prevent her voice from reaching his ears, shield Emma from her mother’s powers of persuasion. Everything she was saying was true. Kate, you are right. But what you want is impossible. They won’t listen, it would all be for nothing. That operation will go ahead regardless, but Emma would pay the price, believe me, I know what I’m saying. There’s no stopping them, Kate, we can’t save those millions of people. You can’t save people who don’t save themselves.
When she had said her piece she looked away, waiting for his answer.
It was still daylight when they entered the Lyons Corner House. The sun had set, leaving a swathe of pink in the dark blue sky, while the barrage balloons resembled party decorations on a distant ceiling. An attack by the Luftwaffe could not have been further from people’s minds. Summer filled the streets. Blackout time was not for a while yet, and from the open windows wafted the sound of voices and radio music. The illusion of a weekday like any other, the way things used to be.
Kate and Oscar said little. After their conversation on the balcony, silence had ensued. Their disagreement was total. Kate had wept, something she very rarely did, and after a long pause Oscar reiterated all he had said before. Emma stood like a ghost between them. Her name was the linchpin of their argument.
Emblazoned in his memory was the afternoon which had haunted him for so long, and which now came rushing back. It was late August, and they were taking Emma to stay with her grandparents in Leeuwarden. Kate and he were to be posted to Washington for a minimum of four years. Emma was twelve, and of an age to start secondary education. Until then she had accompanied them on various postings, which meant contending with a succession of schools. To continue in this way would not be fair on her, they decided, whereupon Kate’s parents had promptly offered to have their granddaughter live with them.
Emma had kept her eyes on him, rather than on her mother. Wasn’t he the one who had promised her over and over that he would take her with him wherever he went, even to the ends of the earth?
A child’s wish list, a father’s little white lie.
Kate had hugged her mutely, while her parents hovered in the background, equally tight-lipped. Oscar had stood there alone, facing the jury, saying they would be back on leave in a year’s time, wanting to explain once more the inexplicable.
Emma had not shed a tear, nor had she waved back when he waved his hat at her from the far end of her grandparents’ hallway. She had not even walked them to the door. Her refusal to return his wave had been the bitterest regret. That empty moment, the irrevocable rift between them.
The Lyons Corner House was quite crowded, but they managed to find a vacant table. The evening’s fare was chalked up on an old blackboard. London appeared to have been put on rations.
