“We were young, ignorant,” John exploded. “We didn’t know what was happening in Germany. We didn’t know anything about anything, for that matter.”
“Look, John,” said Simon, “here’s what is happening—when the government goes to war, it commits mass murder on a huge scale. Our side, their side. It’s all murder.”
John countered, “In a world with madmen like Hitler, war’s most definitely inevitable. Don’t you think he must have laughed when he heard about King and Country? Realized that without a strong military, England would be ripe for the taking? And look at us now. Germans have invaded Paris, we were beaten at Dunkirk and barely escaped, now they’re poised to invade at any moment.…”
“No, no, no!” Simon said, slamming a fist down on the mantel. “It’s inevitable because the government knows it has a ready supply of young men, willing to go out and die for their country—and who won’t ask questions. Well, I asked questions! I’m still asking questions! I’m disgusted with past wars for King and Country, disgusted with England’s treatment of Ireland, of India, of Palestine—and in my opinion, the jury’s still out on this war, too.”
“The IRA’s a bunch of murderers and thugs,” John said through clenched teeth. “And anyone who suggests otherwise is a traitor.”
Maggie stood up. “Stop it!” she cried, unable to take any more. “Stop it! Both of you!” she said, hands on hips. “To fight or not to fight? We’re all in this war. As John says, invasion is imminent. I really don’t see how political parties matter anymore. When we’ve won this war—and I do believe we will—there’ll be time enough for philosophical arguments and debates. Until then, we’re all in England, we’re all in the same boat, we’ve all got a common enemy, and, and—Nigel and Chuck are getting married. Now, please, for King and Country, just shut up!”
As everyone took a moment to regroup, David selected the record Me and My Girl. He put it on the phonograph, starting the turntable and carefully placing the needle in the groove. As it popped and crackled, beginning “The Lambeth Walk,” he said, “I don’t suppose there’s any more cake?”
THIRTEEN
AND THEN, FINALLY, after months of anticipation and dread, the Luftwaffe attacked London.
Maggie was making copies of the P.M.’s letters in the Annexe office with Mrs. Tinsley and Miss Stewart when the air-raid siren began its low wail. This was no drill.
As they made their way down to the protected underground War Rooms, they could hear the roar of the aircraft engines. Ours? Theirs? Maggie thought. She threw open a window to look. There were hundreds—thousands, it seemed—of planes circling overhead, black insects against the sky, leaving silvery vapor trails against the blood-red clouds, darkening in the setting sun.
“Air raid, please. Air raid, please,” they heard Mr. Rance, the overseer of the War Rooms, call. It didn’t surprise Maggie that at a time like this he was using the word please. At No. 10, one said please for everything. She could just as easily imagine him saying, “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, please. Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, please.”
As they heard the antiaircraft guns rumble and saw the aircraft break formation to dive into dogfights, Miss Stewart placed her hand gently on Maggie’s shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do by watching, my dear.”
Maggie nodded, yet she was unable to tear her eyes away from the spectacle in the sky, frozen with fear, fascination, admiration, and anger.
“Come along, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley said, leading the way downstairs.
Maggie took a moment to scoop Nelson up from on top of her desk to take him with them. “Coming.”
Below, an argument was brewing.
“I shall,” the P.M. stated emphatically. “I shall go up and watch. It’s my city, damn it. And you”—he waggled his finger at General Ismay—“shan’t stop me.”
“Sir,” General Ismay began, yet again, “as your adviser, I hardly think it prudent—”
“ ‘Prudent’? ‘Prudent’?” Churchill spluttered. “We’re at war, man. There’s nothing prudent about it.”
General Ismay sighed. “Then please, sir. Only for a few moments.”
Mr. Churchill looked around at the gathered staff. “Who’s in?” he said with his cherubic smile, as though inviting them to cocktails.
Maggie raised her hand. John and David raised theirs. The senior staff—General Ismay, Mr. Attlee, and Mr. Eden—decided to go as well. The P.M.’s ever-present shadow, Detective Inspector Walter Thompson, followed the P.M. with a grim face.