Funny how a bit of singing brings us together. There we were in our own little worlds, with our own problems, and then suddenly they seemed to dissolve, and we realized that it’s us here now, living through this, supporting each other.

That’s what counts.

Wednesday, 19th June, 1940

Everyone is sad after Dunkirk. Prim had a special choir practice with chanting. I sat beside Kitty and Mrs. Poultice. Her son died at Dunkirk. Her hand shook, so I gripped it tight.

Then we sang a Gregorian chant.

It was beautiful. I began to cry. It made me think of sitting shiva when Grandpa died and there was chanting every evening. Mrs. Poultice was crying, too.

The Nazis will be here soon. Mrs. Winthrop will hide me in the attic. When they came to Czechoslovakia, they found everyone who hid. They beat people in the street. They took that screaming woman into a house. Then she had blood and cuts, nearly dead.

I try not to think. But it is there.

I sang Kitty our mourning chant, the Kaddish. She wrote it down. Maybe we can sing it for Mrs. Poultice.

3 CHURCH ROW,

CHILBURY,

KENT.

Saturday, 22nd June, 1940

Dear Clara,

All is not yet lost, Clara, although I must confess we have had a few setbacks, the first entailing the Brigadier handing over the rest of the money. I met him at the outhouse today, fuming he was, and he told me he wasn’t giving it over.

“Why not?” I demanded, clutching my black bag, ready to give him a good clout.

“Because, my dear woman, you weren’t terribly good at covering your tracks, were you?” He was all controlled anger, waiting to snap like a tethered wolf. I felt my knees wobble but put up a good front.

“No one knows a thing. I did a clean job. Always do.”

“But what about the rumors?” He took a step closer, threateningly, so I took a step back right into the nettles. I could feel them pinch under my stockings. “Mrs. Tilling has been asking my wife questions about the birth. Couldn’t you have come up with something better than the mechanical ventilator? A different problem for the other child?”

“I don’t think you understand the difficulties of the task, Brigadier,” I said haughtily. “We made a deal, did we not? And I fulfilled my part. So I want my money.”

“I told you there’d be no money if you aroused suspicion. If that woman pieces it together because of your carelessness, then you’ll be paying me,” he snarled, his face coming up to mine like a fierce Army General. “With your blood.”

The smell of his breath at such short range made me fall over backward into the bracken, and he looked smugly on as I picked myself up and pulled off twigs. He’s a woman hater, that man. I can tell one anywhere. In my line of business you hear all sorts of stories from women, sometimes even the men themselves, thinking they’re so clever abusing some poor woman. I can tell the Brigadier thinks women are only good for serving men and having babies. And sex, of course. Doesn’t realize that we’re human, too. With heads and hearts and pockets to line.

“She’ll never catch on,” I said. “It’ll blow over, same as everything. You owe me that money, and I can raise a stink about it if you don’t give it to me.”

“You know better than to make a fuss about something that’ll put you in jail,” he said shrewdly, twiddling his mustache. “But I’ll make you a deal. If I hear no other gossip before the end of summer, you’ll have your money. Until that time, I expect no more stupid blunders, no more rumors, and no more notes—I’d have thought you’d know better than to pass letters between us. You could have had us both arrested within the hour if it had fallen into the wrong hands.”

He shoved my note, all scrunched up, into my hand and stormed off, leaving me picking bracken off my skirt and feeling relief about two things: first, that the Tilling woman didn’t know anything for sure, and second, that I’d just have to sit tight and the rest of the money would be making its way to me soon.

Not ideal, but better than only getting half.

My next problem was that stupid girl Elsie. She came to my house thinking she had one over me.

“I know your deal,” she said, striding in and lounging on my sofa like a sleek cat. “And I want my cut.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” I said, smiling with puzzlement.

“Your deal, swapping the babies. I know all about it.”

“What on earth are you talking about, my dear?”

“Don’t act all nonchalant with me. I saw you swap them. I know you did it and got paid.”

“Who could possibly have asked me to do that?” I said, all astonishment.

“The Brigadier. See, I’ve been thinking, putting it together. I’m not as stupid as I look, you know?”

“Believe me, Elsie. You look far cleverer than you really are.”

She ignored my comment, or didn’t understand it. “He gave you money so he could have his son, didn’t he? And I want my cut.”

“But you didn’t do anything,” I said, deciding to get down to business.

“I helped you escape with one of them. In any case, I know all about it, and I can tell people. Isn’t that enough? I want two hundred pounds, please.” She stuck her hand out toward me, face up, all white and skinny like a corpse’s.