The Last Embrace (26 page)

“Is this about Charlie?” he asked abruptly, and I saw he was unable to hide the depths of his feelings for me. I still hadn't told him what I'd learned about Charlie at the embassy. “Saving those children won't bring back Charlie—or his brother,” he added gently. I wanted to snap back at him: How dare he presume? But looking into his eyes, I realized that Teddy had come to know—really know—me. He was right: I was trying to rewrite the past.

This was about more than the Connallys, though. And I wasn't about to give up on these kids. “No, these children really need our help.”

“I'm sorry. I can't.” His eyes darted back and forth, searching for my reaction. “Addie, I want to help. You know that. Helping a few dozen children isn't going to change what they're doing to all of those people—your people.” But it would be something. “And I'll be goddamned if I'll let you go, knowing now what they would do to you if you were caught. Don't be a hero,” he added. “Do you know what they do to heroes? What they did to Tomaszewicz's family?”

“No,” I breathed. Though I had only met Jan Tomaszewicz once, his family and especially his nine-year-old daughter had become real to me. I often wondered how they were doing.

“They were hung in the town square.”

“Stop!” I cried, covering my ears although it was too late.

“And that is why I won't help you with this. Even if you hate me for it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again. “Okay,” I said simply. I would get no further with him and neither of us needed a fight right now.

“I really am sorry about them—and about Charlie, too.” I pulled back, the unexpected mention of his name stinging. “I know how hard this is for you. He was a brave chap, and well, I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.” In that moment, I was drawn to Teddy and his straightforward views of the world. He liked me and wanted me safe; it was as simple as that. I moved closer and let him put his arm around me, draw me close. When I looked up, our lips were just inches apart. For a second I was tempted: Charlie was gone and Teddy was here, wanting to protect me. Why not accept the comfort he was still so eager to give?

Because Teddy was not Charlie. I could never feel anything close to what I had felt. And it wouldn't be fair. Instead, I leaned my head against his shoulder and we both sat in silence. The record reached the end and the needle began to skip. Teddy's weight grew heavier above me. I pulled away and he did not protest, so I knew even before looking that he was asleep.

I watched Teddy, with his head tilted back on the sofa. He breathed lightly, giving off the faint smell of sour liquor. His face was clear. There were none of the demons I'd seen as I lay beside Charlie. Even at his darkest, Teddy was placid, removed from the tragedy and despair that surrounded him. I reached for the throw blanket at the bottom of the sofa and covered him with it. I looked around. What now? I'd come to try once more to persuade him to help me, but that had failed. My eyes traveled to his coat, hung over the edge of one of the chairs. His press pass dangled from it. If I had one of those—actual correspondent's credentials, not a secretary's— for myself, I could find a way to have the visas delivered—or at least I could try.

But I did not. Standing quietly so he would not wake, I walked over to his desk. Teddy had said he'd learned that the orphans were unreachable by the Red Cross, but how? Perhaps there was some information, something he had missed, that might provide a clue to their whereabouts. I scanned his desk. I should not be looking through his things, I knew. But, my curiosity piqued, I opened the top drawer. It creaked loudly. I froze, then looked in the direction of the sofa, but he slept undisturbed. Inside was a folder thick with papers. I was surprised; I assumed Teddy did all of his work at the office. What did he have here? There were news clippings of his own stories and at first I thought it was simply a collection of everything he had written. But the typeset was strange, certain letters dropped ever so slightly. To the untrained eye, it would not have been apparent. But having spent months working with the close typeset of the newspaper, I could discern the pattern immediately: it was some sort of code. Teddy was not just writing articles for the
Post
; he was sending encrypted messages in the stories. He had refused to help with the orphans not just because he was worried about his career, but in order to protect some sort of operation.

Why hadn't he told me? I wanted to run over and wake him and demand answers. But if hadn't confided in me before, then there was no reason to think he would now. I rifled deeper in the desk. There was something else, a thin yellowed paper, a mimeo of some sort of report. I lifted it up and as I saw the familiar language, my heart skipped: Italian. I recalled then how Teddy had gone checking for my family. But he had found nothing and said that it was best to leave it alone. He had not mentioned this.

I scanned the paper, translating the language that always came back to me like a forgotten prayer: Gustavo and Ilena Montforte—arrested for helping Jews escape. I paused, puzzled. My parents had been political activists; they had not been in the business of helping refugees. The report was dated July 10, 1941—less than a month after I had left Trieste. The horrible truth hit me then: the police must have come to check registration cards and I was missing. My parents were arrested—and likely killed—because they had helped me flee.

A sob rose in my throat. It was my fault that my parents were gone. Grief tore through me anew, sharp as the day I'd learned they'd been taken. I stood helplessly in the middle of the room. I was completely alone. I hadn't been able to help my parents any more than I could help Charlie. But the children might still be there waiting.

I walked numbly to the chair where Teddy's coat hung. I picked it up and unclipped his press pass, which bore a blurry nondescript photo of Teddy plus stamps in several languages. He had a ticket to get into France and he wouldn't even use it. A pass like this, if I had one, could get me into Europe. My anger grew, not so much toward Teddy but at a system that made me dependent on men like him, unable to help on my own. If only I could use his. I picked at the plastic which covered his photo with the nail of my index finger. But I could not get off the coating without tearing it and making obvious I'd tampered with it. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. If my hair was lighter and shorter, or covered with a hat, I might be able to pass.

I stopped, taken aback by the audacity of my own idea. The pass clattered to the floor. I picked it up hurriedly, glancing at Teddy, who had slept through the noise. I'd come here to persuade Teddy, not betray him. But he would not help and this might be the orphans' last hope. I would not get all the way to France on this, of course—my passport and credentials would not match. But I could at least get into the staging area at Portsmouth and perhaps find someone who was going over and might be able to help. I could go tonight and be back before he even awoke in the morning. Hurriedly I rolled my hair up tightly and put the hat atop it. I could just about pass for a man. I went to his wardrobe and hurriedly dressed in his clothes. Then I took his hat and coat and slipped from the flat.

I stepped out of a taxi onto a darkened country road near Portsmouth. “Here?” the driver asked in disbelief, after I asked him to stop a good half mile outside the naval base. “It's the middle of nowhere.” That was the idea. I didn't want to attract attention by having him drive any closer. He eyed me warily, as though I might be a German spy, and I hoped he wouldn't call the Home Guard to report me. I paid him the fare up front, plus a tip in hopes of showing my goodwill, trying not to wince at the exorbitant total, nearly twenty pounds and a good chunk of my savings. There hadn't been a choice; buses didn't run at this hour and I didn't want to risk waiting and having Teddy wake and come after me. I'd lucked out finding the lone cab sitting with its lights dimmed at the third taxi stand I'd tried.

As the city had faded behind us and we'd bumped along the winding roads of rural Hampshire, I'd stared off into the darkness. My mind reeled from the truth about my parents' disappearance. I was to blame, just as surely as Liam had been for Robbie's death. Teddy hadn't told me what he'd learned, of course, to spare me the pain of knowing. But he hadn't told me about his other work either. So many lies.

I buttoned the top of Teddy's coat and drew his hat low over my eyes, then hurried along the road in the chilled night air. It dead-ended at a high fence topped with barbed wire, the naval base on the other side. Steeling myself, I started for the gate. It was hard to see how the invasion had been a surprise to anyone. Even at night, the naval station at Portsmouth was a hub of activity. Large battleships lined the harbor. Planes roared low overhead as though they might crash upon us at any second, leaving a heavy petrol scent in the air. Uniformed men scurried between trucks loading on pallets of supplies in the semidarkness.

At the pedestrian gate, I lifted my pass to show the military police officer, praying he would not ask to see it more closely. I held my breath as the guard scrutinized me. “Press staging is that way,” he said finally, jerking his head to the right. “Down that road, turn at the corner. Second tent.” I exhaled silently. “But better be quick about it.” Before I could ask why, he had turned away. “Oy! You can't park your lorry there,” he yelled to someone else. I hurried in the direction he'd indicated, past a soldier at an anti-aircraft gun who did not look at me, but kept eyes fixed on the muted sky above.

I neared the press tent, then paused. I'd grabbed Teddy's pass impulsively, and in the cab I'd tried to come up with some sort of plan. I could not, of course, go all the way to France and deliver the visas myself. If I could find someone, though, a reporter or medic perhaps, who was going across and then bribe him with what little money I had left after the taxi, perhaps I could persuade him to deliver the visas. But now, the problems with my already-flimsy plan became more apparent: How would I find the right person, someone good who would deliver the passes and not simply take the money, or have me kicked off the base because I did not belong there? I contemplated my next move.

I entered the tent. Inside, a dozen or so men sat around talking and playing cards. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and sweat. I pulled my hat and coat closer to avoid detection. “Just arrived?” a man asked. I nodded. I could not risk talking to anyone. “You're lucky. They've been promising to get us on a ship for two days. We might actually get out tonight.”

Across the room I spied a lone female correspondent talking to an officer. Despite Teddy's denial, there were a few women among the press corps. I started in the other direction—I might be able to fool the men, but a woman would see through my disguise. She turned toward me. At the familiar profile, I gasped. “Claire!” I blurted, in spite of myself.

Her expression changed from panic to confusion and surprise. She was not wearing her auxiliary uniform, though, but rough pants and shirt made of camouflage. I sensed that she was doing some other kind of work; delivering medical supplies had just been a cover. Her expression turned angry and for a fleeting second I panicked that she herself might turn me in. She shook her head faintly, signaling I should not come over. Then she glanced to the right, subtly guiding me toward the exit.

I slipped from the tent. A minute later, Claire joined me. “Hello,” I managed to say.

We eyed each other warily. For all of our friendship, this was war and secrets abounded between us. “What in bloody hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

I considered asking her the same thing, but didn't want to agitate her further. “I need to get the visas to the orphans.”

“Does Teddy know?” Her eyes traveled to his pass which hung around my neck. “You're going to get yourself killed, not to mention ruin Teddy's career. You could even jeopardize operations.” Did she know, I wondered, about the other work Teddy was doing through the paper?

I crossed my arms. “I was just—”

“Not thinking.” Her tone was accusing.

“Trying to get someone to deliver the visas,” I corrected.

“I could ring Teddy right now. Or have the pass revoked.”

“Or you could help me.”

“All correspondents,” a military police officer was calling inside the tent. They were leaving and I hadn't even found someone to take the papers.

“But you won't. Because you know that I'm finally standing for something—just like you.”

Something in her face softened. “Come on, then.” She led me to the queue of correspondents that were shuffling forward. “There's a small group of journalists cleared to go. But their transit has been held up by fighting—until now.”

“I thought it was impossible to cross.”

“It was. But a few towns have been liberated, Caen, Cherbourg, and there's a small area of coast under Allied control. They've found space on a supply ship headed for LeHavre. It's still terribly dangerous. Come along. We must hurry if we are to get you on that boat.”

“Claire, wait.” I grabbed her arm. “I wasn't actually planning to go myself. I just wanted to find someone to take the visas.”

“You are the only one that you can trust,” she replied firmly. “I would do it for you, but I'm not going in that direction.”

“But there's no way I can manage it,” I said, hating the weakness in my own voice.

“It's probably impossible,” she agreed. “And dangerous to boot.”

But it was the children's only chance. “I have to try.”

“Come on, then.” At the front of the line, a military police guard was checking names against a list. Mine—or Teddy's rather—wouldn't be on it. I would be stopped. But Claire led me to the front of the line. “Don't say a word,” she whispered. “This is Theodore White from the
Washington Post
,” she told the guard.

“He's not on the list.”

“Surely there's room. I'm Claire Churchill, by the way.” She held up her pass.

The guard's eyes widened. “I do have one who got sick. Before the guard could speak further, Claire dragged me past him and onto the ship. Beyond the harbor was shrouded in darkness.

“Stay here,” Claire instructed in a low voice as she pushed me into a corner. She started from the ship.

“Claire, wait.” They were about to close the gate of the ship. Now was not the time. But I could not go with more secrets still between us. “About Lord Raddingley.” At the mention of his name, her face lifted. “He's not what he seems to be. I'm sorry... There are others.” A helicopter droning noisily overhead nearly swallowed my words.

For a moment, Claire looked as though I had struck her. “I know.” Her voice was resigned, but with an unmistakable note of hurt.

“Then how can you possibly still want him?” Even if she loved him, strong principled Claire could not stand for that.

“The work,” she said with a jerk of her head toward the spot where she'd stood speaking with the officer minutes earlier. “There was a leak and we had to see if... Well, I really can't say anything else.” Her voice trailed off, the space between us growing once more. “Alastair wasn't the traitor. He's a bastard, but at least he's loyal to the Crown.” She smiled sadly. I understood then that she was close to Lord Raddingley because she had to be. But it wasn't that black-and-white—she had feelings for him. Knowing about his betrayal and staying close to him anyway must have been so painful. “It wasn't like that in the beginning. I'm fond of him and I wished that had been under other circumstances.” Her eyes held a mix of anger and sadness that belied her feelings for him. It was never that simple.

“I didn't want to hurt you, but I thought you should know.”

The ship's horn blasted. Claire looked over her shoulder. “I wish I could go with you. When you dock, head south from Le Havre. There's a Carmelite convent about forty miles from the coast and they should be able to help you get the visas through.” She squeezed my arm, unable to do more without attracting attention. “There's no special protection for correspondents, you know. Don't get yourself killed.” Then she disappeared through the crowd.

A sailor herded us toward an enclosed, too-warm area at the stern of the ship. “Stay inside,” he ordered. The ship jolted, pushing off from the dock and as the deck beneath my feet began to sway, the full magnitude of what I had just done began to set in. Even with Claire's instructions, I had little idea where I was going, how to get there—or back.

The supply ship lurched precipitously in the rough Channel surf. Around me correspondents sat on benches or on the floors propped up against walls. Some dozed, eyes half-closed, passing the hours still until we reached land. Those were the ones who had covered the war previously, approaching the danger with a certain resignation. Across from me, a young reporter checked his equipment as earnestly as if he were going into combat. I squeezed onto an empty space on a bench, tilted my head back. Despite the danger and my nerves, there was nothing to do but wait. The rocking of the boat took me back to my flight from Trieste. Mamma and Papa appeared in my mind, more real than they had been in years, so vivid I might reach out to touch them. The cable in Teddy's desk had confirmed what I'd long known: that my parents were gone. Even as a child, some part of me had always known that it would end badly. But I thought it was the danger of their work that put them in jeopardy. I never imagined it might be me.

A rumbling noise, louder than any we'd heard previously, jarred me from my half sleep. “This isn't right,” someone murmured beside me. My nerves tingled. “The fighting must have shifted. Another cock-up.” A barrage of machine-gun fire rattled too close, shaking the ship beneath us, like the air raids but quicker and more relentless. I rose to my tiptoes, trying without success to see out a small round window through the blackness on the other side.

“You're from the
Post
,” a man asked, eyeing my pass. He took a swig from a flask, his breath giving off an astringent smell. Cringing, I nodded. I braced myself now for the man to ask questions or say that he knew Teddy and I was not him. “I don't know if they're going to get us across.”

As if on cue, the boat lurched sharply to the left. Were we turning around? For a second I was relieved. I didn't belong here and I wanted to get back to the relative safety of England. But it was too late—and this was my only hope of helping the children.

But the ship straightened and carried on. The water grew unexpectedly rougher, churned not only by the surf but the fighting. We rolled left, then back again. A wave caught the boat then, sending us pitching to the right and I sat hurriedly, grabbing the bench so as not to fall, fighting my nausea.

The explosions and gunfire gradually slowed, a storm fading. When it had stopped altogether, I slipped from the cabin and onto the deck, looking around for a sailor who might stop me because it was too dangerous. I focused out at the horizon as I'd been taught as a girl, taking small breaths to calm my stomach. To the east, the sky was pink and smoky with unseen fighting. How had I gotten so far from home? Was this what it had looked like the night Charlie came over? My heart longed for him and I realized suddenly that he was not off fighting somewhere. He was dead. I forced down the bile that rose in my throat. I could not let sadness sweep me away now.

Instead, I tried to focus on formulating a plan. When we arrived, I would try to find the Order of Carmelites that Claire had told me about. I had not thought about what I would do afterward, though—or how I would get back.

The correspondent who had spoken to me inside was behind me again, having followed me from the cabin. Had I not been dressed as a man, I might have thought that he was interested in me. “After we dock, they're planning to shuttle us to Cherbourg because of some unexpected fighting near Le Havre,” he offered. My heart sank. Cherbourg was nearly forty miles east of where we were supposed to land. It would take days to get back by foot—if I could do it at all.