Chamberlain resigned and was replaced by Lord Halifax, just before the Germans attacked the Low Countries and France. Again the Germans swept all before them, shattering the French armies and sending the British army home, minus their equipment, from Dunkirk. The newscasters’ voices on the BBC became increasingly serious, and people once more began looking fearfully up at the skies above London, now dotted with barrage balloons. The French army retreated further and further. Then, in the middle of June, news came that France and Britain had sued for an armistice. A month later the Treaty of Berlin was signed, a peace which the newspapers and the BBC said was surprisingly generous on Hitler’s part; no occupation, no reparations, Britain and the Empire and the navy left intact, no colonies surrendered; the Belgian Congo the only European colony lost to Germany. And there was to be no German occupation apart from the large military base on the Isle of Wight. German Jews who had fled to Britain since the Nazis took over were to be repatriated, but nothing was said about British Jews. Sarah remembered seeing on a cinema newsreel, Lord Halifax returning from Berlin, Butler and Douglas-Home beside him on the airport tarmac, and the emotion in the aristocratic voice as Halifax declared, ‘The peace we have signed with Germany will last, God willing, for ever.’ Clapping and shouts of ‘Hurrah!’ broke out all over the cinema. Sarah had gone with her family; Irene cheered louder than anyone and their mother cried with relief. Sarah glanced at her father, but the good side of his face was turned away from her, and she could not see his expression.
A year later, just after the Russian war began, Halifax resigned – for health reasons they said, although his emaciated face was a mask of sorrow as he left Downing Street, and it was rumoured he had been against the German ‘crusade’. He was replaced by the ancient but cheerfully aggressive Lloyd George, who had called Hitler the greatest German of the age. People said he was little more than a stooge. He looked like a living relic on television, his false teeth clattering noisily during his broadcasts, his white hair wild. After his death in 1945 the newspaper proprietor and Cabinet Minister Beaverbrook took over, callously dismissive of the atrocity stories from Europe, his lifelong dreams of Empire free trade finally realized.
When Sarah left Westminster Abbey she was surprised to see how late it was. The sun was already beginning to set and the hundreds of windows in the Palace of Westminster sparkled with reflected light, making her blink. The sky to the west was like a Turner painting, a haze of reds and purples. She felt better for her prayer and the tears, though she did not believe any God was really there to listen.
She crossed the road to the Underground. It was busy outside the tube station; a costermonger, wrapped in a thick muffler, was selling vegetables from a stall. A newsvendor called out ‘Evening Standard! Beaverbrook meets Laval!’ She decided to buy a paper. Beaverbrook had stopped in Paris on his way to Berlin and there was a photograph of him with President Laval; like Britain, France was governed now by a right-wing newspaper proprietor.
Suddenly, she was aware of a commotion. Four boys of about twenty, in raincoats and carrying satchels, were racing down the street towards her, weaving through the crowds and pulling leaflets from their satchels, thrusting them into the hands of surprised passers-by and tossing handfuls into the air. Someone shouted, ‘Hey!’ Sarah wondered if it was a student prank, but the boys’ faces were serious. They ran past, tossing a shower of leaflets at the costermonger’s stall. The newsvendor shouted, ‘Bastards!’ after them as they ran past the entrance to the tube station. A rush of hot air from inside sent the leaflets swirling like confetti. One blew against Sarah’s coat and she grasped it.
We have
NO FREE PARLIAMENT!
NO FREE PRESS!
NO FREE UNIONS!
The Germans occupy the Isle of Wight!
Strikers are executed!
The Germans make us persecute the Jews!
WHO WILL BE NEXT?
FIGHT GERMAN CONTROL!
JOIN THE RESISTANCE MOVEMENT!
W.S. Churchill
She looked up. The four boys were just turning the corner. Then, as though from nowhere, a dozen Auxiliary Police appeared, running at the boys and throwing them to the pavement. One fell into the gutter and a taxi swerved wildly, honking its horn. The policemen hauled the boys to their feet, thrusting them against the wall, heedlessly pushing several people aside. An old woman, carrying a shopping bag, was sent flying, packages in greaseproof paper spilling onto the street. A man with an umbrella and bowler hat was knocked over. Sarah watched as the bowler rolled under a bus, the wheels crushing it. The passengers inside turned to look at the scene, mouths open. Most looked quickly away again.
The police had pulled out their truncheons and were beating the boys mercilessly now. Sarah heard the crack of wood on a head, then heard a cry. The Auxiliaries, mostly young men themselves, laid in mercilessly. Sarah glimpsed a boy’s mouth shining red with blood. One of the policemen was repeatedly punching another boy, his face white with fury, punctuating the blows with insults. ‘Fucking – Yid-loving – Commie – bugger.’
Most people hurried by, faces averted, but a few stopped to look and someone in the crowd shouted out, ‘Shame!’ The policeman who had been punching the boy turned round, reaching to his hip. He pulled out a gun. The watchers gasped, stepped back. ‘Who said that?’ the Auxie yelled. ‘Who was it?’
Then, with a loud ringing of its klaxon, a police van pulled up to the kerb. Four more policemen ran out and opened the double doors at the back. The boys were thrown in like sacks, the door slammed and the van pulled away, klaxon shrieking again. The Auxies adjusted their uniforms, looking threateningly at the crowd as though daring anyone else to call out. Nobody did. The policemen shoved confidently through. Sarah looked at the pavement by the wall, now spotted with blood.
Next to her an old man in a cap and muffler stood trembling. Perhaps it was him who had shouted out. ‘The bastards,’ he muttered, ‘the bastards.’
Sarah said, ‘It was so sudden. Where will they take them?’
‘Scotland Yard, I expect.’ The old man looked Sarah in the face. ‘Down to the interrogation rooms. Poor little devils, they’re only kids. They’ll probably bring the black witches in from Senate House to them. They’ll tear them to pieces.’
‘Black witches?’
The old man gave her a look of contempt. ‘The Gestapo. The SS. Don’t you know who’s really in charge of everything now?’
Chapter Eight
GUNTHER HOTH ARRIVED IN London early on Friday afternoon. He had taken the daily Lufthansa shuttle from Berlin. A large black Mercedes with embassy plates was waiting for him at Croydon; the driver, a sharply dressed young man, greeted him. ‘Heil Hitler!’
‘Heil Hitler!’
‘Good flight, Herr Sturmbannführer?’
‘Fairly smooth.’
‘I am Ludwig. I will be assisting you today.’ The young man spoke formally, like a tour guide, but his eyes were keen. He was probably SS. Gunther sank gratefully into the comfortable upholstery of the car. He felt tired and the sore place in the middle of his back hurt. Last night he had gone straight from the meeting with Karlson to pack and get some sleep, then risen early to get the plane. He looked out of the window as the car drove smoothly through the grey London suburbs. England was just as he remembered it, cold and damp. Everyone looked pale, preoccupied, the clothes of working people worn and shabby. Many of the grimy buildings seemed in poor condition. There were lumps of dog dirt everywhere in the gutters; on the pavements too. Things had barely changed since he was last here seven years ago; in fact they looked much the same as when he first came to England as a student, back in 1929.