Emma’s Secret (40 page)

The next mock-ups they were shown were of a similar nature, a shattering, graphic photograph with a damning headline. She read: CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY. And then looked at the next one, which announced MASS MURDER, and at a third, NAZI DEATH MACHINE.

Emma did not have to ask anyone’s opinion or discuss it. She knew very well which banner headline had the most impact, and swiftly she said, ‘I think we must go with this one.
Genocide.
It says it all. Now what are you carrying inside, Eric?’

The editor told her, ‘We’ve a number of stories, very detailed, about the camps, and we can keep updating the stories for later editions as the news keeps breaking.’

‘Good.’ She took another deep breath, and continued, ‘I don’t think you should pull any punches, either in the text or in the pictures. Our readers have to be told about this in detail. Unflinching detail’

‘Leeds has a big Jewish population,’ Marty remarked. ‘They’ll want to know.’

Emma looked across at him and nodded. ‘That’s true. But even if there were no Jews living in Leeds, I’d still play this to the hilt. The whole world must know what was perpetrated by Nazi Germany. We’re in the business of news, so let’s do our best to present this most…heartstopping story…’ Her voice unexpectedly broke, but she recovered fairly swiftly, and finished, ‘…in the most dignified way we can, but without minimizing it to protect people’s feelings. The pictures are horrific, harrowing to look at, heartbreaking, unbearable.
But we must show them.
One picture is worth a thousand words, so I’m told. We have to run with this, give it our all. And use everything. Cut down on local news, if that’s necessary.’

Eric Knowles jumped up, and exclaimed, ‘You’re right, Emma! And I’d better go with Johnny and get things rolling. Genocide it is, right? That’s the headline you want?’

‘Yes. It says it all in one word.’ Emma then asked, ‘Will we make the noon edition?’

‘Just about.’ He ran out, followed by Johnny Johnson, the news editor, and the reporters.

Emma stared at Winston, then focused on Marty. ‘I want a special edition devoted entirely to this story.’

‘When for?’ Marty asked, staring at her worriedly.

‘Can we get it out today?’

‘Not if we want to do the story justice. There’s a lot more coming in on the wires out of Germany, as I told you earlier, not only from Reuters but also from the Associated Press. Obviously all of the wires are carrying it. And we have our own reporters on the job in London. Let’s face it, it’s the biggest story of the century.’

‘Of any century,’ Winston murmured. Turning to Emma he said, ‘Let Marty and his team do the story
right,
Emma.’ Addressing Marty, he suggested, ‘Why not do a special edition for the weekend?’

‘Good idea,’ Marty exclaimed.

Emma said, ‘I agree.’

Later, when she was back at the store, Emma wept in the privacy of her office. The horror of what she had just seen would not leave her consciousness and the images in the photographs kept floating in front of her eyes. And she would begin to weep again.

But eventually she gained control of her swimming senses and picked up the telephone and dialled David Kallinski’s number at his office.

‘David, it’s Emma.’

‘Hello, Emm. How’re you?’

‘So so. Can I come and see you?’

‘Is something wrong? You sound upset.’ His voice echoed with sudden concern.

‘David, some of the national papers carried stories this morning…about the Americans liberating the concentration camps in Germany. Did you see any of those stories?’

‘No, I left for the office very early, and the paper hadn’t arrived.’ There was a small silence, then he said, ‘It’s…bad, isn’t it?’

‘Very bad. Worse than bad.
Horrendous.’
She tried to swallow. Her mouth had gone dry. ‘Let me come and see you, David darling…’ With one hand she flicked the tears from her damp cheeks.

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ he said in a voice that was suddenly hoarse. ‘You’ve always been a comfort to me, Emma.’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-N
INE

‘I
sn’t it wonderful, Winston, that the war’s over!’ Emma ran across to her brother as he came into her Leeds office, grinning, his face alight with happiness, relief reflected in his eyes.

‘Thank God, that’s all I can say.’ Winston hugged her to him, kissing her on the cheek. ‘All of our boys are safe and soon they’ll be coming home, and finally, at long last, we can get back to normal.’

It was Monday 7 May, 1945. That morning, in the early hours, at 2:41 a.m. precisely, General Alfred Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Admiral Hans von Friedeburg, empowered by the Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz, the designated head of the German state, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Force and simultaneously to the Soviet Union. The war with Germany was suddenly and finally at an end.

Walking with Emma to the small seating area near her library table of family photographs, Winston went on, ‘Marty called me a few minutes ago. Apparently it’s now official. It’s been declared V-E Day in Europe…tomorrow May the eighth. So we can all celebrate. I thought it might be a nice idea to throw a little party for the boys over at the newspapers. They’d love it, I know. I tested the waters with Marty, and he reacted in a very positive way.’

‘Then do it, Winston. Let’s show our appreciation. Have Marty arrange it.’ She frowned. ‘But where will they have it? In one of the pubs?’ She shook her head. ‘No, it wouldn’t work. Perhaps a private room in a restaurant?’

‘That sounds better, but don’t worry about it, Emma. Marty will handle it. I just wanted to be sure the idea had your approval.’

‘Of course it does. They all deserve it. They’ve worked like demons all through the war years, done a terrific job, considering they’ve been understaffed. And the special editions they did in April, when the death camps were liberated, are masterpieces of twentieth-century journalism. I’m very proud of the staff, and of the specials.’

‘Yes, they were superbly handled,’ Winston agreed. ‘Are you staying in Leeds for the rest of the week, Emm?’

‘Yes, I am, Winston, why?’

‘Well, since it’s V-E Day tomorrow, I thought you might like to celebrate with me and Charlotte.’

‘There’s nothing better I’d like to do. Thank you.’

It seemed to Emma that the city of Leeds went crazy on V-E Day night. The red, white and blue Union Jack hung out of every window, fluttered from every flagpole, and was waved in the hands of most children and adults as they crowded into the streets. The air of festivity was beyond belief.

People danced and sang, cheered each other and laughed; they hugged and kissed, strangers as well as friends; and they shouted out their pride and happiness at their victory over tyranny. They were jubilant, full of high spirits.

Streaming rivers of light, from windows no longer blacked out against enemy bombers, illuminated the streets like sunshine. Bonfires blazed on every corner, as if it were Bonfire Night in summer, and effigies of Hitler were sacrificed to the flames.

The pubs were filled to overflowing, the customers spilling out into the streets, and everywhere there were patriotic songs, and toasts to the brave boys in blue and khaki and navy, and cheers for Winston Churchill. ‘Long live Winnie!’ they cried, affection filling their voices. ‘He’s brought us through. Our British bulldog has brought us through. Long live Winston Churchill!’

Charlotte had cooked a wonderful dinner, and when Emma arrived at their lovely house in Round-hay she felt her nose twitching. For the first time in weeks she was suddenly hungry.

After Winston had opened a bottle of champagne, they toasted each other, and their sons, and finally Emma said, ‘Here’s to our Prime Minister, the greatest leader
we’ve
ever had.’

The following morning she thought exactly the same thing, experienced the same sentiments as she opened the
Yorkshire Morning Standard,
and saw his speeches printed on the front page. She had asked Marty to make sure the paper carried them in full, and the managing editor had obliged.

As she began to read the report of the event she truly wished she could have been there. Thousands had assembled near the House of Commons, and they had roared their approval of Churchill as he had appeared with some of his colleagues on the balcony of the Ministry of Health in Whitehall. He made two brief speeches to the vast crowd. After the words,
‘This is your victory,’
the crowd had roared back, ‘No, it is yours.’ According to the correspondent of the
Morning Standard,
who was covering it, this response had signified an unforgettable moment of love and gratitude.

She read on, savouring every word Churchill had said last night:

‘God bless you all. This is your victory! It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this. Everyone, man or woman, has done their best. Everyone has tried. Neither the long years, nor the dangers, nor the fierce attacks of the enemy, have in any way weakened the independent resolve of the British nation. God bless you all.’

According to the reporter, a respectful hush had fallen over the crowds, and they had stood in silence, waiting to hear him speak again, seemingly unable to get enough of him.

Emma began to read the second speech he had made to those crowds, and her heart swelled.

‘My dear friends, this is your hour. This is not victory of a party or of any class. It’s a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were the first, in this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny. After a while we were left all alone against the most tremendous military power that has been seen. We were alone for a whole year.

‘There we stood alone. Did anyone want to give in?’ The crowd shouted ‘No.’ ‘Were we downhearted?’ ‘No.’ ‘The lights went out and the bombs came down. But every man, woman and child in the country had no thought of quitting the struggle. London can take it. So we came back after long months from the jaws of death, out of the mouth of hell, while all the world wondered. When shall the reputation and faith of this generation of English men and women fail? I say that in the long years to come not only will the people of this island but of the world, wherever the bird of freedom chirps in human hearts, look back to what we’ve done and they will say “do not despair, do not yield to violence and tyranny, march straightforward and die if need be–unconquered.” Now we have emerged from one deadly struggle–a terrible foe has been cast on the ground and awaits our judgement and our mercy.’

Emma sat for a few moments on the sofa under the leaded window in the upstairs parlour, thinking about Churchill’s words and of the past six years. Last night everyone had celebrated, but her uppermost emotion had been relief. Relief that her sons had not been killed, that her son-in-law and her nephew, and the sons of Blackie and David Kallinski had managed to cheat death also. Thankfully, they had their futures ahead of them, and that was something to celebrate, wasn’t it?

Walking over to her desk, she clipped the speech from the newspaper, put it in an envelope and stowed it safely away in the fruitwood casket scrolled in silver. It was worth keeping, something to savour again later.

It had been sunny all day, remarkably balmy for May, and to Emma’s surprise it stayed warm well into the early evening.

She sat on the long terrace at Pennistone Royal, waiting for Blackie O’Neill to arrive. He had been in London on business on V-E Day, and so he had not been able to celebrate with them in Leeds. But now that he was back in Yorkshire they would have their own celebratory dinner tonight, just the two of them.

Her thoughts drifted…events of the last seven years sped through her head like a reel of film unwinding before her eyes. Paul’s death, her overwhelming grief, the perils of war…the Blitz, the dreaded VIS, those deadly, pilotless bombs that had devastated and decimated London. Their young at risk in the air and on land and sea. But the triumphs, too. Dunkirk and other victories…so many good things mixed in with the heartache: her children’s marriages, the birth of three grandchildren.

How time passes, and so swiftly as we get older, she thought. She had been fifty-six at the end of April…it didn’t seem possible to her. In a few years she would be sixty. Yet she felt so
young.
Young at heart and in spirit, and her strength and energy and vitality were the same as they had been when she was ten years younger.

I have been lucky, she thought suddenly, and more so than some, her mind turning to the mothers and fathers who had lost sons in the conflict, like those of young Matthew Hall, Robin’s friend from the
III
th Squadron at Biggin Hill, shot down over France. Killed in action. A smile touched her mouth when she thought of him, but her eyes were moist. So young, too young to die.

A fragment of Rupert Brooke’s famous poem ran through her head…If I should die, think only this of me: / That there’s some corner of a foreign field / That is for ever England. There shall be / In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; / A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, / Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, / A body of England’s, breathing English air, / Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home…

She heard his step, and then his familiar voice, calling, ‘Are you out there, mavourneen?’ and she quickly brushed the tears from her cheeks before she stood up and swung around, went to meet her oldest friend.

Blackie put his arm around her and they walked back down the terrace, and sat together on the wrought-iron garden seat. He said, ‘I’m sorry I missed all the excitement in Leeds. Winston told me it was quite something to behold.’

‘It was, the town went mad.’

‘Aye, the whole of Britain went mad with joy.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘We’ve been lucky, you and I. And Winston and David Kallinski. Our sons are safe. Some not so lucky, eh?’ He touched her damp cheek with a fingertip. ‘You’ve been crying, lass.’

‘I was thinking of that nice young man, Matthew Hall, just before you arrived. Robin’s friend, and Bryan’s, from the
III
th Squadron.’

‘It’s a tragic thing, the loss of our young. Bryan’s been devastated that Matt didn’t make it.’

‘I spoke to David today, Blackie. He was so sad about his cousin Ruth. She married a Frenchman, if you remember, and went to live in France. She just vanished during the war, and he has worried about her so much. Poor Ruth. He never knew her fate, but now he surely does.’

‘There are a lot of broken hearts around these days, me darlin’, but we must not dwell on sadness this evening. You and I have such a lot to be thankful for…’ His eyes grew warm, very loving, as he asked, ‘And how’s the bairn?’

Emma’s face lit up. ‘She’s just wonderful. Daisy was concerned that her eyes would change colour, but they haven’t. They’re still that lovely deep blue, so deep in colour they’re almost violet, like pansies.’

‘Aye, I noticed that when we saw her two weeks ago. And she has Paul’s black hair. She’s a McGill, all right.’

‘I have a good feeling about Paula. She’s going to be my girl.’

‘Nay, lass, you can’t be taking her away from her mother,’ he admonished, looking at her askance.

‘I didn’t mean that she’ll be mine
physically,
to bring up. I’m leaving that to Daisy and David for a few years. I meant she would be mine
spiritually.
Neither Elizabeth nor Daisy wanted to come into my business, but I’m hoping Paula will.’

Blackie began to laugh, shaking his head. ‘There you go again, thinking about business, as you have done all of your life. But then a leopard doesn’t change its spots, I suppose. Still, she is only five months old, Emma. Give her a chance, let her have a childhood!’ He continued to laugh, highly amused.

Emma joined in his laughter, and then, sobering, she said softly, ‘Paula is my future, Blackie, she surely is. Mind you, I suppose we
will
make an odd couple: the little girl and the old lady…’

‘You’re not
old,
Emma Harte! Why, you’ll never be old, me darlin’. You’ll always be
my
young colleen of the moors, that little sprite of a girl with her big green eyes and bright red hair shot through with gold…Why, I can see you now, Emma, in my mind’s eye…such a powerful
being
you were, even then.’

Emma sat back in her chair. ‘Thank you, Blackie, for always being here for me, for being my very best friend, my dearest friend.’

‘And I thank you Emma, for the same…it’s been a privilege to know you, mavourneen.’

They sat together in silence. After a moment Emma looked up at the sky. It was a deep pavonine blue, turning deeper as twilight now descended, tinged with gold on the rim of the moors. A gentle sky tonight. Reaching out she took hold of Blackie’s hand and held it in hers. He looked across at her. She gazed back at him intently for a long moment, and then she smiled her incomparable smile, which illuminated her face with radiance.

‘Hearts at peace, under an English heaven,’ she said.