Chapter 1 #2
Movement in the corridor caused Rose to look up.
Two military officers, whom she recognized as General Ismay and Commander Thompson, passed by the doorway on their way to the Map Room.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. A door slammed against its frame.
The switchboard operators increased their pace of answering calls and plugging their cords into a maze of circuitry.
Her breath quickened. She pulled a finished paper from her typewriter and stapled together a report.
The Luftwaffe raid lasted well past midnight.
At 1:34 a.m. the all-clear signal sounded.
The women in Room 60, except for Rose and a thirty-one-year-old switchboard operator named Margaret, went to the dock to get a few minutes of rest. Margaret handled periodic calls to the switchboard, while Rose finished drafting a report.
Struggling to remain alert, she ceased typing and opened her desk drawer.
“We made it through another air raid, Charlie,” Rose said, staring into the drawer.
“To whom are you speaking?” a low voice asked.
Rose looked up. Standing in the doorway was Prime Minister Winston Churchill, wearing a charcoal wool coat and felt hat with a curved brim.
A half-smoked cigar was clamped between his molars, making his left jowl appear swollen.
Her heart rate accelerated. She glanced to Margaret, who was taking an incoming call.
Tired and unable to think of an excuse for talking to herself, Rose stood—her chair scraping the floor—and said, “A picture of my brother, sir.”
Churchill drew on his cigar, causing the tip to glow, and then stepped into the room.
Rose’s knees quivered. She gripped her desk with her hands.
Churchill had never entered Room 60 while Rose was working, and his advisors rarely, if ever, paid a visit.
Although the typists produced loads of documents for his staff, their work—both assignments and finished documents—went through the supervisor, Gladys Goswick.
Direct interactions between the civilian women and Churchill’s advisors were, by protocol, extremely limited.
“May I,” Churchill said, stepping to her and gesturing to the open drawer.
She nodded.
Churchill looked at the photograph.
“It’s my brother, Charlie, when he was a child. We’re not permitted to display pictures on our desks, so I keep it in my drawer.” Rose drew a jagged breath, taking in the scent of burnt tobacco. “He was killed in August when his plane was shot down over the Channel.”
Churchill raised his head. “What is your name?”
“Rose Teasdale, sir.” Her heart hammered against her rib cage.
“Miss Teasdale,” Churchill said. “I’m deeply sorry for the death of your brother. His valor to protect this island from Nazi tyranny will forever live in the hearts of our people.” He paused, removing the cigar from his mouth. “Britain will not forget Charlie’s sacrifice. Nor will I.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Rose said, struggling to hold back tears.
Churchill turned to leave but stopped. “Miss Teasdale.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please relay a message to our switchboard operator.” He gestured with his cigar to Margaret, who was transferring a call. “If Mrs. Churchill should inquire as to my whereabouts, please inform her that I am resting in my room.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Churchill tipped his hat and left.
Rose, stunned and standing by her desk, listened to the clack of Churchill’s footsteps on the stairway.
He’s not going to his private bedroom. She’d heard rumors of Churchill observing Luftwaffe bombing raids from the roof of the Treasury building.
What would he see tonight? Which sections of the city are destroyed? How many people have been killed?
Despite Churchill having a staunch, brash reputation, she believed that he wholeheartedly cared about the people of Britain.
And that he was the right leader to help the world to survive Nazi aggression.
Inspired by her encounter with the prime minister, she took out a sheet of paper and placed it in her typewriter.
Instead of taking a break, she worked until dawn.
Finishing her shift, Rose left the underground war rooms. Outside, resilient Londoners were going about their daily routines, despite the roar of fire brigade engines.
Smoke rose from various sections of the city, but most of the fires appeared to be in the vicinity of the East End docks.
She boarded the train at Westminster tube station.
In her carriage, she leaned back in her seat and tried to rest, but her belly ached with hunger.
She’d foolishly skipped dinner and hadn’t taken a meal break during her shift.
She looked forward to having breakfast with her parents and, even more, telling them about her brief conversation with the prime minister, which she didn’t think would breach any war room confidentiality.
Arriving at the Bethnal Green tube station, she exited her carriage to the underground platform and was relieved to find the shelter intact.
She scaled the steps. Outside, a stench of burning wood and petrol filled her lungs.
The proximity of blaring fire brigade sirens caused the hair to stand up on the back of her neck.
She quickened her pace along Bethnal Green Road, but with each step the intensity of the sirens grew.
Ahead, she saw a crowd near her home on Pott Street.
A lump formed in her stomach. She ran, pushed her way through dozens of people congregating on the corner, and found the area blocked by a fire brigade.
Firemen, their faces covered in a mixture of sweat and soot, sprayed water onto the remains of several buildings.
“No!” She pushed her way through the crowd on the sidewalk. “Let me through!”
The Teasdale Grocery, including the upper floor, where Rose and her parents lived, had been transformed—by what appeared to be a direct bomb strike—to a smoldering mound of brick and charred timber.
“Mum!” Rose screamed. “Dad!”
As she neared the rubble, a hand grabbed her arm.
“You can’t go in there,” a policeman said.
“It’s my home,” Rose cried. “Was there anyone inside?”
“They’re working to find out,” the policeman said, releasing Rose’s arm. “Stay clear.”
Rose maneuvered through the crowd, calling her parents’ names until her throat turned raw.
She encountered several neighbors, most of whom had spent the night at the tube station, but none had seen her parents.
After several minutes, the hoses were turned off.
A fireman wearing a harness with an attached rope was lowered into a cavity that led to the basement of the Teasdale Grocery.
Minutes later, he was hoisted to the surface, holding an ash-covered body.
Limp limbs hung toward the ground. A medic rushed forward, examined the body, and then sadly shook his head.
Rose, using all her strength, broke past the policeman protecting the perimeter. She darted to the medic and fell to her knees. Despite the thick layer of soot covering the body, she immediately recognized the woman by the nightgown and length of her hair.
“No!” she screamed. A wave of nausea rose from her stomach, producing the urge to vomit.
Using her finger, she gently dusted ash from her mother’s eyelids.
She placed her head on her mother’s silent chest and wailed.
When she gathered the strength to open her eyes, she saw two firemen removing her father’s lifeless body from the rubble.