10. Peter
10
PETER
T he naval intelligence office was an unassuming building in the heart of London, its exterior blending into the cityscape without drawing undue attention. Inside, where I worked, rows of desks stretched across the open floor, each piled with papers, typewriters, and maps. Overhead, harsh industrial lights buzzed faintly. Filing cabinets lined the perimeter, crammed with codebooks, naval charts, and reports stamped with the bold, ominous red of "Top Secret."
I’d have preferred the air to smell of lilacs or vanilla like my mother’s parlor, but instead, it carried a mix of ink, stale coffee, and cigarette smoke, with a faint metallic tang from the radios in the adjacent room. The tapping of typewriters was interrupted by the occasional burst of static from intercepted transmissions. Soft conversations and the scrape of chairs were constant enough that I no longer noticed them. In the corner, the map room held sprawling charts pinned with colored strings and grease-pencil markings, tracking convoy routes and suspected U-boat positions. Blackout curtains veiled the windows, a reminder of the city’s vulnerability. At any moment, bombs could bestow destruction and chaos, deaths and despair.
Now, I adjusted my chair, leaning closer to the map in front of me, my pencil tracing the route of a convoy scheduled to cross the Atlantic two days from now.
“Westbrook.” Miller’s voice cut through the hum of voices and machinery. He crossed the room, a small bundle of envelopes in his hand. “Mail call. Three letters from three ladies.” He tossed them onto my desk.
“Two of which are family members—my mother and sister, you sick man.”
“What about the third?” Miller asked, pointing to Mireille’s letter, addressed in her small, neat handwriting. “That your sweetheart?”
The thought of Mireille was a dart of pain in my chest. “No. She’s my best friend’s wife.”
Miller grinned. “How about you ask your sister to write to me? We could start a long-distance romance.”
“Fat chance.”
The top envelope bore my mother’s familiar script. I opened her letter first, hungry for news from home.
Dearest Peter,
I realized just yesterday that your birthday is coming soon, and it will be the first one I won’t get to celebrate with you. I have such fond memories of you at every age; however, today, I was thinking about the afternoon Bernie and I took you and George to swim at the river, and you caught the frog. George wanted to keep him as a pet, but you said it wasn’t right to take an animal from its natural habitat. You were only eight. You’ve always amazed me.
Betsy and Mireille have been working hard. Too hard, perhaps. They come home late after their shifts, practically dragging themselves to dinner. Your father fusses over both of them, which is actually quite sweet. He calls them his “career girls” and loves to hear about their days. They have shown a lot of courage in this new world we all have to face, with women working and men away. Both yawn their way through dinner and often go to bed early. Who can blame them? They get up before daylight to take the first train into the city. They’ve both grown too thin, but with rations as they are, none of us feel we can eat more than our share.
Betsy insists her long shifts at the hospital are welcomed, but I can see the toll they’re taking. She’s lost a bit of her Betsy sparkle. I suspect the suffering she’s seen at the hospital has chipped away at her innate optimism. I wonder sometimes—even if we win this war—what will we be like when it’s over? Will any of us be recognizable?
Mireille has poured herself into her translation work in the quiet way she has. Not fussing or complaining, just getting on with it. Like you, she’s not allowed to say much about her tasks but says it can be tedious and exhilarating on the same day.
Your father’s been spending more time in the stables lately. He says it helps clear his head, though I think it’s his way of feeling close to you. He’s often out there before breakfast, checking on the horses and making sure the hands are tending to things properly. Apollo has been restless without you—your father swears the horse knows you’re far away and wonders if you’ll ever return.
The factories are running at full capacity, packed full of women doing the jobs men did before this terrible war. Your father works long hours, which is nothing new, but he seems even more driven than usual. Overseeing the production of parts that are helping the war effort is sacred work to him. I don’t fully understand what we’re actually making. Something to do with aircraft engines. He rarely complains, but I can see how tired he is, even if he won’t admit it. His desk is piled high with contracts and reports that he often tackles after dinner.
I’m continuing my projects for the Red Cross. Mostly, I organize donation drives for clothing and supplies, as well as putting together care packages for soldiers. It’s a small contribution compared to what the rest of you are doing but it’s what I have to offer. In truth, I get more out of it than the people I’m supposedly helping.
It gives me comfort to know you’re working in an office every day. However, the news of the bombings in London scares me. I do hope you’re being careful.
Letters from George indicate he’s in a much more precarious position. All I can do is pray for both of my boys.
We are all so proud of you.
Write when you can, and let us know you’re safe.
With all my love,
Mother
I folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope before opening Betsy’s.
Dear Peter,
I’m sorry it’s been a few weeks since I last wrote. The hospital has kept me busier than ever this spring. I can hardly keep my eyes open after dinner and haven’t had the energy to write.
Things are pretty much the same here. We’re all keeping busy with our various jobs. Mother’s been working tirelessly for the Red Cross. She probably doesn’t mention it to you in her letters, but she’s become integral to the branch here in Greenwich. Everyone she works with loves her and holds her in high regard. I’ve always admired Mother, but never as much as I do right now. Not only does she do so much for the war effort, she makes sure we’re all looked after here at home. Between her and Mrs. Burns’ clever way with rations, we want for nothing.
Mireille says she’s found purpose in her work and finds translating mostly interesting. She misses George, of course, but continues on, as we all do. Over the years, I’ve observed her grit and courage, and never more so than now. She’s grown quiet and much too thin and doesn’t smile or laugh as much as she did when we were younger and all together. Regardless, she never complains. We take the train together in the mornings and evenings, and I find such comfort in our friendship that it’s become a sisterhood. I don’t know what any of us would do without Mireille, to be honest.
In your last letter, you asked about my work, what I do and all that. It’s nothing glamorous or clever like you and Mireille, but I’m good at it. Most days, I’m scrubbing floors, running errands for the doctors, and helping clean and dress wounds. Sometimes, I assist with feeding or moving patients. I’m quite popular with the young men, mostly because the poor dears have suffered so and I’m kind to them. I’ve yet to get through an entire shift without one of them calling me angel, or princess, or honey. They’re just lonely and scared and sad, so I don’t take it to heart. I wish I had the skills to heal them, but we have excellent doctors and nurses, so I assist them however I can.
I have one patient I’m particularly fond of. We call him Charlie, although we don’t actually know his name. He came in a few weeks ago, brought straight from an ambulance. The authorities had found him collapsed near the train station, disoriented and clearly injured. He has no memory of who he is, where he’s from, or how he ended up there. The poor fellow suffered a nasty head injury—likely from a fall or an accident—and the doctors are doing their best to treat him. But so far, his memory hasn’t returned. He was wearing an army uniform, but there was no branch insignia sewn into anything. No dog tags. Nothing to give us any clues.
Strangely enough, despite his memory loss, he’s clever and funny. He knows what everything is—you know, like an apple is an apple and all that—but nothing about himself. One of the girls thinks he has a Southern drawl, but it’s faint at best and doesn’t help us solve the mystery that is Charlie.
I’ve taken it upon myself to talk with him whenever I can, hoping something might jog his memory. I’ve tried everything—asking about his family, describing places he might recognize, even naming off every town I can think of within a hundred miles of here—still, nothing.
I find it weird, but he doesn’t seem to mind that he can’t remember anything. He told me one day that maybe he couldn’t remember because it was all so awful. One of our doctors told me that sometimes people lose their memories after something traumatic occurs.
He’s also an unabashed flirt. Every time I sit with him, he teases me or compliments me without any care whatsoever about his predicament. It’s maddening. You know how I am. I can’t stand it if I don’t know every little thing about a person.
He had the gall to tell me yesterday that if it meant he had to lose his memory to meet me, he would do it all over again. I know he doesn’t truly mean it, but honestly, he’s ridiculous.
Handsome too. But that’s neither here nor there.
There’s something so sweet about him though. He makes me laugh—kind of like George does—like everything’s a joke. Which would be fine except that he’s in a terrible way and he should take it all more seriously. When I point this out to him, he brushes my concern aside and asks when I’m going to let him take me out. As if he can go “out.” The doctors say he can’t leave until either he remembers something or a loved one finds him. They say he’s like a newborn baby, incapable of looking after himself. I don’t believe that to be true, but who am I to say?
Mother thinks I should bring him home, and she’ll look after him. Father does not agree. Ha. They got into a heated discussion about it the other night. Father actually lost his temper, which is so unlike him. I think it’s mostly that he misses you so much and can’t imagine another young man living here who isn’t you or George.
Anyway, that’s enough of all that. I wish you were here so I could tell you all this in person because writing such a long letter has given my hand a cramp.
I’ll be thinking of you on your birthday next week. I can’t wait until this is over so we can finally be together again. I love you forever. Stay safe.
Love,
Bets
I opened Mireille’s letter last.
Dear Peter,
I hope this letter finds you well. There isn’t a moment, day or night, when you and George aren’t on my mind. I pray a lot, asking that God keep you both safe. But every morning when I read the paper and learn of more atrocities, I do not feel as if God can hear me or any of the other women who pray for their sons, brothers, husbands, and friends.
You asked about my job in your last letter. Like you, I can’t say much about it. However, I’ve found a lot of satisfaction in the daily tasks, even though, at times, I’m paralyzed by the thought of how important it is to be accurate. There are moments when I can hardly breathe, thinking about the consequences of an error. As in, any mistake I make could cost someone their life. It’s daunting, to say the least. Mrs. Wakefield, my boss, says diligence is all she expects, but I am not sure that’s enough. Regardless, I do my best. Mrs. Wakefield inspires us all with her fine example of integrity and hard work. She’s the type of woman who makes a person sit up straighter.
Your mother’s struggling, although she hides it well. Often, I catch her staring at the photos of you and George in your uniforms. Betsy and I try to cheer her up, but we’re poor substitutes for what she really wants, which is for you two to come home.
I don’t know what I would have done had your mother not asked me to stay at the house with them. Living alone in some drab apartment in the city would have been even more depressing than my current situation. Your parents have been so kind to me. As much as I miss my mother and father, your parents have worked themselves permanently into my heart. They have become family. As have you, dear Peter. And Betsy, of course. When I imagine what my life would be like had I not been assigned to be her roommate, I shudder. Truly.
Betsy and I are taking good care of your horses. We take them out for exercise as often as we can. I swear they look at me some days with such longing—I know they’re wondering where you are. Your father spends a lot of time out there, too. I’m sure you can guess why.
The worst news is that I’ve not heard from my mother in several months. I try not to worry but it’s impossible. I have a terrible feeling that I’ll never see either of them again. Who knows what the enemy has done to our vineyard? Will I have a home or family to return to once this is over? These are questions that keep me up at night.
Please take care of yourself. Write when you can.
Love,
Mireille
I put all three of the letters inside a box I kept on my desk, along with all of the previous ones I’d received from home. On particularly lonely nights, I pulled them out to reread the words from home and the people I loved so much.
That evening, I hunched over a half-finished map of the Atlantic, with a tangle of routes and red circles marking U-boat activity. Every line, every point, represented human lives—ships carrying supplies, men crossing treacherous waters. My pencil hovered over a set of coordinates scrawled hastily in the corner of the latest report:
Convoy sighting, 38°N, 42°W. Likely interception imminent.
I traced the route with the pencil, connecting the sighting to the convoy’s projected path. If the report was accurate, they’d be entering the kill zone within hours.
The top page bore a German message, decrypted but incomplete.
Increase presence near 38°N. Await final directive.
I cursed under my breath. It confirmed my worst suspicion—a coordinated ambush. I scrawled a note on the file.
“Get this to the captain. And hurry.” James, the junior officer at the next desk, grabbed the papers without a word and darted off to do as I asked.
A window behind me rattled, followed by the whine of an air-raid siren. Damn war never stopped. A ripple of tension made its way through the room. I glanced toward the window. Evening light had faded to a dusty lavender.
“Westbrook.” A feminine voice drew me from my thoughts. I looked up to see Diana Hawthorne, a fellow intelligence officer. Our only woman on the team that had such a role. “Still at it?”
“Yeah.” I showed her what I’d seen.
She pulled up a chair, settling beside me as she glanced at the map. Her brow furrowed as she read the coordinates. “This isn’t good.”
“Potential ambush.” I slid a decoded report toward her. “The intercept suggests U-boat activity in the area.”
Diana leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she studied the message. “Gotta be a trap.” Her finger traced the faint pencil marks on the map. “Impressive. I guess this is why you’re the darling around here.”
“Am I?” I raised an eyebrow and leaned back in my chair, admiring the view. The woman had legs for miles and jet-black hair that curled around a round face. Her skin glowed luminous, despite the nasty smoke of cigarettes that hung in the air.
“You know you are.” She grinned flirtatiously. “And I agree with the captain. There’s no one quite like Peter Westbrook, even though he’s an American.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked, not exactly flirting back, but amused nonetheless.
“Captain says you need to eat and has tasked me with taking you to dinner. A man cannot exist from coffee alone.” She gestured toward the cold cup near my typewriter.
“Yeah, I suppose not. Although the theory remains mostly untested.”
“In all seriousness, a few of us are going down to the pub for drinks and dinner. You should come.” She peered at me from hazel eyes without a hint of shyness or fear of rejection. Diana was a woman men didn’t say no to. “This will all still be here.”
“I suppose you’re right. Sitting here obsessing isn’t helping anyone.”
“That’s right. Plus, the boys and me want to get to know you better.
“The boys do? Or you?”
“Both.” She smiled, raising an eyebrow. “But mostly me.”
“Fine. I’ll go. A man has to eat after all.”
The two of us donned our coats and left together, walking down the skinny steps of our building and into the spring evening. A fine mist dampened the air.
“Is it always like this in the spring?” I asked. “So gray and damp?”
“Welcome to London in May,” Diana said, buttoning her coat.
I offered my arm, and she took it before we headed toward the local pub, where our team enjoyed time out of the office.
“When I moved here after our time in Germany, it felt like it never stopped raining,” Diana said as we paused before crossing the street.
“You spent time in Germany?”
“Yes. My father’s a diplomat. When I was small, we lived in Paris. I was thirteen, and he was sent to Berlin.”
“That explains why you speak French and German so well.” I hadn’t known any of this until now. “I should have put that together.”
“Not necessarily. There aren’t that many diplomats.”
I chuckled. “Yes, true enough.”
“I’m an anomaly, Westbrook. In more ways than one.”
“I’m starting to see that for myself.” We exchanged a smile. A flirtatious smile. No question. I felt my heart beat heavier inside my chest. She was remarkably attractive. I cautioned myself to keep my head. There was no way this woman wasn’t taken.
We’d reached the pub by then. Located in a squat, weathered building tucked between the skeletal remains of bombed-out shops, its brick walls were blackened from soot and the aftermath of the Blitz. The sign above the door, painted with a faded depiction of a fox chasing a rabbit, swayed faintly in the evening breeze, its rusting hinges creaking.
Inside, however, one could almost pretend we weren’t at war. Warmth enveloped me as I happily breathed in the scents of beer, frying onions, and a faint undertone of damp wood. Near the entryway, a few crooked photographs of the pub in its prime hung on the faded blue wall. This place always made me think of George, as it was similar to one of our old college haunts, where we’d spent many half-drunken nights talking politics or flirting with women. The flirting mostly done by George, of course.
We headed across floorboards that creaked underfoot, worn smooth by years of patrons. Mismatched tables and chairs gave the room a haphazard charm. A long wooden bar ran along one wall, its surface polished to a dull sheen. Behind it, shelves sagged with bottles of whiskey, gin, and dusty glasses.
Diana scanned the room, clearly looking for our friends from the office. “I don’t see anyone. Maybe they’re on their way?”
“We’ll get a table and start without them,” I said. “They can join us if they show.”
“Shall we sit near the fire?” Diana asked. “Warm our bones?”
“That sounds like heaven.”
We settled at a table near the hearth, where a crackling fire tossed out heat. Above the fireplace, a painting of a foxhound hung crookedly, its frame battered but intact. Tobacco smoke curled lazily up to the ceiling, hovering above the lanterns.
A barmaid approached, her apron dusted with flour and stained with beer. “Hello, loves. We’ve got mutton stew or potpies. What can I get you?”
We asked her to bring us two pints of ale and two potpies. My stomach rumbled, anticipating what I knew would be delicious, flaky pie.
“Do you mind that the others aren’t here?” Diana peered at me from across the table.
“No, why would I?”
“I’ve been flirting with you for weeks and you haven’t shown any interest whatsoever.”
I blinked, taken aback. “I’d not noticed.”
“You don’t seem to be particularly observant that way. Which has evoked three theories. One, you don’t like women. Or two, you’re in love with someone back home. Or three, you find me repulsive.”
I laughed. “Shall I answer?”
“Please do.”
I held up three fingers. “I like women. It would be impossible for any man who likes women to find you repulsive.”
“So that leaves us at number two?”
The barmaid brought our pints, saving me from answering. How honest should I be? Should I tell her about Mireille? What would she think of me? In love with my best friend’s wife?”
The barmaid hurried off to take care of another customer.
Diana sipped from her beer, watching me.
She expected an answer. “How shall I explain it, other than to say I’m the unfortunate type when it comes to romantic love. Unrequited and all that.”
Both eyebrows shot up. “Tell me more.”
“The girl I’ve loved for years married my best friend.”
“Oh, dear. Well, that is bad. Poor darling.”
“They married right before I shipped out.”
“Is that the reason you bury yourself in the work here?” Diana asked.
“Partly. It hurts less when I’m too busy to think about it.”
A burst of laughter came from a few men playing darts in a corner, their ratty coats draped over the backs of chairs.
“What about you?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. “Do you have someone?”
“No. I’ve never considered myself the marrying kind. I keep my distance, for the most part.”
“Why is that?”
“I find most people boring if you want to know the truth. The idea of sitting around with a needlepoint and endless cups of tea made me want to poke my eyes out.”
“That seems rather dramatic.”
She laughed. “I’ve always had a flair for drama, according to my mother anyway. The way I grew up, living first in Paris and then in Berlin, I had a full and exciting life. One that allowed me to be curious and educated. My mother and father encouraged me to pursue academics. When we returned to England, I was seventeen and fluent in German and French. Father somehow got me admitted to Oxford, even though it’s rare for a woman. Before the war broke out, I’d hoped for a career in academia. Who knows what will happen to me after this is all over? As horrid as it all is, this work has given me purpose. I enjoy the stimulation. Working on a team. All of it.”
“The captain told me you started as his secretary.”
“That’s right. But I have a knack for decoding German. Perhaps from living there, I have an understanding the culture and mentality of the people more so than others. I can decipher nuances others can’t.”
“What was it like, spending your teenage years there?”
“Ordinary. I was just a girl, thinking and acting the way all girls do. I had friends and crushes and my studies. It’s strange to think that those people are now my enemy.”
“It’s not as simple as that, though, is it?” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, listening intently, mesmerized by her beauty and how articulate she was. Simply put, she was extraordinary.
“No, it’s not,” Diana said. “Humans are complex, flawed beings, susceptible to propaganda and power.”
The barmaid arrived with our pies. We each ordered another beer. After eating for a few minutes in silence, I encouraged Diana to tell me more. “When you were in Germany, were you aware of what was going on politically? The rise of the Nazis?”
“Yes, a little. By then, the Nazis were already taking over.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I can remember walking down Unter den Linden—how grand it all seemed. But the flags. They were everywhere. Red and black, flapping in the wind like they owned the city.”
She paused, tracing the rim of her glass with her finger. “At first, I didn’t understand it all. To a teenager, it was just noise. The speeches, the parades, the shouting. But then you start to notice the little things. Friends disappearing from school. Shops closing overnight. Whispers that stopped the moment you walked into a room. Notices in shop windows. Names no longer listed in the phone directory. At first, it was easy to ignore, or at least pretend it wasn’t happening. But then the signs went up, bold as anything. ‘No Jews Allowed.’” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “They weren’t exactly subtle.”
I set my drink down, my stomach tightening. “How old were you at that point?”
“Fifteen. I was in school—Berlin’s finest private academy, filled with the daughters of diplomats and businessmen. And then, one day, they weren’t there anymore. The Jewish girls, I mean. The ones I’d sat next to in class, traded books with, and giggled with over schoolgirl nonsense. Gone. Just like that.”
“What happened to them?” I asked though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
She shook her head. “Some emigrated if they could afford to. Others… I don’t know. And the rest of us, we learned to keep our heads down. To avoid asking questions.” Her fingers tightened around her glass. “My father always knew, of course. He didn’t speak to me about it then, thinking I was too young. I kind of wish he had, though. It would have been better to understand more about what was really happening. As the days went on, he grew more and more grim. And gaunt. He’d sit at the table after supper poring over reports. He and my mother had endless conversations about whether they should put in for a transfer. He didn’t want to leave, though. He thought he could make a difference.”
“Is that why you didn’t leave sooner?” I asked.
“That’s right. He took his diplomatic duty as seriously as his wedding vows.” She shook her head, a shadow crossing her face. “But by 1936, even he couldn’t justify staying. He could see that he could not stop it, no matter what information he sent back to England. Once the Nuremberg Laws were passed, it wasn’t just whispers anymore. It was law. Ones that stripped Jewish people of their rights, their dignity, their humanity. Jewish businesses shut down overnight. Teachers and doctors were banned from their professions. Mixed marriages annulled by decree. It’s hard to explain the horror of those days.”
She glanced away, staring into the fire. “My parents had friends—close friends—who were Jewish. One of them, Herr Goldberg, owned a bookstore down the street from us. My mother used to take me there on weekends. It was the kind of place that smelled like ink and leather, and he’d always known just the book to suggest. After the Nuremberg Laws, we walked by one day, and the windows were smashed. A sign said, ‘Jüdisches Gesch?ft.’ A Jewish business. My mother broke down right there on the street. I’ll never forget the fear and sadness in her eyes. We never saw him again. He disappeared, like so many others. I hoped he’d slipped out of the city at night, heading for Switzerland or Holland. But deep down, I knew the odds weren’t in his favor.”
The fire crackled again, breaking the silence that followed her words.
“As an American, it’s hard to imagine,” I said. “Not that we don’t have our injustices. They’re just more covert. Or maybe not.” I thought about segregation in our Southern states. The signs were pretty clear there, too.
“That’s why this work’s so important.” Her gaze met mine. “Because I saw it happen. Just out of nowhere. When we weren’t paying attention, I saw what hate can do when it goes unchecked. Anyway, my father requested a transfer to Paris, citing political instability.” Her gaze dropped to her lap. “He hated himself for it—leaving when so many couldn’t. But my mother insisted. She said it wasn’t just about duty anymore. It was about survival.”
“Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if you’d stayed?” I asked.
“All the time.” She wrapped her hand around her pint. Left-handed. I’d not noticed that before. I’d not noticed a lot of things about this remarkable woman.
“I think about the neighbors we left behind, the ones who smiled at us in the stairwell but wouldn’t meet our eyes by the time we left. My German teacher, Frau Adler, who stopped coming to school one day, and no one talked about why. I loved her.” Diana took a long sip of her drink before continuing. “And I think about the Jewish kids who didn’t get to leave.” Her gaze lifted to look me directly in the eyes. “So if you have any doubt about why you’re here and the work you’re doing, don’t. We have to try. That’s all we can do.”
I thought about that for a moment, ashamed of myself for all the self-pity and fixation on a woman I couldn’t have when people had suffered to such a horrible degree.
“You’re remarkable. Do you know that?” I asked.
She flushed, the fierceness in her eyes softening. “I’m not. Not really. I just know more and, therefore, should do more.”
“Still. Remarkable.”
“It feels good to talk about it. Especially with you. You’re a good listener, Peter Westbrook.”
“I’m a journalist by trade. That’s my real job. To observe and listen. It’s my privilege to hear your perspective and experience. I hate to admit that I sometimes lose focus on what we’re really doing here.”
“You miss home. Who could blame you for that?” Diana asked. “What was it like for you, growing up as you did?”
I told her about my idyllic childhood and Betsy and my parents, explaining about my father’s good fortune in business. Finally, I told her of George and how he’d lost his parents and come to live with us. She poked and prodded for more information about Mireille, and I told her all of it. My yearning and disappointment. Loving George despite feeling envious.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I asked.
“Not at all. It sounds to me like you handled it all with dignity.” She pushed aside her empty plate and reached for her beer mug. “Tell me this, Mr. Westbrook—do you think you could fall in love with someone besides Mireille?”
“I certainly hope so.” I met her gaze, getting lost in her pretty eyes.
“Good. Because I don’t find you boring at all, you’re different than anyone I’ve ever met.”
I flushed, elated. “I don’t find you boring either.”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “You know, we’re not guaranteed tomorrow. We never are, but especially now. We could be bombed at any time. Killed by the enemy while sleeping or walking to work.”
“Thus?”
“Thus, if something good comes our way, we should take it. A warm body and all that. Even if one of us loves someone else.”
“Who is not mine to love. I accepted it the day she married George.”
“Leaving your heart free to love someone else?” Diana didn’t flinch as she peered at me with what my mother would say was a gaze too overt for a proper young lady. However, the woman across from me had a point. Life in usual circumstances was unpredictable. Life during war was dangerous. One should seize joy when one could.
“My heart feels quite free at the moment,” I said.
She grinned, dabbing at her bottom lip with a napkin. “Then take me home. Stay with me tonight.”
“I can’t think of one argument to counter that request.”
“You’re a wise man.”
And so we left together. I took her home to her small, cold apartment that she shared with another woman, who was already in her room asleep by the time we quietly entered and tiptoed to Diana’s bedroom to shut the door behind us.