Authors: Jessica Francis Kane
Just before 9:00 p.m. on Saturday, March 27, James Low told Sarah he was going for a pint. He kissed her on the cheek (only later did she register how he’d lingered), left the house, walked to Bethnal Green Gardens, and hanged himself from a tree near a trench he’d helped dig. He was found an hour later by Constable Henderson, too late once again.
It was the time of night when the sky, in wide-open places, seems to grow both higher and more inclusive, and Henderson looked up past the body and offered a muddled hope that Low was somewhere above the broken world. The thought was faltering and strange for him. He rubbed his forehead, cut Low down, and carried him home.
In very short time, word spread and friends came to help, including Clare, who administered a tranquilizer to Sarah and stayed through the night. The coroner, a kind man who thought Low innocent, recorded the death as a massive cerebral infarction, a significant stoppage of the flow of oxygen from the blood to the brain. He saw no need to specify what had caused the stoppage.
The death thus ruled an act of God, Rev. McNeely, who had been planning to baptize Ada’s baby, found himself the next morning preparing for a funeral. He cried when he heard the news, certain of two things: that Low had died of grief and that his minister had failed him. God promised to take away the sin of the world, but what about the suffering? What were they supposed to do with it? He shook violently while trying to iron his vestments and burned his hand.
Dozens of people followed the funeral carriage, but Bill Steadman ran ahead to gather more. He knocked on doors and windows, his heart giving him no trouble. Constable Henderson and Secretary Ross were among the pallbearers. At the church, Clare Newbury sat with Low’s widow. Ada Barber cradled the new baby on her lap, and Tilly, who slid down in the pew as far as she could, looked at and spoke to no one.
Low’s friends had worked fast, organizing what they could: speakers, food, a few hymns. Not many could bear music, particularly singing. The human voice, its particular beauty, was too hard to reconcile with the horrors of the war. The church began to fill. People pressed themselves carefully into pews with strangers; others stood in the back and along the white walls. The flowers in the church had been placed for the baptism, lending a sweeter, more optimistic atmosphere to the affair, which began at one o’clock in the south close of St. John’s.
Several of Low’s former wardens spoke during the service, briefly but well. Ross described Low’s impatience with those who tired of helping others. Steadman remembered him as a younger man, organizing charity drives, always collecting and distributing goods to those less fortunate. Constable Henderson wanted to speak but had drunk heavily the night before and was still taking sips from a flask in his pocket. Certain that drinking in church was a sin, he sat in the pew, miserable and dizzy, feeling more and more convinced that his own end was not far off.
Rev. McNeely lost his voice on several occasions, dabbing at his eyes each time with bandaged fingers and a scorch-marked cuff. During the eulogy he told a story about the eighteenth-century composer Joseph Haydn. The congregation knew McNeely was a lover of music, so this reference did not confuse them. His intended meaning, however, was another matter. During the first performance of Haydn’s Symphony no. 102, McNeely said, a portion of the audience got up and moved to the edge of the stage in order to be closer to the great composer. Just then a large chandelier fell from the ceiling, landing on the empty seats. Not a single person was hurt.
“Was Haydn responsible?” he cried.
No one answered.
“If they hadn’t moved, would Haydn have been blamed?”
The congregation stirred uncomfortably.
“For Christ’s sake,” McNeely whispered, gripping the pulpit.
People turned to their neighbors. “What?” they whispered. “What did he say?”
McNeely shook his head like a broken horse—later, the rumor was that he’d been drinking; indeed, all the pubs had been crowded for days—and stuck to the prayer book for the rest of the service. He chose readings from Lamentations and Job. It was a mild afternoon, the temperature rising, the sky clear. He looked up once after the Commendation and saw the congregation bathed in sunlight. The air, even inside the church, seemed to promise spring.
Herbert Morrison, it was said, sent flowers, though later no one could remember receiving them.
Laurie, rushing in at the end of the service, bumped into Constable Henderson, who told him the truth about Low’s death before he could think better of it. Laurie, however, did not return the favor. He told everyone with whom he spoke, even McNeely, that the report was coming soon. Just a matter of administrative delays, he said, because he believed it. He had a plan. He was going to meet with the prime minister himself.
And he might have done so except that upon arriving home he found Armorel sitting at the table in the dining room, a square envelope in front of her, just a bit too far away, as if pushed.
“It’s addressed to you,” she said.
Correct protocol for the notification of death in action: widow, eldest surviving son, eldest surviving daughter, father, mother. Andrew had not married, did not have children. Later, Laurie would wonder what it felt like to be informed of the death of a child by a grandchild, as it must have happened for so many during the war. But for him the notification came directly, and he read aloud the short, formal expression of regret from the army to Armorel in their dining room. The envelope also contained a brief report from the War Office of the details surrounding Andrew’s death, a courtesy because of Laurie’s position as a magistrate. German shelling had trapped the boy in southern Italy when his unit was moving positions. He’d gone back to retrieve supplies, and a building near him collapsed. No one knew his location, and he would have been abandoned but for a sentinel who heard his groans and rescued him. Andrew was on the mend when an infection set in. He died of sepsis before they could move him to more stable medical quarters. He would be awarded a posthumous medal for bravery.
As Laurie and Armorel tried to imagine these things, the unadorned facts of their son’s last days, a golden afternoon turned into a clear night. At some point the alert sounded, but, as Georgina had recovered and returned to Bond Street and Andrew was dead, Laurie and Armorel had no one to keep safe. They heard planes in the distance but didn’t move. Soon the all clear came. A minor raid.
When it was long past time for bed, Armorel said, “Cassino.”
“What?”
“That’s what the RAF wants us to do next. They must have been heading there.” She shook her head. “Elizabeth’s sewing again,” she said, and she and Laurie stared at each other, Laurie wondering what they might learn after the war, when more details could be released, Armorel how anyone found a way to live, let alone work, with the pain she felt in her chest.
Laurie picked up the report of his son’s death and read it again.
“I imagine Tilly is referring to the fact that Ada Barber pushed the first woman to fall.”
Paul stared. “What?”
Dunne closed his eyes. “I believe that was the start of it.”
“That’s not in the report,” Paul said defensively.
“But I’m afraid it’s true.”
“Was it ever in the report? Was it in some version I haven’t seen?”
“No.”
“But you wrote you couldn’t determine the start of it. What are you talking about?”
“I never knew Ada adopted a child afterward,” Dunne said calmly. “It’s meant a great deal to me to find that out. I wish I’d known a long time ago.”
Paul stared. “Why wasn’t this in the report?”
“I didn’t believe she was to blame.”
“The report starts with a woman falling, but it never says who she is or how she fell.” Paul shook his head. “Somewhere later you say very specifically that you could not determine the cause of her fall.”
“Listen.” It was neither a command nor a plea but something exactly in between. “The whole area would have erupted. I didn’t believe Ada was a bad woman.” He raised his eyebrows at Paul as if to say, Isn’t that true? “The crush was not about the Jews.”
Paul shook his head again. “How did you find out? How do you know this?”
“There was evidence at the time.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Testimony.”
“One source?”
“More than one, I believe.”
Paul stood up and walked to the windows. Growing up, he’d known Ada’s flaws, but also her devotion. He tried to picture what Dunne was telling him, the busy, flustered mother he remembered, doing such a thing.
“In the report you never even mention that the woman—pushed or not—was a refugee.” Paul’s thoughts were gaining momentum. “Why?”
“It would have caused a great deal of trouble.”
“Trouble? What do you mean?”
“I did not think it was information the city could have handled at the time.”
“Or maybe you thought it wasn’t important enough. Regrettable, maybe, but—”
“That’s not right.”
“—but not important enough to be included in the report, because she was a Jew.”
“Now, stop. You are wrong about that. The people needed a report, not a judgment. I didn’t want to deliver a scapegoat.”
Paul thought a moment, then spoke slowly. “Would you have written the report the same way if the women’s places had been reversed?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” Paul straightened himself and raised his chin, both an imitation of Dunne and a gesture that managed to suggest the class and generational gulfs between them. “ ‘Where are you from?’ ” he mimicked, an echo of Dunne. “ ‘Barber. It’s a common name.’ ” He slouched, and his usual voice returned. “And how do you know the truth wouldn’t have spurred the government to do something sooner about the refugee problem?”
“There was no refugee problem! It would only have spurred them to block more from coming.” Dunne stood, angry now. “It was the right thing to do at the time. Over the years I’ve received letters from survivors and children of survivors, and many of them express a deep gratitude for the report’s approach.”
“And the others?”
Dunne stared.
“Some must have dissented.”
“Unanimity has never been the public’s strength.” Paul waited, and Laurie calmed himself with effort. “I reject the kind of answer only blame can bring. I pity those who felt—maybe still feel—the report fails because it doesn’t blame anyone. They are the ones who haven’t been able to put the incident behind them.”
Paul spoke quietly. “With hindsight, would you change anything if you could?”
“You know what I say about hindsight?” Dunne said. “It’s no kind of sight. Don’t talk to me about hindsight. That’s not what this is about. This is about a secret being held long enough, a good deed lost to history.”
Paul’s eyes went wide. “I see. Your good deed. You want to tell your side of it now, let people know what you did back in the war.”
Dunne smiled. “Don’t forget. I never answered your letters. You came to my door. Ever since, I’ve been wondering what kept Ada from telling me. Fear, I think, which is a shame. I would have been happy for her. I would have told her that I always wanted to believe people weren’t as bad as the worst thing they do.”
“Maybe it wasn’t fear that kept her away.”
Dunne tilted his head with interest.
“Maybe she simply didn’t need your blessing.”
Dunne squinted. “No, but she needed my protection, didn’t she?”
Paul shrugged.
“The only thing your documentary audience will be thinking about when they watch your film, Mr. Barber, is whether the report writer one day assigned to their tragedy will get the story right. Everyone wants to be an exception.”
Dunne sat and leaned into the back of his chair. He was perspiring and looked exhausted. “Let it be said I did not run. I’ve fought public opinion before; I can fight it again.” He drummed his fingers against his leg. “Have you ever been angling?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“I believed you,” Dunne said.
“I never actually said I was an angler.”
Dunne thought a moment. “Yes, I think that’s right. Well, we could go tomorrow. We could meet at the club, if you like.”
Paul didn’t answer. He glanced at his watch.
“I have always been sorry about the warden, Low,” Dunne said, his measured tone revealing that he was answering Paul’s last question now. “He held himself so damn accountable. That was a tragedy I never intended.”
When Paul still didn’t say anything, Dunne seemed to deflate. He spoke softly. “I have studied a plan of the shelter many, many times since 1943.” He shook his head. “Look, I hope it can be said we don’t regret the roles history has afforded us?”
“No, though I—” Paul was about to say that he wasn’t sure yet what role history had in mind for him when he remembered something. “The first woman to fall was carrying a baby.”
“Yes.”
“Who survived, supposedly. How old?”
“Like you,” Laurie said. “Born during the war.”
“But Ada couldn’t have known. There were seven orphans. She didn’t know which—” Paul didn’t finish.
Dunne shrugged, a gesture that looked young and strange on him, but he seemed pleased with it. “I’ve been wondering how.”
Without giving Dunne a chance to say more, Paul left.
In the hall he stopped to catch his breath. He stood before the quilt he’d passed many times, so dark and textured. Had it ever covered a bed? He couldn’t imagine it. Dunne turned up the television; Paul could hear the pock-pocking of Wimbledon. He wondered who was winning: the good American or the unpredictable Romanian? He covered his eyes and pressed back tears. Had Dunne been playing him from the start? And Tilly? Did she know which baby he was?
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and dried his eyes. “Either way, doesn’t matter.” That was what he would believe. And what was certainly true: he had his film.
After the funeral service for Warden Low, Ada stayed in her pew. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms, and she couldn’t bear to disturb him. It was supposed to be his christening day, and she thought someone should remember that. She glanced up at the altar but couldn’t bring herself to pray. She touched the soft, white linen above his wrist. It was the same dress the girls had worn.
Gradually the rest of the congregation left. St. John’s popped and creaked, settling again after its latest disturbance, another wartime funeral. Somewhere Ada heard the sound of a broom. Outside, a few children were playing, and their voices echoed in the great space of the church as if from many miles and years away. When the nave was empty but for her and the baby, she noticed a bird, a magpie, resting on one of the rafters above the pulpit. Sparrows often flew in and usually made it safely back out again, but she’d never seen a magpie inside. When she looked more carefully, she saw that this one was working on a nest, a bit of paper in its beak. It hopped once, twice. They eyed each other. Then Ada glanced all around. She searched the whole church with her eyes, every shadowy corner, but couldn’t find the nest or a mate.
The baby stirred, and Ada pressed her cheek to his head. Surviving some disasters, she sensed, you don’t get to be happy again. You simply change, and then you decide if you can live with the change.