her lipstick. “Do you really think when you’re promoted to Oberstleutnant that we’ll be posted to Berlin, Reinhold? I’d love to spend a few years there.”
“There’s a good chance of it. We’ll find out soon, so keep your ears open at the reception and do your best to flatter Scheidler. He’s close to Himmler and he’s the one deciding which Austrians to send on the new Reich Senior Security Officer’s Course. That’s the route to promotion, especially now that war has been declared.”
* * *
AMSTERDAM WAS BASKING in the midst of a glorious late autumn warm spell, and to Annika Hammerstein it seemed that all the city’s young men and women were out this evening. Throngs of them in shirtsleeves and pretty summer frocks ambled aimlessly along the pathway beside the Prinsengracht Canal. She gave up trying to ride her bicycle, and in an aggressive stop-and-go manner pushed it determinedly through the crowds.
It was already a quarter to the hour. She had to be home by eight to take her husband, Saul, to a surprise birthday gathering at his sister’s. Tonight she was flustered. She was running behind schedule; twice she had almost had her violin case knocked from her bicycle’s basket. Annika’s string quartet had been late in starting practice and they were late ending. They could have used more rehearsal time. It bothered her that the quartet’s interpretation of Allessandrini’s “Eighth Sonata” was nowhere near ready for their recital in two days time at the Institute.
But, as she told herself so frequently when she felt frustrated, she was a practical woman. She could cope with whatever hardships and anxieties life had in store for her. At thirty-four, she had weathered more than her share of misery and sorrow. When she became gloomy or impatient, she reminded herself that she had lived through hardships that were much more difficult. In her teens, she had been the sole support for her mother through a long fatal illness. And after her mother’s death, she had, entirely with her own resources, gone on to finish her degree with first-class honours in modern languages and music.
Now, she was a lecturer and research assistant in the Music Conservatory at the University of Amsterdam.
Annika was a thoughtful woman, and grateful for having been born and raised in a level-headed, comfortable, and safe country like the Netherlands. The rest of the world looked like it was once again in the process of disintegration, but thankfully this tiny oasis of neutrality and common sense would once more keep itself isolated from whatever calamities the rest of humanity was foolishly preparing for itself.
She wheeled her bicycle around a handsome blond couple in their early twenties. Both of them had their heads thrown back, laughing together at some private absurdity. In a way, she envied them. Not that she wasn’t happy with Saul, but this couple so obviously had their whole future before them. They would probably spend the rest of their lives enjoying this comfortable, civilized lifestyle and raise a family together. It seemed that Saul and she would never have a child now. For the last year this had been a source of wrenching unhappiness; sometimes, even the sight of happy couples without children brought this deep-rooted anguish to the surface.
It all seemed so unfair. She and Saul had overcome so much together. Theirs was a mixed marriage: she was a Christian, he was a Jew. Relatives on both sides had been aghast when they announced their intention to wed. For Annika, it was less of a problem than it had been for Saul. Annika was an only child and both her parents were dead, so she had fewer upset relations to deal with. There was of course her cousin Margrethe in The Hague, who had written her a long, scolding, arrogant letter, but she had ignored both the letter and Margrethe. Things were different for Saul. The Hammersteins were a large and close family. Many of them were not happy that Saul had flouted their traditions and their wishes, and married a gentile. Still, Saul and Annika had their own circle of friends, and tonight a number of Saul’s younger relatives as well as their mutual friends had quietly chosen to ignore their elders’ concerns. Even so, for two otherwise gregarious people, it meant now that their lives were effectively restricted to a smaller circle of close relatives and friends than would otherwise have been the case.
Although Holland was, by European standards, a very tolerant country, it wasn’t the same as being an accepting country. Not a day went by without both Annika and Saul being made in some small and painful way aware of that unpleasant fact.
Annika became more aggressive pushing her bike forward through the crowds. No point in wallowing in self-pity. What else was life if it wasn’t a series of obstacles to overcome? She felt a surge of energy. She wasn’t going to be late for something as simple as a birthday party.
3
London, 9 December 1939
“GENTLEMEN, THANK YOU for coming here today. I know that some of you have journeyed very long distances and that you have been given precious little explanation as to what is expected of you.”
Geoffrey Harris, a moustached and anxiously precise man dressed in the red collar tabs and khaki uniform of a British colonel, looked at the solemn faces staring back at him from around the government-issue oak table. The room was overheated and stifling. London’s late afternoon sunlight shone tenuously through dusty windows. Harris was doing his best to inject a sense of gravity into his briefing. His audience was a group of seven sceptical-looking middle-aged men dressed in conservative wool suits. The colonel was younger than most of the men before him, and he was conscious that the differences in their ages could stimulate resentment.
“I’d like to be able to tell you with some certainty how the war is likely to turn out, but, I’m afraid, any of your guesses are likely to be as good as those from the experts here in the War Office.” Harris had a deep, crisp voice with a penetrating timbre that could have brought him success as an actor. Today, however, he was speaking softly, almost inaudibly. It could be intensely irritating to those he was speaking to, but it was a ploy he used frequently to command attention.
“I’m afraid the problem we will soon be forced to come to grips with is that we shall have to prepare contingencies to deal with what happens when the war gets going in earnest. I think we’re in a period that we could safely call a phoney war. It’s true that we’re at war, but everyone is staying politely entrenched behind their lines and nobody is getting hurt. That situation isn’t going to last long.”
Harris turned away from his audience and looked out the window into London’s hazy, refracted sunshine. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and jingled loose change, waiting a second for effect. “There’s a small group here in London, soldiers and politicians, who believe that when things get nasty, as they inevitably will, we may well be pushed right out of Europe. That’s certainly our worst-case scenario, and it’s the one we have to plan for.” He exhaled loudly and wheeled about.
“Frankly, I also think being pushed off the continent is the most likely possibility. Jerry has an army that is much better trained than ours. He has the initiative, and he has been earnestly equipping, preparing, planning, and exercising for exactly this scenario for the past ten years. For some of you here, what I’m saying will come as no surprise whatsoever. That’s one of the reasons, amongst others, that we have asked you to join us.”
Four of the civilians sat forward in their chairs. Although most of them had considered the probability of abject defeat at the hands of the Germans, this was the first time they had heard it expressed officially. No one had been forthright in speaking about the possibility of looming catastrophe on the continent. This kind of talk wasn’t heard in the House of Commons, in the newspapers, or even in the pubs. The atmosphere in the room changed noticeably from scepticism to rapt attention. None of them spoke.
Harris nodded almost imperceptibly and then went on. “If that happens, the army we so hurriedly sent off to France on the outbreak of war might well be lost entirely. We’ve
