Winter of the World

She stopped and looked at him, cool as ever. ‘We’ve been obstructed by a gang of thugs,’ she said with disdain.

‘Still, you’re marching in the other direction now.’

‘One battle doesn’t make a war.’

That might be true, Lloyd thought; but it was a pretty big battle. ‘You’re not marching home with your boyfriend?’

‘I prefer to drive,’ she said. ‘And he’s not my boyfriend.’

Lloyd’s heart leaped in hope.

Then she said: ‘He’s my husband.’

Lloyd stared at her. He had never really believed that she would be so stupid. He was speechless.

‘It’s true,’ she said, reading the disbelief in his face. ‘Didn’t you see our engagement reported in the newspapers?’

‘I don’t read the society pages.’

She showed him her left hand, with a diamond engagement ring and a gold wedding band. ‘We were married yesterday. We postponed our honeymoon to join the march today. Tomorrow we’re flying to Deauville in Boy’s plane.’

She walked the few steps to the car and the chauffeur opened the door. ‘Home, please,’ she said.

‘Yes, my lady.’

Lloyd was so angry he wanted to hit someone.

Daisy looked back over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye, Mr Williams.’

He found his voice. ‘Goodbye, Miss Peshkov.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I’m Viscountess Aberowen now.’

She just loved saying it, Lloyd could tell. She was a titled lady, and it meant the world to her.

She got into the car and the chauffeur closed the door.

Lloyd turned away. He was ashamed to realize that he had tears in his eyes. ‘Hell,’ he said aloud.

He sniffed, swallowing tears. He squared his shoulders and headed back towards the East End at a brisk walk. Today’s triumph had been soured. He knew he was a fool to care about Daisy – clearly she did not care about him – but, all the same, it broke his heart that she was throwing herself away on Boy Fitzherbert.

He tried to put her out of his mind.

The police were getting back into their buses and leaving the scene. Lloyd had not been surprised by their brutality – he had lived in the East End all his life, and it was a rough neighbourhood – but their anti-Semitism had shocked him. They had called every woman a Jewish whore, every man a Jew bastard. In Germany the police had supported the Nazis and sided with the Brownshirts. Would they do the same here? Surely not!

The crowd at Gardiner’s Corner had begun to rejoice. The Jewish Lads’ Brigade band was playing a jazz tune for men and women to dance to, and bottles of whisky and gin were passed from hand to hand. Lloyd decided to go to the London Hospital and check on Millie. Then he should probably go to the Jewish Council headquarters and break the news to Bernie that Millie had been hurt.

Before he got any further he ran into Lenny Griffiths. ‘We sent the buggers packing!’ Lenny said excitedly.

‘We did, too.’ Lloyd grinned.

Lenny lowered his voice. ‘We beat the Fascists here, and we’re going to beat them in Spain, too.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Tomorrow. Me and Dave are catching a train to Paris in the morning.’

Lloyd put his arm around Lenny’s shoulders. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.

4

1937

Volodya Peshkov bent his head against the driving snow as he walked across the bridge over the Moscow River. He wore a heavy greatcoat, a fur hat, and a stout pair of leather boots. Few Muscovites were so well dressed. Volodya was lucky.

He always had good boots. His father, Grigori, was an army commander. Grigori was not a high-flyer: although he was a hero of the Bolshevik revolution and a personal acquaintance of Stalin, his career had stalled at some point in the twenties. All the same, the family had always lived comfortably.

Volodya himself was a high-flyer. After university he had got into the prestigious Military Intelligence Academy. A year later he had been posted to Red Army Intelligence headquarters.

His greatest piece of luck had been meeting Werner Franck in Berlin, while his father had been a military attaché at the Soviet Embassy there. Werner had been at the same school in a more junior class. Learning that young Werner hated Fascism, Volodya had suggested to him that he could best oppose the Nazis by spying for the Russians.

Werner had been only fourteen years old then, but he was now eighteen, he worked at the Air Ministry, he hated the Nazis even more, and he had a powerful radio transmitter and a code book. He was resourceful and courageous, taking dreadful risks and gathering priceless information. And Volodya was his contact.

Volodya had not seen Werner for four years, but he remembered him vividly. Tall with striking red-blond hair, Werner looked and acted older than he was, and even at fourteen he had been enviably successful with women.