The first thing I remember after that is a damp smell, like the smell of wet wool, and then a sweet smell, like hair cream. I looked for the radio, and I saw it ten feet farther away, sitting atop a small table. It was no longer hissing static; it was broadcasting a voice—a clear, high, British voice. There was a leather chair between me and the radio, and Jimmy was sitting in it, staring at me. I can’t say I was surprised to see him again. I was, however, surprised to be out of my basement room. I was, instead, in a dark living room. I knew, as you know in a dream, that I was a long way from home. I knew that I was in London, England.
The boy greeted me happily, in a familiar voice. “You’re finally here then, eh, Johnny?”
“I’m where?”
“My house, mate. Where do you think?”
“I have no idea. I can hardly see.”
“You’ll get used to it in a minute. Everything’s darkened for the blackout. Old Canby’ll get you if there’s a crack of light showing outside.”
Jimmy then pointed at the radio. “Lord Haw-Haw said there’s terrific looting going on in London, but don’t you believe it. It just ain’t true. My dad and me are out there every day, and there ain’t no looting going on at all. If there were, I expect my dad’d bring home something nice for us, eh?”
I looked around the small room. Aside from Jimmy’s chair, a leather wing chair in the Queen Anne style, there was a couch with an ill-fitting cloth thrown over it and a dark wood sideboard with pictures, knickknacks, and military stuff on top.
“Lord Haw-Haw said the King is hiding out in Scotland with the crown jewels, ready to make a run for it. He said that Churchill and Roosevelt take their orders from the Jewish financiers. Do you know if any of that’s true, Johnny?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I did pick up on one name. “Roosevelt? Do you mean FDR?”
“Yeah. That’s him. FDR. There’s a song about him: ‘Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt Jones.’ Do you know it?”
“No.”
The boy reached over and turned the dial. “Do you listen to the radio?”
“I just started.”
“How about the news, then? You listen to that, don’t you?”
“No. Not really.”
Jimmy’s face registered surprise. He had a very expressive face—his eyebrows raised and lowered; his eyes winked; his lips smiled or frowned. “Well, at five-forty-two each night, on the BBC, is ‘London Calling.’ It’s special announcements, news, and the like. The BBC’s saying that Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square have surface shelters now. And they’ve dug trenches for bomb shelters in Hyde Park.”
“Bomb shelters?”
“Yeah. And they’re crating up the statues all over London for the duration of the war.”
“The war?”
“Yeah. Seems like a good idea, don’t it? They already crated up Eros and hauled him off. But old Nelson’s still in Trafalgar Square, and Richard the Lion Heart’s still outside Parliament.”
As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the room was so dark because the windows had been taped over with cardboard. That gave the room an eerie feel, like we were sitting inside a box. The front wall had a wood door to the left side and a small window in the middle. The right wall had a sports schedule taped to it with a drawing of a soccer ball and the words Arsenal Football Club Official Programme, 1938–9.
I turned to look at the wall behind me. It had a poster taped to it, too, with a drawing of a British soldier. Behind him was a map of Europe that was dotted with white surrender flags. The soldier looked sweaty and beaten up, but very purposeful. The words he spoke were set below him, in large yellow letters: VERY WELL THEN, ALONE!
I pointed to it. “What does that mean?”
“What? The poster?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s obvious. Look at it. That’s a sergeant in the Dukes Regiment, the British regulars. He’s saying that we’re gonna go it alone against Germany. Don’t have much choice, do we? The Dutch, the Norwegians, the Belgians—they’ve all given up the fight. You see the white flags stuck into their countries?”
I stared at the poster. “Yeah.”
“The Frogs only lasted six days against Hitler. Well, we British will last for six years if we have to. That’s what my dad says. Hitler will never beat us. We’re tougher than he is any day.”
Jimmy got up from his chair, full of patriotic enthusiasm. I hadn’t noticed before how small he was. He had very thin arms and legs, wavy brown slicked-back hair, and a crooked smile. “Come here, Johnny. Look at this.” He led me to the sideboard and held up three military medals. “These are my granddad’s. My dad’s dad, James Harker. He won them in the Great War, serving with the Dukes.”
I walked over to join him, and I took the medals in hand.
“We’re from Yorkshire. Three generations of James Harkers. Yorkshire’s where they recruit for the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, the Dukes. Always have. We’re the lads that beat Napoleon at Waterloo. Eighteenth of June, 1815.”
I laid the medals back on the sideboard, and that’s when I saw the book. It was a Bible studies textbook with pictures and stories, and questions answered in black ink. It was opened to a picture that I knew well: Rembrandt’s Abraham and Isaac. I sputtered, “What? What is that doing here?”
“What? The Bible studies? That’s my homework, isn’t it? Mrs. Lane will be popping round to make sure I’m doing it.”
“Do you know that painting?”
Jimmy studied it for a moment. “I know it now.”
“They have this same painting at my school; it’s one of the Rembrandts. Do you know Rembrandt?”
“Everybody knows Rembrandt, don’t they?”
I stared at the book silently, shaking my head. Then I walked over and sat heavily on the old couch. I finally said, “You don’t live here alone, right? Who lives with you? That Mrs. Lane?”
“No. She lives next door with her husband, Bill. He’s my dad’s mate.”
“Your dad? He lives here?”
Jimmy smiled brightly. “Of course he does. Where else would he live?”
“What about your mother?”
His smile faded. “My mum died a year ago, of pneumonia. It’s just Dad and me now, but he’s like me mum and dad combined. He’s really brilliant like that.”
Jimmy pulled a metal license from his pocket. He held it out to show me the words engraved on it. “I had a dog named Reg, too, but he got put down.”
“What does that mean?”
“Put down? It’s, like, killed. Mercy killing.”
“No! What for?”
“For the war. What else? They all got put down. All the dogs; all the cats. People figured there’d be no food to feed them and the dogs would start barking when the Germans came, maybe give away a hiding place. They killed all the animals in the zoos, too, didn’t they?”
Jimmy pointed at the sports poster. “Dad and me were at the football match today—Arsenal and Fulham. Do you fancy football?”
“Football? British football, right? Soccer?”
“My dad likes the Spurs; I like the Gunners.”
“You like who?”
“Arsenal Gunners. They’re the best, mate. Do you know them?”
“No. I don’t watch sports. I don’t play them, either.”
“I watch ’em and play ’em. And I listen to them on the radio, but not tonight.” Jimmy walked over to the Philco 20 Deluxe and switched the channel. The droning voice faded away and was replaced by big band pop music. He turned toward me. “Do you like Anne Shelton, Johnny?”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“She was a real favorite of Mum’s. Dad and me like Vera Lynn better.”
“I don’t know who she is, either.”
Jimmy’s face again registered surprise. “Come on, now. She sang with Burt Ambrose? Now she’s got her own radio show for the soldiers. She sings ‘Wishing Will Make It So.’ ”
“No. Sorry.”
r /> Jimmy shrugged. “Your loss, mate.”
I heard a soft rap on the front door. Jimmy and I both watched it open slowly, revealing a young woman and a middle-aged man.
The woman stepped into the room first. She was thin and very blond. She pointed at the sideboard and asked, in a high, squeaky voice, “Have you done your Bible lessons, then, Jimmy?”
Jimmy answered quickly. “I have, Mrs. Lane.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You know, if you haven’t, your dad’ll box your ears.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The man was much older than the woman, about twice her age. He wore a helmet over what appeared to be a bald head. His coat bore an armband and a silver badge that said ARP WARDEN. He looked around carefully, with a critical eye.
“Tell your dad for me that I can see light coming through that front door. He’ll need to do a proper job of taping that.”
“I will, Mr. Canby.”
“And he should hang a curtain inside the door, from the ceiling, for when you’re going in or out. The Wardens’ Service calls that a ‘light lock.’ ”
“Yes, Mr. Canby.”
“If you don’t, you’ll have to turn out all lights before you even go near the door.”
Mrs. Lane looked at the radio and then at Jimmy. “Who’s that playing now?”
Jimmy told her, “That’s Geraldo, isn’t it?”
“What’s the song?”
“ ‘It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow.’ ”
Alice Lane turned to the man. “Geraldo’s at the Savoy Hotel, Mr. Canby. I’d fancy seeing him someday, but my Bill won’t take me.”
Canby smiled a discolored smile. “You should join the wardens, Mrs. Lane. I could take you there on an inspection.” He took out a small metal flask and handed it to her.
Alice Lane took a long drink from it, grimaced, and laughed. “I bet you could.” She walked back to the front door and opened it. “The gossip is that you and the other wardens have a great orgy going on. Is that right?”
She stepped through the door into the utter darkness; Canby followed. “Well, Mrs. Lane, I don’t know about the others . . .”
Alice Lane called back from the street, “You stay here now, Jimmy.”
Jimmy stared for a moment at the door. “That’s Mrs. Alice Lane. She likes her gin and It, don’t she?”
“Her what?”
“Gin and It. Her drink. Her liquor.”
“What’s ‘It’?”
“It? It’s Italian vermouth, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
Jimmy pulled a rubber-and-canvas contraption out of a drawer in the sideboard. He held it up to me and explained, “Gas mask, Johnny. Canby’ll stop me if I don’t have it. He’s a real bollocks, that Canby. My dad said being a warden’s gone to his head. His bald head. Let’s get going.”
I thought of the pitch-blackness beyond the door. “Where? Going where?”
“Going out, mate.”
“Out in the dark?”
“Yeah, out in the dark, you great girl, you. We got someplace to go.”
I didn’t move. “Where?”
“The American Embassy.”
That got me to stand up. “The American Embassy? In London?”
Jimmy laughed. “That’s the one. Yeah.”
“Why? Why are we going there?”
Jimmy raised his shoulders and his eyebrows in unison. He held them up comically for a moment. But then he dropped the pose and told me, very seriously, “I’m not sure, Johnny. I know that I have to take you there, and that’s all.”
I nodded nervously. “Yeah. Okay. And I know that I’m dreaming.”
Jimmy answered thoughtfully, “Do you? Did you ever have a dream like this before?”
“No,” I admitted.
Then his smile returned. “All right, then. Let’s be off. I want to catch my dad before he leaves his post.”
I followed him to the door. “Your dad works there?”
“Yeah, for now. Him and Bill Lane. They’re with the Auxiliaries.”
“Auxiliaries? Like police officers?”
“No. Firefighters.”
Jimmy pushed open the door to what could have been the end of the earth, or deepest space. To my eyes it was total blackness, but he walked out into it as if it were midday. I hesitated, but I didn’t want to lose him, so I ran out, too.
Jimmy was a mere phantom ahead of me. I hissed, “Wait up!”
He stopped and turned. “Don’t worry, Johnny. It’s all right. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to you.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Don’t be afraid of nothing. That’s what my dad says to me, so I’m not. I’m not afraid of nothing.”
I, however, was afraid of a lot of things, including the dark. But Jimmy spoke calmly, even lightly. “Dad’ll get a laugh out of that. Canby said he didn’t black out the door properly. He’ll say that old Canby can’t do nothin’ properly, and he’ll be right.” We crossed the street. Jimmy pointed through the gloom at a structure barely visible ten feet in front of us. It was a one-story brick building, like a public lavatory. “There’s some of his handiwork.”
“Whose?”
“Canby’s, Johnny. Aren’t you listening? That’s a surface shelter. The government hired contractors to build them all over London, so Canby figured he’d cash in. He built that one, tore it down, and built it again.”
After that, I only remember fleeting images as Jimmy guided me through the blacked-out city. A bus passed us with its headlights covered, throwing a small arc of light in front of it. A big balloon floated overhead, like something out of the Macy’s Parade.
I pointed up. “What’s that thing?”
Jimmy smiled his crooked smile. “That’s old Bessie. She’s a barrage balloon. Keeps the German planes from coming in low.”
We stumbled along, tripping over sandbags that clogged store entrances, smelling smoke from distant fires, occasionally passing other phantoms.
I looked up, trying to figure out where the rooftops ended and the night sky and the smoke clouds began. I said, “This is London, right?”
“Right.”
“What year is it?”
“It’s 1940, Johnny. The eighth of September, to be exact.”
“So this is World War Two?”
“It’s war, all right. Us against the Gerries.”
“The Gerries. The Germans?”
“Right.”
“The United States is not at war?”
“The Yanks? Not hardly. They’re too afraid to fight, aren’t they?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What?”
“My dad says you’re all playboys over there. You won’t fight for nothing. And it ain’t just him says it, either.”
“That’s not true!”
“I’m afraid it is, Johnny. It’s just us against Gerry.” Jimmy jerked his thumb skyward. “Gerry came at us during the Arsenal match today, up in White Hart Lane. Don’t that beat all? We was all watching the match, and Arsenal was beating Fulham: beating ’em soundly, mate.” He broke off to laugh. “Bill Lane already got throwed out of the stadium. You know why?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I asked, “Why?”
Jimmy sniggered. “He threw a dart at a linesman. For making a bad call, you know? Hit ’im right in the arse.”
“That’s your dad’s mate?”
“Right. Bill was a footballer himself. He’s a big bloke. My dad says he’s a good fellow most of the time, but he’s all talk and no action. My dad’s just the opposite. He’s not much talk, but he’ll have a go at anyone, anytime. You’ll meet him soon.”
My eyes were finally adjusting to the dark. I could make out some of the city buildings around us. I was even getting less scared.
Jimmy picked up the story. “So! Suddenly, twenty minutes into the second half, the air-raid sirens went off! Dad and me, and all of us, had to run for cover. They even let Bill Lane back in
, for safety reasons, but they never did resume play. They called the rest of the match on account of bombing! But the Gunners got the win, five–nil, so I didn’t mind.”
Soon we turned in to a park, and I saw a large, familiar building looming ahead of us. I knew it from photos in our basement and in Grandfather Mehan’s study. I cried out, “That’s the American Embassy!”
“Right you are, Johnny.” Jimmy pointed to two men standing like sentinels. They wore helmets like Canby’s, but theirs had LONDON AFS written on the front. They both wore high rubber boots and uniform jackets with buttons running up the middle. Some sort of telephone box stood behind them, a simple wooden cabinet wired into the ground. Jimmy waved happily, though we were too far away for them to see. “There’s my dad! And Bill.”
When we got close enough, the smaller man spotted Jimmy, and his face fell into a disapproving frown. “Jimmy Harker, what are you doing out here?” He was a short, fit man with bright blue eyes and sandy hair. He seemed very young: younger-looking than Margaret. The man with him was tall and powerfully built. He had a square jaw and angry, troubled eyes. I figured, correctly, that he was Bill Lane.
The smaller man spoke again, with anger in his voice. “You’re supposed to be at home, Jimmy, doing your Bible studies. It’s dangerous being out here.”
“But you’re out here, Dad.”
“I got to be.” Jimmy and I stopped in front of them. “It’s my job to keep you safe. So you get back to Mrs. Lane. You hear?”
Bill Lane expressed his opinion. “I expect if he catches a bomb, James, he’s better off being outside than in some brick-and-mortar house. You don’t stand a chance in one of those. You’re better off in the street.”
“Don’t scare the boy, Bill.”
“I ain’t scaring him. You ain’t afraid of bombs, are you, Jimmy?”
“No, Bill, I ain’t afraid of nothing.”
“Good lad.”
Jimmy pointed to me. “And neither’s my mate here.”
“Your mate?” Bill Lane looked at me. “Oh? Right. Who’s your mate, then?”
“Johnny. Johnny’s his name. He’s a Yank.”
“Is that right? A Yank? Is he paying your way round the nightclubs, then? Spending all his American dollars?”
“Yeah, that’s it, Bill.”