Bill Lane smiled at me. “How do you do, Johnny? You two will be stepping out with the Brylcreem boys, then?”
Jimmy answered for us. “Yeah. I think we’ll go to the Savoy and hear Geraldo.”
“You do that. Yeah. Take Alice with you. That’ll shut her up.”
Jimmy turned to his father. “Dad, I was telling Johnny about Canby and the directions for building a surface shelter.”
James laughed quickly, followed by Bill.
Jimmy turned to include me. “The first surface shelter that Canby built was so dodgy it fell down before anyone ever got in it. Turns out he didn’t put no cement between the bricks. Know what Canby said?”
I looked from James to Bill to Jimmy. I answered, “No.”
“Canby said, serious as you please, ‘Why, the plans didn’t call for none.’ Then he pulled out the plans and showed them round, and it was true. They had forgot to tell the builders to use cement to hold the bricks together. But anybody with a brain was gonna. Right?”
I answered, “Right.”
Jimmy assured me, “Not Canby.”
James smiled, showing a set of sharp, straight teeth. He turned to Bill and picked up the story. “So then I said to him, ‘Tell me, Mr. Canby, if you walked into a public lavatory and there was no directions written out telling you to unzip your trousers, would you just go ahead and piss right in them?’ ” Bill Lane expelled a short, mirthless laugh. James added, “He didn’t like that too much.”
Bill spat on the grass behind him. “Canby’s a bloody spiv. Profiting from the war, from everybody’s misery.” Bill Lane’s face and voice hardened. “If you ask me, there’s no reason to fight this bloody war. Hitler don’t want nothin’ to do with Britain. He never did. Churchill’s stirring all this up for his own cause.”
James winked at Jimmy and me, as if to say Here he goes again, but he asked, “And what’s that, Bill?”
“Redemption, mate. Personal redemption for Gallipoli. Churchill sent our men ashore at Gallipoli in 1915, and they was massacred. One of the greatest military blunders in history. So now you and me and everybody else has got to go to war with Germany again so Churchill can have his rematch. That’s it in a nutshell, James.
“And his buddy Franklin D. Roosevelt’s happy to do it. If there’s a war on, he gets to stay president, and everybody has to listen to him.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m no friend of Hitler’s, mind you. He’s a bloody madman. But think about it, James. Who do you have more in common with? The son of a civil servant, like Hitler—a poor man who made his own way up from the gutter? Or Lord Churchill and Lord Roosevelt, who grew up with silver spoons in their mouths and had tea with the King and Queen? Who, James?”
James gestured subtly toward the Embassy. “Heads up now, Bill. Here comes the Ambassador.”
I turned and looked. I saw a well-dressed man with glasses and a big smile. I knew who he was from the most cherished photo in my grandfather’s study—Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy. He was walking with a hulking man in uniform. To my astonishment, the man had Hank Lowery’s face.
They stood on the pavement about twenty yards away from us and talked. Then a car drove around from behind the Embassy, with its headlights half covered. Ambassador Kennedy got into the car, but General Henry M. “Hollerin’ Hank” Lowery did not. He watched it pull away and waited.
After a moment, Bill Lane continued, with his voice slightly lower. “Look at them two. Not a care in the world except what nightclub to pick for their carousing. The working man’s fighting to keep the likes of them in power.”
James winked at us again and whispered, “Stop it, Bill. They’ll think you’re a German spy.”
Bill was not amused. “I’m not pro-German. I’m pro–Bill Lane. Your Duke of Windsor, your abdicated king, is pro-German. Bring him back, I say. Let him have his American girlfriend. He’ll make a deal with Hitler right quick, him and Joe Kennedy. Get them three together and this war will be over in an hour, and you and me won’t be any worse off.” He spit again. “Canby, though, will have to turn in his tin helmet and armpatch.”
I stopped listening to Bill Lane when I saw a thin, somber-looking young man and a beautiful young woman emerge from the Embassy. It took me about one second to realize who I was looking at—my grandfather, Martin Mehan, the young attaché to the American Embassy. I moved closer to them, as close as I dared, hoping I wouldn’t be seen.
General Lowery spoke first, in a loud and angry voice. “Come on, Mehan. I’m standing here waiting for a goddamn bomb to fall on my head.”
Martin Mehan laughed as if Lowery had just said something pleasant, which he clearly hadn’t. “Sorry, General. Daisy was just putting on her face. She wanted to look her best for you.”
Lowery ran his eyes up and down the young woman. She was tall and athletic-looking, with long brown hair and a dazzling smile. Lowery’s voice dropped down. “Well, I’d say she succeeded in doing that. Unless she gets even better-looking than this.”
My grandfather smiled through thin lips. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He turned and gestured. “This is Miss Traynor, from the secretarial pool.” He gestured toward the big man. “This is General Lowery.”
The young woman extended a gloved hand. “Daisy, General. Call me Daisy.”
The General took her hand and held it. “I will, Daisy. Tell me, Mehan, can you arrange for me to go for a swim in that secretarial pool?”
Martin Mehan laughed loudly again. Another car with dimmed lights pulled around from behind the Embassy. Martin Mehan held the door as Daisy slipped gracefully into the backseat.
General Lowery waited a moment. He said, “Good work, Mehan. Now, how is your work going on that . . . other matter?”
Martin Mehan checked to see if anyone was listening. He did not notice me in the darkness. He confided, “Miss Traynor, your date this evening, is in a unique position to help you. She is free to go wherever she likes in the Embassy. Everyone knows her and trusts her. She is also free to go wherever she likes in London. No one would think to follow her.”
Lowery nodded thoughtfully. He leaned into the car to take another look at Daisy Traynor. Her long arm reached out and grabbed him playfully by the lapel. He let himself be pulled inside, and then the car drove quickly away. Martin Mehan watched it go without expression. Then he walked back into the Embassy.
Jimmy popped up at my side, startling me. “We’d best be going, Johnny. My dad’ll get mad if we stay any longer.”
Jimmy took off immediately. I looked around for the two firefighters so I could say goodbye. But I was too afraid of losing Jimmy to wait long, so I just waved in their direction and took off, too. We ran at a fast pace through the dark streets. The trip back seemed to take half as much time as the trip there. I don’t remember much about it except that I was frightened at every new turn. Even the moon seemed to be blacked out, shrouded in dark, evil smoke.
We only made one stop, at that surface shelter near Jimmy’s house. Jimmy had spotted an old lady and a young boy in the doorway. The old lady’s face scared me. I hated to admit it, but she looked a little like Nana. Jimmy asked her, “So, is Gerry coming tonight, then?”
The old woman did not answer. She pulled the boy closer to her and led him into the shelter.
Jimmy leaned toward me and whispered, “I guess it’s not tonight. Listen, Johnny, I have to tell you something very, very important.”
“What?”
“We’re at a point here. A crucial point.”
I said, “Yeah? A point? What’s that?”
“That’s where we are. Isn’t it?”
“No. No, we’re in a dream.”
“You can call it what you like, mate. Just as long as you help me.”
“Help you what?”
Jimmy’s face got that perplexed look again. “I don’t know exactly.”
“How can you not know exactly?”
“Johnny, please, I’m just doing what I was told.”
“
Told by who?”
He muttered, “I don’t know that, either.”
I stepped forward so he would have to look right in my eyes. “Okay. Just tell me what you do know.”
When Jimmy looked up, his eyes were glistening. “It’s all a muddle, isn’t it? But I know this—you can do something to help, Johnny. Something to help me and my dad; maybe something to help yourself, too.” Jimmy stared at me intensely for another moment. When I didn’t respond, he spun around and walked rapidly away into the darkness, leaving me alone in another time and place.
But not for long.
I suddenly felt myself falling down, as if the London street had opened up beneath me. I flailed my arms outward, in a panic, trying to stop my fall.
Then I woke up. I was in my own bed, with the radio back where it had been, right next to me. And I was totally drenched with sweat.
DREAM WORLD
It was a dream. It was a dream. But as long as I lay there, the details refused to fade like they always do with a dream. I bolted out of bed and hurried across to the computer room. I opened a Word document and started typing what I could remember—all the names, all the places. After fifteen minutes, I was finished. I printed out the page, folded it twice, and put it in my pocket.
I placed my hands against my temples and pressed hard, trying to decide what to do next. Could I handle this myself? No. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t handle anything myself. But who could I talk to? Who could I trust? I came up with a very short list, two or three people. But I’d have to be very careful or they’d think I was crazy.
I got online and searched for an image that I had seen the night before. I found it on an art museum Web site. There was no question about it; the painting that I saw in Jimmy’s Bible studies book was exactly the same as the one in the All Souls Administration Building—Rembrandt’s Abraham and Isaac. Had I simply had a nightmare about the painting? Was that the cause of it all?
I studied the painting like I never had before. A psycho old man was about to stab his own son with a long knife. An angel was interfering with the murderous plan, stopping his arm on its downward swing. The old man looked bewildered—like he had Alzheimer’s, like he was hearing voices that no one else could hear, and seeing sights that no one else could see.
I studied the painting for several minutes, until I heard a ding. It was Pinak, IM-ing me.
PINAKC: Martin? Are you awake, you lazy goat?
JMARTINC: Yes. Are you getting ready for All Souls?
PINAKC: Yes. Have you heard from Manetti?
JMARTINC: No. Have you?
PINAKC: No. I tried to IM him, but I think he has me blocked.
JMARTINC: He’s gotta be mad. I can’t believe what they did to him.
PINAKC: Yes. And to his father.
JMARTINC: Unbelievable. Manetti gets all the blame, and Lowery gets none.
PINAKC: Are you surprised?
JMARTINC: No. Father Thomas isn’t going to mess with a legacy. He needs the money too much.
Neither of us had anything else to say about Manetti. Pinak changed the subject.
PINAKC: What are you doing? Studying old radios?
JMARTINC: No. I’m looking at Rembrandts right now, paintings from the All Souls Two-for-the-Price-of-One Collection.
PINAKC: LOL. The Raising of Lazarus?
JMARTINC: Uh-huh. Yeah. And that other one.
PINAKC: Abraham and Isaac? Yes. That’s a very powerful one.
JMARTINC: Isaac is the kid, right?
PINAKC: Right.
JMARTINC: Tell me, did Isaac know he was going to get murdered? Or sacrificed to God?
PINAKC: Oh no. He didn’t. In fact, Abraham made Isaac carry the wood up the mountain, telling him all along that they would be working together to sacrifice an animal.
JMARTINC: That’s so sick.
PINAKC: Yes, it is. So what does this have to do with radios?
JMARTINC: Nothing.
I decided to tell him the truth. Or part of it.
JMARTINC: I saw the painting in a dream. What do you think of that?
PINAKC: I think it must have been a disturbing dream.
JMARTINC: It was. Tell me, how could I dream about things that I’ve never heard of before?
PINAKC: But you have heard of that painting. You have seen it many times.
JMARTINC: I know. I’m talking about other things in the dream. Some of them were things, like historic facts, that I could never have known about.
PINAKC: Like what?
I unfolded my sheet of paper.
JMARTINC: Like the fact that the Arsenal Football Club won a match at White Hart Lane in September 1940.
PINAKC: The Arsenal Football Club?
JMARTINC: British football. Soccer.
PINAKC: Yes. I am aware of football/soccer. It is the biggest sport in the world. Of course I have heard of it, and you have heard of it, too.
JMARTINC: A little. But I’ve never heard of Arsenal.
PINAKC: You have. You just don’t remember. Arsenal is a very popular team, like the New York Yankees in baseball.
JMARTINC: No. I’ve heard about the New York Yankees. I know they wear pinstripe uniforms, and they play in Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. But there is no way I could know any details about this Arsenal club. Especially not in 1940.
PINAKC: All right. So what is your alternate explanation?
JMARTINC: Time travel.
PINAKC: LOL.
I typed: “I’m not kidding,” but I did not send it. I erased it and sent:
JMARTINC: Do you know anything about time travel?
PINAKC: Only this: Einstein theorized that you could look back in time. You could look, but you could not touch. You could hear and see people, but they couldn’t hear or see you.
JMARTINC: That’s what Einstein thought, but what do you think?
PINAKC: I do not believe that time travel is possible. But who knows? Who would have thought that right after breakfast, I’d be online playing backgammon with a man in Australia? For him, it was already tomorrow. He was in another time.
JMARTINC: That’s just a time zone.
PINAKC: Ah! Here we go! Listen, Martin: While we have been chatting, I was also doing a Web search for the Arsenal Football Club. Here is the club history: Their home field, beginning in 1913 and until very recently, was a place called Highbury.
JMARTINC: Highbury? Not White Hart Lane?
PINAKC: No. It was clearly Highbury in the year 1940. I’ll send you the link if you like.
I heard a tread on the stair, so I typed in:
JMARTINC: No. I believe you. I have to go.
PINAKC: So go.
Margaret rapped on the door and entered. “Martin? I’m sorry. Am I interrupting you?”
“No. I was just doing some research.”
Margaret’s blue eyes lit up. “Really? About what?”
I glanced down at my sheet of paper. “Gallipoli.”
She nodded approvingly. “Is this part of that independent study? I thought it was about old radios.”
“It is. It was. I’m already thinking about the next one. And the next. I’m never going back to All Souls.”
Margaret settled into a chair and opened her arms. “So . . . what can I tell you about Gallipoli?”
“You can tell me how I know that word at all.”
Margaret cocked her head, like a confused dog.
“I’ve never heard that word before. I don’t even know where it is.”
“It’s in Turkey.”
“I don’t really know where Turkey is, either.”
Margaret answered patiently. “Turkey is in eastern Europe. In fact, part of it’s in Asia.”
“And Gallipoli?”
“Gallipoli was the site of a very famous battle of World War One. It’s a famous movie, too, about an Australian boy who went to his death there.”
I shook my head. “I never saw it.”
“It was really sad. The British soldiers were slaughtere
d.”
“Was it Prime Minister Churchill’s fault?”
Margaret straightened in her chair. “Churchill wasn’t the prime minister then. He was First Lord of the Admiralty, the equivalent to our Secretary of the Navy. But yes, he did push for the invasion through Turkey, and yes, the defeat was blamed on him.”
“But he was the Prime Minister in World War Two, right?”
“Shortly after the war began, yes.” Margaret’s eyes shifted to my list, and then back to me. “Why this sudden interest in the world wars?”
“I’m trying to keep out of All Souls, that’s all. The more independent study topics I find, the better.”
“Well, you know I can help you a little with that. I can help you a lot with World War Two history, especially where it intersects our family’s history. Remember when my All Souls class went to London?”
“No. Not really.”
Margaret frowned. “It was a pretty big deal, Martin. Mom and I saved for a year so I could go.”
I did remember. “Oh yeah.”
“We visited all the sacred places of the Mehan family: the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, the Britain at War Experience, the Cabinet War Rooms.” Margaret’s eyes lit up. “Those rooms were incredible, Martin. Everything has been kept exactly as it was during the war. Not a paper has been moved; not a thing has been changed. Time has stopped still.”
“Yeah? Do you think time can stop still? Or move forward or back?”
“Do you mean scientifically?”
“Yeah.”
“No. But you can still get the . . . the spirit of a time by being in the place. I have felt that spirit. I felt it at the Cabinet War Rooms. It was like I was actually living in that time. I saw the telephones that the secretaries talked on; the mirrors where they checked their hairdos; the radios that they listened to. There was nothing of great historical importance, but it all added up to the real history of that time.”
I waited a moment, for dramatic effect, then said, “Can I ask you a stupid question?”