Love in the Blitz Read online

  I have told you none of the terribly cruel things my father has said to me in the last twelve hours, darling. Perhaps, one day I shall. When I said I was not angry with him, that was true – but I don’t want to be with him or to see him. He’s stifling me and killing my spirit. Do you remember saying once that you were thinking of writing to my father about his attitude to me over examinations? It was in the sands of Weirbank – just before the accident – (the day before, to be exact). And do you remember how alarmed I was at the suggestion – even in jest? Well, darling, I don’t want you even to criticize my father openly, for my sake. I never want him to be able to speak a word of reproach in connection with you, which has a shadow of justification. I want always to be able to say, as I was able to say today ‘Gershon has always behaved to you with the greatest courtesy and respect’ – and to hear him say, as he said this afternoon: ‘Yes – that’s true.’

  Later: Darling, I think the catharsis is over and regeneration is beginning – After all, you are worth waiting for, and my solace, when we do meet will be twice as great, because I have had to wait and be dreadfully hurt by waiting.

  My father is going back to Douglas5 on Tuesday, probably for two months at least. Until then, I shall be civil to him and avoid him when I can. I am going to be strong – for you. I weighed myself this morning as a matter of scientific interest, and the needle pointed to seven stone-twelve – so I’ve lost half a stone in four days – but I’ll put it on again – & when you see me, my eyes will be bright for you and my bosom soft for your head to rest on. Why should I allow myself to be hurt, when I know my love for you is a strength and the most honest thing in my life?

  Saturday 2 November My parents have talked of my greatest achievement (my love for you) as though it were a theme from a twopenny novel. You know me as well as a man can know a woman – (better, I should think, than Bernard Lewis knows his wife, for instance) you kissed me in the Hall at Girton Corner one night and said ‘How can you think I’m not fond of you?’ and on the top of a ’bus in Oxford St you put your arm around me and said, ‘You’re the only real solace I have, you know that, don’t you?’ – and when I said that I thought I did – now – you said I’d taken a long time to find it out. And, darling, the last time you were in London, I felt confident for the first time, that you loved me – that’s why, when you went away, it was almost as though you had not gone – for days.

  My father has surpassed himself in bitterness this morning. He says I’ve done nothing but bully & insult him for the last two years – and that he doesn’t ever want to see me again.

  Darling, if I do leave the house – it will be interesting to see which of the people I know are really my friends. My father threatens (though I doubt if he means it) to tell people that I left his home because I said I couldn’t get on with him – and the reason why I could not get on with him was that he wouldn’t agree to my living with a man in a Blackpool Boarding House. No, darling, I don’t somehow think he will say that – but from a purely scientific point of view, it would be interesting to see how many people who know me, would believe him. Be thou as pure as ice, as chaste as snow (as Hamlet said in his bitterness) thou shalt not escape calumny. Darling, may I emend my suggestion that, if you so wish it, our friendship should stop here and now, to a plea that, unless you are violently opposed to it, we should go on as we are at least until we meet again. You’ve often said that, though you’re sometimes irritated with me when we’re separated, it thaws & resolves itself into a dew when we meet – so please, my dear love, don’t take my strongest weapons away from me unless you must. Am I being unscrupulous in this struggle for existence, darling? Tell me truly – I’m trying so hard not to be.

  Monday 4 November Because Mrs Seidler said she could see no difference between our being alone together in my room at Girton Corner for hours together, and our meeting in Blackpool, my father struck an attitude & said, ‘Your mother never received a man in her bedroom until she married me.’ You see, darling, he is not ‘bad-minded’ – but he’s wild with jealousy – and he wants to hurt me as much as he possibly can, because, through no fault of my own, I don’t love him. The other day, he sat in a chair and sobbed most dreadfully. The whole situation is an immensely complex psychological one. We’re a highly emotional family and, so help me God, we take no pleasure in torturing one another – but that’s what we’re doing. He’s sorry for the things he’s said – He’s tried, clumsily and pathetically, to make amends – but I know that in the next crisis, the whole thing will break loose again. Honestly, darling, the clearest solution would be for me to take my life – You and my parents would be unhappy for a little while – and then you’d all start afresh – but I want to live to enjoy your love. I hope to be able to think the whole thing out in Cambridge and find some solution. I think perhaps it might help to talk to Mr Turner, or Miss Bradbrook – I find immense comfort in the sympathetic advice of friends.

  Tuesday 5 November When I read your argument to my father, he smiled and said: ‘He’s very much like you, I think – perhaps that is why you get on so well. He is sincere and fair-minded, and he knows the value of family ties – Won’t you both please try and be guided by my greater experience of the world and its judgements?’ Darling, I don’t want to be guided by his judgement – but I do want him to be your ally and not your enemy – because you and I both know the value of influence in the building-up of a career (especially if you happen to be a Jew) – and he could help you so much in re-enforcing your already not inconsiderable Cambridge contacts, by putting you in touch with the leading members of your chosen profession – by saying to them, ‘This man is well known to me – He has earned my respect and liking – His academic and social record at Cambridge speaks for itself – It’s up to you to keep him in any way you can.’ Darling, Joan asked him to speak to Lord Lloyd about Ian – to arrange for his transfer from obscure Nyassaland to Kenya, where the chances of advancement are greater. He did this immediately – and now Ian is in Kenya. My Oxford friend, Paul Rolo, asked for introductions to Lord Lloyd & Leslie – (His academic record also speaks for itself). My father took him personally to the British Council & to the War Office – and Paul only refused an important appointment at the British Council because he had to go into the Army, as he was under the ‘reserved occupation’ age. He wrote to Lord Lloyd and Colonel Kisch about Aubrey – Lord Lloyd said he could do nothing about General Intelligence for Aubrey, because as a Cabinet Minister in another department, he could not urge the infringement of a War Office order – We haven’t heard yet whether Colonel Kisch can do anything from Egypt – but I will say for Pa that I have never seen any sign in him of the overbearing and arrogant attitude that so offended me in Lord Nathan when I asked him if he would use his influence for Marcus, Dr Rafilovitch and your cousin, Meyer Shenfield. In a similar situation I know that my father would at least have asked them to come & see him & discuss the position – so that he could judge of their merits for himself.

  I hope that, one day, he will be willing and glad to do much more for my dear love – After all, in intellectual matters he’s a just man & I wouldn’t be asking him to sponsor a nonentity or a fool – (I am not even remotely interested in nonentities or fools.) You see, darling, you are the only one of my friends with whom he is ‘touchy’ and reserved – and that is only because he knows how much greater store I set by your opinions and your values than his. I’m going to try, with every means in my power to win him over to our side – Perhaps I shall fail, through lack of tact or patience or character – but now, in calm of mind, all passion spent, I am resolved to make a real effort.

  I’m going to Cambridge early tomorrow morning, and I hope I’ll hear your voice before very long. I had a telegram from Mr Turner this afternoon saying ‘Certainly expect you tomorrow’ – and I hope that I’ll find real comfort there.

  Wednesday 6 November Darling, I was afraid when I arrived here yesterday that I’d made a terrible emotional blund
er in coming. I went into Girton and Portress received me exactly as though I’d never been away. Girton was the same but Girton Corner was different – but, darling, our chaise-longue has not been subjected to the sacrilege that I had imagined – Mr Turner has it in his study and I’m sitting on it now.

  After lunch, I met Miss Bradbrook in St Edward’s passage & she bore me off to coffee. She waved her beautiful hands helplessly (have you ever noticed what very lovely hands Miss Bradbrook has?) and told me of the spate of marriages among the dons – ‘I’ve never known anything like it,’ she said, ‘There’s No Knowing where it will End.’ She told me of Dr Tillyard & Mr Henn religiously going from Pub to Pub with the joyous abandon of perennial youth – to celebrate Mr Henn’s promotion from a Pilot Officer to a Flight Lieutenant – ‘They did it as a duty,’ she said, ‘but they loved every minute of it.’

  Then I had to leave her for Mr Loewe’s Memorial Service – When I got to the Synagogue I was certain I ought not to have come to Cambridge. Mrs Greenburgh was there, billowing out of a new fur-coat. The Loewes, of course, were there – Mrs L. rather small and triumphant – Michael barely emerging from an outsize top-hat (he reminded me of an Embryonic Kosher Butcher). The Salamans were there – trying to look as though they were somewhere else. Margaret Richardson had a bit of red fish-net around the top of her hat (only she knows why). Peggy was kind & motherly – Raphael draped his prayer shawl so that his Lance-Corporal stripe could be Seen By All – and sternly broke in upon the Greeting of a Man by saying, ‘Don’t talk in here’. All the other soup-carriers seemed to be there, too – Everyone except you, my dear love – and I was terribly & sickeningly lonely – Everyone asked after you – and I had to answer very low – so as not to cry.

  When Aubrey came in, late and reassuring, I felt a little better – He took me to the Union after the Service – said casually that he’d never seen a more Eloquent Look in any eye than in Mrs Loewe’s – it said, ‘This is the best organized function I’ve ever been at,’ and, darling, he was right – and then asked me to tell him All. I did, darling, stammering and laughing hysterically – and he punctuated our story with sane, witty comments & a note of underlying sympathy.

  Thursday 7 November I walked nearly three miles in the rain this morning to find David Rafilovitch in the pavilion of the Golf Club in Girton Village. A nice soldier told me the way & said with an affectionate smile when I asked for ‘Mr Rafilovitch’ – ‘Oh! yes, I know where you can find David.’ I looked timidly through the long window marked ‘Privates’ and was just about to make further enquiries when I changed my question. ‘Aren’t you David Rafilovitch?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he said – ‘I’m Eileen Alexander’ – ‘Oh!’ he said & came out to me. He looked at me curiously and said ‘You’re not Eileen Alexander!’ I assured him that I was, darling and he said he’d thought I was quite different. Then we went into the tearoom and drank tea out of blue cups and talked of you. He asked me if I’d seen you since you went into the Air Force – and then I told him All – (Expurgated Version). He said that was Queer because his Sylvia’s parents had taken exactly the same line – they’d even wanted to know his Intentions. (I hastened to assure him that mine had wanted to know yours as well, darling – I was Not To Be Outdone.) Then he told me All – and after that we went on to talk of the Leavis School of criticism (he’s just met Dr Leavis6) and the Academic life in general – and I liked him very much – and he asked me to supper in the KP on Friday evening – so perhaps he liked me too – oh! darling – I hope he did.

  After that I had lunch with Miss Bradbrook at the Arts – and I told her All too, darling, when she asked after you – & she said roundly that it was simply monstrous – and that she liked you so much – and then she told me All about Mrs Crews who got a hasty divorce recently so as to be able to marry a French Doctor – but he got conscripted at the outbreak of war & was debarred from marrying a foreigner (even an ally!) and now she’s gone to Ankara because the mails with France are better from there. (Who’d have thought it of Mrs Crews, darling?) And Miss Bradbrook’s brother (the Don Juan – d’you remember, dear?) is now re-engaged to his lady (I suppose she decided to Forgive All – or he did. And even her youngest brother (an unprepossessing Bushy youth) is now Enslaved. She says that seeing her matrimonial future in a walnut shell at a Halloween party, she discovered that she was to be married to ‘Q’ – but as the Mistress & Sylvia Clark were scheduled to marry him as well – she felt that (drawing herself up to her FH) her Love Story would be the strangest of all.

  Darling – I’ve forgotten the two nicest stories I’ve heard since I came back here. (I don’t mean I’ve forgotten them – only that I’ve forgotten to tell them to you.) Lindy said to her mother the other day – ‘Oh! Mummy, if you have another baby while you’re away – don’t tell Daddy – we’ll just take it back as a surprise’ – and one of Aubrey’s ‘other ranks’ (so he says) applied for ‘passionate leave’ – adding, ‘You see, sir, it’s my wife …’ Darling, couldn’t you get passionate leave to see me this weekend?

  Sunday 10 November Darling, do you know (or for the matter of that, do you care?) that F.L. Lucas7 has launched out upon the seas of matrimony for the third time? (and they’re ALL alive).

  Miss Bradbrook dropped this bombshell quite casually at lunch with reference to a High-Minded letter of his to the New Statesman in which he Sets Forth his War Aims – one of them is to liberate Sweden ‘which gave me my wife’. ‘It would have sounded less grandiloquent,’ she added, ‘if he had said “my third wife”.’ But then Mr Lucas is not Like That.

  Tuesday 12 November I’m back in London, darling, & I start being Economically Independent from tomorrow. I think I shall like that.

  Darling, I’m infinitely tired and frightened of believing that we’ll be together on Saturday – You’ll wire me the time of your train, won’t you, my dear love, so that I can be at the station (which station?) to meet you? I hope you’ll be able to come early – then we’ll be able to go to a Theatre – (I haven’t been to a Theatre since you were last in London, darling – Thunder Rock was on at the Arts while I was in Cambridge).

  So – darling – it looks as though we’re going to be able to sleep under the same roof after all. It won’t be much of a solace spending Saturday evening à quatre with my mother & Mrs Seidler – but I’m determined not to cluck – but to savour every instant of Solace & make it a morsel for the Gods – & perhaps our next weekend will be in Cambridge.

  Darling – shall I have to learn how to mollock all over again – or is it an art which once learnt is Never Forgotten – like swimming?

  Hitler niggled at us All Night – we thought our End Had Come – twice – very disconcerting.

  Thursday 14 November Darling, I’m glad David Rafilovitch liked me – Will you tell me All that he said, on Sunday? I think I’ve told you what I think of him, but I’ll elaborate it if Providence allows us to meet the-day-after-tomorrow.

  I’m Glad you could see the Memorial Service, darling. The remark about Mrs Loewe’s Look of Triumph emanated from Aubrey – if you remember – I only confirmed it. D’you think we can both have thought of the Same Good Story at once – (Did I ever tell you, darling, of the half-witted girl at school, who, when asked to write a poem (along with the rest of my form) copied out Matthew Arnold’s ‘Neckan’ & handed it in. Mrs Chester (our English Mistress) opened the Oxford Book at the Appropriate Place & laid the two versions of the poem side by side on her desk. Lily looked at them in astonishment: ‘Well!’ she said ‘Fancy us both writing the same thing!’)

  Oh! My darling, I feel quite faint at the thought of seeing you on Sunday. If anything happens to prevent our meeting – I think I shall be very ill.

  Tuesday 19 November Darling, I hope when Lord Nathan gives me my new work, he’ll give me a room to myself to do it in – because Miss Hojgaard’s Eternal Chatterings are No Solace to Speak Of. Today, she wanted to know whether it would be advisable f
or her father to Marry Again. He Had His Eye on a Fellow-Officer in the SA8 – but he didn’t know her very well – Was she worth Cultivating with a View to Matrimony? Darling. What could I say? – I murmured something about it being Difficult to Advise – or words to that effect – Oh! dear.

  Darling, I have never told you of the Scandalous conduct of Mrs Bacon – because I was not aware that it was Scandalous – but Miss Hojgaard assures me that it is – so you shall Know All.

  Mrs Bacon is a typist – she is tall & scraggy – with a hint of a dewlap and a promise of Scrawny middle age – she must be forty but she’s Battling Bravely with the years – Her face has a Synthetic Bloom and her hair a Synthetic orange-golden sheen – In short, dear, she’s a not-so-ravishing elderly blonde, who does her best with a paint-pot & Emphatic Velvet tights (that is the only word which really describes her Overgarments) and Large Tin jewellery everywhere.

  Every morning, darling, she is Escorted to the Office by a little fat man – rather prosperous looking, in City Clothes & an umbrella – and every morning they kiss fervently on the steps of Finsbury Sq – I have always assumed that the little man was Mr Bacon (though I’ve never really thought much about it) and it all seemed Very Beautiful. But Miss Hojgaard has a theory that he is not Mr Bacon. She says that if he were Mr Bacon, she would not rest her head on his shoulder every lunch hour, between courses in the ABC – all of which leads me to the conclusion that either Miss Hojgaard has gleaned a warped & sordid impression of Marriage in the Salvation Army (She is in the Salvation Army – on Sundays) or she’s right. I wonder if we’ll Ever Know. Miss Burrows takes the Charitable View (as I do). She said timidly that her Douglas always held her arm – She hoped he wouldn’t stop after they were married – and I said that my parents always held hands in taxis – to which Miss Hojgaard replied: (in her own rather limited idiom) Ah! different – What do you think, darling?