Several best-selling authors got together to produce an anthology of short stories based n the theme of Exile... here's an excerpt from one of the stories:
Victory in Exile
J.G. Harlond
In an English country town at 7:40 p.m. on the 7th May, 1945.
‘In accordance with arrangements between three great powers, tomorrow, Tuesday, will be treated as Victory in Europe Day . . .’
A tea towel in one hand, a saucepan in the other, Eva paused and stared at the kitchen wireless set. She smiled, then laughed out loud and danced a polka around the big table with the saucepan.
Then she stopped and took a deep breath. This would change things on her own domestic front. Dropping the pan and cloth on the draining board, she walked down the long garden path to tell her husband, and enjoy her moment of relief, and triumph.
Bernard was down by the rear fence beyond the orchard, as far from the house as he could get, pushing papers into a bonfire. Spring-cleaning his study, he’d said. Purging it, more likely, Eva thought.
As she crossed the long, damp grass, Bernard swung around, thrusting a fireside poker like a sword in her direction. “Stay back! You are not needed here.”
“It’s definitely over!” Eva cried across the space between them. “Victory in Europe, they name it.” Bernard glared at her and muttered something. “What?” she called.
“I said, I know! I’m a senior civil servant, you cretin.”
“Sorry. I thought you would like to be pleased. That it is over. For us. In Europe.”
Bernard made no reply. Taking a manila folder from a box-file at his feet he tipped its contents into the oil drum he was using as an incinerator. Flames leapt high into the air. A typed sheet of correspondence tried to escape. He grabbed it with a gloved hand, crushed it, and shoved it back in.
“Tomorrow is a national holiday,” Eva said, taking a few steps closer to see what was in the box-file.
“That’s nice,” Bernard sneered. “Have fun.”
“Oh, I will,” Eva replied. “I will celebrate.”
Trying to contain her anger, Eva returned to the house. As she stepped onto the kitchen doormat, she noticed a slip of flimsy blue paper caught under the back door jamb. It was an un-sent airmail letter in Bernard’s forward-sloping hand-writing, but signed in her name. Her real name: Hanna Beck.
Eva smoothed out the thin paper. She hadn’t signed anything in that name since coming to England ten years ago. It wasn’t even on her marriage certificate.
She took the letter to the kitchen table, sat down. Written in English, it was dated 1st of May, 1945. The day after Hitler committed suicide.
Dear Carla – Eva didn’t think she knew about a Carla . . . regrettably I shan’t be able to visit as planned but I’ll keep you in my thoughts and remember all you told me. We will of course stay in touch. This is not the end of our friendship or endeavours . . . .
‘This is not the end . . .’ “Please, no. Let it end here,” she whispered to herself, staring at the signature on the paper. Had Bernard realised she what she had been doing? Was this his revenge – to implicate her?
Or had he been sending coded messages in apparently innocent letters in her name for longer, and she’d simply not seen them?
Unsure what to do, how to react, Eva went to Bernard’s study to place it very visibly on his desk. The door was closed but not locked, which wasn’t usual. She had a key hiding in plain sight on her keyring on the hall table but never used it when Bernard was in the house.
The study was very untidy; the waste basket full of torn envelopes. On impulse she stuffed the letter into her apron pocket, then ran a hand over the leather desk blotter for recent indentations. A small memo-style note was tucked under a corner. It was a single paragraph in a language she did not recognise, and after travelling across Europe, living a few years here and there, Eva could make sense of various languages. There was no punctuation, no capital letters. It was a new cipher. Eva’s skin went cold, her heart began to thump loudly. Bernard had twigged; she was being set up as the guilty party. A foreign woman with a fake identity living in wartime England . . . Bernard could so easily make her guilty of aiding the enemy. And she thought she’d been so clever helping the American.
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About J.G. Harlond
Secret agents, skulduggery, and crime that crosses continents
A British author of historical crime fiction, Jane writes award-winning, page-turning novels set in the mid-17th century and WWII. Each story weaves fictional characters into real events. She describes her WWII Bob Robbins Home Front Mysteries as ‘cosy crime with a sinister twist’.
Apart from fiction, Jane also wrote school text books for many years using her married name. She holds BA (Hons) in Cultural Studies and an MA in Social and Political Thought. Prior to becoming a full-time author, Jane taught English, world literature in international colleges.
Jane is married to a retired Spanish naval officer and they have a large, grown-up family living in various parts of Europe, Scandinavia and the USA. After travelling widely (she has lived in or visited most of the places that feature in her novels) they are now settled near Málaga in Spain.
Web page: http://author.to/JGHarlond
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