houses comfortable and streets clear of snow put Philadelphia-and every other place she’d visited in winter-to shame.
Not only that, all the lights stayed on through the long, cold nights. After her time inside the Third Reich, that seemed something close to a miracle. It had in Copenhagen, too… till the Germans marched in. Now the Nazis’ twilight swallowed up Denmark, too.
Yes, Stockholm was a wonderful, bright, civilized place. The only problem was, she didn’t want to be here. She had plenty of money. She wouldn’t have been able to come to Marianske Lazne in Czechoslovakia without it, or to maintain herself when the war stranded her on the wrong side of the Atlantic. But, just as all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again, all her jack couldn’t get her back to the good old US of A, or to the husband she hadn’t seen for well over a year.
Norway remained a war zone. Because it did, there was no air traffic between Sweden and England-no sea traffic, either. She wished she could go to Moscow and head for Vladivostok by way of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Though it was the long way back to the States, it would have done the job. But, with the railroad cut and Vladivostok under Japanese siege, that didn’t work, either.
And so she stayed where she was. Stockholm made a far more likable prison than Berlin had. The food was better, and she didn’t wonder whether everyone she spoke to would report her to the Gestapo. All the same, she wasn’t where she wanted to be.
She’d never been one to suffer in silence. If she was unhappy, she let people hear about it. The American embassy in Berlin had got to know her much better than the clerks and secretaries and diplomats ever wanted to. (And, one drunken night, she’d got to know one of the diplomats much better than she ever expected to. She did her damnedest not to remember that.)
Now she bent the personnel of the embassy in Stockholm to her will-or did her best. Again, the trouble was that, even when they wanted to do what she wanted (and they did, if for no more noble reason than to get her out of their hair), they couldn’t.
“I can’t call an airplane out of nowhere, Mrs. Druce,” said the undersecretary in charge of dealing with distressed travelers. “I haven’t got a liner, or even a freighter, up my sleeve, either.”
“Yes, I understand that, Mr. Beard,” Peggy answered. To her secret amusement, Jerome Beard sported a hairline mustache. “But if you could arrange something with the German and British authorities…”
He ran a hand over the top of his head, from front to back. Once upon a time, he might have used the gesture to smooth his hair. But where were the snows of yesteryear? He was on the far side of fifty-a few years older than Peggy. He had one of the baldest domes she’d ever seen, though, and it made him look older.
“Why don’t you ask me something easy?” he said testily. “Walking across the Baltic, for instance?”
“It’s frozen over for miles out to sea.” Peggy, by contrast, sounded as bright and helpful as she could.
Beard’s harried expression said he understood she was being difficult but sugarcoating it. “Pardon my French, Mrs. Druce, but hell will freeze over before they cooperate. Last time around, both sides were perfectly correct. They did everything they could to help displaced persons like you. Now?” He shook his head. His bare scalp gleamed under the overhead lamp. “No. I’m very sorry, but it’s not just a war.”
“You said that before,” Peggy pointed out. She was bound and determined to be difficult, regardless of whether she sugarcoated it.
“Well, what if I did?” Beard ran his hand over his crown again. “It’s true. You have no idea how much those two regimes despise each other.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I was in Berlin, remember,” Peggy said.
“All right, then.” The undersecretary yielded the small point. He wasn’t about to yield on the larger one. In fact, he poured more cold water over it: “And the same holds true for France and Germany. The French don’t merely hate the Germans, either-they’re scared to death of them. That makes joint efforts even more unlikely.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?” Peggy demanded.
“How about thanking God you’re in one of the few countries on this poor, sorry continent where there’s plenty of food and no one is trying to kill anyone else?” Beard said. “You couldn’t pick a better spot to wait out the war.”
“I thought the same thing about Copenhagen. Then I watched German soldiers get out of their freighters and march on the palace,” Peggy said bitterly. “No guarantee the same thing won’t happen here.”
“No guarantee, no.” Beard paused to fill a pipe and light it. The mixture smelled like burning dirty socks. “Swedish blend,” he explained, a note of apology in his voice. “All I can get these days. But to come back to your point… The Swedes will fight. They’ve made that very plain to Germany. Since the Germans have plenty of other pots on the fire, Sweden’s safe enough for now. That’s the ambassador’s judgment, and the military attache’s, too.”
“And maybe they’re right, and maybe they’re wrong,” Peggy said. “All I want to do is go home. It’s 1940, for crying out loud. I was going to be in Europe for a month in fall 1938.”
“You picked the wrong month, and the wrong part of Europe,” Beard said.
“Boy, did I ever!”
“There may still be a way,” he said. “You would have to take some chances.” He shook his head. “No-you would have to take a lot of chances.”
“Tell me,” Peggy answered. “If I don’t have to put on a uniform and carry a gun, I’ll do it. And I’d think about putting on a uniform, as long as it isn’t a Nazi one.”
“You can still travel to Poland. From Poland, you can get to Romania. From Romania, you can probably find a ship that will take you to Egypt. Once you get through the Suez Canal, you’ve left most of the war behind you,” Beard said.
Italy and England were fighting a desultory war over Somaliland and Abyssinia, a campaign neither one of them could get very excited about. But that was the least of Peggy’s worries. “Like the kids’ magazines say, what’s wrong with this picture?” she replied. “If I fly in to Warsaw, say, the Red Army’s liable to be running the airport. And if it isn’t, the Luftwaffe will be. Besides, isn’t there fighting in the stretch of Poland that borders Romania?”
“There is,” Beard acknowledged. “But you could skirt it by going from Poland to Slovakia and to Romania from there.”
For all practical purposes, going into Slovakia was the same as going back to Nazi Germany. There was no guarantee the Russians wouldn’t invade Father Tiso’s almost-country, either. Come to that, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t invade Romania. As the embassy undersecretary’d pointed out, there was a war on. There were no guarantees anywhere.
Peggy’d told him she was willing to take a lot of chances. Had she meant it? “Well,” she said brightly, “can you help me with the arrangements?” taff Sergeant Alistair Walsh wore a shepherd’s sheepskin coat on top of his greatcoat. His thick wool mittens came from the Norwegian countryside, too. He’d cut a slit in the right one so he could fire his rifle. He’d wrapped a knitted scarf around his face. The only flesh he exposed was that from his eyes to the brim of his tin hat. He was cold anyhow.
English, French, and Norwegian soldiers still hung on to Namsos, on the coast of central Norway. Sooner or later, the Fritzes were going to throw them out. That seemed obvious to Walsh. His superiors hadn’t figured it out yet. He’d been in the army since 1918. He walked with a bit of a limp from a German bullet that had got him more than half a lifetime earlier. He wasn’t surprised that he had a clearer view of things than the blokes with the shoulder straps and peaked caps.
Smoke rose from the direction of the docks. The Germans had come bombing again. They did it blindly, from above the clouds: to fly down below them was to risk flying straight into the ground. But they’d got lucky, damn them.
All the same, sailors and locals and, no doubt, some dragooned soldiers labored like draft horses to unload whatever ships hadn’t been hit. Without the stuff the Royal Navy brought in, resistance here wouldn’t last long. Even with it…
Walsh had plenty of clips for his submachine gun. He wasn’t too hungry. The artillery, though, was severely rationed. The expeditionary force’s handful of tanks still running were low, low, low on petrol. He could hardly remember the last time a Hurricane, or even a Gladiator, had got airborne.
The Germans didn’t have those worries. They held Denmark. Their planes and U-boats and even their pissy
