Carry On
Alternate History by Erin Keating
London was invaded by the Nazis on May 18, 1941. A week after the most devastating night of the Blitz, thousands of German soldiers marched through the streets, red bands staining their arms like blood. They conquered a ruined city. Winston Churchill was executed by firing squad — rumor had it, he had a cigar still dangling from his lips. The royal family managed to escape to the dominion in Canada. The United States had refused aid to Britain, but then again, the United States disappointing the Allies was not entirely surprising. They put America first, before the fate of the world.
The night that the Nazis invaded was the first night I slept in my own bed instead of on the cold metal bunks of the communal air shelter in Kensington Gardens. They wouldn’t bomb us now that their soldiers were on the ground. I locked the front door of my little brownstone mews house. Carnations were starting to bloom in the window box outside. The flowers couldn’t tell that the world was ending. Just down the street was a crater from a high-explosive bomb.
I barricaded the front door with my kitchen chairs before locking myself in my bedroom. I cried, facing the end of the world alone, but then slept soundly. The next morning, I woke to the smell of smoke: a new life and a burning homeland.
As occupation stretched on, the carnations still greeted me at home. Everything was silent until the sun went down. At sunset there were three sharp knocks on my door, just as there had been for weeks before. When I opened the door, Charlie leaned casually against the doorframe showing no concern for blatantly breaking the Nazi curfew. “Are you ready yet, Peggy?” He wiggled his blond eyebrows at me.
“Just one minute.” I stepped aside to let Charlie in. He sat down on the worn couch and stretched his legs out in front of him.
I kept the posters hidden in a false bottom drawer the Ministry of Information had made especially for me. Every night, before we went out into the city, I pressed my hand against the paper, finding brief comfort in the feeling of its smoothness against my skin.
I rolled the posters up tightly and slung the document tube across my back. It was time. Charlie and I stepped out into the street. My penny loafers were silent on the cobblestone. Walking beside Charlie, especially tonight with the full moon, reminded me of growing up with him in Camden Town. How many nights had we spent walking the two and a half kilometers back from Lord’s Cricket Grounds, cutting through Regent’s Park to try and get home for supper? For just a moment I could pretend it was our childhood walk home, except for the constant bump of Charlie’s briefcase against my leg.
Inside that briefcase were papers that I would never see — Charlie would probably never see them, either. They were codes for Radio Londres, a network of resistance members that sent information to rebels in Nazi-occupied France. Charlie and I had worked at the BBC what seemed like a lifetime ago; Charlie was a radio engineer, and I was a copy editor.
In the days before the invasion, the Ministry of Information worked with the BBC to distribute posters in the event of occupation. Charlie recommended me.
I met with Brendan Bracken. He had served as Churchill’s private sectary and was promoted to Minister of Information as Churchill’s last parliamentary action. We sat across from each other over the chief radio engineer’s desk. Bracken looked at me through circular glasses with thin, gold frames. His hair was curly, though he had tried to slick to down. He lit a cigarette and puffed small clouds of smoke into the room. It reminded me of sitting in my father’s study after tea.
“This’ll be dangerous.” His voice has the slightest trace of an Irish lilt.
“I understand that,” I told him. “It’s my duty.”
He showed me the posters: red with a Tudor crown and the words Keep Calm and Carry On.
“Some at the Ministry felt that it was too patronizing.” Bracken took a long drag from his cigarette. “But if we are occupied, people are going to know that we are still out there, fighting for them. Your job will be to give people hope.”
Now, here I was, stalking through London with Charlie, trying to inspire hope. We walked on Kensington Road, along the wrought-iron fence as Kensington Gardens turned into Hyde Park, and Kensington turned into Knightsbridge. The night was balmy; the streets smelled of roses, and the city was still. There were few who would risk breaking Nazi curfew.
Charlie took a quick right, racing across Kensington Road and into the safety of the narrow streets of Rutland Gardens. Light bounced along the main road, and we pressed ourselves up against the buildings as the car passed.
A little further down the street, the rubble of a home spilled into the streets. The red brick of the houses beside it were scorched. We climbed over it rather than risk walking along the main road. As I stood on top of the pile of debris, I noticed the disfigured shape of a melted bedframe. I prayed that the family had not been asleep in their bed when the bomb dropped.
Charlie climbed down and offered me his hand. I held onto it as we walked down the street. His palm was sweaty against mine.
We reached a little alcove that led up to a massive home with a courtyard. Charlie dropped my hand. “This is my stop.” He winked at me. I nudged him with my elbow. He had always been a flirt, ever since we were kids. But I knew he was doing it now because he was nervous.
“I’ll meet you back here in two hours,” I told him. I looked down at my father’s old watch.
“Two hours,” he repeated. He squeezed my hand once before walking away and into the courtyard.
It was time for my work to begin. I had a purpose now, a mission.
It was too dangerous to hang signs near the rendezvous point, so I slipped through an alleyway and wove through the back streets until I arrived at a row of mews houses a few blocks over. I taped posters to benches in parks, police boxes, lampposts, and trees. Never houses, though; I didn’t want anyone to be held responsible.
A flicker of light caught my eye. I smiled to myself. Around the corner, I was greeted by the red brick spires and glass dome of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Light flickered from inside the dome like a dying candle. The street was clear, so I raced up the steps. Grinning to myself, I taped two posters up, one on each of the double doors below the museum’s vaulted entrance. For good measure, I ran farther down the street and hung posters on the gold-topped fence outside the Natural History Museum.
Then I returned to the shadows of the side streets, hopping fences, ducking under clotheslines, and climbing over piles of rubble. London was a web, and I knew every thread. My feet began to ache and sweat beaded on my upper lip. The air smelled damp, like impending rain. I longed for it. I wanted it to wash the world clean.
Listening for silence, I slipped onto Brompton Road and stood beneath the glowing lights of Harrod’s. The windows beneath the famous green awnings and gold script had been covered with a clear tarp to keep the glass from blowing out in an explosion. I hung posters right over the tarps. Through the plastic, I could see the shadowy figures of mannequins lounging on daises like exotic queens. They would be forever carefree in the dream of a pre-invasion life.
The low rumble of a car broke through the night. The fear went to my knees. I couldn’t get around the corner in time. Ducking for cover behind a bus stop bench, I watched the lights pass across Harrod’s and fade into the distance. I brushed myself off, set back out, steadying my breathing as I walked. My last stop of the night would be the Knightsbridge Station; after all of my conspicuous work, hanging a few posters in the underground tube stations seemed safe.
There were a few craters outside the station entrance, but the rubble had been cleared away earlier in the Blitz. The station was eerily quiet. I missed the jostling of people as we rushed to work, or rushed home. I taped my last poster over a torn recruitment station sign along the stairs. I checked my father’s watch. My two hours were almost up. If I hurried, I could meet Charlie at the rendezvous point. I began to climb up the stairs, but stopped for a moment. As I stood still, refusing to breathe, I heard the sound of a woman crying.
I crept down the stairs and onto the platform. A woman with steel gray hair sat on a bench, her head was bowed and her lips were moving in silent prayer. Every now and then, her body convulsed in a sob. My chest ached as I watched her. She prayed so devoutly and discreetly, no holy book or cross to declare her religion, that I knew she must be hiding it. She was Jewish. The Nazis had already begun registering and deporting English Jews to the continent. Most had fled, anticipating the occupation, though I didn’t know if they could find a new country that would let them in.
“Excuse me,” I whispered.
The woman froze, her lips mid “Amen.” She remained silent.
“Can I help you?” I asked her. “What’s wrong?” It was a funny question, given the circumstances. Everything was wrong.
The woman dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I missed the last train, and now I’m trapped because of the curfew. I figured I could wait down here and just hope — ” Her voice caught in her throat.
“Where do you live?” I asked. She looked me over. For a moment, I wondered if she was trying to decide whether I were a spy.
“I live on Victoria Road, in Kensington.” She fiddled with a string of pearls around her neck, and nervously adjusted her little velvet hat.
“I live that way, too. I can walk you home. I promise everything will be fine.” I imagined Charlie waiting for me at the rendezvous point. If I walked this woman home, I would be late. He would know well enough not to come looking for me.
“What’s your name?” she asked me.
“I’m Margaret. But you can call me Peggy.” I smiled at her.
“Ruth Donnelly.” She offered me a gloved hand to shake.
“Irish?” I asked.
“My husband was. You can imagine the scandal the two of us caused, him Irish and me .… Well, best not go into that now, love.”
I led Ruth back up the steps. She froze for a moment in front of the poster. She looked back at me and my document tube.
“This wasn’t here when I came in,” she said. Her gray eyes sparkled with delight. “Do you promise you won’t get me into any trouble?”
“I promise.”
We dashed across the street and into the safety of Hyde Park. The Nazis wouldn’t waste their time sending men to patrol the park. For now, the trees along the street protected us from unwanted eyes. Ruth walked silently beside me, keeping pace and never complaining. Every now and then she’d huff, trying to catch her breath. I slowed down for her. Soon she’d quiet, and the only noise was the leaves rustling in the trees and the distant growl of thunder.
West Carriage Drive separated Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens. With the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Gardens, we’d have to find another way. Before we stepped out of the shadows of the Park, Ruth stared across the fence at the Albert Memorial, and the golden figure seated on the throne.
“They finished building that the year I was born, you know.” They were the first words she had said since we left the tube station. “They’d better hurry and get these bigots out of our country.” She spat on the word bigot, and shook her head.
“Don’t lose hope, Ruth,” I said. The words were stale in my mouth. We were at war. I needed more than just words. Ruth took my hand in hers, and I held it tightly. “Follow me.”
We sprinted down Kensington Road before we could follow a narrow street around the side of Royal Albert Hall. I was almost home. Ruth had a few more blocks to go. I would see her back.
The hardest part now was crossing Queen’s Gate. I let Ruth catch her breath again. She had just linked her hand with mine and was ready to run when we heard the crunch of gravel behind us. A military truck approached us with its lights off. Ruth lurched as though she was going to run or faint, but I held tightly to her hand. It was too late for running. Three figures stepped out of the truck and slammed the door closed like gunshots. Ruth flinched, and I dug my fingernails into her hand.
The youngest one of the group stepped toward us. He didn’t look like he could grow a mustache. The other two men behind him were twice his age and size. I thought it best to remain on our good behavior.
“Who are you?” he asked in English. The words sounded heavy and unfamiliar in his mouth.
“I’m walking my grandmother home. We missed the last train and got stuck out after curfew.” I was surprised by how even my voice was, despite the racing of my heart. My feet sweat in my penny loafers.
“And this?” He pointed to my document tube. Ruth’s grip on my hand tightened. I squeezed it back once, a sign of assurance.
I set the tube down on the ground and unscrewed the top. Ruth stood stoically beside me, arms at her sides, eyes staring ahead. She was a soldier at attention.
I pulled out sketches of Kensington Garden. “I’m an art student,” I said.
The three men stood huddled together speaking in a language I couldn’t place. Perhaps Czech or Polish. They kept glancing back at Ruth.
“If you have everything you need, please, can we go home now? My grandmother is tired and frightened,” I pleaded. My throat was so tight I didn’t know how I got the words out. Three pairs of piercing blue eyes stared me down.
The biggest one grabbed me and threw me against the alley wall. The others went for Ruth.
“Stop! What are you doing?” I thrashed, but the soldier held me fast. The hilt of his knife dug into my hip.
“She looks Jewish, no?” The others jostled Ruth between them.
“She’s not Jewish; she’s Irish, you dolt!” I screamed. My head slammed against the brick wall and pinpricks of light flashed in my eyes.
It had the effect I wanted. The soldiers dropped Ruth’s arms and looked at each other. When it was clear that Britain would be defeated, the Republic of Ireland had forged an alliance with Germany.
“Papers?” the young soldier asked. His voice was barely a squeak. Ruth passed them an identification card. Her hands were steady. I watched the soldiers’ faces, waiting for the look of surprise when they read the name Donnelly.
“You long way from home, little Irish lady.” The older soldier passed her identification card back.
“Not as far as you, it seems,” Ruth muttered under her breath.
“Please. Are you satisfied?” My wrists were still pinned above my head in a vice grip. The Nazi’s breath was hot against my face, reeking of cabbage and beer.
“You broke curfew. That is no good,” he said. “But this is nice watch.”
“Please, it’s my father’s watch.”
“It is mine now.”
“Wait,” Ruth said. The other soldiers still held her, but she shrugged them off. Their hands hung limp at their sides, unsure of whether to restrain the Irishwoman. “These will fetch you a much better price.” One by one, she took off her pearl necklace and earrings. Then she removed her gloves to reveal her gold rings and bracelet, and a diamond watch. She held them out to the soldiers in cupped palms, an offering. “Won’t you let my granddaughter keep her father’s watch?”
The soldier dropped me, and I scraped my knees against the road. He weighed Ruth’s jewelry in his hands. The three of them pushed each other, trying to claim the pieces they wanted.
“Break curfew again,” the soldier turned to me, “and watch is mine.”
“Yes, understood. Never again!”
They pushed past us and got into their truck. They crushed the document tube under their tires as they pulled out onto the street. I waited until they drove out of sight before daring to breathe.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered.
“Please, it was no trouble.” Ruth’s arthritic fingers wrapped around mine. “Thank you.”
When all was silent again, we ran home. We were breathless when we arrived at Ruth’s doorstep. Her hands shook so badly that she couldn’t hold her keys. I unlocked the door for her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep here, Peggy?” she asked.
I rested my temple against the door frame. It was tempting. But Charlie was waiting. “It’ll be all right. I’m just around the corner on Queen’s Gate Mews. The brown one with the red door. If you ever need anything, please come by.”
She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to keep living because of you.”
I listened for the sound of the door locking shut before I walked home, her words turning in my mind. My feet ached as I dragged myself down Queen’s Gate Mews, past the crater at the end of the street. I wondered if my feet were bleeding. It certainly felt like it.
The street was illuminated by a solitary light coming from a window. My window. My feet stopped. My chest tightened. Someone was in my house. How did they find me?
Then I saw the blond figure peek out from behind the sheer curtains. I almost shouted his name there in the street. Charlie.
I ran to the door and knocked as I fiddled in my pockets for my keys. He opened it and pulled me inside. In one swift motion, he turned off the lamp by the window and shuffled me to the kitchen in the back of the house. Then he held me as though I might disappear.
“I thought they caught you,” he said into my hair.
For a moment, I debated telling him that they did. I debated telling him that the sketches he drew of Kensington saved me, that Ruth and her jewelry saved me. But I didn’t. Instead, I held him closer, bunching his shirt in my fists.
“I found a woman trapped in the station. I walked her home.”
Charlie shook his head and bit his bottom lip. “You are too good.”
I started to make tea, because moving felt like the right thing to do. The clock on the wall said it was almost three in the morning. Charlie’s eyes looked swollen, and I couldn’t tell whether he was tired or whether he had been crying.
There was a crack of thunder, and rain began to drum on the roof.
I poured us each a cup and we sat down at the table. I kicked off my shoes and rested my feet in his lap. “We’ll have to go to sleep soon. The sun will be up eventually. It keeps coming up,” I said.
“Sometimes I wish it would stop.”
“I don’t.” We drank the rest of our tea in silence, listening only to the rhythmical tick of the clock. I thought of Ruth’s pearls. I thought of the Nazi boy’s broken English. I thought of Charlie’s swollen eyes. I thought of my father’s watch.
It was too dangerous for Charlie to go home. I laid out a blanket for him on the couch. Before I turned to go to my own bed, I stood on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. His hand hovered over the spot where my lips touched his skin.
“Charlie,” I smiled at him, “thanks for waiting up.”
He grinned at me.
“We’ll fight again tomorrow, and the day after that,” I promised.
“Over and over?” Charlie asked.
“Over and over.” I repeated. “Until we have won.”
