“My help? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The situation in Poland, throughout Eastern Europe right now, demands urgent attention.”

“What do you mean?” I clutch my napkin in my lap. I heard little news during my time in Salzburg and none in Paris other than that the war had ended. “What’s happening?”

Simon wipes a crumb from his mouth. “As you probably know, the Soviets liberated much of Eastern Europe.” I nod. I had learned this much from some of the other Polish refugees at the camp. Simon continues, “The problem is now that the war is over, all indications are that the Soviets won’t keep their word on restoring the sovereign leaders of those countries. Take Poland, for example.” His voice rises slightly, his expression growing more intense. “The Soviets have certain eastern territories like Lwow outright and they’ve recognized the temporary government in Lublin, which is nothing but a puppet regime. It’s the same all over Eastern Europe.”

Anxiety rises in me. The notion of Russian tanks rolling through Kraków is only slightly less terrifying than the Nazi occupation. “Why doesn’t the West do something?”

“We’re trying. During the war, no one wanted to upset the Soviets because we needed them to fight Hitler on the eastern front. Now that’s all over, but the Soviets have gained a toehold in virtually every country in Eastern Europe, either directly or through satellite communist parties.” I listen carefully, not understanding some of the English words he uses, but comprehending what he is trying to say.

“And because their troops occupy the region, there’s little we can do about it. And it’s not just in the east—even in places like Germany, the communists have strong political support. You’re not a communist supporter, are you?” I shake my head. There had certainly been those among the resistance movement who leaned to the left, believing that socialist ideals were the answer. Jacob had believed in socialist principles but said that he could not support the way in which the Soviets had corrupted them. I had listened to the debate, not forming a view of my own. Simon continues, his voice rising slightly, “The battle with the communists is coming, Marta. It will be the next great war, maybe even bigger than the last.” There is a sudden intensity to his pale blue eyes.

My head swims. “I had no idea.”

The ship begins to rock more forcefully. I reach out to steady my teacup. “We must be getting closer to the coast,” Simon observes, peering out the window.

I follow his gaze to a thin strip of land that has appeared on the horizon. “I should go freshen up for our arrival.” I push back my chair from the table. “Thank you very much for the tea.”

“My pleasure,” he replies, standing as I do. “Would you like a ride to London once we arrive? My driver will be waiting for me. It’s really no trouble.”

For a second, I consider his offer. It would be so easy simply to let him take me to the city. But there is something about his attention, about the way he is looking at me that makes me uncomfortable. And I really do not know him well enough to accept. “No, thank you. I’m being met at the station,” I fib. “But I appreciate your kind offer.”

A look of disappointment crosses Simon’s face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small silver case. “My card,” he says, handing me a square of paper. “In case your plans change.”

“They won’t,” I reply, hearing the firmness in my own voice.

“Well, then, in case you need anything when you are in London.” His fingers brush mine as I take the card.

I am suddenly seized with the urge to flee. “Th-thank you again.” I tuck the card in my bag, then turn, feeling his eyes still upon me as I walk quickly away.

The coal-tinged air is cool and damp as I make my way across the tree-lined square toward the row of houses that sit on its far edge. It is dark now, the dim yellow light given off by the street lamps swallowed almost immediately by the thick London fog. The faded street sign at the far edge of the square reads Montpelier Place. The houses rise high behind tall iron gates, thick hedges obscuring their porches from view. Number 33, the address written on my visa, sits on the nearest corner, overlooking the square. I cross the street and stop in front of the massive house. Rose was so quiet and unassuming, I had never imagined her family to be rich. My legs tremble.

Steeling myself, I walk up to the gate and peer through its bars. On the other side, well-tended gardens flank wide marble stairs leading up to a columned porch. I look at the windows, all of which are dark. It is not proper to be calling this late. But when my train pulled in to Victoria Station, I did not know what else to do. Except for my brief meeting with Simon Gold, I know no one in London and I have no money for a hotel. So I found my way here, following the directions a woman on the train had given me, taking the Tube to Sloane Street and then walking the last several blocks. Looking now at the grand house, I feel this was a mistake. Then my hand drops to my bag and an image of Rose’s face appears in my mind. I have to do this for her.

I take a deep breath, then press the doorbell. A ringing sound comes faintly from inside the house. There is no response. My heart pounds. Perhaps Rose’s aunt is away on holiday somewhere. I press the bell again.

“Yes?” a man’s voice says loudly. I jump, then look through the gate, but the door is still closed. “What is it?” I notice that the voice comes from a small black box with holes in it, just above the doorbell.

I clear my throat. “I—I’m looking for Delia, I mean, Mrs. LeMay.”

“This is the LeMay residence,” the voice replies stiffly. “However, Mrs. LeMay is not expecting any visitors tonight.”

“But…” I begin.

The voice interrupts. “It’s late, miss. Come back tomorrow. Or better yet, call first.” There is a clicking sound and the box goes silent.

I start to turn away, feeling my cheeks redden. Then I stop. I have to do this. I ring the bell once more. “What is it?” the man snaps. “I just told you…”

This time I speak before he can finish. “Please. It’s extremely important. If you could just come to the door…”

There is no response. I stare at the box. Had he hung up on me again? I look down the street. I will find somewhere to sleep, I decide, then come back tomorrow. As I turn to go, there is a clicking noise on the other side of the gate. I look behind me to see a thin, vertical shaft of light coming from the porch. “What do you want?” This time, the man’s voice comes from the door.

“If you could just open the gate…” The man does not respond but shuffles forward down the steps with great effort. As he emerges from the shadows, I can see that he is bald except for a fine ring of silver hair. He wears a dark pressed suit and ascot that seem formal, given the late hour. I try to recall if Rose ever mentioned an uncle.

The man reaches the gate but does not open it. “Yes?” I feel myself shrink under his sweeping glance.

I take a deep breath, choosing my English words with care. “I—I’m here to see Mrs. LeMay.” I raise my hand. “I know it’s late. I should have called first. I’m sorry. But I’ve traveled a great distance and I must speak with her. It’s about her niece, Rose.”

A look of recognition flashes across his face. “Rose?” he repeats. “What is it?”

I hesitate. Part of me wants to give the news and Rose’s belongings to this man and be done with it. “Are you family?”

“No, I’m the butler, Charles,” he replies. “But I will pass your message on to Mrs. LeMay.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I must speak with Mrs. LeMay directly.”

The man studies my face for several seconds, not speaking. Then he opens the gate. “Come in, and we’ll see if Mrs. LeMay will receive you.”

As I follow him up the porch steps, the thick perfume of honeysuckle rushes up to greet me. Suddenly I see Rose, playing in the garden as a child. Sadness wells up in me. She should be here now, too.