London Calling (11 page)

I was startled when he wrote right back.

I logged off and tallied up the list. James Harker, Bill Lane, and Alice Lane were no longer
Maybes
to me, they were
Rights.
So the score for Jimmy Harker was now ten
Rights,
no
Wrongs,
and no
Maybes.
It was a clean sweep. What more proof did I need?

I hopped to my feet and paced back and forth. I absolutely could not keep still. I burst into my bedroom, walked up to the dresser mirror, and looked hard into my own eyes. I asked myself aloud, “Will you help? Will you do your bit?” And I answered myself, slowly and solemnly, “Yes. Yes, I will.”

I had a destiny, all right. But it sure wasn’t to go back to All Souls Prep. It was to go back to London.

I walked out of my room and into the dark, damp storage area. I resurrected the Philco from its box, pulling it up slowly, like raising Lazarus from the dead. I returned to my room and carefully replaced the glass tubes—the three 24s, the 27, the two 71As, and the 80.

I placed the radio back on its nightstand, plugged it in, and lay down to face its orange glow and its distant crackling.

LONDON: DECEMBER 29, 1940

I went to bed each night with the possibility that I would travel through time, but I had to wait until Sunday for it to happen.

I had spent the week in a state of rising anticipation. I don’t know when I have ever felt more alive. I actually caught myself singing on the way up to breakfast one morning. I started working out every day, too—push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks—the entire Garden State Elementary School PE routine. And I did them over and over. I took to running to the Acme and back; I even took to running through the hilly streets behind our house for no reason at all. My energy, so long dormant, was now coursing through my veins.

I stopped napping entirely, preferring to go to bed as exhausted as possible and to fall asleep as quickly and as deeply as possible. I was physically tired but mentally alert when I finally lay down on Sunday night.

Ironically, for the first time in months I could not sleep. Eventually I got up and walked to the computer room. I looked up cures for insomnia and learned that fresh, cold air could induce sleep. I pulled on a coat and slipped upstairs, quietly opening the kitchen door and stepping out into a freezing, starlit night.

I filled my lungs with cold air for a long time, breathing in and out, storing up oxygen for what I suspected might be a dangerous ordeal ahead. When I finally returned to my room and assumed my sleeping position with my face toward the radio dial, I didn’t have long to wait.

I found myself transported almost immediately to that place of musty scents and gloomy darkness. I looked around the familiar room and saw Jimmy Harker in his wing chair, seated next to the radio and staring right at me.

He sounded relieved. “I was afraid I’d never see you again, Johnny.”

He reached over and turned the dial until he found a bouncy tune. Then he broke into a delighted smile. “Here it is! I knew I’d find it. Listen, Johnny. It’s ‘Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt Jones.’ ”

I listened to the words and smiled along with him.

He added, “That FDR. He’s all right, ain’t he?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Gonna sell us the arms we need to fight Hitler. Gonna tell us about it tonight.”

We listened to the song all the way through. Jimmy stood behind the radio, singing along, running his fingers across the smooth, curved surface of the Philco 20 Deluxe.

When it was over, I asked him, “Do you know what they call this kind of radio? The kind with a curved top?”

“What?”

“A cathedral radio.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

I shrugged. “Because it looks like a cathedral?”

“It don’t look nothin’ like the York Minster. Maybe a little like St. Paul’s.” Jimmy looked up at me with his eyes ablaze. “The BBC said that St. Paul’s caught a pocket earlier. Gerry blasted everything around it, but the great cathedral still stands. Imagine that, Johnny. Hitler hurls his bombs at it and God just swats them away.”

He walked over to the sideboard and looked at his grandfather’s medals. “Gerry’s in for it now. We’ll have the guns to beat him, with or without you Yanks.”

I was puzzled. “Without the Yanks?”

“Yeah. Everybody knows how it is: Old FDR wants to fight, but Joe Kennedy don’t. That’s because them Kennedys is all playboys. They just want to have it off with all the movie stars, don’t they?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“They say there’s two yellow races now—the Japs and the Americans.”

I thought of Margaret’s words—that Joe Kennedy lost one son and nearly lost a second in the war. I thought of my grandfather Conway, too. I told Jimmy, “The Americans aren’t afraid to fight.”

“No? Then where are they?”

“In America. Where do you think?”

“Lotta good they’re doing there.”

I had heard enough. “What are you talking about? It was American men, and American weapons, that won the war.”

Jimmy looked at me, puzzled. “American?”

Suddenly I realized that Jimmy had no idea how this war would spread, or how it would end. He had no knowledge beyond 1940. Perhaps he had no knowledge beyond this night. I conceded, “Okay. You’re doing a brave thing, standing up to Hitler like this. The whole world knows that.”

“That’s right.”

I wandered over to the radio and looked at it closely. It was my Philco 20 Deluxe, definitely, but it looked newer and shinier. “This is a real beauty.”

“I’ll say. Best on the block.”

“Where did you get it?”

“My dad brought it home.”

“I have one just like it. My nana gave it to me. Look at the wood on the front. It’s like three different kinds of wood. And look at the back here. Mine had a nameplate that said ‘Martin Mehan.’ On this one, there’s two little screw holes but no plate.”

I watched Jimmy as he squeezed out a dab of Brylcreem, combed it through his hair, and lay the tube down on the table. Then he smiled, like he knew the jig was up. “You’re right, Johnny. Of course you’re right. I know it’s not our radio. Not really. I expect that Bill Lane pinched it.”

“Bill Lane?”

“Yeah. He gave it to my dad so we’d have a good radio for the war news, and the football matches, and the music. My dad said he thought Bill pinched it from the Embassy’s storeroom.”

“But . . . how could he do that?”

“He goes in there whenever he wants. So does my dad. They’re firefighters, mate. They gotta check on things.” Jimmy stopped and looked up, as if listening for a sound outside. “Don’t worry. My dad’s gonna return it tomorrow. They’ve got year-end inventory comin’ up.”

I walked around, behind the radio, and looked inside. I saw the number from the Embassy’s storeroom, but that was all. Something was missing.

Jimmy came up beside me. “You hear that sound outside?”

I listened, and I did hear some voices and some car horns.

“People are celebrating. It’s a night to remember, Johnny. And here’s what I’m doing to remember it.” He bent over in front of me and wrote, with a black fountain pen: “291240.”

I sputtered, “What? It was you who wrote that?”

“Yeah.”

“What does it mean?”

“Mean? It’s the date, isn’t it?”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Twenty-nine December, 1940: 29.12.40.”

“No. That would be 12-29-40.”

“Hardly, mate.”

“That’s how we write December twenty-ninth: 12-29.”

“Then you write it wrong, don’t you?”

The mood changed right after that. Jimmy stared, fixated, into the back of the radio for a long time. His good spirits faded away completely, and a great burden seemed to descend on him.

When he spoke again, it was dreamily, like he was remembering a scene from long ago. “I shouldn’t have wrote the date in there. But it was a great night, wasn’t it? And I wanted to celebrate. People were celebrating all around. I heard car horns beeping outside, and . . .”

Jimmy sighed. Then he dropped the black pen to the floor. I watched it roll until it stopped next to his gas mask. He said softly, “So let’s get started then, Johnny.”

I didn’t like his actions, or the tone of his voice. “Started where?”

“Where I have to go. And you have to follow.”

Jimmy turned toward the door. I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to think fast. “Wait, Jimmy! Listen: 29.12.40. December twenty-ninth, 1940. I know what happens.”

“I’m not so sure you do.”

“We . . . we can’t go outside. We have to find shelter.”

Jimmy told me calmly, “We will, mate. You’ll see.” He opened the door and we stared out at the black emptiness, like looking into a grave. Jimmy turned. “What’s the matter? Are you still afraid of the dark?”

I was. I was terrified. But I followed him out. As I waited, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the blackout, a lone man brushed past us. He stopped and exchanged polite greetings with Jimmy. Both of them muttered, “Goodbye and good luck.”

Jimmy told me, “Watch your step. There’s a big bomb crater to your right. I expect there’s still a bit of shrapnel in the road, too.”

I followed Jimmy across the street. Another person passed and exchanged the same greeting. Jimmy explained, “That’s what we say instead of ‘Merry Christmas’ this year, Johnny. We say ‘Goodbye and good luck.’ ”

The next thing he said made me freeze with fear. “Listen to that, now. Here comes Gerry.”

The first sound I heard was the air-raid sirens as they cranked up.

Then I heard the droning of engines high above. German bombers. Hundreds of them. The incendiaries hit us just seconds later, bursting into flame, marking the way for the high explosives to follow.

I saw the outline of the surface shelter ahead. Two people, the old woman and the boy, were standing by the doorway. Jimmy walked up to them at the entrance. “This is it, then, Gran?” As before, the woman and the boy didn’t reply, except by turning and walking inside.

I ran up and tried to go inside, too, but Jimmy blocked my way. “You can’t go in there.”

“What? Why?”

Jimmy pointed to a spot on the sidewalk. “You’re to wait over there and watch.”

“Are you crazy? You have to let me in. I’ll get killed out here!”

“Don’t be a bloody fool, Johnny! You can’t get killed. You never could. This isn’t your time.”

I stared into his eyes. In the dark, I couldn’t tell if Jimmy was sweating or crying, but his face was wet. His voice softened. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight, Johnny. I was wrong to. I should have stayed home, like Dad said.”

I could hear a wave of horrible booming noises racing toward us through the dark streets. One by one, nearby buildings began to explode under the massive barrage.

Jimmy’s hands shot up to cover his ears. Then he lowered them and shouted over the din, “But some good can come of this! I believe that. If you’ll do your bit. If you’ll just watch. Some good can come.”

Jimmy’s resolve suddenly started to melt. I saw a fat tear roll down his face as he struggled to speak, like a condemned prisoner delivering his last words. “Do you remember the question they ask you when you die?”

“Yeah.
What did you do to help?”

“That’s right. Well, this could be what you answer, then. You did this, to help me. And my dad.”

“What?”

“You and my dad, you’re both still alive, so you can still change things. All you’ve got to do is tell my dad what you saw here tonight, and that I’m sorry. Okay, Johnny?”

All I could do was nod, up and down. He pointed again. “You stand right there. And you watch. Then do what you can for us, eh?”

I kept nodding.

“Goodbye, then, Johnny. Goodbye and good luck.” Jimmy’s face was illuminated one last time in the flash of an exploding bomb. He turned quickly and ducked into the surface shelter.

I did what he told me to do.

I took a spot on the sidewalk, exactly where he had said.

I stared at the surface shelter.

I heard the thudding of the German bombs all around.

The explosion that followed was tremendous. It slapped me in the face so hard that I flew backward onto the pavement. I looked up at the shelter just in time to see the force of the blast blow out all four of its walls. The concrete roof hovered for one horrible second, and then crashed down on the three people inside.

I screamed “No!” and struggled to my feet. I scrambled across the road, picking my way over the hot, jagged rocks, and stared into the pile of debris. I ran around the perimeter and tried to find a way inside, but there was none. Not that it mattered. It was too late. No one in that rubble could still be alive.

All I could do was stand there, helplessly, and watch.

Within two minutes, and seemingly out of nowhere, a crew of firefighters arrived. I backed out of the way as they went about their business, doing what they could. They used iron crowbars to move aside massive pieces of concrete. As I watched, two big men searched for the bodies of an old woman, a little boy, and Jimmy Harker.

That’s when my heart broke open. I twisted myself away from the horrible sight and stood hunched over as hot, dirty tears poured down my face.

As I stared down at the street, I expected to find myself transported immediately back to my own bed, in my own time, but that didn’t happen. I was still in London, in 1940, in the middle of an air raid, and I had no idea what to do next.

I finally straightened up and stumbled back across the street, dazed. I had always had Jimmy as my guide; now I was alone. What could I do now? What would he want me to do?

The scene around me was horrifying. The bombers had wreaked massive destruction, and the bombs were continuing to fall. Between the shattering bursts of the explosions, I could hear voices crying out in the dark, in pain and terror.

I took off running, blindly, hoping something familiar would appear to guide me through the hellish streets. My lungs were burning and my legs were sore when I finally stopped to rest. I looked up and found myself in front of a large, ornate building with the words ritz hotel written across the doors.

A car was idling in front, and a big man was running toward it. A woman in high heels was trying to follow him, but she could not keep up. As the man opened the car door, I could see that it was General Lowery. He dove into the backseat and hollered at the driver, “Don’t wait for her. Go! Get out of here now!”

The woman was Daisy Traynor. She screamed after him, “Wait! Wait!” She reached the car just as it was pulling away. In a fury, she yelled after it, “You bastard! You big coward!” She shook her fist to the sky. “Listen to me! I
do
have your precious memos! Every one of them! You traitor! You coward!” When her fury was finally spent, she muttered, “You’ll be hearing from me again. Believe that.” Then she limped off, right past me, into the night.

I watched her for a moment, dumbly, until the thought hit me:
She’s going to the Embassy!
I had a guide now, and a direction.

I gulped in some air and took off again, soon overtaking the tall figure of Daisy Traynor and other fleeing phantoms, running all the way to the telephone box in Grosvenor Square.

I came to a stop directly in front of James Harker. Futilely, I screamed at him, “Mr. Harker! It’s Jimmy! He’s been killed!”