As Time Goes By (4 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Victor Laszlo arrived in London to a hero's wel
come, albeit a secret one. He and Ilsa were met on the
tarmac at Luton airfield on December 8,1941, not by a
committee, but by a single man, military in mien and
brusque of manner, who introduced himself as Major
Sir Harold Miles and shook hands in a brisk, business
like fashion. After a brief conversation with Laszlo, the
major bundled them into a waiting Lancia and sped
them into town. An hour later the car pulled up in front
of a large but nondescript house in a residential neigh
borhood, and they were hustled up the front steps and
inside. Ilsa was told to wear her coat collar turned up
and her hat pulled down low.

Once inside, however, everything was different. Ilsa
had not been sure what to expect, but it wasn't this.

The parlor floor was warm and cozy. Elegant Wil
liam Morris wallpaper adorned the walls, and the
hearty overstuffed furniture was covered in bright
prints. The curtains were brocade and the ceilings orna
mented with plaster. A coal fire burned in the hearth,
casting off a welcoming warmth, and two chairs nestled
invitingly on either side of it. It looked like home, cer
tainly more of a home than she had had in the past year and a half.

A kindly woman, verging on elderly but still evi
dently with all her wits and strength about her, took her things and handed her a glass of tea. "I'm Mrs.
Bunton," she said by way of introduction. "I should
expect you've had a long and difficult journey. This
will take some of the chill off."

At the other end of the room, Ilsa watched her hus
band conferring with Major Miles and another man,
who was dressed in the formal morning coat of a diplo
mat. They were too far away, and speaking too softly, for her to hear their words.

She took her tea from Mrs. Bunton gratefully, and as
she drank it she felt some warmth come back into her
bones. After a few minutes Victor broke away from his
conversation and walked over to her. "You must be
very tired, my dear," he said. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest for a while? I'll join you shortly."

"Oh, Victor," she said, "couldn't I stay here, for just a few more minutes?"

Victor glanced back at the two other men in the
room. "I'm afraid I must insist."

There was no point in struggling. "Very well," she
said. Mrs. Bunton led her up the stairs and into a beau
tifully appointed double room. "I'm sure you'll be
quite comfortable here," she said, shutting the door.

Although she was very tired, for a long time Ilsa lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. She knew the real reason that underlay Victor's solicitude: the conversation he
was having had nothing to do with her. She had played
out this scene dozens of times before. The meetings in the middle of the night. The strange men in the parlor,
some with faces muffled against recognition. Always it
ended the same way, with Victor asking her to leave
and closing a door on her. She didn't want it to be that
way any longer.

For the first time in months she felt safe—safe and yet very, very alone. That, she thought, was the story
of her married life with Victor Laszlo. His wife, but only when he felt it safe to acknowledge her. At his
side when she could be, but never really
with
him. Part
of his cause, but not, in the end, his cause. More than
a helpmeet, less than a mate.

Yet as she'd watched him these past few days, she
couldn't help once more being impressed with him.
This was the man she had fallen in love with as an
impressionable girl; this was the man to whom she was
now wedded as a mature woman. Victor was tall and
well proportioned, with a noble head and kind eyes that
had seen suffering she could not begin to fathom. He
stood and moved with great dignity, as if responsibility
for the fate of the world were resting on his shoulders.
Who was to say that, at this moment in history, it
wasn't? How she admired him!

She knew as well how much she meant to him.
Hadn't he risked his life for her, time and again? Even
if he didn't let her be a part of it, didn't he always tell
her how important she was to his work? Didn't he,
from time to time, tell her how much he loved her? Her
heart swelled with pride as she watched him, so stately
and dignified, yet so intent and so commanding.

Then she thought about Rick Blaine.
  

Had she done the right thing by leaving him notes,
first in Casablanca and then in Lisbon? Had he even
received them? Had he followed her and Victor, as she
hoped? Was he here? What would Victor say if he
found out? How would he react? What was she hoping
for? That Rick had followed—or that he hadn't?

She felt herself becoming upset and tried to calm
down. She started to let herself believe that Rick had
never received her note in Lisbon. That he was still
back in Casablanca or, better yet, somewhere far away.
That the accident of meeting him again and Rick's giv
ing them the letters of transit was just that—an acci
dent, proof of the tightness of Victor's cause, proof
that her place was by Victor's side, now and forever,
that... There, that was better, wasn't it?

No, it wasn't. Rick had given her something she had
never felt before. It wasn't just the physical joy she felt
when she was with him. Rather, it was a closeness, a
tenderness, a passion, an excitement far beyond the ca
pacity of other men to give.

With sudden insight she realized the truth: The way
she felt about Rick was exactly the way Victor felt
about the cause. It was one thing to love a cause, how
ever; it was another to love a man. But which man did she really love? She struggled to sort out her feelings.
Her head told her that while her heart might be con
flicted, her duty was clear. Though she might love
Rick, her place was with her husband. She had to show
Victor that she was worthy of him and, even more im
portant, worthy of his cause. Besides, she would never
see Rick again, would she?

Therefore, Ilsa decided, she would play a greater role
in that cause. She was tired of being a pawn in a game
played by men: this was not just a man's war, but
everybody's. Were the Nazis sparing women in their
assault on civilization? She knew from firsthand expe
rience they were not. From now on this was Ilsa Lund's war, too.

Just then the door opened and someone came in. She
expected that it would be Mrs. Bunton, but it was not. It was Victor. "Are you all right, my dear?" he asked, sitting lightly on the bed beside her.

"Yes, Victor," replied Ilsa. "I'm fine. In fact, I'm
feeling quite myself again."

"Good," Victor said. "I was worried about you. You
looked so pale on the flight, so tired, that I feared you might be ill. The stress—"

"Victor," said Ilsa, "there's something I need to say
to you." She sat up and faced her husband. He
smoothed the covers while he listened.

"I don't know why we are here, or what you are planning," she began.

"That is for your own safety," he interjected.

She stopped by placing her right hand on his arm.
"But that's just it!" she exclaimed. "I don't want it to
be that way anymore! I am no longer the schoolgirl you
fell in love with. I'm your wife. All over Europe, girls
half my age are dying for what they believe in. How
can I do any less?"

"I don't know what you mean, Ilsa," Victor said.

"I mean that I want to be a part of what you are a
part of," she said, her words pouring forth. "If there is
danger, I want to share it with you. If there is glory, I
want to seek it with you."

Victor shook his head. "That is impossible."

"It is not," replied Ilsa, gripping her husband's arm.
"You say you are grateful for all the things I have done
for you, but I've only done what you've let me. I want
to do more. You say you love me. Then prove it, by
treating me like a woman and not like a child, by treat
ing me like your wife instead of your daughter."

For the first time since she had met him, Victor
seemed confused and unsure of himself. "I can't," he said at last. "I cannot put you in such peril."

Ilsa looked her husband in the eye. "You already
have," she said. "What else have we shared but peril
for the past year and a half? If I have already endured the danger, then let me share in the glory."

Victor withdrew from her grasp and stood up. "You
are certain this is what you want?"

"I want the same thing that you want," she replied.
"Nothing more, nothing less."

Victor's self-control had reestablished itself. "Very
well, then," he said. "Let us go downstairs together
and meet the others."

As they returned to the parlor, Ilsa noticed that the two men who had been on the plane with them had
joined the group.

"Gentlemen," Victor announced loudly, "I have the
honor of introducing my wife, Miss Ilsa Lund. Ilsa, this
is Sir Ernest Spencer, the British Secretary of War.
Major Miles you already know. And these two brave men are Jan Kubiš
 
and Josef Gab
č
ík, free citizens of
Czechoslovakia and comrades-in-arms."

Ilsa shook hands with them all. Sir Ernest was a tall,
ascetic-looking man with an aristocratically refined
face and a small pencil mustache. Major Miles was a
powerfully built military man. By contrast, Kubiš and
Gabčík
seemed hardly more than boys. "Very pleased
to meet you all," she said.

"Before we go on," said Victor, "my wife has some
thing to say."

Ilsa gave him a slight bow. "Gentlemen, the past two
years have been especially trying for both my husband
and me. There were times when, frankly, I despaired.
For a while I thought Victor was dead. Later, I myself
was seriously ill. But, as you can see, we have both survived."

How radiant she looks, thought Laszlo as he watched her performance with growing admiration. He was very
proud to call her his wife—and now, in the safety of London, he could.

"And because we have both survived," Ilsa went on,
"it is now time for us to fully consummate our partner
ship." She smiled at her husband, the smile that had
first caught his eye and then won his heart. "Therefore,
from this moment on I have the honor and pleasure to
inform you that I shall be a fully active partner in this
operation—anything that you can say in front of Victor
you can say in front of me."

Sir Ernest cleared his throat. "Well said, Mrs.
Laszlo," he remarked. "But surely you realize the ex
traordinary danger..."

"My husband and I have already discussed that. Any
danger we encounter we wish to share."

Major Miles looked at Victor. "Mr. Laszlo, I con
gratulate you. With a brave and gallant wife like this,
you hardly have" need of our assistance."