Birch Hall

By Ludmila Britton

A young woman swept off her feet, and swept away to a distant land...in a world on the brink of war...

BIRCH HALL tells the story of Natalie Kumansky, a Russian-American woman in San Francisco who meets Sir John Carrington and quickly becomes his wife. As she settles into life as the Lady of Birch Hall, the shadow of war darkens their new life together. Through the grim realities of the conflict -- from air raids to the loss of friends and family -- Natalie clings to the hope that she may one day become a mother amid the uncertainty of the battle against totalitarianism. But as Nazi spies infiltrate Sir John's circle, turmoil and danger lurk at every turn.

With a rich cast of characters and meticulously researched narrative, this deeply moving tale brings to life an unforgettable time in our history, and provides an intimate taste of life in England during World War Two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Intelligent Life Books
• Release date: Dec 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311595867

Ludmila Britton

LUDMILA BRITTON was born in Shanghai, China, of Russian parents, and arrived on the shores of San Francisco Bay at the age of seven. While living with her husband and two children in England, she worked for Open University and had the privilege of being a translator for the orphans of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. Two of Ludmila’s short stories have been published in Reflections, a collection of short stories and poems. Ludmila is an enthusiastic writer, has traveled extensively and presently resides with her husband in Oregon, USA. Birch Hall is her first novel.

Book preview

BIRCH HALL

by

Ludmila Britton

* * * *

Copyright 2015 by Ludmila Britton / Intelligent Life Books

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Acknowledgements

My thanks and appreciation to my husband, David Britton, who had faith in me acted as my first reader for this novel. As a boy, he survived the blitz and was bombed out of three houses.

His memories helped me make this story come alive.

Also, my thanks and appreciation to my son, Michael D. Britton, who took so much time to professionally edit my story, and without whom my book would never have been published.

Dedication

For my husband David, my son Michael, daughter Maria, and all my family, with love.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco 1938

Goodbye, Mamma.

Natalie whispered the words so softly that her breath was not visible in the crisp January air. Her long, honey blonde hair was tied back with a black, silk ribbon and she stood straight and still by her father, near her mother’s coffin. She hugged the black coat close to her slim body as the wind whipped through the leafless branches of the trees.

The dull ache in her chest would not go away. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that was damp from tears she had shed in church. Caring for her mother the past year had matured Natalie beyond her nineteen years. She knew the excruciating pain her mother suffered and had done her loving best to make her as comfortable as possible, all the while watching helplessly as the insidious cancer ravaged Nadia Kumansky’s frail body.

Natalie felt numb, but not from the cold. All those long months she had nursed her mother had not prepared her for this empty, bone chilling moment. The kadila Father Nicholai swayed back and forth filled her nostrils with a strong, pungent aroma. Nadia Kumansky had been a good wife and mother and Natalie felt a hard knot in the pit of her stomach at the thought of not being able to kiss her mother’s soft cheek, or to sit with her while they spoke about the day to day happenings that make conversation warm and pleasant between mother and daughter.

Oleg Kumansky’s broad shoulders shook as he silently wept for his beloved wife. Natalie held her father’s hand as the old priest prayed for the soul of Nadia Kumansky A small choir sang the heart-wrenching Russian Orthodox funeral mass and Oleg placed a crimson rose on his wife’s coffin. Hot tears stung Natalie’s eyes as she remembered her father’s custom of bringing a rose to his wife every day during her long and painful illness.

There were few mourners present at the cemetery; Jacob Kruger, an old family friend, and his children, Joseph and Clara, who stood next to Natalie. Nadia’s sister, Marina Orlova and her daughter Olga arrived late, trying not to look conspicuous. They only saw one another at Easter, which was a must for any self-respecting Russian family. Marina had never approved of her sister’s friendship with the Krugers. It angered Oleg when she had nicknamed them the strange little Jews.

Memories flooded Natalie’s mind like a huge dam bursting. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a child snuggling close to her mother on the over-stuffed sofa in the living room of their modest home in the Mission District, listening to her reading fairytales. The soft scent of her mother’s lilac perfume was like a halo surrounding them and her Russian accented voice had a slight lilt to it that had always held Natalie’s attention.

After the funeral the small company of mourners assembled at the Kumansky’s home for the paminki, or wake. The house was oppressively hot after the icy air at the cemetery. The sweet smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls Natalie had baked early that morning permeated the air. She took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. Oleg shuffled into the hall behind his daughter.

Papa, let me help you with your coat. Natalie gently slid the heavy winter overcoat from his drooping shoulders and hung it next to a coat that had been her mother’s. She lovingly touched the sleeve of the well-worn garment her mother had worn last spring when the weather was mild and she had taken walks with Oleg; before she was too weak to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. Natalie suppressed a sob that rose up to the surface of her tight throat. I’ll miss you terribly, Mamma, she thought. Slipping her arm through her father’s, she welcomed their friends and ushered them into the dining room. She produced a large, brightly colored bowl filled with the traditional kutya, which consisted of boiled wheat, used to symbolize eternal life and the future resurrection of bodies at the Second Coming of Christ. Each person took a small portion of the kutya in memory of Nadia Kumansky.

Before family and friends arrived at the house, a large, silver samovar had been placed in the center of the lace covered dining room table. Natalie took cups and saucers from a tall glass cabinet and proceeded to pour the steaming hot tea. Clara stood close to her best friend, her dark eyes full of sympathy.

Natasha, let me help you pour the tea. ‘Friends in joy, and in sorrow…friends forever,’ remember?

Natalie’s eyes shimmered with tears. Those simple words were their secret phrase since they were children. She nodded and let Clara pour the tea into the red and gold bone china cups that were only used for special occasions.

Clara, please ask Uncle Jacob if you can stay overnight. I’m afraid for Papa. She spotted her father standing alone, looking out at the wintry garden. She was very worried about him. He loved Mamma so much.

Don’t worry, I already decided I’d spend the night here. I thought of it this morning at the cemetery. I know Papa will let me.

Aunt Marina took over the task of being the hostess. She poured vodka into small, crystal glasses and gave the first to Oleg. Friends, let us raise our glasses to my dear sister, Nadia.

Marina made a show of dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief and looked at Oleg, who waited until the rest of the men were given the strong liquid. He raised his glass toward a rosewood cabinet where a smiling photograph of his wife stood and said, to you, my beloved, and downed the drink with one quick swallow. Then, turning on his heel, walked quickly out into the bleak, winter garden.

* * * *

England 1938

Sir John Carrington sat in his favorite leather armchair and finished the remainder of his sherry. He lit his pipe and inhaled the sweet, aromatic tobacco. Drumming his long, aristocratic fingers on his desk, he thought about the troubles in Europe.

A cheery fire blazed in the enormous, marble fireplace. It had been an unusually cold spring. Outside the wind whistled through the birch trees making a high pitched, wailing sound. Patches of lingering snow clung to the cold, damp earth surrounding the great estate. The library was his favorite room at Birch Hall. He had spent many happy hours dreaming about the future in his private hideaway. The walls, lined with walnut shelves, were filled with books, some of which were original works of Robert Louis Stevenson and Charles Dickens. The leather bookbinding was as comforting to him as the old sweater he wore. He had always been an avid reader, although these days he didn’t have much time to indulge in his favorite pastime.

Refilling his glass, he proceeded to re-read the letter from Anne.

April 25, 1938

Dear Johnny,

I am writing to you from our hotel room. As I look from the balcony I see things that I never, in all my life, imagined that I would ever witness. Hitler and his gang of thugs have ransacked Vienna. They are burning synagogues and beating any Jews they can get their hands on. The streets are littered with broken glass from smashed shop windows and there is chaos everywhere. Yesterday when I went to buy postcards I saw Jewish men and women forced to get down on their hands and knees and scrub the pavements from pro-Austrian slogans while a crowd looked on. But what was so horrible about it was that the onlookers watched with glee. They seemed to enjoy the humiliation of those poor souls. It is hard to describe the atrocities that Richard and I have seen in the last several days

You and Winston were right all along. I fear we will be at war with Germany soon… sooner than even you and I think. If only Baldwin and Chamberlain had listened to Winston!

I’m afraid our holiday had turned into a nightmare! Richard has been in a bad temper since we arrived here. I don’t know if it’s because he was not able to purchase any paintings or because of the tragic events that are taking place in this city.

We will be returning to England at the earliest opportunity. It will be good to be home again.

I remain your loving cousin,

Anne

John put down the letter and ran his fingers through his jet-black hair. He would have to show the letter to Winston as soon as he got the chance. He and Winston Churchill had had long discussions on the subject of England and Germany and now events were rolling like a snowball, hurtling downhill at a tremendous speed. He was in complete agreement with Churchill. Hitler was a creeping, dark menace who wanted to grasp countries and enslave them under his evil regime.

John was eager to return to London. At thirty, the youngest of the aircraft designers at Supermarine Company, a subsidiary of Vickers Aviation, he had the privilege of working with Reginald Mitchell, the chief designer. Sir Hugh Dowding had taken an instant liking to John, who was eager to learn his craft, and had been immensely helpful to him in the early days when he had joined the company. Researchers and designers had worked around the clock and finally, to the great relief of the Air Force, produced prototypes of two new fighters, the Hurricane and the Spitfire. Now that war was close at hand, John spent Monday through Friday at his house in London, and on Saturday mornings took the train to Devon where he could relax at Birch Hall, his ancestral home.

A knock on the library door brought John’s thoughts to the present. He folded the letter and placed it in the drawer of his ornate mahogany desk. With quick, long strides, he was at the door. He opened it to find an impatient Nora, her fist ready to strike the heavy oak door again.

Supper’s ready. You know how quickly it gets cold. Nora stood in the doorway breathing heavily after climbing two flights of stairs. She tucked a strand of gray hair behind her ear.

What has Cook dreamed up for us tonight? John put his arm around his older sister.

Well, since today is Saturday, we’re having lamb chops with mint sauce and boiled potatoes.

Mmm… sounds delightful!

"Do stop teasing, John."

"Why, Nora, I never tease. I have absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever, you know that." He couldn’t help pulling Nora’s leg. She was much too serious, but he knew she had the responsibility of overseeing that the household at Birch Hall was running smoothly, as well as making sure Neville was content. Neville was Nora’s only child and she doted on him. Besides helping Cyril Bleachely manage the estate, he was a talented artist who spent every spare minute he had in his art studio.

During the meal John mentioned the letter he’d received from Anne. The situation is rough in Europe. I’m afraid we will be at war with Germany soon.

"You can’t be serious. All this talk about war is absolute poppycock!" Neville flashed his dark eyes at John.

Hitler and his far reaching arm will force England into war. We will have to honor our treaty with Poland when that tyrant invades its borders.

Bloody politicians! Neville swallowed the last of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Do you really believe England will go to war because of some worthless treaty?"

"I’m afraid so. After all, we have to show the world that at least we keep our word."

"Well, I for one don’t think we will go to war."

I only wish we could be spared the duty of coming to the aid of our friends. John said. "But, I must say, Herr Hitler’s war machine is rolling along at top speed and it wouldn’t be cricket, old boy, if we let our side down."

I still say it’s all nonsense. A bloody war is just what we need right now, Neville said sarcastically.

John knew only too well that war was at England’s doorstep, but he didn’t want to argue with Neville. Let’s hope the tide will turn and Hitler halts his aggression.

The animated conversation continued while Kathleen, the young Irish maid served Dundee cake with lashings of custard. Her cheeks were flushed from helping in the hot kitchen. Her ginger curls protruded from her smart looking, white cap as she poured the strong tea into the bone china cups.

* * * *

Nora listened quietly and sipped her tea.

Inwardly she agreed with John but didn’t express her opinion. She was frightened of the uncertain future. She didn’t want her life to be turned upside down. Her most terrifying thought was of losing her son. She knew how impetuous he was. He would probably join the Royal Air Force. She wrapped her ice-cold hands around her cup and kept her thoughts to herself.

Nora, dear, I need to finish some work in London. I’ll come back in a fortnight to pack. John stood up and walked out of the room.

Nora was so engrossed in her private thoughts that she hadn’t noticed that the subject of war had finished and that her brother was discussing his holiday.

Oh, yes, of course. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time in San Francisco, she said absentmindedly.

CHAPTER TWO

Joseph Kruger, who was two years older than his sister Clara, gladly helped Natalie with jobs that needed attention around the house. As a result of his playing football at Stanford, he had a muscular physique that many eligible young women on campus found irresistible. With his dark curly hair and olive complexion, he could easily have passed for a matinee idol. He had loved Natalie for a long time and often fantasized being married to her. But he kept his feelings to himself. He wanted to profess his love for her at just the right moment. He didn’t like the idea of not being able to see Natalie as often as he wished. He was head over heels in love with her. He couldn’t remember not being in love with her. They had grown up together and he’d always thought that one day they would be husband and wife. To him, she was an angel; someone he wanted to look after and protect forever.

He drove up from Stanford every weekend with high hopes of seeing Natalie. Most Sundays she had lunch with the Krugers. One rare occasion that she couldn’t be there, he was deflated and returned to Stanford in a depressed state of mind. He couldn’t concentrate on his studies and decided to ask her to marry him on his next visit.

The next Sunday as Clara and Natalie were clearing away the last of the lunch dishes and listening to the radio, Joseph walked into the kitchen. The dreamy, I’m In The Mood For Love filled his heart with desire for Natalie. He looked longingly at her.

Natalie, let’s go for a walk after you’ve finished cleaning up.

That sounds like a good idea. I’ll be through in a minute.

She covered the remains of the roast with a clean dishtowel and put it on the formica counter. Whisking off her gingham apron, she hung it on a hook near the kitchen door and tied her hair with a scarf.

Joseph took her hand as they walked out into the breezy afternoon. The day was bright and clear and from the top of her street she could see Coit Tower standing like a beacon overlooking the city and the distant view of the majestic Golden Gate Bridge.

They walked in silence for a short while. Joseph thought about the gloriously sunny day, May 27th of last year when the Golden Gate Bridge was completed and pedestrians were allowed to cross it for the first time. That day Natalie had also worn a scarf, but the fierce wind had snatched it off, making her blonde hair fly wildly, making her laugh with gay abandon and he had put his arm around her tiny waist. It had been the first time since her mother’s illness that she had been able to take a much-needed respite and her heart was filled with joy at being with Clara and Joseph. He knew how much she loved her mother and her compassion showed in her expressive blue eyes. He had wanted to ask her to marry him that day but he knew that her mother came first, and her love and duty to care for her were as strong as the cables of the new bridge they were walking across. For this, he loved her all the more.

His thoughts came back to the present. Here he was, once again, with the girl he loved so much. How’s your job coming along?

It’s fine. The store is beautiful and the people who come to shop are so elegant. Oh! You’ll never guess who bought a bottle of perfume last Friday. She didn’t wait for his answer. "Sonia Hennie. The Sonia Hennie! She was wonderful…and so beautiful."

I know someone else who’s beautiful also, and she’s standing right beside me.

Natalie laughed. "Stop teasing, Joe. I’ve seen Sonia Hennie, you haven’t."

Suddenly, Joseph took both of Natalie’s hands in his and came close to her…so close that he was afraid she would hear his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Putting his arms around her, his courage surged, I’ve wanted to tell you something for a long time, Natalie. He looked into her questioning, eyes. I guess I’ll just say it right out. I love you…I want to marry you.

Natalie was taken aback by his words. "Oh, Joe! I don’t know what to say, only that I love you too…but...you’ve always been like a brother to me." She smoothed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, just like she had done so often when they were children.

Joseph felt as though he had been hit in the chest with a crow bar. He clearly had not expected to hear the words that Natalie had just said. He had loved her for as long as he could remember and assumed that one day they would be man and wife.

He fought with every ounce of strength not to show his pain. "Are you sure you don’t feel anything else for me?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "I’m sorry, truly I am. You’ve always been so good to me. I don’t want to hurt you."

It’s okay Natalie. He kissed her on her tear stained cheek, hoping she wouldn’t notice his own hot tears stinging his eyes.

They walked in silence back to the house and that night as Joseph drove back to Stanford he resolved to enlist in the navy.

CHAPTER THREE

Oleg Kumansky was so distraught over the death of his wife that it took every ounce of strength he had to get himself out of bed each morning. He began staying away from the job he’d always enjoyed, which was at a nursery just outside of the city. As if by magic, his passion for plants and flowers disappeared into a puff of smoke. He neglected his small, but once flourishing garden at home and let weeds spring up between his precious rose beds. He complained of headaches and fatigue. Natalie began bringing meals on a tray to his bedroom, but all he could manage to swallow was some broth, telling her that he was not hungry. His apathy worried his daughter, but she didn’t know how to combat his depression. Once a giant, six feet four inches tall with broad shoulders and a quick smile, he was now a gaunt, shrunken shadow of a man with drooping shoulders and a sagging mouth that quivered.

Three months later, once again, a small company of mourners assembled at the cemetery, this time to bury Oleg next to his beloved wife. Clara held Natalie’s hand throughout the funeral. Jacob Kruger’s eyes brimmed with tears as he mourned his friend. He pulled the large brim of his hat lower and leaned heavily on his wooden cane for support. He would miss his friend, beyond words. They had shared many conversations throughout the years, and concurred on world affairs. Jacob had come to a new country to escape the threat of a dictatorial enslavement in Germany. Both had