Free London Calling by Edward Bloor Page B

I saw it ten feet farther away, sitting atop a small table. It was no longer hissing static; it was broadcasting a voice—a clear, high, British voice. There was a leather chair between me and the radio, and Jimmy was sitting in it, staring at me. I can’t say I was surprised to see him again. I was, however, surprised to be out of my basement room. I was, instead, in a dark living room. I knew, as you know in a dream, that I was a long way from home. I knew that I was in London, England.
    The boy greeted me happily, in a familiar voice. “You’re finally here then, eh, Johnny?”
    “I’m where?”
    “My house, mate. Where do you think?”
    “I have no idea. I can hardly see.”
    “You’ll get used to it in a minute. Everything’s darkened for the blackout. Old Canby’ll get you if there’s a crack of light showing outside.”
    Jimmy then pointed at the radio. “Lord Haw-Haw said there’s terrific looting going on in London, but don’t you believe it. It just ain’t true. My dad and me are out there every day, and there ain’t no looting going on at all. If there were, I expect my dad’d bring home something nice for us, eh?”
    I looked around the small room. Aside from Jimmy’s chair, a leather wing chair in the Queen Anne style, there was a couch with an ill-fitting cloth thrown over it and a dark wood sideboard with pictures, knickknacks, and military stuff on top.
    “Lord Haw-Haw said the King is hiding out in Scotland with the crown jewels, ready to make a run for it. He said that Churchill and Roosevelt take their orders from the Jewish financiers. Do you know if any of that’s true, Johnny?”
    I had no idea what he was talking about, but I did pick up on one name. “Roosevelt? Do you mean FDR?”
    “Yeah. That’s him. FDR. There’s a song about him: ‘Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt Jones.’ Do you know it?”
    “No.”
    The boy reached over and turned the dial. “Do you listen to the radio?”
    “I just started.”
    “How about the news, then? You listen to that, don’t you?”
    “No. Not really.”
    Jimmy’s face registered surprise. He had a very expressive face—his eyebrows raised and lowered; his eyes winked; his lips smiled or frowned. “Well, at five-forty-two each night, on the BBC, is ‘London Calling.’ It’s special announcements, news, and the like. The BBC’s saying that Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square have surface shelters now. And they’ve dug trenches for bomb shelters in Hyde Park.”
    “Bomb shelters?”
    “Yeah. And they’re crating up the statues all over London for the duration of the war.”
    “The war?”
    “Yeah. Seems like a good idea, don’t it? They already crated up Eros and hauled him off. But old Nelson’s still in Trafalgar Square, and Richard the Lion Heart’s still outside Parliament.”
    As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the room was so dark because the windows had been taped over with cardboard. That gave the room an eerie feel, like we were sitting inside a box. The front wall had a wood door to the left side and a small window in the middle. The right wall had a sports schedule taped to it with a drawing of a soccer ball and the words
Arsenal Football Club Official Programme, 1938–9.
    I turned to look at the wall behind me. It had a poster taped to it, too, with a drawing of a British soldier. Behind him was a map of Europe that was dotted with white surrender flags. The soldier looked sweaty and beaten up, but very purposeful. The words he spoke were set below him, in large yellow letters: VERY WELL THEN, ALONE!
    I pointed to it. “What does that mean?”
    “What? The poster?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s obvious. Look at it. That’s a sergeant in the Dukes Regiment, the British regulars. He’s saying that we’re gonna go it alone against Germany. Don’t have much choice, do we? The Dutch, the Norwegians, the Belgians—they’ve all given up the fight. You see the white flags stuck into their countries?”
    I stared