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464 pages, Paperback
First published February 20, 2016
Perhaps if I had been able to put things in plain language, it might have made plain that things between us were so damnably unequal, that I loved her as I would never love anyone else and that she loved me as a young woman might love a devoted brother, a trusted bodyguard, or a horse that never stumbles, never shies, but takes all fences willingly, and carries her safely across.
Burning aviators, clots of fire. The reeking night jar in our bedroom in Muswell Hill. Children skipping round me in the school yard, shouting taunts. My ship Lilith. London's winter cold and dark. The smell of ground sliced open in Regent's Park, my father's pale prisoner's face, his white hands on a table in the visiting hall. There it is. That was my war.
This all happened before I or anyone else had watched half a century's worth of films about secret police and Nazis and the brutality of ordinary “decent” men in uniforms, so I didn't recognize the situation, I didn't know the story line. I couldn't put it together fast enough to tell myself what was happening. What had started as an ordinary day kept getting darker and crazier. I was reeling.