I thought it would be impossible for her to steal off and throw herself into the Irish Sea without waking me up, so I gave up trying to keep my own eyes open.

I recognized the drone of German planes even in my sleep. I dreamed I was standing in Balham High Road back in London, staring at the sky. It was blue and empty, and I wasn’t worried about being attacked. I was happy and excited, as if I were going to a party. I could hear the thudding engines all around and I held my breath, longing for the air battle to begin. I couldn’t wait to cheer on the Spitfires and Hurricanes as they cut up the sky with their vapor trails.

Then I remembered what the bombers would do to Mummy, and woke myself with a sob.

The engines were real. The German air force, the Luftwaffe, was bombing the Liverpool docks. The ferry lounge lights had been switched off, but the ship steamed onward with a kind of grim determination that reminded me of Mrs. Campbell on the phone.

I jumped up and peeked beneath the blackout curtains. We hadn’t far to go, but fire lit the low black land. The ship rocked, and I thought of U-boats and torpedoes. We were helpless. Had Daddy felt this way, waiting for his ship to sink? I couldn’t believe it. He must have had a job to do, right up to the instant he was killed.

I thought I would choke to death with wanting to fight back, to join in, to make a difference, to do something.

Johanna von Arnim slept peacefully, snoring gently.

Well, she was my responsibility. Looking after her was my wartime job right now, and it was too bad if it wasn’t very exciting or even very patriotic. I sat down beside her again and sighed. It wouldn’t matter anyway if our ship sank on the way to Liverpool.

But mercifully it didn’t, and by the time we docked the raid was over. I hauled the cases and gramophone onto land as the all-clear sirens hooted. My wartime job was going to keep me fit, whatever else happened.

We spent hours in the city police station getting her registered, and then in the railway station at Liverpool Lime Street queuing to buy our tickets.

“Identity documents, miss?” the ticket seller asked, eyeing me suspiciously, when I finally got to the front of the line. I felt conspicuous in the fur coat.

Be polite, Lula, warned Mummy’s calm, comforting voice in my head.

I gave a false, bright smile. “Oh—yes, sorry. I haven’t had to show ID to buy a rail ticket before.” Of course I hadn’t. No one has to. But I dug in my school satchel for my National Registration card anyway.

“Please step aside so you don’t hold up the queue,” said the ticket seller coolly.