Robert Johnston was walking back from his central London office after a lunch meeting when he heard the air raid sirens. The weather was clear and slightly crisp. Good visibility for bombing raids, he thought. His office was still several blocks away, and people were already hurrying into the London Underground bomb shelter. He quickened his step to join them there.

The warning siren, a very loud horn, sounded with increasing volume for five or six seconds, then decreased volume for five or six seconds. Repeating and repeating. Very scary. Very urgent. “Take cover!”

Robert slowed his pace as he reached the stairs, joining the crowd. As a tall American in a brown suit, he stuck out among the general British populace.

A lawyer in his mid-forties, Robert was a partner in an international law firm Stilwell & Crandon, headquartered in New York City. After managing the firm’s Berlin office for several years, he had moved to London when the Berlin office closed and opened a small one-man office for the firm. His wife, Ellen, and their two young children stayed for a period, but then returned to New York, leaving Robert in London at the urgent request of his contacts in senior positions in the Roosevelt Administration. Robert’s prior experience in Berlin and the US Navy, with connections in both London and Washington, made him a uniquely valuable asset as the war was developing in Europe. He could not say “no” to their request that he stay in London. Living in Berlin during the first two years of The Third Reich, Ellen had been sickened and disgusted by what she saw there. She wanted none of the impending war. When Robert felt he had to stay in London, and stay involved, she had returned to New York and insisted on a formal separation.

Entering the shelter, shoulder to shoulder with nervous Brits of all walks of life, Robert gently pushed his way deeper inside. Although it was still daylight outside, the shelter was fairly dark. There were lights from the tunnels and in the station itself, but the darkness and crowding only added to the general unease. Although the bombing of London had been going on for quite some time, today was the first day that the London Underground, or the “Tube” as it was known, was “officially” open as a bomb shelter. It did have the advantage of being fairly far underground with adequate ventilation, and it was large enough to hold many people, but most importantly it was there. Its effectiveness as a bomb shelter was far from proven. Robert could see that it might be an ongoing impediment to Tube travel if people made a base camp on the platforms.

Robert moved on down the platform trying to escape the continuing influx of people coming down the stairs, and obeying the barking orders of the Shelter Wardens, mostly British Army enlisted men. Stepping around young and old, men and women, large and small, he found a relatively quiet, small spot to stand with his back against the solid looking wall. Then he heard the sound of German bombers overhead with their heavy, steady engines. No bombs yet. Perhaps the targets were some other parts of London. The bombers were probably the Dornier Do 17, the Heinkel HEIII, the dreaded Junkers JU87, and the Junkers JU88. Robert knew that the Dornier Do 17’s, the backbone of the Luftwaffe bomber force, were old and slow, and no match 3 for the RAF fighters. The Heinkel HEII had a bigger bomb load, but also fared poorly against RAF fighters. The JU87 “Stuka” dive bombers were ferocious in combat, but easy targets on their long-range bombing runs. But the JU88’s were probably the best bombers available in 1940. They were fast and agile, a challenging target for RAF fighters, and would do a lot of damage. Fortunately, the Germans had only a few of them.

Over the noise of the crowded station, Robert could now hear the sound of a train coming. Ironic, he thought. The people on the platform were stuck in this crowded station on a day when German bombers were making them all wish they were somewhere else. Anywhere else. And all the people on the train were arriving from somewhere else and wanting to come into the crowded station. As the train stopped, most passengers, perceiving the plight of the people in the station, stayed on in order to go somewhere else, while those waiting in the station, hoping that the German bombers were heading somewhere else, elected to sit tight. So, the tram closed its doors, and left, noisily, to be followed by a gust of air from the tunnel.

As the sound of the train moved on into the darkness and disappeared, so did the sound of the German bombers. There was no “all clear” siren, so most people hunkered down. In one corner, Robert could see some children doing their schoolwork under the tutelage of a middle- aged teacher. He gradually became aware of the British dialects he could hear. Cockney. Plenty of Irish, Scottish, Oxbridge. But he also became aware that there were foreign accents as well. Some French. Some Spanish. Some Colonials. Quite a stew, he thought to himself.

Slowly, he began to realize that he was also hearing German. German? Why would that be? German voices in a London Bomb Shelter, dodging German bombs? Seems a bit incongruous. It must have sounded the same to others, as a hush fell over the assembled masses. The German voices continued for a few minutes, and then fell silent, causing a bit of a stir. Robert could now see a tall British soldier walking his way over to the people speaking German. They were fairly close to Robert, giving him a good vantage point.

“Who are you Krauts? And what the bloody hell are you doing in here?” the soldier asked, directing his question to one of the older men in the German speaking crowd.

The older man, in somewhat of a panic, did the only thing he knew to do under the circumstances. He responded in German. But the British soldier did not speak or understand a word of German, and having it thrown back at him just made the situation worse. A few other German speaking men added further explanations, also not understood.

A number of Brits on the platform were becoming agitated by this confrontation. A group of four men and two women banded together to give vocal support to the British soldiers. “Get those Germans out of here!” one man shouted.

A woman turned to her friends in a very loud voice and said, “Krauts in our bomb shelter! My God! It’s like jumping up on a kitchen counter to avoid a large mouse on the kitchen floor, and then finding the large mouse sitting there next to you on the counter!”

Robert took it all in very quietly. He did have a working knowledge of German, and so he understood that the German men were explaining, unfortunately in German, that they were Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany, and had been invited to stay in London. The German bombs undoubtedly being dropped as much on them as on the British. But Robert was still a bit too far from the action to offer an explanation in English. He was also very concerned that as an American, he was actually a foreigner, too.

The British soldier, charged with maintaining order in the bomb shelter, was having none of it. “Get the hell out of here,” he shouted. “All of you. Now! You’re taking up space that we need for our own people.”

The British soldier was seething with anger and so were quite a few other British subjects. The scene was getting pretty ugly, pretty fast. Robert wasn’t sure there was much he could do. Mobs, even mini-mobs, are not logical, and a hatred for Germans was fomenting this crowd, further enflamed by the discomfort of a bomb threat.

“Please, sir, let me explain, if I may.” A female voice rose above the din. A woman or maybe a girl. It wasn’t clear from where Robert was standing. What was clear, she spoke English. No accent, just Oxbridge. She spoke well. Hearing the beautiful speaker of their mother tongue, the crowd fell silent. Listening.

“These are German refugees from Nazi persecution. German Jews. Many of them recently escaped from German cities, where they were to be rounded up and sent off to the internment camps. The British government has offered them asylum, in a humanitarian gesture. They have all suffered greatly at the hands of the brutal Nazis, and they are here as your guests.”

Her words were electrifying, and humbling. Most of the crowd understood immediately, these people had suffered enough and did not need more bullying from the one nation that was now firmly resolved to destroy these Nazi bullies.

The corporal was less impressed.

“Miss--Corporal John Hardy here, Regular Army. It is my job to safeguard fellow Brits from German bombs. The fact is these people are Germans occupying space in a London bomb shelter intended for British subjects.”

Being Jewish didn’t help. Corporal Handy regarded every British born Jew as more of a foreigner than a Brit, and he really didn’t understand why the British government was importing German Jews, or other Jews, into the country when resources were stretched very thin. The woman’s accent was a bit too plummy for him. Probably a well-born, over-educated bird, who would never give him the time of day.

“I don’t have time to sort out who they are, or why they are here, as that’s not my concern. I am in charge of this bomb shelter, and who stays, and who goes. You need to go. I’ve got good countrymen in the stairwells and even outside, and they all get preference over this bunch of Germans. So, move out. Now!”

Robert stepped forward. He debated in his own mind. Was it better to take on the corporal or help these people extract themselves quickly? It would be a man-to-man debate, a fairer “fight” than the young woman was having, and Robert was confident that he could prevail. There were plenty of foreigners in the station. But then what? They were all trapped in a pretty hostile environment. If a bomb did hit nearby, more tempers could flare, and people might well turn on these poor refugees.

He turned to the young woman. “Follow me, there are other places we can go besides this shelter.” The dull roar of the bombers was coming again, which explained why the “all clear” never sounded. All the more critical that he and the little band of refugees go quickly. Robert instinctively took the young woman by the arm to guide her. She walked with him, while she was giving strict directions in German to the refugees to follow—no talking, no arguing, no looking at anyone, just move out as rapidly as possible. The other people on the platform seemed to understand. They melted out of the path to allow the exodus to proceed down the platform. On the stairs and then out onto the street. Robert realized the young woman was speaking High German. Maybe she was German and not British, as he first thought. Was she somehow part of their group and not just a helpful bystander?

Out on the deserted street, Robert had time to size up the group he was shepherding. About fifteen in all. Mostly older men and women, seemingly in their fifties, and sort of matched up into couples. No children. Had they been sent off somewhere to safety, he wondered. The young women was standing next to him, looking very anxious.

“Do you think there is somewhere else we could go?” she asked. “You said that you had some other places?”

The bombers were now sounding louder, closer.

“Quickly now. Follow me,” Robert said.

Robert walked briskly down several streets to his office building. Now well past closing, the building was dark, quiet and deserted. Robert pulled his key out and opened the door. “Hurry in,” he said. “Go on down those stairs, into the basement.”

The group followed his direction, one by one disappearing down the stairs. Robert found a light switch. The young woman stood by his side, waiting until they had all gotten down into basement storage room. Robert went down last of all, with her just ahead of him.

The basement was reasonably well lit, but not deeply set under the ground. It was not a real bomb shelter, but certainly better than standing on the street. The many boxes of stored documents had been carefully stacked against the walls, giving further protection from concussions or shrapnel. And there were flashlights, water, and some canned food rations. There were nowhere near enough seats, so Robert suggested that some of the men pull out file storage boxes and sit on them.

After twenty minutes or so, everyone started to relax a bit. The bombers seemed to have flown by, looking for targets farther west. The young woman was talking to some of the refugees, trying to comfort them. They clearly enjoyed the attention she was giving them. Perhaps they all missed their own daughters, wherever they were.

Robert noticed the refugees were not well dressed. Their clothing looked worn. He wondered if they had been able to take much with them as they departed their homes, probably on short notice. He had seen newspaper photos of the many refugees pouring out of Europe. This group looked better off than many of them, but similar, too. Thin. Worn out.Nervous, but appreciative of kindness. Hungry. He wondered when they’d last had a meal. Should he offer them the canned rations? The young woman looked thin. It was difficult not to take sympathy on her in view of all the sympathy she had shown to these refugees. Oh, what the hell, he thought. I should be able to replace the rations.

“Could I offer these people a meal? We have enough ration packs down here for each of them, and for you as well.”

“Would you really do this for us? You don’t even know us, and you’re already going out of your way for us.”

Robert could tell from the look on her face that she wanted very much to accept the offer, but also knew he was sticking his neck out, and she should decline.

“Please. The ration kits are from the British government, and I know that I can replace them. These refugees look pretty hungry to me.” He thought for a moment, then added, “One condition, though.”

Her eyes opened, as she looked at him intensely.

“What is it?”

“You must eat one yourself.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that. These older people have been through hell and back. I’m just fine.”

Robert was a skilled negotiator, and he knew he had the upper hand. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

She smiled and looked down.

“You are very kind. And very perceptive. I accept. Thank you!”

She then turned to the group and explained the offer, which they gladly accepted. Within a very short time there was an active dinner party underway.

The long, steady whining horn of “all clear” sounded, but none of the refugees moved. They finished the little meals, chatting away in German. Their manners were impeccable, Robert thought. The people were clearly from German middle class families. Well-bred and probably well-educated. He only wished that he could offer them better fare, and a few bottles of wine.

The young woman took her ration tin, and then, looking at Robert said, “This would be much more comfortable for me and for all of us, if you would eat with us.”

Of course, he thought, where are my manners? So, he opened a tin, and dug in.

“You said ‘us.’ But surely you must be English. Your accent is so impeccable.”

“Perhaps it is,” she said, “but I am not English. I am one of them. I am a German Jew, just like them. But my escape was easier, and my life here in England has been more comfortable.”

Robert studied her. Her clothes were not expensive, but good quality. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Somehow, a warm smile. Her nose was straight, and thin. Bright spirited and thoughful. A lovely young woman, he thought, but she seemed to radiate an innate goodness and trustworthiness.

She noticed him looking at her, and, with a small smile, seemed to appreciate it. “May I know your name, sir?”

Robert was taken aback. There had been so much stress and activity and emotion in the past few hours, he had never even thought to introduce himself, or ask her for her name, either.

“Of course, I am Robert Johnston. My office is upstairs. May I know your name?”

“Hannah. Hannah Hanauer. And greatly in your debt. I’ve never spent any time with an American. You seem different in some ways from the British.”

“Yes,” Robert laughed. “We began to notice that ourselves about two hundred years ago. So, we very politely asked the Brits to go home and let us be. Reluctantly, after a nasty war that lasted ‘eight years, four months, and fifteen days,’ they did finally depart. But then, over the ensuing two long centuries, we came to realize that we stubborn Yanks and those Bloody Brits do share a great deal of common history, common form of government, common language, common values, common laws, and, for many of us, common ancestry. So, we tend to stick together, for the most part anyway.”

After listening carefully, she laughed. “That does explain things.” The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face, replaced by intensity. “We did study the Great War from 1914 to 1918. It was never clear why the US joined the war on the side of the UK. Now it seems that Germany should start paying a lot more attention to the US. It has been a blind spot for us Germans. Or maybe I should now say, for those Germans! Is it likely that the Americans will enter the war?”

Robert became serious. “Yes. I would stake my life on it. That is why I am here in London. It will take time, but that outcome is a foregone conclusion. Finally, the sin, the depravity and the scope of the never-ending Nazis transgressions will inevitably pull the entire world into the effort to put an end to it, and to make the Germans pay for it. Pay dearly for it.”

“I hope you are right. That scenario is frightful—a world at war—but it is also hopeful. And thank you for a day which I will never forget. I can only hope that our paths will cross again.”