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forests, fire a Katyusha rocket into a village whose inhabitants had dared to sell German soldiers some food.’ The camera panned outwards, from
the ruined hut to the smashed and broken village. ‘Some Russians have chosen to forget what Germany rescued them from: the secret police and forced labour of Stalin’s regime; the
millions dumped in Arctic concentration camps.’ There followed familiar grainy footage of one of the camps discovered by the Germans in 1942, skeletal figures lying in deep snow, barbed wire
and watchtowers. Sarah looked away from the horrible scenes. The newsreader’s voice deepened: ‘Never doubt Europe’s eventual victory over this evil Asian doctrine. Germany beat
Stalin and it will beat his successors.’ As a reminder, there followed the famous shots of Stalin after his capture when Moscow was taken in October 1941: a little man with a thick moustache,
pockmarked, grey hair dishevelled, scowling at the ground while his arms were held by laughing German soldiers. Later he had been hanged publicly in Red Square. Next there was footage of the new,
giant German Tiger 4 tanks with their eighteen-foot guns smashing through a birch forest on a hunt for partisans, knocking over young trees like match-sticks while helicopters clattered overhead.
Then came the launch of a V3 rocket, the camera following the huge pointed cylinder with its tail of fire as it rose into the sky on its way to the far side of the Urals. Optimistic martial music
played. Then the newsreel switched to an item on Beaverbrook opening a shiny new television factory in the Midlands, before the lights finally dimmed again and the main feature opened with a clash
of music and a bright wash of Technicolor.
    When they came out of the cinema the short winter day was ending; lights were coming on in shops and restaurants, a faint yellow haze at their edges. ‘It’s starting
to get foggy,’ Sarah said. ‘The forecast said it might.’
    ‘We’ll be all right on the tube,’ Irene replied. ‘We’ve time for a coffee.’ She led the way across the road, pausing for a tram to jingle past. A couple of
young men jostled them, wearing long drape jackets and drainpipe trousers, their hair in high, greased quiffs. A little way off a policeman frowned at them from the open door of a police box.
    ‘Don’t they look ridiculous?’ Irene said, ‘Jive Boys,’ her tone disgusted.
    ‘They’re just youngsters trying to look different.’
    ‘Those jackets—’
    ‘Zoot suits.’ Sarah laughed. ‘They’re American.’
    ‘What about that fight they had with the Young Fascists in Wandsworth last month?’ Irene asked indignantly. ‘The knives and knuckledusters? People got badly hurt. I don’t
like boys getting the birch but they deserved it.’
    Sarah smiled to herself. Irene was always so indignant, so outraged. Yet Sarah knew it was all words; underneath her sister had a warm heart. The news item on the eugenics conference had
reminded Sarah of the time, a few months before, when they had left another cinema to find a group of boys tormenting a Mongol child, telling him how he would be sterilized when the new laws came
in. It was Irene, supporter of eugenics, who had waded in, shouting at the bullies and pushing them away.
    ‘I don’t know where we’re going with all this terrorism,’ Irene said. ‘Did you hear about that army barracks the Resistance have blown up in Liverpool? That soldier
killed?’
    ‘I know. I suppose the Resistance would say they were fighting a war.’
    ‘Wars just kill people.’
    ‘You can’t believe everything you’re told about what the Resistance do. Look at how they hid what happened last Sunday.’
    They headed for a British Corner House, as all the Lyons Corner Houses were now known since the expropriation from their Jewish owners. The tearoom, all mirrors and bright chrome, was crowded
with women shoppers, but they found an empty table for two and sat down. As the nippy, neat in