It was different, writing on a typewriter: the clatter and noise, the resistance of the keys forcing her to put effort into each letter. It made her job even more oppressive. Elizabeth had joined a typing pool transcribing notifications for service personnel who had been severely wounded, or killed in action, or those who had gone missing. She had been a typist before the war and was hopeful to find work in journalism. But her plans, the world’s plans, had been turned on t

The darkness was thick and suffocating, like a heavy blanket had been thrown over the world. He had to get over the wall, had to get...