Last Telegram Page 16

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  By May 1940, the news from Europe was grim.

  German troops were in Holland and Belgium, just the other side of the North Sea, and rapidly moving forward into Northern France. In East Anglia, we felt perilously close to the front line, with only a narrow strip of North Sea between us and their apparently unstoppable forces. Our holiday beaches became off-limit fortresses, with roads barricaded and coastal bridges blown up to impede the progress of any invading force. Even Churchill’s bullish speeches failed to lift our optimism, and a sense of gloomy inevitability seemed to settle over our lives.

  In this febrile atmosphere, spy fever became an epidemic, and official posters everywhere warning that CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES only helped to heighten people’s fears. One evening in the tennis hut, Stefan pulled out a torn-out page from a tabloid newspaper and pointed to the headline. It read: GERMAN SPIES HELD IN SABOTAGE PLOT. I quickly scanned the story. It was a lurid and unlikely tale, ending with the exhortation: “It is every Briton’s duty to protect our noble country: report all suspicious behavior to your local police station, NOW.”

  “What if someone reports me, Lily? About my papers? About my age? Could they send me back to Germany?”

  “Your papers were good enough to get you here, weren’t they? No one’s going to check them again now. Don’t worry, my darling,” I said, trying to distract him with a kiss.

  But my reassurances soon began to sound increasingly hollow. Soon enough, newspapers were reporting that new laws were being prepared, requiring all German and Austrian men over twenty years old to register as “enemy aliens.” Kurt and Walter were too young to qualify and so, officially, was Stefan. But that didn’t stop him being consumed with anxiety. His memories of being arrested and imprisoned in Germany seemed to replay themselves in his mind. I pressed him to talk about it, but he refused.

  It got worse. As large-scale casualties were reported from fighting in France, anti-German sentiment seemed to spread like a rash. I tried to put it to the back of my mind: the boys had been working at the mill for over a year now, and seemed to be well liked by everyone. I was so convinced that no one who knew them could possibly dislike or mistrust them that I failed to notice what was really happening.

  I was collecting the office tea tray from the canteen when I noticed that Kurt and Walter were not sitting, as usual, with Bert and the tacklers. Stefan was not with his usual group of weavers. Instead, the three of them sat at a table on their own. It struck me as odd, but I didn’t give it a further thought.

  Then, a few days later, I was washing my hands when, through the open door into the toilet area, I overheard two women talking to each other between the cubicles.

  “Only stands to reason,” one said. “Shouldn’t trust any of ’em.”

  The response was inaudible over the sound of the flush, except for the words “parachute silk.” I couldn’t be absolutely sure what they were talking about, but whatever it was sent prickles up the back of my neck. I crept away and lurked behind some shelves, waiting for them. After a while the women emerged: two older weavers who had worked for Verners all of their lives and had always appeared motherly, even protective, toward Stefan. I’d jumped to silly conclusions. They must have been talking about something else.

  Perhaps we were all deluding ourselves, like the Fischer family in Vienna. We’d had no news of them since the outbreak of war and I remembered what John had said about their attitude to the Nazis: “if they keep their heads down it will all go away.”

  But just two weeks later, the red paint splashed over the front door of the boys’ cottage brought us face-to-face with the shocking reality. It was so crudely daubed that the words were hard to read, but as Father and I got closer, the obscene words became plain: FUCK OFF JEWBOYS.

  We called the police, and soon afterward a stout man arrived on a bicycle altogether too flimsy for him. “Constable Kilby, Westbury police,” he said, puffing as he leaned the bike against the wall and took off his helmet. He looked at the door, mouthing the words as he read them, twice. He shook his head. “This is a bad old business, sir. I understand these lads are your employees at the mill?”

  Father nodded, “That is correct, Constable. Now, shall we go inside?”

  The six of us crowded awkwardly in the tiny front room. “Now lads, who’s going to tell me what’s been going on?” he said gravely.

  Kurt and Walter nudged Stefan simultaneously.

  “Begin at the beginning then, laddie. Don’t miss anything out.”

  “A few nights ago, there was a crash,” Stefan started, studying his feet. “A stone through our window. With a piece of paper.”

  “A stone? A piece of paper?” I struggled to understand. Why hadn’t he mentioned this?

  “With writing on it.”

  “What did it say, laddie? Speak up now.” The policeman frowned and wiped his brow.

  “It said,” Stefan cleared his throat, “it said ‘Krauts go home.’”

  I heard a moan and realized it was me.

  “Then, this morning,” Stefan gestured toward the front door. “That.”

  “Have you still got the piece of paper?” Constable Kilby asked.

  “We burned it,” Kurt said.

  “Don’t worry, laddie. Any idea who wrote it?”

  They shook their heads.

  “What about those men from the pub?” I said.

  “What men are these, exactly?” asked the policeman.

  Father’s face reddened as Stefan recounted the story about the attack outside the pub. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” he growled. “This is not just casual prejudice, it’s anti-Semitism. It must not be tolerated.”

  Stefan shook his head. “We did not want to bother you, Mr. Harold.”

  The constable sighed. “I’m afraid it’ll be tricky to prove who did it, sir. I could go to the King’s Arms and have a word with the landlord. See if he can identify the men.”

  “But they might come and find us again,” Walter said in a small voice.

  “Can’t deny that’s a possibility, laddie,” Constable Kilby said, shaking his head sadly. “On balance, it might be best to keep your heads down, stay out of harm’s way. In my experience, if you don’t react, they’ll get bored with the idea soon enough.”

  • • •

  When Gwen called in on her way home from work a week later, she found us huddled around the radio once more, listening to the six o’clock bulletin. The news about the Expeditionary Force was devastating, but at least they were now being rescued.

  “All those little ships. Incredible what they’re doing at Dunkirk,” I said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” she said rather curtly, her face drawn and somber. “It’s hard to imagine what they’re going through. But I need to speak to you and Harold, in private, please. It’s more bad news, I’m afraid, only closer to home.”

  Instinctively I knew it was something to do with the boys, and it felt as though a stone had dropped into the pit of my stomach. “Come in,” I said. “Would you like a drink? Sherry?”

  “Any chance of something stronger?”

  “Gee and tee? They haven’t rationed that yet. Or whiskey and water?”

  “Whiskey please, straight.”

  We went into the drawing room and I turned off the radio as Father poured and handed her a glass. She took a long slug.

  “I’m afraid I have unwelcome news, Mr. Harold. There are rumors going around the mill.”

  “Rumors? What about?” Father said, frowning.

  “They say parachute silk is being deliberately sabotaged.”

  I thought for a moment this was just a repeat of the gossip I’d overheard a few weeks before. Then I quickly realized it had escalated into something much more dangerous; these rumors were malicious, intended to get the boys into trouble, perhaps get them sacked or worse. It wasn’t just aimed at Stefan either. He wove parachute silk, but Kurt and Walter also worked on it
, in the finishing plant.

  “What utter tosh,” Father exploded. “We test every roll. I’ve not been told of any problems.”

  “I’m just reporting what I’ve heard, sir.” Gwen crossed her arms defensively.

  “Quite right, quite right,” he muttered, pulling the pipe out of his pocket. “And thank you for bringing it to my attention. Do you have any clues who it is?”

  Gwen shook her head. “I’ve tried to find out, believe me. I have suspicions but couldn’t pin it on anyone in particular.” Should I tell them what I’d heard in the toilets, I wondered. I had no proof that the conversation was anything to do with the boys.

  And while I was wondering, a more treacherous thought occurred. Could Gwen have heard similar gossip, and be exaggerating it deliberately to stir things up against Stefan because she disapproved of my relationship with him? Surely not? That was several months ago; she hadn’t said anything about it since then, and I knew she valued him very highly as a weaver.

  I was grateful when Father stood up, purposefully knocking out his pipe in the hearth. “We need to put a stop to this, right now. We’ll call a meeting tomorrow, for all staff,” he said, reassuringly decisive. “Tell them it is mandatory, Gwen. The day shift folk must come to the canteen at five o’clock sharp after work—and make sure the evening shift know so they can get there in time too.”

  After seeing her out, he came back into the room and sat down beside me on the sofa. “I know what you’re thinking—someone’s trying to discredit those boys. Leave it to me. We’ll scotch these rumors. Don’t you worry, my darling. Time for supper.”

  His words did little to reassure me. The truth was slippery and increasingly treacherous, I thought, like walking on marbles. I had no idea who to trust anymore.

  • • •

  The canteen was packed. Chairs and tables had been stacked against the walls to make room for more than a hundred workers—both shifts—gathered in their usual groups. A buzz of expectant chatter filled the room. Stefan, Kurt, and Walter were in the corner, looking cheerful enough. I hoped they were unaware of the rumors. Squeezing through the crowd, I checked each face, hoping the culprits might somehow reveal themselves. Gwen held out her hand to steady Father as he stepped up onto a chair.

  He cleared his throat and held up his hand. The room went quiet.

  “Thank you for coming at short notice.” He composed his features into a genial expression and modulated his voice into that combination of authority and amiability that earned him such respect. “It’s the end of a working day for some of you, and the start for others, so I won’t keep you long. First, I want to thank everyone for putting your backs into the essential war production we have delivered with such success so far, in what are difficult times for all of us, both personally and professionally.” He paused, smiling around as if we were all his children.

  “I’ve called this meeting so that everyone who works for Verner and Sons can be reassured that there are no—I repeat NO—problems whatsoever with the production of parachute silk in this mill. You have my word. Every roll is rigorously tested, and we sample-test again to double check. Every single one has come well within the ministry’s specifications and we have absolutely no complaints from our major clients, Cameron Ltd.”

  He paused again, scanning the crowd, and his voice became louder and more deliberate. “I would like to add that anyone spreading rumors suggesting otherwise will be severely disciplined. Any suggestion that would reduce confidence in our products could seriously affect our contribution to the war effort and the viability of our business, not to mention the jobs of everyone who works here.”

  “And finally,” he raised his voice further still, “I would like to remind you, as if you needed reminding, that careless talk can cost lives—and that means the lives of any one of us or our families.” He looked around again at the silent faces.

  “Well, that’s all for now. For the day shift, it’s time to go home for a well-earned rest, or back to work for the rest of you. Thank you and good evening.”

  There was a short burst of applause as he climbed down from the chair. He shook dozens of hands as people offered thanks and support, saying a few friendly words to each one. I looked back toward where the boys had been standing, but they’d disappeared.

  14

  There is no fabric more sensuous than silk. Its use for night wear and bed sheets has been popular for centuries, and recently, finely powdered silk fiber has been adopted for the preparation of luxury unguents for the skin. It is remarkable that a thread so loved for its beauty and sensuality comes from the simple caterpillar of the moth Bombyx mori.

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  Stefan’s note broke all the rules. It said, Come to the cottage tonight, seven o’clock, if you can.

  It was difficult to get away at this early hour, but I concocted an outrageous lie and arrived only half an hour late.

  “What’s all this?” I said, breathless from running and scared of more bad news.

  “I’m so happy you can come,” he said, letting me in with a quick glance up the road in each direction. He closed the door and pulled me into his arms, but I pushed him away.

  “Hang on. Where are Kurt and Walter?”

  “At the cinema.” A sweet, shy smile spread across his face. “They won’t be back till half past ten. We have three hours alone. What do you think? Can you stay?”

  No more words were needed. The moment we’d longed for had arrived. He took my hand and led me up the narrow staircase to his room. It was sparsely furnished with just a bed, chair, and chest of drawers, but he’d lit a couple of candles and it looked cozy in their gentle glow. A bunch of wildflowers stood in a jam jar on the bedside table.

  I started to tremble even more as he unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my bra. We kissed again, and my legs turned to jelly, but I somehow remained standing. I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears, pounding through my body.

  As I tried to help him take off his jumper, he moved backward to pull it over his head, stumbled on the rug, and fell onto the bed, pulling me on top of him. The tension was broken; we rolled around half-naked, giggling like children.

  He drew back the candlewick bedspread and eiderdown and we sat down.

  “You crazy, lovely boy,” I whispered, kissing him again.

  Hurriedly now, we pulled off the rest of our clothes and climbed between the sheets. We were both shaking, pushed awkwardly together in the narrow single bed. But as we turned to each other, tentatively stroking and kissing, the warmth enveloped us, and after a while our bodies seemed to melt and merge into one.

  He lifted himself onto his arms and pulled back the cover. My nipples were hard as pebbles, and as he bent to kiss them, darts of electricity fizzed deliciously through my body. I tangled my fingers in the familiar thicket of his hair, dark against my pale skin, and moaned with pleasure.

  After a while, he gently pushed one leg over mine, pushing them apart, and pulled himself on to me, heavy and hot, resting on his elbows. For a moment, he gazed deep into my eyes as if trying to penetrate my mind. Then he closed his eyes, and with a guttural groan, pushed into me. I was so ready I felt barely any pain, just surprise at the extraordinary sensation and the utter joy of abandoning myself, opening up to him. It felt like the most natural thing on earth, to hold him inside me. As he started to move, faster and faster, I lost myself in the urgency and heard myself calling his name, over and over, as if my life depended on it.

  Afterward, we lay tangled in each other’s limbs, amazed and relieved that we’d finally joined our bodies in the way we’d longed for. Eventually he got up to make tea.

  As we sat in bed with our cups, I said, “I’m glad we waited. This is the way it’s meant to be. In bed, not in a grubby old tennis hut.”

  He turned to look into my eyes. “It was better than I ever imagined,” he whispered. “Now I know why you English call it making love.”

  “Have we got time to try
it again?” I said coyly, putting down my cup and reaching beneath the covers.

  • • •

  The next morning, my skin still tingling, I watched again out of the office window to catch a glimpse of my lover—just thinking the word made me quiver with joy—as he arrived for work. I couldn’t stop smiling and I expected him to be the same.

  But when the three of them turned the corner into the yard, I could see they were walking in silence, heads down, bodies bowed, feet slouching across the gravel. Stefan’s face looked drawn and pale, more like the solemn anxious boy I’d met at the Kindertransport camp. Under his arm was a folded newspaper. Perhaps they had stayed up drinking after Kurt and Walter got back, I tried to reassure myself, and were feeling a bit worse for wear. That was the obvious explanation. I didn’t give it much thought, as the morning passed in the usual frenzy of telephone calls and paperwork.

  Just before tea break, Gwen appeared, knocked, and came into the office, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Stefan’s not himself today. Has anything happened to him, do you know?”

  My heart jumped and I tried to keep the smile from my face. Oh yes, something momentous had happened—to us both.

  “What do you mean?” I said, as calmly as possible.

  “He’s made five mistakes already—we’ll have to deduct three yards from just twenty he’s woven. He seems to be in a dream.”

  I was finding it hard to concentrate too. No wonder, when hot flushes swelled secret parts of my body without warning. “Perhaps he’s had a bad night,” I said. “He’s pretty anxious after that paint incident. They’re really going through it, those boys.”

  She interrupted irritably. “Would I bother you if I thought he’d just had a bad night? There’s something else about him today, can’t put my finger on it.”

  There was something about her persistent, over-solicitous manner I started to find irritating. Was Gwen testing me? Or even trying to stir things up again?