Last Telegram Page 17

  I forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll try to have a word with him at lunchtime. See if anything’s troubling him.”

  “You’ll tell me, won’t you, if there’s something I should know?”

  “Of course,” I lied, to get her out of my office as quickly as possible.

  When the lunch klaxon sounded, I went to the canteen. Unusually, none of the boys were there, but I assumed perhaps they’d gone into town for something. At afternoon break, I walked around the building, past the smoking bench behind the boiler room. They were nowhere to be seen.

  Then, as I made my way back to the office, I saw them in the distance, walking back across the water meadows, deep in conversation. I was instantly reassured; they’d been out for some fresh air—what an obvious thing to do on such a fine day.

  As the day shift clocked off, I watched once more out of the office window but the boys did not appear. I went down to the weaving floor. The evening weaver was now at Stefan’s looms, so he must have slipped out of the side door and the back gate. I would go to the cottage after dark, and we would talk through anything that was worrying him. All would be well. If the other boys were out, we might even make love again. The thought made my body hot and heavy, and I had to prevent my hand straying down to what Stefan called my Mäuseloch. I shivered with pleasure at the memory of his touch, recalling his shy attempts to translate, “Where the mouse lives, you know, a small dark secret place. So warm.” He still pronounced Ws like Vs.

  • • •

  The Chestnuts was quiet as I went through the hallway into the kitchen, and I found my parents sitting together at the table. In front of them was a copy of The Times. The front page headline read: FRANCE SURRENDERS.

  “Terrible news, my dear,” Father said. “We’re all alone in this now.”

  As I leaned over their shoulders to find out more, my eye was caught by another, smaller headline further down the page. MORE ENEMY ALIENS INTERNED—BIG ROUND-UP BY POLICE. It took a moment to sink in.

  “Oh no, the boys,” I croaked, starting to run.

  When I got to the cottage, a dark blue van was already parked outside and two large men filled the front room: Constable Kilby and another man in plain clothes, with a thin face and eyes like a weasel.

  “Remember me? I’m Lily Verner,” I panted, out of breath from running. “Where are they?”

  The constable pointed, and I sprinted up the narrow staircase Stefan and I had climbed just the previous evening. Walter sat on the top step with his head in his hands and Kurt was in their bedroom, in a similar pose. I ran into Stefan’s room. On the bed were neatly arrayed his few possessions, and the small leather suitcase with his initials on the lid. The wildflowers in the jam jar were already starting to wilt.

  “What’s going on?”

  His face was dark. “We’re under arrest.”

  “What? They’re taking you now? Where?”

  I tried to hug him but he pushed me away. “They say we’ve got to go with them. They won’t tell us where.”

  “But that’s not right. You’re category C, aren’t you, a refugee? You’re no danger.” My head was spinning. Surely it couldn’t be allowed?

  “They won’t listen. They’ve got orders to take us.”

  “All three of you?”

  He nodded bleakly.

  I couldn’t understand. “Kurt and Walter too?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Walter’s too young.”

  “He’s sixteen. Already an adult, they said.”

  “But where are they taking you?”

  “I expect we’ll find out.” The same flat tone.

  “Let me talk to them.”

  “We’ve tried. But they might listen to you. You’re English,” he said bitterly.

  As I ran downstairs, Father arrived at the front door. “What’s happening, Lily?” he said.

  I pointed toward the back door where the two men now stood outside smoking.

  “They’re being arrested, all of them,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “We’ve got to stop it.”

  “Leave this to me, my love,” he said, straightening his shoulders and walking through the kitchen and through the back door. I followed close behind.

  “Now look here, my good fellows,” he said firmly. “I’d be obliged if you could tell me exactly what’s going on.”

  Constable Kilby was the first to respond. “Good afternoon, Mr. Verner. Sorry we have to meet again in such circumstances. We’ve got orders to arrest all adult male enemy aliens, sixteen and over. All categories, sir, for internment.” Weasel-face stayed silent. I wondered who he was.

  “But they’re just boys, Jewish refugees,” I almost shouted. “What possible harm could they do?” I suddenly remembered Robbie’s threat and gave an involuntary shiver. “Are you acting on some kind of information?”

  “Not for us to say, miss. We’re just obeying orders.”

  “I never heard anything so preposterous,” Father said. “These lads are skilled workers carrying out essential war work. I can’t spare them, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t matter what they do, sir,” said the constable. “They’re enemy aliens and I’ve got orders to arrest them.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then I would have to arrest you too, sir, for preventing me from carrying out my duty.”

  Father drew himself up so that his eyes were nearly level with the policeman’s chin. “I have to inform you that I’m personally acquainted with several local magistrates. They will not be impressed with this behavior.”

  Weasel-face now stepped forward and took Father’s arm, leading him aside. I moved with them. His voice was like oil. “Excuse me, sir. But could I ask you to describe exactly what is your relationship with these Germans?”

  “I am their employer. My name is Harold Verner and this is my daughter Lily. She also works for me. The boys arrived on the Kindertransport and I have given them a home and jobs in my silk mill just along the road. All above board. We’ve got papers to prove it.”

  “I see. And is it your habit to befriend Germans?” he said, looking across to include me in the question.

  “Now look here, this is bloody impertinent.” I’d never heard my father swear before. “It is absolutely none of your business who we employ.”

  “There you are wrong, Mr. Verner,” said the man smoothly. “It is absolutely my business. I am charged by the War Ministry to ensure that Constable Kilby carries out the government’s new emergency measures regarding the internment of male enemy aliens. I am sure you will understand the sensitivity of the issue, in the current heightened levels of concern about a potential invasion.”

  “I understand, of course,” Father tempered his voice a little, “but that won’t stop me appealing against this absurd heavy handedness. These are innocent boys and I can vouch for their good character.”

  I turned to see that Constable Kilby had gone inside and heard him shouting, “Get a move on, lads.” The realization hit me. Not even Father could stop this. They were going to be taken away. We had only a few minutes left. I pushed past the policeman, ran up the stairs into Stefan’s room, and slammed the door behind me. His suitcase was closed. I sat down on the bed beside him.

  “It’s so unfair.” I put my arm around his shoulders but he didn’t respond, and his body felt cold and ungiving. We sat in silence for a few moments.

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes roughly. “I don’t know what we have done wrong.”

  “It’s just a government precaution. It won’t be for long.” My words sounded hollow—I wasn’t even convincing myself. “I might even be able to come and visit you.”

  I could feel the seconds ticking away.

  He turned and took my face in his hands, looking into my eyes. “Ich liebe Dich, Lilymaus, vergiss Mich nicht.” It sounded like a sigh.

  “I love you too. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

  “Will you look after this for me?” He handed me a smal
l, black leather writing case.

  “What’s in it?”

  “My photographs and some other precious things my mother gave me. They will be safer with you.”

  “I’ll guard them with my life,” I said, trying to stop my voice wobbling, to be strong for him. “Now I know you’ll have to come back for them.”

  As we kissed, the policeman shouted again. “Come on, lads. Two minutes, or I’ll have to come and get you.”

  I clutched at him, willing time to stop, trying to capture the feel of his lips, the warmth of his body, the touch of his fingers, the sweet smell of his hair.

  “Write to me soon,” I whispered.

  “Every day,” he promised.

  And then we were downstairs and all of us embracing, and the boys were ushered through the front door by the policeman, each carrying the small suitcases they had arrived with all those months ago. Weasel-face shepherded them toward the van. There was the sound of doors opening, slamming shut. Kurt waving, tears streaking Walter’s cheeks, and Stefan’s pale face at the window, his eyes soft and sad.

  The policeman got into the driver’s seat, and as Weasel-face got in beside him, I started toward the front of the van as if by some desperate force of strength I could stop it driving off. Father shouted, “No, Lily,” grabbing my arm and pulling me back. He held me, both arms around me, and we watched in silence as the van accelerated away and disappeared as it turned the corner at the end of the road.

  I gripped his hand and leaned on him to prevent myself falling, as if the world had just stopped and I was still turning.

  • • •

  It was nearly Christmas by the time we heard any more. Six long months during which, alone in my room each night, I tried to relive every moment, every sensation and gesture, every word of our precious last evening together. Six months of wondering where Stefan was and what he was doing, of looking up at the stars and moon, hoping he too could see them and was thinking of me. Six months of half-lived days, tearful nights, and dreary, painful emptiness, like losing a limb. I avoided going past the cottage. We’d given up the tenancy and its empty windows looked like blank eyes, keeping their sad secrets. I hid Stefan’s writing case safely at the back of the drawer in my bedside table.

  Father and I tried to find out where they had been sent, but each time we met with a wall of official secrecy. In my worst moments, I wondered whether Robbie had told the authorities about the boys, and contemplated the idea of challenging him. But each time, I flunked it. He would deny any involvement, of course, and the last thing I wanted was to give him any cause to feel vindicated or triumphant, or any reason to visit me again. And of course, our contract with Camerons was due for renewal any time now.

  But as the months went by, my conspiracy theories seemed increasingly unlikely. The weary truth was, of course, that like all the Kindertransport children, the boys’ names and those of their sponsors were already on some government paperwork somewhere. It was inevitable they would be traced, and it was far too late to change anything now.

  Small planes fought in the summer skies, there were desperate battles and devastating air raids, but I felt oddly detached from it all. Churchill tried valiantly to raise our spirits with his speeches. But nothing raised mine, until I received that first small blue aerogramme tightly packed with Stefan’s neat, curlicued handwriting.

  7th October 1940

  Hay Camp, Australia

  My Dearest Lilymaus,

  I hope you are well and this letter reaches you safely. You may be surprised to hear that I am in Australia. How we got here is too long to write. Many trains and buses, then on a dreadful overcrowded ship called Dunera for two months. It was very hard, but we survived and landed here three weeks ago.

  We are in a camp locked up like criminals—kosher butchers, Italian waiters, Austrian accordion players, and boys like us! But we have enough to eat and are treated well. After the journey, Australia is like heaven.

  Have you ever been in a desert? It is hot and the sand blows into everything, but I did not expect it to be beautiful. Every morning, flocks of green parrots fly over our camp, and the sunsets are like the colors of silk—gold, red, purple, and blue. Last night, the sky shimmered like shot silk. When the stars come out, they are upside down!

  The worst thing is being so far away from you, my lovely Lily. I think of us on our island together, watching the sky. Or in “our” tennis hut! It is hard to bear, especially at night. I pray you are safe and well. Please write if you can.

  Ich liebe Dich,

  DeinStefan x x x x

  15

  The medieval age of chivalry was an age of silk. Epic poems of gallantry and heroic deeds were circulated by wandering troubadours, tournaments were bedecked with silk-hung tents and banners, and rich silks caparisoned the horses. Knights received a silken sleeve or veil as a “gage,” a token of honor from the lady symbolically defended in the joust.

  —The History of Silk by Harold Verner

  Christmas 1940 was only enlivened by the arrival of John, who had been given a few days leave, and Vera, who caught the last train out of London on Christmas Eve and had to stand all the way. They were both exhausted, and when we asked John about the bombing raids, he clammed up. When Vera wasn’t with us at The Chestnuts, he spent most of the time sleeping.

  I spent much of the time in bed too, wrapped up against the cold, reading and rereading the three precious aerogrammes that had arrived from Stefan, my few tenuous links with the boy who consumed my thoughts. At least he was safe, tucked away in the Australian desert and well away from war, I reasoned, even though his absence made an aching gap in my life. We were all glad when Christmas was over so that we could stop pretending that we were enjoying ourselves and get back to work. But we should have treasured every moment.

  It was just a few days later and early morning when the measured rings sounded insistently through our sleepy house. I met Father on the landing, still in his pajamas. “Go back to bed, I’ll get it,” I said, heading downstairs, wrapping my dressing gown tight against the winter chill.

  The woman at the other end of the phone was flustered. “Is that Grace?”

  “No, it’s Lily. Who’s this?”

  “Beryl. From the London office.”

  “Beryl. Of course. Good morning,” I said, taken aback. She usually sounded so calm and efficient.

  “Have you been listening to the news?”

  “No, not yet.” I glanced at the grandfather clock. It was ten past seven.

  “Is Harold awake? I need to speak to him. There’s been a hell of a raid. They say Cheapside’s been hit.” I sat down heavily on the hall chair to catch my breath. This could be a disaster. The London office housed not only hundreds of precious customer files and accounts ledgers, but also the Verners archive of silk samples, dating back two hundred years.

  Father was coming downstairs in his red paisley dressing gown. “Who is it?”

  “Beryl. She says the office might have been bombed.”

  He took the receiver and spoke calmly into it. “Beryl, good morning. Harold here.” As he listened, his face, already shadowed with morning stubble, turned grayer still.

  “Have you rung anyone else? The police?” I couldn’t hear her reply.

  “There’s nothing else for it, then. I’m on my way.” Then, more firmly. “No, Beryl, you are absolutely not to go. I can handle it. Stay at home and I’ll telephone you as soon as I know anything further.”

  He put the receiver carefully into its cradle and turned to Mother and me, steadying himself with a hand on the telephone table. “It doesn’t look good,” he said. “All Beryl knows is the radio report of a huge raid—the biggest yet, they’re saying—and direct hits on the city. They mentioned Cheapside and a dozen other streets. She’s tried the police but no one’s answering.” He glanced at the clock. “If I hurry, I can catch the eight thirty.”

  “You must have a cooked breakfast before you go, my darling.”

 
“Don’t fuss, Grace. Tea and toast will do.” As he turned to climb the stairs, his shoulders sagged and his usually firm step seemed tentative and weary. Something inside me clicked.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said.

  “I’m not sure, Lily, it could be unpleasant.”

  “You’ll need me even more if that’s the case.”

  He paused, then nodded his assent. “Wrap up warm then, my darling.”

  At breakfast we listened to Alvar Liddell’s portentous news:

  More than thirty German aircraft were destroyed in last night’s raids over London. The raids lasted several hours and incendiary bombs caused over a thousand fires. Many are still burning despite the valiant efforts of our fire services, whose work has been hampered by broken water mains and an unusually low tide in the River Thames.

  • • •

  The railway carriage was packed with businesspeople and servicemen returning to their units after the Christmas break. There was an air of almost ghoulish excitement as they exchanged stories.

  “Literally hundreds of the buggers this time, they said.”

  “The ack-acks didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Don’t seem to be able to stop them, do we?”

  “Did you hear about the food storage warehouses that were hit the other night?” one said.

  “Apparently all the little urchins were out collecting peanuts that had been roasted in the fire,” the other replied, and they both laughed mirthlessly.

  “And what about all those butter rations that got melted? There were rivers of the stuff, they said. The housewives were out scraping it off the roads.”

  “Don’t blame them, must be grim.”

  “There’s not enough rescue workers. People are dying under the rubble.”

  “Any news on casualties?”

  As their conversation ebbed and flowed, I watched the morning mist slowly lifting over small villages, farms, fields, and woodland, all so calm and apparently unaffected by war, and wondered gloomily how long we could hold out. Would the landscape look different under German control? Would they straighten out the roads and hedges, make everything symmetrical for greater efficiency? I missed Stefan, but for the moment I was glad that he and the other boys were safely interned, away from the threat.