Last Telegram Page 6

“They were immigrants, weren’t they? Fleeing from persecution by the Catholics?”

  The frown smoothed into an indulgent smile. “This is about those Jewish children, isn’t it, my darling? I knew you wouldn’t let it go.”

  I smiled back, pushing home my advantage. “So what do you think?”

  “You’re right about the Verners,” he said, “but that was then. It was different.”

  “How different?” I was determined not to let him argue me out of it.

  “The Huguenots were craftsmen, weavers, and throwsters. England needed their skills. There was a good economic reason for letting them into the country.”

  “But if England hadn’t given them refuge, what would have happened to them? They’d have been killed like all the rest. Where would our family be now?”

  “Look, Lily, I understand what you are saying. I still believe we can stop this trouble if we can only persuade the Germans to topple that madman. Then these children can go back to their families. Best place for them.”

  “Of course you’re right,” I conceded. “But what happens to them in the meantime? Can you imagine what it must be like to be stuck in that holiday camp?”

  He filled his pipe and puffed it into life. Finally he said, “Leave it with me. I’ll have another think. Perhaps I’ll talk to Jim and Gwen and ask them to take soundings with the staff.”

  “Thank you.” I hugged him, savoring his soothing smell of Old Virginia and hair oil.

  “No guarantees, mind,” he said, turning back to his desk. “Now run along and help your mother with supper. I’ve got work to do.”

  The plan worked, just as I’d hoped. Over Sunday lunch, Father announced with some triumph, as if it had been his very own idea, that the mill manager Jim Williams had agreed to take on three new apprentices as weavers, warpers, or throwsters, depending on their skills.

  John’s forkful of food halted halfway to his mouth. “How did this happen?” he mouthed across the table.

  “Tell you later,” I mouthed back, smiling smugly.

  “But we can’t collect them yet,” Father was saying. “I have to be up in town all next week.”

  John had put his knife and fork down now. “We could go instead,” he said. “Lily and I can sort it out.”

  “Please, Father,” I pleaded. “I can’t bear to think of those children waiting. They might even be sent back to Germany.”

  He pondered for a few seconds and then said, “I’ll check with Jim. See if he wants to go, or if he’s happy to delegate the job to you two.” Across the table, John was giving me a surreptitious thumbs-up. “It’s boys we want, remember,” Father said firmly. “No more than three. Strong lads who’ll really knuckle down to it.”

  • • •

  It was a dismal day as we drove in the rusty works van to the holiday camp. Clouds hung like damp sheets over the flat Essex fields, and when we reached the coast, the marshy land dissolved into the North Sea in shades of sullen gray.

  The road looked familiar. Surely this wasn’t the same place I’d been as a child, on holiday with a friend’s family? As we came closer, the memories started to flood back. The holiday had been a disaster. I was horribly homesick, and to make things worse, I was terrified of the flame-haired clown in a harlequin suit who had patrolled between the chalets each morning after breakfast, summoning us to the morning’s entertainments. He reminded me of the Pied Piper illustration in my book of fairy tales, and I was convinced that the children who followed him would never come back. So I refused to go with the clown, feigning all kinds of exotic ailments, and spent the rest of the holiday in my bunk bed, feeling humiliated and miserable.

  “You’re very quiet, Sis. What’s on your mind?” John said. When I told him, he laughed. “Not too many clowns there these days, I don’t suppose,” he said.

  At the entrance, the words were still legible under peeling paint: “Welcome to Sunnyside Holiday Camp.” The gate was guarded, and spirals of barbed wire coiled along the top of the fence. We were ushered through and directed up a concrete driveway toward a group of buildings in the distance.

  As we came closer, we could see a gang of older boys kicking a football around on a patch of worn grass, and other children huddled against a chill wind on benches outside one of the pastel-painted chalets. Their faces were solemn and pale, like rows of white moons, turning to watch our van.

  Pinned to each child’s coat was a label. “Like little parcels,” I said. John nodded, grim-faced.

  We stopped and climbed out and the boys left their football game and ran over, crowding round us, firing questions in their strange guttural tongue. They stopped in surprise when John started speaking in fluent German, and when he’d finished they began chattering even more excitedly than before.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to me. “They’re only asking who we are and why we are here. They want to know where we’re from and if we can help. What they mostly seem to want to know is if we can take them to Piccadilly Circus,” he laughed. “They’re desperate for a bit of the high life, and who can blame them?”

  At last an adult appeared, pushing his way through the gaggle. He was short, prematurely balding, and scruffily dressed in workmen’s jeans and a thick jacket, so different from the crisply intimidating holiday camp staff of my childhood memory. I warmed to him immediately.

  “You must be John and Lily Verner? Welcome to Sunnyside. Name’s a bit ironic on a day like today, don’t you think? I’m Leo Samuels. They call me duty manager, though that’s just a posh title for chief muggins.” He beamed as we shook hands. “Now, what can we do for you, or rather, what can you do for us? Come into the office and let’s keep warm while we talk.” To the boys he said, “Geduldig Sein, be patient.”

  As we walked, he apologized for the way they had pestered us. “You understand, they’ve been through terrible times, and being out here in the wilds of Essex isn’t helping. They need to get settled as soon as possible.”

  One of the larger chalets at the end of a row had a hastily painted sign: Kindertransport All Enquiries. Up two steps, a wooden balcony led through glazed double doors into a small living area next to a kitchenette, with what must have been bedrooms on either side. Leo gestured to a table covered in a chaos of papers and dirty mugs and went to fill the kettle. “Do sit down. Tea or coffee? How do you take it?”

  He chattered cheerfully as he rinsed out three mugs in a cluttered basin, waiting for the kettle to boil. “Sorry for the mess, but we’re on a shoestring here,” he said, pushing aside untidy piles of papers and boxes on the table to make space for the tray.

  “We’re all volunteers, and it’s a bit hand-to-mouth, to say the least. Of course, we’re dead lucky they’ve let us have this place for free. You probably know that the boss is Jewish; that always helps. Otherwise we’re totally dependent on charity, and right now people have other things on their minds than helping a bunch of German children.”

  He sighed. “We’re doing what we can for the poor little blighters. Most have sponsors, but this lot have been let down for one reason or another. So not only have they been through some terrible things and been sent away by their parents, but when they get here, no one wants them. It’s ruddy awful, if you’ll excuse my French, Miss Verner.”

  I cradled my cold fingers around the hot mug, struggling to imagine what it must feel like for these children, being so doubly rejected. No words, even coarse words, could come close to describing it.

  “I was in Austria last year,” John said, “and I saw what was happening.”

  Leo shook his head sadly. “It’s so much worse now.”

  “I was afraid it would be,” John said. “So when we heard about your work, we had to do something.”

  “It is very good of you,” Leo said simply and took a sip of his coffee. “So, how do you think you can you help us?”

  “Our family runs a silk mill, in Westbury. Do you know it? About thirty miles from here,” John started.

  “Silk, eh? How
interesting,” Leo said, listening intently.

  “We’d like to take on three new apprentices,” John went on. “And we wondered if you had some older boys, sixteen, seventeen maybe. Preferably bright lads, who’d be capable of learning a skilled trade.”

  “They’ve got to be mature and sensible types too,” I added. “They’ll be living in a rented house and will have to learn to look after themselves.”

  Leo sat back, scratching the sparse hairs on his head. “This is music to my ears, you know. Most people want younger ones, especially girls. They think the little ’uns are less trouble, though I’m not sure they’re right. The older boys get overlooked, and it’s usually hard to place them.”

  He thought for a moment and then said, “Okay, I’ve got three in mind. First there’s Stefan. He’s obviously older than most of them. Between you and me I think he’s over eighteen, the official limit. But his papers say he’s seventeen and who are we to challenge it? He’s obviously been through quite enough already without us interfering, poor lad. Don’t know much about his background, but he’s clearly very bright.”

  “Sounds just right,” I said.

  Leo went on. “Stefan’s friendly with a couple of brothers, Kurt and Walter. Also nice lads. Kurt’s seventeen, but Walter’s only fifteen. Is that too young?”

  “Depends on the boy,” John said doubtfully. “How mature he is.”

  “Hard to tell, to be honest with you,” Leo said. “But we obviously can’t separate them, and it’s been almost impossible to find a double placement. Walter’s just a little lad, but I reckon he’d soon shape up, especially with his brother Kurt looking after him. He’s a pretty mature, level-headed boy. Why don’t you meet them, see what you think?”

  How could we refuse?

  “Good,” said Leo, getting up. “I’ll get those three in here, explain what you’re offering, and we can see if they like the idea.” Halfway out of the door, he turned back. “All the lads are keen to see the bright lights of London, so you may have to persuade them Westbury’s a good option. Not too far to the city by train, is it?”

  As they came into the chalet, I recognized the three boys as part of the football gang, but they were much more subdued than before. Leo introduced them: “Stefan, Kurt, Walter, dies ist John Verner und seine Schwester Lily.”

  They shook hands politely, barely meeting our eyes. They seemed so different from English boys. Was it just the language barrier or the way they looked—the pallor of their faces, the unfashionable haircuts, underfed frames, and curious cut of their clothing? I found it impossible to fathom what was going on inside their heads.

  As John started to talk, they exchanged glances, their faces becoming more animated, even excited. When he finished, the boys started talking between themselves, words falling over each other, interrupting each other, all at once.

  Stefan certainly seemed older than seventeen. He was skinny and taller than the others, dressed in a scruffy brown leather jacket and black trousers. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and a dark shadow grew thickly on his slim face. His voice was more baritone than tenor, and deep-set eyes peered out warily through his floppy fringe of untidy hair.

  Kurt and Walter were very alike; in their tweed trousers, hand-knitted jumpers, and woolen waistcoats, they reminded me of the farm boys who came into Westbury on market days. Wiry kinks of mousy hair sprouted from their heads, but their boyish cheeks showed little hint of growth. Kurt was chatty and confident, and Walter tended to repeat what his big brother said. Both of them appeared to defer to Stefan as their leader, turning to him if John or Leo said something they didn’t understand.

  Trying to gauge their personalities as they talked, I wondered how these boys would cope with the robust camaraderie among the men at the mill.

  “They’re all pretty keen,” John said, eventually turning to me. “They’re especially excited by the idea of earning their own money and sharing a house.” He laughed. “Though goodness knows whether they can cook and clean for themselves. What do you think?”

  “We can worry about the housekeeping thing later. But can they learn quickly enough to be useful at the mill?” I said, recalling Father’s strict instructions.

  “Heaven knows.” John shrugged his shoulders. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”

  “If they’re all good friends, perhaps they will support each other?”

  He nodded, but his expression was still doubtful.

  “One thing’s clear. We can’t leave them here,” I said, suddenly flooded with certainty, more convinced that this was the right decision than at any other time in my life. I wanted these boys to feel safe and be loved. I could not contemplate leaving them here.

  “Let’s go for it,” we both said at the same time, and then laughed at ourselves.

  This time, the handshakes were stronger and their smiles much more confident. There was formal paperwork to complete and signatures to be written and witnessed, then they collected their pitifully small suitcases before finally saying good-bye to Leo, promising to keep in touch and piling into the van. As we drove away, they waved to their friends, then fell silent.

  They must be glad to leave this grim place, I thought, but it is their last link with home. They’ve suffered terribly, and now they have no option but to follow the Pied Piper—two strangers in a battered old van—into an unknown future.

  • • •

  Over the next few days, the German boys stayed at The Chestnuts, and we spent time getting to know them. The fear started to leave their faces, their frames seemed to fill out, and they gained confidence, trying out English phrases as we struggled to get our tongues around their strange German words.

  We traipsed around Westbury finding kitchen equipment, bedding, rugs, and curtains to make their cottage more homely. On the day they moved in, Mother and I pinned labels to everything around the house and led the boys through each room, saying the words. She made cartoon sketches of every item on their shopping list, and they took turns to ask the grocer and greengrocer for their purchases, laughing at each other’s attempts, and gradually beginning to relax.

  John took them to the tailors, buying each of them a couple of pairs of off-the-shelf trousers for smart and casual, a couple of shirts, fashionable Fair Isle jumpers, and navy blazers for weekends. On Saturday, they went with him to watch a local football match. Kurt and Walter were keen to play, and he promised to find a team for them.

  But now it was time to earn their keep. John and Jim Williams took them on a tour of the mill, then talked to them individually about the jobs we had planned for them. Walter and Kurt—still inseparable—would start as packers. Stefan was keen to be a weaver, and Gwen agreed to take him as her new apprentice. It was a compliment, she told me, though it was barely recognizable as such. “I reckon you can just about manage two looms on your own now, Lily,” was all she said. “So I can concentrate on helping Stefan.”

  I couldn’t help smiling, watching them together on that first day. They made a curious pair—Gwen, short and dumpy, doing her best to communicate through hand gestures over the noise of the looms or standing on tiptoe to shout into his ear; Stefan bending like a weeping willow over the loom, his fringe flopping in his eyes. She mimicked the way he constantly brushed the hair back from his forehead, offered him her flowery head scarf, and made him laugh. His eyes followed her face intently, struggling to lip-read in a foreign language.

  “That boy’s a fast learner,” she said at the end of the first week. We were doing the Friday evening loom checks together, covering woven cloth and warps with dust sheets, ensuring that shuttle arms were securely docked, winding up loose threads, tucking away spare spools, and turning off the power at each machine. Making everything safe for the weekend.

  “He’s got real aptitude,” she added. I could hear the warmth in her voice, and even as I knew she was right—he already understood the elegant mechanics of the loom, how to balance the weights and tensions, and was deftly locating and ret
ying lost warp threads—I felt a pinch of envy. She’d never praised me like that, not to my face at least.

  “You’d better watch out. He’ll soon be teaching you,” I laughed, trying to conceal my annoyance.

  “I look forward to it. He’s a very polite, charming young man. Deeper than the other two. Has an artistic touch. What do you think?”

  “You’d know better than me,” I said, niggled she’d found something else to admire. “With that art school background you said you’d tell me about.”

  “You should come for tea some time, then maybe I will.”

  “So you keep promising,” I said. I’d dropped so many hints over the past weeks, with no response, that I was starting to wonder why she was so reluctant. Did she just not like me enough to invite me into her personal life? Or was there something else, something she didn’t want to reveal? Gwen was such an enigma.

  As we finished our rounds and parted at the front door, she touched me lightly on the shoulder, elusive as ever. “Enjoy your weekend.”

  • • •

  Once the boys had moved into the cottage, we invited them to join us for lunch at The Chestnuts every Sunday.

  “Help them learn proper manners. They’ll turn into savages in no time, living on their own,” Father said. “We need to civilize them.”

  Mother enjoyed sharing her pleasure in English cooking, and it was usually a roast with all the trimmings, which they appeared to relish.

  Though homesickness still showed in their faces, Kurt and Walter were like other teenage boys—gawky, clumsy, fascinated by football and motorbikes. They struggled with English table etiquette, muddling their cutlery, slurping their drinks, leaning elbows on the table. At first, Father was lenient, but after a few weeks, he’d bark stern reminders: “No talking with your mouth full.” They were slow to learn, and more than once he had to threaten them, “If you don’t take those elbows off the table at once, there will be no more lunch for you.” Walter giggled and Kurt—always the rebellious one—grimaced, but their hungry stomachs forced them into reluctant compliance.