Last Telegram (7 page)

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 retying 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.

Stefan needed no such prompting. His manners were already sophisticated, and what he didn't already know of English etiquette, he quickly picked up by watching. Now that he had abandoned the old leather jacket and black trousers for the cords, jumpers, and jacket John had bought him, he looked almost like an English boy, apart from the hairstyle he insisted on keeping unfashionably long. But he was unlike any other boy I knew.

What I had mistaken for shyness, I slowly began to realize, was actually a confident stillness. While the others always needed to be active, Stefan seemed content to observe the world around him quietly, with an expression of mild curiosity and, I sensed, amusement simmering just below the surface. Little escapes those dark eyes, I thought, with a slight shiver.

That Sunday, Stefan handed back my copy of
The
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
with one of his rare smiles.

“I enjoy very much, Miss Lily,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I would like to be a perfect English gentleman like your Sherlock Holmes.” He raised an imaginary bowler hat, pretended to twirl an umbrella, and bowed deeply, making me laugh out loud. Stefan the clown was a side of his character he hadn't revealed till now.

In just two months, his English improved so much I'd abandoned my intention to speak German. I was astonished by how quickly he learned; he could already read in another language. This was the second Conan Doyle book I'd lent him, and every time he visited he devoured Father's copy of
The
Times
, urgently looking for news from Europe.

Over lunch, we encouraged them to talk about home. Of course, we got only the edited versions. Stefan told us about his parents, both schoolteachers in Hamburg, and his younger twin sisters. He hoped they would come to England once they'd saved or borrowed the money for permissions and transport. Kurt and Walter spoke longingly of the Bavarian hills and the family farm. The English countryside is so flat, they complained. As conversation flowed, I reflected with satisfaction that the boys were starting to feel more secure.

It was our usual custom to follow lunch with a walk on the water meadows, but that day it was pouring. “Not a good day for a walk,” Father said, looking out of the drawing room window. “It's raining cats and dogs.”

“Cats and dogs?” Walter said, frowning. “Why do you say cats and dogs?” he asked, after we'd told him what it meant. We had no idea. Some English phrases were so hard to explain.

After coffee, Father suggested a game of cards. But I had a better idea.

“What about a song, Mother?” I said, pointing to the baby grand. It was rarely played these days and generally served as a shelf for photographs and ornaments.