Читать книгу The Last Telegram - Liz Trenow - Страница 10

The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 resulted in a mass migration of French Protestants, known as Huguenots, which has parallels throughout the twentieth century. This change in the law stripped non-Catholics of their civil and religious rights, resulting in the flight of around 250,000 skilled and wealthy refugees. Many were silk weavers of great talent who settled in England and particularly in Spitalfields, East London.

From The History of Silk, by Harold Verner

After four months my limbs were growing more used to the physicality of weaving: the day-long standing and walking between looms, bending over the woven material to check for faults, crouching under the warp to find lost threads, heaving boxes of pirns to refill the shuttle. But at the end of each shift my legs still felt heavy as loom weights, my eyes stung from their constant scrutiny of the fine Jacquard designs and my eardrums were bruised by the constant noise.

It had been a bitter cold February and the news was depressing. Hitler was war-mongering, claiming that Jewish bankers were responsible for leading Europe into a conflict that would result in the annihilation of their race. As we waited for John to return home from a meeting in London one evening, the logs in the fire crackled so alarmingly in the hearth that Father put the fireguard in place. ‘More spit than heat, these willow logs,’ he grumbled, sitting back down in his favourite armchair. ‘Like that maniac Hitler.’

I didn’t want to think about Hitler; my mind was focused on dinner – the delicious smell of baked potatoes was making my stomach rumble. But at long last John arrived with a metallic tang of wintry air as he headed for the fire. His suit was crumpled, a shirt button missing. Mother followed him into the room. ‘Supper’s ready, my dears,’ she said.

‘Can I have a moment to warm up, Ma?’ John said. ‘It was bloody cold on that train tonight. Got held up for ages just outside London.’ He stood on the hearthrug with his back to the blaze, robustly rubbing his buttocks.

‘Did you hear the news?’ Father said.

‘No,’ John said, ‘what is it this time?’ Father summarised the bulletin.

‘More excuses for his pogroms, and all of us powerless to stop it,’ I said.

‘Actually, I think I’ve found a way we can do something, just a small thing, to help,’ John said, his face brightening.

‘Go on then, spill it,’ I said, impatiently.

‘While the train was held up I got chatting to some chaps in my carriage,’ John started. ‘They were talking about Jewish children coming into England. Apparently there’s been an agreement with the Germans. The Jews in Germany are allowed to send anyone eighteen or under out of the country, for a price, and only if they’ve got a sponsor.’

He began to pace restlessly in front of the fire. ‘Things are getting really desperate,’ he went on. ‘They’re being hounded. Not just closing businesses, but even synagogues too. Being sent off to work camps. Children being banned from their schools. It’s no wonder the parents are trying to send them to safety.’

‘So where are these children going to?’ I asked.

‘The trains are travelling to Holland and the children are being put onto boats to Harwich.’

‘What happens when they get here?’

‘Some of them have sponsor families who come to collect them. But the problem is,’ John stopped pacing now and looked carefully at Father and Mother in turn, ‘some of them have been let down by their sponsors and haven’t got anywhere to go. They’re stuck in a holiday camp somewhere in Essex.’

A vision of children, unwanted and in a foreign land, chased away my hunger. John’s voice was firm now. ‘I’d like to do something. What do you think?’

‘Sherry, anyone?’ Father said. He never liked to be rushed into decisions. No one responded but he walked slowly to the sideboard all the same, and poured four glasses from the decanter, arranged them neatly on a silver tray and handed them round.

‘I’ll come to the point,’ John said, taking his glass and emptying it with a single gulp. ‘We’ve got a big house and we can afford it. Why don’t we take some of them in?’

Father returned the tray to the sideboard and set it down carefully before turning back to us. ‘Just how do you think this is going to work?’ he said in that low, reasonable tone he adopted when he needed more time to consider. ‘The three of us are at the mill all day. We can’t expect your mother to take on a bunch of children at the drop of a hat.’

‘We can’t ignore it, either,’ John said, squaring his shoulders. ‘I can’t, anyway.’

As the alcohol travelled soothingly down my throat and warmed my stomach I wrestled with contradictory emotions. The last thing I wanted was a house full of noisy children, but it didn’t feel right just to do nothing. ‘How old did you say they are?’ I asked.

‘Five to seventeen,’ John said.

An idea popped into my head. ‘Then couldn’t we take some older ones?’

‘Go on,’ John sat down on the sofa next to me.

‘Find them somewhere nearby where they can live independently but keep an eye on them and help them?’ I was struggling to form a plan. ‘What about that cottage down the road? The one to let?’

‘Aren’t you getting carried away, Lily?’ Father said, still in his reasonable voice. ‘There are just a few things you perhaps haven’t considered. Who would look after them? What would they do? What would they live on?’

I refused to be deterred. ‘Why can’t we give them jobs at the factory? Weavers start straight from school, at fifteen.’ John nodded vigorously in support but Father finally cracked.

‘You’re in fantasy land, both of you,’ he boomed, getting to his feet. ‘Of course it’s tough for the Jews, but in case hadn’t noticed, business here is tough, too. We can’t just create new jobs from nowhere. There’s the cost of extra wages, and not just that, you have to consider our own staff. We can support the Jews in other ways, contribute financially if necessary, but we can’t just take on a bunch of untrained boys at the mill. So you can stop trying to persuade me.’

He turned to Mother. ‘Is dinner ready, dear?’

John scowled and we both stayed quiet. The conversation was closed, for the moment, but we could bring Father round, I knew, given time. He just needed to believe he was in control, so we just had to find a more subtle approach.

Two days later I ambushed him in his study. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Come in,’ he said, looking up from his newspaper.

Above the fireplace hung the Verner family tree, gilt-framed and written in ornamental script on yellowing parchment. I knew it almost by heart. At the very top was the founder of the family firm: Joseph Verner, silk weaver (1662–1740) b. Spittle Fields, m. Mary (1684). ‘You know how proud we Verners are to be descended from Huguenots?’ I said.

He frowned, puzzled at my sudden interest. ‘Go on?’

‘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 our country.’

‘But if we 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, savouring 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 me 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 grey.

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 towards 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 apologised 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 round 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 persuade them Westbury’s a good option. Not too far to the city by train, is it?’

As they came into the chalet I recognised 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 woollen 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 goodbye 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 for them 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 recognisable 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 headscarf 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 that 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 and tucking away spare spools, 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 civilise them.’ Mother enjoyed sharing her pleasure in English cooking, and it was usually a roast with all the trimmings that 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 realise, 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 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 dark 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.

‘I couldn’t,’ she said, blushing and nervously smoothing her skirt, ‘haven’t played for years.’ She’d had a classical training and, though never a professional performer, she’d given piano lessons and played in local amateur concerts before marriage and children got in the way. When times at the mill had been hard and there was no extra cash for servants, her music had been sacrificed to housework and cooking.

‘Come on, you can do it,’ I said, going over to the piano stool and rifling through the piles of sheet music stored under its padded lid. I found what I was looking for; a score, now dog-eared and falling apart at the seams, Music Hall Favourites.

‘Here we are,’ I said. I moved the knick-knacks from the piano, propped it open, lifted out the music shelf, took her elbow and led her to the piano stool. ‘Now all you have to do is play.’

‘It’s been so long.’ She shook her head. ‘My fingers won’t know what to do.’

It was Stefan who finally persuaded her. He was sitting on the arm of the sofa, leaning forward, watching intently. ‘Please, Mrs Verner. Please play for us,’ he said. ‘We like very much to hear the piano.’

As she started, everyone began to listen. Watching her fingers move over the keys with growing confidence, I remembered how she used to sit me on her knee as she played. With a child’s selfishness it seemed then that her music was just for me. Now, hearing her again after so long, I realised what a sacrifice she had made, giving up her music to meet the demands of the family.

She stopped to look through the battered old score. ‘Here’s a good one. My Old Man Said Follow the Van.’ As she started into the familiar tune, John and I got up and stood beside her, reading the words over her shoulder. After a couple of verses the boys came to join us, starting to hum along and sing the chorus with us.

When we sang the words ‘dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied’, they started to giggle. ‘What is “dilly dally”, please?’ Walter asked. I struggled to find a polite explanation.

‘It means they spent a lot of time hanging around drinking, or talking, or …’

John interrupted, saying something in German, and they guffawed like schoolboys. Next time we repeated the chorus they made cheeky kissing noises and Father frowned in gentle reproach.

After three more numbers Mother declared she’d reached the end of her repertoire and went to make tea. As the others drifted back to the warmth of the fire, Stefan stayed by piano, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Then he seemed to settle something in his mind and looked at me briefly with a slight smile before pulling out the stool and sitting down, tentatively spreading his hands over the keys. Something tugged in my heart as I noticed for the first time the perfect pink ovals of his nails at the end of each long, elegant finger.

He played a few scales and then, haltingly, started to pick out a tune I recognized as the opening bars of the Moonlight Sonata. Muttering at his mistakes and pausing to remember each following phrase, Stefan stumbled on, but his arpeggios sounded more like a doleful trudge than the calm moonlit landscape Beethoven had intended.

After a few minutes, he took his hands from the piano and sighed, lowering his head. The untrimmed wisps of dark hair curled down his neck and over his collar, and I felt a surge of sadness for this strange boy, so far from home.

‘Play us the jazz,’ Kurt said.

Stefan looked up at me.

‘This is okay for you?’ he asked. ‘You like the jazz?’

‘Very much,’ I said, smiling encouragement.

Stefan turned back to the keyboard, took a deep breath, and launched into an exuberant ragtime piece. The solemn struggle with Beethoven was transformed into the joyful freedom of jazz. The fingers on Stefan’s right hand moved so fast they became a blur as the left hand stretched into successions of complex chord sequences.

Everyone in the room started to move; heads nodding, feet tapping, even Father’s knee was jiggling. The rhythm was irresistible.

‘Remember those Swing steps, Lily?’ John leapt up and took my hand as we clumsily tried to approximate the dance we’d learned on New Year’s Eve. Kurt and Walter watched for a moment and then came to join us, doing their own wild version, waving arms and legs around without any regard for the rhythm.

From the piano, Stefan shouted, ‘Swingjugend, swing. Swing heil!’ Kurt and Walter raised their arms in mock-Nazi salutes and repeated ‘Swing heil! Swing heil!’

Mother’s eyebrows raised in alarm.

‘What that all about?’ I shouted to Kurt.

‘American jazz. Banned by the Nazis,’ Kurt shouted back.

‘Why is it banned?’

He shrugged. ‘Stefan plays it for – what do you say?’

Stefan stopped playing and swivelled round. In the sudden stillness his voice was firm and clear, ‘We play it because it is not allowed.’

‘Who’s we, Stefan?’ John asked.

‘Swingjugend.’

‘Until they were arrested,’ Kurt said, almost under his breath.

‘“Arrested”?’ I repeated, failing for a moment to understand the full import of the word.

Stefan glowered at him. ‘They just gave us a beating. As a warning.’

It was such a shocking image none of us knew what to say next. My mind whirled, trying to understand. How could the police – or was it soldiers? – be so violent against young boys, just for playing music? The sense of menace seemed to seep into the room like a poison.

Mother spoke carefully, ‘Are you saying that the police beat you and put you in prison, Stefan?’

Stefan nodded. ‘The SS,’ he said. ‘But we were not in prison for long. It was just a warning.’ He paused and then went on, ‘That is why I had to leave Germany.’

‘You poor boy,’ she murmured. ‘No wonder …’

‘Were you all members … of this group?’ I stuttered.

‘Only Stefan,’ Kurt said. ‘We do not know about it till he tell us.’

‘There is no Jugend where we live,’ Walter added.

‘Perhaps we make our own group, here in Westbury?’ Kurt smiled, and the tension in the room started to settle. ‘Can he play some more?’

Stefan looked at Father, who nodded.

This time we listened quietly. It didn’t seem right to dance. Trying to make sense of what the boys had told us, I began to understand why this music was so important for Stefan. The baby grand had never known such spirited, emphatic playing. It was an act of protest and defiance, seeming to drive the menace out of the room.

After a few minutes he stopped, and we all applauded and cheered. As Stefan straightened up from a mock-formal bow, I saw for the first time his face fully illuminated with happiness.