We were invited to submit all these problems at the meetings which the committee held in Whistler’s house which all the Marraines attended, presided over by Miss Eveleen Campbell Gray, the Lady Mayoress, and Margerie Scott. Some of the problems were difficult to overcome and endless argument would ensue.
I was still going to the Control Room as a relief when the regulars had their days off and the two young Scottish girls, Chris and Sheila, were frequent visitors to Cheyne Place, Mrs Freeth having completely adopted them as members of the household. A woman composer, Ellen Coleman, also worked in the Control Room, and she often invited me to her lovely house in Mulberry Walk where she would play in a beautiful music room opening on to a little garden. When I was particularly het up over the refugees, she would play me records of her compositions. One of our loveliest telephonists had married in May and we had all gone to the wedding. Her husband had been ordered to France immediately afterwards, as had Sally’s, and like them they had only three days together. She had come back now, a tragic young widow. Her young husband had been one of those who did not come back from Dunkirk.
Italy’s entry into the war was the signal in Soho for some ugly, revolting scenes, when the police began rounding up Italians, some of whom had been a lifetime in London working in their especial milieu of restaurateur. Ever since I had been an art student I had known the Calettas, whose restaurant in the King’s Road was a favourite one with all of us. Madame Caletta’s husband was one of those removed by the police. I don’t know whether the Chelsea residents were more internationally minded than others, but there was only anger and sympathy when this happened. The Calettas were much liked and respected and it came as a shock to find that because of his Italian nationality a man who had given much employment and custom in Chelsea was suddenly regarded as an undesirable alien. I went to see Madame Caletta and found her dazed, but with none of the bitterness which one expected. She had not been interned – it was only the men whom the police regarded as a possible danger. In Glasgow there was violent anti-Italian feeling and there the Italian shops and cafés had their windows broken and their owners were stoned and abused. This was frightening, as were some of the incidents which Madame Caletta told me had happened to friends in London. The police, she said, had been correct and courteous – it was the people who had behaved with such unexpected violence. War, it seemed, brought out both the best and the worst in the population.
There was already constant quarrelling amongst the refugees and I began to become accustomed to a policeman ringing my bell to ask me to come and settle some quarrel or other. They had nothing to do, had none of their own possessions, none of their own cooking as they ate in the canteen, and bickering and quarrelling was the only outlet for their misery. There was a huge fisherman in one of the houses for which I was responsible who was extremely quarrelsome and who spread ‘alarm and despondency’, as we were constantly being warned not to do, by his gloomy prophecies about the outcome of the war. His wife was almost as big and raw-boned as he was, but their child was one of the most undersized delicate-looking children I had ever seen. It seemed as if the two tough, highly coloured fisherfolk had grudged any of their vitality and energy to this small daughter. When the news from France began to get more and more grave and the battle for Paris began, I had a lot of trouble with this man, whom I had nicknamed The Giant. As well as being enormous, with magnificent muscles from pulling in the nets, he was a bully and would terrify the smaller men with his threats.
I was often frightened myself by this huge rough creature who addressed me in a bantering, condescending way and informed me every day when I went to the house that we were one step nearer to becoming a German colony. ‘Hitler’s coming! Just you wait, Marraine! He’ll get here just as he’s got to Belgium and Holland and now France.’
His wife, who was afraid of him, would applaud and encourage him to frighten the other families in the house until they got worked up into a state of real hysteria.
He adored his fragile little girl and so did his wife. She, poor child, seemed terrified of everything and this was not surprising after the appalling journey she had had, seeing her friends machine-gunned and their boats sunk. The Giant’s boat had not been sunk – he had brought it safely to Dover and he was proud of it. It was now at Haverfordwest and later on when he had been passed through the screening he would be allowed to join the British fishing fleet, as would all the refugees who had brought their fishing boats to England.
I felt great sympathy for these fishermen who wanted to be with their boats. It was difficult to see why they had been sent to London of all places. As almost all coastal towns were now restricted areas it was understandable that screening was necessary before they were given the freedom of places restricted to us, but it was difficult to explain to them the endless red tape and delays. I would come upon them leaning over the embankment watching the river, their eyes following longingly the movement of every small vessel and craft. When the tide came in they would sniff appreciatively. ‘It’s a little bit of the sea!’ they would say and the hopeless shrug of the shoulders which followed was eloquent of their feeling of frustration.
The middle of the month brought the grim struggle for Paris to a climax. Once again Kathleen, Anne, and I listened to the bulletins of a capital fighting against the invaders – and the fact that this time it was Paris, where I had studied painting, Paris, beloved of all British tourists, made it more heart-breaking. The Germans were attempting to encircle the city and British reinforcements were being rushed to France.
Some of us VADs, on the 13th, were again seeing schoolchildren off, this time from Paddington, They were all going to the West of England. How different was the outlook of those saying good-bye to them to The Giant’s. ‘See you soon, darling. You’ll soon be back, ducks. We’ll beat ’em. You’ll see. You’ll soon be able to come home. Chin up, love. Mother’ll come down and see you…’ But then they had not seen what The Giant had seen.
On the 15th the newspapers announced that the Germans were in Paris, and at the same time they were publishing pictures of more BEF leaving for France. Masses of laughing young faces going eagerly to fight for Paris, which had now been declared an open city and from which the population were streaming out in one mad panic rush! No one had given them any order to evacuate, they had just packed their possessions into cars, carts, perambulators, bicycles, anything they could find, and in one terrible human stream blocked every road needed urgently by the troops trying in vain to reach the city to defend it. We were throwing in fresh troops, and the Scottish regiments were fighting in epic and heroic fashion. It seemed incredible to read of the two things at the same time our troops being rushed in and the citizens rushing out!
Throughout the next few tense days everyone went about silent and with strained faces. Was it to be another Dunkirk? On the Sunday, the 16th, the French had been ordered to stop fighting, and Marshal Petain asked for terms of peace; but M Baudouin, the French Foreign Minister, with the example of the other conquered countries before him, announced that France would only lay down her arms in an honourable peace. The French army, he said, continued to fight.
The Prime Minister, Mr Churchill, announced that we should defend our island and with the British Commonwealth fight on, unconquerable, to end the curse of Hitler. Then he went on to declare our unification with France.
This speech was perfectly timed. We were all depressed and horrified at the events in France. Was no country going to succeed in checking the terrible and relentless advance of the Nazi troops? They seemed like that horde of Huns under Attila sweeping through Europe and treading down everything which came in their path. The ponderous, deliberate, quiet voice of Winston Churchill was far more effective than the hysterical ravings which one could listen to on the German radio – whether it was Hitler or Goebbels screaming his threats across the waves of the air. Churchill’s voice was slow, but its very deliberation had in it the weight and promise that nothing would deflect him from hi
s determination to end the mad lust of the man in the Reichstag. It carried that complete assurance of conviction which we all wanted to hear,
On the Tuesday, the 18th, I had planned a small cocktail party. By the early evening I did not feel like a party – for the placards said France had fallen. Mrs Freeth had got everything ready and assured me that people liked a disaster to discuss even more than a mere social occasion! She proved to be only too right. The cocktail party developed into a violent discussion as to the rights or wrongs of the Fall of France. My French friend, Marianne Ducroix, resenting the criticism of her country’s defeat, burst into angry tears, shouted that we were all all enemies of France, that we were aiding the Nazis by our gloom and pessimism, that all we were thinking of was our own troops while the fate of the French mattered nothing to us at all.
I tried clumsily to apologize – but I only made matters worse. Marianne left in high dudgeon and I was miserable about it. An uninvited guest revealed himself to be an ardent Fascist and revelled in the disaster. I quarrelled violently with him until I realized that he was drunk. He would not leave the party as Marianne had, but fell asleep on the studio couch cuddling Victoria who, faithless in politics, adored this follower of Mosley. When at last he woke up he was lachrymose and silly, using Vicki’s silky head on which to let flow his tears at the stupidity of Britain who, in his view, was marching blindfold to her doom.
Jennie was terribly cast down at the fate of Holland; only Asta was cheerful. Norway was not yet beaten, she asserted gallantly, King Haakon might have arrived as a refugee but the Norwegians would not give in. Her optimism was a tonic to everyone. She raised her cocktail glass high and drank loudly and firmly to her King and to Victory – and we all stood and raised ours too. But none of us had the heart to drink to France – the memory of Marianne’s outburst was too painful.
Dr Alice Pennell, in a wonderful sari of red and gold, was looking at my portrait of Kumari, my young friend from Hyderabad, now training as a nurse. Her brother Indi, a most handsome youth, was also present. He had come over for training with the RAF in the Nizam of Hyderabad’s special squadron.
It was quite the most unpleasant party I could remember. General de Gaulle, of whom few of us had ever heard, now appeared as the leader of those French who were determined to resist, and made an amazing broadcast that all was not lost – that France would continue to fight. His fine speech that evening did do something to alleviate the wretched events of the day, but nothing could banish for me the picture of Marianne, whose friendship I valued. As soon as I could, I telephoned her flat – but the bell rang into that silence which betokens emptiness.
In the Civil Defence Services we were told of the thousand bombs which had been dropped on Paris during Dunkirk. There had been no panic, and all the ARP Services had worked perfectly. Some of the bombs had fallen on schools, killing and injuring children. The details were released to us for their value in the ARP lectures. Again we had several large-scale practices. By now they were no novelty to most of us – but as a number of personnel were constantly disappearing into the Services, there were always some who had not taken part in a practice.
Our own air-raid sirens were sounding in the Home Counties where the RAF were successfully driving off German planes, attacking during their fresh assault on the Western Front.
The French armies were fighting with epic courage and we listened to the radio bulletins with the same feeling of tragic inevitability which had coloured the broadcasts on the battles for Poland and Finland. In some ways it was terrible to bear these frequent bulletins because the watchful attitude of censorship prevented us from getting the full facts. The ones not disclosed would come later – and were usually not so good. The news of the Lancastria had not been announced until the 17th – long after Garth had come home and told us of it.
Chapter Eight
THE FRIEND most violently affected by the disastrous news was Ruth. She telephoned constantly, and each time the strain in her voice was worse. Her incessant telephoning and letters had become almost a persecution. Her whole problem was one with which I was not able to contend.
Mrs Freeth had become wonderful at soothing Ruth on the telephone, and she had managed to keep her away from the party, but the following morning Ruth arrived quite early. I was shocked at her appearance. Her eyes were enormous in her white haunted face and she talked on one note – her voice having no inflexions whatsoever. She had been very beautiful before she had been so relentlessly treated by her husband. She told her usual story of persecution. She talked always of ‘They’. They were persecuting her, listening at her walls, tapping her telephone calls, shadowing her wherever she went. It was useless to argue with her – she was beyond it. Her young daughter, Carla, was at a convent school. It had evacuated, but part of it remained, with a skeleton staff, in Chelsea. Carla was a lovely blonde child who had quite obviously taken after her Aryan father. Ruth was very dark. It was, she told me, quite dangerous to have very dark hair and dark eyes in Germany.
She stood now in the dining-room ignoring the coffee which Mrs Freeth had brought her, twisting her hands and talking, talking on and on in the monotonous level voice which so alarmed me. ‘It’s no use, no use at all. They’ll get me interned. You’ve heard what Sir John Anderson has said. All Austrians and Germans will be interned. They are after me again. I can hear them all the time. I can see them all the time. In every shop, in every bus – even if I take a taxi. I shall lose my job – they won’t want a German – let’s see your passport they will say – oh, you’re German. Sorry but it’s war-time. You’re an enemy alien now…I have to report to the police quite often. Me! I’ve been here since the first horrible purge in Germany. I brought Carla here when she was only six…’ She stopped, staring unseeing at me. ‘You must help me. You must. You’re so lucky to be British born. I’ve tried and tried to get British nationality. It was just about to go through when this war came. Now they won’t give it to me. You must make them. You have friends in the Home Office.’
It was useless telling her that no naturalization papers were being considered during the war. Looking at me with those wet mournful eyes she said in a hard tense voice, ‘You didn’t invite me to your party. It’s because I am German. You didn’t want to be embarrassed.’
To this I had no answer. I just stared at her; and she burst into a terrible tirade about everyone being against her and that she had believed that I was different.
She got up reluctantly to leave when at half past ten I said I had to go. I knew that I ought to keep her with me, she had a wild distracted look, but I was going out that afternoon: although I had to take a refugee to St Luke’s Hospital first I was going to a matinee. The never-ending troubles of the refugees had to be forgotten sometimes and although my instinct was to put off my date and keep Ruth with me for lunch I did not do it. I had consulted Dr Pennell about her, and she, having met Ruth in my studio, had said firmly that she needed medical treatment and that nothing else could help her.
As she went out of the front door Ruth said, ‘You’re just like the others. You won’t help me.’
It was half past ten and I was due at the hospital at eleven, so I did not put on my uniform but collected Monsieur F and went with him dressed in civilian clothes.
When we reached the hospital there was a strange doctor on duty who was impatient, and even disagreeable in his manner, and poor Monsieur F crumpled up at his brusqueness. The doctor was one of those Englishmen who seem to think that if shouted at loudly enough everyone should be able to understand English. Monsieur F refused to co-operate and it was a long time before I could persuade him to submit to an examination.
At last it was finished and I was free to go home. There would be exactly fifteen minutes to snatch some food before leaving for the matinee.
But I did not go to see Dear Octopus after all. Mrs Freeth greeted me with a worried face as soon as I got in. ‘Will you ring Miss Carla at once, please,’ she said. ‘There’s been trouble
.’
Carla was fairly calm considering what had happened. She had got home from school and had rung the bell, and when her mother did not answer she had looked under the mat and there, sure enough, was the key of the flat where they always left it. She opened the door. A great rush of gas met her. Choking and gasping, she had the sense to leave the door open while she tried the door of the kitchen. It was locked. She looked in the other rooms. No one. She knew instinctively that her mother was behind the locked door. She tried kicking it but she could not smash it in. Then she rushed down to find the porter. He was at his lunch and she could not find him. She shouted for the neighbours – but no one appeared to be in. It was lunchtime and there was no one about in the streets. She telephoned me but I was out too. At last she found a policeman and he went back with her and broke the door in. Ruth lay on the floor. She had stuffed up every aperture with dusters and cushions and had turned the gas on full. The policeman tried artificial respiration but, finding it useless, telephoned for an ambulance. He waited with Carla until I telephoned, I got into a taxi, and took Victoria, thinking that the dog would help comfort the child. I was horribly shocked.
Carla was waiting for me at the entrance to the flats, calm, pale, and with a stem resigned look on her young face. She didn’t want to go into the flat again. ‘Is the policeman still up there?’ I asked her. She said he was. He was a very understanding policeman, not young, but solid and fatherly. ‘Will she recover?’ I asked. He looked dubious. ‘She was pretty far gone,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get her round, not even with one of the neighbours, who helped me very efficiently. She must have inhaled a lot of gas and she must have been unconscious for some time when we broke the door down.’
A Chelsea Concerto Page 8
