Anna At War

by Helen Peters

  She smiled at Molly.

  “You’re Mr Dean’s daughter, aren’t you? Molly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, madam,” she said.

  The lady smiled at me. “I must apologise,” she said. (Apologise? To me?) “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “My name is Anna,” I said. “Anna Schlesinger.”

  “Anna’s a German refugee, Lady Hurstwood,” said Molly. “She came to England on the Kindertransport and she’s staying with us. And we came to see you because—” She stopped and turned to me. “You tell it, Anna.”

  My stomach churned. I couldn’t meet Lady Hurstwood’s eyes.

  “My… My parents need jobs in England. Germany is very dangerous for Jews at the moment. They are trying to leave but they need jobs and a visa. I… I wondered if you…”

  I glanced at Lady Hurstwood. Her face was full of concern and sympathy. To my horror, I felt my throat tightening and my eyes filling up with tears. I bit my cheeks.

  Lady Hurstwood took both my hands in hers.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  That was it. I started to sob. Lady Hurstwood kept hold of my hands and led me into another room, saying something to the man as she did so. She sat me down on a sofa and handed me a handkerchief.

  After a while, when my sobs had turned into hiccupy shudders, Lady Hurstwood patted me on the knee and said, “Have some tea, my dear.”

  A tea tray had magically appeared on the low table in front of the sofa. There was a silver teapot and three pretty china cups and saucers. There was also a plate of delicious-looking biscuits, but I had no appetite.

  “Sugar?” she asked, picking up a pair of little silver tongs.

  “Yes, please.” I had discovered that I could tolerate English tea if it had sugar in it.

  Molly was sitting on the sofa opposite. I didn’t dare look at her. I had completely messed up my carefully practised plans.

  Lady Hurstwood talked while she poured the tea and handed round the biscuits. I didn’t understand everything, but Molly repeated it to me more slowly afterwards.

  “My husband and I had some wonderful walking holidays in Germany when we were first married. Such a beautiful country. Such lovely people. It’s just terrible, what’s happening at the moment. It’s as though that dreadful man has bewitched everybody. The whole country seems to have gone mad.”

  A door banged somewhere nearby and a man’s voice said, “Down, Audrey! Flora, come here, you blasted nuisance!”

  A brown-and-white spaniel trotted into the drawing room, its pink tongue hanging out and its feathery tail waving wildly.

  “Sit, Flora,” commanded Lady Hurstwood, and the dog flopped down at her feet.

  Another spaniel ran into the room, followed by a tall, thin man with wispy sandy hair and a harassed expression. He wore muddy corduroy trousers and boots, and a torn tweed jacket over a checked shirt. What was he doing in Lady Hurstwood’s drawing room?

  Lady Hurstwood said something to him that I couldn’t understand, but from her looks and gestures, I think she was telling him off about his muddy boots. Then she said, “Anna, this is my husband, Charles.”

  Her husband?

  This scruffy man, dressed like a tramp, was Lord Hurstwood, the owner of Ashcombe Park?

  England was very confusing.

  Lady Hurstwood was talking to her husband. She spoke fast and I couldn’t follow what she said. Then Lord Hurstwood turned to me.

  “I’m very sorry to hear about your situation, Anna. Dreadful business. Appalling man.”

  “But don’t worry any more,” Lady Hurstwood said. “We have work in the kitchens, if that would suit your mother. And outdoor work for your father.”

  My heart beat wildly. Had they really said what I thought they’d said?

  “Johnny could do with a hand in the stables,” said Lord Hurstwood. “Especially if that wretched man does bring us all to war. The youngsters will all join up and then we’ll need all the help we can get. Could your father work with horses?”

  I didn’t understand all of this. But I understood his question.

  I pictured my father, pale and stooped from sitting at a desk all day. He must once have been fit and strong. He had won the Iron Cross, after all. But now?

  Had he ever even touched a horse?

  “Of course,” I said. “He loves horses.”

  “Excellent,” said Lord Hurstwood. “That’s all settled then.”

  “Don’t worry about anything, Anna,” said Lady Hurstwood, taking my hands and squeezing them. “Just give us your parents’ details and we’ll do the rest.”

  Could this really be happening?

  She handed me a notepad and pen. In a daze, I wrote down the details she asked for: my parents’ names, address and dates of birth.

  As we walked home, down the front drive this time, through the avenue of chestnut trees, I realised I’d been so overwhelmed that I hadn’t even thanked them.

  “Don’t worry,” said Molly. “I thanked them for you.”

  When I wrote to my parents that night with the news, I was happier than I could ever remember being in my whole life. The only thing worrying me was whether Lord and Lady Hurstwood would keep their promises. It all seemed too easy, too good to be true.

  But they did keep their promises. I received a joyful letter from my mother the following week, saying that Lady Hurstwood had written to her on the very same day we had visited Ashcombe House.

  “Papa and I are so happy, my darling, and so very, very proud of you for making this miracle happen,” she wrote. “After the terrible sadness and despair we’ve felt for so many months, this lightness and joy is extraordinary. Every day, I wake up and laugh with sheer delight at the thought that soon we will be with you in England.”

  I felt the same. My only worry now was that the Nazis wouldn’t grant them visas. But at the end of August Mama wrote with the amazing news that they had their visas! They just needed to get one last document stamped, and then they would be travelling to England the very next week! They were to have a married couple’s apartment in Ashcombe House, and we would all be together, all three of us living in this magical place.

  I couldn’t wait to show them the village and the Park, and for them to meet my foster family. I wrote and asked them to bring the rest of my drawing pencils and as much paper as they could. Aunty Rose asked me about their favourite foods and planned a welcome meal. I helped clean the cottage and picked plums and damsons for preserving. It was beautiful weather and I lived in a bubble of happiness. When worries about their journey or the rumours of imminent war crept into my head, I pushed them firmly away. I was determined to stay in my bubble.

  And then the bubble burst.

  On 1st September, Germany invaded Poland. On 3rd September, Britain declared war on Germany.

  My parents were now classed as “enemy nationals”. The British government immediately cancelled their visas. No Germans could travel to Britain any more.

  My parents were trapped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Probably a Spy

  I cried for days. I was in a pit so deep and dark that nothing and nobody could reach me. I thought I would die of grief.

  I cried from desolation at the shattering of my hopes and dreams. I cried from anger. How could the British government be so stupid, so heartless? I cried from fear and worry. What would happen to my parents now? And I cried from sheer aching homesickness. I felt as an actual physical pain the space between me and my parents growing wider and wider. And I was terrified that eventually they would be so far away that I wouldn’t be able to reach them any more.

  In the end, it was my anger at the British government that spurred me to stop crying and take action. I wrote to the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, to explain my parents’ situation and tell him exactly why his policy was so stupid. Molly corrected my grammar and I posted the letter.

  Once I’d done that, my natural optimism started to return. Per
haps the government would see sense and realise the obvious truth that German Jews were not on Hitler’s side. Even if they didn’t change their policy, perhaps Mr Chamberlain would make an exception for my parents once he’d read my letter. Or, if that didn’t happen, perhaps my parents would somehow manage to escape and come to England.

  These few glimmers of hope were enough to give me the strength I needed to smile and put on a brave face when the autumn term started and I walked to the village school with Molly and Frank for the first time.

  We called for some of their friends at the cottages we passed, and we met others walking along the way. I’d already met most of them during the summer holidays and they were all friendly. Walking to school that morning, it felt nice to be a part of a group again.

  Most of the conversation was about the London evacuees that lots of the other children had staying with them. They had arrived last week with their teacher, who was staying with the vicar and his wife. The evacuees were going to have the village hall for their school, but it wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow, so they had an extra day’s holiday.

  “Lucky things,” said Nancy, who hated school.

  “It’s not going to be much of a holiday for our one,” said Dorothy. “Mum’s got her cleaning and polishing all day. I’d rather be at school.”

  “Ours just cries for his mummy,” said Margaret. “And he wets the bed every night. Poor little thing, he’s only three. I tried reading him a story to cheer him up, but he snatched the book out of my hand and threw it on the floor.”

  Since it was the start of the school year, the smallest children were starting for the very first time, and some of them were clinging to their mothers and weeping at the school gate. In Germany there was a tradition that children were given a big paper cone filled with sweets to take to school on their first day, but that didn’t seem to happen here, which was a shame. A cone full of sweets might have cheered them up.

  Everybody milled about in the playground, chatting or playing games, until a teacher walked out of the building, ringing a bell that she held in her hand. The heaving mass formed itself into four straggly lines.

  “Just stand with me for the moment,” said Molly. “I expect you’ll be in my class anyway.”

  She pointed out her teacher, Miss Marshall, who was also the headmistress. She was a tall, serious-looking woman with round glasses. Her cropped wavy hair was a faded brown, sprinkled with grey.

  “Is she nice?” I whispered.

  “She’s nice if you work hard.”

  I studied Miss Marshall’s face as we waited in line. Her eyes roamed over all the classes until they lit on a little girl in the youngest class, who was trying to contain her sobs by stuffing her fist into her mouth. Miss Marshall went and knelt beside her, and her serious expression turned into the loveliest smile.

  I will work hard, I vowed to myself. I will work hard and impress Miss Marshall.

  But, to my great disappointment, I wasn’t in Miss Marshall’s class. As the younger children filed into the building, Miss Marshall’s eyes came to rest on me. She walked over to me.

  “Welcome, Anna,” she said, with that kind smile again. “We are very pleased to have you here.”

  “Thank you, Miss Marshall.”

  “Now, I’ve had a talk with Mrs Dean,” she said, to my surprise. Aunty Rose hadn’t mentioned this. “She says your English is coming on remarkably well. I was going to suggest that you worked with the upper infants at first but, given how quickly Mrs Dean says you’re progressing, I’m going to put you with the lower juniors.”

  She must have seen the disappointment in my face, because she said, “Don’t worry, Anna. It’s only while your English catches up with the others of your age. I have a feeling you’ll be in the top class in no time at all.”

  The school was in an old building. The classrooms had high ceilings, and windows right at the top of the walls, too high to see out of. My teacher was called Miss Ambrose. She had droopy hair and wore droopy clothes, and she taught our lessons in a droopy way, as though she was too tired or uninterested to show any enthusiasm. Several of the children were chatting and messing about, and she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  I wished I was in Miss Marshall’s class. I made up my mind that I would improve my English very quickly.

  The children in the lower juniors were very interested in me. At morning break, when we were all given a little bottle of tepid milk to drink in the playground, they crowded round me, asking questions.

  “How old are you? Aren’t you too old for our class?”

  “Margaret says you’re German. Are you?”

  “Why did you come to England? I thought the Germans hated the English.”

  “Say something in German.”

  That was a very popular suggestion. Several of the others begged me to say something in German. When I obliged, and told them my name and where I came from, they were enthralled.

  “It sounds so funny! What does it mean?”

  “Say it again.”

  “Say some more German. Teach us to count to ten.”

  So I taught them the German numbers up to ten, which they found hilarious.

  “Aren’t you going to drink your milk?” asked a boy called Alfie, who had said nothing up to this point.

  The bottle was warm from sitting in the classroom all morning, and the milk had a thick layer of cream on the top. I wasn’t keen on milk at the best of times, and creamy lukewarm milk was the worst. I handed it gratefully to Alfie, who took it with delight.

  “Did you ever see Hitler?” asked Janet.

  I shook my head.

  “Hitler’s crazy,” said Stanley. “My mum says he’s a madman and he won’t stop until he’s conquered the world.”

  “Well, he won’t conquer the world, will he?” said Barbara. “Because we’re going to smash him to pieces.”

  “Sidney’s really good at Hitler,” said Janet. “Do Hitler, Sidney.”

  Excited faces turned to Sidney.

  “Oh, yes, do old Hitler, Sid!”

  “Go on, Sidney, show her your Hitler!”

  Sidney spat on his hand and slicked down the front of his hair. Then he put one finger under his nose for a moustache and started goose-stepping around the playground, screaming and ranting in a stream of nonsense words. The other children were laughing and egging him on, but my stomach was squirming and I found myself darting frightened glances around the playground.

  Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. It’s all right to mock Hitler here. Nobody will mind.

  A crowd had gathered round Sidney. I was filled with envy as I looked at their laughing faces. How wonderful it would be to see Hitler as a figure of fun.

  “What’s wrong with you, German girl?”

  My stomach clenched. There was an edge to the question. I looked to see who had spoken.

  “Don’t you like people making fun of Hitler? Are you on his side then?”

  It was a short, stocky boy from Molly’s class. He had a freckled face and curly brown hair. He took a step towards me.

  “My dad says the only good German is a dead German,” he said.

  I felt sick.

  “Shut up, Billy,” said Molly. “You know nothing.”

  “I know my dad’s out in France, fighting the Germans. So what have you got one of them living in your house for? She’s probably a spy.”

  Nancy gave a scornful laugh. “A spy? Don’t be daft. She’s twelve.”

  “Exactly. No one would ever suspect her. I bet she’s been sent over specially by Hitler.”

  “I hate Hitler,” I said.

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

  The bell rang for the end of break and everyone filed back into the building. I walked inside with the others. But I felt as though I was six years old again, in the playground of my school in Germany.

  I’d been playing with my friends when an older girl strode over and smacked me hard on the side of my face.
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  “Dirty Jew,” she hissed, and while I was standing there in shock, she leaned forward and spat in my eye.

  “My father told me to do that,” she said, and walked away.

  I was too shocked to cry. Ingrid and Ursula comforted me while I got out my handkerchief and wiped my face. But Irmgard had moved back a few paces. She was staring at me.

  “You’re not really Jewish, are you?” she said. “You never said you were a Jew.”

  Suddenly I felt frightened.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not Jewish.”

  I felt terrible as soon as I’d said it. And completely confused. Why was it bad to be Jewish?

  I asked my parents the same question that evening, when I told them what had happened.

  “Hitler is poisoning people’s minds at the moment,” said Mama, sitting me on her lap and kissing my cheek. “Many people are very poor, and they want somebody to blame. And Hitler is telling them the reason they’re poor is because of the Jews. It’s all lies, but some people are willing to believe it.”

  “It won’t last,” said Papa. “People will realise Hitler’s a madman, and they’ll turn against him. Things will soon be back to normal.”

  “But what about that horrible girl?” I said.

  Mama held me tight. “I’ll speak to your teacher tomorrow. She’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Now, as I sat back down at my desk with the eight-year-olds, I felt cold with fear. Were Billy’s comments just the beginning? Could what happened in Germany happen here too?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  So Far Away

  Time passed.

  It passed in air raid practices and gas mask drills, as we trained for a war in which nothing much actually seemed to be happening.

  It passed in evenings when I read and reread my parents’ letters and cried myself to sleep from homesickness, despite Clover doing her best to comfort me with her reassuring purrs.

  It passed in school lunches eaten at our desks covered with greaseproof paper, instead of going home for lunch as we did in Germany. It passed in knitting socks for soldiers while Miss Ambrose read to us from The Railway Children and The Land of Green Ginger. In digging for victory in the school garden, sowing onions and cabbages, leeks and broad beans. In improving my English, helped by the kindness of Miss Marshall, who kept pace with my learning and lent me books from her own home. “I think you might like this,” she would say, placing Alice in Wonderland or The Secret Garden on my desk when she came in to look at the lower juniors’ work.