by Susan Firman
CHAPTER 3
Intricate Shakes
Behind the main college buildings stood the school house, a dull square Georgian house with long thin windows and numerous tall chimneys. This is where Miss Turner lived, together with her niece. The house could be seen in the distance when the boys sneaked round to the rear gate to smoke, some of them coughing out their lungs as they drew their first breaths while the more proficient boys became bent double in fits of laughter at the novices’ painful attempts. There was a loose stone in the wall and if one of the masters happened to make an appearance, the evidence of their secret habit could easily be hidden without any trace. Hans pulled the heavy, iron gate open and stepped into the large surrounding garden, full of mature trees and thick plantings of shrubs. As he got closer to the house, he became aware of a narrow, colourful flower bed which hugged the foot of the house’s front wall.
He found the huge block of grey granite cold and imposing, not at all like the picturesque painted façades of the buildings in his own home town. He hated the obliqueness of the house with its heavy stone columns imposing themselves on the entranceway and it made him feel awkward. and intimidated. The house and the matron seemed to go together: unattractive, intimidating, yet at the same time, demanding respect. To Hans, her niece was not dissimilar.
Miss Turner’s niece was already waiting for him in the porch. She was sitting in one of those wicker wheelchairs. A pile of books had been stacked on her lap with her school hat on top. She had folded her arms so that her hands held the brim of her hat. For the first time, Hans noticed that her brown hair had not been plaited this time but pulled back into a low, loose pony tail. Her chustnut-brown hair was thick and wavy and not at all like the hair on her aunt's head. Jan looked quite different today.
“Looking for me?”
“Miss Janine Turner.”
“I know you’re Hans Resmel. I have seen you around the grounds. I call myself Jan. Everyone else does except my aunt. You may call me that, too.”
“Call you?”
He stepped closer. She placed her school hat over her hair and pulled it down firmly against her ears.
“Jan!”
She did not attempt to smile but peered at him in earnest: two rimmed lenses peering at him under the brim of her hat. She made it obvious that that was what she wanted to be called.
“You are then, ready?”
“Jan. Don’t forget!”
Hans made up his mind not to reply this time and, instead, leaned down and released the brake. He began pushing her away from the house, bumping the wheels of the chair over the uneven cobblestones. He was determined to say as little as possible in the hope she would decide to use someone else. But Jan Turner was as obstinate as he was and was prepared to see his punishment through, however unpleasant she found it to be.
“Can’t you push this thing a bit better,” she complained as he bumped the wheels of the chair roughly up onto a bit of the grass. He said nothing but steered the ungainly wheelchair back onto the stone pathway. He found the going difficult and was working up a sweat, with beads forming over his forehead and staring to trickle down his nose. “Slow down! Slow down! I don’t want another accident!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled but she did not seem to hear.
“I hope you’ll do better by the end of the day. My aunt wants my full report. I’m going to write down every little detail, so watch out!”
I bet you will, Hans thought.
He screwed his eyes into slits and imagined her eyes wrapped in bandages and tape stuck over her mouth. He began to think of all the bad things he could do to this spiteful fourteen year old girl when, suddenly, they had arrived at the entrance way to the girls’ section.
“Don’t forget me at the end of the day or I’ll tell my aunt you were absolutely awful.”
She gave him a look that could kill a man dead at a hundred paces so that when the time came to pick her up at the end of the day, he hoped to make it out of his last class in a hurry so that she would not give him that look again. He had already decided that he had to act quickly and needed time to race over to the Jan’s part of the building, collect her and push her back to the Turner’s house before most of the boys had a chance to see him. He knew that the ones who loved to tease him crept round behind the back shed for a quick smoke before the master on duty began his after-school inspection. Hans became restless as the time for the final bell got closer and found that the skin on his legs felt as though it were crawling with a thousand small insects. His feet began to ache with anticipation and he found he could no longer concentrate on his work.
Careful. Careful, he kept telling himself as he slumped even more over the book on his desk trying to become one with the desk top. His hand shook as he tried to re-load his pen with ink from the ink-well and several blobs dripped on the wood from the well to the edge of his exercise book. His hand fumbled around in his jacket pocket until he serendipitously drew out a piece of blotting paper to mop up the offending ink. He was afraid to raise his head in case the master sprang on him like a fox. Finally the bell sounded. Books shut with a dull thuds around the room. The master gave his permission for them to leave. Seats banged and scraped across the wooden floorboards as boys straddled their bench seats, fumbling to get books, pens and papers into their bags which had been stowed underneath. Hans had already secretly stowed away his things, except his writing book so that as soon as he heard the words to go, he jumped back off the seat and rushed out of the room. He had no wish for anyone to see that he was heading for the girl’s section.
Jan was not in the hurry Hans was. She had decided to keep her teacher in conversation at the border between the two school areas so that Hans was forced to wait. He was visibly irritated but that did not seem to impinge on Jan. He chewed on his little finger, anxiously waiting for the conversation to end, all the while dreading the possibility of meeting one of the boys who still delighted in teasing him.
“ . . . you’ve certainly got a good idea, there, young lady.” The classroom mistress leaned over the front of the wicker wheelchair, her back in Hans’ direction. Jan paid him no attention as she and her teacher submersed themselves in one of Jan’s exercise books. Jan’s work was always carefully planned and neatly written, not like some of his with its smudged ink blotches after he’d tried to soak up the excess ink with his piece of black-stained blotting paper. When it seemed that Jan had finished, she removed her glasses and spent some time carefully wiping and re-wiping them before putting them back on, and then taking even more time to pack up her things and lay her bag across her lap. Finally, she managed to turn the large wheels of her cumbersome wheelchair and cross the divide.
“You can wheel me home now, Mr Resmel.”
Hans said nothing. He took hold of the high handles on the rear of the chair and began pushing the heavy, awkward chair down the pathway which led round the back of the main school building and through the rear gate. He made an awkward right turn and followed a narrower path leading up to Miss Turner’s house. Jan did not speak; not even one word. When he finally reached the house door, Miss Turner’s two maids, Mary and Ellen, were there to meet them and help Jan with her wheel-chair. Jan just nodded in Hans’ direction. She sat in her chair looking at him in deathly silence.
“Thank you, sir.” It was Mary who came down the steps and spoke to him. “We’ll be ready f’you tomorra mornin’. Good afternoon, sir.”
Hans clicked his heels to acknowledge the greeting. Then without a word, he swung round and strode back down the path back into the college grounds. He was so relieved to have rid himself of that dreadful girl.
So, that was Janine; no, that is Jan Turner.
As soon as he had got rid of her, he let his guard down and began to whistle a snippets of music he had remembered from his early childhood. As he rounded the last corner to make his way to the wide gravel driveway, four of the remaining boys who had been behind the shed blocked his path.
“Here comes Fritzy boy!” Th
ey pointed and jeered in Hans’ direction. “Hun on the end of the ‘andles!”
Hans stopped in his tracks, his fists clenched so tightly together that his nails bit into the sweaty flesh of his palms. He glared at his tormentors. The taunts continued.
“No funk hole for you this time!”
The words were spat out, menacing and threatening. The boys began chanting one of Wilfred Gibson’s war poems as they edged closer, trying to push Hans against the wall.
“Both his legs are shot away, And his head is light, So he keeps muttering, All the blessed night: Two rows of cabbages, Two of curly greens’ . . . Two thumps to his kidneys, Let’s see how he screams!”
Hans raised his fists, ready to defend himself. The largest boy, well-muscled and menacing, sneered right into his face as he pretended to shoot.
“Bang! Bang!” The other three laughed like troopers as Hans recoiled like a gun. “They all fall down!”
Hans was at the point of lashing out when the click of the main door was heard in the pause. His attackers suddenly broke ranks, and disappeared in the opposite direction, leaving Hans standing, shaken. But this time he was unharmed.
Over the next couple of days everything went wrong. Mr Moore had been assigned to take the boys for a game of cricket out on the sports’ field. It would be the last match of the year. Hans knew nothing about the game and did not want to know about it, anyway. He had tried to watch it with Robert several times but found it so boring and slow that he had fallen asleep on the grass.
Mr Moore had divided the boys into two teams. Hans’ team had won the right to bat first which meant the Hans at the rear waiting for a turn that was never to come. Finally, their team was bowled out and everyone had to take their place on the field. Hans positioned himself as far away from the wickets as possible and tried to think of other things other than the boring game.
“Get the ball, boy!” The master’s voice had anger and frustration in it.
“Sir, can Harry bat now?”
One of the boys pushed Harry forward and another placed the bat in his hand. They all knew Harry could not strike a ball no matter how gently it was bowled. Harry blamed his poor eyesight but his teacher knew full well the boy was far more into books rather than into sports. Mr Moore’s attention was re-directed to the fielding team.
Hans was pleased when Mr Moore called an end to the game. The bell had not yet gone so there was still a minute or two left and the master held up his hand to rescind his last order.
“Ah, Mr Resmel. You appear to have done very little this period. Let’s see how good your bowling arm is!” The master laughed, a cynical laugh. “Let’s see how a German boy can play a real English game! You call the score, Mr Anderson.”
Mr Moore threw the cricket ball to Hans and motioned to him that he should bowl.
“Give it your best, Hans,” Robert whispered. “Copy what Lofty did.”
Hans wiped the little ball on the side of his trousers as he’d seen Lofty do. Then he lined up the wicket in his sight, took several large running steps towards the batter, raised his arm and heaved the ball with all his might. One of the stumps flew into the air as if it had been launched from a catapult.
“He’s hit the wicket!”
“Next batter!”
The boy handed over the bat. Mr Moore was not impressed. He threw the ball back to Hans. Hans prepared himself again. The ball shot down the bowling green so fast the new batter did not have time to react. Matthew Anderson called out again in his flat voice.
“You’re out!”
“Pack up, boys!” the master ordered.
Mr Moore turned his back on the bowler and stormed off the field.
Later that afternoon, Hans found it extremely difficult to keep his concentration focused on his studies. German became mixed up with English, and Religious Studies with History. What was worse, this afternoon Mr Moore had decided to give the boys their test results and after the morning’s cricket game, he had a very short fuse. Each boy was made to stand before his competitors as Mr Moore read down the list, the top ranking student first and then progressing downwards as the marks got worse and worse.
The day was turning out to be a dismal failure. Mr Moore, whose normal temper seemed to be as short as an inch, was now on the point of exploding. Then, he got to Hans.
“What do you call these blotches in your book, Mr Resmel?” Hans stared at his page. He could not see anything terribly wrong with it. There were a couple of tiny ink smudges but nothing to really anger a master but this master continued in a very loud voice. “They are a disgrace! You expect me to read and mark this rubbish? You’re just wasting my time! Out! Get out of my sight!”
A hushed silence hung like a fog in the classroom as each boy caught his breath and dared not exhale. The black cloaked arm of the master pointed towards the door, waiting for Hans to gather up his things and leave.
He was making his way along the corridor, past all the photographs of past masters and headmasters and towards the headmaster’s room when he happened to bump into Miss Turner; well, almost.
“What are you doing wandering the corridors and why are you here, Resmel” she asked, “and not in class?”
“My book was not good for the master. I was told to go. Nothing’s good for Mr Moore!”
“Come into my office. Come! Come!” She made him sit. “I’m very much afraid, Mr Resmel, that you’ve burnt up the last straw.” She eyed him like a hawk. He really couldn’t think what a heap of ‘straw’ had to do with his school work, or why she should have accused him of burning anything for neither the garden litter nor any of the buildings had gone up in smoke. But before he could fathom it out, her next comment, along with her tone, told him that she was very, very angry with him. “A good bout of corporal punishment might teach you a lesson or two. Unfortunately, Mr Bowes-Heath is far too busy at the moment to deal with you and I do not remember seeing any prefects around. They have too many other duties without having to take you to task. What have you to say for yourself, young man?”
“I do not understand.”
“Maybe a caning one end will send messages to your brain at the other end.” Hans was astounded. He had been led to believe that of the teaching staff, it was only the headmaster or that dreaded senior master, Mr Moore who caned. If this was to be his punishment, and from a woman, that would be far worse. It would punish his pride. “Come into my office. Stand and bend over that chair.”
He turned his head to the side, watching her closely as she opened a cupboard door and take out a long cane; silently cursing every bone in the old dragon’s body. Surely, she did not mean to administer the blows herself. It seemed to be so degrading, being caned by a woman. His body ached. The constant strain of tensed muscles making him feel weak as he waited for the seconds to tick by.
“It pains me to have to do this, especially on the last day or so of the year Mr Resmel but I fear if I let this incident pass, not only will your mind not be saved, but I fear for your soul as well. Now, prepare yourself and bear it like a man.”
Think of something, anything . . . Salzburg, the mountains, the Tiergarten in Berlin . . . anywhere where he had lived. But he failed. Only a blankness remained.
The slashes cut into him, stinging his flesh even under the layers of clothing. He never realised a woman could hit so hard. The cane hummed as it vibrated through the air. One, pause; two, pause; three, pause. He counted. It made things worse as he anticipated each lash of the whip. Three, pause; four . . .
It stung his pride more than his backside, yet he was surprised that the ‘old hawk’ had so much muscle in that arm of hers. He was upset that she had used the cane on him for such a trivial thing. It was so unfair!
He waited for the next sting to arrive.
“You may stand up now!” Miss Turner relaxed and laid the cane across her desk. “I hope that will send you a message: take more care with your learning next time. Your family did not send you here
to waste time. Many sacrifices have been made to allow you to come here. Don’t dishonour that. And, don’t test my patience again, Mr Resmel. Now, go back to class! And I think you owe an apology to your master.”
How he hated her: not because she had punished him but, because this time, he felt it unjustified. She had humiliated him. It was open warfare, now.
It was during another Friday afternoon when gardening duties were handed out again - Mr Moore made sure Hans was handed the dreaded scrubbing brush and ordered to clean the dreaded fountain. He did so while the master was watching but the moment he felt the eyes were no longer there, Hans threw the brush down in anger.
A prefect had seen him. Six lashings this time. In the prefect’s room he was instructed to bend over the chair. Three short swishes from the long slender weapon.
“This will hurt me more than you!” A routine saying to every boy who was to be caned. And then, “I hope you take it like a real man!” Whatever, that was meant to mean seeing he was constantly being told he needed to grow up.
The prefect, a year or two older than himself, threw all his feelings of anger and hate into that cane. There was a swishing noise as it cut through the air. Then a hiss as it made contact with Hans’ rear end. This time the sting bit hard. It lingered for much longer than before.
“You may get up now. Return and report to Mr Moore.”
When Hans did return, the master had no more time for him.
“Report to Miss Turner. If you cannot obey the rules, let her deal with you. Good bye, Mister Resmel!”
Hans knocked on the matron’s closed door. He waited alone in the corridor and this time he knew better than to lean back against the wooden panels of the wall. He waited and watched the door intently. He really didn’t want it to open. But, he knew that sooner or later, it would open up and then he would be swallowed up and sucked inside. The voice on the other side summoned him in. In a hypnotised state, he opened the mouth and entered the digestive tract of the monster.
Miss Turner sat behind her large desk. She almost looked demure as she peered around a high stack of what looked like student exercise books. Hans told her what had happened.
“You can’t go on like this, Mr Resmel, Hans. You must obey orders. If the school is to operate in an effective way, there must be order. Do you understand that, young man?” Hans nodded so she continued. “What are we going to do with you?” she asked but did not wait for him to answer, for she speculated none. “That arrogance of yours is doing you no good. No matter what the task, do the honourable thing by getting the task done, no matter what the job. Do it without all this anger. If this college teaches you nothing else, you should learn to be willing to do whatever is asked of you and do it well. Is that understood?”
She waited for him to answer.
“I understand, Miss Turner.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Now, how to help you? I am not the enemy you take me to be and I take no pleasure in punishing you like this, believe me. What I hear is that you are having a difficult time. Most boys do when they first come here. You are not alone in that so I suggest you try to make more of an effort to fit in with the other boys. Let me give you some advice: do the things they like doing and I am sure life will prove to be much better.”
Hans slid his feet over the floor-boards, silently shuffling towards the door. He did not want to tell her about the bullying or the threats he had received. He had decided that he would have to deal with them himself.
“Hans!” It was one of the very few times she had used his first name. “Are you listening to what I’m telling you?”
“Yes, Miss Turner.”
“Join in with sports activities. I’ve heard you’ve got a good arm for cricket.” That surprised him. He had no idea how she heard about that but then Miss Turner knew everything that went on in, and even sometimes out of school. “Also, listen to your masters. It will make things so much easier.” She stepped forward and patted him on his shoulder. She even smiled a little . . . very faintly, hardly perceptible. “So, I have your promise that you will make a proper attempt?”
“Yes, Miss Turner.”
What a ‘proper attempt’ entailed, Hans was not too sure. Miss Turner waved her hand. Hans was about to leave when she called him back.
“Before you go. I am asking that you need to change your attitude towards my niece for I saw the way you pushed her down the pathway this morning. I was not impressed, young man. Remember . . . Veneratio est nostrum rector: the college motto. Make that part of yourself and everything you do. Never forget that, Mister Resmel.”
Hans nodded, then left. How he wished he was at home, his real home, his childhood home. He felt a longing to belong and be accepted. He had the same feelings when the family left Austria and moved to Germany where Papi was closer to his sister and her husband. Hans had been wrenched away from his friends and away from his grandmother. He had that feeling again where he felt as though his insides were being torn apart. Homesickness. Home was so far away. There was no-one he could tell how he felt and now, not even Mr and Mrs Brymer.
Over the next few days, as each bell rang between classes, he moved trance-like, from one room to the next, from one lesson to another. He remembered the time when the family moved away from Austria, riding for many hours on the train and ending up in the large city of Berlin. For the first week it was like being on holiday. There were new areas to explore and it was exciting. Strange smells, the constant noise and bustle of people and all the traffic. He had never seen so many horses and carriages, buses and trams and honking cars in his life. He could feel the hardness of the city surfaces under the tread of his boots as he trotted along side the long strides of his parents. But when the initial excitement had subsided, he was enveloped in an empty feeling of sadness as he came to the realisation that he had lost all of his playmates and may never see any of them again. There was nowhere in this city where he could roll and tumble like he did in the alpine meadows, or lie on sloping grass banks as he did by the Salzach River. If only he were that young child again . . .
“Pssst! Moose-head.”
Robert Brinkwater who sat on the bench with Hans gave him a nudge that, luckily, escaped the notice of the master and Hans was shot back to the reality of 1924.
Mr Moore was not in the best of moods and by now his fuse was extremely short. He was taking the boys for their afternoon double period History lesson which was dealing with the development of the Trade Unions which the majority of boys found to be uninteresting to the point that their minds were often diverted to other things running through their empty minds. The master had paused in his journey between the desks and was now standing just out of arm’s reach from Henry Smithfield, one of boys known for giggling like a girl.
The master’s attention was centred on Hans.
“Well, Mister Resmel?”
A pen-nib clattered onto the floor. Smithfield giggled. The master swung round and pounced, the wide sleeves of his gown first swirling around before folding inwards like two black bat wings.
“And what do you call these disgusting black blobs, Mr Smithfield?”
“I believe they’re ink blobs, sir,” the boy answered still with a grin playing around his mouth.
“Ink blobs are they, Mr Smithfield? They look more like large black lakes on your page, boy!”
“They’re not lakes, sir. They’re ink blobs!”
A stifled snigger crept around the edges of room until it found a cupboard in which to hide. The master was not amused. He looked for another victim.
“Mr Resmel have you anything to say to that?”
“No, sir?”
“I’m glad to hear that! Now, maybe you can answer that question of mine before I was so rudely interrupted by Mr Smithfield here.”
All silent eyes became fixed on Hans as he desperately thought for an answer. Any answer. Grab a word, any word; but answer.
“Gewerkschaftbewegung.”
“WHAT?”
<
br /> The voice shot up to the roof as ‘Moose-head’ spun round, creating a small whirlwind with his gown. Hans looked at the master and bit his bottom lip. Mr Moore was standing like a huge bird of prey, pushing back his arm wings, glaring down at the boy, waiting for him to recoil and sink downwards as if his body had been squashed into the hard wooden bench seat on which the unfortunate victim was sitting. There was silence. The boys in the room barely dared to breath as the master waited for a response.
Finally, Hans thought he had better say something.
“Mr Moore, sir?”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice! Both your work and your behaviour I find unacceptable. This time report to the Headmaster!”
Hans was stunned and remained seated. He did not think he had said anything to annoy the master. It just seemed that Mr Moore could not tolerate him. It was so unfair.
“Stand up when I’m talking to you!”
The master scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it and glued down the edges.
“You’d better do as he says,” whispered Robert. “I’ll look after your books.”
“The door!” The master pointed as he handed over his note. “Take this to the headmaster. At once!”
Hans opened the door and began to walk through.
“You know what to do, don’t you?”
“Huh?”
“Give him my note. And you can tell him that you’ve been wasting both my time and the rest of the students’. And, talking of time, sir, it’s time you faced reality: either act like an Englishman, or go back to where all you lot should be! We should have wiped out the lot of you when we had the chance!”
The master’s outburst had unsettled him. So, that was the problem; he could not stop the hate which had been built up in the war. Hans wondered how long Mr Moore had been on the battlefield. Maybe too long, for the battlefield had been brought into the classroom and the ex-sergeant Moore was having difficulty realising the fighting was all over. Reluctantly, and feeling victimised, Hans left the classroom and dawdled over to the office, his hands thrust so deeply into his trouser pockets that he could easily feel his pocket seams. He knew the way well now, knew every paving stone and crack in the path, knew the exact edge in the building where students had rubbed their hands as they walked around the corner of the hallway that led up to the offices. If only people would leave him alone. If only people could accept him for himself and not throw all the blame for what had taken place when he was only just a child. He needed time to sort out his homesickness. Instead, hate was increasing it’s appetite and things were getting worse.
Mr Bowes-Heath read the note. His face was serious.
“We do appear to have a problem here, Mr Resmel,” Mr Bowes-Heath said calmly.
There was little emotion in his commanding voice. His presence was one of authority that demanded absolute obedience. Mr Bowes-Heath had also served at the Front but his front-line experiences had been quite different to those of Mr Moore’s. As one of the few surviving officers, Second-lieutenant Bowes-Heath had met with some of those they had been fighting with: battle weary men who were only too keen to return home and leave the horrors of battle where such horrors belong. Hans’ only choice now was to listen in silence, just as the men in Mr Bowes-Heath’s unit would have done six to ten years ago.
“This difficulty the master is having with you will have to go onto your report. It is regretable and your uncle will have to be informed. There need to be changes if you are to remain with us. We knew things might prove difficult for you, and having received such a glowing report from your previous school, I had hoped that you could have dealt with anything thrown at you. For the time being, I think you need time and space to think things over. Time for everyone to reassess the situation. The holiday break should help. Miss Turner has already sorted things out with the Brymers. Collect your bag from the classroom as soon as the bell sounds and go to Miss Turner. She has made all the arrangements for you.”
What ever did Mr Bowes-Heath mean? Hans had no idea. He grabbed his bag and books from Robert and bolted out of the school grounds before anyone could see him. He had trouble understanding everything that had been said to him and he knew the situation was serious but did not not think he was entirely to blame for it. At this moment, he hated everyone . . . everyone in this foreign land and he hated himself for ever agreeing to come. Why couldn’t it have been Renard? He always knew what he wanted and he would have known what to do. Hans was so angry that his lips had become pale and his his limbs felt as if they were about to shake out of their sockets. He was angry with his grandmother for being born in such a stupid country; this awful country she had wished one of her grandsons to know. The Brymers would understand. They would know how much he was hurting.
Hans reached the Brymer cottage and opened the back door. He dashed through the kitchen without stopping and flopped onto the couch in the living room. He sat alone, brooding and fuming over his terrible day. It was several minutes before he realised just how quiet the cottage was. It appeared to be empty and where was Mrs Brymer when he wanted her? It was not like her to be away from the house this late in the afternoon. He went to the foot of the stairwell and called up the stairs.
“Frau Brymer!”
No answer. Maybe, she was weeding somewhere in the garden and in his haste, he had not noticed her. He rushed back to the entranceway, gave another call, and listened. Only the faint traffic noise and the soothing clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. Maybe she was ill. Or worse, dead. A corpse, lying face down somewhere on the floor, strangled or stabbed by some enemy who wanted to put his own life in ruin.
“Frau Brymer! Frau BRYMER! FRAU BRYMER!”
He edged open the creaking door of Mrs Brymer’s bedroom. The usual small trinkets that she kept on the dressing table were not there. Neither was Mr Brymer’s spare pipe. Something made him check the wardrobe. What he saw made the colour drain from his face. He staggered back against the wall. it was much worse than he had imagined.
All the Brymers’ belongings had gone. The wardrobe was completely empty. He looked around the room for other clues. On the dressing table was a note. It shook in his hand as he picked it up.
Erwin,
Sorry. We had to leave. Somebody will call for you and explain all the details. I think that this way may be the best for you. You should see Miss Turner. Some day we hope you will understand.
Be good and strong. We know you can be a good student.
Good luck.
Alice Brymer
Hans was still staring at the note when he heard the front doorbell sound. Taking the note with him, he ran along the hall and down the stairs. He opened the door.
He was surprised to see Anne Sutherland and Robert Brinkwater standing on the doorstep.
“Yes? What do you two want?” he asked with a snap.
Anne drew back. She had never seen him like this. His hair was ruffled, his face muscles taut as he clenched his teeth tightly together and the look in his blue eyes made her freeze.
“Come now, Hans. We heard you’d copped it. We’re really sorry. Wasn’t all your fault. Everyone knows old Moose-head’s rather touchy. It’s said he’s been that way since a shell splinter hit him in the head. We’re both on your side. Anne was worried you might do something you’d regret. We’ve skipped our last classes.”
“I’ve been handed this for you, Hans,” Anne said in a quiet voice. She took a step back down onto the lower step. Hans now towered above her.
“What?” His fingers squeezed the edge of the door.
“I was supposed to give it to you after school. It’s a . . . a letter.” She fumbled inside her deep dress pocket and pulled out a typed addressed envelope. “from . . . “ She held it out close to his right hand. “Miss Turner.”
“Sow!”
He snatched up the offending letter, glared at it, mumbled something under his breath and then, triumphantly, ripped it into two. Not satisfied, he repeated the perfo
rmance several times, until, with satisfaction, stuffed the pieces back into Anne’s hands and slammed the door. He stood, head leaning against the hall wall, hands clenched trying to understand why his emotions were so out of kilter. Anne stood, eyes filling with tears, humiliated and hurt and wondering what on earth she had done to deserve such a reception.
“He needs time to cool down,” said Robert quietly. “Life’s always stressful when anyone gets on the wrong side of Moore-head.” Robert placed a comforting hand on Anne’s arm. “Come, I’ll walk you back.”
The reminder of Miss Turner brought back thoughts of injustice and feelings of hate. Hans changed out of his uniform and put on his favourite black mountain jacket, velvet trousers and lace-up hiking boots. He began to feel better. The churning of his stomach began to settle and the aching he felt for his homeland began to subside although he was still angry and upset with everyone and everything.
He opened the door again.
They must have given up and left, he thought for he could see no sign of either Robert or Anne. Even they’ve given up on me.
He closed the door and decided to go out through the back and along the narrow, weedy pathway that separated the houses from the countryside. After a few minutes, he came out on to the large expanse of mowed grass known as the Green. It was late afternoon and people were out walking their dogs. They paused to stare at the strangely dressed figure hurrying by. Noticing the scowl on his face, they decided to be polite and not break out into laughter, for even though the day was still warm, the young figure appeared to be wrapped up like an Eskimo.
It was surprising how quickly and deliberately a sixteen-year old could stride out when he wanted. With long, determined strides he made his way quickly up the hillside which ran partly parallel to the Turner’s large garden. When he reached the top, he was breathing heavily and sweating over his chest and back so that his shirt stuck to his skin. He let his body slide down against the knarred trunk of an old oak while he surveyed the landscape below.
To his left was the small town and as his gaze moved right, he only saw quiet farms and further beyond were other low grassed hills, clad in clumps of trees and low hedgerows. Everything appeared so neat and tidy, the patchwork vegetation making orderly patterns across the fields. The hills rolled gently, one hill hugging the other until the land became flat, spreading itself in a wide expanse until it kissed the sea. This was England, peaceful in one way yet so frustrating in another.
Life was so complicated. He compared his present location to his memory he had of his homeland: the Alps, their summits forever white, their grey, rocky upper slopes reaching upwards towards the sky as they commanded and dominated the the green prostrated land at their feet. On some days, the peaks and sky seemed one, an icy-grey merging of land and sky. But when the evenings were fine and warm, then the sun’s rays would brush the snowy tops and with a sweeping stroke turn the mountains into splashes of gold.
He remembered clambering over the lower grassy slopes of the mountain meadows with his friends, rolling and laughing among the wild flowers until exhaustion rendered them speechless and quiet. Then, they’d wait, looking down at the Salzach, as it twisted between the town and the high cliff opposite. On the top of the Mönchsberg they could see the imposing fortress of Hohensalzburg with its white walls and far below lay churches and palaces. He could remember listening to the ringing bells calling people to Mass and he could remember watching the miniature figures of people and horses criss-crossing their way around the centre square.
Whenever he returned to his grandmother’s, which the boys did every spring holiday, they would hear the first calls of the cuckoo echoing high above the trees around the Hellbrunn Palace. People knew, then, that the winter days had finally ended. And, strangely, he remembered one of the children he used to play with: Heidi, several years his junior with long fair hair which one of her older sister’s had always plaited so neatly. He could hear her voice calling to him,
Hänschen! Komm! Lass’ uns den Berg hinuntergehen!
If only, if only his father had not taken that promotion. If only war had not come to take his father away.
“Good evening, Mister Resmel.”
The intruding voice shattered his dream. He jumped to his feet.
“M . . . M . . . Miss Turner!”
“I was told I’d find you up here,” she said.
“Who?”
“Never mind that. You need to know about the Brymer arrangements.”
“The what?”
He didn’t know of any special arrangements. But there was that strange note that had unnerved him.
“You heard me. I’ve telegraphed your uncle and I’ve written to your grandmother in Austria. Not quite the sort of news I wished to send. But there we are. It’s done. Did you read the letter I asked Anne to give you?”
“Letter?” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, never mind for the moment. Your uncle has wired me back and agreed that from now on you will be completely under my control. You will be my responsibility, at least for the next six months. You’ll board with me . . . in my house, not with others in the dorms. I will see that you finish your education.” Her lips drew a pencil thin line as she waited for him to grasp what she had said. Then, she continued, “You’re not mature enough to make your own decisions. Not yet. You obviously need some guidance before you make a total fool of yourself. I also realise that you are not totally to blame for what’s been happening. Believe me, I do know. I have ears as well as eyes and I do know what has been going on and I will be speaking to the boys concerned.” Miss Turner actually smiled at him. Those thin lips that spoke with such authority actually softened and relaxed at the edges to the extent that he thought of her as human in some ways. Then, no sooner had the smile formed and taken away some of her mouth wrinkles, it dissolved and the mistress continued in as serious a tone as before. “I’ve got a job to do on you, my lad. And I am not going to fail! I can be just as stubborn as you.” She smiled slightly again and pointed the way back down towards the small town. “Now, walk with me back to the house.”
Hans was lost for words. His mind was trying to fathom out why the woman was taking such an interest in his welfare or why she had even bothered to consult his aunt and uncle. What was it he didn’t know? As she walked alongside him, back down the flint-covered pathway towards the school, Miss Turner began to sound more like a parent rather than the severe school matron he had known her to be.
“As soon as we get back to the Brymer’s cottage, you had better get changed into more appropriate clothing. Wearing things like those in summer! Honestly!”
She drove him in her little black car round to the cottage where he had been staying and waited in the kitchen while he packed up his belongings into the two brown suitcases that had been stored under his bed. He locked the back door for the last time and handed over the key. As he pulled the gate shut and heard the click of the latch fall, he wondered what had become of the Brymers, really the only ones who understood him since arriving in this country.