‘Sometimes,’ said Ben, not wanting to say too much. ‘But they’re mostly out.’ He paused, ‘They’re just ordinary, like us.’ He went on, ‘Listen, Sean, don’t tell Dad, he’ll be raging.’
‘That depends,’ Sean drawled, adding casually, ‘you hear anything in there about refugees?’ When Ben hesitated he said threateningly, ‘You’d better come clean.’
‘Er, I heard something about a refugee on the run,’ Ben mumbled, ‘like they were saying at Uncle Matt’s that night. But it’s just some girl, she couldn’t be–’
Puffing himself up like a turkey, Sean recited what he’d been instructed: ‘Anyone – girls, women, and oul’ ones – can be spies. The British want to occupy our ports, and the Germans might invade us to get to Britain.’ He paused for effect. ‘They told us anyone illegal must be reported.’
He started to pedal off. ‘Anyways, I’m off,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘You’d better tell what you heard to the Guards before I get back or …’ He left the rest unsaid.
Ben’s heart sank. He was in another mess, this time more serious. Surely it wasn’t right to report a private conversation he wasn’t meant to hear? Still, there’d been lots of warnings about spies and invasions, and Dad … In the distance he spotted Smiler on his way up to call for him, and he could hear from the shouts that a game was starting down the street.
He watched Sean zip off as Smiler approached.
Ben felt a knot in his stomach. Now, what was he going to do?
***
On Monday after school Ben’s mind was in a ferment. At the football game yesterday he’d played badly enough to be jeered. And this morning in school he nearly got a belting in Irish class for staring out the window at the slanting rain and missing his turn to read about the heroic deeds of the High King Brian Boru. Had Brian Boru ever been trapped by his own lies, like himself?
He knew there were black lies – the serious ones – and white lies, or fibs. His lies were meant to pay his share for the window, help Mam and avoid Dad’s rage. Did they count as black or white?
He recalled how sometimes, when he or Sean were in trouble, Granny said warningly, ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.’ Well, he was in a tangled web now, or more like a juggler, trying to keep several balls in the air. If Mam were home, she might give out, but she’d help sort it all out for him.
Maybe he could talk to Granny? But recently Ben had noticed how she’d become slower, her pallid face showing her weariness. He couldn’t worry her now.
Dragging his feet miserably he approached the Garda Station in Kevin Street, wishing something would happen to prevent him going in. Having to give this information made him feel queasy. If they knew, it would anger the Goldens – especially Hetty – and, of course, endanger the girl on the run, whoever she was.
As he loitered outside trying to summon up courage, a familiar, confident voice – like the answer to a prayer – said, ‘Ben, lad, you look as if you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders!’
It was Uncle Matt, passing by on his bike in his knitted hat, clay pipe in his mouth, and a cheerful grin.
Ben had never been so happy to see anyone. ‘Now, young fella,’ said Uncle Matt. ‘Why’re you hanging about here? Get on the back carrier and come home with me.’
As he slowly pedalled off, he told Ben, ‘We got a letter from Paddy. Can’t say where exactly he is, but at least he’s all right.’ Then, over his shoulder, he called, ‘The good news is, there’s a bit of your auntie’s apple tart left.’
***
After a hug from Auntie Bridie and a mug of lemonade and a wedge of tart, Ben felt better. Upstairs, against the background of birds swooping and fluttering around the room, Ben, knowing that more lies would not help, told Uncle Matt the whole story. It was an enormous relief, as though he’d shed a heavy load that had weighed him down.
Uncle Matt sucked on his pipe for a while. ‘Well, Ben, it’s a mess, but I can see how you got into it. I’ll not go into your father’s part – he has some peculiar opinions – but there’s a lot on his mind just now. And I must say that the oul’ man Golden’s a good man, helping you pay for the window, and not just throwing you a hand-out either.’ He gently caressed a tiny golden canary, singing its heart out. Then he put a comforting hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘My advice is for you to go home and forget about reporting that poor girl.’
‘But Sean–’ Ben’s voice shook.
‘Leave young Sean to me. He’s a bit full of himself these days. I’ll talk sense into him.’ He added sadly, ‘It’s what your mam would do.’
Then, briefly but graphically he explained to Ben the reality of the Nazi threat. Ben knew that Matt had friends abroad who had fought with him in the Spanish Civil War who sent him British and American newspapers and reports. Ben often read them to him, but he didn’t always understand the details.
‘Our country’s in danger, not just from a few spies, and certainly not from innocent refugees like that young girl, but from the evil of Hitler and the Nazis,’ said Uncle Matt.
Ben was shocked to learn that if Ireland were invaded, all Jews, including neighbours like the Goldens and the Woolfsons, would be arrested, beaten, their homes and possessions confiscated, and they’d almost certainly be sent to prison camps in Europe where they would be horrifically treated and many would die. Matt told Ben that in Nazioccupied countries, even trade unionists such as Matt himself, as well as gypsies and handicapped people were all being rounded up. ‘Lots of people don’t believe it,’ said Matt, ‘but it’s happening.’
As he digested this, Ben murmured, ‘I didn’t realise … I mean, I know you think we should be in the war against the Nazis, along with Paddy, but–’
‘There’s different views on that in this country,’ Uncle Matt replied slowly, ‘for reasons of history.’ Dusk was falling as he put cloths over the bird cages for the night. As they went downstairs he added, ‘But at least we can do our best to help the innocent victims when we get the chance. Anyway, immigrants bring new skills, new energy. We could do with that.’
Downstairs Auntie Bridie interrupted. ‘Matt, you’d better let Ben get home for his tea.’ She gave him a hug, and he breathed in her scent, reminding him for a moment of Mam.
Uncle Matt pointed to a sack by the front door. ‘If you want to earn an extra few pence for your Mam you can call round tomorrow with your pal and bring the empties back to the pub,’ he said. He winked. ‘My poor oul’ leg isn’t up to it.’
On the way home Ben felt better, though he was still in a muddle about the Goldens. He resolved, on his next visit to the sanatorium, to talk it all over with Mam before the inevitable day when Dad found out that his son was a Shabbos goy.
11
The Dalkey Adventure
Hetty and Eddie waited at Nelson’s Pillar in O’Connell Street for the Dalkey tram, in high spirits despite the blustery wind and nasty shower of rain. They’d brought Mossy and Flossy, both yapping excitedly. Aunt Millie, pleased they were having an outing, had donated their fares; and Hetty’s ma had made sandwiches and invited Eddie back for supper.
Across the road loomed the General Post Office, its great stone pillars still pockmarked, as they knew from history lessons, by bullets from the 1916 Easter Rising.
‘It’s nice to get away,’ said Hetty in heartfelt tones after a morning during which she had to listen to an excited Mabel recounting how wonderful the hop had been, how she and Michael had danced three foxtrots and that her feet were killing her. Her offer to show Hetty the steps was firmly refused.
‘I just hope I never have to go to a hop,’ Hetty told Eddie as they waited for the tram. ‘If I did, you’re probably the only boy who’d go with me.’
‘It’s not much fun going with your cousin,’ he grinned, ‘especially one who can’t even dance.’ They both looked down at the heavy iron frame on his leg.
‘Well, I can’t dance either, so that would suit me,’ said Hetty.
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br /> ‘Anyway, I’ll be in long trousers soon, after my Barmitzvah,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Then people won’t notice my leg.’
The Number 8 tram rolled into the terminus along shining tracks set in the cobbles, the electric trolley wire above flashing vivid sparks. As the passengers disembarked, the driver walked down the centre aisle banging the seats back to face the other way, ending up at the far end, while the conductor raced up the stairs to wind the handle changing the destination from Nelson’s Pillar to Dalkey.
‘Oh good,’ said Hetty excitedly. ‘It’s one of the balcony trams.’
The small knot of people waiting in the rain surged forward and climbed on. The conductor took their fares and punched the tickets.
‘I see youse brought yer oul’ guard dogs,’ he grinned, patting the puppies. Then he swiped the bell and the tram rattled off.
Hetty and Eddie stood in the balcony – the open front of the upper deck – watching the city buildings give way to soft green countryside, hedgerows and cottage gardens sprinkled here and there with delicate snowdrops and golden crocuses. The rain stopped, and a watery sun appeared.
Familiar with the journey from Sunday afternoon outings with Zaida and Bobba, Hetty loved the moment when the tram reached Sydney Parade and she first caught sight of the sea, greeny-grey today, the surging waves capped with creamy foam.
The tram clattered past the elegant church in the middle of the road at Monkstown, through Dun Laoghaire – which older people always called ‘Kingstown’ – past the shops and the People’s Gardens, and on into Dalkey village, bathed in Sunday peace.
They got off at the terminus beside the ancient castle. Eddie, glancing up at the clock said, ‘It’s early – we’ll take the dogs for a walk first.’ They were both nervous, but neither admitted it.
They set off down Castle Street with the two excited puppies on string leads, and turned left into Coliemore Road, catching glimpses of pink-washed stucco villas and graceful Georgian houses, with flights of steps up to the front door, behind wrought iron gates ornamented with weathered stone lions. Eventually they reached tiny Coliemore harbour, empty except for a few wooden rowboats used for fishing and a single sailing yacht.
‘It’s like a place from a fairy story,’ exclaimed Hetty as they were dragged, laughing, down the flagstoned slipway by Mossy and Flossy, who then, finally given their freedom, rushed about, slipping on the rocks and investigating interesting new smells on the sandy shore.
Breathing in the fresh, salty air, Hetty and Eddie gazed across the sound to Dalkey Island with its mysterious, circular Martello tower, beyond it the Kish lighthouse, with Howth on the far side of the bay. Further out lay the open sea.
Eddie produced a KitKat, handing half to Hetty. ‘Nothing between us and Britain–’
‘And the war,’ finished Hetty. Reminded of their task, Eddie produced a scrap of paper.
‘St Patrick’s Square,’ he read out. ‘Must be back in the village.’
With some difficulty they found the square of sturdy cottages surrounding a grassy green. Hetty lifted the brass knocker, shaped like a hand. Lace curtains twitched, and after a few moments an unsmiling woman in an apron opened the door. ‘Yes?’
Hetty took a deep breath. ‘We’re … er … looking for a girl … from Germany, who’s staying here … at least we think …’
There was a silence. Then the woman said abruptly: ‘She’s gone. She paid off her rent and left yesterday.’
Disappointment washed over Hetty. ‘I live at 17 Martin Street – maybe you could let her know?’
The woman looked suspicious.
‘We’re friends, we just want to help,’ Eddie tried to sound reassuring. ‘D’you happen to know where she is?’ The woman shook her head. Behind her a tall, heavy man in a white shirt and black trousers with braces appeared. ‘Who is it?’
‘Someone looking for Renata,’ muttered the woman. Flossy let out a low growl, but Hetty and Eddie barely heard. Their eyes were on the jacket the man was pulling on.
It was a police uniform.
***
Baffled and weary, they sat on the homeward tram eating their sandwiches, with Mossy and Flossy, equally tired, curled cosily on their laps.
‘I bet that Guard gave her away,’ snorted Hetty.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Eddie. ‘Funny though, the way Flossy growled at him.’
‘Mossy didn’t, though. He’s hopeless as a guard dog, he loves everybody.’
‘If she’d been caught, we’d have heard,’ Eddie persisted. ‘But why was she staying in their house?’ He frowned. ‘It’s odd the way that woman said her name, Renata, as though she was a friend.’
‘It’s not fair,’ protested Hetty fiercely. ‘You’d think she’d be let stay here. She’s just a girl.’ She stroked the puppy, a warm, comforting bundle.
‘At least you left your address,’ said Eddie, ‘in case she goes back there.’
‘Did your Da know anything else about her?’
Eddie thought hard. ‘Something about her father having worked here, somewhere in the west of Ireland.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t much like going behind Da’s back.’
‘He’d forgive you if we found her.’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Hetty, you’re a born rescuer. First the puppies, now refugees–’
‘The puppies mattered,’ she insisted, ‘but this time it’s even more important. It’s not a puppy, but a person.’ The rabbi’s words that had made such an impression on her, rose up in her mind: If I am for myself alone, what am I? And if not now, when?
And unexpectedly, she felt a wave of regret at the memory of Ben helping with that other rescue long ago. If only things were different and he could help now. But that was out of the question. A worrying thought struck her. ‘You don’t think he … er … Ben overheard us that day and told?’
Eddie looked troubled. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t–’ He broke off as they reached Nelson’s Pillar. But now a troubling worm of suspicion was added to the complex mix of feelings Hetty had about Ben.
When they got off the Number 14 tram from the Pillar to Portobello bridge, it was much colder and almost dark, the street lamps creating soft pools of light as Hetty and Ben skirted the squat shapes of the barges moored in Portobello Harbour, past the Ever Ready battery factory, and home to Martin Street.
12
The Bombing
Hardly anyone heard the first warning sound in the early hours of the January morning – like the faint buzzing of an angry mosquito. Even the LDF recruits, including Ben’s father, meant to be watching out at their depots around the city and in the Dublin mountains, noticed nothing.
In Martin Street, Hetty was roused from sleep by the insistent drumming of an aeroplane engine, at first distant, then louder. Not waiting for Mabel she pulled on a skirt and jumper, threw on her coat, and raced downstairs and out into the street. Flares lit up the sky as brightly as daylight, and the throbbing grew more powerful, culminating in a series of huge, reverberating, sickening crashes. Neighbours began to trickle out of their houses.
Hetty gazed at the sky and sped back upstairs. ‘Quick, Da, come down!’ she shouted. ‘There’s some kind of explosion. I think it’s from the direction of Greenville Hall Synagogue!’
A few minutes later Leon Golden, hastily dressed, emerged and took one look at the thick plumes of smoke appearing above the rooftops. ‘Looks like it’s near Donore Avenue,’ he gasped. ‘Please God, Sam and Millie and Eddie are all right.’ Motioning Mabel to stay with her mother and Solly, he set off at a run, with Hetty beside him.
As they left, Sean and Ben Byrne appeared. In the street there was a babble of talk. Neighbours, half-dressed, were asking each other if it was a bomb, and where it was. No one could believe neutral Ireland had been bombed by Nazi German warplanes.
‘Bound to be the British,’ said a neighbour who’d fought against Britain in the War of Independence and tended to think they were to blame for everything since.
***
Although the destruction at Donore Avenue couldn’t be compared to the huge raids on London, Belfast and other cities that they’d heard about, nevertheless, what both Hetty and Ben saw when, separately, they reached the scene, stayed with them all their lives.
On both sides of the street the trim houses with their neat gardens were wrecked. Roofs and chimneys were torn off, all windows smashed, huge slabs of concrete, bricks, shards of glass, roof tiles, twisted railings, broken furniture, even clothes and blankets lay around the street as if scattered by a giant hand.
At the heart of this chaotic scene there was an eerie silence. People walked in a daze, calling out names of loved ones or aimlessly picking up objects from the shambles; some sat or lay on the ground, while water gushed unheeded from broken mains. In the middle of the street the huge hole where three houses had stood was like the cavity left after teeth had been pulled from a familiar mouth. The air, full of dust and ash, was suffused with a strong smell of gas.
Amid the frantic activity of arriving police, soldiers, ARP, LDF, firemen directing hoses and ambulance men, Hetty stood hypnotised, staring at the gap where her aunt and uncle’s house had been. Her father was already helping rescue workers digging feverishly in the rubble by torchlight, some with shovels, others with their bare hands.
Someone asked, ‘Hetty, have you a relation here?’ When she tried to answer, only a whisper came out. ‘My aunt and uncle and my cousin.’ She nodded towards the gap. ‘That’s … that was their house.’
17 Martin Street Page 7