Always In My Heart

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘That must be so painful for young ones,’ Emma said. ‘I remember having to change schools several times because my father moved about a lot, being in the military, which meant I kept losing the friends I’d made. It was so debilitating.’

  Jeanne nodded. ‘It does take time for these youngsters to recover from the loss of their parents and form a new attachment, and yet another separation means they do tend to lose trust in people, protecting themselves by rarely showing any affection towards their new foster carers.’

  Recalling how she still harboured resentment over the way her own mother had abandoned her, Brenda could fully understand this emotion. Would her son ever forgive her for leaving him behind? She couldn’t bear to think about that. ‘They must also lose all sense of safety.’

  ‘In order to make them truly safe, whenever possible we smuggle them over the border into Switzerland, or transport them to America or England. This can involve a dangerous journey, fake IDs, and a considerable sum of money required for train fares and possibly an escort. Thanks to the Resistance movement we do manage to save a substantial number. And Jewish children, who are expected to wear a “Star of David”, must dispose of that and pose as Christians in order to stay safe and conceal their true identity. Worryingly, some of the younger ones may soon forget that they are Jewish, let alone their nationality or who their parents were.’

  ‘That’s what I fear may have happened to my child,’ Brenda said. ‘Even though he is not Jewish, I worry he too may have been captured or else dispatched into some unknown country. And being only a baby when I was arrested, how will he remember me or where he came from? Even when I find him I will feel like a complete stranger to him. It’s a terrifying thought! Nevertheless, I shall go on searching for Tommy as we make our way back to England, so if you’re looking for an escort any time, I’d be glad to help.’

  Jeanne’s expression brightened. ‘Are you saying you’d be willing to help us in return for our making some enquiries about your son?’

  ‘Gladly,’ Brenda said. ‘In any way I can.’

  ‘Me too,’ Emma agreed.

  *

  They happily volunteered to work for the OSE while these enquiries took place, and thankfully accepted accommodation, sharing the spare room in Jeanne’s apartment. How comfortable that felt in comparison with the filthy bleakness of the camp they’d endured for so long. Life was suddenly lit with hope and a delicious sense of freedom.

  ‘I’m delighted to help the OSE, as children should never be put at risk of capture,’ Brenda said to Emma as they settled in their beds that first night. ‘What a dreadful prospect that they could be arrested and brutalised! And the thought that poor Tommy may not know who he is, or where he comes from, makes me fear he too could be accused of being a Jew, and also captured.’

  ‘Let’s think positive, honey,’ Emma said, her tone of voice again revealing her strength. ‘He’s surely safe with his grandmama.’

  ‘You’re quite right. I must keep a tight hold on my emotions and not let fear win the day,’ Brenda said with a wobble of a smile. ‘In the meantime, we must do as much as possible to help other lost children.’

  They were required to go through a course of training on how to check out a potential volunteer rescuer, and learn how to acquire the necessary visas and forged papers. Germans and police closely checked identity documents in the constant searches they made, so these had to be as perfect as possible. While involved in this training the two friends worked at the orphanage, getting to know the children well.

  Their first task was to find a home for a ten-year-old Polish girl. Her parents had put her on a train, telling her she was going away on a lovely holiday to her uncle’s house in southern France, and that they’d shortly join her. Sadly, she’d not seen them since.

  ‘No doubt because they’ve been arrested and taken to Dachau,’ Brenda surmised.

  ‘Her uncle too has apparently vanished,’ Emma added.

  The girl was so sweet and brave, but feeling entirely alone in the world. Fortunately, they soon found a local family prepared to take her who seemed friendly and caring, even though they were quite poor. ‘Are we paid anything for this?’ the woman asked.

  ‘We’re low-skilled workers and don’t have much money,’ her husband admitted.

  ‘I’ll make the necessary enquiries,’ Brenda told him. Speaking to Jeanne, she learned that the girl’s parents had stitched a large wad of notes in her pocket, so a small sum was granted to the couple.

  ‘At least she is finally safe and being well cared for now,’ Emma said.

  ‘Which is a great relief when her entire family is in turmoil.’ It filled Brenda with pride and joy that they’d managed to help the poor child. But a week or two later Jeanne informed them that the so-called rescuers had broken their promise and handed the girl over to the Gestapo in return for an additional reward.

  ‘Oh no, that’s dreadful, after all that poor child has already endured!’ Brenda cried, clenching her fists in a spate of fury. ‘Why did we trust these people when they asked for money?’

  Jeanne gave a sad smile. ‘Most rescuers are given funds to help them. Caring for children is not cheap, but trusting anyone these days is becoming something of a problem. We can only go by our instincts.’

  Taking a steadying breath and rubbing her palms over her arms, Brenda felt as if she was about to burst into tears, but what good would that do? ‘I doubt I shall trust mine ever again.’

  ‘Yes you will. You were most unfortunate, but these are rare incidents. With luck, she’ll be released eventually.’

  ‘I pray that will be the case. And I shall make sure I ask far more questions in future.’

  *

  As Brenda slowly recovered from this anguish, as well as anxiously awaiting news of her own child, she and Emma devoted themselves to finding homes for many more youngsters of all nationalities and religions. The children came from many different countries including the Netherlands, Germany and even Siberia, and Brenda made sure they investigated would-be rescuers much more carefully. They also learned to keep a watch out for army patrols or road blocks, and any jack-boots on parade.

  Brenda and Emma found that they loved working with the children, even though it was not always easy. Because of the traumas they’d suffered many would frequently fall into tantrums, or sink into silent depression. Brenda did her best to offer comfort and support, and happily taught them a little French and English. Emma taught them how to paint pictures and sew, being a very gifted lady.

  But sadly, there was still no word about where Tommy might be, beyond the confirmation that the two ladies were no longer in Paris.

  ‘Fortunately they left before Camille’s apartment was bombed,’ Emma pointed out. ‘You may not yet know exactly where they are living, but can assume your son is still safe, alive and well. I’ve still received no word from my husband either.’ Her lovely oval face twitched a little as she fought back tears, and a bleakness entered her hazel eyes.

  ‘Let us pray they are both safe and well,’ Brenda gently said, fear reverberating through her too about whether Tommy was still alive. There was a war on, after all. She was thankful to have at least found a purpose in life, which helped her not to dwell too much on her sense of loss. It felt good to be doing her bit for these lovely children, even if there was increasing anguish whenever something went wrong.

  Strengthening their resolve, the two friends strode off together, arm in arm, to face their next challenge.

  Having managed to get back in touch with her parents, Emma did eventually receive the good news that her mother was on the road to recovery, and at once began to discuss a possible return to England. ‘I’m anxious to return home just in case she falls ill again,’ she admitted. ‘In addition, there may be ways I can help to find Paul by contacting the Foreign Office. I’ve heard nothing from him in over a year now. I did ask Dad to write to him, but he’s received no reply either. God knows what’s happened.’

 
‘They might simply have moved him to another camp, or stopped all correspondence,’ Brenda suggested.

  ‘Or else he’s died of some disease, or even been executed.’

  ‘Don’t even think such negative thoughts,’ Brenda said, giving her friend a comforting hug. ‘Have faith and think positive, as you keep telling me.’

  Gazing at Brenda out of tear-filled eyes, Emma struggled to smile. ‘I might sound outwardly lively and optimistic, but in my heart I’m a complete wreck, while you’re such a brave girl.’

  ‘Or a feisty little madam, depending on how you view me,’ Brenda said with a laugh. ‘But at least we are a great support to each other. And yes, it is perhaps time we started to think about going home.’

  Nineteen

  1945

  Melissa was enjoying a delicious lunch with her husband Gregory in the smart restaurant at Fortnum & Mason. ‘At least good meals still exist,’ she said, as she chose lobster.

  ‘If at a price,’ he snarled. ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘And we’ll have a bottle of claret,’ she told the waiter, completely ignoring this question until Gregory too had ordered lobster and they were left alone.

  ‘You do realise that I will have to go back north on another visit soon, darling, just to check how things are progressing with this death duty issue. I need to know whether it will affect my allowance.’

  ‘Wait till we go for Christmas, then I’ll be there too.’

  ‘There’s really no need, I could just make a quick visit now.’ She was far from convinced it would be a good idea to take the entire family with her, bearing in mind what she wished to do.

  ‘Yes there is. I wish to speak to Hugh too. The damn fool is ignoring every letter I write to him requesting information. If there really is a problem with the family business, we need to be fully informed about exactly what that is and how it can be resolved.’

  ‘As well as the effect of this war, there is of course the death duty to deal with,’ Melissa said, with a sigh. There were other issues too she needed to investigate, which she carefully never mentioned, certainly not to Gregory. She’d done her best to be a good wife to him and had no wish to argue, even if some of his demands upon her had proved difficult to fulfil. But despite her obedience to his every whim, she wasn’t even certain he’d remained faithful to her. Their marriage was a little blow hot, blow cold, perhaps because they saw very little of each other, thanks to the war. So Christmas at the Hall might not be a bad idea. Melissa felt in dire need of more time with him.

  ‘Of course, darling, if that is what you wish,’ she agreed. ‘A little break from the city would do you good. You’ve been working so hard lately. Not to mention frequent trips abroad, doing whatever it is you do there.’

  ‘That’s what my work at the Foreign Office involves, and you know I cannot discuss that,’ he retorted. ‘Inform Nanny Holborn of our plans and I’ll see if I can arrange for a chauffeur to take us, then we don’t have to fuss with trains. I may need to leave as soon as Christmas is over, but will stay long enough to tackle Hugh on this issue.’

  The lobster arrived at that moment, and Melissa gave her attention to that, saying nothing more. But in her head was the happy thought that Gregory leaving early would mean she could set about dealing with these other problems. Right now it was wonderful that he’d even found time to take her out to lunch.

  ‘Since you’ve been given some time off today, perhaps we could pop back home for a little afternoon romp before you return to the office,’ she teasingly suggested.

  Lifting his attention from cracking open the lobster to roam his gaze over her, he gave a little shrug. ‘Sorry, maybe later. I have a busy afternoon planned.’

  Was that with his latest mistress? she wondered; struggling to keep a hold of her temper as she gave him a pinch of a smile. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  But when her husband returned quite late that evening he did not even come to her room. As was often the case these days, he chose to sleep in his dressing room. Melissa sat up in bed in the glamorous new nightgown she’d bought that afternoon, quivering with fury. She would go home first to deal with what she needed to do, and Gregory could join her later.

  *

  Brenda was feeding the hens when she found herself surrounded by four giggling youngsters who clearly belonged to Melissa, the family having recently arrived. She felt deeply envious of that lady’s good fortune. How different life would have been if Jack had survived, she hadn’t been arrested and Tommy not lost. And she’d just gone through the anguish of yet another of his birthdays.

  ‘Would you like to help me collect the eggs from their nesting boxes?’ Brenda asked them with a smile.

  Claire, the seven year old, wrinkled her nose. ‘No thanks, it stinks in there.’

  ‘Only of hens,’ Brenda laughed. ‘It gets cleaned out regularly.’

  ‘I don’t like eggs,’ said one of the twins.

  ‘Yes you do,’ Claire told her. ‘But it’s not our job to collect them. Let’s go and skip.’ And grabbing their skipping rope, she swung on her heels and marched away, the twins running after her, giggling. How like her mother she was, Brenda thought with a sigh.

  ‘What are you giving them to eat?’ the little boy asked.

  She looked down at him, feeling a sudden urge to stroke the butter-silk locks of his hair. ‘Mash, but I’ll give them a little grain later. Would you like to fill the hoppers with it, then fetch some fresh water?’

  Giving a little nod, he carefully put the mash into the drums that hung from the roof of the hen coop, then dashed off to fetch the watering can and fill the water bowls. Happily watching the hens tuck in, he then asked, ‘Are they allowed to run about anywhere?’

  ‘Of course. They like to perch on trees, or sit and bask in the sun. They are free to do as they please.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said with a grunt.

  ‘Really? Why is that?’

  ‘Mama won’t let me wander too far.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she is trying to keep you safe. At night the hens have to be carefully kept safe too, sitting on their perches in the coop, away from any foxes and out of the rain. So what is your name?’

  ‘I’m Ross,’ he announced, in almost as stern a voice as his uncle’s.

  Brenda put out a hand to gently shake his. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Brenda.’

  ‘Can I collect the eggs?’

  ‘Of course. Your assistance would be most welcome.’

  And with an excited little smile he picked up the basket and began to search each nesting box. At that moment Melissa came storming across the farmyard, her heels clicking sharply on the flags, cheeks crimson with fury. ‘What are you doing, child?’

  ‘Just helping with the hens,’ he muttered, the happy expression instantly fading from his face.

  ‘It’s far too cold for you to be outside and I’ve already made it perfectly clear that working in the garden, or on the farm, is not your job. Now put down that basket and come inside this minute.’

  Tears filled his eyes as he handed it back to Brenda. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ she quietly responded, but he was already scampering away indoors. Turning to Melissa, Brenda said, ‘Actually, it’s not terribly cold. We even have a little sunshine, and your son has been most helpful.’

  ‘Don’t you dare give him such jobs to do. Those stupid hens are your responsibility, not my son’s.’

  Brenda felt frustration bubble within her as she watched Melissa march away, looking so elegant in her navy jersey suit, while she felt a scrubby mess in her overalls and wellies. No wonder she was still being treated like a servant. Maybe that’s exactly what she was.

  To her amazement, young Ross continued to visit the hen coop quite early each morning, but Brenda took care not to encourage him to linger too long. The boy clearly had a mind of his own but she had no wish for him to get into trouble with his stern mother. Not that Melissa did much in the way of cari
ng for her children, leaving such duties largely to Nanny Holborn. She was a stocky, solemn-faced woman, quite old, with a fleshy nose, a discontented slant to her dry lips and grey hair drawn up tightly into a knot at the back of her neck; although quite pleasant and friendly. And she clearly adored these children.

  Brenda could well understand why, but becoming too attached to this child would be an extremely foolish thing for her to do.

  *

  Christmas was almost upon them, her husband had joined them and Melissa appeared to be very much in charge. She was constantly giving orders for what Mrs Harding, and in particular, Brenda, must do in preparation for the Festive Season. A tree had to be picked and decorated, together with wreaths of holly and mistletoe. And a seemingly endless list of food was required to be cooked, from turkey to ham pies, Christmas cakes and puddings, mince tarts, trifle and a whole host of other delights.

  ‘Finding the ingredients, with shortages and rationing still in force, will be a nightmare,’ Mrs Harding moaned.

  ‘We’ll do our best to be inventive,’ Brenda said. ‘If we can’t find a turkey we’ll have goose. I reckon Joe could provide us with one of those. And we can use mock icing sugar for the cake, and make mock marzipan out of ground rice and almond essence. And we can put grated carrot and bread crumbs into the Christmas pudding with the mixed fruit, instead of suet and sugar, boiling it a little longer to make sure it’s soft and rich in flavour. There are always alternatives.’

  ‘What a star you are, chuck.’

  Melissa would call upon Brenda to serve her breakfast in bed, fetch her coffee each morning and provide afternoon tea, on top of all the work required of her in the fruit and vegetable garden, let alone the kitchen. She’d even ring the bell to call for Brenda to fetch her coat and hat whenever she wished to go out, as if she weren’t capable of finding these herself. Melissa would often demand that a certain gown be washed and ironed in time for a party or event the next day, no matter how bad the weather, which would make drying it difficult. She’d even check the dust on the furniture with her fingertips, making Brenda polish it all over again, and finding fault with pretty much everything she did.