The Linen Queen

by Patricia Falvey

  “Where are we? What is this place? Why are all these children here?”

  Joel laughed. “In good time, Sheila. First, help me with these bags.”

  He stopped the car and got out and walked around to the boot. As I followed him the wee girls who had been digging in the garden came running up to us. They grabbed Joel by the hands, jumping up and down and squealing.

  “Herr Solomon,” they cried, “what have you brought us?”

  An older girl came up behind the children clapping her hands.

  “Leave Captain Solomon alone, children,” she said. “It is not polite to ask such things.”

  I realized that they all spoke with a foreign accent.

  “It’s all right, Sonya,” Joel said. “I have brought enough for everyone.” He turned to me. “Here, help me bring these into the kitchen.”

  He handed me two bulging paper bags and took the rest himself. Together we followed Sonya in a side door of the building and dropped the bags on a table. The children went back to their work, but their eyes followed us. Inside the building was light and airy. The kitchen was small but spotless. Just as I was about to ask Joel what was going on, a small, gray-haired man came rushing into the room.

  “Captain Solomon,” he said, showing dimples as he smiled, “I heard the car. Welcome, welcome.”

  He pumped Joel’s hand up and down in greeting. “So good to see you. We missed you at Havdalah last night.”

  Joel nodded his head. “Army business, I’m afraid, Rabbi.” He took my arm. “Rabbi, this is my friend Sheila McGee. Sheila, this is Rabbi Hurwitz.”

  I didn’t know what to do. I stood there like an eejit with my mouth open.

  Rabbi Hurwitz smiled at me. “Welcome, fraylin.”

  I stared at him. I had never met a rabbi before. I wasn’t sure I knew exactly what the word meant, but Joel had used it a few times. I thought it must be a priest or something. If he was a priest, he was nothing like the priests I knew. Certainly not like Father Flynn with all his arrogance. This man could have been anybody’s granda. His accent puzzled me. It was foreign, slightly different from that of the children, and with a hint of a Northern Irish lilt. I relaxed and smiled at him.

  “I wanted Sheila to see the farm, Rabbi,” Joel was saying. “Would you be kind enough to show her around? I want to talk to some of the children.”

  With that he picked up a couple of the bags and walked out of the room, leaving me with Rabbi Hurwitz.

  “Come with me, fraylin; it will be my honor to show you around Magill Kinderfarm.”

  As we walked, the rabbi explained to me that the farm was originally owned by a Mr. Magill, who used it as a place to bleach linen. But just before the war started a group of Jewish businessmen from Belfast had bought it and set it up as a place for refugee Jewish children, mostly from Germany. The children had been evacuated under a program called Kindertransport. I thought of Grainne. She was no different than these wee ones. But as I listened to Rabbi Hurwitz, I realized there was one big difference. Many of their parents had been killed by the Nazis. These children had fled for their lives.

  We walked around the fields where the boys were stacking hay into tall towers. I noticed that they all wore wee skullcaps. I wished Joel were there so I could ask what they were called. I was too embarrassed to show my ignorance by asking the rabbi.

  “All the children work on the farm,” he said smiling, “starting from as young as six years old. They learn all aspects of agriculture, taking care of the soil, planting, and harvesting. We grow wheat and barley and, of course, potatoes.” His eyes squeezed shut as he laughed at his own wee joke. “We grow other vegetables in the kitchen farm over there, and we have our own cows and chickens. We are very self-suffcient.”

  I thought of the young half-timers at the mill. “But don’t they go to school?” I said, shocked at the thought that these children worked all the time.

  “Oh, they do, fraylin,” said Rabbi Hurwitz, throwing his hands up and wide. “Education is our highest priority. As a matter of fact our children attend the local schools.” He paused and touched his hand to his heart. “And your people have made them most welcome. We are very grateful.”

  I supposed he hadn’t heard of the famous Irish hospitality. Why wouldn’t we make them welcome? I looked at the rabbi’s face. Pain was stamped on it. I thought I saw tears. I wanted to put my arms out and hug this lovely wee man. After we had finished touring the fields, we walked back towards the building where we had left Joel. A small sound made me swing around. There, sitting on the ground with her hands around her knees was a young girl about ten years of age. Her head was bowed and she was weeping. Without thinking I seized Rabbi Hurwitz’s arm.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I said.

  “Homesickness. She only came to us last week. Poor child.”

  He bent down beside the child and put his hand on her head and said a few words to her that I did not understand. I supposed he was speaking German. She looked sadly up at him. He stood and put his fingers to his lips.

  “It will take time,” he said.

  We came on through the door and he turned to me and smiled.

  “Before we join Captain Solomon, I’d like to show you something else,” he whispered. “Something we are very proud of.”

  He led me down a hallway and opened a door. We stepped through and I found myself in a wee chapel. Well, it wasn’t a chapel exactly. It looked different. Yes, there was an altar and rows of chairs and one beautiful tiny stained glass window. But in the middle of the altar was a large wooden cabinet with two doors.

  “What is that?” I said, pointing to it.

  The rabbi went up the two steps and opened the cabinet doors. Behind them hung a pair of curtains, which he pulled open. He gently touched a rolled-up scroll that lay behind the curtains and smiled at me.

  “This is the Torah,” he said, “our most precious possession. It contains all our teachings.”

  But before I could move closer he drew the curtains back together and quickly shut the cabinet doors.

  “I’m sorry but I’m not able to show it to you, fraylin,” he said. “It is not allowed.”

  I nodded.

  He waved his arms around. “So what do you think of our wee synagogue?”

  I smiled at the “wee” that had crept into his question. “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  We found Joel sitting in a large playroom at the other end of the hallway, surrounded by a group of young boys. They were munching on sweets he had brought them, some laughing, others asking him questions with serious young faces.

  “Captain Solomon comes often,” Rabbi Hurwitz whispered. “The children love him. They ask him questions about America, and about the war, and all sorts of things. He is a good man.”

  It was dark when we left the farm. My head was filled with thoughts and images. I wanted to batter Joel with questions but something stopped me. Instead I stared into the black night as we drove down towards Newry. I thought of the day Joel had given money to the tinker children on Warrenpoint Beach. He’d had that same look then as he’d had today with the children at the farm—full of peace and contentment. The sadness that was so often his companion had disappeared. I stole a look at him in the dim shadows, his strong jaw and straight nose, and the smile that played around his soft mouth. I wanted to move closer to him, to touch him, but somehow I felt it would be wrong. It was as if I had no right to touch him; as if he didn’t belong to me, or to anyone else, as if he moved through the world alone maintaining a space around him that no one could enter.

  Who was this man? I wondered. How could I ever have thought I could use him and then discard him? He was like nobody I’d ever met. I couldn’t act around him the way I did other men. Being near him changed who I was. As I watched the dark fields speed by, I thought of the way I had changed since I met him and somehow I knew this experience at Magill Kinderfarm would change me even more. I was moving further and further away from the old self-centered
Sheila. I didn’t know whether to be grateful to God or angry with Him for shaking up my life like this. First Grainne, and now Joel. What was God playing at? I’d been happy enough with my simple dream of escape and concerning myself only with my own needs. I’d had no time for other people and their problems. And now look at me—playing nursemaid to Grainne and Patsy, and my dreams of escape lying in an envelope at the bottom of a drawer. I looked over at Joel again. Honest to God, I thought to myself, if I didn’t love you, Joel Solomon, I would curse the day I met you.

  Newry was deserted when we arrived back in the town. The pubs were closed, and the street lights were out and the window blinds down. It was like a ghost town. I shivered a little. Joel coughed as he pulled the car into Walker’s Row and stopped in front of number 6. He turned towards me and touched my arm. “It’s those kids we’re fighting for, Sheila,” he said.

  “I know,” I whispered as I got out of the car and waved goodbye. “Safe home.”

  After my visit to Millisle something began eating away at me. I tried to ignore it but it persisted. I could not get the faces of those children out of my mind, particularly the wee girl crying beside the wall. I tried to imagine them all going back to Germany only to find their homes gone and their parents dead. I finally understood Joel’s passion about the war. At first I thought it was enough to say a prayer for them at Mass on Sundays. What else was I going to do? Join the bloody army? Well, I wasn’t about to join up before, and I wasn’t now. But maybe I didn’t have to go that far.

  Before I could talk myself out of it I marched into the local police barracks and asked about volunteering for the Air Raid Precautions service. It was the role of the ARP wardens to enforce the blackout restrictions and to put out fires and help with first aid when called for. I thought how often I had joined in with my friends down at the Castle ballroom in jeering the wardens when they came in to stop the dances. We all thought they were silly eejits, impressed with their newfound authority. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be asking to join their forces. But then, I never thought I’d see a lot of things that had happened to me.

  I took a deep breath and walked up to the sergeant at the counter. Fortunately I didn’t know him, nor did he know me. If he had he may not have thought I was a fit one to join. Even though I had stopped my running around months before, my old reputation still haunted me. He was kindly enough, though, and thanked me for my patriotism. The sign-up was quick. In the beginning women volunteers had been confined to working in the offices or canteens, or assigned to cleaning duty. I wanted more than that and I told him so. I wanted out on active duty. I wanted to feel like I was doing something important. I was willing to take a risk.

  On Monday morning of the following week I went down to the center for the training program. I was issued a helmet and uniform, rubber boots, a gas mask, a torch, and a notebook and pencil. The notebook and pencil were the only items that spoiled the notion that I was really going into a war zone.

  I was told that for the first fortnight I would be assigned to another volunteer. I was nervous. What if I was paired up with some grumpy oul’ fella who wouldn’t take me seriously? But to my surprise it turned out to be a woman. And more of a surprise, it turned out to be a woman I knew.

  “Aren’t you the girl from the train station?” Mary McTaggart said with a raise of her eyebrow. “I thought you’d be well away to England by now.”

  I hadn’t recognized her immediately. I had been too busy staring at the stump of her right arm trussed up in a sling. It was her voice that brought the memory back to me. She had been one of the sisters from Mullaghbawn who’d been off to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force when I met them at Edward Street train station. That was the day Grainne had arrived and I decided to run away to England. What a lifetime ago that seemed now.

  I started to reply that I’d changed my mind, but I shrugged and told the truth instead. “You were right about needing papers,” I said.

  She smiled. “And your pretty face didn’t see you through? Can’t say we didn’t warn you.”

  “Did youse go? To the WAAFs, I mean?”

  “Aye. We went.”

  There was a silence. I was dying to ask more, but I waited.

  “Anne—well, Anne didn’t come back,” Mary said. She looked down at the stump of her arm. “And after this I wasn’t much good to them. So they discharged me.”

  “And the farm?”

  “Well, I wasn’t much use on the farm either.” She laughed. “Could you see the cut of me trying to milk a cow?”

  I realized as I looked at her that even after all her hardship her face was serene, and quite beautiful. I admired her courage.

  “So I came to the big city and decided to make my mark with the ARP.”

  Her good humor was infectious. I began to laugh.

  “Aye, well life makes strange bedfellows of all of us, I suppose.”

  Chapter 21

  Just one week after I had joined the ARP I found myself marching through the streets of Newry as part of the Step Together Parade, which had taken place every year since the war started. Home Guard, auxiliaries, and volunteers all marched under one banner to show off our unity in protecting civilians from the ravages of war. I was embarrassed not so much by the political implications of the parade but by the way I looked. I wore my uniform and helmet and boots and I had never in my life felt like a bigger eejit. I had tried to hem the trousers but they were still too long. I was swimming in the jacket, it was that big, and the helmet fell down over my eyes. I had to keep pushing it up. But as I marched, I realized I didn’t care as much anymore what people thought of me. The realization was another sign to me that the old Sheila was fast disappearing. Part of me still mourned her loss, and part of me was uncertain and afraid. I took a deep breath and put my shoulders back and my head up and marched along with Mary McTaggart by my side.

  “Bad cess to them all,” I muttered aloud.

  When the parade was over we scattered in all directions. I went into the Ceili House with Mary. I sat down beside her and ordered lemonade. I was in my uniform after all and I didn’t want to be seen drinking. The crowd was loud and filled with good humor. I smiled as I looked around at the other volunteers. It felt good to be part of something. I smiled at Mary.

  “There’s a chap at the bar staring in this direction, Sheila,” she whispered, smiling back at me. “I’d say he has a notion for you the way his eyes are boring through you.”

  “Och, Mary,” I began. But when I looked over at the bar all talk went out of me. There sat Gavin. And his eyes were, as Mary had said, boring through me. But it was not because he was pleased to see me. I knew that look of Gavin’s too well. He was angry. I looked down at my uniform and braced myself as he walked towards me.

  “Well, well. I never thought I’d live to see the day you’d be wearing a British uniform!” His tone was filled with sarcasm.

  “It’s not British,” I said. “And besides, it’s no business of yours.”

  He shrugged. “You’re a teetotaler now as well, I see,” he said nodding towards my lemonade. “Next thing you’ll be joining the convent.”

  I began to protest, but I stopped. Why did I need to defend myself to the likes of him?

  “What’s got into you?” I said.

  “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? Have you gone mad altogether?”

  Anger boiled up in me. Who the hell did he think he was telling me what to do? He must have sensed my anger. Roughly he pulled me up by the arm.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

  I shook his hand off. But the heat and the crowds in the pub were beginning to close in on me. I felt faint; I needed fresh air. So I walked ahead of him to the door and out onto the street. I walked fast towards the bridge, trying to get away from him. But he caught up with me.

  “Your IRA friends wouldn’t approve of the company you’re keeping,” I said.

  “No they wouldn’t,” he said stubbornl
y. “Nor would any self-respecting Irishman.”

  “Nobody’s keeping you,” I said.

  “I need to talk to you. After that you can be on your way.”

  He took my arm again and steered me down along the water to where the Ashgrove was anchored. He pushed me in front of him so that I had no choice but to jump onto the boat or fall in the water.

  “Give us a bloody fag,” I said as I collapsed on a bench on deck.

  Gavin always had cigarettes despite the rationing. One of the benefits of being a seaman, I supposed. He took out his pack and thrust a cigarette at me and a box of matches. Normally he would have lit it for me. I lit it myself and took a long pull, feeling the smoke burn my lungs.

  “What is it you want?” I said. “Shouldn’t you be out with your fancy woman instead of annoying me?”

  “Who?”

  “You’re one Rose, or whatever her name is.”

  He lit his own cigarette and looked out towards the water. It was already dark. A pale moon reflected on the black water as the boat rocked gently underneath us.

  “I’m just back in port and I needed to talk to you,” he said again, ignoring my question.

  The docks were still busy, even at that hour of the night. Gavin nodded towards the men loading cargo on a nearby boat.

  “Will you look at all that going to help the bloody English.”

  “Youse are getting well paid for it.”

  “Not near enough money to risk our lives. The bloody RAF is nowhere to be seen. Another two boats were torpedoed last month, and there’ll be more. And d’you think we get any compensation? Not a penny, not even a bloody word of thanks to all the merchant marines who’ve drowned supporting the English and their sorry war.”