“Today we have a vital mission,” she began, marching up and down in front of them. “Our task is to find this defenseless young girl, who has been placed in our care, before the day is out. We need to show her that although she has lost one family, she can depend on us, her new community, to look after her, to protect her from those Nazi brutes.” At which point she threw a menacing look toward the coast. “And to show her that there are still some places where good, decent people welcome her into the fold.”
A round of “hear, hear” followed, as Mrs. B. began shouting orders, as if advancing into battle. “I’ll cover Peasepotter Wood with you, you, and you”—she pointed at various women who stepped forward—“and the rest of you comb the fields. Mrs. Quail, you take a group toward Dawkins Farm, and Mrs. Gibbs, you take a group over to the west side of the village. We’ll reconvene here at half past four for tea.”
With that, everyone disbanded, and I was left standing, hands on hips and still out of breath, with Venetia looking at me with a puzzled expression.
“There’s got to be a way to work out where she’s gone,” she said quietly, almost as if she was talking to herself. “Let’s think this through, Kitty. Where would you go if you were her?”
“The stables. But I already checked there.”
“Let’s put ourselves in her shoes.” She took a step closer. “You’ve just found out that your parents are still alive and in a camp. You’re at once overwhelmed that what you’ve been dreading—that they’re dead—hasn’t happened, and yet more afraid than ever that it might be coming next. Your baby brother is gone. The cornerstones of your world are on the verge of collapse, and this would be such a massive catastrophe that you’re unsure if you’ll survive.”
“I’d want to run away and find Mama,” I said. “It would be unbearable to stay, sit still, simply waiting for more bad news.”
“Exactly,” Venetia said. “I’d want to go to her, too.”
I began to cry. It was just too much. Poor Silvie, the ridiculous horror of the choices she has to make. She must be thinking she can either stay here and possibly never see her family again, or risk her life making it back across Europe to be with them. What a decision to make!
“She’d have gone to the train station,” I muttered between sobs. “Although I’m not sure she’d know where to go, or what to do, or where to get money for the fare. She’d have to go through London, of course.” My forehead creased in thought, the nuance of a clue coming to me. “Tom!” I exclaimed. “He comes from London. She would go to him for help.”
Without another word, I turned and set off, darting straight past the wood, skirting around the edge of the orchard, and down the hill, spreading my arms open wide to balance myself, like a swallow swooping down into the valley.
As it was a Thursday afternoon and everyone would have been busy in the fields, the hop pickers’ huts were deserted, the usual bric-a-brac of prams and firewood lying dormant in the central scrub, a game of cans kicked to the side. A wind blew through. It was like a ghost town. How strange that within a few hours forty or fifty people would be back, chattering and singing, ready for the evening.
I wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe she wouldn’t have come here. Looking around, I wasn’t sure I’d want to hang around. And what if Tom couldn’t help her get to London? He was only a child himself, after all.
Feeling like an intruder, I walked cautiously down the central scrub, remembering that Old George had been living there, fearful that he was still lurking around, ready to jump out at me with a knife in his hand. A sudden bang made me jump, but it was a door swinging shut in the wind, loose on its hinges. I walked over and closed it properly, just to be on the safe side.
That’s when I saw her.
Her eyes were the first thing I noticed, huge and black like a petrified mouse. Crouching at the end of the row, huddled between that and the next one, she sank lower and shifted back into the shadows, and I heard a whisk of movement before I realized that she’d escaped me, scooting off behind the huts and away into the cornfield behind. I raced after her, finding a new speed that I never knew I had, my legs shooting forward with newfound strength. Behind the huts, I found myself looking down a long avenue of grass, spying the blue skirt and a back leg vanishing behind another hut back to the central scrub.
I sprinted down and around, just in time to spot her flying across to the huts on the other side and swiftly opening a door and leaping inside, pulling it closed behind her.
I had her trapped.
Out of breath, I walked to the hut where she was hiding, then tried the door. It was locked.
“Silvie,” I said. “Open the door.”
There was no answer.
“Silvie,” I said more softly. “I want to help you.”
Still no answer.
“Silvie, please come out. I can help you get back home. I promise.”
There came a shuffle of movement, and then the metallic click of a bolt sliding over, and the door slowly creaked open, a musty smell of dirty clothes emanating from the dark interior. She sat crouched on the floor, her eyes big and red and unbearably sad.
Why should such a small girl have to go through so much grief?
I climbed into the doorway next to her and put my arm around her, and she cried great heaves of tears as she turned her face into my shoulder and wept. I looked out over the shabby scruff of land. What a miserable world to be born into.
“I need to get back to them,” she sobbed. “I must go.”
“I don’t know the best way,” I said, unsure if I should be aiding her escape, but feeling trapped as I’d promised her I would. I couldn’t imagine trying to get to Czechoslovakia. It seemed so distant and dangerous. Then it struck me, my only hope of getting her to stay would be to convince her of how hazardous the whole escapade would be. So I sat down in the doorway and pulled her down beside me. “I suppose our best bet is to go to Dover and see if we can get a boat to take us over to France.”
Her little body gave a shudder. “Aren’t the Nazis in France?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “It might be hard to find someone to take us—I’m not sure many boats are heading that way—but I’m sure we have spies and such going over there, stowing away in a boat or pretending to be smugglers.”
“What is a smuggler?”
“Nasty criminals who steal things from other countries,” I paused, wondering if I was taking this too far. “We would stay hidden all the way, as they’d probably kill us if they found us.”
“How do we get from France to Czechoslovakia?” she whispered.
“Once we’re in France we’d have to hide away, probably in bushes and forests, because if we’re found we’d be taken to some kind of work camp—”
“Then I’ll be with my mother?”
“No, they would take us to a different one.”
“But once they knew who I was, wouldn’t they put me with my parents?”
“No, they like to keep everyone separated. So we’d have to stay hidden, which means we might end up being very hungry, as we wouldn’t be able to buy food. Now, do you speak French?”
“No,” she murmured despondently, and I could tell it was beginning to work.
“I suppose we could take some food with us, although I’m not sure it would last more than a month.”
“A month? Would it take that long to get there?”
“We couldn’t take trains or buses. We’d have to walk.”
She put her head back into my shoulder and began to cry again. “We will never make it! We will both die. We’ll starve or the Nazis will kill us.”
I held her to me as she wept with the futility of it all. “Silvie, I’m so sorry about your family.”
She sniveled a little longer, and then drew a finger to her lips and let out a quiet, shaking “Shhh.” Her eyes were boring into me with fear. “I know what has happened to my brother.” Her voice was tense and choked with tears, and she looked around trembling that someon
e should hear.
“What?” I whispered.
“My mama gave him away.” She put her face in her hands and began to cry, her narrow shoulders hunched and shuddering under the turmoil. “She gave him to her friend who is not Jewish.”
I held her closer as tears began coming from my own eyes. So that was her secret.
“It was terrible, she loved him—us—so much. He was too young to get the train with me. She knew it was his only chance. The day she came home without him, she pretended it was fine. But it was not fine. She cried all night. It was the end of her world.” Her voice trailed out to a frail whimper, and all I could think was how desperate these people were that they had to give away their children to save them.
I pulled back and looked at her. “You’ll always know that your mother loves you and your brother. You’ll always remember that. And just think, when this dreadful war is over, we can go back to your mother’s friend and find him. Do you know where she lives?”
Silvie nodded.
“Let’s do that, then. This war can’t go on forever. We can’t let it take everything away from us.”
She nestled into me, and we sat like that, huddled together, looking out, as the clouds began to form above us, darkening the world like a grim shadow, and slowly, quietly, the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops began to sound around and above us.
A kestrel circled and swooped around in the rain, his wings like a great spread of hands, black and disheveled against the dark sky. And then, without any warning, he was gone.
Softly, Silvie began to chant, slowly in a whisper at first, but then more rhythmically, more lulling, her throat catching with tears as she repeated the Kaddish, as if mourning her own loss. I joined in with her where I could remember the words, and our voices echoed strangely around the deserted huts as if we might have been living today or a thousand years before, feeling the same horror of uncertainty.
It might have been twenty minutes later, maybe an hour, when the shouts and whistles of the hop pickers came from the hill. Soon a few boys raced in front of us down the scrub of land, Tom in the lead, slamming up to the last hut with a deft halt. He threw his hands in the air to declare victory, which was somewhat ridiculous as the other boys were at least a year or two younger. It was almost cheating.
“What are you two doing here?” He trotted over to us.
“We were out for a walk and took cover when it started to rain. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, course not,” he said, looking at Silvie’s red eyes, my arm around her shoulder. He perched down beside her, putting his big, thin hand on her arm. “You all right, girl?”
“They took her parents to a camp,” I said, unsure if I should be telling Tom, but as Silvie lifted her gaze to him, her lips pursed together with unhappiness, I remembered how much she liked him. How much we both liked him.
“We need to get home,” I said, starting to get up.
“I’ll come with you,” Tom said, his lanky body dancing around us like a skinny clown. “Try and cheer you both up a bit.”
Without a word, Silvie slipped her slim, white hand into his and let him help her up. Then, taking my hand, too, Tom led us back to the Manor.
True to his word, he entertained us with his news from the day, which amounted to someone finding a half-decomposed dead rabbit (which we heard about in gruesome detail), a boy who ate an apple that was full of maggots, and one of the families having to leave early because the mum’s having a baby.
We had cheered up somewhat by the time we got past the orchard, and as we rounded the side of Peasepotter Wood and onto the drive, we saw the crowd of women in front of us, back on the lawn, sitting on benches and drinking tea. Mrs. B. was striding around taking notes on her clipboard, until she spotted us coming toward them, announced something, and then they leaped up and began to clap and cheer.
“You found her!” Mrs. Quail shouted.
“Well done!” one of the Sewing Ladies chimed in, and someone even promised some sweets.
“Good to have you back, Silvie!” Venetia came over, relieved and smiling.
They heartily slapped our backs, and then Mama put her arms around Silvie, who promptly burst into tears again.
“You have to promise to stay with us,” Mama told her, crouching down to her level. “And never, ever run away again.”
Silvie nodded and buried her face in Mama’s neck.
“What about Daddy?” I whispered to Mrs. Tilling, who had come over to stand next to me. “He’ll never let Silvie stay.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, Kitty.” She smiled, as smug as a cat with her paw on a mouse. “He won’t be a problem anymore.”
I turned to quiz her, but she was gone, off to herald the return of Silvie, and I was left wondering what’s at the bottom of it all.
Tom bounded over, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re quite the hero after all.” He stood beside me, almost touching.
“Of course I am!” I huffed. But then I remembered about my recent mishaps with Venetia and Henry. “Do you really think so?”
He laughed and slapped me on the back, sending me lurching forward a few paces. “You’re the best, Kitty. The fair damsel who saves the day!” Then he took my hand and gave it a rough squeeze.
Sunday, 18th August, 1940
As soon as the all clear sounded, I was on my bicycle and heading through the darkness to Litchfield. I had to be there for the medical team, to help the wounded, but I was mostly worried about the people I knew. Venetia had started work again, and of course there was the Colonel. Might he have been careless enough to not go to the bomb shelter? He mentioned to me only last night how he was fed up with leaving his desk when he was busy, how he’d taken to staying put during the raids.
I cycled fast the whole way, praying he didn’t do so tonight: if there was one time he went to the shelter, please God, let it be this time.
As I came over the hill, I saw the blazes over Litchfield Park. You couldn’t miss them. Surging gusts of flame soared high into the sky, covering most of the main building, with more fires over what had been the outbuildings. I wondered how many people were trapped in the blaze, and I knew right then that, before I went on duty, I needed to see if I could find the Colonel.
I rode in through the gates and asked a man in uniform watching the blaze.
“What happened to everyone? Did they all get out?”
“Not really,” he said in a daze. “One of the shelters gave way, and a lot of people are still missing.” He looked around at me, dismay in his eyes. “They say some people didn’t use the shelters.”
“Where are all the people who work here? How can I find out if my friend is all right?”
“They told them to go home, or to one of the rest centers if their homes have been bombed. Obviously a lot of them have stayed to help, though. Who are you looking for?”
“Colonel Mallard,” I said. “He’s billeted at my house. But he wasn’t there when I left.”
“I can’t say I’ve seen him since the bombs hit. Can’t remember seeing him in the shelter neither.” He pondered for a moment, and I wanted to shake him ruthlessly. Think, man. Think!
But all he did was shake his head.
“Thank you,” I said quickly, hopping back on my bicycle. If the Colonel had made it, he’d have stayed to help the wounded. But where? Litchfield isn’t a big place, but with hundreds of bombed homes to evacuate, who knew where he might be?
I resolved to cycle on to the hospital and look out for him on the way. As I cycled through the miserable pandemonium, I could hardly bear to see the number of injured and homeless shuffling around the streets. It was a horrendous scene, people weeping beside buildings, perhaps knowing who had been crushed beneath, women stopping me for help, and me having to tell them that I was a medic and had to get to the surgery as fast as I could. I couldn’t help catching sight of every man to see if he wasn’t a little too tall, a little too clumsy.
Litchfield Hospital was alrea
dy packed. I found the supervisor, and she set me up at a canteen table at the front, where I was supposed to assess patients’ needs and send them on to a specific doctor or treat them myself if I could. I was immediately bombarded with a long line of wounded, some of them with deep gashes oozing quantities of blood, others with larger limb injuries. There was a man with concussion, a baby with breathing problems, a severed hand that I tried to sew back on and we’ll just have to wait and see how it takes. There were a lot of cases of really bad burns, one all over a poor woman’s leg. She said it was trapped under a fallen beam in her house, and she had to wait for the rescue team to lift the beam, even though it was on fire.
The noise and panic among the crowds was immense, and the smell of soot and burning flesh horrific. I tried to listen for the familiar tones of the Colonel, and glanced around me when I had the chance to see if he was one of those being carried in on a stretcher. The space was busy and I could only see narrow slots between moving bodies, and once or twice had to leave my table to double-check when I had been sure I’d caught a glimpse of him. But he was nowhere. My stomach was churning like a hot whirlpool.
Where was he?
At last, around midnight, they gave me a short break, and I raced outside and found my bicycle. I didn’t know where to go, I just knew that if he was alive, he would still be out there, helping people. I cycled from street to street, looking at every bomb site, trying to see him through the darkness. I saw people running to and from buildings, gathering possessions, moving furniture, looting.
After ten minutes of frenetic cycling, I knew I had to get back, so I began tracing my way through the maze of destruction back to the hospital.
And then I saw him.
I had to look twice. His large silhouette stood before a rampant fire, a collapsed school building, a fire truck attempting to subdue the flames. I flew off my bicycle, leaving it to crash to the ground, and ran toward him, calling, “Colonel Mallard, Colonel Mallard.”
He turned, first his head, and then his body, seeing it was me, taking great strides forward, opening his arms to meet me, calling my name. “Mrs. Tilling!”
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 29