Last Telegram

by Liz Trenow

  “Just seeing you will be treat enough for me,” he said sweetly.

  As I waited for him at the station, I found myself curiously nervous and eager to see Michael again, with his big open smile and easy humor. So much had happened since then, and I looked forward to hearing about his Middle East adventures.

  Even though we had only met once, we’d had such good fun together it felt as though I already knew him well, but when he climbed off the train at Westbury Station, he looked so stiff and serious I began to think my memory had deceived me. As we walked into town, making faltering small talk, I wondered whether the afternoon was going to be heavy going.

  The Chantry Tea Room was run by a couple of elderly spinster sisters who had kitted out their front room with dark oak furniture and faded frilly chintz. Their teacakes and scones were legendary, though rumor had it that their wartime jam was disgusting.

  We were the only customers that afternoon, and once we had been shown to our table, I opened my handbag and revealed the jar of Mother’s homemade raspberry jam I’d sneaked from home.

  “You cheeky little devil,” he whispered, laughing at last. “We can’t use that. The old dears would be so insulted.”

  “I don’t see why not. We don’t have to tell them,” I said.

  When the scones and teacakes arrived, he tried the carrot jam and made a face. So I opened my jar under the table, and we giggled like schoolchildren as I made a sticky mess trying to sneak a dollop onto each of our plates. It broke the ice, and as we ate, he relaxed into the Michael I remembered.

  “What we’d give for a slice of Battenberg these days,” he said, trying one of the dried-up pastries the ladies had proudly presented on a tiered porcelain cake stand. “The Arabs are hot on honey pastries, which are delicious, but I do yearn for a good old sponge.”

  After that, our two hours rushed by as he entertained me with stories of his extraordinary journey out to Beirut via the Nile and Cairo then by flying boat across the Med, about the Lebanon and the filatures he’d been busy setting up in Beirut to process the cocoons into raw silk.

  “Where do the cocoons come from?” I asked.

  “I’ve been dead lucky getting introductions to dozens of old silk farmers living in the hills,” he said. “They usually only produce enough for their own use, or for their village, but I persuaded most of them to double their quantities. They’d do anything for a bit of extra cash at the moment,” he said. “But listen to this, Lily. Most of the big import/export merchants in Beirut were sending all their Iranian and Turkish raw to Italy, on a big contract from Mussolini. I couldn’t think how to get my hands on it.”

  “How did you?” I asked.

  “I went to see them and noticed most of the men were wearing skullcaps. They were Jewish,” he laughed.

  I was astonished. “They didn’t realize who Mussolini was supporting?”

  He shook his head. “But once I told them, and they went away and checked out my story, all their stocks were mine. For a good price too. Stroke of genius, though I say it myself.” So confident and kind, so solid and dependable. Not Hollywood handsome, but good-looking, with that exotic combination of dark hair and deep violet eyes.

  When we came to say good-bye at the station, he held my hands, then awkwardly tried to kiss me on the mouth. I turned my face and his lips ended up on my earlobe.

  “I’m so sorry,” he blustered. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” I said, blushing foolishly.

  “I didn’t even think to ask whether you have a boyfriend.”

  It felt brutal, but I had to be honest. “Actually I do. His name’s Stephen.”

  He looked abashed, struggling to find something to say. “Is he serving abroad?” he finally blurted out.

  “He’s with the Pioneer Corps,” I said quietly. It was not prestigious, I knew. Michael would wonder what kind of person this boyfriend was. But it was the truth.

  “Lucky fellow,” he said wistfully, then frowned. “Oh no, I don’t mean lucky being in the Pioneer Corps,” he faltered, then added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Confusion flooded his face again. “Oh goodness. I’m digging myself into a hole here. Can’t get anything right.”

  The whistle went, and there were only a few seconds left.

  “Please don’t worry. I like you very much as you are,” I tried to reassure him. There was a longer blast on the whistle, and he climbed into the carriage and opened the window. As the train started to puff away, he shouted, “And you’re a wonderful girl.”

  A few months later, I received a Christmas card. Michael had made it himself—they were not widely available in the Lebanon, I assumed—a pen and ink drawing of him in swimming trunks on a beach, standing by a fir tree, and wearing a Father Christmas hat. Inside he wrote: “Hope Christmas is as happy as possible. I had such a lovely time seeing you in Westbury that day, and thank you for the delicious jam! Sorry for being such a dolt. But I will always be your friend and if you ever change your mind…”

  • • •

  It turned out to be the most memorable Christmas of my life.

  We’d made a determined effort to be jolly, put in an early order for a goose from a local farmer, and had carefully saved carrots and potatoes from last year’s crop. There were carrots in the pudding too, to make it a bit sweeter and cover up the shortage of sugar, but we made a brandy cream to improve the taste. We set aside four bottles of Frank’s famously powerful turnip wine, and when Vera popped in on Christmas Eve, it was time to start celebrating.

  She was bursting with excitement, eyes sparkling in her weary face.

  “Look,” she said, pressing a copy of the Red Cross magazine, Prisoner of War, into Mother’s hand. “It’s a photo of John. He’s dressed up as Nanki-Poo. In The Mikado, would you believe it?”

  We gathered around, eager to see. The small grainy photo showed a group of grinning men in bedsheet-kimonos and fake Mandarin mustaches, like a bunch of lads in the village pantomime.

  “They look cheerful enough,” Mother said.

  “Who was Nanki-Poo?” I asked, feeling painfully ignorant.

  “A wandering minstrel, it’s one of the lead roles. Look at his cardboard guitar,” Vera said, laughing. “John won’t be doing much wandering this Christmas, but at least he’s safer there than being in the thick of it.”

  Mother peered more closely at the photograph, then kissed it. “This is a lovely Christmas present. Just knowing he’s alive is enough for me.”

  “With a bit of luck, the Allies’ll crack on through Italy this year and get the Germans on the run,” Gwen said, popping the cork she’d been wrestling with. “Then they can all come home.”

  I was barely listening, my head full of thoughts of Stefan. I hadn’t seen him since our weekend in the caravan, though we’d spoken on the telephone every week or so. He’d hoped to get leave over Christmas but I’d had no word, and as the evening drew on I resigned myself to not seeing him.

  Sitting down for dinner, we toasted to absent friends, and Mother said, “To Harold, my dear husband.” The room went quiet—it was the first time in many months that she had referred to him by name. “I thought I’d never recover,” she went on, “but I’m still here, thanks to you girls. I know he’s up there watching, pleased to see us all getting on with it in spite of everything.”

  “To Harold, my mentor and my friend,” Gwen said, lifting her glass, and we all did the same. In the somber silence that followed, the telephone made us jump. I ran out into the hall, my heart banging in my chest.

  “Stefan?”

  “Stephen. I’m just about to catch a train to London and if I can make it, I’ll get a connection from Liverpool Street and be there eleven-ish. Is it okay to arrive so late? Sorry I couldn’t let you know before, but they’ve only just released us.”

  “Of course it’s okay. It’s wonderful. We’ve got a feast lined up.”

  “Is there enough? I don’t want to mak
e you short.”

  “There’s loads. And you will stay here with us, of course?”

  “What about Grace?” The pips started.

  “I don’t care what Mother thinks. I’m a big girl now. And I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he said, just before the line went dead.

  • • •

  Vera had gone home and Mother and Gwen had giggled their way to bed by the time Stefan arrived, shortly before midnight. He was in already in mufti, carrying his small brown suitcase and an army-issue kit bag, his face streaked with railway soot and gray with exhaustion. I made cocoa and we sat at the kitchen table holding hands, just looking at each other, drinking in the joy of being together. Then, faintly, I heard church bells. I raised the sash, and the peal was clear now, echoing off the wall of the mill opposite.

  “What’s that for?” he asked, looking alarmed.

  “This is the first Christmas Eve for four years they’ve been allowed to ring the church bells,” I said. “Now there’s no fear they’d have to use them to warn about an invasion.”

  “Bells or no bells, it’s enough for me to be back here with you.” He hugged me from behind, nuzzling my neck. “It’s two and a half years since I left Westbury. In that police van. Remember?”

  I nodded, barely able to speak with happiness. In the warmth of each other’s arms, we welcomed the chill night air, listening to the peals ebbing and flowing in the breeze. As they ended, I closed the window. When I turned around, his face registered something.

  “Have you got my writing case? The one I left with you?”

  I tiptoed upstairs to get it.

  He unzipped it, took out a buff envelope from one of the pockets, and set it aside on the table. “Photos of my family—you’ve seen them before.” From another pocket, he pulled out a small piece of blue and white silk, with two tassels threaded into it. “This is a part of my prayer shawl.” I felt the weave: good quality twenty-twenty-four rep. “You know I don’t pray. But every English boy has a cricket bat, and every Jewish boy has a tallith. Mother insisted I bring it, to remind me.”

  Finally he pulled out a small, red felt drawstring bag and put it on the table in front of me. “This was my Mother’s. I want you to have it.”

  Hands shaking, I pulled it open. Inside was a silver band, set with small pearls and sapphires. Stefan, church bells, and now a ring, I thought; a perfect Christmas.

  He took it from me, slipped it onto my wedding finger, then looked up with a huge smile.

  “Let’s get married. Soon,” he said.

  That night, we barely slept. We seemed to have been elevated to another plane, beyond the clinging desperation and anxiety of imminent parting that wartime so often brought. Exhaustion made our lovemaking lazy and languid, climbing slowly till we balanced on a pinhead of intensity before falling in a torrent of relief and joy.

  Afterward I lay awake for hours, my whole body glowing.

  • • •

  I spent the morning of my wedding day—St. Valentine’s 1944—with my head in the toilet. Gwen brought a cup of weak tea and rested it on the side of the sink.

  “I feel dreadful,” I groaned. “I haven’t eaten anything different from the rest of you. Do you think it’s just nerves?”

  “Everyone’s nervous on their wedding day,” she said, then added mysteriously, “but could it be something else?”

  I couldn’t think what she was talking about. But then, as I retched into the bowl once more, it dawned on me. “I haven’t been counting,” I said, wiping my mouth. “But it does seem a while. Oh hell, I can’t be, can I? I thought I’d been careful.”

  “It’s just as well you’re getting married today,” she said, laughing unsympathetically. “Otherwise you might have some explaining to do.”

  The rest of the day went by in such a spin I barely gave it another thought till later. It was a plain ceremony in Westbury Registry office with just Mother, Gwen, and Vera as witnesses. I wished so much that Father could have seen us—any concerns he’d had about Stefan would have melted away as soon as he knew he had joined up to fight for the Allies.

  Mother had spent days at the sewing machine: a simple knee-length dress and jacket in cream Shantung silk for me, and pale green silk blouses for Vera and Gwen as my “matrons of honor.” She ran out of time to make anything for herself, so wore her best tweed suit.

  Stefan, of course, wore his Pioneer Corps dress uniform. It made him look taller and more handsome, but at the same time rather formal and remote, not part of our world. Was it the uniform, I wondered, or just the natural nerves of a young man on his wedding day? Even after the ceremony and a couple of glasses of sparkling wine at the White Hart, he seemed tense and quieter than usual. Never mind, I thought, just wait till we get to our hotel. I know how to make him smile.

  We had only one night together before he had to return to the Pioneers. In the almost deserted hotel, the “honeymoon suite” was dominated by an imposing four-poster bed. From the window was the perfect Suffolk view: a village street lined with wood-beamed houses, sloping down to a ford complete with Muscovy ducks and, in the distance, an imposing flint church. In the bay were two Lloyd loom chairs. He sat down and lit a cigarette, apparently oblivious to the view.

  “Come and give Mrs. Holmes a cuddle,” I said, jumping up onto the bed, admiring the soft white quilt and lace-trimmed linen. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He turned, but his face seemed hardly to register that I’d spoken. He did not move.

  “Stefan?”

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s Stephen,” he snapped. “Don’t you realize how important it is?” He went to the basin, straightened the mirror, wetted his hands, and ran them through his hair.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said gently. “It’s hard to think of you as anything other than the Stefan I love so much. I thought it would be okay when we are alone?”

  He shook his head, stony faced. “Not even then,” he said through his teeth.

  “Okay, you’ll be Stephen from now on, I promise, even in private. Or do you prefer Steve?” My stomach knotted with confusion and disquiet.

  “Whatever you like. Just not Stefan.” His voice was taut as a warp.

  “But it’s not just that, is it?” I climbed off the high bed and sat in a chair. Whatever was biting him?

  He stayed at the basin with his head bent, knuckles white from gripping the sides of the porcelain. I waited, rigid in the uncomfortable chair, hardly daring to breathe.

  What was it he couldn’t tell me? What could the worst thing be? He didn’t love me anymore? He’d found out I was pregnant and didn’t want the baby? Bad news about his family? He’d committed some terrible crime and was about to be court-martialed?

  “Lily?” His head was still down, his voice muffled.

  “Yes? What is it? Tell me.” My thoughts ran wild, but the one thing I failed to imagine was what he now said.

  “When I wore that uniform today, it was,” he hesitated, “not right.”

  “Not right? What was wrong with it?”

  He loosened his grip on the basin, straightened his back, and came to sit down opposite me. “Me wearing it was wrong.”

  “Why? You’re in the Pioneer Corps, aren’t you?”

  “Not any longer. I’ve been transferred.” His eyes still refused to meet mine.

  “Where to?”

  “This is the problem. I am not allowed to tell you.”

  I struggled to understand. “Why is it so secret? Where are you going, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know any of these things yet. But even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “But I am your wife.” He’d disappeared inside himself again. “Stef…Stephen?”

  In the silence, I could hear my heart hammering.

  “I’m sorry, Lily. I cannot tell you any more. Please do not ask me. You just have to accept it.”

  Shock was turning to fear. “Is it dangerous? Are you going to the front
line?” Another terrifying thought. “Behind the lines?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot answer, Lily. Please understand.”

  His secrecy was exasperating. “But why? Did you choose this?”

  He shook his head again. “No, they asked me. I could not refuse.”

  “Could not?”

  “Did not want to refuse.”

  “But why you?”

  “My languages, I think. German, French, English.”

  “So you said yes to this, this…thing. Even though you know it is dangerous?”

  “I do not know it is dangerous. All I know is…it is very important. We have to push them back, to liberate France, Holland, Belgium, Germany and…”

  I began to get a glimmer of understanding. “And your family?” I said gently.

  He nodded. “And the others. So we can be ourselves again.”

  “What about the danger to you? Being…”

  He put his finger to his lips. “I am not Jewish,” he said firmly, emphasizing each word. “Not anymore, remember? Not for the moment.”

  There was something about the simple way he said this, his tone of absolute resolve, that made it suddenly, perfectly clear. Now I understood. Everything he had done since coming back from Australia was about avenging his country, his race, his family. This was the most important thing for him, so vital that it was worth completely reinventing himself, denying his heritage. So that he could, perhaps, one day recover it.

  For the first time, I started to appreciate how hard that must have been. And now, I assumed from what he refused to say, he was planning something even more difficult and dangerous: to go among the very people who would certainly kill him if they discovered his true origins.

  I broke the long silence. “I’m starting to understand. But you must also understand this: you are the most important person in the world to me. Whatever you do, you must promise me you will come home safely.”

  He sighed deeply, the tension in his neck and shoulders visibly melting as he slumped back in the chair.

  “I will do my best. Thank you for understanding,” he said simply, closing his eyes, overcome with weariness.