My Family for the War

by Anne C. Voorhoeve

  But not for long. “So, here you are,” said Mrs. Stone as she detached my right hand from the plate and set Luke in my lap. She placed a bowl of babies’ porridge in my soup bowl and handed me a spoon, and as I watched the Stones pass the soup, bread, and butter around, I slowly realized that I was responsible for feeding the baby.

  And I will not cry! I reminded myself with some effort, and dipped the spoon in the porridge.

  Unfortunately, I had no experience with babies. I couldn’t be sure if they generally ate so slowly, or if Luke was merely the slowest baby in England. As the Stones filled their bowls for the second time, he was still on my lap, and I had the growing suspicion that he spat out more than I had managed to get in him. Mrs. Stone finally caught on and freed her son from my arms. “You are really the clumsiest child I’ve ever met,” she said, shaking her head, and shoved the pot of soup toward me.

  At last! I eagerly reached for the ladle, tried to dip it—and hit metal. I slowly tilted the pot and looked inside. It was as good as empty. As I looked up in disbelief, my eyes met the spiteful sneers of the two older children.

  “Dump the rest in your bowl,” Mrs. Stone said indifferently.

  I did as I was told and got ten spoonfuls of cold soup and the handful of crumbs that were left in the breadbasket, which I shook into the bowl as well. As I ate, I smiled at the Stones. This is certainly a joke, I thought. They must have hidden my real dinner in the pantry!

  “And now you can clean up with me,” Mrs. Stone ordered. “Mind you, remember where everything goes. Starting tomorrow I won’t be helping you anymore.”

  Two hours later, as I laid my mattress crossways in front of the door, I was still expecting someone to come and bring me my dinner. But one after the other, the Stones brushed their teeth at the tiny sink in the washroom and went to bed. In spite of my hopefulness, it became quiet, quieter, and finally completely silent outside the door.

  Only Rachel whined in her bed. “I want a story!”

  “I don’t know any,” I said, now indeed close to tears. “I’m too hungry.”

  “But Mum said you have to tell us our stories now! I’ll call Mum if you don’t!”

  I was starting to understand how things worked in this house.

  After about four days, Mrs. Collins began to wonder why I came to school with my suitcase every day. “Surely you’re not so bold as to try another escape right under my nose?” she asked distrustfully.

  “I can’t leave the suitcase unguarded, or the Stones will steal my things,” I explained truthfully.

  Mrs. Collins sighed. “I’ve seldom met a child so prone to exaggeration,” she remarked, and just seeing me drawing breath, she cut me off before I could say anything else. “I know you’d say anything to get back to London, but I can’t do anything about it, do you understand?” she asked irritably. “You’re here now, and until an authorized person turns up and convinces me otherwise, you will stay here!”

  The local teachers had decided that their school was too small to house another class. And so we met on the village green, the other children sitting on blankets and I on my suitcase, and Mrs. Collins looking anxiously at the heavens whenever even the tiniest cloud appeared. She had to teach outdoors and she wasn’t in the mood for any more problems.

  “But I’m not lying!” I defended myself with a trembling voice, to which she didn’t respond. She did tolerate my carrying all my possessions around with me after that, though.

  If there was anyone in the Stone household who ranked lower than me, it was Dolf, the dog. The large, shaggy mutt was shoved and ordered around and even kicked if he didn’t get out of the way. Even little Rachel called to him disdainfully, “Ey, Dolf!” He and I became friends almost immediately.

  “May I take Dolf for a walk?” I asked during the midday break.

  Mrs. Stone decided that I could have the afternoon free between washing up after lunch and setting the dinner table. Four hours for me, four hours without the Stones! I didn’t even have to take Luke with me.

  “Ey, Dolf doesn’t go for walks,” answered Mr. Stone, whom I had asked. “Well, all right,” he added when he saw my disappointment. “Have a try. Maybe he’ll even like it.”

  By the time I had convinced Dolf of my plan, I had lost twenty valuable minutes of my free time. I pulled on his leash, but he pulled back with bulging eyes. Pearl, Herbert, and Rachel stood by the fence, cheering him on. “Good, ey, Dolf! Don’t go with her! Sit, ey, Dolf! Attack! Sit! Get her!”

  Maybe it was their noise that unnerved him; at any rate, he suddenly gave up and resigned himself to trotting off with me.

  The Stones lived at the far end of the village street, and just past their garden began the open country, immediately rising to a hill. When I reached the top, I looked out over the distance. The landscape was a warm, fragrant painting, caressed by a light summer breeze. There were trees of all shades, from lush green to light yellow; there were gently rolling hills and pastures bounded by stone walls as far as the eye could see. Beyond the forest, I could see a light gray strip that disappeared into the horizon… the sea! My heart began to beat faster. We must be very near the channel!

  Even Dolf seemed to be enjoying himself, and he ran with me down the hill, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. His nose swayed close to the ground; he was picking up scents with relish. Now I was the one being pulled by the leash. Reaching the edge of the forest, we could already hear the sea; we ran up the last sandy hill, ready to reach the summit and then plunge into the delights below… and nearly collided with a coil of barbed wire! We stood there catching our breath. Even the dog seemed bewildered. The barbed wire stretched the entire length of the beach. We walked a few paces to the left, and then to the right, but we couldn’t find a way through.

  Disappointed, I placed my hand above my eyes and peered into the distance. Out on the water there were considerably more boats than I had seen before: a few small freighters and fishing boats, but also patrol boats and a large gray ship from which multiple narrow torpedo tubes extended, which appeared to be cruising slowly up the coast.

  And then I understood what the barbed wire meant. It was set up to defend against a German landing—in case the destroyer in the bay didn’t stop the invaders.

  “Come on, Dolf, we’re going!” I whispered, and the dog seemed to understand. We ran back through the woods as quickly as we could.

  I hadn’t realized that the war had already come so close to us.

  “But you have to tell Mrs. Collins how the Stones treat you!” Hazel whispered to me on the Friday before our second weekend in Tail’s End.

  “I tried. She thinks I’m lying!” I answered hopelessly.

  Hazel had had good luck with her host family. And unlike the other children, who still called me the “crazy Hun,” Hazel was kind to me. Every morning, she slipped me one of her two sandwiches. And she was the one who had pointed out the apple trees behind the church, where I stocked up every day.

  “What about your mother?” she asked sympathetically. “Has anything come in the mail?”

  I silently shook my head and tried to suppress the tears that welled up as soon as I heard the word mail. Whereas all the other children had long since heard from home, some even twice, I remained the only one without a letter. That mail delivery to and from Holland took longer now was understandable, but I simply couldn’t believe that Amanda had deserted me.

  And yet I had already been here an entire, endless week, and slowly it was starting to look like she had.

  “Maybe you can visit me on Sunday afternoon,” Hazel suggested hesitantly. “We always have plenty left over from lunch…”

  Although no one in Tail’s End locked their door, I was only allowed to enter the Stones’ house after I had knocked and was officially granted access. I sat in the rocking chair next to the door while I waited for someone to deign to let me in.

  After about five minutes, the door opened and Mrs. Stone looked out. “There you are,” she said ind
ifferently. “Come on, we’ve already started.”

  I’ll bet you have, I thought, and asked anxiously, “Is there any mail for me?”

  The usual answer—“No”—followed by the sudden, sharp, pain in my stomach that worsened daily. I shoved my suitcase under Rachel’s bed, lay down for a few minutes on her mattress, and silently doubled up.

  An impatient yell sounded from the kitchen: “Frances! Where are you?” I dried my tears, rolled myself off the bed, and joined them downstairs.

  Apart from Mr. Stone, who worked in a sawmill, the family was already gathered at the large kitchen table, where they were enjoying tea and cake. “Once you’ve cut the vegetables for the cholent,” said Mrs. Stone, who held Luke on her lap, “you can have a piece of cake.”

  She cut off a hard piece of crust without even a trace of the cake’s fruit topping and put it on a plate for me. What would be left of supper remained to be seen. I had a glimmer of hope that the coming Sabbath that evening would put her in a more generous mood.

  About six o’clock Mr. Stone came home from work, Mrs. Stone lit the candles, and we sat at the table. There was no synagogue in the area, and so keeping the Sabbath was limited to a prayer over the bread and wine, and two songs. “Shabbat shalom,” we wished one another—the first time that the Stone children had stooped to offer me their hands—and the meal began.

  “So, here you are,” said Mrs. Stone as she set Luke on my lap.

  I looked away as they filled their plates with roast, carrots, and potatoes. When Luke had finally had his mush, two potatoes in a little sauce were left in the bottom of the bowl.

  “Hope you enjoy it,” said Mrs. Stone as she dumped them onto my plate.

  After dinner they left the washing up to me and moved to the living room to spin the dreidel. I heard their laughter over the splashing of the dishwater. That was about all I could take, and I would have wept bitterly, except there at the sink stood poor Dolf, who had an even worse time of it than I. He stared at me as if it had been his potatoes I had just eaten, and my suspicion probably wasn’t far off.

  “Let me see if I can’t find a slice of bread for you, Dolf!” I murmured conspiratorially, and—as if he had understood—he followed me as if on tiptoe toward the pantry.

  But hardly had I turned the key in the lock when a knife-sharp voice demanded, “And might I ask what you’re doing?”

  I spun around and saw the entire Stone family standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Dolf is hungry,” I said and pointed at the dog, who immediately folded back his ears, pulled in his tail, and denied any responsibility.

  “This is the thanks we get?” asked Mrs. Stone, trembling with rage. “We take you in, give you food and shelter, and you steal from us?” She grabbed me roughly by the ear and dragged me to the staircase. “Get upstairs! I was going to give you an apple and your letters after the washing up was finished, but now you’ll have to wait a while longer for that!”

  She shoved me up the first few steps, but I froze. “My letters… ?”

  Mrs. Stone smiled nastily. She pulled out three envelopes from the dresser and held them up triumphantly, and she was still holding the letters when something happened that the Stones would never forget. Every time they thought about the war, they would see a small person standing in the middle of their staircase, and it wouldn’t matter that it was only an eleven-year-old girl. They would remember the coldness as she looked down on them, and the calm voice in which she said: “When Hitler invades England, he will persecute the British Jews too. Then your husband will be put in a concentration camp, Mrs. Stone, and you will lose everything you own. And if you ever have to send your children away to save their lives, like my parents have, then they’ll end up living with people who will throw them their table scraps, and hide the letters you write to them!”

  Mrs. Stone put her hand to her throat, and fear and horror flickered across her face like a shadow, but then I turned around and continued up the steps. Behind me, no one moved. I wondered if I might have just cursed them, but I felt no pity. As far as I was concerned, they could stand there all night if they wanted to.

  When I came into the children’s room later, the three letters were lying on Rachel’s bed. From now on they would neither steal from me nor let me starve. They would never again be able to forget why I was there.

  Hello Sweetheart,

  Today is Sunday, the third of September, and a few hours ago we heard the news: England and France have declared war on Germany, and mobilization is under way. A small comfort for us—Gary would have been drafted anyway!—but a source of endless worry for all our friends and neighbors whose sons will be affected. Millie came yesterday to say good-bye, as she is going to her daughter in Kent, and she cried when she found out that you were already gone. But how are you, dear? We think of you all the time. The house is so quiet. Hopefully this will all be over soon. I’m impatiently waiting for the postcard with your address so that I can mail this letter—where might you have landed? Nothing has come from your Mamu yet, but of course I’ll let you know the moment something does arrive.

  Hugs and kisses,

  Your “Aunt” Amanda

  London, 7 September

  Dear Ziska,

  Yesterday Dr. Shepard brought your new address to the theater for me. What a load of rubbish, you having to go away! Lots of kids from the East End have been evacuated too, as we noticed at the last movie showing—the hall was half empty. If things get serious here, the movies will be discontinued, at least for a while. The last three days, there were air-raid warnings during the day. At first everyone ran around like they were crazy, but then nothing happened! Yesterday we just stayed at our sewing machines and kept working.

  If it was up to me, I’d enlist, but at sixteen (well, in November!) they won’t take me yet. Gary is lucky! His ship, the HMS Newcastle, set off the day before yesterday and might already be at the base in Gibraltar. The Shepards were at the harbor when Gary set sail, but that’s all I could find out. I’ll keep you informed. It must be awfully boring in the country if you don’t hear anything about the war! But write me anyway!

  Best wishes,

  Walter

  London, 7 September

  Frances, love, word from your mother arrived today, and I hope you don’t mind that I opened the letter. If the note you were waiting for had been enclosed, I could have sent it to the Refugee Committee more quickly. But now you can see for yourself what she has written, and to be honest, I didn’t expect anything else. I hope you’re not too disappointed. Above all you must not be angry with her. In her position, I think I would have made exactly the same decision.

  I’m certain you’ll soon feel at home in Tail’s End. I looked for it on the map—it’s right next to the sea! Is it nice where you’re staying? Have you made any friends? Please write us soon about your new family, and how your first week with them has been.

  Gary sends his love. We watched him set sail for Gibraltar two days ago, as proud as can be. I’ve enclosed a picture of him in uniform—I know you’ll find him very handsome! Now you can write letters to Midshipman Gary Shepard, which I hope you’ll do often. We’ll put a shilling in every letter so you can buy stamps, and so you have no excuse to forget the good old Shepards. If you should need anything else, please let us know, and we’ll try to get it for you.

  We do hope we’ll see you again soon.

  Your loving,

  Amanda and Matthew S.

  Mamu’s letter was in the same envelope—two pages that destroyed my hopes of returning once and for all:

  Groningen, 30 August 1939

  Dear Ziskele,

  I’m sure your anxiety about the evacuation has calmed down, and that you don’t seriously expect me to send permission for you to be exposed to the front line of war! Papa and I didn’t send you to England only to lose you in a bombing raid. It’s a great comfort to know that you two are out in the country, just in case. Please be reasonable and don’t cause any t
rouble!

  By the time you receive this letter, Bekka will already have arrived in England. That will make it easier for you to leave the Shepards—and your stay with them was never supposed to be permanent anyway, was it?

  One more thing: If Germany and England do go to war, there won’t be any more mail between the two countries! So if Bekka wants to write to her parents, she should send me the letter and I’ll forward it for her. You see, yet another reason we’re lucky to have ended up in neutral Holland!

  Papa sends his love—he is resting on the North Sea coast, and I am laboring away with Ruth and Erik on an apple plantation. The girls have gotten places at the preschool and can already speak some Dutch. It is just incredible how we are being helped from all sides.

  More soon!

  Your Mamu

  When Mrs. Stone pushed Rachel and Luke into the room, they found me on the floor in front of the changing table, filling page after page of my writing pad. But I was writing neither to Mamu, who I felt had betrayed me, nor to Amanda, who hadn’t put up the least bit of a fight on my behalf. I wrote to Bekka, a friend like no other I would ever find, and I wrote as if this were my very last chance to do so.

  I told her what had happened over the last few days, described the evacuation, my attempted escape, the Stones. I comforted both of us with the knowledge that our wonderful life with the Shepards wouldn’t have lasted anyway, and at least Bekka would never have to meet the Stones. I told her about Hazel, about the lessons on the village green, and about my walk with Dolf.

  But I also told her what I had been doing ever since I’d arrived in England, and what I would continue to do whenever I had an important decision to make: I thought about what Bekka would have done—and then did just that!