My Family for the War

by Anne C. Voorhoeve

  I hadn’t completed this thought when it happened. It was as if the sea was so close I could feel the moisture on its surface. I could see my father waiting on the other side, a thin figure in a brown overcoat that I had never seen him wearing, and there was no barbed wire between us. He looked over at me without moving, and I saw his eyes, ringed in shadows and the deep wrinkles around his mouth, but also his smile, his familiar, loving smile.

  An excruciating pain shot through me, so terrible I couldn’t have endured it any longer than that one moment, before it disappeared along with the image of my father. Then the sea lay there as it had before, cold and calm.

  I didn’t even have a second to collect myself before the next confusing incident. Out of the blue, someone grabbed me, spun me around, and something cold and wet attached itself to my lips. My eyes, wide with horror, stared into an equally panicked pair of eyes only an inch away!

  Wesley and I flew apart like a bomb had exploded between us, he in terrified flight back over the hill, I backward into the coil of barbed wire. By the time I had regained my composure enough to yell indignantly, “Are you completely daft, you idiot?” he was probably already halfway back to Tail’s End.

  Tears welled in my eyes. I rubbed my mouth with my sleeve as if possessed, rubbed and spat; I was tempted to use sand to remove all traces of that kiss. That jerk! He had ruined my birthday, defiled that precious moment with my father. And if he dared to tell anyone, I’d murder him!

  Ashamed, I stumbled home, and the next few days were completely dominated by two rapidly alternating impulses: either to bore holes into Wesley with my eyes, or to not have anything to do with him. Wesley’s inner voice seemed to have given him the same advice. I attributed his apparent dejection not so much to the fact that I hadn’t responded well to his advances, but rather that he had so unnecessarily complicated our lives.

  “But what did he say, then?” Hazel tormented me for the rest of the week, until I made her take an oath of silence and through gritted teeth admitted to her that Wesley hadn’t said anything at all, but instead had tried to kiss me.

  My own feelings about this matter were briefly, most satisfyingly reflected in Hazel’s shocked face, then she covered her mouth with her hands and passionately whispered, “Tried? Just tried? Thank God!”

  I stared at her. I had led her to the farthest corner of the churchyard to tell her about Wesley’s ambush, and skeletons rattling out of their graves couldn’t have made a more sinister impression than Hazel’s words. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “But don’t you know… ? It all starts with kissing—you could have had a baby because of that!”

  I heard myself swallow hard. “Are you sure he only tried?” pressed Hazel.

  “Yes, of course, it was only two seconds, and I wiped my mouth off right afterward!”

  Hazel’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “You won’t know for sure,” she said ominously, “for another few months.”

  Horrified, I pushed it out of my mind, acted like nothing was wrong, and before long Hazel had obviously forgotten about her suspicion. I tried not to imagine the most horrible consequence: Having to marry Wesley and spend the rest of my days being kissed by him!

  At last, two months after that fateful morning on the beach, the string I had tied around my belly to monitor any change in size wasn’t any tighter, so I let myself relax. I cut it off, happy that I hadn’t betrayed my embarrassing ordeal to anyone.

  Chapter 14

  Moving Again

  The Germans did not attack the British coast. On April 9, they occupied Denmark and Norway without even declaring war, an announcement that required extensive repositioning of the flags on our classroom map. British and French units were shipped off to Norway, but resistance there was brief.

  For my parents, who had placed all their hopes in the assumption that Hitler would respect Holland’s neutrality, the invasion of two peaceful neighbors must have been a heavy blow, so I immediately sent them encouraging letters. But the English were also becoming increasingly nervous. The Certificate of Good Standing that the Shepards had acquired for Walter was no longer enough, and he was called for a personal interview to determine if he was a friendly or hostile foreigner.

  I tried to explain to them that I’m Jewish, but that doesn’t interest them at all. Will they send us back to Germany? All Germans and Austrians between the ages of sixteen and sixty-five living in England are affected, women and men alike, and also many of the children from the kindertransport.

  Public opinion of us has changed. Sometimes people insult me at the theater when they hear my German accent. Mrs. Shepard doesn’t want me to spend the night at the theater alone, so starting tonight I’ll go home with her. My short-lived independence is already coming to an end!

  My hopes for a quick resolution are fading. The free world looks on helplessly as the Germans expand farther and farther. Where are the Americans? How much longer are they going to wait? I’m sorry, I don’t want to be so negative, but I’m starting to lose my patience with the whole business. Luckily Holland is still hanging on—good thing your parents fled there and not to Scandinavia!

  Our lives in Tail’s End seemed far removed from everything going on in the war. After my housework at the Stones’, I met Hazel and the other girls at the village well to talk and make fun of the boys, who had picked the cemetery wall for their meeting place. Our joint escapades at the bunker the previous year had ceased, an unspoken agreement by both sides. Although we were always staunchly separated, we constantly kept an eye on each other.

  The idea that another girl would take her place as my best friend once the war was over didn’t bother Hazel. “My father says the way to survive war is by adapting to the out of the ordinary,” she informed me. “So why shouldn’t I be your best friend for the rest of the war?”

  On one of the first warm spring days in the middle of April, seven or eight of us were sitting at the village well as usual. By then, only twenty-three of the original forty evacuated children were still in Tail’s End, and that morning Mrs. Collins had shocked us with a totally unexpected bit of news: Plans were under way to evacuate us farther from the threatening coast to the safety of the interior!

  This affected not only those of us from London, but all the children of Tail’s End as well, and for days no one spoke of anything else at the Stones’. It had already been decided that Pearl and Herbert would go with us, but Mrs. Stone didn’t want to be separated from Rachel and Luke.

  I had never expected to feel sorry for Mrs. Stone, but when I saw her red, bleary eyes, I couldn’t help it. “It’s not so bad,” I told her. “And this will be my third evacuation, so I should know!”

  But nothing could comfort her or make the decision any easier.

  “This time things will run more smoothly than the evacuation from London,” decided Lesley. “We should give Mrs. Collins a list of which of us want to be placed together in a new family.”

  “Good idea,” said Hazel, moving closer to me.

  She and I were among the first to be recorded on Lesley’s list. We turned to look at each other contentedly, and at the same time, my glance rested briefly on the distant figure of a solitary woman climbing the road from Tail’s Mews. She had obviously gone into the city with the train, which only stopped twice a day at the neighboring station since the war. This was clear because she had a hat and an umbrella—unusual for our little village.

  “If the younger Stone children are coming, we have to take Luke too. Luke Stone,” I dictated to Lesley. “He’s much more used to me than to his older siblings.”

  “Oh, yes! Luke is so sweet!” raved Hazel.

  “And a dog,” I added. “Adolf Stone.”

  Lesley stopped writing. “You’re joking,” she said, to which I replied, “In certain circumstances, dogs are allowed to come along!” which was a bald-faced lie. In truth, I was convinced I’d be able to house Adolf if I had him with me. Shrugging her shoulders, Lesley wrote, “Ado
lf Stone, dog.” But she added a question mark next to it.

  Meanwhile, several of us had noticed the woman walking toward us. In Tail’s End, with its sixty or so inhabitants, anything unusual on the village’s one street aroused interest. “Is that Mrs. Caine?” asked Brigid.

  “No. Maybe it’s Mrs. Tingle,” answered Karen, and turned her attention back to the list.

  “Frances? Are you all right?” Hazel’s puzzled voice reached my ear.

  I slid down from the edge of the well, reeling with shock. I stared at the woman, who was still quite far away. I whispered, “It can’t be!” although I already knew it was true. Maybe I was just afraid that she would vanish before my eyes, like the vision of my father on the beach.

  “Is that her mother?” someone muttered, and Hazel answered, “No, she’s in…” But I didn’t hear the rest. I was running down the street, faster and faster, until my feet barely touched the ground. It felt like I was running backward through time: spring, winter, fall, summer. By the time I reached her, I had never been away.

  “I thought I’d never see you again!” I said breathlessly.

  How had I thought for even a second that I could forget her? She held me at arm’s length, while in a wave of happiness I rediscovered everything that was familiar to me—her wonderful, radiant smile, her warm green eyes, her cheerful, loving look. I could see in the way she looked at me how much I must have changed in the eight months since we had last seen each other. “Good heavens, Frances, is it really you?” she said, and laughed, her voice full of tears.

  Amanda Shepard walked up the street into Tail’s End and back into my life—she was simply there again.

  “Is there anywhere nearby where we could talk undisturbed?” Amanda asked me.

  “Talk?” I echoed, shocked. The thought that her sudden appearance could have a specific purpose hadn’t occurred to me, and suddenly I saw what I had failed to notice in my joy at seeing Amanda again: She looked tense. Her face was pale, her cheekbones stood out, and I saw fine lines under them that definitely hadn’t been there last summer. I thought about how worrisome the last few months must have been for her, but there was something else in her face, and it scared me.

  All at once I became very calm. “We can go into our classroom.”

  We walked through the nave and into the side room that housed our little school. “Look!” I led Amanda to the world map. “This flag is Gary! And down here is Frank Duffy.” And I watched her pretend to read the names. “It’s about Papa, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said quietly. “I’ve brought you a letter from your mother.”

  “She asked you to bring me a letter?”

  “Yes. She probably thought it would comfort you a little.”

  I looked at her attentively. “She was right,” I said.

  Amanda looked away. “Did she say anything else?” I wanted to know.

  “That… is also in your letter.”

  Groningen, 12 April 1940

  My dear Ziskele,

  When Papa and I recently talked about how best to get word to you if something should happen to one of us, we agreed right away that we would ask your Mrs. Shepard. So I hope that she’s with you now when you read what I have to tell you today.

  Ziska, your Papa died the day before yesterday, sometime between three and six in the morning. Apparently, he had a heart attack in his sleep—or if he woke up, he didn’t ring for the nurse. It was the day after the German invasion of Norway, and as I gather from the letters you sent us right afterward, you immediately grasped what that means for us.

  My darling, Papa never received your last letter. But I keep thinking about what he told me on one of my last visits with him—that you two had a date on your birthday, and how he felt so clearly that you were truly with him that day. I wish I had come up with such a wonderful idea, but you and Papa always had a special connection, didn’t you? I have one more thing to tell you, and you can make of it whatever you like. When you asked me in August to allow you to stay in London, I made the decision on my own that you should be evacuated. I was certain Papa would agree with me, but on the contrary, he was very upset when he heard about it. He said, “Our daughter has found people who love her. Isn’t that worth more than a sense of safety that doesn’t exist anyway?”

  Now that he’s gone, I know he was right. So I’m sending you a note of permission—in Papa’s name and mine—to return to London with Mrs. Shepard, if that’s still what you want. I will also write to her and explain everything…

  Amanda, who had stood quietly looking out the window while I read and reread Mamu’s letter, came over and sat next to me on the edge of the table. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Frances.”

  But I didn’t know what to say about Papa yet.

  “Is London safe?” I asked.

  “No!” answered Amanda decisively.

  I looked down again at the piece of paper with the signature, and of all the possible steps I could take, the only one that I could even fathom.

  “The train leaves at seven?”

  “You shouldn’t rush things. Perhaps I can find a room for the night.”

  “No. Let’s go.”

  The Stones stood in the hall, bewildered, while I packed my few belongings.

  “We don’t live in luxury here, as you can see,” Mrs. Stone remarked to Amanda. “Four children, the smallest still in nappies, and then a fifth on top of that… it wasn’t easy!”

  Ever since my foster mother from London had crossed the threshold, fear had been all over Mrs. Stone’s face. Her refugee, her servant girl, the lowest of all, was being collected by this beautiful, well-dressed lady who spoke with a quiet, cultivated voice, and who lovingly called her Frances “dear.” Mrs. Stone couldn’t know that I had never told Amanda about the horrible beginning of my stay in Tail’s End, but she doubtless experienced this fairy-tale ending from the perspective of the terrified stepmother who knows she is about to be exposed!

  “There’s one other thing…” I said to Amanda. “What about Adolf?”

  “We’ll take good care of him,” promised Mrs. Stone.

  “He likes to be rubbed under the chin,” I said. “Right here. And maybe he didn’t go for walks before, but now…” I pulled him toward me urgently and buried my face in his coat.

  This couldn’t be happening! I had just learned of Papa’s death and felt nothing, absolutely nothing, and now I was crying about a dog!

  “Don’t worry, we’ll do everything for him!” said Mrs. Stone, who was obviously ready to promise me anything I wanted. “Please excuse me for a moment!”

  She rushed off importantly. I let go of Adolf and didn’t look at him again. “We still have to see Mrs. Collins,” I reminded Amanda.

  She snapped my suitcase shut. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, a beaming Mrs. Stone was already waiting for us with a bag bursting with food from her pantry. I didn’t get the satisfaction of refusing her peace offering. Amanda accepted the bag without the slightest hesitation.

  “Many, many thanks, Mrs. Stone! Fresh butter! Eggs… and such a tremendous piece of cheese! I can’t imagine how many stamps I would need…”

  “Don’t mention it,” Mrs. Stone modestly replied, but it was impossible not to see that her pangs of conscience had already subsided, and that the elegant lady from London had sunk to the level of a normal city-dweller who couldn’t eat her fill of eggs! The rest went quickly. The Stones shook my hand—there were no embraces. We’d had an arrangement and gotten used to each other over time, but there had never been any doubt that when the time came, they would be happy to see me go.

  The news of Amanda’s arrival had already reached Mrs. Collins, who was waiting for us in her room at the Hound and Horn.

  “Are you sure you want to go back?” she asked, holding the letter Mamu had sent. “You’ve made some nice friends… little Hazel…”

  “I should never have left in the first place,” I countered. “My father says so too.�
��

  Mrs. Collins turned to Amanda. “It appears that our group will soon be leaving for Wales. You can find out more at school, if you should happen to change your mind.”

  Amanda nodded after taking a quick sidelong glance at me.

  “Well then, best of luck, Frances,” said Mrs. Collins. “Let’s hope the war is over before we start to get used to all this!”

  If by “all this” she meant good-byes, horrible news, or hundreds of thousands of parentless children wandering throughout England, she didn’t say.

  Outside, my friends were still sitting on the edge of the well and Amanda said, “We have plenty of time for you to say good-bye to everyone.”

  But I simply shook hands with each of them, and if I had had a choice I would have skipped even that. I wanted to remember the lovely feeling of having belonged rather than a farewell.

  That evening on the road to Tail’s Mews, I suspected for the first time that I wouldn’t see my mother again for a very, very long time, and that Amanda and her family were the only home I had left.

  It’s difficult to mourn someone you haven’t seen in almost a year and a half—even more so if you only learn of his death in a letter. The shock, the pain, the sadness for my father had occurred after the pogrom when I lost him; now that I was sitting in a train to London, I didn’t know how I could bring myself to feel that loss again.

  But I could have cried for Mamu. Papa had been her life. She had never stopped fighting for him, hoping for him. Suddenly I was terrified at the thought of having to write to her when I returned. No words from me could do justice to her loss; no tears from me could match her pain. What on earth could I ever say to her again?

  Through the window, the colors flitted by into gray twilight. The dim lighting on the train made me sleepy. Amanda took bread and cheese from Mrs. Stone’s bag as the other passengers looked on and cut some for us. She laid the food on my leg without a word; I took it and ate obediently, now happy that we had something for supper.