Page 44 of Last Letter Home
‘You mustn’t bother about them. They don’t matter. They’re narrow-minded, petty.’
‘And full of fear, maybe, I know.’
‘Full of themselves, more like. Their own importance. Your mother isn’t being bothered, is she?’
‘No. Listen, I haven’t told her about this. It would be too upsetting for her.’ His voice was hoarse with anger, and really she didn’t blame him. He rarely complained, but it didn’t take much effort to imagine how it was for him, forced to leave his homeland and to come somewhere where he was resented, where he had not been able to pursue his dreams, where he was expected to be grateful, which he was, she thought, but still. Of course, everyone was making sacrifices now, but to be seen as the enemy when you were trying your best to help, that was hard.
She watched him play with the stone, toss it from hand to hand, then he drew back his arm and threw it away down the hill. Sam leaped to his feet. They all watched it bounce out of sight. The boy looked at her and Paul in surprise.
It hadn’t been Sam, she thought, relieved. That would have been too much to deal with.
Behind her, Westbury Hall lay dreaming in the sunshine. Things felt in some ways as they always had done.
The news, however, told differently. One Friday in May when Sarah went to change her books at the library in Cockley Market, she took the time to browse the full range of the week’s papers. Careless Talk Costs Lives, was one of the headlines. The article asserted that the country was full of aliens who were helping the German war effort. Why had Oslo given up the fight so easily? Because Norway was full of traitors. The same with Denmark. And it was happening here in Britain, too, the paper concluded. There were German spies posing as refugees, that was the size of it. Sarah was puzzled. She supposed there must be some truth in this. The paper wouldn’t have printed it otherwise, would it? Paul wasn’t a spy, of course, but maybe there were Germans in Britain who were. Why had Denmark and Norway given in so easily? Perhaps they had been infiltrated by secret agents; who was she to say differently?
Paul was worried and restless, she could tell. They went to the cinema that evening to watch a film with Errol Flynn and he spoke little and was watchful of others.
Over the following week the news from the Continent worsened. Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, all were suffering invasion, and France itself was under threat. Once Nazi forces reached the Channel it would be Britain next, people were saying. Everywhere were signs that the country was being put on high alert.
It was on the morning of Sunday 12 May, when Sarah was waiting for the others to be ready to leave for church, that the flustered figure of Mrs Hartmann could be seen hurrying up the path. Sarah flew to the door to admit her. Barbara Hartmann’s coat was unbuttoned, her face crumpled in anguish. ‘They’ve taken Paul, they’ve taken him,’ she managed to whimper between wheezy breaths.
Mrs Bailey, who disliked chaotic behaviour, took charge, ushering Mrs Hartmann into the drawing room and sitting her down with a tot of brandy. Eventually, the woman managed to stammer out her story. An hour ago, two policemen had arrived at Westbury Lodge. They had examined Paul’s papers, then waited while he packed an overnight case before escorting him to their car. ‘Taken away like a common criminal,’ Mrs Hartmann wailed.
The more kindly of the officers had told her not to worry too much.
‘Not worry?’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know where my boy’s gone or why.’
Sarah, sitting beside her on the sofa, grasped her fluttering hands. Diane poured tea, her nervous fingers rattling the cups on their saucers. After drinking hers, Mrs Hartmann gained strength. ‘Do you think they will hurt him?’ she enquired. ‘I know this is not Germany but these days . . .’
‘I’m certain they won’t hurt him,’ Mrs Bailey said, unpinning her hat because church was the last thing on anyone’s mind now. ‘Perhaps Sir Henry would be able to enlighten us, or I expect we’ll hear something on the news.’
‘Evelyn and Robyn are away in London or I’d have gone to them. You have always been my friends, but I’m sorry to throw myself upon you.’
‘There’s no need for any dramatic talk. Of course, we’ll do what we can,’ Mrs Bailey said briskly, ‘but until we find out where they’ve taken your son that is likely to be very little. I’m sure Major Richards will drive you to the police station in Cockley Market to make enquiries. And if that doesn’t work we can ask him to ring up Sir Henry in London.’
From the police, the news and general rumour, a rough picture was assembled. The papers were full of the British Expeditionary Force’s entry into Belgium. The round-up of enemy aliens across much of Britain was, for Mr Churchill, a natural step in defence against invasion. It was German and Austrian men who’d been interned. The kinder of the two bobbies visited Mrs Hartmann during the week. Paul would have spent a night in a school at Bury St Edmunds before being moved onward, though to where he did not know. Sir Henry was telephoned and he promised to make enquiries.
It was a full week since the arrest before anyone heard anything more, then Mrs Hartmann and Sarah both received letters from Paul on the same day. Sarah’s had been opened and bore the censor’s stamp, but she was pleased to see that nothing had been blacked out. The letter was written on cheap notepaper and dated 20 May.
My dear Sarah,
First, please be assured that I am safe and well. I am now in an internment camp near Liverpool; Huyton, it’s called. The authorities arrested us all then had nowhere to put us, so in the end they sent me up here! It’s an estate of council houses which they haven’t finished building yet, and so there are mounds of sand and stacks of bricks everywhere and the houses have no furniture or hot water. I’m sharing a very small house with a dozen other men, mostly older than me, and all as shocked and confused as I am. So we are not in the height of luxury, but it could be much worse. There are two among us who should not be here, they are in a bad condition, a Jewish dentist in his sixties with heart trouble and a boy of eighteen or nineteen who talks to himself and makes odd noises. He’s plainly off his head, if that’s the right phrase, and I believe it cruel to have put him here. He cries at night for his mother and keeps the rest of us awake.
Don’t worry about me. I am getting enough to eat (just!) and now we have to wait and see what happens. I’ve written to Mutti and would be glad if you would keep your eyes on her. Tell Sam I don’t want to see a single weed in the kitchen garden when I get back. I hope you are able to find someone else to help with the planting, it is such a big job.
Kind regards to you and your family. Remember me to your mother.
Paul
‘Will they let him out?’ Diane said when Sarah had finished reading the letter aloud. ‘Won’t they interview each one and only keep the bad eggs?’
‘I’ve no idea. The government must know what they’re doing. We have to trust them. That’s all we can do.’
‘Still it doesn’t seem fair. I don’t think he’s a spy, do you? He wouldn’t be a very good one.’
‘Of course he isn’t, silly.’ As usual, Sarah regretted being cross with Diane, because it made her look as though she’d been struck. She told her more gently, ‘Anyway, I’m sure Sir Henry will be able to speak to the right people.’
The news was not encouraging. Sir Henry had indeed raised Paul’s case with the department concerned at the Home Office, but had been told in rather abrupt tones that, regretfully, nothing could be done. Churchill himself had been instrumental in these internments and, as unhappy as the Home Office was about these assaults on innocent people’s liberty, this was wartime and the country’s security was paramount.
