Eliza Graham's Blog - Posts Tagged "toiw-second"
The second chapter of TOIW
2
Benjamin, 1939
The boy clutched his football. The label round his neck flapped in the breeze, cutting into his skin. Now they’d docked at Harwich, his stomach had stopped heaving. He stood at the top of the gangplank, took in deep breaths of the salt-and-oil air that rasped his throat. Where were the little kids he’d looked after on the voyage? A woman in nurse’s uniform was already steering them away. Someone pushed him gently down the gangplank.
It looked different, England: the cars, dockers, buildings. People were smiling at them, even the policemen in their tall helmets and capes. One of them was holding a small girl’s hand, picking up her suitcase, snow falling on them.
All very foreign. All very safe. He had to get the hell out.
He turned around. He’d hide on the boat. But there was no fighting the tide of children streaming down the gangplank. Boys cursed him and girls tutted as he shoved into them. He gave up and let them push him down to dry land. Not that it was very dry. It had obviously rained here. And now it was snowing, white flakes dissolving into the black ground. Everything swayed as Benny walked along the quay. Perhaps it took a while to get used to being on land again. The English dockers were shouting in that up-and-down, up-and-down language he couldn’t understand. HARWICH, he read on a sign.
Then they were on a bus, the air thick with the reek of long journeys and farewells and not being sure where the toilets were and hoping the big boys wouldn’t give you trouble. Act your age, he told himself. You’re eleven, not six. A plump woman in a hat that looked like a squashed cake wiped noses and handed round wrapped sweets. Someone was sick, very quietly, into a paper bag. A child of about four wept, face buried in his lap, tears running down his knees. The seven-year-old girl twins stared at their hands, their golden curls now less smoothly brushed, stains on the fronts of their coats.
Then the camp: a huge, metal-clad structure. Not like the camps he’d heard about at home. The woman in the squashed-cake hat ushered them inside to trestle tables, where they were served a hot stew he was too tired to identify.
Young men and women led them to little houses like miniature Alpine chalets, where they were to sleep, even though it wasn’t yet night. Groups of three or four. The other boys in his hut complete strangers. Good. He laid his football at the end of the bunk. Certain he wouldn’t sleep. Closed his eyes to block out everything. Thought of his bedroom back at home. Quiet. Shuttered. Football posters on the wall. Boxes of construction kits. A bookcase of books. Emil and the Detectives was his favourite, be good to have it here now and flick through its pages. A dull ache of homesickness inside him now. Try to ignore it, feel the safe roundness of the football at your feet and . . .
When he woke it was morning. He was still wearing his outer clothes. If he’d been at home there’d have been trouble.
They spoke German here – he heard them calling out as they walked along outside the chalets, knocking on doors, encouraging kids to wash before breakfast was served.
He’d tell them he’d changed his mind and wanted to go home. But he’d seen them on the boat, hushing kids who cried for lost homes and families. Telling them how fortunate they were, how their families and friends were so relieved they were safe and would be sad if the children returned to the danger.
Well he was no little kid. He wasn’t going to blub. He’d force down the memories of the people at home so they wouldn’t trouble him any more.
Perhaps he’d only be in England for a few months anyway, if the war didn’t happen. They might be pleased to see him back in Germany after an absence.
*
A couple of days passed. They were kind enough here. He was even growing used to English cooking: strong-smelling kippers for breakfast with a thick oat soup called porridge, which coated your insides like a warm glue.
At home breakfast meant warm bread rolls from the baker’s. Eggs boiled so that their yellows were still soft. Slices of nutty cheese.
Thinking about these past meals sharpened the persistent ache inside him into a more painful stab of homesickness. He looked around for distraction. The children were wearing coats and scarves to breakfast in this huge glass-and-iron edifice where once, they’d been told, holidaymakers had enjoyed cabarets, and fish and fried potatoes the British called chips. Were all English homes cold like this? A vase of chrysanthemums sat on the table. At home these were flowers you took to the cemetery for your mother’s grave. The floor was wet from snowy footsteps.
Today was Sunday: market day for English families seeking foreign children. He’d already heard rumours that nobody really wanted kids like him: male, over eight.
‘Try smiling,’ he overheard a youth worker telling a boy of about his age. ‘It helps.’
Benny practised smiling. His facial muscles ached. He’d laughed since he’d been here at Dovercourt: at a clown performing in one of the evening shows. But you could laugh and not really be happy.
‘Why don’t you join in prayers?’ one of his room-mates in the wooden chalet had asked him this morning, frowning.
Benny tried to make a relaxed but dismissive gesture with his hand.
‘Weren’t you observant at home?’ The boy folded a towel into neat squares, while he addressed Benny, eyes narrowed.
Silence seemed the safest response.
‘Perhaps …’ the boy’s nose wrinkled,
‘you’re a secular Jew?’
Benny threw his football at the boy, hitting him in the midriff and preventing further questions.
Now the would-be buyers shuffled into the hall to examine the wares. The blond Berlin twins drew a flock of clucking matrons. Those girls would be sitting in front of the fire with doting foster-parents before supper time.
Benny arranged his face into what he hoped was a nonchalant confidence. Nobody came near him. He fiddled with the petals on the chrysanthemums.
A middle-aged man wearing a smart black coat and clasping a bowler hat walked over to the table and stared at him.
‘Good afternoon.’ Benny stood up and spoke in his best English, deciding against a heel click.
‘Benjamin Goldman, sir,’ said a nearby youth worker in German. ‘Eleven, as you may know, from a small town near Berlin. Excellent school reports. His father was a successful businessman until, well, things took a turn.’
The middle-aged man observed him kindly for a moment, slipped a bar of chocolate across the table, murmured a farewell and walked away. Probably not impressed with Benny. None of the other English visitors came near him. He wasn’t sent to collect his possessions from the chalet so that he could go home with an English family. He ate his chocolate.
This indifference was a sign. He’d talk to one of the friendly volunteers, beg to be sent back to Germany. Plenty at home who’d jump at the opportunity to replace him.
The visitors left and supper was laid. While they were eating, someone read out a list of kids’ names over the megaphone. He paid little attention, knowing he had failed to impress this afternoon.
‘… and Benjamin Goldman,’ the man read out. ‘Please come to the table at the side of the hall.’
It took a second to realize that meant him. He forced himself to amble over to the table as though he wasn’t surprised or excited. Five other boys waited there. A youth worker sat behind the table with a clipboard.
‘Ah, Benjamin. Good news. They’re ready for you now at Fairfleet.’
Fairfleet? He tried not to let his confusion show. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
‘The snow blocked the road and the bus couldn’t get through.’
The youth worker was speaking in German, but it might as well have been English for all his words meant.
‘You must be impatient to start your new life.’ The young man grinned.‘Fairfleet will certainly be more luxurious than here.’
‘Don’t know much about it,’ he mumbled.
‘Your parents –’ the youth worker flushed, ‘the orphanage, were sent a letter with all the information. Perhaps it went astray?’
Best just to nod.
‘Fairfleet’s a large house in the countryside near Oxford. Lord and Lady Dorner are taking you in.’
Benny blinked.
‘There’ll be lots of fresh air and exercise.’
Hopefully not like a Hitler Youth camp back in Germany. Plenty of fresh air and exercise there. And songs. And kicks and blows behind the shower blocks if you weren’t enthusiastic enough.
‘Cheer up.’ The youth worker made a final tick on his sheet and stood up. ‘We’re running English lessons from tomorrow. You’ve got two days to learn a bit of the language.’
Two days. He took himself back to the chalet, lay on his bunk, thinking. Whatever Fairfleet was, it had to be better than here. But if he went along with events, he’d be even more caught up in the mess he’d made for himself. What was the alternative?
He needed to forget about all of it. Forget Rudi and what Rudi had done and the last time they’d been together.
Rudi and Benny: two friends who’d tried to sort things out, tried to beat the system, even though they were only eleven and most grown-ups were too scared to try.
They’d done their best, but it hadn’t worked.
Benjamin, 1939
The boy clutched his football. The label round his neck flapped in the breeze, cutting into his skin. Now they’d docked at Harwich, his stomach had stopped heaving. He stood at the top of the gangplank, took in deep breaths of the salt-and-oil air that rasped his throat. Where were the little kids he’d looked after on the voyage? A woman in nurse’s uniform was already steering them away. Someone pushed him gently down the gangplank.
It looked different, England: the cars, dockers, buildings. People were smiling at them, even the policemen in their tall helmets and capes. One of them was holding a small girl’s hand, picking up her suitcase, snow falling on them.
All very foreign. All very safe. He had to get the hell out.
He turned around. He’d hide on the boat. But there was no fighting the tide of children streaming down the gangplank. Boys cursed him and girls tutted as he shoved into them. He gave up and let them push him down to dry land. Not that it was very dry. It had obviously rained here. And now it was snowing, white flakes dissolving into the black ground. Everything swayed as Benny walked along the quay. Perhaps it took a while to get used to being on land again. The English dockers were shouting in that up-and-down, up-and-down language he couldn’t understand. HARWICH, he read on a sign.
Then they were on a bus, the air thick with the reek of long journeys and farewells and not being sure where the toilets were and hoping the big boys wouldn’t give you trouble. Act your age, he told himself. You’re eleven, not six. A plump woman in a hat that looked like a squashed cake wiped noses and handed round wrapped sweets. Someone was sick, very quietly, into a paper bag. A child of about four wept, face buried in his lap, tears running down his knees. The seven-year-old girl twins stared at their hands, their golden curls now less smoothly brushed, stains on the fronts of their coats.
Then the camp: a huge, metal-clad structure. Not like the camps he’d heard about at home. The woman in the squashed-cake hat ushered them inside to trestle tables, where they were served a hot stew he was too tired to identify.
Young men and women led them to little houses like miniature Alpine chalets, where they were to sleep, even though it wasn’t yet night. Groups of three or four. The other boys in his hut complete strangers. Good. He laid his football at the end of the bunk. Certain he wouldn’t sleep. Closed his eyes to block out everything. Thought of his bedroom back at home. Quiet. Shuttered. Football posters on the wall. Boxes of construction kits. A bookcase of books. Emil and the Detectives was his favourite, be good to have it here now and flick through its pages. A dull ache of homesickness inside him now. Try to ignore it, feel the safe roundness of the football at your feet and . . .
When he woke it was morning. He was still wearing his outer clothes. If he’d been at home there’d have been trouble.
They spoke German here – he heard them calling out as they walked along outside the chalets, knocking on doors, encouraging kids to wash before breakfast was served.
He’d tell them he’d changed his mind and wanted to go home. But he’d seen them on the boat, hushing kids who cried for lost homes and families. Telling them how fortunate they were, how their families and friends were so relieved they were safe and would be sad if the children returned to the danger.
Well he was no little kid. He wasn’t going to blub. He’d force down the memories of the people at home so they wouldn’t trouble him any more.
Perhaps he’d only be in England for a few months anyway, if the war didn’t happen. They might be pleased to see him back in Germany after an absence.
*
A couple of days passed. They were kind enough here. He was even growing used to English cooking: strong-smelling kippers for breakfast with a thick oat soup called porridge, which coated your insides like a warm glue.
At home breakfast meant warm bread rolls from the baker’s. Eggs boiled so that their yellows were still soft. Slices of nutty cheese.
Thinking about these past meals sharpened the persistent ache inside him into a more painful stab of homesickness. He looked around for distraction. The children were wearing coats and scarves to breakfast in this huge glass-and-iron edifice where once, they’d been told, holidaymakers had enjoyed cabarets, and fish and fried potatoes the British called chips. Were all English homes cold like this? A vase of chrysanthemums sat on the table. At home these were flowers you took to the cemetery for your mother’s grave. The floor was wet from snowy footsteps.
Today was Sunday: market day for English families seeking foreign children. He’d already heard rumours that nobody really wanted kids like him: male, over eight.
‘Try smiling,’ he overheard a youth worker telling a boy of about his age. ‘It helps.’
Benny practised smiling. His facial muscles ached. He’d laughed since he’d been here at Dovercourt: at a clown performing in one of the evening shows. But you could laugh and not really be happy.
‘Why don’t you join in prayers?’ one of his room-mates in the wooden chalet had asked him this morning, frowning.
Benny tried to make a relaxed but dismissive gesture with his hand.
‘Weren’t you observant at home?’ The boy folded a towel into neat squares, while he addressed Benny, eyes narrowed.
Silence seemed the safest response.
‘Perhaps …’ the boy’s nose wrinkled,
‘you’re a secular Jew?’
Benny threw his football at the boy, hitting him in the midriff and preventing further questions.
Now the would-be buyers shuffled into the hall to examine the wares. The blond Berlin twins drew a flock of clucking matrons. Those girls would be sitting in front of the fire with doting foster-parents before supper time.
Benny arranged his face into what he hoped was a nonchalant confidence. Nobody came near him. He fiddled with the petals on the chrysanthemums.
A middle-aged man wearing a smart black coat and clasping a bowler hat walked over to the table and stared at him.
‘Good afternoon.’ Benny stood up and spoke in his best English, deciding against a heel click.
‘Benjamin Goldman, sir,’ said a nearby youth worker in German. ‘Eleven, as you may know, from a small town near Berlin. Excellent school reports. His father was a successful businessman until, well, things took a turn.’
The middle-aged man observed him kindly for a moment, slipped a bar of chocolate across the table, murmured a farewell and walked away. Probably not impressed with Benny. None of the other English visitors came near him. He wasn’t sent to collect his possessions from the chalet so that he could go home with an English family. He ate his chocolate.
This indifference was a sign. He’d talk to one of the friendly volunteers, beg to be sent back to Germany. Plenty at home who’d jump at the opportunity to replace him.
The visitors left and supper was laid. While they were eating, someone read out a list of kids’ names over the megaphone. He paid little attention, knowing he had failed to impress this afternoon.
‘… and Benjamin Goldman,’ the man read out. ‘Please come to the table at the side of the hall.’
It took a second to realize that meant him. He forced himself to amble over to the table as though he wasn’t surprised or excited. Five other boys waited there. A youth worker sat behind the table with a clipboard.
‘Ah, Benjamin. Good news. They’re ready for you now at Fairfleet.’
Fairfleet? He tried not to let his confusion show. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
‘The snow blocked the road and the bus couldn’t get through.’
The youth worker was speaking in German, but it might as well have been English for all his words meant.
‘You must be impatient to start your new life.’ The young man grinned.‘Fairfleet will certainly be more luxurious than here.’
‘Don’t know much about it,’ he mumbled.
‘Your parents –’ the youth worker flushed, ‘the orphanage, were sent a letter with all the information. Perhaps it went astray?’
Best just to nod.
‘Fairfleet’s a large house in the countryside near Oxford. Lord and Lady Dorner are taking you in.’
Benny blinked.
‘There’ll be lots of fresh air and exercise.’
Hopefully not like a Hitler Youth camp back in Germany. Plenty of fresh air and exercise there. And songs. And kicks and blows behind the shower blocks if you weren’t enthusiastic enough.
‘Cheer up.’ The youth worker made a final tick on his sheet and stood up. ‘We’re running English lessons from tomorrow. You’ve got two days to learn a bit of the language.’
Two days. He took himself back to the chalet, lay on his bunk, thinking. Whatever Fairfleet was, it had to be better than here. But if he went along with events, he’d be even more caught up in the mess he’d made for himself. What was the alternative?
He needed to forget about all of it. Forget Rudi and what Rudi had done and the last time they’d been together.
Rudi and Benny: two friends who’d tried to sort things out, tried to beat the system, even though they were only eleven and most grown-ups were too scared to try.
They’d done their best, but it hadn’t worked.
