Liz Trenow - The Last Telegram

‘Please, Father,’ I pleaded. ‘I can’t bear to think of those children waiting. They might even be sent back to Germany.’

He pondered for a few seconds and then said, ‘I’ll check with Jim. See if he wants to go, or if he’s happy to delegate the job to you two.’ Across the table, John was giving me a surreptitious thumbs-up. ‘It’s boys we want, remember,’ Father said firmly. ‘No more than three. Strong lads who’ll really knuckle down to it.’

It was a dismal day as we drove in the rusty works van to the holiday camp. Clouds hung like damp sheets over the flat Essex fields and when we reached the coast, the marshy land dissolved into the North Sea in shades of sullen grey.

The road looked familiar. Surely this wasn’t the same place I’d been as a child, on holiday with a friend’s family? As we came closer the memories started to flood back. The holiday had been a disaster. I was horribly homesick, and to make things worse I was terrified of the flame-haired clown in a harlequin suit who had patrolled between the chalets each morning after breakfast, summoning us to the morning’s entertainments. He reminded me of the Pied Piper illustration in my book of fairy tales and I was convinced that the children who followed him would never come back. So I refused to go with the clown, feigning all kinds of exotic ailments, and spent the rest of the holiday in my bunk bed, feeling humiliated and miserable.

‘You’re very quiet, Sis, what’s on your mind?’ John said. When I told him he laughed.

‘Not too many clowns there these days, I don’t suppose,’ he said.

At the entrance, the words were still legible under peeling paint: Welcome to Sunnyside Holiday Camp. The gate was guarded, and spirals of barbed wire coiled along the top of the fence. We were ushered through and directed up a concrete driveway towards a group of buildings in the distance.

As we came closer we could see a gang of older boys kicking a football around on a patch of worn grass, and other children huddled against a chill wind on benches outside one of the pastel-painted chalets. Their faces were solemn and pale, like rows of white moons, turning to watch our van.

Pinned to each child’s coat was a label. ‘Like little parcels,’ I said. John nodded, grim-faced.

We stopped and climbed out and the boys left their football game and ran over, crowding round us, firing questions in their strange guttural tongue. They stopped in surprise when John started speaking in fluent German, and when he’d finished they began chattering even more excitedly than before.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said to me. ‘They’re only asking who we are and why we are here. They want to know where we’re from and if we can help. What they mostly seem to want to know is if we can take them to Piccadilly Circus,’ he laughed. ‘They’re desperate for a bit of the high life, and who can blame them?’

At last an adult appeared, pushing his way through the gaggle. He was short, prematurely balding and scruffily dressed in workmen’s jeans and a thick jacket, so different from the crisply intimidating holiday camp staff of my childhood memory. I warmed to him immediately.

‘You must be John and Lily Verner? Welcome to Sunnyside. Name’s a bit ironic on a day like today, don’t you think? I’m Leo Samuels. They call me duty manager, though that’s just a posh title for chief muggins.’ He beamed as we shook hands. ‘Now, what can we do for you, or rather, what can you do for us? Come into the office and let’s keep warm while we talk.’ To the boys he said, ‘ Geduldig Sein , be patient.’ As we walked he apologised for the way they had pestered us. ‘You understand, they’ve been through terrible times, and being out here in the wilds of Essex isn’t helping. They need to get settled as soon as possible.’

One of the larger chalets at the end of a row had a hastily-painted sign: Kindertransport All Enquiries. Up two steps, a wooden balcony led through glazed double doors into a small living area next to a kitchenette, with what must have been bedrooms on either side. Leo gestured to a table covered in a chaos of papers and dirty mugs, and went to fill the kettle. ‘Do sit down. Tea or coffee? How do you take it?’

He chattered cheerfully as he rinsed out three mugs in a cluttered basin, waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Sorry for the mess, but we’re on a shoestring here,’ he said, pushing aside untidy piles of papers and boxes on the table to make space for the tray.

‘We’re all volunteers and it’s a bit hand-to-mouth, to say the least. Of course we’re dead lucky they’ve let us have this place for free. You probably know that the boss is Jewish, that always helps. Otherwise we’re totally dependent on charity and right now people have other things on their minds than helping a bunch of German children.’

He sighed. ‘We’re doing what we can for the poor little blighters. Most have sponsors, but this lot have been let down for one reason or another. So not only have they been through some terrible things and been sent away by their parents, but when they get here no one wants them. It’s ruddy awful, if you’ll excuse my French, Miss Verner.’

I cradled my cold fingers round the hot mug, struggling to imagine what it must feel like for these children, being so doubly rejected. No words, even coarse words, could come close to describing it.

‘I was in Austria last year,’ John said, ‘and I saw what was happening.’

Leo shook his head sadly. ‘It’s so much worse, now.’

‘I was afraid it would be,’ John said. ‘So when we heard about your work we had to do something.’

‘It is very good of you,’ Leo said simply, and took a sip of his coffee. ‘So, how do you think you can you help us?’

‘Our family runs a silk mill, in Westbury. Do you know it? About thirty miles from here,’ John started.

‘Silk, eh? How interesting,’ Leo said, listening intently.

‘We’d like to take on three new apprentices,’ John went on. ‘And we wondered if you had some older boys, sixteen, seventeen maybe. Preferably bright lads, who’d be capable of learning a skilled trade.’

‘They’ve got to be mature and sensible types too,’ I added. ‘They’ll be living in a rented house and will have to learn to look after themselves.’

Leo sat back, scratching the sparse hairs on his head. ‘This is music to my ears, you know. Most people want younger ones, especially girls. They think the little ’uns are less trouble, though I’m not sure they’re right. The older boys get overlooked and it’s usually hard to place them.’

He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Okay. I’ve got three in mind. First there’s Stefan. He’s obviously older than most of them. Between you and me I think he’s over eighteen, the official limit. But his papers say he’s seventeen and who are we to challenge it? He’s obviously been through quite enough already without us interfering, poor lad. Don’t know much about his background but he’s clearly very bright.’

‘Sounds just right,’ I said.

Leo went on, ‘Stefan’s friendly with a couple of brothers, Kurt and Walter. Also nice lads. Kurt’s seventeen but Walter’s only fifteen. Is that too young?’

‘Depends on the boy,’ John said doubtfully. ‘How mature he is.’

‘Hard to tell, to be honest with you,’ Leo said. ‘But we obviously can’t separate them and it’s been almost impossible to find a double placement. Walter’s just a little lad, but I reckon he’d soon shape up, especially with his brother Kurt looking after him. He’s a pretty mature, level-headed boy. Why don’t you meet them, see what you think?’

How could we refuse?

‘Good,’ said Leo, getting up. ‘I’ll get those three in here, explain what you’re offering and we can see if they like the idea.’ Halfway out of the door he turned back. ‘All the lads are keen to see the bright lights of London, so you may have persuade them Westbury’s a good option. Not too far to the city by train, is it?’