Free Last Telegram by Liz Trenow Page B

they learn quickly enough to be useful at the mill?” I said, recalling Father’s strict instructions.
    â€œHeaven knows.” John shrugged his shoulders. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”
    â€œIf they’re all good friends, perhaps they will support each other?”
    He nodded, but his expression was still doubtful.
    â€œOne thing’s clear. We can’t leave them here,” I said, suddenly flooded with certainty, more convinced that this was the right decision than at any other time in my life. I wanted these boys to feel safe and be loved. I could not contemplate leaving them here.
    â€œLet’s go for it,” we both said at the same time, and then laughed at ourselves.
    This time, the handshakes were stronger and their smiles much more confident. There was formal paperwork to complete and signatures to be written and witnessed, then they collected their pitifully small suitcases before finally saying good-bye to Leo, promising to keep in touch and piling into the van. As we drove away, they waved to their friends, then fell silent.
    They must be glad to leave this grim place, I thought, but it is their last link with home. They’ve suffered terribly, and now they have no option but to follow the Pied Piper—two strangers in a battered old van—into an unknown future.
    â€¢ • •
    Over the next few days, the German boys stayed at The Chestnuts, and we spent time getting to know them. The fear started to leave their faces, their frames seemed to fill out, and they gained confidence, trying out English phrases as we struggled to get our tongues around their strange German words.
    We traipsed around Westbury finding kitchen equipment, bedding, rugs, and curtains to make their cottage more homely. On the day they moved in, Mother and I pinned labels to everything around the house and led the boys through each room, saying the words. She made cartoon sketches of every item on their shopping list, and they took turns to ask the grocer and greengrocer for their purchases, laughing at each other’s attempts, and gradually beginning to relax.
    John took them to the tailors, buying each of them a couple of pairs of off-the-shelf trousers for smart and casual, a couple of shirts, fashionable Fair Isle jumpers, and navy blazers for weekends. On Saturday, they went with him to watch a local football match. Kurt and Walter were keen to play, and he promised to find a team for them.
    But now it was time to earn their keep. John and Jim Williams took them on a tour of the mill, then talked to them individually about the jobs we had planned for them. Walter and Kurt—still inseparable—would start as packers. Stefan was keen to be a weaver, and Gwen agreed to take him as her new apprentice. It was a compliment, she told me, though it was barely recognizable as such. “I reckon you can just about manage two looms on your own now, Lily,” was all she said. “So I can concentrate on helping Stefan.”
    I couldn’t help smiling, watching them together on that first day. They made a curious pair—Gwen, short and dumpy, doing her best to communicate through hand gestures over the noise of the looms or standing on tiptoe to shout into his ear; Stefan bending like a weeping willow over the loom, his fringe flopping in his eyes. She mimicked the way he constantly brushed the hair back from his forehead, offered him her flowery head scarf, and made him laugh. His eyes followed her face intently, struggling to lip-read in a foreign language.
    â€œThat boy’s a fast learner,” she said at the end of the first week. We were doing the Friday evening loom checks together, covering woven cloth and warps with dust sheets, ensuring that shuttle arms were securely docked, winding up loose threads, tucking away spare spools, and turning off the power at each machine. Making everything safe for the weekend.
    â€œHe’s got real aptitude,” she