The Girl With No Name (31 page)

‘Course I can,’ replied Harry. ‘I want water.’

‘You had water with your breakfast,’ snapped Gordon.

‘No breakfast,’ said Harry.

‘What d’you mean?’ demanded the inspector. He glanced at Dawes, still standing stony-faced at the door. ‘Has this man had breakfast?’

‘Dunno, sir.’

‘Well, get out there and find out,’ snapped Gordon, ‘and bring some water.’ He turned his attention back to Harry. ‘We’ll wait.’

Moments later Dawes was back with a glass of water which he put down with a thump in front of Harry. Harry snatched it up, draining it in one go. It was the first liquid he’d had since he’d been arrested. A few minutes later the first constable came in with a bread and marge sandwich on a plate which he, too, dumped unceremoniously in front of Harry. Harry grabbed the sandwich and crammed it into his mouth. He wasn’t going to risk them taking it away again.

‘Well, Heinrich, let’s start again,’ said Inspector Gordon.

‘Harry,’ Harry said through a mouthful of bread. ‘My name Harry Black.’

‘Not what it says on your identity card.’

‘Stopped being Heinrich when I come here.’

‘Well, Harry then, you haven’t made yourself very popular here, have you? First you make a run for it, then you kick one of my officers in the eye, then you resist arrest and last night you told Constable Brown that you want the Germans to win the war. Not the way to make friends, is it?’

‘I didn’t say,’ protested Harry hotly. ‘My father was murdered by Nazis! Why I want them to win the war? So they can murder me too?’

‘The thing is, Harry, that you’ve made a nuisance of yourself, and we haven’t time to deal with nuisances like you. It’s better that you’re shut away where you can’t cause any more trouble.’

‘But I not cause trouble,’ Harry almost shouted. ‘I living in hostel, I have job, I help firefighters.’

‘Yes, so I heard. Still, the government want to be sure. So, today you’ll be transferred to Brixton prison for a few days while they decide where to send you.’

‘I want my money,’ Harry said harshly. ‘Policeman steal it.’

‘There you go again, Harry, saying stupid things that will annoy people. No one has stolen your money. It is with your papers and will travel with you. You’ll get it back if and when you’re released, OK?’

Harry opened his mouth to protest but Inspector Gordon cut him off. ‘Enough, Harry. You’ll be returned to your cell to await your transfer. Take him down, Dawes, and make sure he slops out before he leaves.’

Dawes moved up behind Harry and yanked him to his feet. ‘Come on, you,’ he said and, keeping a firm grip on Harry’s arm, he led him back to his cell.

Harry wasn’t transferred that day, nor the next, so he had to endure two more nights in the basement of the police station in the company of Constable Brown. On the first night when the sirens went, he told Brown he’d rather stay and take his chances in the cell.

‘What, so’s you can signal to those bastards up there?’

‘How? By whistling to them?’ Harry felt the frustrated fury boiling up inside him.

‘Cut the crap, smartarse,’ snarled Brown, ‘and get a move on.’

The third night Brown was even more contemptuous, addressing Harry as a Nazi Jew-boy. They were once again in the basement shelter, but now Harry was in handcuffs. They had seen the resentment in his eyes and they didn’t trust him any more. Any residual sympathy there might have been for the plight of a sixteen-year-old boy alone in a foreign country was long gone.

‘They shot down four of your gallant Nazis last night,’ Brown told him. ‘Not sure why we’re so keen on keeping you safe down here. If I didn’t have to guard you, I could be out there helping the poor sods being blown to bits by your lot. What have you got to say to that, Jew-boy?’

Suddenly Harry had had enough. Brown was the Hitler Youth, the Gestapo, the fascist Brownshirts all rolled into one. The street fighter in him burst out and with one swift movement he was across the room. Pushing Brown to the floor he forced his cuffed arms round the policeman’s neck, pulling the metal handcuffs hard against his throat. If a second officer hadn’t come in at that moment Harry might well have committed murder, but the policeman grabbed him, smashing his fist into Harry’s face, and it was all over. He was marched back to his cell, the door slammed behind him, the cop’s voice echoing along the passage. ‘And you can stay in there and be damned to you.’

Harry was lucky that no further action was taken about his second assault on a police officer. The inspector had no wish for the provocation to be brought out into the open. Public opinion about the internment of German and Italian nationals had begun to swing against the idea. So many had been refugees from the Fascists that many were already being released to do valuable war work. No, Inspector Gordon was just pleased to get shot of the troublemaker Heinrich Schwarz, or Harry Black or whoever he was. He’d happily off-load him and make him someone else’s responsibility.

Harry was taken to Brixton the following morning and a memo on his papers warned that he’d attacked a police officer and should be regarded as dangerous.

Harry’s confinement in His Majesty’s Prison Brixton lasted seven weeks and they were the seven most miserable weeks in his life. The prison was overcrowded. Harry was now regarded as a prisoner rather than an internee and the regime was harsh. However, Brixton was only being used as a transit prison and from there he was moved first to Huyton Internment camp outside Liverpool and then at length by boat to the Isle of Man.

At Huyton he had been housed in a half-built housing estate. Cramped and cold, hundreds of internees had been living on a building site, housed in half-finished council houses, surrounded by barbed wire. Autumn had turned to winter and the facilities were basic to say the least and the food minimal. Always hungry, the inmates had a strict regime among themselves, adding everything edible they could find to spin out their meagre rations. Morale was very low and more than one internee considered suicide as a convenient way out. Most, however, were determined not to be cowed by the harsh conditions. Some of them had already suffered the torment of a Nazi concentration camp and though the conditions were bad they were nothing like those they’d already experienced. Harry and several of the other, younger internees were constantly looking for a way of escape, but they were strictly guarded and no opportunity presented itself.

Then one day, just a week before Christmas, Harry and twenty others were told they were moving again.

‘Where to now?’ Harry demanded.

‘Never you mind,’ came the reply. ‘You’ll see. Get your stuff.’

There was very little ‘stuff’ to get. Harry still had his case with him; it had been returned when he left Brixton. He had his clothes but there was no sign of his money or his watch. He had long ago given up hope of ever seeing those again. The police were the same everywhere, they were thieves, he’d always said so. They’d nicked his valuables and there was nothing he could do about it.

The next day they were taken to Fleetwood where they were put aboard a ship,
The Lady of Man
, and they realised they were going to the Isle of Man. Everyone had heard about the camps over there and their spirits rose. Several internees had already been released from there, so perhaps the end was in sight. If only they could find some way to prove that they were no threat to the security of England, that they truly hated the Nazis as much as the English did. Harry decided he would be the model prisoner.

When they reached Douglas and disembarked, they were formed up into groups and marched along the sea front. The sea they had just crossed looked grey and brooding. As Harry looked out across the endless expanse of water, he knew that there’d be no escape from here; his mood was grey and brooding, too.

Knew I should’ve made a break for it before we was put on that ship, he thought bleakly. I’m stuck here now till the Nazis invade and come looking for me and all the other Jews holed up here on this bloody island. Like rats in a trap we’ll be.

They were marched through a gate and along the promenade to what looked like a hotel and a row of large houses, looking out over the sea. All this was surrounded by barbed wire, cutting off the whole promenade, and with it those who were constrained to live beyond the gates. The new internees were logged in and assigned to a house along the front. They were all together and for once their accommodation, though cramped with several to a room, was dry and comparatively warm. They were also assigned weekly rations to cook and share. They chose a house leader, Alfred Muller, who had actually been born in England of German Jewish parents. Alfred, who had been the headmaster of a large school in Birmingham, had a talent for organisation and soon sorted out rotas for the cooking and the household duties. It was a step up from jumping to obey the shouted order of some loud-mouthed NCO who had been invalided out of the army. They were to organise themselves. They were responsible for themselves and it returned them some measure of dignity. For the first time in months they were not actively hungry. The food was plain, but at least it was there.

The whole camp had a life of its own with a set routine. Reveille was sounded at seven o’clock, after which the roll was called, followed by some sort of physical exercise before breakfast. Then there was the rest of the day, stretching out before them. Boredom was acknowledged as the main enemy within the camp and it was to counteract this that several of the inmates organised talks, classes, lectures. So many of them were professional men, doctors, lawyers, lecturers, musicians and actors – top men in their fields – and a sort of open university opened up, with tutors of the highest calibre.

On Christmas Eve there were services led by various clergy and the singing of carols raised everyone’s spirits. Harry had never celebrated Christmas before. His parents did not because of their faith; their celebration had been Hanukkah. Since the death of his parents Harry had had no faith and didn’t miss it. He was Harry and he was master of his own destiny. Even so, he was glad there was extra to eat on this day that was so special to others.

Harry’s Christmas dinner was rabbit stew with potatoes and carrots, and it was the best meal he’d eaten in years.

By Christmas Eve London had been subjected to nearly a hundred days of almost continuous bombing. Not only London, but other major cities considered by Hitler as targets. Coventry, Southampton, Plymouth, Liverpool, Manchester and Bristol had all received visits from the Luftwaffe with heavy bombing and firestorms, but despite this attack on the fabric of Britain and on the morale of her citizens, though aghast at the damage inflicted, people refused to be cowed. Christmas was upon them and, war or no war, everyone was determined to celebrate the season of goodwill.

‘Season of goodwill, that’s a joke,’ Arthur said gloomily as he and Dan were fire-watching once again on the paint warehouse roof. ‘Hitler’ll probably send us an extra-special present for Christmas.’

‘Well, I shan’t be here to receive it, mate, I’m off to Feneton tomorrow to see my Naomi.’

‘How’s she keeping?’ Arthur asked. ‘Babby’s due soon, isn’t it?’

‘Middle of January, so they say.’ Dan couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice and Arthur, the father of three daughters, smiled. He could well remember the excitement of an imminent birth.

‘So a few weeks to go yet,’ he said equably. ‘Hope it all goes well.’

‘No reason why it shouldn’t, the doc says,’ replied Dan. ‘Still, I’m looking forward to being there over Christmas.’

Dan had managed to get to Feneton only once since Naomi and Shirley had moved there. He had taken the train from Liverpool Street three weeks after they had left and Naomi had met him at the station. She flung herself into his arms, oblivious of the half-envious, half-disapproving looks from the other travellers.

‘Danny, oh Danny, I’ve missed you so,’ she cried. ‘Thank God you’re safe. That dreadful bombing!’ She hugged him to her and he returned her hug as tightly as he dared.

‘Got to be careful of the baby,’ he said as he held her away from him and looked into her eyes. He could feel tears springing to his own as he saw the joy and love he felt reflected there. ‘God,’ he muttered, ‘I’ve missed you, an’ all.’

‘Baby’s all right,’ Naomi assured him and, taking his hand, said, ‘Come on, let’s get away from here.’ She led him out of the station and across the street to a little tea room opposite. As she opened the door a bell jingled and Shirley appeared through a curtain at the back.

‘Look who’s here, Shirley,’ Naomi cried. ‘Two teas please.’

They sat in the window and held hands across the table. Suddenly shy, Naomi said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, Dan, but I’ve booked us a room at the Feneton Arms. It’s the local pub.’

‘Mind?’ exclaimed Dan. ‘Why should I mind? I want you to myself while I’m here. I’ve missed you, girl.’

Naomi flushed with pleasure. ‘Thought it’d be just as well. I share a room with Shirley and of course she said she’d move out, sleep downstairs, but I wanted us to be more private... you know.’

Dan did know and was wondering why they had stopped in the teashop for tea when their time together was so precious, but he only squeezed her hand and said, ‘Yeah, I want us to be private, too.’

Shirley came out to the table with a pot of tea and two rather tired-looking pieces of sponge cake.

‘Saved you a piece of your own,’ she said, putting the tray on the table. ‘Glad to see you, Dan,’ she added.

‘What did she mean, “a piece of your own”?’ asked Dan as he took one of the pieces of cake and dunked it in his tea.

‘It’s a little job I’ve got,’ Naomi explained. ‘Now, don’t look like that, Dan. I got to do something, even if it’s try to bake cakes without butter or eggs! I bake stuff for the teashop and Mrs Grant, what owns the shop, pays me. Gives me the rent money for Maud. Means I can save for when I can’t work cos of the baby. We been trying out some of them recipes the government gives out. We made Woolton Pie last week. Didn’t taste too bad and we wasn’t hungry after.’ She looked up at her husband suddenly and said, ‘You been getting enough to eat, Dan? With me not there to cook for you?’