Read Online Last Telegram by Liz Trenow - Free Book Online

under the warp to find lost threads, heaving boxes of pirns to refill the shuttle. But at the end of each shift, my legs still felt heavy as loom weights, my eyes stung from their constant scrutiny of the fine Jacquard designs, and my eardrums were bruised by the constant noise.
    It had been a bitter cold February, and the news was depressing. Hitler was war-mongering, claiming that Jewish bankers were responsible for leading Europe into a conflict that would result in the annihilation of their race. As we waited for John to return home from a meeting in London that evening, the logs in the fire crackled so alarmingly in the hearth that Father put the fireguard in place. “More spit than heat, these willow logs,” he grumbled, sitting back down in his favorite armchair. “Like that maniac Hitler.”
    I didn’t want to think about Hitler. My mind was focused on dinner—the delicious smell of baked potatoes was making my stomach rumble. But at long last, John arrived with a metallic tang of wintry air as he headed for the fire. His suit was crumpled, a shirt button missing.
    Mother followed him into the room. “Supper’s ready, my dears,” she said.
    â€œCan I have a moment to warm up, Ma?” John said. “It was bloody cold on that train tonight. Got held up for ages just outside London.” He stood on the hearthrug with his back to the blaze, robustly rubbing his buttocks.
    â€œDid you hear the news?” Father said.
    â€œNo,” John said. “What is it this time?”
    Father summarized the bulletin.
    â€œMore excuses for his pogroms, and all of us powerless to stop it,” I said.
    â€œActually, I think I’ve found a way we can do something, just a small thing, to help,” John said, his face brightening.
    â€œGo on then, spill it,” I said impatiently.
    â€œWhile the train was held up, I got chatting to some chaps in my carriage,” John started. “They were talking about Jewish children coming into England. Apparently there’s been an agreement with the Germans. They’re being allowed to send anyone eighteen or under out of the country, for a price, and if they’ve got a sponsor.”
    He began to pace restlessly in front of the fire. “Things are getting really desperate,” he went on. “They’re being hounded. Not just closing businesses, but even synagogues too. Being sent off to work camps. Children being banned from their schools. It’s no wonder the parents are trying to send them to safety.”
    â€œSo where are these children going to?” I asked.
    â€œThe trains are traveling to Holland, and the children are being put onto boats to Harwich.”
    â€œWhat happens when they get here?”
    â€œSome of them have got sponsor families who come to collect them. But the problem is,” John stopped pacing now and looked carefully at Father and Mother in turn, “some of them have been let down by their sponsors and haven’t got anywhere to go. They’re stuck in a holiday camp somewhere in Essex.”
    A vision of children, unwanted and in a foreign land, chased away my hunger.
    John’s voice was firm now. “I’d like to do something. What do you think?”
    â€œSherry, anyone?” Father said. He never liked to be rushed into decisions. No one responded, but he walked slowly to the sideboard all the same and poured four glasses from the decanter, arranged them neatly on a silver tray, and handed them around.
    â€œI’ll come to the point,” John said, taking his glass and emptying it with a single gulp. “We’ve got a big house, and we can afford it. Why don’t we take some of them in?”
    Father returned the tray to the sideboard and set it down carefully before turning back to us. “Just how do you think this is going to work?” he said in that low, reasonable tone he adopted when he needed more time to consider. “The